"It became necessary to descend the shaft."
F you were bound from England to some town in South Wales, it was very awkward to have to leave your train on the banks of the Severn and make a voyage of more than two miles in a slow ferry-boat before you could take another train on the opposite shore. The Severn tides, too, were so erratic that there was never any knowing when the ferry-boat would be able to start. But that was what people had to put up with forty years ago. So the Great Western Railway Company, in 1871, decided to go under the fickle waters, as they found it so troublesome to go over them. A study of the bottom of the river made it clear that the tunnel they intended to make would have to slope downwards considerably from both ends, running level for a short distance only under the centre of the stream. This was because the waters, though shallow near either bank, are extremely deep in the middle, and to avoid this deeper part, the engineers had to burrow their way to a depth of one hundred and forty-five feet below high-water level at spring tide. The tunnel itself is four and a half miles long.
The work was begun in 1873. The slopes towards the river were made as gradual as possible, and the tunnel started from both ends at once. In order to find out what the soil and stone were like through which they would have to force their way, a shaft or pit, fifteen feet wide and two hundred feet deep, was dug on the western side of the river. From the bottom of this the boring or 'heading' (as the beginning of a tunnel is called) was worked east and west through rock and shale. Gunpowder was exploded in small holes drilled at frequent intervals to shatter this material; and when we remember that the 'heading' was only about six feet high and six feet wide we can imagine how uncomfortable this work must have been. Various kinds of drills have been invented for attacking stone, but the one most usually employed consists of a hard steel collar, round the edge of which black diamonds are fixed. There is no rock that can withstand this drill.
When the human moles, burrowing under the Severn from opposite sides, had got to within one hundred and thirty yards of each other, the drills of those in the western part suddenly broke through into the secret hiding-place of a great spring. The water gushed forth in cascades faster than the pumps could pump it out, and in twenty-four hours the 'heading' was filled with water. This was in October, 1879, and for two months all work was stopped. Then Sir John Hawkshaw was appointed chief engineer. With great difficulty larger pumps were set in action to draw the water out, and when this had been partly accomplished, it became necessary for some one to descend the shaft through thirty feet of water, grope his way for one thousand feet along the tunnel, and close a certain door which had been left open when the workmen fled in panic before the deluge. This door, together with two pipes which ran beneath it, allowed the passage of large quantities of water from under the river, the checking of which would enable the pumps to cope with the rest. A diver named Lambert undertook this task. He required twelve hundred feet of tubing to convey air to his helmet, and as this was more than one man could drag after him, two other divers were called upon to assist. One descended to the bottom of the shaft, while another walked up the 'heading' for five hundred feet, passing Lambert's air-tube along as the latter continued the terrible journey alone. Stumbling in the darkness over the scattered tools which the escaping workmen had thrown down, he arrived at last within a hundred feet of the door—only to find that he had not the strength to drag the air-hose any farther! Floating upwards in the water, it rubbed too hard against the ceiling of the tunnel to be pulled downwards and onwards. Lambert sat down, and, by a supreme effort, pulled it a few feet more. But the task was beyond his strength, and, greatly disappointed, he returned to the bottom of the shaft.
A few days later he tried again. This time no air-hose was used. Strapped on his back he carried a vessel filled with condensed oxygen gas, which he could admit to the helmet in small quantities at will. Groping his way once more along the narrow, water-choked passage, he at last reached the door. Passing through to the other side he felt for the open end of one of the pipes, and turned the screws of its valve. Then, stepping back, he shut the door behind him. All that now remained to be done was to seal the second pipe. This had what is called a sluice valve, and Lambert had been instructed to turn the screw which closed it round and round, until he found he could turn it no farther; when that was done, he would know that it was shut. It took some time, but it was accomplished at last, and the triumphant diver returned to the upper air. He had been absent one hour and eighteen minutes.
Lambert had done well, and all were ready to acknowledge his great courage; but the water, strange to say, remained abundant, and it was only after still further increasing the size of the pumps that it was at last got rid of. Then the secret came out: no one had told Lambert that the sluice valve had a left-handed screw, and that, therefore, to close it he would have to turn it in the opposite direction to the usual one. So all his heroic labour was expended on opening the valve to its fullest extent, and thwarting the purpose for which he had undertaken such a perilous duty.
This spring proved to be the greatest enemy the engineers had. But on one occasion the sea itself made an attack upon them. A tidal wave burst over the Severn's banks one night, and, rushing in a volume five feet high, entered the workmen's cottages, and rose above the beds on which their children were asleep. They were only saved by being lifted on to tables and shelves. Then the great mass of water rolled on, to fall in a huge torrent down the tunnel shaft. At the bottom eighty-three men were at work. They escaped by running up the sloping tunnel and climbing a wooden stage or platform at the far end. The water rose to within eight feet of the tunnel-roof. As soon as the mouth of the shaft could be reached from above, a small boat was lowered, and upon the gloomy subterranean river a party of rescuers rowed in search of the imprisoned men. A huge timber, stretched from side to side of the tunnel, soon barred the boat's progress, and it became necessary to return to the shaft for a saw to cut it in two. This they dropped overboard before accomplishing their purpose, and had to wait while another was obtained. Eventually, however, the men were reached and removed from their terrible prison.
But through danger and difficulty alike, the Severn Tunnel was pushed on with, reaching completion in 1886—fourteen years after its beginning—and was opened for passenger traffic on December 1st, in that year.
John Lea.
T
HE world is wide,' exclaimed the Goose,'I think I'd like to travel.''And so should I,' the Ass replied,'I'm tired of loads of gravel.''Where shall we go?' inquired Miss Goose;'Myself, I fancy China.'Oh, no!' cried Ass; 'in SwitzerlandThe mountain peaks are finer.''A fig for landscapes!' hissed his friend,'I yearn for fields of paddy;About my food I must confessI am a trifle "faddy."''They'd makeusinto food,' cried Ass,'They'd fry our bones in batter;I will not walk ten thousand milesTo make a Chinee fatter.'And as no plan would suit them both,They have not yet departed,And I should hear with great surpriseThat they had really started.
A. Katherine Parkes.
There was sharp fighting between the English and French in the Windward Islands in 1778, when General Meadows conquered St. Lucia, not, however, without himself being severely wounded at the very beginning of the engagement.
The General, though wounded, would not leave the field for a moment, and when the action was over, he visited every wounded officer and man before he would receive the surgeon's attention himself.
His heart was greatly cheered by an answer given to him by a young subaltern, Lieutenant Gomm, of the Forty-sixth Regiment, who, in the heat of action, was wounded in the eye.
'I hope you have not lost your eye, Lieutenant,' said the General.
'I believe I have, sir,' replied Gomm, 'but with the other I shall see you victorious this day.'
The brave young fellow had his wish, and history tells us that the French General 'was driven back with shame and with loss.'
The famous Dr. Watts once said, when suffering from a dangerous illness, 'I thank God that I can sleep quietly to-night without being uneasy as to whether I awake in this world or in the next.'
How many of us can say that our consciences are so untroubled as that?
In the greater part of Egypt rain never falls, and if it were not for the Nile the country would be little better than a desert. But every year, at exactly the same time, near the end of June, the river begins to rise and overflow its banks. For three months it continues to swell and spread, until it floods nearly the whole of the valley in which it flows. It then begins to fall as steadily as it has risen, and retires gradually into its proper channel, leaving the land which it has overflowed covered with fertile mud, which has been brought down from the interior of the continent, where the Nile rises. This rich soil and the annual flooding of the valley by the river have made Egypt one of the most fertile countries in the world.
The Egyptian farmer knows well the advantages which he reaps from the overflowing of the Nile, and he cuts many canals to lead the water to his fields, and builds dams to retain it when the river goes down. But the overflowing of the river, even when helped by canals and dams, is not enough for the proper irrigation of the land, and the Egyptian farmers and field-labourers have to spend much of their time in raising water from the river, or the canals, and distributing it over the fields, especially upon the higher ground, which the annual flood does not reach. Along the banks of the river, especially in Upper Egypt, may be seen great numbers of machines, which are used for raising water from the river into reservoirs, from which it is distributed through the fields.
Egyptian "Sakiyeh."
The commonest of these machines is theshadoof. It is a sort of balance, with a weight at one end and a cord and bucket at the other. The arm of the balance rests upon a bar of wood, which is supported by two wooden posts, the whole resembling the horizontal bar of a gymnasium. The posts are about five feet high and two or three feet apart, and they are set up on the top of a bank, close to the edge, so that the end of the arm which bears the bucket may project over the water. This arm is made out of a slender branch of a tree, and is fastened to the horizontal bar by loops of cord. Its thicker end is loaded with a large, round ball of mud, while the other carries a long cord, or even a slender stick, at the end of which is the bucket, or bowl, in which the water is raised. This bucket is not made of iron, but of basketwork, usually covered with leather or cloth. The man who works the shadoof stands near the water's edge, below the slender arm of the balance. He pulls down the cord to which the bucket is attached, until the bucket dips into the water and is filled, while at the same time he raises the lump of mud at the other end of the balance. When the bucket is filled, he lifts it up, and empties it into a little tank higher up in the bank, perhaps at the height of his head. The heavy weight at the other end of the balance aids him a great deal in lifting the bucket, even if it does not quite balance it. When the bank is high, and the water has to be raised some distance, several shadoofs are employed. They are arranged in stages, or steps, one above the other; the second from the bottom takes its water from the reservoir, into which it has been emptied by the first, and the third from the reservoir of the second, and so on. Drawing water with the aid of the shadoof is said to be very hard work, especially in so hot a country as Egypt. The shadoof was used thousands of years ago, just as it is to-day, as we know by the pictures of it which are still to seen painted upon the walls of some of the ruins of ancient Egyptian buildings.
Egyptian "Shadoof."Egyptian "Shadoof."
Another machine used for the same purpose is thesakiyeh, or draw-wheel. It consists of a horizontal axle, with a wheel at each end. One of these wheels overhangs the water of a river, a canal, or a well, and over it there passes a long, hanging loop of cords, to which a number of earthen pots are fastened. As the axle and the wheel go round, the pots on the cords are drawn over the wheel, and made to move in a circle like the buckets of a dredging-machine. The lower end of the loop of pots dips in the water, and each pot, as it passes through the water, is filled. It is then slowly drawn up by the turning wheel, and as it passes over the wheel, and is tilted over, it empties the water into a tank, or spout, and passes on downwards, empty, to the river again to take up a new supply. The wheel at the other end of the axle is connected with a large horizontal wheel, or 'gin,' to which a pair of oxen may be yoked. These animals, walking round and round, turn the large wheel, which, by means of cogs, turns the wheel upon the nearer end of the axle, and so turns the wheel bearing the pots. The machinery is very rough, and squeaks and groans in the loudest manner when it is at work; but it raises a great quantity of water, and is not easily put out of order.
W. A. Atkinson.
"One of the largest pounded upon the wall with his tusks."
A traveller, who was making a tour in India some years back, tells us that in his wanderings he arrived at a village on the north border of the British dominions; near this stood a granary, in which was stored a large quantity of rice. The people of the place described to him how the granary had been attacked by a party of elephants which had somehow found out that this granary was full of rice.
Early in the morning an elephant appeared at the granary, acting evidently as a scout or spy. When he found that the place was unprotected, he returned to the herd, which was waiting no great distance off. Two men happened to be close by, and they watched the herd approach in almost military order. Getting near the granary, the elephants stopped to examine it.
Its walls were of solid brickwork; the entry was in the centre of the terraced roof, which could only be mounted by a ladder. To climb this was not possible, so they stood to consider. The alarmed spectators speedily climbed a banyan-tree, hiding themselves among its leafy branches, thus being out of view while they could watch the doings of the elephants. These animals surveyed the building all round; its thick walls were formidable, but the strength and sagacity of the elephants defied the obstacles. One of the largest of the herd took up a position at a corner of the granary, and pounded upon the wall with his tusks. When he began to feel tired, another took turn at the work, then another, till several of the bricks gave way.
An opening once made was soon enlarged. Space being made for an elephant to enter, the herd divided into parties of three or four, since only a few could find room inside. When one party had eaten all they could, their place was taken by another. One of the elephants stood at a distance as sentinel. After all had eaten enough, by a shrill noise he gave the signal to retire, and the herd, flourishing their trunks, rushed off to the jungle.
(Concluded from page30.)
The Sultan demanded the fortresses of Syria as a ransom, but King Louis replied that they were not his to part with, but belonged to the Emperor of Germany, who bore the title of King of Jerusalem. The Sultan threatened him with torture, but only received the calm reply, 'I am your prisoner; you may do what you will with me.'
He had the grievous pain of seeing his followers slain for refusing to abjure their faith, and the worse sorrow of knowing that some among them had yielded; and he readily agreed to pay five hundred thousand pounds as the ransom for his people, the city of Damietta being the price of his own freedom. The Sultan exclaimed in amazement, when the answer was returned, 'Right noble is this Frankish king, who pays such a sum without bargaining. Go, tell him we will lessen it by one-fifth.'
De Joinville was not with his master when he was taken, having been detained by contrary winds in the river; but he had adventures enough of his own.
He had struggled up to the deck of his galley, though grievously sick, to issue his orders, when the boat was boarded by the Saracens. One friendly Turk counselled him to leap on board the enemy's galley and give himself up as a prisoner; and afterwards this Turk saved his life, when the Saracen daggers were at his throat, by passing him off as the King's cousin. He even secured for him the scarlet furred cloak which had been his mother's gift, and under which poor Joinville lay, shivering with fever, and, as he freely owned, with dread of what was to come. Every hour the lives of the prisoners hung in the balance. De Joinville saw one old comrade and follower after another slain and thrown into the river before his eyes. When a grand old Saracen, with a body of armed followers, entered the tent in which they were confined, they thought their executioners had come; but the old man, after solemnly asking them whether they believed indeed in a God Who had risen from the dead, bade them be of good cheer, for such a God would surely not desert the servants who suffered in His cause. So, with their faith and courage strengthened in so strange a way, the Christian prisoners waited until the good news came of the King's treaty.
Even then the peril was not over. The Sultan who had concluded the peace was murdered by his guard, and, in the confusion which followed, the galley to which the prisoners had been removed was boarded by a wild band, with drawn swords. The French nobles, thinking the end had come, fell upon their knees.
But again their lives were spared, and, soon after, De Joinville found himself reunited to his beloved King, who, with scrupulous care, was collecting and paying to the last farthing the sum promised as ransom.
So end De Joinville's crusading adventures, as far as Africa is concerned, though he followed his royal master to Acre before Louis turned his face sadly homeward. When the King set forth, twenty years later, on his second luckless crusade, De Joinville refused to leave his vassals, who, he said, had suffered sorely during his last campaign. He heard from the lips of others how his master died at Tunis, with his thoughts turning longingly still to that Jerusalem which his mortal eyes would never see. But of this De Joinville tells us little, being unwilling, he says, to vouch for the truth of anything that he did not himself see and hear. And he certainly saw and heard enough to leave us a story of fights and escapes as fascinating as any romance, and the portrait of a king, often mistaken, indeed, but always valiant, high-minded, and pure, whose words and deeds his old followers lovingly recorded for the sake of generations yet to come.
Mary H. Debenham.
(Continued from page39.)
The children had all been so intent on the going in or staying out, that they had not noticed how the door was slowly but surely closing on them. No one had touched it, yet it was moving with great force. Marjorie ran back out of the way with Georgie clinging to her arm. Alan, seizing Estelle's hand, had barely time to stumble over the threshold when a heavy bit of wood was hurled over him, just missing his head, and landing on the threshold he had quitted the moment before. On this the door banged with a great crash. It had fallen just in time to prevent the door shutting. The whole building seemed to shake with the shock of the banging door. Alan turned, to see Thomas, white and staring, behind him. The expression on his face recalled to the boy's mind the conversation in the hollow. For the moment, however, anger prevented any other thoughts.
'It might have killed me!' he exclaimed, angrily. 'What on earth did you do that for?'
'I meant no harm, sir,' returned Thomas, hurriedly. 'The truth is, sir, I—I want to get into that place for a bit. I—I have left something behind. It's most important. The noise may bring Mr. Peet up here, and—and—I must get in afore he comes. What's there was left by—by mistake, sir—only a mistake.'
Thomas spoke in a confused, anxious manner, all the time edging nearer to the door. 'It would have slammed if I hadn't thrown in the bit of wood,' he continued, as he pushed back the door to its widest extent.
Sure as he felt that Thomas was deceiving him, Alan was puzzled how to connect the gardener's anxiety to enter the summer-house with the conversation he had overheard; but that ithadsome connection he felt certain. What could the man want in that dark, uninviting hole? Had he stolen any valuables and hidden them in there? If so, why did he want information about them when he must know all about where they were to be found? Yet the stranger had told Thomas to obtain information, without which their bargain was useless.
His thoughts were interrupted by the gardeners, who now came running up, headed by Peet. They were amazed to see the four children staring in wonder at the strength displayed by Thomas as he set the massive door open.
'What are you doing with that 'ere door?' shouted the angry head gardener. 'Who opened it? It isn't anybody's business to go nigh it at all.'
'The door nearly slammed on the young ladies and gentlemen,' replied Thomas, sullenly, his tone proving to Alan how keen was his disappointment. 'I just threw the wood in time to stop it.'
'Who opened it?' demanded Peet, sternly, his eyes wandering round the group of children and gardeners.
No one answering, Alan said they had found the door open on their return from boating, and had looked in. 'And if we ever get the chance againwe will go right in,' he added, sulkily, walking away with his head in the air. His disappointment made him forget himself.
'Stop, Master Alan,' returned Peet, whose naturally cross temper was continually bringing him into collision with the children. 'The Colonel and my lady have forbidden all you young ladies and gentlemen to go into the ruin, and you tell me you will get in if you have the chance?'
'Yes, Peet, I do,' replied Alan, haughtily. 'I am not accountable to you for what I do or don't do. You mind your own affairs, and find out who left the door open, or else you will be held responsible.'
Alan marched off, leaving Peet speechless with rage.
'I will speak to the Colonel,' he muttered to himself as the children disappeared in the direction of the house.
No one knew anything about the door, and, in spite of his anger, Peet was obliged to admit he himself must have left it open, since none of the under-gardeners could have got possession of the key. As far as he knew, they had no interest in going in. The ruin was only used by him for a secret purpose of his own of which he had spoken to no one. On one occasion alone had he ever allowed any of his underlings into it. That was on the day he had made Thomas assist him in erecting some woodwork in preparation for a gift he had received from his brother in India, which he desired to keep a profound secret from everybody. Inside the ruin was a recess large enough for his purpose; but it required a good deal of adapting to make it available, and this he could not manage without help. Thomas's action in throwing the piece of wood might or might not be regarded as suspicious, but since he had been out boating with the children, he could not have had anything to do with opening the door. He might desire to get in if his curiosity about the woodwork in the recess had been roused, but was that likely in such a stupid lout as Thomas?
There really appeared to be no one on whom he could visit his wrath. Dismissing the under-gardeners curtly, he was forced to return to his work in a very unenviable frame of mind, suspicious of everybody.
Meantime the children were greatly taken aback by the quarrel between Alan and Peet. The two were always more or less at daggers drawn, but it was seldom that the mutual dislike blazed up into open war.
'I will show Peet a thing or two,' cried Alan with a wilful smile. 'He must learn he can't speak to me like that. He is Aunt Betty's servant, worse luck. If he had been Father's, I'd have been down on him with a vengeance.'
'It is a great pity to quarrel with him,' said Marjorie, though she knew the remark was not a wise one under the circumstances. 'He is an old man, he's seen heaps of trouble, and he's soured. That is what Aunt Betty says. I think it would be nicer—- more like what one would callnoblesse oblige—if we let him alone.'
'There's Father!' cried Georgie with a shout. 'We can ask him.'
(Continued on page50.)
"'It would have slammed if I hadn't thrown in the bit of wood.'"
"Alan intended to make the newts run races."
(Continued from page47.)
Colonel De Bohun, strolling along smoking his cigar, was at once beset by the whole party. He was good-natured and kind-hearted; the children were seldom afraid to take him into their councils. His appearance was always hailed with delight, and confidences and requests of all kinds were poured into his ears. In the holidays especially he was a willing victim, and could be counted on to grant all but the most impossible demands.
'What are you young monkeys plotting now?' he exclaimed as they ran up to him.
'Oh, Father!' cried Marjorie, laughing, 'you can't say we are not reasonable. I heard Mademoiselle telling Miss Leigh so. It was one day when she was out of temper, and we didn't deserve it.'
'Never mind Miss Leigh,' broke in Georgie. 'I hate her name out of the schoolroom.'
'Sh—sh!' said his father. 'I can't allow that. Miss Leigh is to be pitied for having youinthe schoolroom.'
'Tell us about the ruined summer-house, Dad,' went on Georgie, eagerly. 'The door was open just now, and we all peeped in. Oh, wasn't Peet angry.'
'Hullo!' remarked the Colonel. 'Whose fault was that?'
'We found it open upon our return from boating,' Marjorie hastened to say.
'I don't like that. It shows great carelessness on the part of somebody. I hope none of you went inside?'
'It wasn't for want of the wish to,' replied Alan; 'but the door nearly banged on the top of us, so we had to scuttle as fast as we could. Peet was very rude about it. It was not our fault that the door was open, but we have every right to go in if it is.'
'No right at all,' answered the Colonel, somewhat sternly. 'The place belongs to the Moat property, and it is Aunt Betty's desire, as well as mine, that none of you children should go in. The building is very old, and every year its condition becomes more and more dangerous. There have been great falls from the roof already. I will not have you there, not any one of you. You may as well know at once that there is a passage from it to some spot—— '
'To the hole in the face of the cliff?' asked Alan, eagerly.
'It can hardly go so far, I fancy. But I am uncertain. I know, however, that a part of it leads to Aunt Betty's cellars.'
'Could we get in through the cellars?' asked Marjorie.
'Aunt Betty may have the door locked, or, perhaps, permanently closed. About that I do not know either.'
They had by this time reached the bridge over the moat, the waters of which reflected the peaceful calm of that beautiful August morning. Before them lay the Moat House, weather-beaten, dark with age, like an old soldier at rest after many battles. The original building—the one which had seen the struggles between the followers of the Red and White Roses—had been small; but succeeding generations of the Coke family had added to it, as necessity arose, with the result that the house—an irregular structure of two stories—extended over a good deal of ground, and represented every style of architecture.
The weather suddenly changed. It had continued fine and hot for several weeks, and there was no sign of any break in the succession of cloudless days. The great heat was bound, however, to end in a thunderstorm. The air became very sultry, and yet there was a sighing among the leaves of the trees.
'There is plenty of rain coming,' said Colonel De Bohun, as he stood by Lady Coke's side, and watched the children going in rather languidly to their tea. 'We want it badly.'
He was right. That night the greatest storm the children had ever heard startled them out of their beds. Georgie took refuge with Marjorie, and even Alan came and sat on her bed, a blanket wrapped round the three of them, because it 'was more comfortable to be all together,' while the thunder crashed overhead, and the vivid lightning lit up the room, in spite of the candles which burnt upon the dressing-table.
All the next day the children had to amuse themselves in the house, and, truth to tell, they were not sorry for one whole day to settle various little matters which had been neglected during the fine weather. One of these was the aquarium. This kept them well employed; but when on the following morning they found the rain still falling, and the heavy, ragged clouds gave no promise of the sky clearing, Georgie's patience gave way.
'What can we do to-day?' he asked, dismally, as he traced the course of the drops on the window-panes with a damp finger. 'I'm tired of this rain. Why can't it stop now?'
'It won't stop just to please you,' said Alan, who was examining the quality of the water in his aquarium.
Georgie turned round angrily, but Marjorie came to the rescue hastily.
'The rain is nothing. We can amuse ourselves just as well in the house. Can't we go over to Aunt Betty's, and play with Estelle, Miss Leigh?'
Georgie gave a bound of delight towards the door, and even Miss Leigh smiled, and got up quickly.
'A capital idea!' she said, rolling up her work. 'Go and put on your macintoshes, and we will run over as quickly as we can. We shall not get wet enough to hurt us.'
Alan, however, was not pleased. He wanted to change the water of his aquarium, and required Marjorie to help him. They had already put fresh water into two compartments, but the third was to have some of the rain, which they were collecting especially for the purpose. The small frogs, sticklebacks, and mud-lampreys were already enjoying themselves, and Alan was determined that the tadpoles and newts should be as happy. The newts were specially disliked by Georgie, and now, to make matters worse, Alan placed two of them on the floor. He intended to make them run races, regardless of the effect of their wet bodies on the carpet.
'They don't do any harm,' he asserted, when Miss Leigh objected; 'not a bit of it. Water never hurts anything.'
'It is very unpleasant to have them on the floor, to say the least,' returned the governess. 'And you know Georgie does not like them.'
'Then he needn't, the baby,' retorted Alan, with a withering glance at his brother.
'I don't mind frogs half so much,' explained Georgie, with a look of disgust at the newts struggling in Alan's grasp.
'What a little silly you are,' said Alan, placing the creatures on the ground, and a tiny red worm in front of them. 'What's the matter with you? Are you afraid they will bite?'
'It's those dreadful legs! And the nasty way they eat.'
'Come, we must go,' said Miss Leigh, with some irritation. 'Come along, Georgie. Marjorie, just see that you and he are well wrapped up, and have goloshes on. The paths will be like rivers.'
But Alan, who had moved to allow the governess to leave the room, objected strongly to Marjorie going with her.
'She's got to stay and help me change the water,' he declared.
Miss Leigh had grown impatient, however; and she insisted on Marjorie accompanying her and Georgie, and swept her out of the schoolroom with them, leaving Alan to overcome his wrath as best he could.
(Continued on page63.)
Some time ago a soldier at Winchester Barracks went before his colonel for punishment. He was the worst man in the regiment, in spite of his continual imprisonment in the guard-room.
The colonel, who was tired of sentencing the man, said to the sergeant: 'Here he is again. Guard-room, disgrace, solitary confinement—in fact, everything has been tried; but all to no purpose.'
'There is one thing you have not tried,' said the sergeant, 'and that is "forgiveness."'
The colonel had never thought of that, and when the soldier was brought in he asked him what he had to say to the charge.
'Nothing, sir,' was the reply, 'only I am sorry for what I have done!'
Turning a kind and pitiful look on the man, who expected nothing else than that his punishment would be increased with the repetition of his offence, the colonel addressed him, saying: 'Well, we have tried everything with you, and now we are resolved to—forgive you!'
The soldier was struck dumb with amazement, and left the room without a word. The new plan, however, was too much for him; it broke his hardened heart, and he became one of the best soldiers in her Majesty's service.
British authors may be classed in various ways: some are philosophers, like (a secure fastening, and a vowel) and (a breakfast eatable). Some, again, are poets, like (painful results of a devouring element) and (expressive sounds, and true value). There are essayists like (hardened metal, and a vowel) and (young and tender meat); and others, like (a kind of swallow), who are of less amiable character. These stand side by side with writers of novels, like (some one north of the Tweed, and an upright and crosspiece); or of stories, plays, and verses, like (a precious metal, and a hard worker).
C. J. B.
1. Go to the King's Court and plead there for deliverance.
2. The verdict was 'Not proven.' I ceased to hope for a conviction.
3. The house is good, and the garden very large.
4. Did the voyage tire you? Not an atom; I landed as fresh as when I embarked.
5. Hangings of a rich amber lined the apartment.
6. I acknowledge no superior, be he pope, king, or emperor.
7. Remember, gentlemen of the jury, the advanced age of the prisoner.
C. J. B.
[Answers on page75.]
Iraised thecurtainand looked out. Themail-trainwas about to start. 'Alicia,' Icried,trialandtoillie before me.Rail not, lady, at my shabbycoat; a nation'seyes follow me.Inthiscurt Latinletter my instructions are written; armed withit I am ahappyman.
OST Anglo-Indians, after living many years in India, return to their native country with the idea that the music of Hindostan consists of the noisy twanging of stringed instruments, jangling of ankle bells, and banging of drums. Very few have troubled themselves to consider the important part played by music in the lives of the various nations occupying the vast territories between the Himalayas and Cape Comorin.
Foreigners are treated by the natives to noisy performances because they are thought to be lovers of harsh sounds, possibly owing to the prominence of brass instruments in our military bands, the only European music with whichthey are familiar. Moreover, we must take into account that the scales and chords, which make the harmonies so pleasant to Western ears, sound just as discordant to Eastern nations as their musical combinations do to ourselves.
The "Bin."
The Vedas, or sacred books of the Brahmins, give very strict directions about the music of the various religious festivals. It is ordered to consist almost always of soft, mild melodies, dying dreamily away, accompanied by the gentle tinkling of cymbals. The Vedic chant, sung by the priests, was written some three thousand years ago, and has still a wonderful effect on the minds of educated Hindus.
In very early times the art of music was reduced to an elaborate system, and the study of it seems to have been general until the first Mohammedan invasion in the eleventh century. From this time the whole country was a scene of war between rival princes, and amid fighting and bloodshed for many centuries the peaceful arts had little chance of flourishing.
The "Kimmori."
Aurungzebe, the last great Mogul emperor, put an end to the Court music, which had probably reached a very low level in his day. It was his custom to assure his people of his safety by showing himself daily to them at a certain window, and some musicians, thinking to arouse his sympathy, brought beneath this window a funeral bier, and set up a doleful wailing. Distracted by the noise, the emperor appeared and demanded what it all meant? 'Melody is dead,' was the dejected reply, 'and we are taking it to the graveyard.' 'Very good,' answered the annoyed ruler; 'make the grave so deep that neither voice nor echo may ever again be heard.' And so Court ceremonials were deprived of music for the future.
The 'bin,' or 'vina,' may be regarded as the national instrument of India. Legend says that it was invented by Nareda, the son of Brahma. In painting and sculpture Nareda is usually represented as playing on this instrument. One of the old Pâli books, written about the time of our Lord's birth, gives a description of the 'vina,' and the carving of the most ancient instruments differs little from that of those made at the present time.
The 'bin' is made of wood, and has seven strings, two of steel, the rest of silver, and these are plucked by the two first fingers of the performer, who wears little metal shields made for the purpose. It is tuned by pegs, and has two gourds suspended below, each usually measuring about fourteen inches across. These, being of irregular shape and gaily coloured, give a very picturesque look to the instrument.
Another favourite instrument is the 'kimmori.' This also derives its sounding powers from gourds, of which three are usually slung from the tube forming the body. It is said by the natives to have been invented by one of the singers of the 'Brahma Loka,' or heaven of the Brahmins. The 'kimmori' is made of a pipe of bamboo or blackwood, with frets or screws, which should be fashioned of the scales of the pangolin, or scaly ant-eater, though more often they are made of bone or metal. It has only two strings, one touching the frets, the other carried above them. The tail-piece is always carved like the breast of a kite, and the instrument is frequently found sculptured on ancient temples and shrines, especially in Mysore, in the south of Hindustan.
In the Old Testament, mention is made of a musical instrument called kimor, which was probably the same as the kimmori, both being of great antiquity, and most likely of Aryan construction.
Helena Heath.