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CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

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HEROES OF PEACE. WE are sometimes told that as a race we are deteriorating, and that the Englishmen of today are not equal to those of former ages in spirit and daring. But no one who has seen the record of the Royal Humane Society could indorse this sentiment. One of the main objects of this Society, which was founded in 1774, is 'to bestow rewards for the preservation and restoration of life; and year by year the claimants for these rewards are more numerous, and the deeds for which these rewards are asked are not inferior, in self-devotion and heroism on the part of the rescuers, to any of past ages, be they ever so noble.

During the twelve months covered by the last Report of the Society, no fewer than four hundred and eleven persons have been rewarded for gallant conduct in the saving of life, and their efforts have resulted in the saving of four hundred and thirty-eight lives. In twenty-four cases, rewards were granted, though, unfortunately, the bravery which they were intended to mark was unsuccessful. Never before has the number of rewards in a single year been so great. These figures in themselves, one would think, are a sufficiently potent answer to the criticism to which we have alluded; but were any further reply needed, the details of some of the cases would assuredly give it.

The 'blue ribbon' of the Society-in this case, the blue ribbon has gold stripes-is the Stanhope Gold Medal, which is awarded every year to the hero of the most meritorious case brought under the notice of the Society within the course of the year. If ever medal was deserved, the winner of the Stanhope for 1884 is entitled to it. On the 13th September 1883, as the steamship Rewa was proceeding through the Gulf of Aden, a Lascar fell overboard. Being unable to swim, the unfortunate man drifted rapidly astern, and failed to grasp the life-buoy thrown to him. One of the passengers, Mr Walter Cleverley, seeing the man's danger, dived from the poop, a height of thirty

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feet from the surface of the water, regardless of the fact that the sea thereabouts is infested with sharks! He swam up to the Lascar, by this time many yards astern; and for forty minutes supported him in the water, until both were rescued. Such a deed as this needs no extolling. Its singular daring is patent.

The highest ordinary reward granted by the Society is its silver medal, and twelve of these were bestowed last year. The bravery displayed by some of the silver medallists was almost equal to that of the winner of the Stanhope, and the particulars of the cases read more like romance than sober truth. The first case is that of Mr Frank Shooter, on whom the medal was conferred for saving the life of Mr F. K. Hartnol, on July 16, 1884. This time the scene was nearer home. The circumstances were so peculiar and complicated, that we follow the official record of the Society: Mr F. K. Hartnol was in a canoe on the mill-stream, Exeter, when the boat upset, and the swift current carried him under the mill-fender, and through the opening of the mill-leat, which runs for one hundred and eighty yards through a dark tunnel. The leat varies in depth from four to six feet, with pits at intervals, and is cut in the solid rock, with jagged projections on each side. The stream was running nine miles an hour. The fender at the opening was let down seven or eight inches below the water-surface, and under this the rescuer had to enter the tunnel. This feat he succeeded in effecting, and, being guided by the sound, he found Hartnol clinging to a projecting rock. Finding it impossible to stem the current, he took Hartnol on his shoulders, proceeded down the tunnel with the stream, and landed him safely at the outlet. He had all his clothing on, and ran great risk in being dashed against the rocky rough sides.

Three silver medals were last year bestowed upon officers in Her Majesty's navy. The first case was that of Quartermaster T. W. Bell of Her Majesty's ship Curaçoa, which was anchored at the time of the rescue in the Woosung River,

China. On the night of the 12th of April a marine fell into the water in trying to come on board from a boat alongside, and was carried astern by the current. Though the night was dark, Mr Bell bravely jumped overboard to the man's rescue, and succeeded in holding him above water until another man, ship's corporal John Jermyn, came to his aid with a life-buoy. For this gallantry, the Quartermaster was rewarded with the silver medal of the Society; and Jermyn, who already possessed the bronze medal, with the clasp.

The second naval officer to gain the medal during last year was Lieutenant the Hon. W. Grimston, R.Ñ., of Her Majesty's ship Alexandra. As the ship was steaming at the rate of four knots an hour off Beyrout on the 29th August, a man fell overboard. Mr Grimston saw the man's danger, and without delay dropped through a very small port into the water. He had to pass through the circle made by the double screw, which was then revolving, and succeeded in keeping the man above water until help came. Two seamen had also jumped overboard to their comrade's aid, and with their help he was saved. A silver medal was awarded to Lieutenant Grimston, and bronze medals to each of the seamen.

A pleasing feature in both the preceding cases is the ready manner in which help seems to have been given to the rescuer by his comrades. Here is another case, where the saving of life was due entirely to the efforts of one officer, Lieutenant James Startin of Her Majesty's ship Minotaur, then stationed at Portland. At eleven P.M. on the 7th July 1884, a shore-boat manned by three watermen came alongside the ship with two libertymen, both of whom were tipsy. In attempting to get on board, the two sailors capsized the boat, and all its five occupants were in an instant struggling in the water, the sailors helpless in their intoxication, and the watermen because they were unable to swim. Lieutenant Startin saw their danger, and running to the after-gangway, dived to their rescue. With great difficulty he succeeded in getting all five on board. The night was dark, with a fresh breeze and choppy sea. Any one who has witnessed the rescue of a drunken man from drowning, or that of a person unable to swim, will know how great the difficulty of rescuing these five men on a dark night and from a choppy sea must have been.

The sailors have not by any means a monopoly of the saving of life, for two soldiers are among those to whom the silver medals were awarded. One was an officer, Major Goodwyn, and the other Sergeant Peter Betts. Major Goodwyn's heroism was displayed under circumstances very similar to those which won the Stanhope Medal for Mr Cleverley. On July 29th last the steamship Nubia was running eleven knots an hour through the Red Sea, when a boy fell overboard. Without waiting to divest himself of his clothing, Major Goodwyn jumped into the sea, though that region is infested with sharks. Unhappily, his bravery was in vain; and, after swimming about for twenty minutes, he was picked up by the ship's boat. At the time of the accident the steamer was running under both steam and sail, and this made it more difficult to pick a man up.

Sergeant Betts earned his medal on land.

A

man who was sinking a new well in Kilkenny prison on November 15th last, found himself at a depth of sixty-five feet below the surface, being ingulfed in the clay and water, which was rapidly accumulating, until it rose above his knees. He signalled to the workmen above that he could not extricate himself, and Sergeant Betts gallantly volunteered to go to his aid. He descended the shaft, and, though exposed to the same risk as the man, and at one time in imminent danger of sinking, finally succeeded in rescuing him. Twice, however, he was obliged to be drawn to the top, because he was for the time exhausted; and it was not until the unfortunate workman had been nine hours immersed in the sand and water that the gallant sergeant's task was done.

Another rescue from the bottom of a shaft is reported from Ireland, this time from Kilcoole, County Wicklow. On the 7th October, two men were engaged in sinking a pump-hole, and had occasion to blast part of the rock by means of powder. A fuse was attached and lighted, and the men ascended. After the explosion had taken place, Morgan Byrne went down, and was overpowered by the foul air. After some little time had elapsed, James Keane also descended, and was in like manner overcome. An hour having intervened without tidings of either of the men, a man named William Whyte volunteered to go down. He was lowered, and finding the apparently dead bodies of the two workmen, gave the signal to those at the top to pull him up. As they were doing this, the rope gave way, and Whyte fell upon Byrne, arousing him to consciousness, and maiming himself. Wounded as he was, he managed to hold on to the new rope, and was drawn to the surface. As Byrne was conscious, he, too, was drawn up in safety. But his comrade Keane was still at the bottom of the shaft; and a labouring man named Patrick King now offered to go in search of him. He did so, and in the result Keane, too, was saved, Silver medals were awarded to Whyte and King.

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On the 24th of September, a boy slipped off
the training-ship Wellesley, then anchored in the
Tyne. One of the boats was coming off from
the shore, but could not get up to the boy
because of the intervening cables. The officer of
the boat sprang overboard, but could make no
headway towards the boy, owing to the strong
wind and tide. Seeing this, John M'Closkey,
another boy from the training-ship, jumped over-
board, swam to the sinking boy, and diving, after
his comrade had sunk twice, succeeded in rescuing
him. His bravery was very suitably rewarded
by the Society's silver medal.

The next rescue was in connection with Sir Thomas Brassey's world-famed yacht The Sunbeam, and its hero was Mr Thomas Allnutt Brassey. On September 30th the yacht was lying in Loch Carron, Ross-shire. The cutter was proceeding to the shore, a distance of about three-quarters of a mile, when, owing to the heavy sea, one of her timbers started, and she rapidly filled and turned over. Before this happened, Mr Brassey took off his coat, and advised the others to do likewise. Next he distributed the oars to those who were unable to swim. When the boat finally capsized, some of the men lost their oars, and one

in particular, Harry Tinnworth, was in danger of drowning. Seeing his plight, Mr Brassey swam to him, gave him his own oar, and supported him against the heavy waves until another of The Sunbeam's boats rescued them all. At one point, Mr Brassey lost his hold of the man, and only regained his grasp by diving for him.

One more instance, and the tale of the silver medallists of 1884 is complete. On November 10th last the water was being discharged through the double sluices between the inner and outer harbours at Ramsgate. A lad fell into the water, which was rushing out with the force of a cataract, and he was whirled about like a cork. No boat could have lived in such a sea, yet Edward Grainger, a bystander, gallantly jumped into the dock and brought out the lad. This case, like the others, was rewarded by the silver medal.

In addition to the Stanhope Medal and the twelve silver medals, the Society issued for gallant acts during last year one hundred and twenty bronze medals, and ten clasps; one hundred and twenty-one testimonials on vellum, and ninety-one on parchment, with fifty-one pecuniary rewards. Among the recipients of these honours were ten women and girls and sixteen quite young persons. We wish that space would permit us to give particulars of the cases under these two last heads, but unfortunately this is not possible. No one pretends that this is a complete list of the gallant deeds of last year; most probably it represents no more than a tithe of them, yet these are certainly enough to answer our original question. For while Englishmen and Englishwomen are capable of such deeds as these, they are most assuredly not deteriorating, and can hold their own with any past generation, however noble and daring its deeds.

From The Queen we quote the following remarks upon a recent example of female heroism: In the roll of noble women who have sacrificed themselves to save the lives of others, no name should stand higher than that of the young servantgirl Alice Ayres, who recently imperilled and unhappily lost her own life in the successful effort to rescue the children of the family in which she resided from death by fire.* On appearing at the upper window of the burning house, the lower part of which was on fire, she was called on to make the hazardous attempt to save her own life by leaping to the ground. But with a presence of mind worthy of admiration, and an amount of noble courage above all praise, she had determined to make the attempt to rescue the children of her mistress. To throw them on to the pavement from the height at which she was placed, would have been fatal; so, returning into the room, she dragged a bed to the window, and with some difficulty forced it through. Having thus provided the means of breaking their fall, she went back for the children, one after the other, and threw them out on the soft bed below. Before she had rescued the third, she was herself nearly suffocated by smoke and fame, and the child was so much burnt that it has since died in the hospital. It was not until she had rescued all the children that this noble girl thought of her own life. Exhausted by the

At Mrs Chandler's, 194 Union Street, Borough,

London.

efforts she had made, blinded by the smoke and fire, she leaped from the window, but unhappily missed the means of safety she had provided for others, and falling on the hard pavement, injured her spine to so great an extent that from the first hour of her admission into Guy's Hospital her case was deemed hopeless, and she died on Sunday morning.

'It is impossible to imagine a finer example of female heroism. True nobility of soul is confined to no sex nor age, nor to any condition of life. We have here a poor servant-girl, one who might be spoken of with disdain by many vastly inferior to her in all that ennobles human beings, displaying an amount of coolness in danger, thoughtfulness for others, and a courageous disregard of her own safety which transcends all praise, but which should not be allowed to pass away without recognition. The heroine herself is beyond our aid, but the body that was the tenement of such a noble soul should not be permitted to lie in a nameless grave.

"The British public take strange fits of virtuous sympathy. If a noble action has anything of the romantic or picturesque about it, they are touched deeply. Grace Darling, some forty-five years ago, rowed out with her father to rescue some shipwrecked sailors, and the deed has never been forgotten. The boat in which it was accomplished has been treasured as a precious relic, and was shown at the recent Fisheries Exhibition. But the courage, resolution, strength of purpose, and disregard of her own safety, as shown by Alice Ayres, was even greater than that exhibited by the light-keeper's daughter. Granted that Alice was but a poor servant-girl in a squalid part of the town; but if one has been celebrated in verse and received a well-earned renown, it should surely not be sufficient for the other to dismiss her, perhaps to a pauper's grave, with only a line in the daily papers to record her death.'

A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF.
BY MRS OLIPHANT.
CHAPTER XXIII.

MRS CAVENDISH lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated house, also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not exist.

Frances followed her mother with

a beating heart through the long wide hall and large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet made no sound. She thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some silent place in which mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but the room they were ushered into was only a very large, very still drawing-room, in painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, which made a little sound and flicker that preserved it from utter death. The blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains hung down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the modern aestheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furniture impeding progress, in which Lady Markham

delighted. The furniture was all solid, durable— what upholsterers call very handsome-huge mirrors over the mantel-pieces, a few large portraits in chalk on the walls, solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brilliantly painted china flowerpot inclosing a large plant of the palm kind, dark green and solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It was very warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the common occupations of life were never brought.

'She never sits here,' said Lady Markham in a low tone. 'She has a morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when Mr Cavendish takes a nap before conning his briefs for the ensuing day; and he comes up at ten o'clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes to bed. That is about all the intercourse they have, and all the time the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is why it has such a depressing

look.'

'Is she not happy, then?' said Frances wistfully, which was a silly question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it.

'Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn't she be happy? She has everything she has ever wished for-plenty of money for they are very richher husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky woman, as women go.'

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'Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,' said Frances, looking round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, with a sensation which Mariuccia's kitchen at home, which only looked on the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had never given her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all at once the door opened, and Mrs Cavendish came in, taking the young visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father's approach. Mrs Cavendish coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances' face. She was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold gray eyes, and an air which was like that of her rooms-the air of being unused, of being put against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stifly to Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both hands.

'You have not seen her for a long time, not since she was a child; nor I either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Charlotte, I told you I expected

'My brother's child!' Mrs Cavendish said, fixing her eyes upon the girl, who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by saying, 'But she is like you,' with a certain tone of reproach.

"That is not my fault,' said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she added: 'For the matter of that, they are both your brother's children-though, unfortunately, mine too.'

'You know my opinion on that matter,' said Mrs Cavendish; and then, and not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping, kissed her on the cheek. Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word from you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in you. It must be very sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, to be suddenly sent here without any will of your own.'

O no,' said Frances. I was very glad to come, to see mamma.'

"That's the proper thing to say, of course,' the other said with a cold smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an answer, even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt went on, without looking at her again: 'I suppose you have heard from Constance? It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with the different kind of life. My brother's quiet ways are not likely to suit a young lady about town.'

'Frances will be able to tell you all about it,' said Lady Markham, who kept her temper with astonishing self-control. 'She only arrived last night. I would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you will like to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion that on the whole the change will do Constance good.'

'I don't at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother would do any one good-who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a great change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be infected with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his life. I suppose, Lady Markham, that is what you intend?'

'You are so determined to think badly of me,' said Lady Markham, 'that it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con's going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what were my views for her?"

'Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your plans,' Mrs Cavendish said.

'It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward's only near relation'

for

'Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you your consideration,' the other cried quickly. cold,Constance was never influenced by me; though I don't wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had prepared for her.'

'I am so glad to see you, Charlotte. I feared you might be out, as it was such a beautiful day.' Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me looking out. I am not very energetic, you know -not like you.-Have I seen this young lady before?'

'Why?' cried Lady Markham quickly, with

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an astonished glance. Then she added with a smile: I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con lid not like the gentleman whom I approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can't nowadays, if one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of the times. But if you will allow me to say so, Charlotte, Con is too like her father to bear anything, to put up with anything that'

'Thank heaven,' cried Mrs Cavendish. 'She is indeed a little like her dear father, notwithstanding a training so different.-And this one, I suppose this one you find like you?'

I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,' said Lady Markham, taking Frances' | hand in her own. 'But Edward has brought her up, Charlotte; that should be a passport to your affections at least.'

Upon this, Mrs Cavendish came down as from a pedestal, and addressed herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue had gone. 'I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and disagreeable,' she said. 'I will not tell you why, though I think I could make out a case. How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and seldomer-sometimes not even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have little sense of family duties, which is a pity at your age.'

Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. Papa,' she said, 'is very well. I have heard him say that he could not write letters-our life was so quiet there was nothing to say.'

'Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your quiet life that I like to hear about. Society has little attraction for me. I suppose you are half an Italian, are you? and know nothing about English life.'

'She looks nothing but English,' said Lady Markham in a sort of parenthesis.

'The only people I know are English,' said Frances. Papa is not fond of society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have always tried to be like my own countrypeople, as well as I could.'

And with great success, my dear,' said her mother with a smiling look.

Mrs Cavendish said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. Then she turned to Lady Markham. Naturally,' she said, 'I should like to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my dear brother; but that can't be done in a morning call. Will you leave her with me for the day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? Any time will suit me.'

'She only arrived last night, Charlotte. I suppose even you will allow that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with you, if that suits you?"

Thursday, the third day,' said Mrs Cavendish, ostentatiously counting on her fingers-'during which interval you will have full time- O yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother of course conventionally has, as you say, the first right.'

'Conventionally and naturally too,' Lady Markham replied; and then there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who felt her innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused and indignant, not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house did nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of the moment; she seemed to have no wish to set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during which the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece and the occasional fall of ashes from the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, loud and distinct, to fill up the interval, was half painful, half ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life.

At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady Markham rose and spread her wings-or at least shook out her silken draperies, which comes to the same thing. 'As that is settled, we need not detain you any longer,' she said.

Mrs Cavendish rose too, slowly. 'I cannot expect,' she replied, 'that you will give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o'clock on Thursday. I lunch at one; and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I shall be glad to take you wherever you like.I suppose I may keep her to dinner? Mr Cavendish will like to make acquaintance with his niece.'

'Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,' said Lady Markham with a smile. I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.'

'Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and ran away to her father,' quoth the implacable antagonist.

Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. 'I don't think Constance has abandoned me,' she cried hastily; and if she has, the fault is But there is no discussion possible between people so hopelessly biased as you and I,' she added, recovering her composure. 'Mr Cavendish is well, I hope?'

'Very well.-Good-morning, since you will go,' said the mistress of the house. She dropped another cold kiss upon Frances' cheek. It seemed to the girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, that it was her aunt's nose, which was a long one and very chilly, which touched her. She made no response to this nasal salutation. She felt, indeed, that to give a slap to that other cheek would be much more expressive of her sentiments than a kiss, and followed her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. Lady Markham, too, was moved. When she got into her brougham, she leant back in her corner and put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of each eye. Then she laughed, and put her hand upon Frances' arm.

'You are not to think I am grieving,' she said; it is only rage. Did you ever know such a?- But, my dear, we must recollect that it is natural-that she is on the other side.'

'Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?'

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