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June 13, 1885.]

street leading out of the Via del Giglio, paused in front of a large Palazzo, where we halted. After being conducted through the usual dreary saloons and galleries, we came to the room in which were the antiques for sale; and they were shown us by their owner. I did not think much of the display, and found very few things I could advise the Prince to purchase. It seemed to me that he must have been misinformed as to the value of the collection. He expressed no disappointment, however, chose one or two bits of inlaid jewellery, and we prepared to leave. I had noticed a lovely chased cup by Benvenuto Cellini, and recommended the Prince to buy it; but he refused, and as we were on cur way to his carriage, he explained that he did not believe it to have been worked by Cellini, but copied by one of his pupils; and he added: "The original, I claim to possess; and if you can spare the time, I should like to show it you. Will you return with me?'

I gladly acquiesced; and we were speedily driving into the courtyard of the Palazzo Schidone. The Prince ran lightly up the broad staircase, and entering the library in which I had first seen him, led me through it to a small but exquisitely furnished apartment, where he said he kept his few treasures. Here I spent, I think, the most enjoyable hour I had passed in Florence. The collection was small; but the tazzi, intaglios, cameos, and enamels were perfect of their kind, and to each a tale of interest was attached. I was fascinated by the charm of Gherado's manner, as he directed my attention to them and told their histories. At length he brought me the Cellini vase: it was a cup shaped like a nautilus-shell, of exquisitely chased gold. On the rounded portion of the back was a winged Mercury poised on a ball of onyx. In the one we had previously seen, the figure was placed on a silver globe, which spoilt the effect, and it was, besides, of far inferior finish. The Prince asked me if I would like to make a sketch of the vase, as I was so much impressed by its beauty; and I took out my little pocketbook for the purpose. The Prince gave me a cigar, rang for some coffee, and while returning his treasures to their various stands and cabinets, also began to smoke. The servant entered with the coffee, which he placed on a table behind me, and retired. My companion rose to replace in a jewel-case a ring left out, while I went on with my sketch. Presently he handed me my coffee, and drinking some himself, sat down and continued his delightful talk, to which I listened eagerly. The delicious coffee was in a cup of rather larger size than those in which the beverage is usually served. I was tired, and sipped it gladly.

Gradually I found a curious sensation stealing over me. I was strangely unable to go on with my sketch, and dropping the pencil, listened to the Prince. I felt contented, satisfied-but stilled. My head fell gently back against the cushioned chair, and languidly I watched the Prince. His talk appeared to grow more rapid, then he paused. Presently he laughed-a low wicked laugh, and his face assumed the evil expression I remembered so well; but I was incapable of the smallest effort. Suddenly he rose from his chair, leaned over me, and hissed in my ear:

'Fool! I know all Death is thy doom!' Then he crossed the room, pushing the furniture out of his way, rang a bell violently, and came back to my side. When the servants rushed in, he cried: 'See, Giovanni; the Signor is illdying, I fear. He just now put his hand to his heart, sprang from his chair, and fell back like this! Go instantly and fetch il Dottore Monte. -Meanwhile, you bring me a cordial, water, a fan,' he continued, turning to another servant; and then to his valet: Unfasten his collar.' While the terrified footmen were hurrying hither and thither, I still had consciousness enough left to feel that I was now in the hands of a remorseless foe, who meant that I should die. Still I seemed not specially distressed or grieved, but more as if I were outside my body as a spectator. Slowly even this recognition of outward things failed me; and while Gherado and the valet were trying to unfasten my tie and placing cordial on my lips, their faces and voices receded, and became fainter and dimmer, till all things faded from my consciousness, and I remembered no more.

COMPRESSED AIR.

THE employment of compressed air in sinking foundations has considerably extended of late years, and has been accompanied by a corresponding advance in the construction and manipulation both of pneumatic appliances and pneumatic apparatus. The sensations experienced on first entering a chamber charged with compressed air, and the impressions, both mental and physical, produced by such novel conditions, deserve some passing notice.

The

A rough sketch of the end in view and the means employed in its attainment will be readily followed. Over the site of the proposed structure-harbour-wall, bridge-pier, or lighthouse-which has to be founded beneath the surface of the water, a 'caisson' is floated out and sunk. Constructed indifferently of wood or iron, and varying in shape and size with the requirements of the work in execution, it is not easy to define with accuracy what is meant by a 'caisson.' Suffice it, therefore, to fall back on the literal translation from the French, a box or coffer;' adding, that the floor is placed several feet above the bottom, and divides the structure into an upper and lower compartment. latter, filled with air, pumped in by machinery, forms nothing less than a large diving-bell. In this chamber, the workmen are employed, excavating the material beneath their feet; the caisson gradually sinking by its own weight into the hollow excavated beneath it. A sufficiently firm bottom having been reached, nothing remains to be done save to fill the air-chamber with masonry, the men building their way upwards till high-water level is reached, when the works can proceed as if they were on dry land. The caisson is sometimes left in position, forming part of the permanent structure; at other times it is removed.

Ingress and egress to the air-chamber are obtained by means of an air-lock, which prevents the escape of the air, and is similar in its mode of action to that on a canal. The air-lock entered

This

and the door closed, communication with the outer air is cut off. A valve is now opened, admitting compressed air from the chamber below, which rapidly fills the air-lock. enables the door leading into the shaft to be opened. The visitor can now descend to the airchamber, where the task of excavation is being carried on.

On the admission of the compressed air to the air-lock, the visitor will experience a sharp sensation of pain in the ears, which will continue to increase with the pressure. He must at once, swallowing the air, force it into the nostrils, which should be closed by the hand. This will drive the air into the ears, and afford considerable relief, due to the equalisation of pressure on both sides of the drums. This should be repeated as the pressure increases, and until the peculiar sensation of oppression in the ears has abated. If the pain increases, the visitor should leave the air-lock, rather than expose himself to the pain and risk to which he is unsuited; for one of the most marked characteristics of compressed air is the immunity enjoyed by some persons inhaling it, as compared with the inconvenience it causes to others.

One or two curious effects resulting from a denser atmosphere may now be noted. On one occasion, a visitor to the air-chamber of a caisson, anxious to compensate for any loss of tissue occasioned by his exertions, opened and emptied his flask, carefully screwing on the stopper. On coming to the surface, he came again under ordinary atmospheric conditions, and the flask at once exploded, owing to the removal of the outside pressure. Whistling can be performed only with difficulty in compressed air; whilst effervescing wines, as champagne, though they are as palatable as ever, open flat and insipid.

PROTECTION AGAINST CHOKE-DAMP.

After a colliery explosion at Unsworth in March last, Mr C. S. Lindsay showed great endurance and heroism in endeavouring to save the lives of two fellow-explorers who were overcome by choke-damp. Mr Lindsay is said to have carried iron nails in his mouth, which he sucked, and was thus enabled to resist the effects of the choke-damp longer than his companions. The explanation given was, that the carbonic acid gas coming into contact with oxide of iron, formed insoluble carbonate of iron, and so was rendered innocuous. F. R. S., writing to the Times with reference to this explosion, says that the quantity of carbonic acid absorbed by the adoption of this plan is inappreciable, as might indeed be expected, and suggests a respirator filled with cotton-wool and slaked lime or caustic soda, to absorb the carbonic acid gas or chokedamp; or, better still, a cylinder filled with the same material, carried on the back, with a flexible breathing tube and mouthpiece, will enable an explorer to remain for some time in an atmosphere charged with choke-damp which would be at once fatal if inspired directly.' The foregoing is precisely on the principle of the Fleuss apparatus, by means of which divers can remain below for hours and move about freely; or by which firemen can penetrate dense smoke with impunity.

SISTERLY SYMPATHY.

WHAT shall I say to soothe thee, sister mine,
Now that stern Death has robbed thy little nest
Of the sweet bird, whose every song was thine,

Whose downy wings thy loving bosom prest?
How shall I soothe thee, now those wings are crushed,
Now that the pleasant, twittering voice is hushed ?

Lift the stray locks from off the dear, dead face; Let the bright wavelets with their mates unite; These lovely snowdrops in her fingers place,

Like to her dimpled bosom, pure and white; Deck well the casket round our rare white pearl, Our sweet, sweet Margaret, our baby girl.

Weep not so bitterly, O sister dear;

Cling not so blindly to that wee dead hand; Think of it, worn and cramped with toiling here, Smeared, like the shells beneath the ocean sand. Think, had she lived, Care would have lined that brow;

Those eyes would weep, as thine are weeping now.

Not as in troubled sleep our darling lies;

No cruel dreams disturb her calm repose. The blue-veined lids that veil her peaceful eyes, 'Neath thy fond kiss may never more unclose; Nor shall the lisping accents plead in vain To her that may not ease the racking pain.

Dear, let this thought alone console thy heart

Such grief as thine, thy child shall never know. Think, how the tears unto thine eyes would start, As moved the feverish fingers to and fro, Lovingly creeping 'neath the kerchief, where They burned the breast that loved to feel them there.

We almost trace upon the cottage floor

The faint impressions of her pretty feet; Young voices wander through the open door; Some are discordant; some are low and sweet; And some are like the voice we cannot hear, Only not half so sweet-not half so dear.

The crumpled pillow where her fair head lay

Like sunbeam glinting on a seagull's wings, Thy hand shall fondle when the gloaming gray

On thy bowed head its tender shadow flings; Her pillow oft thy loving lips shall seek, Because it nestled 'neath her soft, round cheek.

Let the blue ribbons that she wore the last
In loops, coquettish, on her shoulders tied,
With other relics of the hallowed past,

Be neatly folded, kissed, and laid aside.
Look, they are tangled! Shall we loose them! No!
Tangled she left them-we will leave them so.

The daisy meek shall fold its crimson tips

In modest beauty on her humble grave, Pouting for kisses, like her smiling lips!

Lifting its bonny head, as if to brave The scorn of sculptured tombs, that seem to lower On the poor earth where blooms the simple flower.

Her soul, dear sister-as the captive bird

Longs for the sunshine, panteth to be freeYearned for such music as we never heard,

Dreamed of such beauty as we never see. Mourn we that she has broken her prison bars, Knowing that, free, she soars beyond the stars!

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH

All Rights Reserved.

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

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

No. 77.-VOL. II.

SATURDAY, JUNE 20, 1885.

WHAT IS PRIVATEERING? MANY people were and still are of opinion that privateering, as between European powers at least, was abolished many years ago, and it may be of interest to see on what foundation this opinion rests.

In 1856, the plenipotentiaries who signed the Treaty of Paris sat in conference, and on the preamble that 'maritime law in time of war had long been the subject of deplorable disputes,' they adopted a solemn Declaration, which has since been known as the Declaration of Paris,' and of which the first article is the following: 'Privateering is and remains abolished.' By this Declaration, those states who signed it were of course bound; and all civilised states have since acceded to it, except the United States, Mexico, and Spain. One might think that nothing could be more explicit than the terms of this article; yet subsequent events have proved that the want of a definition of the first word in it has raised grave doubts as to what operations at sea are actually abolished.

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themselves of its legality; and the reason for this exception to the rule of international law which declares that vessels of war cannot be visited, obviously is, that a privateer does not bear a public character, as a war-ship does. All these safeguards have been devised, or at least all these usages have gradually become recognised by civilised nations, with a view to the prevention of very obvious risks. So long as naval discipline is exercised on board a ship, and so long as her movements are really controlled by the state to which she belongs, some security is afforded that the laws of war as understood between the belligerent powers will be observed. But neither of these conditions has been fulfilled in the case of privateers. The annals of the eighteenth century tell terrible tales of the excesses committed by privateers on the high seas. These vessels having got beyond the reach of any control which the war-ships of their own country could exercise over them, and being manned often by desperate men, spared neither life nor property, and sometimes made but small discrimination between the ships of the enemy and those of neutral countries. Hence the article of the Declaration of Paris which has been quoted was hailed at the time as a humane regulation, and has ever since been regarded as a canon of international law.

A privateer is a vessel which belongs to a private owner, but sails under a commission granted by a responsible government, and carrying authority to the grantee to wage war according to the usages of naval warfare against the power specified in the commission. With the But an incident of the Franco-German war commission there are issued instructions for the showed that there might arise very nice quesguidance of the holder; and the government may tions as to what 'privateering' exactly is, and require the deposit of a certain sum or the that the decision of these questions would deterdelivery of a bond as security against the viola-mine whether that article was as comprehensive tion of those instructions. The government may and effectual as it appeared to be. In July further withdraw the commission, if it has been 1870, a Prussian Decree ordered the creation misused, or if the instructions it contains have of a voluntary naval force, and appealed to been disregarded; and when such commissions were wont to be issued by this country, our law held that the owners of the vessels commissioned might also be held liable in damages for the consequences of such misuse or disregard. The war-ships of neutral powers are entitled to visit a privateer and demand exhibition of her commission, in order that they may satisfy

private individuals to place themselves and their
ships at the disposal of the government. The
Decree stated shortly the conditions under which
these vessels and their crews would be accepted
for the service of the Fatherland.
were to be owned by private individuals; the
crews would indeed enter the federal navy for
the duration of the war, but were to be hired

The vessels

by the owners; the officers were to receive a patent of their rank, and were assured that in case of extraordinary service rendered, their ship might at their request be permanently established in the navy. The object of the force was to attack and destroy French ships of war; and as a reward for this service, premiums were to be granted according to the importance of the vessels. The distribution of these premiums in proper proportions amongst the crew was to be intrusted to the owners. The French Minister, stating in a note verbale that his government viewed the German proposal with great apprehension, as being virtually a return to privateering in a disguised form, laid the matter before the English government for consideration. The advice of our Crown lawyers was taken on the point, and they gave an opinion which justified Lord Granville in making to the French government the reply that there were substantial distinctions between the proposed naval volunteer force sanctioned by the Prussian government and the system of privateering which the Declaration of Paris was intended to suppress.' The inference to be drawn from this reply of course was, that England could not undertake to represent to Prussia that the execution of her scheme would be regarded as a violation of the Declaration. In the end, the proposal of the Prussian government was not carried out, and the volunteer

navy was never formed.

Now, it is perfectly true that, at the outset at anyrate, these vessels were to be employed against war-ships only; but this restriction of their operations would have been but temporary, because the announcement made at the commencement of the war, that Prussia would not capture private property at sea, was afterwards withdrawn. It has been well pointed out that the reason for this announcement being made at all was obviously that Prussia hoped thereby to induce France to adopt a similar policy, and that by this step the commerce of the former, which she was powerless to protect, would be spared, and the strength of the latter on the sea in a great degree rendered useless.

Now that a cool judgment may be formed on the subject, it may be said with safety that it is difficult to see any real difference between the volunteer vessels as proposed to be organised and the privateers which it was intended to eliminate from European warfare. Both classes of vessels are owned and equipped by private persons for the sake of gain; in both, the crews and officers are employed by private persons; and in both cases the result of this practice will inevitably be, that the acquisition of that gain which prompts the enterprise will be pursued even though it involve the disregard of the rules of naval war. Besides this, the French government pointed out, with great acuteness, that the clause in the Decree which provided for the distribution of the premiums by the owners effectually stamped the enterprise as essentially private. It is to be admitted, indeed, that a volunteer navy is under naval discipline, while privateers are not; but this is a difference of degree only, for even a privateer would recognise the authority of the admiral,

at least while within his reach; and the scheme of the Prussian government does not show that the naval control of these volunteers would be so close and complete as to guarantee obedience to naval commands.

be made by any of the states who acceded to It is improbable that a similar attempt will the Declaration of 1856 to evade the execution of its first article; but it is not unlikely that one of them may boldly assert that, like another famous international agreement, this Declaration has suffered 'the modifications to which most European transactions have been exposed;' and with that preliminary justification, may proceed to open violation of the stipulations which it has undertaken to observe. In such a case, it is probable that the governments of Europe would join in remonstrance against such a proceeding and it is certain that the power to whose special prejudice the violation was committed would take an early opportunity of considering how far she on her part was bound by agreements entered into with a state so faithless.

It has been seen, then, that the essential characteristic of a privateer is that, though owned by private individuals, she is commissioned by a responsible government; and it is scarcely necessary to apply that description so as to distinguish her from pirates on the one hand and from merchant-vessels incorporated in the navy on the other. Pirates are those who, without any authority from any sovereign or state, commit depredations by sea or land; and as no single state is responsible for their acts, so every nation may seize and punish them. The incorporation of part of the mercantile marine of a nation in its regular navy is of course wholly legitimate; the vessels are as much subject to naval control as regular war-ships, and are in just the same intimate connection with the state itself.

A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF.

CHAPTER XXV.

FRANCES went to Portland Place next day. She went with great reluctance, feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of the other side was intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there was absolute right on either side, it would not have been so difficult for her. But she knew so little of the facts of the case, and her natural prepossessions were so curiously double and variable, that every assault was painful. To be swept into the faction of the other side, when the first impassioned senti ment with which she had felt her mother's arms around her had begun to sink inevitably into that silent judgment of another individual's ways and utterances which is the hindrance of reason to every enthusiasm, was doubly hard. She was resolute indeed that not a word ar insinuation against her mother should be permitted in her presence. But she herself had a hundred little doubts and questions in her mind, traitors whose very existence no one must suspect but herself. Her natural revul sion from the thought of being forced into partisanship gave her a feeling of strong opposition and resistance against everything that might be

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said to her, when she stepped into the solemn house in Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and still, so different from her mother's warm and cheerful abode. The manner in which her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their previous meeting, in Lady Markham's presence, the greeting given her by Mrs Cavendish had chilled her through and through. She was ushered in now to the same still room, with its unused look, with all the chairs in their right places, and no litter of habitation about; but her aunt came to her with a different aspect from that which she had borne before. She came quickly, almost with a rush, and took the shrinking girl into her arms. 'My dear little Frances, my dear child, my brother's own little girl!' she cried, kissing her again and again. Her ascetic countenance was transfigured, her gray eyes warmed and shone.

Frances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She did her best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to have felt, and to return her aunt's caresses with due fervour; but in her heart there was a chill of which she felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity which was very foreign to her nature. All through these strange experiences, Frances felt herself insincere. She had not known how to respond even to her mother, and a cold sense that she was among strangers had crept in even in the midst of the bewildering certainty that she was with her nearest relations and in her mother's house. In present circumstances, 'How do you do, aunt Charlotte?' was the only commonplace phrase she could find to say, in answer to the effusion of affection with which she was received.

'Now we can talk,' said Mrs Cavendish, leading her with both hands in hers to a sofa near the fire. While my lady was here, it was impossible. You must have thought me cold, when my heart was just running over to my dear brother's favourite child. But I could not open my heart before her; I never could do it. And there is so much to ask you. For though I would not let her know I had never heard, you know very well, my dear, I can't deceive you. -0 Frances, why doesn't he write? Surely, surely, he must have known I would never betray him-to her, or any of her race.'

Aunt Charlotte, please remember you are speaking of '

I

'Oh, I can't stand on ceremony with you! can't do it. Constance, that had been always with her, that was another thing. But you, my dear, dear child! And you must not stand on ceremony with me. I can understand you, if no one else can. And as for expecting you to love her and honour her and so forth, a woman whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled your dear father's life'

Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With eyes that flashed with excitement, the quiet still gray woman was strangely transformed. A vivacious and animated person when moved by passion is not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. There was a force of fury and hatred in her tone and looks which appalled the girl. She interrupted almost rudely, insisting upon being heard, as soon as Mrs Cavendish paused for breath.

'You must not speak to me so; you must not -you shall not! I will not hear it.' Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of a tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds.

Mrs Cavendish stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly changed her tone. Your father might have written to me,' she said-'he might have written to me. He is my only brother, and I am all that remains of the family, now that Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much mixed up with it all, is gone. It was natural enough that he should go away. I always understood him, if nobody else did; but he might have trusted his own family, who would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that I should owe my knowledge of him now to that ill-grown, ill-conditioned- O Frances, it was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge of my brother and of you and everything about you to Markham-I shall never be able to forget how bitter it was.'

'You forget: Markham is my brother, aunt Charlotte.'

'He is nothing of the sort. He is your halfbrother, if you care to keep up the connection at all. But some people don't think much of it. It is the father's side that counts.-But don't let us argue about that. Tell me how is your father? Tell me all about him. I love you dearly, for his sake; but above everything, I want to hear about him. I never had any other brother.-How is he, Frances? To think that I should never have seen or heard of him for twelve long years!'

'My father is very well,' said Frances, with a sort of strangulation both in heart and voice, not knowing what to say.

"Very well!"-Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so long! Where is he-and how is he living-and have you been a very good child to him, Frances? He deserves a good child, for he was a good son. Oh, tell me a little about him. Did he tell you everything about us? Did he say how fond and how proud we were of him? and how happy we used to be at home all together? He must have told you.

If you knew how I go back to those old days! We were such a happy united family. Life is always disappointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not everybody that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their youth. He must have told you of our happy life at home.'

Frances had kept the secret of her father's silence from every one who had a right to blame him for it. But here she felt herself to be bound by no such precaution. His sister was on his side. It was in his defence and in passionate partisanship for him that she had assailed the mother to the child. Frances had even a momentary angry pleasure in telling the truth without mitigation or softening. 'I don't know whether you will believe me,' she said, 'but my father told me nothing. He never said a word to me about his past life or any one connected with him; neither you nor any one.' Though she had the kindest heart in the world, and never had harmed any one, it gave Frances almost a little pang of pleasure to deliver this blow.

Mrs Cavendish received it, so to speak, full

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