locality. Had he done so, analysis might | very heavy; it remains at the bottom of have settled the nature of it. The chemi- a vessel just as a liquid would do. If, cal reader, however, will be convinced, therefore, the poison-valley were tapped, from various points of the description, like a barrel, at its lowest part, all the foul that sulphuretted hydrogen, if not the air would run away, and, mixing with the sole gaseous poison there, must be a con- external air, would soon be diluted to such stituent of it to a very large degree. an extent that no practical harm would And a very terrible poison it is, too. ensue. When sulphuretted hydrogen is Some years ago a curious experiment was mixed with air in very small proportions, made with it at the Veterinary College of it may be breathed with impunity. In Lyons. The object proposed was to de- point of fact, we breathe it every day of termine whether a horse could be killed our lives, especially such as of us as live with it by mere absorption through the in cities; nay, it is continually evolved skin. For this purpose the poor animal from our hair. A curious point may here was inclosed, all but the head, in an india- be mentioned in reference to this evolurubber bag, containing air mixed with tion: sulphuretted hydrogen has the protwelve per cent of sulphuretted hydrogen perty of turning black certain metallic gas. The conditions of the experiment compounds which are brought in contact of course permitted the horse to breathe with it. Amongst the metallic compounds atmospheric air; nevertheless he died. in question, those of lead and bismuth are This is the gas which accumulates in conspicuous. If, therefore, hair be smeared graveyards, cesspools, and other places with a paste into which litharge (oxide of where animal matter is collected. Accidents originating with it have been particularly frequent at Paris, where the conditions are such that large amounts of animal matter accumulate, and are allowed to remain for considerable periods in domestic establishments. Surely all who are interested in the sanitary welfare of the community ought to be stirred up by the reflection, that through our want of caution we are often allowing the very gases that constitute the destructive properties of the upas valley to do their deadly work upon the population in the midst of us. lead) enters, and cutaneous exhalation retarded by a cap of oilskin, the hair is dyed black, although the dye itself be light red. Of this kind is the ordinary hair-dye. That oxide of bismuth is changed to black, has been discovered by ladies more than once, to their cost. Some mineral waters, amongst which that of Harrowgate is a familiar example, contain this offensive gas dissolved; and oxide of bismuth, owing to its pearly whiteness, has sometimes been used as a skin-pigment. Certain incautious fair ones have before now emerged from a bath of Harrowgate Were it desirable for any reason to waters in a most alarming state of blackpurify the poison-valley of Java, there is ness, the cause of which the chemical reason to believe, from the description of reader will be at no loss to understand. the locality furnished to us by Mr. Loudon, The blackness, however, is not permanent; that it could be effected by the exercise of and if the accident causes a lady to reflect moderate engineering skill. Sulphuretted on the folly of using skin-cosmetics, it will hydrogen gas, like carbonic acid gas, is not have occurred in vain. MORNING ON STILL lake, sweet lake, Fresh breeze, morning breeze, LAKE CONSTANCE. Sweet flowers, color'd flowers, To-day 'twas dew, not heavy showers, Everywhere the sun shines bright, And birds sing out their heart's delight From Titan. OUR WISH; OR, THE CHILD OF AFFECTION. PART I. I was past my first youth before I met Paula Clive, and she was no longer a girl. I well remember seeing her tall figure standing erect, and with a sort of dignity that had a suspicion of haughtiness absent it, under the central chandelier of Lady Craven's brilliant drawing-room. It was at one of her ladyship's conversazioni, or, as she preferred calling her weekly réunions, festivals of lions." On this occasion, I, precious in her dilettante eyes as a scientific lion, had been entreated, teased, and persuaded into coming the most effectual persuasion, after all, lying in her passing announcement that: 66 Oh! I "Miss Clive will be with me. forgot-of course you never read those kind of things. But she is a most interesting person. I was fortunate enough to visit my cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Halliwell, in Staffordshire, this year; and Mr. Clive is curate of their parish. Singular isn't it, for a clergymen's daughter to write such books? Now, I assure you if you'll only come- " etc. I consented, and was relieved of the hospitable lady's voluble attentions. She had wrongly concluded that I "never read those kind of books"-novels, to wit. I had been struck by an extract in a newspaper from one of Miss Clive's fictions, and had been led to read the whole of it; and also the one or two other books that bore her name. Their chief attraction to me was, that they were real, and not romantic, and dealt more in facts than in sentiments. Under the veil of fiction, I saw sufficiently evident a sort of passionate radicalism, social, moral, and religious -an impetuous disdain of shams an eager, enthusiastic yearning after some truth, be it comely or ugly, under the heap of fair-seeming falsities with which modern life is incrusted. I saw all this, and it aroused in me a keen interest for the writer-a woman so unlike most other 66 women-nay, of a mind whose depth and bravery must exceed, I thought, most men's. I was anxious to see her, and when, as I have said, I entered Lady Craven's saloon, I stood for some little time contemplating the tall lady under the chandelier, who was at once pointed to me as the authoress of that queer book." She was handsome-her presence would have commanded attention even if she had not been celebrated beforehand. Her voice peculiar, too; and I always had great faith in voices. I liked hers; it was no musical murmur, neither was it hightoned, nor sharply modulated—but it was clear, decided, tuneful, with a certain vibration in it like that of a firmly-smitten violin string. 66 Presently we were introduced. At the sound of my name, I noticed her cheek flush faintly, and a spark seemed to quiver in her eye for an instant. And when, as she bent toward me, she said she was glad to know Mr. Heber," for the first time in my life I took the words of course in a literal sense, and believed them. We conversed for a little while on passing topics-nothing more,—and then both of us were compelled by our exigéante hostess to bestow our attention in other directions. But later in the evening we were able to resume our talk, and this time we plunged more into "the heart of things." I, at least, found it possible to see somewhat deeply into her mind; and I was not disappointed in what I discovered. It was a good, true, honest, fearless spirit, such as I honored-such as I had long since been tempted to decide did not exist in the world. Intercourse with it was like breasting a strong wind with a saline aroma in its breath. It was healthful and cheering to inhale it. I took delight in the boidness and bravery of her spirit. I gloried in her freedom from conventional prejudice-her daring disregard of traditions and opinions. All those slavish fetters that now-a-days trammel women's minds, pinching and curbing them to a like degree | try and discover amid that strange sea of of weakness and helplessness, this one woman, at least, had cast off. Yes, I was glad to know her. I could have laughed at myself for the internal reluctance with which I quitted Lady Craven's house that night; and when, a week afterward, one of her ladyship's dainty billets invited me to a "select breakfast party-the very crême de la crême of literary and artistic London" - I was absolutely led to accept, shrewdly judging that, as Miss Clive was staying at her house, I should be sure to see her again on the occasion. I was disappointed. Properly enough, I sharply told myself, for having indulged in such vain foolery of anticipation. No; Miss Clive was not there. She had been summoned home the previous day to her father, who was ill. "You know he is a clergyman," said Lady Craven, between sipping her chocolate and toying with the fragment of pâté lying on her plate, "and Puseyite to the last degree, I understand. An odd conjunction, isn't it, of High Churchism and those reforming, discontented with every present state of things novels of hers? And they are strongly attached to one another, I believe. She lost her mother years ago. And she is very good and active in the parish-visits the sick, helps the poor, and so forth; but never teaches in the schools, I'm told. In fact, with her writing and her hard studies (you know she reads Grek and Hebrew, and all sorts of out of the way languages!), she can not have much leisure. She is an extraordinary woman, certainly. I like her very much. So original: not the least like the hackneyed type of literary woman." Some months passed on. I had not forgotten; for the impressions made on that portion of myself which was devoted to human interests were always far too few to be easily or speedily erased. Therefore, one day, when I was looking over my note-book of engagements for the coming autumn, it was with a curious thrill that I recognized the name of the provincial town near which Miss Clive lived as one of the places where I was to deliver a course of lectures. unfamiliar faces one face that I well remembered. I saw it. In one of the foremost ranks, seated beside Lady Craven's cousin, the lady of the manor, I saw again the pale, significant face, lit with its wonderfully eloquent eyes. Those eyes! I saw them more than once when I was not looking at them. It seemed marvellously natural to see her again, like recalling the notes of some well-known tune. * * * Well, the lecture finished, I was draining a glass of water in the committeeroom, when a message was brought to me from Mr. and Mrs. Halliwell. Would I kindly allow them a minute's interview? And presently I stood face to face with Miss Clive, and this lady and gentleman, the latter of whom I already was slightly acquainted with. In brief, it resulted in my being invited to become a guest at the Manor House during my stay in the neighborhood, and my acceptance of the proffered kindness. And we all drove to the Manor House together; but there Miss Clive left us. She could not be longer away from her father, whose health, it seemed, was still precarious. That night when, after a dull interval of talk with my host and hostess, I was at length alone, I was somewhat puzzled at myself. What motives had induced me to become a guest in this house? I did not like the people, nor the place particularly. Why, and for what, had I given up my independence at my inn? Why, and for what? Then I remembered, or thought I only then remembered, the plan for the next day-a visit to Gale Falls, twelve miles off-and we were to call for Miss Clive. She was to go with us. The excursion to Gale Falls was one of many similar pleasures. Yes, they were pleasures. Excellent Miles Halliwell, I owed thee much! Even the pair of gray horses that drew our barouche have a place in my grateful remembrance. It was autumn weather, such as I never remember before-soft, shining, exquisitely, tremulously beautiful. The sunsets especially had a strange loveliness in them. They came nearer to me; I saw them more clearly, more vividly, both with the eyes of the body and the eyes of the mind. Moreover, they always seemed to me to have some significance as regarded myself I was going to say ourselves, for Miss Clive, it happened generally, saw them with me. The day before I was to leave the neighborhood, I had an interview with Mr. Clive. I told him I loved his daughter that she loved me that we asked his consent to our marriage. The old man was much amazed-that I had expected; but he seemed troubled also by an amount of perplexity and indecision which I, in my turn, was surprised at. The cause came out at last-my religious opinions. Scientific men have a bad reputation with the Church, and my beliefs, or rather unbeliefs, were sufficiently patent to the intelligent public at large to render it no marvel that the Rev. Charles Clive should have heard of them. We suited one another-Paula Clive and I. There are various kinds and degrees, even in love. It was no enthusiastic, passionate affection that I felt for her -although, perhaps, the love partook of the best part both of enthusiasm and passion, in the intense reality that caused it to be interwoven with my life so completely. It grew to be as much a part of the various, multiform personality that I Poor old man! he found much difficulty call me, as the eyes whereby I see, or the in stating this to me. He was gentle, soul wherewith I feel. She suited me. good, and feeble, in heart and intellectThe thoughts she expressed aroused a type of a class that I, for one, had not echoes in my spirit which, it seemed, were had much experience of. In his weakness waiting to be aroused. And the recondite I was ready to believe; but I was not prebeliefs, speculations, hopes, and doubts pared for the straightforward sincerity that I sometimes confessed, were her own and the indomitable, although meek-seemalso. I could see it by the flash of sym-ing, steadiness with which he finally gave pathy that lit her face. She had believed me my answer. and doubted, hoped and imagined, the self-same things. So, in her face, I often saw looks that must have been, I thought, familiar to me in my very infancy. Her smile would sometimes send my thoughts voyaging back upon the misty sea of the past, with, as it seemed, a new compass to steer by, a new light to lead. I could believe the eastern fable of twin-created souls, in looking on and listening to her. But I am not going to enlarge on this period. I always feel a certain reluctance when I am expressing the thoughts and feelings of those days; or, indeed, when I express my thoughts of her at any time. But I would have you to understand that I am not romantic, nor poetical, nor imaginative. In those days I used to believe myself entirely free from such "weaknesses." Neither then, nor at any time, was it my habit to be demonstrative of any state of feeling within myself. Externally, at least, I have always been a quiet, staid, matter-of-fact man. In relating to you my history now, it may be that I can not but unconsciously color it with those feelings intensified by time and thought, which when felt I scarcely recognized. But I am not a romancist; I can simply set down facts; and feelings such He spoke even firmly then, although it was after much nervous hesitation, and many awkward half-finished sentences. He told me he appreciated the advantages which (he was pleased to say) were offered by connection with a man distinguished as myself. And the words of compliment assumed a curious air of truthfulness as he uttered them in his quavering voice. Also-and there the accents grew yet more unassured-he knew that Paula loved me; and he could not bear to pain her-to cause her grief. "But, sir," said he, with sudden firmness, "I can not give my daughter to an unbeliever. I could never look her mother in the face, when I meet her in heaven, if I did. No, sir; I can not. Do not ask me." He looked beseechingly at me, his clasped hands trembling. Nevertheless, though he trembled, I noted with some perplexity the unflinching brightness of the eyes he fixed on me. In them burned a light I could not understand, even as, in his tone and manner, were manifest a strength and resolution incomprehensible to me, because so incongruous with my gauge of his character. Howbeit, whatever was the cause of his courageous decision, I saw it was useless to attempt to combat it then and there: and I therefore at once assured him I should not weary him by my entreaties. I merely hinted that I thought his objection strange, considering that Paula Clive, clergyman's daughter though she was, already shared my own doubts, (I used that mild word,) and believed in very many of my own theories. He said nothing to this, only looked again at me with the curious, helpless,, entreating gaze which I could not quite reconcile with the determination he displayed. So I left him. I went to Paula, who was sitting in the garden, under a grand old horse-chestnuttree that stood sentinel at the very end of the domain. She looked up from her book as I came near, with the still eloquent smile which, on her face, was as beautiful as it was rare. I smiled in answer, for I did not feel at all seriously troubled by Mr. Clive's obduracy. In fact, I was more puzzled than annoyed. I had not been accustomed to find men so stanch and uncompromising in their adherence to their beliefs as was this old man, for all his apparent weakness and gentleness. As I have said, I could not understand it. I had known men eminent far talent, learning, strength and capacity of intellect, and I valued them accordingly. Also, because I prized my own honor, and had due respect for my own conscience, I believed in other men's honorableness and conscientiousness. But it was only to a certain extent. I could not believe in a man abiding conscientiously by this faith in what I held must not only be, but seem, utterly chimerical to any sound, clear intellect. Therefore I landed at last in the conviction that Paula's father was not so much to be admired for his consistency, as compassionated for his blind adherence to a creed. He was not the first by many whom I, from my height of superior knowledge, and in the daring courage of a strong brain and a nature able to stand alone, had so pitied-so looked down upon. However, I told Paula, and was newly amazed to note the earnest, deep-feeling seriousness with which she heard what her father had said. Nay, when I had concluded, and after a silence during which she turned her head aside, and seemed to be idly playing with one of the fan-like leaves of the tree, I saw two tears fall upon her lap-the first tears I had ever seen her shed. "Why, Paula-what is this?" She looked at me, neither ashamed nor with any other shade of self-consciousness; but there was a peculiar softness in her face, such as I had never noted before. "I must make my poor father very unhappy," she presently said, with her usual simplicity and directness of diction. "I wish it were not so." She paused, and seemed meditating; the softness grew and grew in her facethe "level fronting eyelids" trembled, and again the tears came, but this time rested unshed. I could hardly bear to see the tender beauty of her look; albeit I stood quietly watching and analyzing every inflection of her face, with what may have seemed the grave, dispassionate regard proper to a savant. "If my mother had lived," she next said, in a loving, lingering, low-toned voice, that was as strange to hear as were her tears to see, "it would have been different. I should have been different." "How so, Paula ?” "I should have believed as she believed. I remember when she died, and said, 'God take care of my child'I almost felt the blessing descending upon me. I never doubted then-I never knew what distrust and uncertainty were, then-” "You were a child." "Yes." She was silent some minutes. Then she lifted her eyes to me, with a slow, sweet smile. "I am glad I have been a child," she said. "But you would not wish to grow backward, and become one now?" She did not answer. "You would not exchange even the least beautiful truth for the fairest of illusions?" "No-oh! no!" she replied, earnestly; and she rose, and leaned upon my arm, and pressed her brow upon my shoulder, murmuring, half to herself, the old, oftenrepeated words of Othello, "Tis better as it is 'tis better as it is.'" Then we began to talk over the question of Mr. Clive's disapprobation of our marriage. I was thoroughly unprepared for the firm decision with which she declared that until his consent was obtained the marriage must not be. But she believed that when he saw her happiness was concerned, he would not long remain inexorable. I said nothing, but mused on the possibility of employing other means of moving the old man's resolution. |