shaped, but which are so hard as to turn the edge of the truest steel that can be made. And yet a grain of sand rubbed upon them leaves a scratch. And if one grain cuts one scratch a thousand grains will cut a thousand scratches; and if the thousand all fall successively on one spot, each one reinforcing the last, a deep incision will ultimately be formed. Suppose, again, that a sand grain be forcibly dashed against the hard surface, it will, like a tiny pickaxe, make a microscopic indent. Multiply it by a million, and the million pickaxes will delve and chisel the spot they fall on till they make a pit-hole that will pierce the substance to any required extent. This is Mr. Tilghman's sand-drill, with which in a few minutes he can put a hole through a plate of corundum, the hardest of minerals, that no steel can touch. A squirt throwing sand with high velocity, imparted by steam or compressed air, is the boring tool which nothing can resist and nothing blunt. It is a happy invention, and, as I have before said, points a moral ; but that need not be touched on from its very obviousness.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

NOVEMBER, 1871.

THE VALLEY OF POPPIES. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTOPHER KENRICK" AND "THE TALLANTS OF BARTON."

has framed the crude reflection in my seventeenth chapter-Who

could have thought so fair a day could bring a bitter ending? "Full many a glorious morning have I seen flatter the mountain tops

VOL. VII., N.S. 1871.

T T

with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his celestial face, and from the forlorn world his visage hide, stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, with all-triumphant splendour on my brow; but out, alack! he was but one hour mine, the regent cloud hath mask'd him from me now." Exquisite imagery, most soul-stirring, pathetic picture, how divinely it mirrors my own poor conceit! There is a saying in the valley that a cloudy morning oft-times brings a pleasant day. It is not less true that the rosy sun shines forth at early dawn, and leaves the clouds to mock us with the noon. So it is in life. We are never certain of the sunshine, though we may always reckon upon the cloud and storm. When most we think it is morning with us, and the weather of our lives is settled into summer, the night comes on and the chill winter of our days.

The mystic figures on Time's shadowy dial once more pointed to the return of the Christian festival. I had begun to think of the New Year, and of the sunny hopes which both my heart and my judgment encouraged. Setting aside the sad memories of the time, that coming Christmas Eve I thought should have its joyous hours. The fortunate soldier should bask in the winter-sunlight of a happy home. I counted upon a visit from Ruth's sister, and I had planned a social gathering about our mahogany tree. Fenton would be with us. Masters had also promised to come. The Rev. Canon Molineau had given my wife reason to hope that he would be in town at Christmas with his sister. We had discovered an acquaintance of the late Dean's within a quarter of a mile of "The Cottage." On this particular day in December when my hopes ran so high, Ruth had gone to spend the day with these newly-discovered neighbours. I had arranged to be in town, late, having latterly had a room specially set apart for my use at Fenton's office, where I could write those lighter articles which my friend required for his paper on the current topics of the day. My wife was therefore not expected to be at home until I returned. I went joyfully to London that morning, congratulating myself on my increasing prosperity. The battle has been severe now and then, I thought, but I am with the victors. The enemy has been forced to retreat. How the fiends mocked me! The just God was offended at my presumption. I had forgotten Him perchance in the hour of my triumph. "In all time of our tribulation; in all time of our wealth; in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment, good Lord deliver

us!" Yet I only desired to give the comforts of life to her I loved, to cherish and protect her, as I had sworn to do at His altar. Gold was dross to me, but for its contributions to her happiness. My ambition was only the honest ambition of every man who loves his wife and rejoices in the light of his own fireside.

My heart beat loudly with exultation when on this never-to-beforgotten day I had the honour of a call at Fenton's from the editor of a famous quarterly publication, who not only handed to me himself the proof of an article which I had sent for his approval, but asked me to become a member of his permanent staff. My success was too much for my thoughts that day. I could not settle down to work at Fenton's office. As the afternoon wore away, I felt that I must go home. I could write there more steadily. The noise of the London streets seemed to stir my thoughts into an unwonted excitement. I must have quiet. I hastened away from the din of the conflict, from the sounds of victory and defeat. I found "The Cottage" sleeping in the last beams of the winter sun, the very emblem of peace and security.

"No fire in the studio," I said, in reply to the servant; "then I will write in the dining-room."

"Yes, sir; mistress did not expect you until late, but she said I was to send and let her know when you came."

When I have

"I will tell you when to take the message. I have returned to do some writing which will occupy me several hours. finished, you shall send for your mistress."

"Yes, sir; two gentlemen-at least two persons, called, sir, an hour ago to see you very particularly."

"Yes; I cannot be disturbed at present," I said, with the first thought of an essay simmering in my mind.

"One of them said he would call again, sir."

"Yes, Hannah; I will not see any one for two or three hours at the earliest."

"I told them you would not be at home until late, sir."

"Quite right," I said, arranging my papers and preparing to put down that opening thought which was be the text of my essay. "One is waiting now, sir."

"Very well, very well," I said; "by and by, I will ring the bell."

I was impatient to begin my work. I soon got at it. My mind fairly glowed with the thoughts that crowded into my brain. I never wrote with so much facility. My pen coursed over the paper with a

merry chatter. I felt a thrill of pleasure in my work. I was inspired. My soul was in my pen. The essay grew of its own accord. When it was finished I rose from my seat and paced the room with a jubilant tread. Hearing me stirring, the servant came into the

room.

"Beg pardon, sir," she said; "the person as the other man left to wait until you came is still here, sir. He says he does not wish to disturb you; but it is getting on for seven o'clock, sir, and I thought it best to remind you, sir."

"Quite right, Hannah, quite right; where is he?"

"In the breakfast-room."

This was a room we never used. It was a dull, ghostly looking place. I never told Ruth how I had been given to understand that a murder had once been done in it. I did not believe the story; yet I never liked the breakfast-room.

"Why, the man will be perished with cold," I said.

"He preferred staying there, sir, and asked me to light a fire." "Very well; I will go to him."

A few half-burnt faggots were struggling in the grate with a wet mountain of coals.

"Come this way," I said; "don't stay in that cold room.”

"I am not cold, sir, thank you," said the man, in a subdued and apologetic tone of voice.

"Come this way," I said, preceding him, and holding a handlamp to show him into the dining-room.

"I am sorry to disturb you, sir," he said.

Compared with the damp ghostly den we had just quitted, the dining-room looked touchingly bright and comfortable. The fire was leaping up the grate. A cricket was singing on the hearth. The concentrated light of a table-lamp directed by a shade fell upon my books and papers. There was a small china teapot and a quaint cup and saucer, saved from the wreck of Old Sidbree House, upon a tray. As I came out of the dark, old-fashioned hall I could not help feeling what a rebuke all this must be to my poor visitor's poverty, if he were a beggar, as I suspected. I felt assured he was some broken-down tradesman from Wulstan, and I was glad that I had half-a-guinea in my pocket.

"Now, my good man," I said, "what is it you want with me that is so very urgent?"

The man eyed me askance, glanced towards the door, and said, still in the same meek and subdued voice, "I come from Slocum and Levy, sir, near Holborn Bars."