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THE LABOURER'S WIFE.

remembering old times, could not refrain from going quietly to the churchyard and paying his last respects to the deceased. By-and-by, a codicil came to light directing that if any one of the ten SHE took her trouble in her heart, and went, One spring-tide Sabbath evening, from her door, legatees under the will should disobey the injunc- Shadowed by chestnut leaves in drooping folds, tion regarding the last ceremony, he was to Not spreading yet broad welcome to the sun; receive the bulk of the money left to the tes-And through the meadows, and the hawthorn lanes, tator's town; and thanks to the shrewd device, the man who thought more of his old friendship than his old friend's money, found himself comfortably provided for, for the rest of his life.

A strange freak was played by a citizen of Brooklyn who died and left seventy-one pair of trousers. In accordance with his will, these were sold by public auction, for the benefit of the poor of the parish, no purchaser of one pair being permitted to bid for another. This odd stipulation excited no suspicion at the sale; but some days afterwards, one of the buyers, on making a close examination of his purchase, came upon a small canvas bag sewn in the waistband; on opening which he discovered therein ten hundred-dollar notes. He spread the news of his find abroad, and set the remaining seventy trouser-buyers inquiring into things, the result being that each one of them found himself richer than he had been by a thousand dollars; as welcome a windfall as came to the widow of a miserly Rhode Island livery-stable keeper, who left her two hundred thousand dollars, after separating from her for indulging in the luxury

of a silk dress.

Captain Hartmann, a retired officer, well known in Jamaica, and noted for his fondness for animals, was as brave a fellow as here and there one meets

but while he did not fear death, he was possessed with a great dread of being buried alive, and made sure of escaping premature interment, by ordering his body to be kept in an open coffin till the last moment possible, when his head was to be cut off by a surgeon, who was to be paid ten pounds for performing the operation. That he considered life itself a great blessing, was further shown by his appointing a person to look after his dogs, cats, and birds, and see they wanted for nothing; while for the many horses, mules, and asses calling him master, they were to be released from labour for evermore, and made free of his acres of grazing-ground as long as they lived. When the last of these animal legatees dies, and not until then, the estate is to be realised, and the proceeds handed over to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to

Animals.

He

It will be some years before the Society enjoys the handsome bequest; but its patience is not likely to be as sorely tried as that of the heir of an old Canadian farmer who is bound to work the farm for his stepmother's advantage as long as she lives, and then commence paying the rent to the family-fifty dollars a year-until three thousand dollars have been so distributed amongst them, when the farm will become his own. is now thirty years of age; his stepmother is a woman in the prime of life, and reckoned good for another forty years. After her death, it will take him sixty years to pay off the encumbrances on the farm, so that he may cheerfully calculate upon being its sole possessor when he has attained the patriarchal age of a hundred and thirty. So may it be!

Whose fragrance yet was closed within the bud,
To the wide fields, rich with up-springing corn.
Beneath the hedges, thickly tangled, spread
Vivid spring verdure. In the budding copse,
Hedged by thick sloe-blooms falling white like snow,
Ere the black stems were gemmed with emerald leaf,
The birds sang out their welcome to the spring.
The dappled greensward, with pale primrose tufts
Of gold enamelled, and the wind-flower's pearl,
Lured her aside a moment, and she stood
Beneath a budding oak, and heard the burst
Of rich bird-music, carolled loud to God,
The God who cares for sparrows, and who hears
The ravens when they call. She list'ning stood.

Not one of all the gracious influences
Of peaceful Nature given by God to soothe,

Could His child recognise, or knowingly
Receive into her heart. No poetry
Within her sad and labour-hardened soul
Welled up, as though a stone were rolled away,
She seeing, saw not; yet she was not dulled
In tender presence of the Beautiful.
By God-sent trouble, but by many years
Of this world's work, and this world's prose, until
The prose had eaten into her like rust.
Still, soothed unknowingly by glory of spring,
She took her trouble with her, and went on
Through one field more, where cowslips stood in groups
Like fairies routed, flocked together in fear,
And shining grass swayed in the evening air,
That gave soft breathing to the tremulous lark;
And reached the village, and the lowly door
of the small village chapel. Entering in,
She heard the songs of Zion; and the heart
Winging its way to courts celestial, raised
Of the poor drudging woman rose with these,
In praise with angels, who for ever praise
And cast their golden crowns (as seemed to her)
Before the Throne, and wave wide golden wings,
And love the Lord, and love His labouring poor,
Although their own white robes shine like the sun.
They, following His command, through His dear cross,
Shall welcome yet to seats already named,
And known by them, the weary of the earth.
Ye songs of Zion, rise up higher, higher!
O trembling voice, O calm and trustful heart,
The Lord is with thee! sends His poetry,
Not through the door of Culture, but of Faith!
To Him sing praises, for He giveth light-
And that not only light to see to work,
But light to beautify: and freely gives!

The service over, and her trouble less
(God helping her to bear it), she arose,
And going from the chapel, saw rose-stains
Of glory from the setting sun, fall fair
On the rough whitewashed wall, poured through the panes
Of lattice windows flashing gems and gold;
And seeing, saw not knowingly, but saw
Instead of God's great sunset, pearly gates
Saw no material sun, yet saw that Sun
Of heaven, and His heaven's golden floor;
Which never setteth, the blest Sun which bears,
For each and all, kind healing in His wings.

с. G.

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

All Rights Reserved.

CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Serieg

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

No. 976.-VOL. XIX. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1882.

PRICE 1d.

geologist to show the full capabilities of rivers to effect changes upon the earth's surface; and to note the part they play in that well-nigh universal action, named 'denudation.' This action, as the etymology of the word indicates, is one of 'laying bare' the surfaces of the earth. But it is likewise something more. The 'laying bare' of rocksurfaces is only the prelude to them being wasted and worn, and to their being carried off, slowly or the reverse, to the sea and to lakes, there to form the rocks and foundations of the future.

THE WORK OF RIVERS. THERE is no series of actions occurring in the physical world around us of greater importance in the eyes of the geologist than the work of rivers. The high value which science is led to place upon the action of running-water as a geological agent, is by no means difficult to understand. We require firstly to bear in mind that the geologist endeavours to explain the past history of the earth by an appeal to its existing condition. The present of the earth is, in his view, the key to its past. This is the under- In this work of denudation, there are employed lying principle of every detail of modern geology; a large number of natural agencies, which act and it is this method of explaining the past ceaselessly upon the world's substance.

There

by an appeal to the existing circumstances of the is hardly a feature of the land-hill, valley, earth, that constitutes what is known in geo-river-course, basin, cliff-which does not reprelogy as 'uniformity.' The geologist thus assumes that the actions and operations of Nature have been of uniform character, and that when differences have existed between the earth's past and its present, they can be proved to be differences, not of kind, but merely of degree. Thus he maintains, and with every show of reason, that rivers have always acted in the past as they act now; that rain and the sea have worn and wasted the land in the æons of long ago, as they wear and waste it still; and that volcanic eruptions, earthquake-action, and the rise and sinking of land, have served to modify the earth's surface in the past, as they are certainly seen to alter the contour of the land to-day.

In the work of modifying the earth, rivers have always held a prominent place. The early geologists invariably assumed that rivers were powerful agents in producing change, although they did not credit them with their full power as disclosed by modern research. Even Job speaks of the waters wearing the stones,' and of the 'mountain being moved out of his place;' and the observation shows us that in patriarchal days, the power of running-water to erode,' or to eat out and wear away the earth's crust, was a recognised feature of physical history. But it has certainly been left for the modern

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sent either the direct or indirect result of the process of denudation. In this work of 'wear and tear,' the sea, of course, plays an important part. The ceaseless action of the waves affects the coasts, occasionally in an alarming fashion, by sweeping away large tracts of valuable land. The atmosphere also is ever at work, denuding the land by the action of the oxygen and carbonic acid gas which it contains; whilst ice, frost, and snow exercise a powerful effect upon the earth, whether in loosening the soils by the action of frost, or in the shape of the glacier, slowly cutting and carving its way from the mountain-tops to the valley below.

To rivers, however, must be ascribed the chief part in this action of 'denudation,' which it must be borne in mind is hardly a phase of pure 'waste,' inasmuch as the matter worn away from the land is being re-formed into rocks in the quietude of the lake-beds and in the abysses of ocean. Geologists have made elaborate calculations of the amount of waste matter which various rivers wear and bring down from the lands through which they flow, to the sea which receives them. It is obvious that the power of any river, however, will depend upon a variety and combination of circumstances; and it is needful to take these into account in estimating

the river's work. For example, the river that has to operate upon soft material will naturally possess a more evident effect on the district through which it runs, than that which flows over a rocky course. And similarly, the river which | has a steep and precipitous course, interspersed with waterfalls, must act more powerfully on the land than the winding and slow-flowing river, whose meanderings are in fact due to the lack of force to sweep obstacles away.

On the basis afforded by such considerations, calculations of a river's work may be made with some degree of certainty. Thus it has been estimated that the Mississippi reduces the level of the country through which it flows at the rate of one foot in six thousand years. Supposing that this rate of wear and tear could be made to extend over the whole surface of North America, the average height of which is seven hundred and forty-eight feet, the continent would be reduced to the level of the sea in four and a half millions of years. This latter period, which seems, humanly speaking, of well-nigh inconceivable duration, is, in geological eyes, a mere fraction of the estimated total duration of the earth itself. Various rivers are found to wear the land at a greater rate than others, according to the circumstances detailed above. In the case of the Po of Europe, for example, the wear and tear are nine times as great as in the case of the Danube; and in the Mississippi, the rate is only one-third of that exercised by the seething and tumultuous Rhone. The latter river, according to the best calculations, removes one foot of rock in one thousand five hundred and twenty-eight years; the same work being accomplished by the Ganges in two thousand three hundred and fifty-eight years; by the Po in seven hundred and twenty-nine years; by the Danube in six thousand eight hundred and fortysix years; and by the Nith in four thousand seven hundred and twenty-three years. At the above rate, the Ganges would remove the Asiatic continent in five millions of years; assuming the average height of the continent above sea-level to be two thousand two hundred and sixty-four feet. Similarly, Europe would be worn down by the Po to the water-level in less than a million of years, provided the whole continent were denuded as rapidly as the Po-valley is worn to-day.

years. Sir Charles Lyell calculated that the amount of matter brought down by the Ganges in one year would 'raise a surface of two hundred and twenty-eight and a half square miles, or a square space, each side of which should measure fifteen miles, a height of one foot.' Another estimate gives the work of the Ganges as equal to the collection of an amount of matter which would exceed in weight and bulk forty-two of the great Pyramids of Egypt. To transport a mass of solid matter from the higher country of the Ganges to the sea, equal to that brought down by the river in the four months of the wet season, would require a fleet of over eighty ships, each carrying fourteen hundred tons; the whole fleet sailing down the river every hour of every day and night for four months continuously.' These calculations, based on data which cannot be questioned, serve to show the rapid rate at which the earth's surface is being worn down by the rivers of the world. And the action loses nothing of its significance when we reflect that the action of the merest brook does not differ in kind from that of the largest river. For brook and river alike run seawards or lakewards; each laden with matter from the land, and each in its own way serving to alter, modify, and reduce the land-surfaces to which it serves as a drain.

The influence of waterfalls, as serving to aid the wearing action of the river through the increased velocity of the water, has already been alluded to. The most notable example of the effects of running-water when associated with cascades, is found in the celebrated Falls of Niagara. These consist, as most readers know, of two cascades, having a small island (Goat Island) intervening, and presenting a total breadth of nine hundred and fifty yards. The height of the Falls is one hundred and forty and one hundred and sixty feet respectively. About six hundred and seventy thousand tons of water are shot over the verge of Niagara every minute. The river itself flows over a comparatively flat table-land, in the course of which Lake Erie forms a well-marked basin. Near the Falls, it rushes over an uneven and rocky bed of limestone, and exhibits a striking difference from its comparatively quiet and even upper course. Now it is a matter of common observation that every waterfall tends to cut its way backwards or Some highly interesting statistics have been towards the source of the river; and an examinagiven regarding the amount of water and of sedi- tion of the Niagara Falls shows that the water ment of all kinds which various rivers bring down after leaving the Falls passes through a comto the sea. In the Tay of Scotland, for instance, paratively narrow limestone gorge, extending to it is assumed that the area of drainage is two Queenstown, where this limestone overlooks a thousand five hundred square miles; the annual plain. Sir Charles Lyell calculated that Niagara discharge of water being one hundred and forty- wears away the limestone cliff over which it falls four billions of cubic feet; and the sediment at the rate of one foot yearly; hence, as Queensamounting to nearly fifty millions of cubic feet town lies some thirty-five thousand feet down per year. The Clyde is credited with bringing the river, it may be assumed that it has taken down nearly nine millions of cubic feet of sedi- that number of years for the Falls to cut their ment per annum ; whilst the Forth, with a drain- way backwards from their original position at age area of four hundred and fifty square miles, Queenstown to their present site. Evidence is is estimated to carry to the sea nearly five and not wanting to show traces of river-action at a a half millions of cubic feet. Our own British height of nearly three hundred feet above the Islands are estimated to possess an average height present ravine in which the Niagara flows. Hence above the sea of six hundred and fifty feet; and Sir Charles Lyell concluded that the river once it has been calculated that as things are, our ran between the present Falls and Queenstown rivers will have worn our territory down to sea- at a height of some three hundred feet above level in about five and a quarter millions of its present level—that is, before the gorge was

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Journal

excavated, and at a time when the Falls were situated at the latter place.

One of the most remarkable examples of riveraction, both as regards the extent of the water's work and its uniformity, is found in the Rio Colorado of the Western American States. This area has been thoroughly and scientifically explored by the Survey of the United States Government, and the results of the examination testify anew to the power of running-water as an agent in modifying the earth's crust. In part of its course the Rio Colorado runs through rocky ravines of immense extent named 'cañons.' The Grand Cañon of the Colorado is in itself a magnificent spectacle. It is a chasm two hundred and seventeen miles in length, and with an average depth of one mile, or five thousand two hundred feet. This cañon cut through rocks, is only one amongst many through which the river finds its way, and at the bottom of which appears to the observer above as a mere silver streak. What, let us ask, would have been the opinion of the geologists of former years, had the query been put to them concerning the means whereby these great gorges have been excavated? The answer would have borne that the river merely occupied the gorges which had been formed for it by some eruptive force. But an examination of the cañons shows this opinion to be untenable in the face of facts. Everywhere there are to be seen traces of the river-action on the sides of the cañons; at all points, the geologist is met by evidences of the plain fact that the river has actually eroded and worn out the gorges it has come to occupy.

that the work of water is seen at its best. Curiously enough, a tributary of the Colorado illustrates the case of a river which cannot erode its course because of the great amount of sand which it carries. This is the river Platte, which has a fall equal to that of the Colorado, but which is overloaded with sand. Hence its action on its course is feeble as compared with that of the Colorado, and its work can never, as things are, compare with that of its neighbour-stream, which has silently but effectually hewn out the land into the great gorges, which are amongst the most wonderful of Nature's gigantic works.

It is evident that rivers, entering lakes and seas, will deposit therein the debris and waste derived from the land. As has already been shown, this waste matter will be deposited as sediment, to form the rocks of the future; but when it is placed in lakes or in shallow waters anywhere, its effects are seen in the 'silting' or fillingup of lakes, and in the formation by rivers of tongues of land, which may jut out to sea for long distances. We know, for example, that the Rhone has formed new land in the Lake of Geneva, at the river-estuary, by the deposition of solid matter in the lake. An old town, called Port Vallais, which about eight hundred years ago was situated close by the borders of the lake, is now placed a mile and a half inland, through the river-deposits having come to intervene between it and the lake. So also the Italian Adria, which in the time of Augustus was a seaport-giving, in fact, the name to the Adriatic Sea-'is now,' says Lyell, 'about twenty Italian miles inland. Ravenna was also a seaport, and is now about four Are there any circumstances in connection with miles from the main sea.' But by far the most the Rio Colorado River, it might be asked, which interesting case of the formation of river-land serve to explain the powerful nature of its action is that of the Mississippi. If we look at a map on the rocks? The answer to this question is of of North America, we shall be able to see the the most interesting kind, since it serves to illus-delta' of the Mississippi stretching seawards into trate a new circumstance in river-action, and one which renders it highly powerful in its effects on the earth's surface. The Colorado is undoubtedly a fierce torrent. Within the cañons it has a fall or slope of between seven and eight feet per mile, which is twenty times as great as that of the Ohio and Mississippi. But runningwater alone will hardly accomplish a work of such magnitude as the Colorado has evidently been able to effect. Hence, when the geologist surveys the Colorado more closely, he notes that its work and power are largely due to the quantity of sand and like debris it carries down, and which borne along with its currents, serve like a natural saw or file, to wear and eat out the rocks over which it runs. The immense power of sand borne by running-water, as an agent in eroding rocks, is thus clearly demonstrated. But the sand must be present in proper quantity, that its work may be thoroughly accomplished. There must neither be too much nor too little sand in the river, if its work is to be thoroughly performed. Too much sand will block up its currents and impede its work, will lie in its bed, and will thus protect the rocks, instead of contributing to their wear. Too little sand will be swept onwards and leave no impression on the river-course. Hence, it is when the river, as is the case with the Colorado, possesses just that modicum of sand which it can keep moving with dire effect to the rocks, that the wear and tear proceed most quickly, and

the Gulf of Mexico, as a long tongue of land
through which flows the river, and which allows
the river to pass to the sea by three chief mouths.
The South-west Pass is the broadest and deepest
mouth; Pass à L'outre points eastwards; and
in the middle is the South Pass. This river
brings down debris in a year sufficient to build
a mass one mile square, and two hundred and
sixty-eight feet thick. Each 'pass' has a 'bar'
at its mouth, and the obstruction to traffic which
once existed may be conceived, when it is men-
tioned that in 1859 fifty-five vessels were blocked
at the South-west Pass, the freight of those bound
outwards being seven million three hundred and
sixty-seven thousand three hundred and thirty-
nine pounds; whilst several had been waiting
for weeks in the hope of getting to sea.
It was
little to be wondered at that the commerce of New
Orleans was found to be seriously impeded by the
state of matters at the mouth of the Mississippi.
The advance of the tongue of land it may be
mentioned takes place at the rate of about a
hundred feet per annum at the South Pass;
whereas at the South-west Pass, which latter is
the chief entrance to the river, the river-sediment
gains at the rate of three hundred feet yearly.

The problem how to keep one or more of the
'passes open for traffic, so as to allow vessels to
enter or leave the river at all states of the tide,
has been solved by the ingenuity and enterprise
of an American citizen, Captain James B. Eads,

whose name deserves to be handed down to posterity as a true benefactor of his own and other lands. Seizing upon the idea that the river keeps its own course clear so long as the rush of water, confined between banks, is great, Captain Eads resolved to simply extend the banks of the South Pass, so as to secure the requisite flow and force of water. After much opposition, Eads at length obtained government consent and permission in 1875 to carry out his scheme. He thereupon constructed a series of 'jetties' or extensions of the river-banks of the South Pass, by means of willow-frames, which were duly sunk in the river, and which the river itself filled and coated with sediment, thus rendering the whole structure solid. The work was completed on July 9, 1879, with the result that a new channel thirty feet deep, seven hundred feet wide at its surface, and two hundred feet wide at bottom, had been constructed. This channel is kept clear by the "scour' of the river itself; the Mississippi has thus been rendered navigable at all states of the tide, and a great commercial success has been attained through a persevering study of the conditions wherewith Nature secures her own ends in the matter of river-action.

The study of rivers is thus seen to be fraught with instruction and interest, not only for the general reader, but for the student of the earth's structure and history. Many an interesting chapter in the world's history can be written by aid of the geological information supplied by the river and its work; and there can be no better introduction to geological science itself than a study of river-action, as a preliminary to the understanding of some of the changes which this world of ours is ever undergoing.

VALENTINE STRANGE.

A STORY OF THE PRIMROSE WAY.

CHAPTER XXXV.-'COMES OVER HERE TO SEE CON, AND FINDS HIMSELF TOO LATE.'

CONSTANCE did not appear at the breakfast-table next morning; and Miss Lucretia, in answer to inquiries, shook her curls with a world of young lady-like emphasis at Gerard, and declared that the poor darling was quite worn out by excitement, had passed a broken night, and was now happily asleep. Gerard was sheepishly discomfited by this intelligence, since he, in Miss Lucretia's eyes, was the evident source of mischief. The old lady sat but a little time at breakfast, and withdrew to keep watch and ward over the sleeper. To her surprise, the young lady was seated in her peignoir at a table, writing. She huddled away the paper guiltily on her aunt's entrance, and locked it in a writing-desk.

'You silly child,' said Aunt Lucretia with mild severity, you will spoil him if you write to him every half-hour when you cannot see him. Go to bed. You are quite flushed. You have had a bad night, and you must sleep. I shall bring my work here, and sit beside you until you do it. And I shall keep guard over you until you are fit to get up again.'

The lovely defaulter made no answer to this

rebuke, but crept into bed submissively, and after a time, feigned sleep. She was glad that her aunt suspected nothing. The note had not been intended for the accepted lover, but for Val Strange. To be compelled to stillness, to lie unbound, yet fettered by the eye of affectionate watchfulness, whilst the storm of feeling heaves the soul, and the soul strives to stir the body as the wind heaves the sea, to suffer the torments of anxiety, of remorse, of despised or unfruitful love, and yet to feign sleep and make no sign, is an agony added to an agony.

Miss Lucretia stuck to her post gallantly, and embroidered and watched with much combined industry and vigilance. She was of course without an idea of the restraint her presence inflicted, and in her kindly heart regarded herself as an unmixed blessing. Val in the meantime was settling down into the waters of despondency; but before absolutely surrendering himself for lost, he determined to make one more essay. So he wrote again; and this time, fearing and almost hoping that the last note might have miscarried, he gave the bearer definite instructions.

'You are sure you know Miss Jolly's maid, Richards?'

'Yes, sir,' said Richards. He was a romantic middle-aged person, a little given to drink in lonely hours, and much addicted to the perusal of imaginative literature of a certain type. He had been known to weep above his whisky-andwater and the woes of Lady Ella, in that tender romance 'Her Golden Hair,' in the Boudoir Journal; and he was beginning in his ridiculous old head to make romances for his employer, and was interested in the intrigue. 'I seen the young person once before at Miss Jolly's in town -the helder Miss Jolly, sir.'

'Very well,' returned his master. 'Take that note, and give it to the maid. Ask her to give it to Miss Jolly when she is alone-not the elder Miss Jolly, mind.'

"Certainly not, sir,' said the observant Richards. Val, who found the clandestine business oppressive, could almost have kicked the body-servant for Don Giovanni seems to have had no compunctions his ready appreciation of the condition of affairs. about taking Leporello into consultation; and all Vanbrugh's dashing young gentlemen are at home in the confidence of their valets; but Val was a gentleman of nicer notions, and found no pleasure in imparting the secrets of his soul to Mr Richards. He glared angrily, therefore, at that sympathetic menial, and briefly bidding him do as he was told, turned his back upon him. It is an old-world story that when the master marries the mistress, the man weds the maid, and Mr Richards had lived until his time had come. Miss Lucretia's maid, now devoted chiefly to Constance's service, was a bright little brunette, with a pretty figure and a neat foot, a peachy cheek and sparkling eyes; and she wore that modest and becoming dress of female servitude which ladies might copy with advantage to their looks. If the thick-set hazel were dying from Richards's topmost head, and the hateful crow had already trodden the corners of his eyes, he had still a heart, and he was still a bachelor. He had saved a little money. He knew of a public-house, a really respectable concern, in

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