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 I say, friend," he said, abruptly turning to Raymond, "are you fond of long voyages? because, my impression is, that from what little you have imparted to me of your connection with this respectable gentleman a visit to England might be a good speculation for you just now." This was a matter which had not been altogether unthought of by Hugh, but the subject at that time was pursued no further.

The evening grew on apace, and as the light of day died out, the bushranger became more silent and composed. He was laid in a corner of the hut on a couch of leaves. After the friends had discussed in whispers what course they should pursue towards their prisoner and had partaken of the cheer which the store in the chimney afforded, they made a shakedown, intending to keep watch and watch during the night. Whether it was that having a roof once more over their heads acted as a soporific, or that the contents of the "poison" bottles had an unusually soothing effect, it is very certain that the first watchman fell asleep without inconveniencing himself by waiting to be relieved, nor was it till the morning sun shone brightly through a hundred crevices in the hut that they woke and were not a little astonished to find Jarrol gone, and Lady occupying his place. Dodge rubbed his eyes very hard indeed: "We are saved some trouble at least," he said, "for our prisoner has disposed of himself. So much the better. Lady come here. Where is he?" Lady appeared thoughtful. "Show him then." Lady went to the door, so did Dodge. The door was opened, and the dog looking up in her master's face trotted off in the direction of the creek. Arrived on its banks, there, sure enough, were the fresh impressions of human feet. Glancing in the direction where he kept his boat he saw her laying just as he had left her. Then he walked for some distance both up and down

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 the creek, but failed to discover any other tracks on either side but those to which Lady had first conducted him, and which led into the water. It was very clear that whoever might have left them had neither returned or reached the opposite bank.

"I thought he was born to be hanged," Dodge muttered, after musing for a minute or two: "I was wrong. Lady come here, keep dark, say nothing about it, he is gone—down," pointing with his finger, "and I hope he will stop there." This was not altogether an unnatural wish, for Dodge expected that his acquaintances would leave in the course of a few days, and the prospect of a drowned body floating about in his neighbourhood was not by any means suggestive of pleasant associations.

He had turned his face towards the hut when Raymond and Slinger joined him, and instantly comprehending the motive which had drawn him in the direction of the water, inquired if he had seen anything of Jarrol.

"No," he replied, "nothing: but I have a notion he might be found if we had grapling irons: Lady and I consider that he walked into the water, but we can't find that he ever came out again."

They returned and were examining the remaining evidences in the mud, when a horseman was seen approaching from the opposite plain, and he was soon brought up by the creek. To the usual inquiry of "What news?" his reply savoured strongly of the bush. "Bad enough; baccy's scarce, and I hear the bushrangers are out.—You can't lend me a pipe of tobacco, can you, mates?"

"With all my heart," said Dodge. Steady, I'll chuck it across, unless you would like to come over and breakfast with us."

The new arrival not liking to risk the loss of the tobacco in

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 its transit, tethered his horse, and was deliberately preparing to swim the stream, when he was prevented by Dodge, who slid his boat into the water from behind the mangrove trees and brought the stranger across by a more convenient method.

"So you have heard that bushrangers are about, have you?" said Dodge, after his passenger was landed and his pipe in full operation. We need hardly say the reply was looked forward to with some anxiety by all.

"Now I'll tell you all about it. You see I am out for stray cattle; and this morning, just arder I'd started, who should I come across but Bugsby's Jack—his stockman, you know; and, says he, 'Why, Blaizes, is that you?' (they call me Blaizes" he said, parenthetically, because I got my freedom for assisting at a large fire in Sydney and saving a life or two.) 'Have you got any baccy?' says he. 'A pipe or two,' says I. 'I'm starving' says he, 'for want of a smoke. I was cleaned out of my baccy t'other day by bushrangers; they meets me, bails me up, as if I'd been a gentleman, cleans out my pouch and every blessed pocket I've got, they did'nt leave me a grain; and here I am destitute, an absolute beggar. You haven't another pipefull to spare me?' Well I could not refuse, and so that's how I'm scarce o'baccy, and how I come to know the bushrangers are out. Rugsby's people is expecting a visit from 'em, and I'm just going to skirt the scrubs for cattle, and call at the head station on my way back."

"Rugsby is a trump," said Dodge, "and if it was not that my companions might object to it, I'd take a short cut across the country myself."

But the friends consented without hesitation to accompany him wherever he might be disposed to lead them, and added, that they expected to find in Rugsby an old colonial acquaintance. So the few preparations necessary were hurriedly

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144 made; some scraps of lead found lining an old tea-chest were melted down and cast into bullets, and as more were required, a quantity of shot, which Dodge had in store, was also converted into a similar use.

"Shot," Dodge said, "was, in a general way, the sort of metal to fill the pot with, but bullets will do for that as well as other things, and we are not going foraging for a dinner to day."

As Rugsby's station lay in the direction of Melbourne, the two partners took a farewell look at the hut as they were about leaving, and availed themselves of the opportunity to thank its owner warmly for the hearty welcome and valuable assistance he had rendered them in their search for a station.

"No thanks, no thanks," was the reply; "I never enjoyed a trip more in my life. We have been very lucky too. Many men have been bushing it for years and have not seen such adventures, nor learnt as much as you have, during the short time we've been together. To those who don't understand it, the bush is of all other places the most miserable, outlandish, and monotonous; but I think you will acknowledge that it possesses some novelties and excitements. Of course, a man who spends one month in building a hut, and then is satisfied to vegetate in it for the remainder of his life, is not one who should have chosen the bush for a home. He," Dodge said, with some show of contempt, "should have been satisfied to remain a 'respectable' man in some old settled country: his quiet

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 habits and respectability are out of place in the bush. I don't like a man who is all work neither. Your natural historian now, one who employs himself all day in poking nameless beetles out of holes and from under the bark of trees, hunting up new facts and observing all sorts of strange things, though he would never make a fortune, is a sort of man that one can put up with. In fact, I once had a weakness that way myself, and actually was credulous enough to fancy I had discovered a new animal, gave it a name (after myself of course), but the conceit was taken out of me when I found that it had been described over and over again and christened years before. The right sort to go-a-head here are just the men who would do as well anywhere else, perhaps better. Now I should say you two would find the bush a profitable and pleasant life. To me it is the latter certainly, not the former; why, I can't exactly say but I have a notion that if such things as bills and money, and debts, and lawyers, and such like had been unknown, I might have done very well. I have a great notion of selling myself up to save the lawyers trouble, and going shepherding or stock keeping, or any other equally gentlemanly occupation."

"At what wages?" Slinger inquired jokingly.

"Money no consideration whatever," was the reply: "a comfortable home and pleasant companions, every thing found, liberal rations, unlimited tobacco, no grog, as much work as you like, and just enough money to cover an annual spree in town, and I'm your man. I can do all sorts of bush work, splitting and fencing, carpentering, clearing, grubbing, ploughing, in fact, there's nothing a bushman ought to be able to do that I cannot do.—Try me."

Dodge appeared so very much in earnest that after consulting with Raymond, Slinger proposed to purchase his cattle and to engage his services forthwith. Dodge acquiesced readily, and

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 the bargain was soon completed. Long before Buffin's station was reached it was arranged that on his return Dodge should possess himself of the newly discovered station, whilst the partners should lose no time in procuring the necessary squatting license from the Commissioner of Crown lands.

"But perhaps," said Slinger, "you would like to come to town with us; you can stop at our store if you please, we will give you as warm a welcome there as you have us in the bush."

"Oh no, thank you," said Dodge, "too many duns and lawyers there for me. I wish they were as scarce in the woods as bushrangers are in the town, although I have heard of some instances where even they could not resist the temptation of leaving their solitary life though at great risk. A few years ago there was a fellow in Van Dieman's Land who kept the whole island in terror by his daring acts, and there was a heavy figure set upon him. There was a large ball given at Government House to which all the big-wigs, many officers, and the most respectable merchants were invited. By some means the fellow was introduced as a gentleman just arrived from England, and on the company assembling he became quite the lion of the room—a roarer, and no mistake. All the women were fascinated by his bearing and conversation, the men on the contrary voted him quite a bore. On breaking up, the Governor's Lady very graciously expressed a wish that he would visit Government House frequently during his stay in Hobarton, in which request her husband joined. He thanked them for the honor they had done him, but regretted that circumstances over which he had no control would oblige him to leave town immediately, and thus prevent his availing himself of the kind invitation. Her ladyship was rather curious to know what he was in such a hurry to leave for. 'Your ladyship' he said

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 playfully, 'can keep a secret, I suppose' Her ladyship could. 'May I exact a promise from your ladyship that you will not divulge that of which I am about to inform you until three days have elapsed' he said, smiling blandly on her. 'Mine is a romantic story' he added. 'I cannot refuse a request made with such a grace: upon my honor I will not divulge your secret. Are you satisfied? 'I am. The reason then, madam, of my hasty flight is simply this, there is a reward of £500 upon my head—don't start, madam, or we shall be observed, and the neighbourhood of Hobarton is rather a dangerous place for Kangaroo Jack the bushranger to reside in, therefore I have the honor of wishing your ladyship a very good night and pleasant dreams.' The Governor's wife was true to her word, and the bushranger was not taken for several years afterwards."

"Listen!" Dodge exclaimed, coming to a sudden halt, "I thought I heard a shot fired: yes, and there is another—we shall soon be at Rugsby's.'" As they proceeded five or six shots were heard in rapid succession. "I tell you what it is, lads, let us look to our arms: it isn't sporting they are, and it strikes me; unlike friends in many cases, we have arrived at the right time. Now then, my boys, don't you smell the powder? quick march;" and they all set off at a round pace, which soon brought them in sight of the buildings comprising Rugsby's head station. The largest was a long slab built and bark roofed hut, having two windows and a door, all situated in front. It stood on the slope of a hill from which the trees had been partly cleared; and at no great distance was a log house which served as a store, having a door only, a narrow space left between two slabs was the substitute for a window. From the shelter of the trees nearest the huts, figures were seen partially to emerge and after firing an occasional shot, they fell back into their old positions. One more adventurous or

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 than the rest rushed from his concealment and made a dash for a tree standing a few yards in advance of his former position; it was only the work of a few seconds, but four shots from the occupiers of the principal building was a significant proof that keen eyes were watching the motions of those who evidently formed the attacking party.

"I see how it is," said Dodge, after a few minutes' consideration, 'tis the bushrangers sure enough, they have taken the hut and have been surprised in it by some people in pursuit of them; it will be a considerable tough job too to turn them out of their quarters."

A tall man now came towards them under shelter of the trees, and the surprise of Hugh and Slinger was great when they discovered in him their fellow passenger, Big Mick. As soon as he recognised them he dropped his gun, seized Hugh by the hand, and danced about wildly in the exuberance of his joy, whooping in such a strange fashion that Dodge stood with his finger upon the trigger of his gun in a state of uncertainty whether he ought not to make use of his weapon without delay: he was soon set right on this point. A bullet from the hut warned them they were observed: it came whistling by and buried itself deeply in a log some distance beyond them. "Sure, my dear gentlemen," were the first intelligible words Mick uttered, after they had all sought shelter behind a large gum tree, "but you are come at the lucky moment, just in time to see all the divelment and fun going on.—Ah! good morning, Mr. Dodge,—you here too?"

"Yes," said Dodge, "here I am; how is your master, and what's the row—bushrangers, Eh?"

"You may say that: them blackguards," Mick replied, with a jerk of his head towards the hut, "have been bothering the neighbourhood lately, and I just heard this morning there

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 was a party in search of them, and so as I hadn't been in a scrimmage for a long while, niver since I left dear ould Ireland, I told my wife I was going to look for wild cattle, and by the powers I've found 'em. As for my Masther, Misther Ruffin, he's here somewhere, and wont he enjoy himself by and by." During the conversation, the owner of the station joined them, but he carried no weapon. After mutual recognitions, Dodge inquired the reason.

"Reason enough," he replied in rather a surly tone, "all my arms are in possession of the fellows who now occupy my place yonder. Ruffin and some friends called on me this morning to ask my aid in an endeavour to take the bush-rangers. I had agreed, we had made all arrangements and were sat down to a comfortable breakfast, when, before you could say Jack Robbinson, d——-—e if they hadn't taken us. There were ten, all mounted, one of 'em on my own horse, and they rushed the hut. Unfortunately, all our arms had been piled outside, ready for a start, and when I had reached the door expecting to find some fellows come to join us, I was met by an ugly-looking brute who poked the muzzle of a pistol in my face and inquired whether I could take a hint. 'We don't want to hurt any one' he said, 'but we mean to stock ourselves with provisions, that's all. What we have to do, we wish done without bloodshed; that's all I have to say, so hold my horse.'

"Your horse," said I, "why its mine."

"'Come, no grumbling' he replied, as he glanced to one of his gang who stood a few paces from the door. I was mightily inclined to mount as I took the bridle from his hand, but I didn't care to leave my companions in a fix. They fared no better than myself. One of them who ventured to make some show of resistance with a carving knife, was unceremoniously knocked down with the but end of a pistol, and the rest were

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Rh Sleepers, called ties or cross-ties in America, are the blocks or slabs on which the rails are carried. They are nearly always placed transversely, across the direction of the lines, the longitudinal position such as was adopted in connexion with the broad gauge on the Great Western in England having been abandoned except in special cases. Stone blocks were tried as sleepers in the early days of railways, but they proved too rigid, and besides, it was found difficult to keep the line true with them. Wood is the material most widely used, but steel is employed in some countries where timber is scarce or liable to destruction by white ants, though it is still regarded as too expensive in comparison with wood for general adoption. Steel sleepers were used experimentally on the London & North-Western, but were abandoned owing to the shortness of their life. In Germany, where they have met with greater favour, there were over 26½ millions in use in 1905, and they have been tried by some American railways. Numerous forms of ferro-concrete sleepers have also been devised.

In Great Britain, Germany and France, at least 90% of the wooden sleepers are “treated” before they are laid, to increase their resistance to decay, and the same practice is followed to some extent in other European countries. A great number of preservative processes have been devised. In that most largely used, known as “creosoting,” dead oil of tar, to the amount of some 3 gallons per sleeper, is forced into the wood under pressure, or is sucked in by vacuum, both the timber and the oil being heated. In the United States only a small percentage of the ties are treated in any way beyond seasoning in the open air, timber, in the opinion of the railway officials, being still too cheap in nearly all parts of that country to justify the use of preservatives. Some railway companies, however, having a long mileage in timberless regions, do “treat” their sleepers.

Typical dimensions for sleepers on important British railways are:—length 9 ft., breadth 10 in., and depth 5 in. In America 8 ft. is the most common length, the breadth being 8 in., and the depth 6 or 7 in.

There are two main ways of attaching the rails to the sleepers, corresponding to two main types of rails—the bull-headed rail and the Vignoles or flange rail. In the first method, which is practically universal in Great Britain and is also employed to some extent in France and India, the rails have rounded bases and are supported by being wedged, with wooden keys, in cast-iron chairs which are bolted to the sleepers. In the second, method the rails have flat flanged bases which rest directly on the sleepers (fig. 10). The chairs on the British system weigh about 45 or each on important lines, though they may be less where the traffic is light, and are fixed to the sleepers each by two, three or four fastenings, either screw spikes, or round drift bolts entered in holes previously bored, or fang bolts or wooden trenails. Sometimes a strip of felt is interposed between the chair and the sleeper, and sometimes a serrated surface is prepared on the sleeper for the chair which is forced into its seat by hydraulic pressure. The keys which hold the rail in the chairs are usually of oak and are placed outside the rails; the inside position has also been employed, but has the disadvantage of detracting from the elasticity of the road since the weight of a passing train presses the rails up against a rigid mass of metal instead of against a slightly yielding block of wood. The rails, which for heavy main line traffic may weigh as much as per yard, or even more, are rolled in lengths of from 30 to 60 ft., and sleepers are placed under them at intervals of between 2 and 3 ft. (centre to centre), 11 sleepers to a 30 ft. rail being a common arrangement. On the London & North-Western railway there are 24 sleepers to each 60 ft. rail. A small space is left between the end of one rail and that of the next, in order to allow for expansion in hot weather, and at the joint the two are firmly braced together by a pair of fish-plates (fig. 11). These are flat bars of iron or steel from 18 in. to 2 ft. long, which are lodged in the channels of the rail, one on each side, and secured with four bolts passing through the web; sometimes, to give additional stiffness, they extend down below the lower table of the rail and are bent round so as to clip it. Occasionally the joints thus formed are “supported” on a sleeper, as was the practice in the early days of railway construction, but they are generally “suspended” between two sleepers, which are set rather more closely together than at other points in the rail. Preferably, they are so arranged that those in both lines of rails come opposite each other and are placed between the same pair of sleepers.

Flat-bottomed rails are fastened to the sleepers by hook headed spikes, the heads of which project over the flanges. In the United States the spikes are simply driven in with a maul, and the rails stand upright, little care being taken to prepare seats for them on the sleepers, on which they soon seat themselves. The whole arrangement is simple and cheap in first cost, and it lends itself admirably to fast track-laying and to repairs and changes of line. On the continent of Europe the practice is common of notching the sleeper so as to give the rail a slight cant inwards—a result obtained in England by canting the rail in the chairs—and metal plates or strips of felt are put under the rail, which is carefully fastened to the sleeper by screwed spikes (fig. 12). This method of construction is more expensive than the American in first cost, but it gives a more durable and stable track. Such metal plates, or “tie-plates,” have come into considerable use also in the United States, where they are always made of rolled steel, punched with rectangular holes through which the spikes pass. They serve two principal

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46 of mixtures we haue eene and oberued in them, that o they may be both the better decribed by me, and the better conceiued by others, and euery one placed in their proper ranke. Yet I hall in this, as I intend to doe in diuers other plants that are variable, giue but one decription in generall of the plant, and then fet downe the varietie of forme or colour afterwards briefly by themelues.

The early Tulipa (and o all other Tulipas) pringeth out of the ground with his leaues folded one within another, the firt or lowet leafe rieth vp firt, harpe pointed, and folded round together, vntill it be an inch or two aboue the ground, which then openeth it elfe, hewing another leafe folded alo in the boome or belly of the firt, which in time likewife opening it elfe, heweth forth a third, and ometimes a fourth and a fifth: the lower leaues are larger then the vpper, and are faire, thicke, broad, long, and hollow like a gutter, and ometimes crumpled on the edges, which will hold water that falleth thereon a long time, of a pale or whitih greene colour, (and the Mediæ and Serotinæ more greene) couered ouer as it were with a mealinee or hoarinee, with an eye or hew of rednee towards the bottome of the leaues, and the edges in this kinde being more notable white, which are two principall notes to know a Præcox Tulipa from a Media or Serotina: the talke with the flower rieth vp in the middle, as it were through thee leaues, which in time tand one aboue another, compaing it at certaine vnequall ditances, and is often oberued to bend it elfe crookedly downe to the ground, as if it would thrut his head thereinto, but turning vp his head (which will be the flower) againe, afterwards tandeth vpright, ometimes but three or foure fingers or inches high, but more often halfe a foote, and a foot high, but the Medias, and Serotinas much higher, carrying (for the mot part) but one flower on the toppe thereof, like vnto a Lilly for the forme, coniting of ixe leaues, greene at the firt, and afterwards changing into diuers and undry euerall colours and varieties, the bottomes likewie of the leaues of thee ometimes, but mot epecially of the Mediæ, being as variable as the flower, which are in ome yellow, or green, or blacke, in others white, blew, purple, or tawnie; and ometimes one colour circling another: ome of them haue little or no ent at all, and ome haue a better then others. After it hath been blowne open three or foure dayes or more, it will in the heate of the Sunne pread it elfe open, and lay it elfe almot flat to the talke: in the middle of the flower tandeth a greene long head (which will be the eed veell) compaed about with ixe chiues, which doe much vary, in being ometimes of one, and ometimes of another colour, tipt with pendents diuerly varied likewie: the head in the middle of the flower groweth after the flower is fallen, to be long, round, and edged, as it were three quare, the edges meeting at the toppe, where it is mallet, and making as it were a crowne (which is not een in the head of any Lilly) and when it is ripe, diuideth it elfe on the inide into ixe rowes, of flat, thinne, brownih, gritly feede, very like vnto the eede of the Lillies, but brighter, tiffer, and more tranparent: the roote being well growne is round, and omewhat great, mall and pointed at the toppe, and broader, yet roundih at the bottome, with a certaine eminence or eate on the one ide, as the roote of the Colchicum hath; but not o long, or great, it hath alo an hollownee on the one ide (if it haue borne a flower) where the talke grew, (for although in the time of the firt pringing vp, vntill it hew the budde for flower, the talke with the leaues thereon rie vp out of the middle of the roote; yet when the talke is rien vp, and heweth the budde for flower, it commeth to one ide, making an impreion therein) couered ouer with a brownih thin coate or skin, like an Onion, hauing a little woollinee at the bottome; but white within, and firme, yet compoed of many coates, one folding within another, as the roote of the Daffodils be, of a reaonable good tate, neyther very weete, nor yet vnpleaant. This decription may well erue for the other Tulipas, being Medias or Serotinas, concerning their pringing and bearing, which haue not any other great variety therein worth the note, which is not expreed here; the chiefe difference reting in the variety of the colours of the flower, and their euerall mixtures and markes, as I aid before: auing onely, that the flowers of ome are great and large, and of others maller, and the leaues of ome long Rh


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Rh

1. Tulipa præcox alba iue rubra, &c. vnius coloris. The early white or red Tulipa, &c. being of one colour. 2 Tulipa præcox purpurea oris albis. The early purple Tulipa with white edges, or the Prince. 3 Tulipa præcox variegata. The early tript Tulipa. 4 Tulipa præcox rubra oris luteis. The early red Tulipa with yellow edges, or the Duke.


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48 and pointed, and of others broad and round, or bluntly pointed, as hall bee hewed in the end of the Chapter: I hall therefore onely expree the colours, with the mixture or compoure of them, and giue you withall the names of ome of them, (for it is impoible I thinke to any man, to giue euerall names to all varieties) as they are called by thoe that chiefly delight in them with vs.


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CONSTRUCTION] purposes: they diminish the wear of the sleeper under the rail by providing a larger bearing surface, and they help to support the spikes and so to keep the gauge. On all the accepted forms there are two or more flanges at the bottom, running lengthwise of the plate and crosswise of the rail; these are requisite to give proper stiffness, and further, as they are forced into the tie by the weight of passing traffic, they help to fix the plate securely in place. The joints of flanged rails are similar to those employed with bull-headed rails. Various forms, mostly patented, have been tried in the United States, but the one most generally adopted consists of two symmetrical angle bars (fig. 13), varying in length (from 20 to 48 in.), in weight and in the number of bolts, which may be four or six.

The substitution of steel for iron as the material for rails which made possible the axle loads and the speeds of to-day, and, by reducing the cost of maintenance contributed enormously to the economic efficiency of railways, was one of the most important events in the history of railways, and a scarcely less important element of progressive economy has been the continued improvement of the steel rail in stiffness of section and in toughness and hardness of material. Carbon is the important element in controlling hardness, and the amount present is in general higher in the United States than in Great Britain. The specifications for bull-headed rails issued by the British Engineering Standards Committee in 1904 provided for a carbon-content ranging from 0·35 to 0·50%, with a phosphorus maximum of 0·075%. In the United States a committee of the American Society of Civil Engineers, appointed to consider the question of rail manufacture in consequence of an increase in the number of rail-failures, issued an interim report in 1907 in which it suggested a range of carbon from 0·55 to 0·65% for the heaviest sections of Bessemer steel flange rails, with a phosphorus maximum of 0·085%; while the specifications of the American Society for Testing Materials, current at the same period, put the carbon limits at 0·45 to 0·55%, and the phosphorus limit at 0·10. For rails of basic open-hearth steel, which is rapidly ousting Bessemer steel, the Civil Engineers’ specifications allowed from 0·65 to 0·75% of carbon with 0·05% of phosphorus, while the specifications of the American Railway Engineering and Maintenance of Way Association provided for a range of 0·75 to 0·85% of carbon, with a maximum of 0·03% of phosphorus. The rail-failures mentioned above also drew renewed attention to the importance of the thermal treatment of the steel from the time of melting to the last passage through the rolling mill and to the necessity of the finishing temperature being sufficiently low if the product is to be fine grained, homogeneous and tough; and to permit of this requirement being met there was a tendency to increase the thickness of the metal in the web and flanges of the rails. The standard specification adopted by the Pennsylvania railway in 1908 provided that in rails weighing to the yard 41% of the metal should be in the head, 18·6% in the web, and 40·4% in the base, while for  rails 42·2% was to be in the head, 17·8% in the web and 40·0% in the base. These rails were to be rolled in 33-ft. lengths. According to the specification for rails adopted by the Canadian Pacific railway about the same time, 36·77% of the metal was to be in the head, 22·21% in the web and 41·02% in the base.

Points and Crossings.—To enable trains to be transferred from one pair of rails to another pair, as from the main line to a siding, “points” or “switches” are provided. At the place where the four rails come together, the two inner ones (one of the main line and the other of the siding), known as “switch rails” (b, fig. 14), are tapered to a fine point or tongue, and rigidly connected together at such a distance apart that when one of the points is pressed against the outer or “stock” rail (a) of either the siding or the main line there is sufficient space between the other tongue and the other stock rail to permit the free passage of the flanges of the wheels on one side of the train, while the flanges on the other side find a continuous path along the other switch rail and thus are deflected in the desired direction. The same arrangement is employed at junctions where different running lines converge. The points over which a train travels when directed from the main a branch line are called “facing points” (FP), while those which it passes when running from a branch to a main line are “trailing points” (TP). In Great Britain the Board of Trade requires facing points to be avoided as far as possible; but, of course, they are a necessity at junctions where running lines diverge and at the crossing places which must be provided to enable trains to pass each other on single-track lines. At stations the points that give access to sidings are generally arranged as trailing points with respect to the direction of traffic on the main lines; that is, trains cannot pass direct into sidings, but have to stop and then run backwards into them. In shunting yards the points are commonly set in the required direction by means of hand levers placed close beside the lines, but those at junctions and those which give access from the main lines to sidings at wayside stations are worked by a system of rods from the signal cabin, or by electric or pneumatic power controlled from it and interlocked with the signals (see : § Railway). Crossings are inevitable adjuncts of points. Where a branch diverges from a main line, one rail of the one must cross one rail of the other, and a V-crossing is formed (V). Where, as at a double-line junction, one pair of rails crosses another pair, “diamond” crossings (D) are formed. At both types of crossing, check rails (c) must be provided to guide the wheel-flanges, and if these are not accurately placed the safety of the trains will be endangered. At double-line junctions trains passing over the diamond crossings evidently block traffic going in the opposite direction to that in which they are travelling. To avoid-the delay thus caused the branch line which would occasion the diamond crossing if it were taken across on the level is sometimes carried over the main line by an over-bridge (“flying junction”) or under it by an under-bridge (“burrowing junction”).

Railway Stations.—Railway stations are either “terminal” or “intermediate.” A terminal station embraces (1) the passenger station; (2) the goods station; (3) the locomotive, carriage and waggon depots, where the engines and the carrying stock are kept, cleaned, examined and repaired. At many intermediate stations the same arrangements, on a smaller scale, are made; in all of them there is at least accommodation for the passenger and the goods traffic. The stations for

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 the existence of a dense population in that country. It has been before observed, that the Chinese discourage intercourse with foreign nations, and only permit a limited and heavily burthened commerce at Canton. All foreign vessels, trading to Canton, have to pay a measurement charge, amounting, on vessels of eight hundred tons, to two thousand dollars, and an entreport fee of nearly equal value; but, by command of the present emperor, in the year 1825, the former, and by previous orders, the latter charge, were both dispensed with, in case of all vessels loaded with rice, in order to encourage the importation of so necessary an article from abroad. This permission is taken advantage of by foreign merchants, at Canton, and great quantities of rice are thus imported, to supply the wants of a needy population. Nothing but necessity will induce the Chinese government to swerve from its usual regulations, and to grant any immunities to foreigners:—when they do so, as in the case alluded to, it shews that rice is greatly needed in the country; and, if rice be needed in so fertile a region as China, it is evident that China is overstocked with inhabitants.

In addition to the above mentioned considerations, the prevalence of infanticide, in China, has been adduced, by some, as a proof of that empire's extreme populousness. While, however, we would by no means argue, that this abominable practice is kept up, in order to keep down the population, or that it has any considerable influence in diminishing the numbers of the people, we may still contend that infanticide in China, is more the result of poverty than prejudice, and has to do with economical, rather than religious considerations. In the first place, it is to be observed, that


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840 passengers and goods are generally in different and sometimes in distant positions, the place selected for each being that which is most convenient for the traffic. The passenger station abuts on the main line, or, at termini, forms the natural terminus, at a place as near as can conveniently be obtained to the centre of the, population which constitutes the passenger traffic; and preferably its platforms should be at or near the ground level, for convenience of access. The goods station is approached by a siding or fork set off from the main line at a point short of the passenger station. In order to keep down the expense of shunting the empty trains and engines to and from the platforms the carriage and locomotive depots should be as near the passenger station as possible; but often the price of land renders it impracticable to locate them in the immediate vicinity and they are to be found at a distance of several miles.

In laying out the approaches and station yard of a passenger station ample width and space should be provided, with well-defined means of ingress and egress to facilitate the circulation of vehicles and with along setting-down pavement to enable them to discharge their passengers and luggage without delay. The position of the main buildings—ticket offices, waiting and refreshment-rooms, parcels offices, &c.—relative to the direction of the lines of rails may be used as a means of classifying terminal stations. They are placed either on the departure side parallel to the platform (“side” stations) or at right angles to the rails and platforms (“end” stations). Many large stations, however, are of a mixed type, and the offices are arranged in a fork between two or more series of platforms, or partly at the end and partly on one side. Where heavy suburban traffic has to be dealt with, the expedient is occasionally adopted of taking some of the lines round the end in a continuous loop, so that incoming trains can deposit their passengers at an underground platform and immediately proceed on their outward journey. Intermediate stations, like terminal ones, should be convenient in situation and easy of approach, and, especially if they are important, should be on the ground level rather than on an embankment or in a cutting. The lines through them should be, if possible, straight and on the level; the British Board of Trade forbids them being placed on a gradient steeper than 1 in 260, unless it is unavoidable. Intermediate stations at the surface level are naturally constructed as side stations, and whether offices are provided on both sides or whether they are mainly concentrated on one will depend on local circumstances, the amount of the traffic, and the direction in which it preponderates. When the railway lies below the surface level the bulk of the offices are often placed on a bridge spanning the lines, access being given to the platforms by staircases or lifts, and similarly when the railway is at a high level the offices may be arranged under the lines. Occasionally on a double-track railway one platform placed between the tracks serves both of them; this “island” arrangement, as it is termed, has the advantage that more tracks can be readily added without disturbance of existing buildings, but when it is adopted the exit from the trains is at the opposite side to that which is usual, and accidents have happened through passengers alighting at the usual side without noticing the absence of a platform. At stations on double-track railways which have a heavy traffic four tracks are sometimes provided, the two outside ones only having platforms, so that fast trains get a clear road and can pass slow ones that are standing in the station. In Great Britain, it may be noted, trains almost invariably keep to the left, whereas in most other countries right-handed running is the rule.

The arrangement and appropriation of the tracks in a station materially affect the economical and efficient working of the traffic. There must be a sufficient provision of sidings, connected with the running tracks by points, for holding spare rolling stock and to enable carriages to be added to or taken off trains and engines to be changed with as little delay as possible. At terminal stations, especially at such as are used by short-distance trains which arrive at and start from the same platform, a third track is often laid between a pair of platform tracks, so that the engine of a train which has arrived at the platform can pass out and place itself at the other end of the train, which remains undisturbed. At the new Victoria station (London) of the London, Brighton & South Coast railway—which is so long that two trains can stand end to end at the platforms—this system is extended so as to permit a train to start out from the inner end of platform even another train is occupying the outer end. One of the advantages of electric trains on the multiple control system they economize terminal accommodation, because they driven from either end indifferently, and therefore avoid the necessity for tracks by which engines can change from one end of the train to the other.

The platforms on British railways have standard elevation of 3 ft. above rail level, and they are not now made less than 2½ ft. in height. In other countries they are generally lower; in the United States they are commonly level with, or only a few inches higher than, the top of the rails. They may consist of earth with a retaining wall along the tracks and with the surface gravelled or paved with stone or asphalt, or they may be constructed entirely of timber, or they may be formed of stone slabs supported on longitudinal walls. They should be of ample dimensions to accommodate the traffic—the British Board of Trade requires them to be not less than 6 ft. wide at small stations and not less than 12 ft. wide at large ones—and they should be as free as possible from obstructions, such as pillars supporting the roof. At intermediate stations the roofs are often carried on brackets fixed to the walls of the station buildings, and project only to the edge of the platforms. At larger stations where both the platforms and the tracks are covered in, there are two broad types of construction, with many intermediate variations: the roof may either be comparatively low, of the “ridge and furrow” pattern, borne on a number of rows of pillars, or it may consist of a single lofty span extending clear across the area from the side walls. The advantage claimed for roofs formed with one or two large spans is that they permit the platforms and tracks to be readily rearranged at any time as required, whereas this is difficult with the other type, especially since the British Board of Trade requires the pillars to be not less than 6 ft. away from the edges of the platforms. On the other hand, wide spans are more expensive both in first cost and in maintenance, and there is the possibility of a failure such as caused the collapse in December 1905 of the roof of Charing Cross (S.E.R.) station, London, which then consisted of a single span. Whatever the pattern adopted for the roof, a sufficient portion of it must be glazed to admit light, and it should be so designed that the ironwork can be easily inspected and painted and the glass readily cleaned. For the illumination of large stations by night electric arc lamps are frequently employed, but some authorities favour high-pressure incandescent gas-lighting.,

At busy stations separate tracks are sometimes appropriated to the use of light engines and empty trains, on which, they may be run between the platforms and the locomotive and, carriage depots. A carriage depot includes sheds in which the vehicles are stored, arrangements for washing and cleaning them, and sidings on which they are marshalled into trains. At a locomotive depot the chief building is the “running shed” in which the engines are housed and cleaned. This may be rectangular in shape (“straight” shed), containing a series of parallel tracks on which the engines stand and which are reached by means of points and crossings diverging from a main track outside; or it may take a polygonal or circular form (round house or rotunda), the lines for the engines radiating from a turn-table which occupies the centre and can be rotated so as to serve any of the radiating lines. The second arrangement enables any particular engine to, enter or leave without disturbing the other; but on the other hand an accident to the turn-table may temporarily imprison the whole of them. In both types pits are constructed between the rails

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CONSTRUCTION] on which the engines stand to afford easy access for the inspection and cleaning of their mechanism. Machine shops are usually provided to enable minor repairs to be executed; the tendency, both in England and America, is to increase the amount of such repairing plant at engine sheds, thus lengthening the intervals between the visits of the engines to the main repairing shops of the railway. A locomotive depot further includes stores of the various materials required in working the engines, coal stages at which they are loaded with coal, and an ample supply of water. The quality of the last is a matter of great importance; when it is unsuitable, the boilers will suffer, and the installation of a water-softening plant may save more in the expenses of boiler, maintenance than it costs to operate. The water cranes or towers which are placed at intervals along the railway to supply the engines with water require similar care in regard to the quality of the water laid on to them, as also to the water troughs, or track tanks as they are called in America, by which engines are able to pick up water without stopping. These consist of shallow troughs about 18 in wide, placed between the rails on perfectly level stretches of line. When water is required, a scoop is lowered into them from below the engine, and if the speed is sufficient the water is forced up it into the tender-tanks. Such troughs were first employed on the London & North-Western railway in 1857 by John Ramsbottom, and have since been adopted on many other lines.

Goods stations vary in size from those which consist of perhaps a single siding, to those which have accommodation for thousands of wagons. At a small roadside station, where the traffic is of a purely local character, there will be some sidings to which horses and carts have access for handling bulk goods like coal, gravel, manure, &c., and a covered shed for loading and unloading packages and materials which it is undesirable to expose to the weather. The shed may have a single pair of rails for wagons running through it along one side of a raised platform, there being a roadway for carts on the other side; or if more accommodation is required there may be two tracks, one on each side of the platform, which is then approached by carts at the end. In either case the platform is fitted with a crane or cranes for lifting merchandise into and out of the wagons, and doors enable the shed to be used as a lock-up warehouse. In a large station the arrangements become much more complicated, the precise design being governed by the nature of the traffic that has to be served and by the physical configuration of the site. It is generally convenient to keep the inwards and the outwards traffic distinct and to deal with the two classes separately; at junction stations it may also be necessary to provide for the transfer of freight from one wagon to another, though the bulk of goods traffic is conveyed through to its destination in the wagons into which it was originally loaded. The increased loading space required in the sheds is obtained by multiplying the number and the length of lines and platforms; sometimes also there are short sidings, cut into the platforms at right angles to the lines, in which wagons are placed by the aid of wagon turn-tables, and sometimes the wagons are dealt with on two floors, being raised or lowered bodily from the ground level by lifts. The higher floors commonly form warehouses where traders may store goods which have arrived or are awaiting despatch. An elaborate organization is required to keep a complete check and record of all the goods entering and leaving the station, to ensure that they are loaded into the proper wagons according to their destination, that they are unloaded and sorted in such a way that they can be delivered to their consignees with the least possible delay, that they are not stolen or accidentally mislaid, &c.; and accommodation must be provided for a large clerical and supervisory staff to attend to these matters. British railways also undertake the collection and delivery of freight, in addition to transporting it, and thus an extensive range of vans and wagons, whether drawn by horses or mechanically propelled, must be provided in connexion with an important station.

Shunting Yards.—It may happen that from a large station sufficient traffic may be consigned to certain other large stations to enable full train-loads to be made up daily, or several times a day, and dispatched direct to their destinations. In general, however, the conditions are less simple. Though a busy colliery may send off its product by the train-load to an important town, the wagons will usually be addressed to a number of different consignees at different depots in different parts of the town, and therefore the train will have to be broken up somewhere short of its destination and its trucks rearranged, together with those of other trains similarly constituted, into fresh trains for conveyance to the various depots. Again, a station of moderate size may collect goods destined for a great variety of places but not in sufficient quantities to compose a full train-load for any of them, and then it becomes impossible, except at the cost of uneconomical working, to avoid dispatching trains which contain wagons intended for many diverse destinations. For some distance these wagons will all travel over the same line, but sooner or later they will reach a junction-point where their ways will diverge and where they must be separated. At this point trains of wagons similarly destined for different places will be arriving from other lines, and hence the necessity will arise of collecting together from all the trains all the wagons which are travelling to the same place.

The problem may be illustrated diagrammatically as follows (fig. 15): A may be supposed to be a junction outside a large seaport where branches from docks a, b, c and d converge, and where the main line also divides into three going to B, C and D respectively. A train from a will contain some wagons for B, some for C and some for D, as will also the trains from a, b, c and d. At A therefore it becomes necessary to disentangle and-group together all the wagons that are intended for B, all that are intended for C, and all that are intended for D. Even that is not the whole of the problem. Between A and B, A and C, and A and D, there may be a string of stations, p, q, r, s, &c., all receiving goods from a, b, c and d, and it would manifestly be inconvenient and wasteful of time and trouble if the trains serving those intermediate stations were made up with, say, six wagons from a to p next the engine, five from b to p at the middle, and four from c to p near the end. Hence at A the trucks from a, b, c and d must not only be sorted according as they have to travel along A B, A C, or A D, but also must be marshalled into trains in the order of the stations along those lines. Conversely, trains arriving at A from B, C and D must be broken up and remade in order to distribute their wagons to the different dock branches.

To enable the wagons to be shunted into the desired order yards containing a large number of sidings are constructed at important junction points like A. Such a yard consists essentially of a group or groups of sidings, equal in length at least to the longest train run on the line, branching out from a single main track and often again converging to a single track at the other end; the precise design, however, varies with the amount and character of the work that has to be done, with the configuration of the ground, and also with the mode of shunting adopted. The oldest and commonest method of shunting is that known as “push-and-pull,” or in America as “link-and-pin” or “tail” shunting; An engine coupled to a batch of wagons runs one or more of them down one siding, leaves them there, then returns back with the remainder clear of the points where the sidings diverge, runs one or more others down another siding, and so on till they are all disposed of. The same operation is repeated with fresh batches of wagons, until the sidings contain a number of trains, each intended, it may be supposed, for a particular town or district. In some cases nothing more is required than to attach an engine and brake-van (“caboose”) and despatch the train; but if, as will happen in others, a further rearrangement of

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text: Portal:Perseus of Macedon

title: Portal:Perseus of Macedon


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12 It lay folded in silk in the dark, waiting. Six months before it had longed for rest; during the last nights of the season, when Siegmund’s fingers had pressed too hard, when Siegmund’s passion, and joy, and fear had hurt, too, the soft body of his little beloved, the violin had sickened for rest. On that last night of opera, without pity Siegmund had struck the closing phrases from the fiddle, harsh in his impatience, wild in anticipation.

The curtain came down, the great singers bowed, and Siegmund felt the spattering roar of applause quicken his pulse. It was hoarse, and savage, and startling on his inflamed soul, making him shiver with anticipation, as if something had brushed his hot nakedness. Quickly, with hands of habitual tenderness, he put his violin away.

The theatre-goers were tired, and life drained rapidly out of the opera-house. The members of the orchestra rose, laughing, mingling their weariness with good wishes for the holiday, with sly warning and suggestive advice, pressing hands warmly ere they disbanded. Other years Siegmund had lingered, unwilling to take the long farewell of his associates of the orchestra. Other years he had left the opera-house with a little pain of regret. Now he laughed, and took his comrade’s hands, and bade farewells, all distractedly, and with impatience. The theatre, awesome now in its emptiness, he left gladly, hastening like a flame stretched level on the wind.

With his black violin-case he hurried down the street, then halted to pity the flowers massed pallid under the gaslight of the market-hall. For himself, the sea and the sunlight opened great spaces to-morrow. The moon was full above the river. He


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Rh looked at it as a man in abstraction watches some clear thing; then he came to a standstill. It was useless to hurry to his train. The traffic swung past, the lamplight shone warm on all the golden faces; but Siegmund had already left the city. His face was silver and shadows to the moon; the river, in its soft grey, shaking golden sequins among the folds of its shadows, fell open like a garment before him, to reveal the white moon-glitter brilliant as living flesh. Mechanically, overcast with the reality of the moonlight, he took his seat in the train, and watched the moving of things. He was in a kind of trance, his consciousness seeming suspended. The train slid out amongst lights and dark places. Siegmund watched the endless movement, fascinated.

This was one of the crises of his life. For years he had suppressed his soul, in a kind of mechanical despair doing his duty and enduring the rest. Then his soul had been softly enticed from its bondage. Now he was going to break free altogether, to have at least a few days purely for his own joy. This, to a man of his integrity, meant a breaking of bonds, a severing of blood-ties, a sort of new birth. In the excitement of this last night his life passed out of his control, and he sat at the carriage-window, motionless, watching things move.

He felt busy within him a strong activity which he could not help. Slowly the body of his past, the womb which had nourished him in one fashion for so many years, was casting him forth. He was trembling in all his being, though he knew not with what. All he could do now was to watch the lights go by, and to let the translation of himself continue.

When at last the train ran out into the full, luminous


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14 night, and Siegmund saw the meadows deep in moonlight, he quivered with a low anticipation. The elms’ great grey shadows, seemed to loiter in their cloaks across the pale fields. He had not seen them so before. The world was changing.

The train stopped, and with a little effort he rose to go home. The night air was cool and sweet. He drank it thirstily. In the road again he lifted his face to the moon. It seemed to help him; in its brilliance amid the blonde heavens it seemed to transcend fretfulness. It would front the waves with silver as they slid to the shore, and Helena, looking along the coast, waiting, would lift her white hands with sudden joy. He laughed, and the moon hurried laughing alongside, through the black masses of the trees.

He had forgotten he was going home for this night. The chill wetness of his little white garden-gate reminded him, and a frown came on his face. As he closed the door, and found himself in the darkness of the hall, the sense of his fatigue came fully upon him. It was an effort to go to bed. Nevertheless, he went very quietly into the drawing-room. There the moonlight entered, and he thought the whiteness was Helena. He held his breath and stiffened, then breathed again. “To-morrow,” he thought, as he laid his violin-case across the arms of a wicker chair. But he had a physical feeling of the presence of Helena: in his shoulders he seemed to be aware of her. Quickly, half lifting his arms, he turned to the moonshine. “To-morrow!” he exclaimed quietly; and he left the room stealthily, for fear of disturbing the children.

In the darkness of the kitchen burned a blue bud of light. He quickly turned up the gas to a broad yellow flame, and sat down at table. He was tired, excited,


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Rh and vexed with misgiving. As he lay in his arm-chair, he looked round with disgust.

The table was spread with a dirty cloth that had great brown stains betokening children. In front of him was a cup and saucer, and a small plate with a knife laid across it. The cheese, on another plate, was wrapped in a red-bordered, fringed cloth, to keep off the flies, which even then were crawling round, on the sugar, on the loaf, on the cocoa-tin. Siegmund looked at his cup. It was chipped, and a stain had gone under the glaze, so that it looked like the mark of a dirty mouth. He fetched a glass of water.

The room was drab and dreary. The oil-cloth was worn into a hole near the door. Boots and shoes of various sizes were scattered over the floor, while the sofa was littered with children’s clothing. In the black stove the ash lay dead; on the range were chips of wood, and newspapers, and rubbish of papers, and crusts of bread, and crusts of bread-and-jam. As Siegmund walked across the floor, he crushed two sweets underfoot. He had to grope under sofa and dresser to find his slippers; and he was in evening dress.

It would be the same, while ever Beatrice was Beatrice and Seigmund her husband. He ate his bread and cheese mechanically, wondering why he was miserable, why he was not looking forward with joy to the morrow. As he ate, he closed his eyes, half wishing he had not promised Helena, half wishing he had no to-morrow.

Leaning back in his chair, he felt something in the way. It was a small teddy-bear and half of a strong white comb. He grinned to himself. This was the summary of his domestic life—a broken, coarse comb,


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16 a child crying because her hair was lugged, a wife who had let the hair go till now, when she had got into a temper to see the job through; and then the teddy-bear, pathetically cocking a black worsted nose, and lifting absurd arms to him.

He wondered why Gwen had gone to bed without her pet. She would want the silly thing. The strong feeling of affection for his children came over him, battling with something else. He sank in his chair, and gradually his baffled mind went dark. He sat, overcome with weariness and trouble, staring blankly into the space. His own stifling roused him. Straightening his shoulders, he took a deep breath, then relaxed again. After a while he rose, took the teddy-bear, and went slowly to bed.

Gwen and Marjory, aged nine and twelve, slept together in a small room. It was fairly light. He saw his favourite daughter lying quite uncovered, her wilful head thrown back, her mouth half open. Her black hair was tossed across the pillow: he could see the action. Marjory snuggled under the sheet. He placed the teddy-bear between the two girls.

As he watched them, he hated the children for being so dear to him. Either he himself must go under, and drag on an existence he hated, or they must suffer. But he had agreed to spend this holiday with Helena, and meant to do so. As he turned, he saw himself like a ghost cross the mirror. He looked back; he peered at himself. His hair still grew thick and dark from his brow: he could not see the grey at the temples. His eyes were dark and tender, and his mouth, under the black moustache, was full with youth.

He rose, looked at the children, frowned, and went


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Rh to his own small room. He was glad to be shut alone in the little cubicle of darkness.

Outside the world lay in a glamorous pallor, casting shadows that made the farm, the trees, the bulks of villas, look like live creatures. The same pallor went through all the night, glistening on Helena as she lay curled up asleep at the core of the glamour, like the moon; on the sea rocking backwards and forwards till it rocked her island as she slept. She was so calm and full of her own assurance. It was a great rest to be with her. With her, nothing mattered but love and the beauty of things. He felt parched and starving. She had rest and love, like water and manna for him. She was so strong in her self-possession, in her love of beautiful things and of dreams.

The clock downstairs struck two.

“I must get to sleep,” he said.

He dragged his portmanteau from beneath the bed and began to pack it. When at last it was finished, he shut it with a snap. The click sounded final. He stood up, stretched himself, and sighed.

“I am fearfully tired,” he said.

But that was persuasive. When he was undressed he sat in his pyjamas for some time, rapidly beating his fingers on his knee.

“Thirty-eight years old,” he said to himself, “and disconsolate as a child!” He began to muse of the morrow.

When he seemed to be going to sleep, he woke up to find thoughts labouring over his brain, like bees on a hive. Recollections, swift thoughts, flew in and alighted upon him, as wild geese swing down and take possession of a pond. Phrases from the 2


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18 opera tyrannized over him; he played the rhythm with all his blood. As he turned over in this torture, he sighed, and recognized a movement of the De Beriot concerto which Helena had played for her last lesson. He found himself watching her as he had watched then, felt again the wild impatience when she was wrong, started again as, amid the dipping and sliding of her bow, he realized where his thoughts were going. She was wrong, he was hasty; and he felt her blue eyes looking intently at him.

Both started as his daughter Vera entered suddenly. She was a handsome girl of nineteen. Crossing the room, brushing Helena as if she were a piece of furniture in the way, Vera had asked her father a question, in a hard, insulting tone, then had gone out again, just as if Helena had not been in the room.

Helena stood fingering the score of “Pelléas.” When Vera had gone, she asked, in the peculiar tone that made Siegmund shiver:

“Why do you consider the music of ‘Pelléas’ cold?”

Siegmund had struggled to answer. So they passed everything off, without mention, after Helena’s fashion, ignoring all that might be humiliating; and to her much was humiliating.

For years she had come as pupil to Siegmund, first as a friend of the household. Then she and Louisa went occasionally to whatever hall or theatre had Siegmund in the orchestra, so that shortly the three formed the habit of coming home together. Then Helena had invited Siegmund to her home; then the three friends went walks together; then the two went walks together, whilst Louisa sheltered them. Helena had come to read his loneliness and the humiliation of his lot. He had felt her blue eyes,


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Rh heavily, steadily gazing into his soul, and he had lost himself to her.

That day, three weeks before the end of the season, when Vera had so insulted Helena, the latter had said, as she put on her coat, looking at him all the while with heavy blue eyes: “I think, Siegmund, I cannot come here any more. Your home is not open to me any longer.” He had writhed in confusion and humiliation. As she pressed his hand, closely and for a long time, she said: “I will write to you.” Then she left him.

Siegmund had hated his life that day. Soon she wrote. A week later, when he lay resting his head on her lap in Richmond Park, she said:

“You are so tired, Siegmund.” She stroked his face, and kissed him softly. Siegmund lay in the molten daze of love. But Helena was, if it is not to debase the word, virtuous: an inconsistent virtue, cruel and ugly for Siegmund.

“You are so tired, dear. You must come away with me and rest, the first week in August.”

His blood had leapt, and whatever objections he raised, such as having no money, he allowed to be overridden. He was going to Helena, to the Isle of Wight, to-morrow.

Helena, with her blue eyes so full of storm, like the sea, but, also like the sea, so eternally self-sufficient, solitary; with her thick white throat, the strongest and most wonderful thing on earth, and her small hands, silken and light as wind-flowers, would be his to-morrow, along with the sea and the downs. He clung to the exquisite flame which flooded him….

But it died out, and he thought of the return to


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20 London, to Beatrice, and the children. How would it be? Beatrice, with her furious dark eyes, and her black hair loosely knotted back, came to his mind as she had been the previous day, flaring with temper when he said to her:

“I shall be going away to-morrow for a few days’ holiday.”

She asked for detail, some of which he gave. Then, dissatisfied and inflamed, she broke forth in her suspicion and her abuse, and her contempt, while two large-eyed children stood listening by. Siegmund hated his wife for drawing on him the grave, cold looks of condemnation from his children.

Something he had said touched Beatrice. She came of good family, had been brought up like a lady, educated in a convent school in France. He evoked her old pride. She drew herself up with dignity, and called the children away. He wondered if he could bear a repetition of that degradation. It bled him of his courage and self-respect.

In the morning Beatrice was disturbed by the sharp sneck of the hall-door. Immediately awake, she heard his quick, firm step hastening down the gravel path. In her impotence, discarded like a worn out object, she lay for the moment stiff with bitterness.

“I am nothing, I am nothing,” she said to herself. She lay quite rigid for a time.

There was no sound anywhere. The morning sunlight pierced vividly through the slits of the blind. Beatrice lay rocking herself, breathing hard, her finger-nails pressing into her palm. Then came the sound of a train slowing down in the station, and directly the quick “chuff-chuff-chuff” of its drawing out. Beatrice imagined the sunlight on the puffs of steam, and the


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Rh two lovers, her husband and Helena, rushing through the miles of morning sunshine.

“God strike her dead! Mother of God, strike her down!” she said aloud, in a low tone. She hated Helena.

Irene, who lay with her mother, woke up and began to question her.


text: The Trespasser/Chapter 2

title: The Trespasser/Chapter 2


text:
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Rh Manos-gordas continued:

"If, in the future, any misfortune should happen to me, or if I should suddenly disappear without taking leave of you, or if, after taking leave of you, you should hear nothing from me within six weeks' time, make your way back to Ceuta and put this letter in the post. Do you understand fully what I have said, monkey-face?"

Zama burst into tears and exclaimed:

"Admet, do you intend to abandon me?"

"Don't be an ass, woman!" answered the Moor. "Who is talking of such a thing now? You know very well that you please me and that you are useful to me. The question now is whether you have understood my charge perfectly."

"Give it here!" said the Moorish woman, taking the letter and placing it in her dark-skinned bosom, next her heart. "If any evil should happen to you, this letter shall be placed in the post at Ceuta, though I should drop dead the moment after."

Aben-Carime smiled with a human smile when he heard these words, and deigned to let his eyes rest upon his wife as if she were a human being.


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150

Moorish couple must have slept soundly and sweetly among the thickets on the roadside that night, for it was fully nine o'clock on the following morning when they reached the foot of Cape Negro.

At that place there is a village of Arab shepherds and husbandmen, called Medick, consisting of a few huts, a morabito or Mohammedan hermitage, and a well of fresh water, with its curbstone and its copper bucket, like the wells we see represented in certain biblical scenes.

At this hour the village was completely deserted, its inhabitants having betaken themselves, with their cattle and their implements of labor, to the neighboring hills and glens.

"Wait for me here," said Manos-gordas to his wife. "I am going in quest of Ben-Munuza, who at this hour is probably ploughing his fields on the other side of yonder hill."

"Ben-Munuza!" exclaimed Zama, with a look of terror; "the renegade of whom you spoke to me?"

"Make your mind easy," returned Manos-gordas. "I have the upper hand now. In a few hours I shall be back and you will see him following me like a dog. This is his cabin. Wait for us inside, and make us a good mess of alcazus, with the maize and the butter you will find at


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the miles of morning sunshine, Siegmund’s shadows, his children, Beatrice, his sorrow, dissipated like mist, and he was elated as a young man setting forth to travel. When he had passed Portsmouth Town everything had vanished but the old gay world of romance. He laughed as he looked out at the carriage window.

Below, in the street, a military band passed glittering. A brave sound floated up, and again he laughed, loving the tune, the clash and glitter of the band, the movement of scarlet, blithe soldiers beyond the park. People were drifting brightly from church. How could it be Sunday! It was no time; it was Romance, going back to Tristan.

Women, like crocus-flowers, in white and blue and lavender, moved gaily. Everywhere fluttered the small flags of holiday. Every form danced lightly in the sunshine.

And beyond it all were the silent hillsides of the island, with Helena. It was so wonderful, he could bear to be patient. She would be all in white, with her cool, thick throat left bare to the breeze, her face shining, smiling as she dipped her head because of the sun, which glistened on her uncovered hair.

He breathed deeply, stirring at the thought. But he would not grow impatient. The train had halted over the town, where scarlet soldiers, and ludicrous blue


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Education, United States Bureau of

EDUCATION, United States Bureau of, a bureau under the Department of the Interior since 1868, whose chief activities are given to the collecting and dissemination of educational information. It was originally created a department by act of Congress 2 March 1867. But the opposition of the States was so pronounced against the interference of Congress in educational matters that the newly-created department was reduced to a bureau the following year and its province limited almost altogether to the encouragement of education through the collection and dissemination of educational information. The work of the bureau naturally fell far short of that done by the Department of Education in countries where such bodies are given the direction of educational matters for the whole nation. In 1864 efforts were made by teachers and others interested in the advancement of education for the establishment of a Bureau of Education. But owing to the attitude of Congress and the various State legislatures, which were unanimous in their agreement to leave all educational matters in the hands of the State officials, the Bureau of Education was not taken very seriously by the United States government and its efficiency was hampered by a lack of funds and of freedom of action. The bureau began to make its efforts more concrete and effective by the issuance of ‘Annual Reports.’ In 1870 a series of ‘Circulars of Information,’ dealing for the most part with the, history of educational progress in the various States of the Union, more especially from 1888 to 1903, indicated increased activities. A step in advance was made in 1906 by the institution of the ‘Bulletins’ dealing with a wider variety of interesting educational subjects. In 1910 the bureau broadened the scope of its work still more by the publication of ‘Circulars of

containing digests of current legislation and interesting accounts of new educational features of city and State school systems. The work of the bureau is divided among six sub-departments or administrative divisions and its activities cover higher education, school administration, rural schools, vocational education, kindergartens, home education, immigrant education, civics, education of racial groups, home and school gardening, commercial education, school hygiene, community organization and foreign educational systems. The necessities of the European War increased the activities of the bureau and broadened its field of action. At the close of the fiscal year 1916-17 the staff of the bureau consisted of 76 regular employees in Washington, five in Seattle and 118 special collaborators. The office force included at this date a commissioner of education, chief clerk, specialist in higher education, editor, statistician, specialist in charge of land-grant college statistics, two translators, collector and compiler of statistics, specialist in foreign educational systems and another in educational systems. The Congressional appropriation made to the bureau for the year 1916-17 was $405,500 and for the following fiscal year $431,600, a sum inadequate for the proper extension of its work.

The Annual Report of the Commissioner of Education is issued in two parts. Part one consists of “a comprehensive, interpretative review of the more important phases of the progress of education m the United States and an other countries”; while part two is a statistical summary of the schools and other educational agencies of the United States.

Under the control of the United States Bureau of Education, through its commissioner, is the administration of the schools for natives in Alaska, to the maintenance of which goes more than half the appropriation received by the bureau.

During the fiscal year 1916-17 the bureau collected statistics from 48 States, and 1,241 city school systems, S74 universities and colleges, 530 professional schools, 1,322 training schools for nurses, 278 normal schools, 734 summer schools, 12,003 public high schools, 2,203 private high schools and academies, 912 commercial schools, 397 schools for negroes, 121 State industrial schools and reformatories, 61 institutions for the blind, 159 schools for the deaf and 178 schools for the feeble-minded.

The library of the Bureau of Education claims to be the most extensive library in the United States, devoted exclusively to education. It contained in 1917 about 150,000 volumes and pamphlets; and these were being added to yearly to the extent of 15,000 or more. Consult Report of the Commissioner of Education (Washington, published annually).


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Education of the Blind

EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. See .


text: Category:Plays by genre

title: Category:Plays by genre


text:
Category:Tragedy

Tragedy is a form of drama based on human suffering that invokes in its audience an accompanying catharsis or pleasure in the viewing. While many cultures have developed forms that provoke this paradoxical response, the term tragedy often refers to a specific tradition of drama that has played a unique and important role historically in the self-definition of Western civilization.

title: Category:Tragedy


text:
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Rh "There—I've finished!" Doretta cries with an air of triumph.

But the cry is succeeded by another, half of anguish, half of rage.

"What's the matter now?"

"A blot!"

"Let me see? . . . You little goose, what have you done? . . . You've ruined the letter now!"

Doretta, having endeavored to remove the ink-spot by licking it, has torn the paper.

"Oh, dear, I shall have to copy it out now," she says, in a mortified tone.

"You can copy it this evening. Bring it here, and let me look at it. . . . Not bad,—not bad at all. A few letters to be added, and a few to be taken out; but, on the whole, for a chit of your size, it's fairly creditable. Good girl!"

Doretta rests upon her laurels, playing with her doll Nini. She dresses Nini in her best gown, and takes her to call on the cat, Melanio.

The cat, Melanio, who is dozing with halfopen eyes, is somewhat bored by these attentions. Raising himself on his four paws, he arches his flexible body, and then rolls himself up into a ball, turning his back upon his visitor.

"Dear me, Melanio is not very polite to-day," says Doretta, escorting the doll back to the sofa. "But you must n't be offended; he's very seldom impolite. I think it must be the weather;


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122 does n't the weather make you sleepy too, Nini? . . . Come, let's take a nap; go by-bye, baby, go by-bye."

Nini sleeps. Her head rests upon a cushion, her little rag and horse-hair body is wrapped in a woollen coverlet, her lids are closed; for Nini raises or lowers her lids according to the position of her body.

Signor Odoardo looks at the clock and then glances out of the window. It is two o'clock and the snow is still falling.

Doretta is struck by another idea.

"Daddy, see if I know my La Fontaine fable: Le corbeau et le renard."

"Very well, let's hear it," Signor Odoardo assents, taking the open book from the little girl's hands.

Doretta begins:

"Go on."

"Maître . . ."

"Maître renard."

"Oh, yes, now I remember:

At this point Doretta, seeing that her father is


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Rh not listening to her, breaks off her recitation. Signor Odoardo has, in fact, closed the book upon his forefinger, and is looking elsewhere.

"Well, Doretta," he absently inquires, "why don't you go on?"

"I'm not going to say any more of it," she answers sullenly.

"Why, you cross-patch! What's the matter?"

The little girl, who had been seated on a low stool, has risen to her feet and now sees why her papa has not been attending to her. The snow is falling less thickly, and the fair head of Signora Evelina has appeared behind the window-panes over the way.

Brave little woman! She has actually opened the window, and is clearing the snow off the sill with a fire-shovel. Her eyes meet Signor Odoardo's; she smiles and shakes her head, as though to say: What hateful weather!

He would be an ill-mannered boor who should not feel impelled to say a word to the dauntless Signor Evelina. Signor Odoardo, who is not an ill-mannered boor, yields to the temptation of opening the window for a moment.

"Bravo, Signora Evelina! I see you are not afraid of the snow."

"Oh, Signor Odoardo, what fiendish weather! . . . But, if I am not mistaken, that is Doretta with you. . . . How do you do, Doretta?"


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124 "Doretta, come here and say how do you do to the lady."

"No, no—let her be, let her be! Children catch cold so easily—you had better shut the window. I suppose there is no hope of seeing you to-day?"

"Look at the condition of the streets!"

"Oh, you men . . . you men! . . . The stronger sex . . . but no matter. Au revoir!"

"Au revoir."

The two windows are closed simultaneously, but this time Signora Evelina does not disappear. She is sitting there, close to the window, and it snows so lightly now that her wonderful profile is outlined as clearly as possible against the pane. Good heavens, how beautiful she is!

Signor Odoardo walks up and down the room, in the worst of humors. He feels that it is wrong not to go and see the fascinating widow, and that to go and see her would be still more wrong. The cloud has settled again upon Doretta's forehead, the same cloud that darkened it in the morning.

Not a word is said of La Fontaine's fable. Instead, Signor Odoardo grumbles irritably:

"This blessed room is as cold as ever."

"Why should n't it be," Doretta retorts with a touch of asperity, "when you open the window every few minutes?"


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Rh "Oho," Signor Odoardo says to himself, "it is time to have this matter out."

And, going up to Doretta, he takes her by the hand, leads her to the sofa, and lifts her on his knee.

"Now, then, Doretta, why is it that you are so disagreeable to Signora Evelina?"

The little girl, not knowing what to answer, grows red and embarrassed.

"What has Signora Evelina done to you?" her father continues.

"She has n't done anything to me."

"And yet you don't like her."

Profound silence.

"And she likes you so much!"

"I don't care if she does!"

"You naughty child! . . . And what if, one of these days, you had to live with Signora Evelina?"

"I won't live with her—I won't live with her!" the child bursts out.

"Now you are talking foolishly," Signor Odoardo admonishes her in a severe tone, setting her down from his knee.

She bursts into passionate weeping.

"Come, Doretta, come. . . . Is this the way you keep your daddy company? . . . Enough of this, Doretta."

But, say what he pleases, Doretta must have her cry. Her brown eyes are swimming in tears,


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126 her little breast heaves, her voice is broken by sobs.

"What ridiculous whims!" Signor Odoardo exclaims, throwing his head back against the sofa cushions.

Signor Odoardo is unjust, and, what is worse, he does not believe what he is saying. He knows that this is no whim of Doretta's. He knows it better than the child herself, who would probably find it difficult to explain what she is undergoing. It is at once the presentiment of a new danger and the renewal of a bygone sorrow. Doretta was barely six years old when her mother died, and yet her remembrance is indelibly impressed upon the child's mind. And now it seems as though her mother were dying again.

"When you have finished crying, Doretta, you may come here," Signor Odoardo says.

Doretta, crouching in a corner of the room, cries less vehemently, but has not yet finished crying. Just like the weather outside,—it snows less heavily, but it still snows.

Signor Odoardo covers his eyes with his hand.

How many thoughts are thronging through his head, how many affections are contending in his heart! If he could but banish the vision of Signora Evelina—but he tries in vain. He is haunted by those blue eyes, by that persuasive smile, that graceful and harmonious presence.


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Rh He has but to say the word, and he knows that she will be his, to brighten his solitary home, and fill it with life and love. Her presence would take ten years from his age, he would feel as he did when he was betrothed for the first time. And yet—no; it would not be quite like the first time.

He is not the same man that he was then, and she, the other, ah, how different she was from the Signora Evelina! How modest and shy she was! How girlishly reserved, even in the expression of her love! How beautiful were her sudden blushes, how sweet the droop of her long, shyly-lowered lashes! He had known her first in the intimacy of her own home, simple, shy, a good daughter and a good sister, as she was destined to be a good wife and mother. For a while he had loved her in silence, and she had returned his love. One day, walking beside her in the garden, he had seized her hand with sudden impetuosity, and raising it to his lips had said, "I care for you so much!" and she, pale and trembling, had run to her mother's arms, crying out, "Oh, how happy I am!"

Ah, those dear days—those dear days! He was a poet then; with the accent of sincerest passion he whispered in his love's ear:


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128 Very bad poetry, but deliciously thrilling to his young betrothed. Oh, the dear, dear days! Oh, the long hours that pass like a flash in delightful talk, the secrets that the soul first reveals to itself in revealing them to the beloved, the caresses longed for and yet half feared, the lovers' quarrels, the tears that are kissed away, the shynesses, the simplicity, the abandonment of a pure and passionate love—who may hope to know you twice in a lifetime?

No, Signora Evelina can never restore what he has lost to Signor Odoardo. No, this self-possessed widow, who, after six months of mourning, has already started on the hunt for a second husband, cannot inspire him with the faith that he felt in the other. Ah, first-loved women, why is it that you must die? For the dead give no kisses, no caresses, and the living long to be caressed and kissed.

Who talks of kisses? Here is one that has alit, all soft and warm, on Signor Odoardo's lips, rousing him with a start.—Ah! . . . Is it you, Doretta?—It is Doretta, who says nothing, but who is longing to make it up with her daddy. She lays her cheek against his, he presses her little head close, lest she should escape from him. He too is silent—what can he say to her?

It is growing dark, and the eyes of the cat Melanio begin to glitter in the corner by the stove.


text:
Doctor Faustus

 * The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, a play by Christopher Marlowe (1592-3)
 * "The German Popular Legend of Doctor Faustus", an article first published in The Atlantic Monthly (1858)
 * "Doctor Faustus Was a Good Man", traditional nursery rhyme

title: Doctor Faustus


text: Category:1604 works

title: Category:1604 works