126 'EOTHEN KINGLAKE. knowledge he belonged to a pre-scien- | rendezvous at Hamburg. The route the tific age. Kinglake once spoke of himself fellow-travellers took was via Berlin, as "little bookish by nature," and certainly Dresden, Prague, Vienna. From the lathis very genuine enthusiasm for classic ter place they went down the Danube to scenes was not the result of the Greek in- Semlin. Prince Demidoff, in his travels stilled into his unwilling mind by the ped- in 1830, alludes to the recent introduction agogue who ruled over the "dismal days " of steamboats on the river, and declares of his schoolboy life. It was the English that "in making the Danube one of the of Pope's translation that tired him with great commercial highways of the world, a love of Homer's battles. steam has united the East with the West." But nature had placed the iron gates of the Danube in the way of this consummation. In speaking of his travels, at a time when the recollection was not yet too remote, Kinglake would on rare occasions give in a few vivid words the description of a picturesque incident, in a manner impossible to reproduce, but which remained stamped with the seal of genius on the listener's memory. Sometimes it was an account of the landing near Abydos after a glorious sail through classic Hellespont; the wild ride that brought them within sight of the tomb of Achilles, and the keen starlight that canopied their bivouac on the banks of the Scamander. He made you feel the rapture that kindled his own nature when, at length, standing on the plains of Troy, the beautiful story lost its fabulous character, and assumed the proportions of reality; and then was he enabled to identify in a manner satisfactory to his own mind the sight of the far-famed city. In another mood the traveller has been known to recall the unwonted sentiment of reverence that subdued his spirit when the end of a long day's ride brought him among the hills of beautiful Galilee, and when, within sight of Nazareth, he saw the sun go down in solemn splendor. A man can better face the prosaic limitation, the tedious conventionality of our indoor, plodding life in the West after he has steeped his soul in the glamor of the Orient. Something of this may have led Kinglake to take his pleasure in the East, "to fortify himself," as he said, "for the business of life." Some of his early friends found it difficult to understand what motive could impel a man of his temperament to undertake so toilsome and so dangerous a journey; for in his day the impediments and risks of travel had to be taken into account. The desire did not arise, it is true, from any special orthodox reverence for the "holy places," for Gibbon might have been his sponsor in all matters of faith. When Kinglake arrived at Semlin, the frontier town of Turkey, Belgrade frowned upon him from the other side of the Save. On entering this fortress, it was to commit himself to a plague-suspected country, with "wheel-going Europe" left behind. And now he was to see with his own eyes "the splendor and the havoc of the East." The romance of travel belongs to the past. The traveller of to-day, instead of starting from Belgrade on horseback, with a retinue of dragomen and tatars armed to the teeth, leaves his hotel in an omnibus, and departs from the railway station armed only with a Cook's ticket; leaving at 9.30 A.M., say, on Tuesday morning, and he is due at Constantinople at four o'clock on the afternoon of the next day. So passes away the glory of travel. It took Kinglake fifteen days to accomplish the ride of eight hundred and fifty miles from Belgrade to Constantinople'; he was delayed somewhat by the illness of his friend, but not long, for there was no hospitality to be obtained en route for a sick man, who by token of his sickness fell under the terrible suspicion of being plague-stricken. Our travellers journeying through the majestic forests of Servia, rousing the eagles of the Balkans " in the pass of Sapoli, and toiling on from thence to Philippopolis and Adrianople, trod in the very steps of the first Crusad ers. The iron road of to-day does not deviate very far from the same line of march. His Eastern tour, in point of time, extended beyond its original limits, owing in great part to the serious outbreak of the plague in Egypt, where he was detained. He was absent altogether more than fifteen months, and did not return to England till October, 1835. The record of his travels did not appear Half a century and more has passed in print till 1844, and then not till the MS. since this Eastern journey took place. It had been rejected by some of the leading is needless to say how much is changed. publishers. From the moment that his It was early in July, 1834, that Kinglake book made him famous, Kinglake's intigave his college friend Lord Pollington, a mate friends delighted in calling him From The Leisure Hour. A LONDON fog is not merely a cheerless No "Eōthen." Among such as survive, the | Benjamin Franklin. He thus introduced The price was at that time three shil- Let it be remembered that this was the quantity ascertained and declared by only one of the companies supplying gas to the public; others having also an enormous production, such as the South Metropolitan Gas Company, the strike at the works of which at Lambeth last year caused so much difficulty and annoyance. What was the total amount over the average due to that January day's fog, there are no statistics to show; but it is evident that the cost to the public for additional | light must be very great. Nor is it by gas bills only that the cost of a fog is to be reckoned, in the matter of artificial light. Gas meters and the rec. ords of gas companies afford some approximate statistics, but how can we reckon the total expense to the multitudes who use candles and lamps of every kind? Many readers will remember the famous "Economical Project,” as he called it, of There are many things besides the increased expense for light that must be counted in the cost of a fog. We wonder how much the railway companies have to pay for the detonating signals, heard on every line and near every station, on a foggy morning or evening, for the safety of the crowds of passengers, as well as of property. Inquiry at one of the chief stations failed to obtain any trustworthy estimate of this expense. The largest and most serious loss due to fog is caused by the total cessation of labor and traffic on the river. Not the steamers only, but the barges and lighters and boats of every kind, have to be laid up, to avoid collision and other mishaps; and work has to be suspended at the riverside wharves and quays. On some occasions, when the fog has been dense and long-continued, the commercial loss has been enormous, and the poor laborers have also suffered from the enforced suspension of business on the river. Shopkeepers detest fogs because customers avoid dark days for shopping, and "carriage people " stay at home. Cabmen dislike them, from the waste of time and the damage to which their vehicles are liable. Drivers of omnibuses, and of wheeled vehicles of every sort, know the danger, especially as it is almost impossible to discern the customary signal of raising the hand or the whip, which warns those behind to stop. The crash of broken panels is no infrequent sound amidst the gloom. To some outdoor trades and occupations a fog puts a complete stop, and many an indoor industry is seriously hindered. One winter, not long ago, there was a loud complaint from painters, and color printers, and artists, that the fogs interfered so much with their work that the loss to them was very great. In fact, to all sorts and conditions of men, except to thieves and rogues, a London fog is an injury and a nuisance. A far more serious thing is the loss of life inevitable during a fog. Some years ago there was an unusual visitation during the time of the Cattle Show at Islington, and not a few of the animals perished. At the Cattle Show of 1890 there were also many casualties from pulmonary disease caused by the fog, including the queen's prize ox, which had to be slaughtered. It may be said that this was natural, as the fat, overfed pigs and oxen had difficulty enough in breathing even when the air was clear. But the fatal effect of the fog was much commented on at the time, and may now remind us how injurious it is to men as well as to animals. There may in ordinary fog be no remarkable or immedi ate increase in the rate of mortality, but the permanent mischief done to those of delicate lungs and feeble constitution tells afterwards. Then there is scarcely a fog in which fatal accidents are not reported, either in the streets or on the river. Every winter a certain number of persons are struck down and maimed or actually slain in the confusion and darkness of a London fog. We may well wish success to all undertakings which give promise of lessening the evils of such visitations, whether by larger introduction of electric light, or draining the Essex marshes, or compelling chimneys to consume their own smoke. A recent statement by Mr. Sowerby at a meeting of the Royal Botanic Society shows that the loss is large in the vegetable as well as in the animal world. In answer to a question by Professor Bentley, vice president of the society, the secretary said the destructive action of fog on plants was most felt by those tropical plants in the society's houses of which the natural habitat was one exposed to sunshine. Plants growing in forests or 'under tree shade did not so directly feel the want of light; but then, again, a London or town fog not only shaded the plants, but contained smoke, sulphur, and other deleterious agents, which were perhaps as deadly to vegetable vitality as absence of light. Soft, tender-leaved plants, and aquatics, such as the Victoria regia, suffered more from fog than any class of plants. 1 man, AN ACT OF CHIVALRY. - The Kobe Shim- | his strength gave out, and he was carried down bun, a Japanese native paper, tells, in its the stream. Then arose a cry from the specquaint way, an exciting story of how an En- tators, for they saw that the Japanese was glishman whom a Japanese endeavored to going to sink. By this time the Englishman save from drowning was able to reciprocate had almost reached the opposite bank, but his would-be salvor's humanity. The English- when he heard the cries of the crowd he turned who is a resident at Tokyo, being on his about, and seeing the drowning Japanese he way to Yokohama, and finding no ferry boat again faced the current, and, coming up with owing to the swollen state of the river, deter- the drowning man, caught him with one arm mined to swim across with his clothing in a and, swimming with the other hand he brought bundle tied on his head. The daring attempt him ashore amid the cheers of the crowd. attracted a crowd of sightseers, one of whom, "How chivalrous was his action!" exclaims observing that the stranger was in apparent the Japanese journalist in conclusion. "His difficulty, plunged in and swam to his rescue. name we know not, but he has our highest The Japanese, according to the narrative, was admiration." a good swimmer, but the waters ran swiftly, of the ime as it re mer Fifth Series, Volume LXXIV. } No. 2442.- April 18, 1891. : الـ esse ethe III. THE Contrasts of English AND FRENCH light VII. UNCLAIMED STOCKS, DIVIDENDS, mp BANK DEPOSITS, VIII. BIBLICAL DRAMA IN SOUTH STAFFORD SHIRE,. IX. OUR VILLAGE BOOK CLUB,. A SONG IN WINTER, THE DYING Knight, ROSES AND MEMORIES, to MISCELLANY, or CLUB,. CONTENTS AND For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. THE DYING KNIGHT. THE day of sorrow, death, defeat is o'er, On idle armor and the wreck of fight, On broken swords, their brightness dull and red. Alone, alone I die on this wide heath, No help, no hope; and yet I die content. The stiff blood freezes o'er my wound of death: But for the cause my life is gladly spent; No moan, no idle moan. Farewell, farewell, And yet, and yet, between me and the skies death a pang: They haunt me now, those dear and tender eyes Eyes which I loved as knight, as minstrel sang. Thou should'st have hailed thy warrior's proud return, Thou should'st have welcomed back thy victor knight; Now must thou mourn above the funeral urn Love yields to Death the joys that might have been. GLOAM and a greyness as of breaking night Once fitted to my finger in that bower must pass, |