Part 8

In the same storm the Lutheran church was lifted bodily from its foundations into the air, and fell, bottom upwards, on top of a new residence 100 feet away, as it appears in the photograph.

In another photograph are some collapsed houses, the result of a similar storm in Lawrence, U.S.A.

Although our own Meteorological Office and Society have no such startling instances to record, yet they possess much data of equal interest.

For instance, how many people know that on Dec. 4th, 1879, the thermometer registered 23 degrees below zero at a place called Black Adder, in Berwickshire? This is the greatest degree of frost ever known in Great Britain. The coldest spot in the world is Verkoianski, a town in Siberia, where 120 degrees of frost have been registered. The hottest is the Red Sea, where 120 degrees of heat are often experienced.

The hottest place in Great Britain, curiously enough, is London, or rather the Thames Valley. The wettest, Seathwaite, in the Lake District, where 8.03 inches of rainfall have been registered in 24 hours.

Taking 1 inch of rain to represent 101 tons of water per acre, it will be seen that the farmers cannot complain of drought in the Seathwaite district.

However, the greatest rainfall ever measured in this country occurred in Camden Square, London, on June 28, 1878, when 3-1/4 inches fell in 1-1/2 hours.

Lately several meteorological experiments have been made with kites and balloons, which are expected to enrich the science with many new discoveries.

Many people have curious ideas of the capabilities and functions of "The clerk of the weather." Mr. Robert H. Scott. M.A., F.R.S., the gentleman at present occupying this position, in his book on "Weather Charts and Storm Warnings," tells some curious stories illustrative of this.

For instance, in June 1886 he received a letter bearing no less than ten postmarks. It was addressed "Weather Office, Strand, London." Its contents were--"Three next days order to be fine."

A Boston letter was addressed--Right Hon. Clerk of Weather, 9, Downing Street, London, W.C.

Its contents were--

"My Lord Clerk,--May it please your lordship you will greatly oblige your humble servant by writing or sending me a telegraph whether it will be fine or no on the 5th of November, 1867.

"I have the honour to remain, "Your lordship's most obedient servant, "Joseph William ----."

Such letters are by no means rare, though such ignorance seems scarcely credible in the nineteenth century.

Further, there are many false prophets who prophesy without science, and they rarely miss the opportunity of sending along a forecast in order to give the constituted clerk of the weather a leg up in his arduous duties.

There are also many amateur weather prophets.

One of these gentlemen issued monthly postcard forecasts for more than twelve months between 1882 and 1883.

If they are wrong, nobody bothers, but if the S.W. gale predicted from the Meteorological Office fails to put in an appearance, woe to the unfortunate clerk of the weather. People forget how many times his predictions have been verified.

If one is interested in meteorological work and is anxious to become an observer, the path is by no means difficult. On application at the office a form is sent, which must be filled up. Certain particulars as to the observer's fitness are naturally required, and he is invited to forward a description of his residence and a plan of the spot on which he would suggest erecting his instruments.

He must also describe the natural surroundings, so that the office may decide whether they are likely to have any prejudicial effect on the instruments, and therefore affect the accuracy of the records.

Each observer supplies his own instruments, and if his application is accepted, a book of instructions on their correct use is sent to him.

Or he may obtain instruction at the London office, or any of its chief agencies. In all these places sets of instruments are kept in working order for the express purpose of instructing observers in the methods of observation.

I suppose most of our readers, during a stay at some port or favourite watering place, have observed a curious triangular black object suspended from the pier or jetty signal-mast.

Those who have enquired as to its nature will know that it is the signal of an approaching storm. On receiving telegraphic notice of an atmospheric disturbance on or near the British coasts, the Meteorological Office telegraphs to all the chief ports and fishing stations.

The telegram is exhibited at the foot of the signal-mast, and the warning signal, a black canvas cone 3 feet high and 3 feet wide at the base, is immediately hoisted.

The nature and direction of the approaching storm is indicated by the position of the cone.

At night three lanterns hung on a triangular frame supply its place.

Storm warning telegrams are supplied to some 215 stations, of which 117 are in England and Wales, 63 in Scotland, 28 in Ireland, 4 in the Isle of Man, and 3 in the Channel Islands.

Another branch of the work, of invaluable service to navigators, is the preparation of monthly current charts of the oceans of the world. Observations are constantly being made by captains of ocean-going vessels, and the data are forwarded whenever possible to the Weather Office. A strict account of the currents recorded in each month has been kept for 60 years!

HER LETTER!

ONE OF J. HARWOOD PANTING'S INTERESTING NARRATIVES.

_Illustrations by W. B. Wollen, R.I._

Brussels--evening--an evening which preceded a still more memorable morn. To be precise, it was the 15th of June, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and fifteen.

Captain John Durnford, of the Guards, stood outside the Chapelle du Saint Sacrament des Miracles. The air was full of rumours. Napoleon had been striding Europe like a Colossus. No one knew what would be his next move on the strategical chessboard. But it was not of him, nor of the events connected with him, that John Durnford was thinking as he stood before the Chapelle.

He had heard of the death of a woman whom he had tenderly loved. Years ago, before he entered the army, they had been sweethearts. Then they had drifted apart; and now he had discovered, quite accidentally, that she had died but two days ago, homeless, friendless. And yet not entirely that. Her last moments had been tended by Sister Anne, a _religieuse_, and it was to see her that Jack was waiting outside the Chapelle.

Presently, the hour of nine was chimed from the surrounding belfries. Almost simultaneously, the door of the Chapelle was opened, and the _religieuse_ came out.

"Pardon me," said Jack, approaching her, hat in hand; "but am I speaking to Sister Anne?"

"Yes, my son."

"You are the lady, are you not, who so charitably befriended Mdlle. Denton?"

"I but did my duty, my son."

"Ah, if all the world would but interpret duty in the same way! I am an old friend of Mdlle. Denton's, and it was only by chance I heard of her death. Could you let me see her before--before----"

Jack's voice faltered. He did not complete the sentence.

"Before she is buried, you would say? I understand," said Sister Anne, sympathetically. "Poor child! I thought she hadn't a friend in the world. It seems I was mistaken. Will you follow me?"

She took him through a labyrinth of streets, and paused before a ramshackle old house which had seen and withstood the storms of more than one revolution.

"You would like to be alone with the dead?" asked the Sister.

"If Madame will grant me that favour."

She rang the bell, whispered to the drowsy old _concierge_, and, with a _Benedicite_, was gone. The _concierge_ conducted him up the staircase, pointed to a door, gave him a lighted candle, and descended.

Jack opened the door, and as he did so a gust of wind blew out his light and left him in darkness. He had just time, however, to see the white-shrouded figure stretched on the bed in the corner. He approached it reverently, and stood by the side of the shroud, with thoughts which choked themselves for utterance.

"Poor, poor Minnie! This, then, is the finish!"

What was that? His moan, he thought, was echoed by another. He quickly put the thought from him.

He put his hand gently forward to feel the face of the dead woman, and in doing so it rested upon something warm, palpable. He could almost have shrieked, the transition of feeling was so great--between the ice-cold rigour he had anticipated, and the warmth of animate life. What could it mean?

He had no time for conjecture, for the hand which he had extended to the face of the dead was clasped by another hand--the hand of the living.

"In Heaven's name, who are you?" demanded Jack.

There was no answer; then Jack repeated his question in French. This time there came an answer.

"One--one who loved her, Monsieur! By what right are you here?

"By as great a right as yours--as one who loved her, too."

Jack thought he heard a curse between clenched teeth.

"Love? _Peste!_ What does a cold-blooded Anglais know of love? You come here as a thief in the night."

"Thief!" Jack exclaimed. "I suppose you know the meaning of the words you have used?"

"_Parbleu!_ How could I do otherwise, since Monsieur himself has provided me with an illustration? Is it the act of an honest man to steal into a chamber? Is it the act of a gentleman to encroach upon another's grief? No; it is the act of a _vauvien_; for it is insult to the living and profanation to the dead."

The man was evidently distraught with grief; so Jack replied calmly, "You talk of profanation to the dead. It would indeed be profanation were I to imitate your language. I am willing to admit that you excel in your nice selection of epithets, but I deny your love for the poor dead girl lying here by your use of them."

Jack's calmness of utterance, so strongly in contrast to that of the stranger, produced some effect upon his hearer. There was a lengthy pause. Save for the sharp breathing of the two men confronting each other, the chamber might have been given up entirely to the dead. It seemed in that pause as though the still form in the shroud were listening for an answer.

At length the stranger spoke, his voice now tremulous and pathetic:

"You doubt my love for her? _Eh, bien!_ I loved her as few men could have loved. I have confronted death once, twice this day to see her dear, dead face. I have confronted--still confront--what is worse than death: disgrace and ignominy. Has Monsieur done as much?"

"No," said Jack, sententiously, touched yet chagrined by the man's passion.

"Until Monsieur has done as much, has he the presumption to say that he has as great a right to stand here as I?"

"Presumption!" cried Jack. "By whatever right I stand here, I certainly question your right to use such terms to me. But before we discuss the point further, would it not be as well to have a light?"

There was a hasty movement on the part of the figure opposite.

"If you stir, you are a dead man."

There was a faint ray of light shining through the window, not sufficient for Jack to see the person before him, but sufficient to see the cold gleam of steel. It was a sword. This man was a soldier, then, and an enemy. Jack now understood his allusion to the peril he had run in coming there, and admired his bravery. His love for Minnie Denton must indeed have been great.

"You spoke about ignominy just now," said Jack. "I don't know whether your interpretation of the phrase is the same as mine. But a British soldier--for I, too, am a soldier--considers that there is no greater ignominy than that of being suspected of cowardice. I should be a coward if I cared for your threats. I'm going to get a light."

"Pardon me. You are a brave man. I did wrong to threaten you." Jack heard the sword return to its scabbard. "Let me appeal to your honour."

"That is an appeal which has never been made to me in vain."

"My visit here has been a secret. I wish it to remain so. This much only I may tell you--that I am an officer in the French army, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. You see the risk I have run."

Jack started. This man had indeed risked much to see the last of the woman he loved.

"You say that your visit here is a secret one; and yet you reproached me just now with being a thief in the night. I will not retaliate; for I too can respect a brave man. I will only say that your confidence will not be betrayed."

Jack stretched out his hand. It was again clasped by the stranger. They stood thus for a moment, hand in hand, over the dead.

Then the stranger bent, and Jack could hear him whispering terms of endearment to ears that could not hear, and pressing kisses upon lips that could not respond.

"Now, Monsieur, I am going," he said, at length. "I thank you for your patience, and will send up the _concierge_ with a light. You will then be able to read this letter. Oblige me by taking it. From it you will see who is the most entitled to her love. It was the last letter she ever wrote. You say you are a soldier? _Eh, bien_, when next we meet, Monsieur, it will be in a different place. As we have learned to respect each other, I hope to show that respect in the best way a soldier can--by crossing swords with you. _Jusqu'au revoir!_"

"_Au revoir_, Monsieur!"

In a moment or two Jack heard the stranger go out, and the _concierge_ came stumbling up with a light. Jack took it from him, and gazed upon the face of Minnie Denton. Beautiful she looked, even in death. The pain and agony of the last struggle had gone and left the features placid, as one in peaceful sleep.

Years ago he had loved her deeply, tenderly, and she had returned his love. Then they had quarrelled. The breach between them had widened, and in a fit of desperation he enlisted. Europe was at the time one great battlefield, and Jack was immediately sent on active service. So he had altogether lost sight of his old love.

He had been with Wellington in the Peninsula, and after serving with a bravery which had gained him the eulogiums of his general, had been drafted with his regiment to Brussels just prior to the time when Napoleon escaped from Elba.

There had not been much time to think of love while these stirring events were transpiring, but the news of his old sweetheart's death, in the very city in which he was stationed, had touched a tender chord.

Jack mused mournfully upon the past as he looked down on the still, silent face. She had been fickle; yet had not he? What would their fate have been had they not quarrelled? Would it have been widely different? Perchance she would have been a happy mother; he, a happy father; or they might have been utterly miserable.

Whatever Fate might or might not have had in store for them in other circumstances, it was galling to think that her last thoughts had been of this stranger--a Frenchman and an enemy.

But was it true? There could, alas! be little doubt of it, for had not the Frenchman left with him the best--rather he would say, the worst--of all testimony: her own letter? What stronger evidence of her fickleness could there be than that?

Jack turned to the light and looked at the letter which had been placed in his hand.

Good heavens! What was this?

It was no love letter, but a document folded in the shape of a letter. Jack looked at it eagerly, and read it through not once, but twice, and thrice.

It was Napoleon's directions to his generals, signed by the Emperor himself, containing specific instructions respecting the forthcoming battle against the allied forces. The one line that burnt itself into Jack's brain was that an advance was to be made upon Quatre Bras early the next morning. Wellington had no suspicion that the advance was to be made so soon; for Jack knew that he and many of the officers were at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond in the Grande Place.

The Frenchman had said that he was an officer, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. Jack saw it all. He had given him this document instead of, as he supposed, the dead woman's letter. Then came to Jack a question of honour. Had he the right to use this information?

He did not pause long to consider the point. The safety of his country was at stake. That was enough. The old maxim, "All is fair in love and war," had now a double signification. So Jack hurried along with all possible speed to the Grande Place.

The ball was at its height. The strains of music, the laughter of the dancers, came to Jack as he neared the Duchess's residence.

He was stopped at the entrance to the hall by a gendarme.

"Est ce que vous avez votre billet, Monsieur?"

"Non."

"Alors je ne puis pas vous admettre."

Jack explained it was of the utmost importance that he should see the Duke of Wellington, and at length he was ushered up the staircase into an ante-room, while an attendant went in search of the Duke.

Jack had a full view of the ballroom as he waited. As in a kaleidoscope he saw the gleam of many uniforms, fair faces, white shoulders, slender graceful forms--alternate flashes of scarlet and white--as couple after couple whirled by in the mazy waltz. Presently from out the maze came one martial figure which Jack knew well. There could be no mistaking that stern, immobile face, the tightly pressed lips, the prominent Roman nose. It was the Iron Duke!

"Well, sir, you wish to see me?" was his laconic greeting.

"Yes, General, on a matter of life and death. Read that."

He handed the Duke the document he had received from the Frenchman. His searching eyes had grasped its contents in a moment; yet he betrayed no excitement or astonishment.

"Where did you get this?" he calmly asked.

Jack briefly explained the circumstances under which he had obtained possession of the document. The Duke turned to his aide-de-camp.

"Tell General Picton I wish to see him immediately."

In a minute or two the aide-de-camp returned with the General.

"Napoleon left Frasne this morning," said Wellington. "The Prussians have fallen back. Ziethen has been beaten. Napoleon is marching now upon Quatre Bras. Read that."

Picton read the document, and studied the plan. Then the Duke and he held a whispered consultation. The aide-de-camp returned again and again to the ballroom, and Jack saw the officers stealing away one by one. Then the Duke turned to Jack:

"You have done well in bringing me this document. I will not forget it. Prepare to join your regiment."

Jack saluted, and passed into the street. As he did so, the bell of the Hotel de Ville boomed one. Simultaneously could be heard the tramp, tramp of the Highland regiments as they defiled into the Grande Place.

The British forces were preparing to meet the enemy.

In the morning the two armies found themselves ranged in battle array opposite each other.

Then came the opening struggle at Quatre Bras, followed by the yet more memorable death-wrestle of nations at Waterloo.

No need to repeat the incidents of that famous day--Picton's bravery, Napoleon's strategy, Wellington's tenacity of purpose, the glorious stand around the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte.

Napoleon charged again and again the immovable British centre. The destinies of nations hung in the balance, and it was not until Wellington gave the famous command--"Up, Guards, and at them!"--that the balance turned to the side of victory.

Jack was foremost in the charge, and as his column swept down the slope, he heard a voice cry out to the fleeing Frenchmen:

"Arrêtez! Arrêtez!"

He recognised the voice as that of the man whom he had met at the shroud of Minnie Denton. Though the interview had only been brief, he could recall every accent. The voice was one he was never likely to forget.

Finding his efforts to check the retreating soldiers unavailing, the officer turned and faced the pursuing column.

Jack was the first to reach him. The rest of the column swept on, leaving the two face to face, sword to sword.

"Your prophecy has come true, Monsieur," said Jack. "We have met again--a little sooner probably than you anticipated."

"Ah! it is you," said the officer. "Truly pleased to see you. We are destined, it seems, to be rivals till the last. I beat you in love, you will admit; and I shall do my best to----"

He did not finish the sentence. Steel met steel; the sparks flew from the quivering blades. The Frenchman was a very skilful swordsman, Jack equally so. Jack at last with an adroit parry sent the sword from his adversary's hand.

Jack was stooping to pick up the weapon when a stray shot hit the Frenchman in the breast. He fell with a groan from his horse. Jack quickly dismounted, and knelt by his side.

"Ah, Monsieur, it is very good of you," he gasped, as Jack raised his head; "it is very, very good of you; but I am dying. The fortune of love was with me; the fortune of war is with you."

Jack strove to staunch the blood that was gushing from the wound, but in vain. The wound was a mortal one.

"It is useless," gasped the Frenchman. "Nothing can be done, and I would rather die than be a prisoner. You are my enemy, but you are a gentleman. One thing I would ask you. Minnie--Mdlle. Denton--is to be buried to-morrow, Bury us in one grave. It is all I ask."

Jack promised. He felt a great pressure from the hand resting within his; then the head fell back in his arms. A brave soldier had fought his last battle.

Simultaneously there rose on the air a great shout. It was the shout of the conquering army announcing that the battle of Waterloo had been fought and won.

SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS

A MARVELLOUS PERFORMANCE IN DUMB SHOW.

Not a quarter of a mile from the Marble Arch, on the left side of Oxford Street (No. 419, Oxford Street, as a matter of fact), looking towards the Park, there stands a dull, unpretentious, red brick edifice, so unpretentious indeed that in spite of its ecclesiastical appearance it is unnoticed by the majority of passers by.

The bulk of the teeming thousands who pride themselves that they know their London are ignorant of its whereabouts, nor are the countless legions who daily pass through the busy thoroughfare better informed.

Nor is it surprising; for there is little but a tiny cross on the coping stone, and a dingy notice board behind dingier railings, to mark one of the most interesting buildings in all London--St. Saviour's Church, the cathedral of London's 2,000 deaf and dumb.

Here Sunday by Sunday the silent poor and the silent rich worship together. Outside, the roll of traffic merges into one long dull roar that may distract the thoughts of worshippers in other churches, but to the congregation of St. Saviour's makes no difference. They cannot hear it.

I had heard much of the Rev. F. W. G. Gilby's wonderful method of preaching to his people, how he has become thoroughly conversant not only with the old-fashioned finger spelling familiar to those who have watched the conversation of the deaf and dumb, but can also by means of gesture and acting make use of a system of preaching richer in suggestion, wider in range, and infinitely more effective in its scope and power of riveting the interest of his flock.