Harper's Round Table, July 23, 1895 Part 7

There are four sleeping-rooms in the royal car besides rooms for the attendants. The most remarkable thing about this car is the dais and divan at one end of the salon. No one may sit on this raised divan but the King or the Queen. A drapery of silk velvet forms the background.

Above the back of the divan the royal arms are carved. Probably it diverts his Majesty's mind to sit here on high now and then while journeying and call his ministers around him and ask them questions and make wise comments, as Kings always do--in certain books.

Downright worry drove Czar Alexander III. of Russia to his death. Taller and stronger than any of his subjects, not one of whom could cope with him in wrestling, this imperial giant was actually tormented into his grave by fears of nihilistic plots to destroy him. Nowhere was this fear greater than when on railroad journeys. Again and again Alexander abandoned long trips at the last moment because the nihilists had learned his plans, and there was reason to believe that they had dug mines under the railroad track and were ready to blow him and his train to fragments. His son has not been on the throne long enough, the nihilists say, for them to decide whether or not they shall try to kill him.

Alexander's train was a fort on wheels. It was built in 1889, two years after a terrible underground explosion of dynamite, which wrecked the Czar's train at Borki, when he was on his way from the Crimea to St.

Petersburg with the Empress and their family. In that accident twenty-one persons were killed and thirty-six were wounded, but not one of the imperial family was injured. The Czar showed himself a brave man by going to the aid of the wounded as soon as he could climb out of the wreck. All the cars in the train were of wood.

The new train of 1889 was made of wood too, but the cars were armored.

The outside of each car was of heavy iron, inside of which was a layer of eight inches of cork. All of the four cars in the train were exactly alike outwardly, so that a nihilist would find it hard to pick out the Czar's car should he by any accident get within shooting distance. When the Czar travelled he often spent his time in a car that was so built and painted as to look like a baggage-car from the outside. When the Czar visited Emperor William III., at Berlin, in October, 1889, six Russian workmen put gratings of wrought-iron at the tops and bottoms of all the chimneys of the old Schloss and palace at Potsdam, which the Czar occupied. This was to keep out nihilists' bombs. Armed sentries patrolled the roofs. When the Czar started for home all the railroad bridges, as well as the streets of Berlin, Marienburg, and Dantzic, were guarded by soldiers, policemen, and detectives. Not until after the Czar left Dantzic was it known whether he had proceeded by train or on the imperial yacht _Derjava_. When the train started for the border 50,000 Russian troops were placed on guard along the railroad tracks. Every journey the unhappy ruler made was attended by similar precautions.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FRENCH PRESIDENT ON THE WAY FROM VERSAILLES.]

When Francais Felix Faure, the newly-elected President of the French Republic, made his first railroad journey after election, he found that being a mere President is almost as unpleasant as playing king. For fear of anarchists a strong force of soldiers and four sappers and miners guarded each of the railway bridges and grade crossings between Versailles and Paris. Extra policemen and a little army of five hundred detectives watched the palace in which the National a.s.sembly sat. A strong battalion of lancers and more foot soldiers than you could count escorted the new President to the special train in waiting at Versailles at 8 o'clock on Friday morning, January 18th. Fortunately no anarchist got a shot at the President as he was whirled along, but as he emerged from the St. Lazare railway station in Paris voices in the crowd yelled at him, "Down with the check-takers!"--a pointed hint that M. Faure was implicated in the Panama Ca.n.a.l scandal.

A CORRECTION.

"I've dot two Movver Gooses,"

Said Mollie. "If you please,"

Said Johnny, "Don't say Gooses, Because it's Mother Geese."

DR. RAINSFORD'S ADVICE TO BOYS.

When we were boys we did things without thinking much about them. Boys do not generally think much; yet I think even when I was a boy I found myself sometimes wondering why it was so hard to do the things I wanted to do well. It was ever so much harder, of course, to do well the things that one did not specially want to do. I want to talk to you a little about the reason that lies back of this difficulty of doing things well.

When I was thirteen my father gave me a gun. That birthday long ago is one of the very reddest of red-letter days in my life. I have had many a good time since; but none of these good times, I think, have quite come up to that hour, so full of astonishment and delight, when I saw the very thing I had been longing for and dreaming about so long--saw the soft-looking brown barrels lying snugly against the green-baize lining of the case, and felt the ring of the lock under my fingers as I drew the hammers of my own gun back. (Those were the days of muzzle-loaders, boys.) But when I had got that gun--the desire of my eyes, the pride of my life--it was, oh, how long, before I could hit things flying with it.

On Sat.u.r.day half-holidays (we had only one half a holiday a week when I was at school), I used to practise steadily. All my savings went to shot, powder, and wads. I almost lost the desire for candy with its disuse. I even turned my back on the pond where we used to fish for roach. I had seen my father kill birds flying, one with each barrel, and there was neither rest nor satisfaction for me till I could do the same.

I think I took to shooting naturally; yet how long it was, and how hard I had to work, before I learned to shoot steadily and well.

It was the same story over again when I had grown older and gone to college. There I determined to row. If ever you are in old England in May, go, if you can, to Oxford or Cambridge, if it is only to see the college races. The river-banks then are green, so green, and the hedges and trees are one waving nosegay. The big b.u.t.tercups grow in yellow bunches by the brink. Where the meadows slope down to the stream crowds of gayly dressed people are standing, for the sisters and friends of every college lad have come up to see the sight. This is on one side of the river; on the other stretches the towing-path, and along it surge a mighty throng of "men" clad in all the colors of the rainbow, wild with excitement, shouting themselves hoa.r.s.e. They are out to see their college crew row. And what a sight those crews are! Round the bend, here they come at last, the eight-oar crews, the men's bodies swinging like pendulums, the eight pair of hands dropping at the end of each stroke as one, and then shooting out altogether. With a sweep and a swish they dash by, and the rushes of college color struggle to keep up with them.

Ah, the very memory of it makes me thrill still! When first I saw their ease and splendid strength, how simple it looked. Surely, any fairly strong man could make those broad-bladed oars come swishing through, leaving behind them, well below the surface, a clear track of white water. So it seemed to me, and I determined there and then, that first May morning, I too would row. But I tell you it costs something to sit in a good eight-oar. Long months of hard work, obedience to orders, and patient drudgery have to be undergone before the broad-bladed oar comes swishing through as I have tried to describe it. Your back aches, your wrists feel limp as wet strings, and your chest is absolutely bursting, and yet you do not seem to be able to put one good stroke in; the boat slips away from you all the time. So for weeks and months runs your daily experience. But when the rudiments of rowing are mastered at last, when patient attention and hard exercise have made you strong, and taught you when and where to use your strength, then comes the reward.

And whatever delightful experiences life may have in store for you, few indeed of them can surpa.s.s the exhilaration, the sense of triumphant power, that none know, perhaps, so well as those who have rowed on a first-cla.s.s eight-oar crew.

Do you see what I am driving at? I have been talking of our pleasures, the things we want to do and choose to do. These, I say, cost us trouble, and a great deal of care and painstaking. If any boy thinks he can command success, even in his sports, without putting into them all the will and all the brains, as well as all the brawn, he has as his own, he must soon find himself left out in the cold. At best he can only be a second-rate. Now this law of life, namely, that you must work hard to succeed in anything, does not apply to us, who are lords of creation, alone. One of the most wonderful things about our world is that the rules of the game of life are obeyed by the smallest atom that lives as well as by "king man" himself. If any living thing neglects or disobeys those rules, that disobedient being, whether it be common or low, suffers for its disobedience. If it obeys those rules, it grows stronger by obedience, and increases and develops its own power.

Let me tell you one or two instances of obedience by the creatures round us to these hard rules of life.

Have you ever seen a little salmon? A dainty, plucky little fellow he is. It takes him two years to grow from the egg to your finger's length.

These two years of babyhood are spent in the quiet waters of his river home. By the time the second summer is pa.s.sed he is about five inches long, golden-sided, with bright crimson spots, and weighs perhaps two ounces. Then he starts on his first great journey to waters unknown. No one knows where he goes, what lonely places he visits, where in the great sea the little adventurer makes his winter home. Certainly the Arctic Ocean is not too cold for him, for the waters of the far Mackenzie, emptying themselves into the polar sea, swarm with salmon; but wherever the little fellow does winter, the climate, food, and life must agree with him amazingly. He goes seaward in August. Next summer he is back in the same old river; and not only that, but in the very pool in it where he was hatched out. He is the same, but not the same; for now he weighs from three to five pounds. In the river it took him two years to grow five inches and weigh two ounces. In those six months of sea life he has gained at least twenty-four times his own weight. There is a reward for you! He felt he ought to go away and fight it out in the great sea. He went, he fought, he won, and now he revisits the old river a very different fish indeed. There is no longer any reason why he need lurk behind stones and dash aside to avoid the rush of the voracious trout. The very trout that once tried to gobble him must move out of the way, for he is almost a salmon. What has made him the strong beautiful fish he is? One thing, and one only--the struggle with the deep sea, and all the deep sea means. If he had been content to stay behind his fellows in the warm clear river he would be scarcely any bigger than he was last fall. His red spots would not be quite so bright, nor he himself so vigorous. Nature whispered to him to go forth and strive and grow, and since he obeyed her, and did his best, she kept her word with him.

Have you ever tried to crawl up on a bunch of wild ducks, or sat behind a blind while your wooden decoys were spread on the water all around you? If you have done either, I know you will agree with me when I say the wild duck is a very smart fellow indeed. His eye is keen, he is full of sense, and very hard to fool. Now his cousin, the tame duck, is next door to an idiot. He cannot hide himself or protect himself in any way.

Strangely enough, too, while the wild duck finds one wife and one family quite all he can attend to, the big, hulking tame duck is a regular Mormon, and prefers a dozen wives, and neglects his children sadly. It is not hard to guess why these two birds are so different. The tame duck is only a wild duck domesticated, that is, put in such a position that he could not continue to live the natural sort of life that was best for him, the life of continuous struggle. He is, in short, a degenerate wild duck; his wings are not so broad or so strong, the muscles of his breast have grown puny and shrunken; he does not even want to fly far north in spring or far south in winter. He is content with his farm-yard and puddle. He has stopped _trying_, and so has stopped _growing_ too.

One more instance I will give you, boys, of the important place this law of struggle plays in the lives of the very beasts. I was visiting some time ago the museum in one of our universities. One of the professors was with me, and we came to a case full of plaster casts of brains, the brains of animals. While looking at these you could, of course, easily compare their size and character, and form some opinion of the intelligence of the animal itself. The professor pointed out to me one very interesting brain cast. It was taken from the head of a rhinoceros that had lived very long ago--lived at the same time as mammoths and other antiquated animals. It was quite a large and well-developed brain.

We next went to another case and took out the cast of a common rhinoceros, such a one as lived in our own times, and it was very evident that the present-day rhino was not nearly so large or intelligent as his progenitor of long ago. This seemed at first very strange; for why should the rhino's brain have degenerated while they are still struggling forward in the march of life? The answer is to be found in the sort of battle they have to fight. When the antediluvian rhino lived, the world was peopled with terrible monsters, brutes of great strength and savagery. With these he had no easy time of it. He had to match himself against them. Great strength alone was not enough; he needed cunning as well. Struggle he must, and struggle hard or go under; and he survived because he did struggle hard and did not go under. When, however, most of the monstrous forms of life had gradually pa.s.sed away, the rhinoceros had no enemy he stood much in dread of. The milder animals of a later day get out of his way. There is nothing to be gained by contending with him. He needs no longer to strive; life comes easily, and food is plenty. Thus it is that a perpetually "good time"

resulted in weakening his head and lowering his intelligence. He is, indeed, the degenerate descendant of a n.o.ble parent.

So, boys, wherever we look, the same result is taught us. The very beasts of the field can only hold their own by doing their best. We, their kings and lords, must put our right hand to the work, too. We can only live our best life, develop our true self, by striving. The tallest and strongest trees are what they are because they have overcome the mighty force of gravitation that seeks to drag down and hold down to the earth every particle of matter within them. Life, even in the tree, means something that _overcomes_, rises above a force that holds it down; and yet only holds it down that its most beautiful and best nature may be developed to the full. So it is with us men. The brave man is not he who never felt fear. If a man is intelligent he must, under fearful circ.u.mstances, feel fear; but he who, feeling fear, overcomes his feeling and stands unmoved, or does in spite of danger the right and brave thing--this man has true courage, this man is the real hero. You may have heard the story of the officer who, when the cannon b.a.l.l.s began to cut down files of his men, stood all trembling in front of the regiment. It looked as though he was terribly afraid. His knees were shaking under him, and his face was set and white. Some one standing near heard him talking to himself, heard him say, as he looked down at his trembling legs, "If you only knew where I was going to take you, you would give way altogether." That, I take it, is true courage. On the walls of a great school-room in one of the largest public schools in England is written this motto--and you cannot find a better:

"So near is glory to our dust, So near is G.o.d to man; When Duty whispers, 'Lo, thou must!'

The youth replies, 'I can.'"

W. S. RAINSFORD.

BOBBY'S GARDEN.

BOBBY. "I have just finished digging and raking my garden, and now I want five cents."

MAMMA. "What, five cents for making your garden?"

BOBBY. "No, mamma, not for making the garden, but to buy a package of succotash seed."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CAMERA CLUB]

This Department is conducted in the interest of Amateur Photographers, and the Editor will be pleased to answer any question on the subject so far as possible. Correspondents should address Editor Camera Club Department.

PAPERS FOR BEGINNERS, No. 8.

OVER-EXPOSED PLATES, AND HOW TO TREAT THEM.

The process of developing a negative would be very easily and quickly mastered if the exposure of the sensitive plates were always timed exactly right. Correct exposure, however, is the exception rather than the rule of amateur photography. To get good negatives, therefore, the amateur must learn to distinguish between a correct and incorrect exposure of the plate, and how to treat it, if incorrectly exposed, in order to preserve the image which is impressed on it.

Over-exposure is the most common fault of the beginner in photography. A properly exposed plate grows into a negative step by step, until the whole image, with all its delicate gradations of lights and shadows, is fully developed. An over-exposed plate acts in a very different manner.

When placed in the developer, instead of the high lights first appearing and the objects coming out gradually, the whole image comes out almost at once--"flashes up" is the technical and really appropriate term. If the plate is left in the developer, the image will fade away almost as quickly as it came out, and the result will be a thin negative, from which satisfactory prints cannot be made.

TREATMENT.

As soon as the image flashes up, showing that the plate has been over-exposed, take it from the developer and place it in a dish of clean water to stop development. Turn the developer from the tray and rinse the tray. Mix up a weak solution of developer, or dilute this same developer one-third with water. Add to this weak developer a few drops of a solution of bromide of pota.s.sium, prepared with a quarter of an ounce of bromide of pota.s.sium and five ounces of water. This solution should be mixed and kept always ready for use. Label the bottle "Restrainer." The bromide is called a restrainer, as it makes the development of the image proceed more slowly.

Put the plate back in the tray, and turn the developer, to which the bromide has been added, over it, rocking the plate gently. Watch the development closely, and if the image still comes up too fast add a few more drops of bromide. Unless the plate has been very much over-exposed, by taking it from the developer and using the restrainer carefully, a good negative can usually be obtained. If the plate has been too much over-exposed, there is no way of saving it.

If one knows or thinks that a plate has been over-exposed, the plate should not be put in a normal developer--that is, a developer which would be used for a correctly exposed plate--but it should be put into the weak developer to which bromide has been added.