with a shell sharpened for the purpose. This way has an advantage, inasmuch as there is less risk of scratching the pearl, should there be one inside. The fisher reckons himself unlucky, if he open a hundred shells without finding a pearl. Many a time, however, this happens, and he goes home deploring a lost day. The fates may be against him for a whole week. On the other hand, the first or second fish he opens may reward his labour. Frequently the toiler finds a dozen pearls, not one of which is of any value, by reason of bad colour, bad shape, or some other defect. Speaking roughly, it may be estimated that about one pearl in a dozen brings a profit to the finder; and that that one pearl is to be found in every fortieth shell. The chances of the pearl-searcher are about equal to those of the gold-digger, and many who start eagerly on the quest are soon disheartened. Perseverance and dogged determination seldom fail in the long run to realise modest expectations.
The mussels taken from a shingly or rocky bed are much more productive in pearls than those derived from the sand. Hence the experienced fisher does not usually waste his time in probing the latter, but if he "hit" sand, goes elsewhere in search of gravel. For a similar reason he shuns muddy bottoms, because, though he may get plenty of pearls there, they are too much discoloured. Naturalists are not quite agreed as to the age at which the mussels begin to grow the pearl, but it is always when they have attained to maturity and never during adolescence. The accustomed operator discards the young mollusc, and saves himself much unnecessary trouble.
Scotch pearls can never become a substitute for true pearls of the East; but their discovery in abundance has given a new ornament to the community, and has furnished a substitute for Eastern pearls far more beautiful and precious than the dingy imitations in paste.
MR. VOLT, THE ALCHEMIST.
I am by profession a solicitor—I regret to say literally so; my practice being almost entirely confined to "soliciting" the settlement of long-standing debts, on behalf of clients whose less peremptory solicitations have proved ineffectual. Business of this nature took me to Stoppington, on the South North-Eastern Railway. I had a spare evening before me, and remembering that an old college chum of mine. Mark Stedburn, had married and settled down as a doctor somewhere in the neighbourhood, I resolved to look him up.
"You see that tall tower on the hill, right across the heath, three mile away? That's Mr. Volt's Tower at Firworth. Walk straight for the tower, and you can't mistake. You'll find Mr. Stedburn's a little further on."
It was a pleasant walk across the winter heath. The rain had fallen all day, but had ceased at sunset, and the stars sparkled as if the rain had washed them newly bright.
Not far from the tower, I met Mark Stedburn, bustling along on foot at a great pace. I might have passed him without knowing who it was; he had become so pale, and thin, and hollow-eyed; but he recognised me immediately.
"Look here, old boy," he said, "you will sup with me, and of course I will find you a bed; but I'm off to see a patient a couple of miles away, and I can't say to half an hour how long I may be detained. I tell you what you shall do till I return. Take my card, by way of introduction, and go in and see Mr. Volt at the tower there. He is always delighted to see visitors, and is a kind of man you won't meet every day."
"But what is Mr. Volt?"
"What is he? Everything, almost. A great chemist for one thing. He professes to believe in alchemy. But go in and see him for yourself. I will meet you there as soon as I can." And he shook hands, and went his way.
Firworth I found on a great heathy hill, with two clumps of firs—the greater and the lesser clump. About these, traffic has worn a bald patch in the heather on the hill-top, and thrown up a cottage or two, which is Firworth. In the midst of the lesser clump and in the centre of the rise, stands Mr. Volt's tall brick tower, tapering towards the parapet, and surmounted by a high wooden observatory, whose top is about ninety feet from the ground. Built into the walls of the edifice are mystical devices in dark bricks. A sun-dial, marked with strange characters, stood out in the light before the door, when I first saw it, with two enormous boles of gnarled dead trees on either side, taking grotesque shapes in the evening light. When I pulled the heavy iron ring at the end of a chain hanging before the large oaken door, it seemed as if the clangour of the deep-toned bell would never cease. It died away in queer echoes, that seemed to wake again in the topmost stories of the building above me. I could hear the sound wandering about the hollow tower until it reached the observatory, whence it floated out into the night.
The door was opened by a man, who might have been of any age between forty and seventy. He was either an old young man, or a young old man. He carried an oil-lamp which he shaded with his hand. I saw that he had a quantity of matted grey hair and beard; that his face was kindly and intellectual, though full and sleek; that his eyes, deep and brown and thoughtful, glowed with a strange dull lustre that made me suspect opium. His dress was disorderly, uncouth, and old fashioned.
Apologising for my intrusion, I introduced myself as a friend of Mr. Stedburn's, and presented Mark's card.
"I need no introduction," said Mr. Volt, quietly. "Living here alone, I am always glad to see a fellow-student. You are a fellow-student, or you would not be here. Enter."
We passed through some spacious bare rooms full of old sculpture, old pictures, old books, and philosophical instruments, heaped in piles
