she declined to do; always silencing our lamentations by, "Oh, no! I could not be painted as a Magdalene; anything but that." Her aunt Isabella Wood, the wife of Mr. John Cox, of the Horse-Shoe Brewery, Bloomsbury, had been dead some years, and her kind-hearted cousin Margaret kept the opulent brewer's_house. Her younger cousin, Isabella, or Bella, a handsome, dashing, self-indulgent girl, who used a bottle of lavender water daily, was the father's favorite. He restricted her in nothing, except marrying a soldier, an Irishman, or a Papist. On one occasion Ann Wood consented to accompany Bella Cox to a fashionable fortune-teller, then making a great stir in London. They went in a coach sufficiently disguised to prevent recognition; and on reaching the sibyl's dwelling were ushered into a mysterious chamber. The walls were draped with dark hangings; on a centre table, covered with a dark cloth, lay a white wand; and from beneath the table issued, as if it had been the familiar spirit of the place, a large black cat. The door of an inner room slowly opened, and a tall woman of a grave, almost severe aspect, attired in black velvet, entered, and without a word fixed her eyes steadfastly and penetratingly on them. According to agreement, my mother first presented her hand. This the sibyl taking in hers, examined carefully; then said in measured accents: "You will not marry your present lover. You will change your religion and marry another." On Bella Cox next coming forward, the woman took her hand, and immediately raising her eyes from it, demanded sternly, "Where is your wedding ring?" she then added solemnly, "You have done the worst day's work you ever did. You will repent it as long as you live." These terrible words, which closed the interview, proved only too true. Bella had privately married an Irish officer, who was a Catholic. After the fact was revealed to her father, he is said never to have smiled again. She lived with her husband for a few years, but finally was obliged to leave him. The lover to whom mother's fancy turned in those days was probably Robert Wilson, a young lieutenant who had been sent, as it seemed to her, by Providence to save her from the danger of some street mob, in which she suddenly found herself involved. He accompanied her back to the Coxes, and was greatly liked by them. He continued his visits and paying her his addresses; they finally parted with the understanding they were to meet again. Some years later, when she had become a Friend, and was staying with the Foxes, of Falmouth, he, then Captain Wilson, called upon her to renew his suit. She refused to see him for conscience' sake, her friend Sarah Fox doing so in her stead. We must not overlook a little episode belonging to the period of mother's visit to London, and connected with another first cousin, Catherine Martin. She was a daughter of John Wood, the third son of the patentee, who lived in great splendor at Wednesbury, where he had inherited iron works from his father. Catherine, wife of a purser in the navy, and conspicuous for her beauty and impulsive, violent temper, having quarrelled with her excellent sister, Dorothea Fryer, at whose house in Staffordshire she was staying, suddenly set off to London on a visit to her great-uncle, the Rev. John Plimley, prebend of the Collegiate Church at Wolverhampton and chaplain of Morden College, Blackheath. She journeyed by the ordinary mode of conveyance, the Gee-Ho, a large stage-wagon drawn by a team of six horses, and which, driven merely by day, took a week from Wolverhampton to the Cock and Bell, Smithfield. Arrived in London, Catherine proceeded on foot to Blackheath; there, night having come on and losing her way, she was suddenly accosted by a horseman with, "Now, my pretty girl, where are you going?" Pleased by his gallant address, she begged him to direct her to Morden College. He assured her that she was fortunate in having met with him, instead of one of his company, and inducing her to mount before him, rode across the heath to the pile of buildings which had been erected by Sir Christopher Wren for decayed merchants, the recipients of Sir John Morden's bounty. Assisting her to alight, he rang the bell, then remounted his steed and galloped away, but not before the alarmed official who had answered the summons had exclaimed, "Heavens ! Dick Turpin on Black Bess!" Mother always said "Dick Turpin; "' another version in the family runs "Captain Smith." Catherine Martin died at an advanced age. Her portrait still exists, painted by Edward Bird, R. A., a native of Wolverhampton, at the time he was japanning at Turton's Hall, formerly the residence of the Levesons, who were woolstaplers, and ancestors of the present Duke of Sutherland. Catherine's sister Dorothea, a pious, sensible, and clever woman, was the mother of Richard Fryer, a man of great independence of mind. He held the patentee's principles of free trade, was the first Liberal member for Wolverhampton, and noted before the days of Cobden and Bright for his persistent advocacy of the abolition of the Corn Laws, making him ridiculed and almost persecuted in the House for many years as "the man of one idea." His great ability and force of character are inherited by a surviving daughter. In the agreeable family of the Coxes, Ann Wood was introduced to Lady Abergavenny and her mother, who showed her much kindness; and became still more intimately acquainted with the wife of Dr. Glasse, rector of Hanwell and one of the chaplains to George III., who kept a celebrated school for young gentlemen of position. She spent many pleasant months at the Glasses', and whilst the especial protector of the fags, took a deep interest in all the pupils; amongst whom she was wont to mention the Earl of Drogheda. His mother, "the ever-weeping Drogheda," was so styled, I believe, from her abiding grief at the loss of her husband and stepson, by drowning, when crossing from England to Ireland. She met at the Glasses', among other celebrities, Dr. Samuel Johnson once or twice, and it must have been at the very beginning of her acquaintance with Mrs. Glasse, as, according to my calculation, she went up to London in 1784, and in December of the same year the great lexicographer died; Miss Burney frequently, and used to relate how much people were afraid of her, from the idea that she would put them in a book; Dr. Horne, the noted commentator on the Psalms, then Dean of Canterbury, later Bishop of Norwich, and his wife, with whom she stayed at Canterbury. She always retained a grateful remembrance of the amiability and kindness of the dean, whose poem on autumn, See the leaves around us falling, had, from this circumstance, a peculiar interest for my sister and me as children. We were also much impressed by the following narrative. Dr. Glasse's son George, who became a clergyman, was acquainted at college with a dissolute set of young men, who turned religion into ridicule, and aimed to extract as much socalled pleasure out of life as possible. He ex On one occasion a member of the group entered the room where the rest were assembled, with an unusually depressed countenance. All rallied him upon his gravity and demanded the cause. plained that on the preceding night he dreamed he was breathing stifling, oppressive air in a large, gloomy hall, which was densely thronged with undergraduates, their gowns wrapped round them, and their countenances indicative of suffering and extreme dejection. Inquiring where he was, "This is Hell," replied a melancholy young man, unfolding his gown and revealing in his breast a transparent heart as of crystal, in which burned a fierce flame. "Good God!" he exclaimed, appalled by the sight, "cannot I escape from this place? "You have a chance for nine days," answered the gloomy figure, folding his arms within his gown and concealing his burning heart. The undergraduate awoke full of horror, and in order to dispel the strong, painful impression, sought the society of his friends. They laughed at his disordered fancy, drank deep, and persuaded him to spend the ensuing nine days with them in especial gaiety. On the ninth day, however, whether from the natural effects of excessive debauch or in solemn fulfilment of the warning, he suddenly died- an event which produced a strong and salutary effect upon some of his comrades, who began an amended life from that day. From the Glasses, mother went to stay with Mrs. Barnardiston, a wealthy, lively old lady, who entertained judges, generals, admirals, and their womankind at her town house at Turnham Green; the county families at her seat, Weston, in Northamptonshire. She was especially intimate with Lady Dryden, who constantly drove over in great state to Weston from Canons Ashby, the ancient inheritance of the poet Dryden's family, and where his youngest son, Sir Erasmus, lived and died. Towards the end of the summer spent with Mrs. Barnardiston, mother was recalled to south Wales, as her sister Dorothy was about to be married and live at Swansea, and she must replace her at home. Her solitary position in her own family, combined with an ardent craving for spiritual light and rest, had led her in London to inquire into the Catholic faith. She had come in contact with an abbess, and contemplated entering her community, but was deterred from taking the step by a young nun, who told her "all was not peace in a convent." In south Wales, still searching for light and assurance, she yielded to an earlier influence. She had, as a child, attended with her father a public meeting held by a ministering Friend in Merthyr, and although she could never afterwards recol. lect the preacher's words, they had, in a vague but indelible manner, appealed to her inner nature. Her mother, discovering that she possessed a secret drawing to Friends, told her that her father had left it as a dying request, that if any of their children showed an inclination to join that body, she should not oppose it, as he had himself adopted the religious opinions of Friends. Full of gratitude to her mother for this communication, Ann Wood sought and obtained membership. It is noteworthy that Samuel, the youngest son of the patentee, had also become a Friend. By so doing, he must have removed himself from the family cognizance, as we knew nothing of him until my sister Anna traced out his history from the records of the Society; we thus learnt that he had been a man of good property, residing at Milnthorpe, Westmoreland, where he died in 1800 at the age of ninety-one. About two years ago, I had the pleasure of receiving a letter from a Catholic lady, the granddaughter of his only daughter Margaret, recognizing our kinship; a fact that had become known to her by the mention of my great-uncle, the nabob, in "Wood Leighton," the first work of imagination that I wrote. My grandmother, deciding to reside near her favorite married daughter, soon found she could dispense with the society of Ann, more especially as she had united herself to a sect with which she had nothing in common. Mother, therefore, was at liberty to associate with her own people, and her life became most consonant to her tastes. She resided chiefly at Falmouth, on the most agreeable terms of truly friendly intercourse with the distinguished family of the Foxes; and with Peter and Anna Price, a handsome couple of a grand patriarchal type but comparatively young. Her dearest friend was Anna Price's relative, Kitty Tregelles, a sensible, lively young woman, to whom she felt as a sis ter. Whether she had her own hired apartments, or whether she had a home with some of these Friends, I know not; merely that she lived in the midst of these kind and superior people. She always reverted with peculiar pleasure to her life in Cornwall. It was a time of repose to her, spiritually and mentally; whilst her natural love of the poetical and picturesque was fostered by the many grand, beautiful legends connected with the wild rocky shores, the seaport towns, the old-fashioned primitive life, and the simple habits of the people. She likewise treasured most happy memories of Neath, where dwelt her staunch and valued friends, Evan and Elizabeth Rees, under whose roof, in 1795, she met the faithful partner of her future life, as already narrated. From The Leisure Hour. THE KRAKATOA ERUPTION. BY THE REV. PHILIP NEALE, LATE BRITISH CHAPLAIN AT BATAVIA. I. It is proposed in the following papers to give an account of the terrible volcanic eruption in the Straits of Soenda which occurred in August, 1883, from the pen of one who was on the spot at the time. The Dutch island of Java has always been famous for its volcanoes and the frequency of their outbursts. With the exception of Japan, there is no other portion of the world where so many of these fiery monsters are to be found gathered together in so small a compass. Java is a long, narrow island, situate six degrees south of the equator, and although its area is only that of Ireland, it is the unfortunate possessor of more than forty volcanoes. Of course the greater part of these are extinct or inactive, but still there are about a dozen which are liable at any moment to break out afresh in their work of destruction. Running from east to west through the centre of the island is a lofty range of mountains, in many places as much as ten thousand feet above the ocean level. In several parts of this great range, which really forms the backbone of Java, are the volcanic craters which at various periods have been ac tively at work pouring forth torrents of mud and lava, and devastating the adjacent country for many miles. In the historical records of the island, which I have carefully searched and translated from the Dutch, it would seem that Java has never been free from these outbreaks. One of the earliest on record is the destruction of a Portuguese settlement, as far back as 1586, and every few years has brought a similar catastrophe. In addition to the mountains in Java itself, there are several adjacent islands upon which volcanoes rise to a still greater height. Those who have travelled by the Queensland mail steamers will not easily forget the beautiful sight presented by the tropical islands of Lombok and Bali, with the lofty volcanic peak on each, richly clad in verdure even to its very summit, and the higher of the two rising more than thirteen thousand feet. The straits between these islands are both beautiful in the extreme, but the less frequented route through the Strait of Lombok certainly deserves the palm. The navigation there is difficult and dangerous, but I once had the good fortune to sail through it, in a small brigantine, and the sight was not one to be easily forgotten. Rising majestically from the water's edge, towering grandly up to an immense height, rose a perfect conicalshaped mountain, its green, sloping sides being one dense mass of tropical vegetation and pathless jungle the undisturbed abode of tigers and other wild animals. Seen by moonlight, as I saw it on that occasion, from the deck of a vessel, hugging the shore, Bali Peak is something to be remembered. For many years there had been no eruption or volcanic disturbance on the island, and at one time there did not seem much prospect of its ever again being classed among volcanoes at work. But the old proverb about appearances being deceptive proved just as true in NetherlandsIndia as in more civilized regions. For suddenly, in May, 1883, the dormant volcano roused itself from its long sleep and began to belch forth fire and smoke. On that occasion no damage was done. The spectacle was regarded by the Dutch as a curiosity, and an agreeable excursion was made to the island by one of the mail steamers trading in the Java sea. This first outburst ended in smoke, but it was a later one which caused the terrible sacrifice of human life. It seemed as if the short-lived notoriety Krakatoa had already gained were not enough, for in a few months came one of the most awful eruptions of modern times. Sunday, August 26, 1883, was the fatal day on which the work of destruction began, but the most deadly effects were reserved for the following morning. In order not to anticipate, we will confine ourselves at first to what took place at Batavia on that memorable Sunday. At the opposite end of Java, on the western shore, in the busy Strait of Soen- | da, is another island somewhat similar The Dutch capital is scarcely less than to Bali, called Krakatoa, famous now for ninety miles from the scene of the erupthe great eruption which took place there tion, and this fact should be kept in mind, in 1883. A volcano at rest is one thing, as it makes the occurrences about to be but a volcano at work is a very different recorded all the more remarkable, on acsight, as the following description will count of the distance which intervened. soon show. The Krakatoa eruption was On the day in question everything was by no means an ordinary occurrence, even much as usual in Batavia. The fierce rays in Java, where such outbursts are so fre- of a tropical sun were beating down upon quent; and as one of the few English the busy streets of the city, which always who were living in the neighborhood at bear an Oriental appearance. It was near the time I wish to place on record some the close of the period of the year known of the facts connected with the event. as the dry monsoon, and the parched Although months have gone by since it ground and dusty streets told how much occurred, I do not think an eye-witness's rain was needed. For six months at a account of a catastrophe which swept time, that is from April to October, away in a few moments, with scarcely any scarcely any rain ever falls, and in a counwarning, some fifty thousand souls, as try such as Java, notorious for its unwell as destroyed a large territory, can healthy climate and damp, unwholesome yet be quite devoid of interest. heat, the commencement of the wet monsoon is always a welcome period. On this Sunday afternoon, therefore, when a distant rumbling noise like thunder was heard in the city, it was generally thought that the first tropical storm of the season was coming earlier than usual. But on examining the sky, strangely enough, all was bright and cloudless, with no sign of an approaching storm. But soon the rumbling noise increased, distant reports were heard as of heavy guns being fired at a distance, and the people in Batavia quickly became aware of the unwelcome Krakatoa is a small island about thirty miles from the western shore of Java, and about midway in the strait which sepa rates that country from Sumatra. It is uninhabited, and little is known about the place, except by the few Malays who sail across to its lonely shore in their sampans or fishing-boats. Rising rapidly from the shore of this sea-girt isle is the famous volcano of the same name, more than eight hundred Dutch metres in height, or according to English measurement, about twenty-six hundred and seventy-four feet. fact that something more startling was taking place around them than a mere thunderstorm. "What can it be?" was the oft-repeated question, as the Europeans, that evening, took their usual stroll at sunset under the lovely tamarind avenues which encircle the Konings Plein, the favorite promenade of Batavian citi zens, and on all sides was heard the unanimous opinion "that it was another of our volcanoes at work." When the sun went down and darkness came on the reports became more loud and distinct, and anxiety increased as to what might happen. So far no one had for a moment dreamt of distant Krakatoa being the culprit. It was too far away even to be suspected, and the general impression was that one of the adjacent mountains, such as Gedeh or Salak, the nearest volcanoes to Batavia, must be the scene of the disturbance. Wearily the hours of night dragged on. About 2 A. M., after an explosive shock more severe than the rest, the alarming discovery was made that the gas in Batavia had been affected. In some quarters of the city the street lamps for a consider. able distance were suddenly quenched, and in many private houses the gas was also extinguished. The anxiety was naturally increased by the darkness, and it may easily be imagined how eagerly the first ray of morning light was looked for. At last it came the day which was to bring death and destruction to many thousand homes in Java. But how unlike the usual tropical day it was! There was no bright, dazzling sunshine to scatter away the dark shadows and gloomy forebodings of the previous night. A dull, heavy, leaden sky, completely obscuring the sun, was all that could be seen. The morning also was comparatively cold a noticeable fact in a trying climate, which seldom varies day or night throughout the whole year more than ten or twelve degrees. The average temperature in Batavia is about seventy-five degrees at night, and eighty-five degrees by day, but then it must be remembered that the Java heat is moist and damp, and consequently much more unhealthy and injurious than an increased range of the thermometer in a drier climate. On this occasion the glass fell to sixty-five degrees in the shade, a fact unknown before in the meteorological annals of the city. As the evening passed by matters grew worse. Louder and more threatening became the distant thundering reports, and at times distinct shocks of explosions could be heard shaking the houses to their very foundations. At eight A. M., when the night gun is always fired from one of the government forts, the report was so faint as scarcely to be heard, being drowned in the din of the atmospheric disturbances. Throughout the night matters continued much the same. Sleep was out of the question, and the long, weary hours of night were spent by many a resident in anxiously watching the course It was a cold, dull morning then as events might take. At one time it was the work of the busy Batavian day comfancied that an earthquake a by no menced. The shocks which had caused means uncommon event in Java - was so much dismay and terror in the night imminent, and many a cautious house- were now less frequent and more indisholder retired from the precincts of a tinct. Business was beginning as usual. house which he feared at any moment Crowds of natives were wending their way might fall and crush him. An English citywards on foot. Steam trams filled lady told me afterwards how she had car-with clerks and officials bore their living ried her little children into the open air and had kept them outside the house all night. In some parts of the city the walls of the houses shook and quivered so ominously, as shock succeeded shock, that a general rush was made outside. The streets and houses presented a strange appearance. Many a portly Dutchman could be seen strolling about the streets, in the hope of finding greater safety than in his own dwelling. Whole families of women and children again were huddled together beneath the tropical trees and shrubs in their gardens, whilst others paced with anxious steps the wide marble verandahs surrounding their houses, ready to rush forth at the slightest sign of coming destruction. Mer freight from the various suburbs. But in the course of the morning, when all were congratulating themselves that matters were no worse, a marked change |