Every now and then the parishes quarrel with
the gas companies on a question of price, and
the public suffer while the garotters gain. St.
Pancras had a feud of this kind some years ago,
and for a while lit up with the sleepy old oil-
burners, or with naphtha. But whether or not
the supply of gas now is less per lamp than it
was formerly, and whether or not the gas, as
some assert, is diluted, it is certain that we do
not get as much illumination as we want.
Science has recently discovered many wonderful
lights, at once powerful and cheap; can it not
utilise them for the benefit of the community?
Or is the gas monopoly too strong? At present
the discoveries are employed for little else than to
adorn a scientific lecture at the Polytechnic, or a
show scene at the theatre. May we not hope to
see them brought down to the level of ordinary
human needs? The garotter lurks unseen in
the gloom of some archway, or prowls under the
shadow of a dead wall, ready to spring out as
soon as his victim's back is presented to him.
With a searching light in every road, street,
alley, and archway, half his occupation would
be gone; for there is no waiting until that
watchman is at another part of the beat, and the
ruffian is always discouraged when he can see to
do his work.

BEFORE THE TRIAL BY COMBAT.

THE doleful wind around around
The turret, trying to enter here,
Whines low, while down in the court-yard drear
The great bloodhound, to the flint fast bound,
Is baying the moon. The moon is clear
And dismal-cold: for a filmy tear,
Whose cat'sfoot falls with no more sound
Than an eyelid that sinks on a sick man's swound,
Is lord of her light, whereby to-night
He walketh alone on the frozen mere
From the wood whence he cometh anear, anear.
Ever about the setting in
Of the darkness, now for a month or more,
The things on the gusty arras 'gin
To rustle and creep and mope and grin
At me, still sitting as heretofore
This last sad night (no whit less calm
Than when first he accused me a month before),
With elbow based on knee, and palm
Upslanted, propping a moody chin;
The better to watch with a glassy eye
The dull red embers drop and lie
Forlorn of a lurid inner light,
Like days burn'd out by a deadly sin.
I marvel much if my mind be right,
All seems so wondrous calm within
This long o'er-laboured heart, in spite
Of the howling wind and the hideous night,
And to-morrow that bringeth the final fight
When all is to lose or win.
    What matter the end, so it be near?
I can only think of how last year
We rode together, she and I:
She in scarlet and I in green,
Across the oak-wood dark and high,
Whose wicked leaves shut out the sky,
Which, had I seen, that had not been,
I think, which makes me fear to die
And meet her there. I could not bear
Her dead face e'en. Who else, I ween,
Should hardly shrink from Gysbrecht's eye,
For all his vaunting, not so keen,
The too-soon boasting, braggart (ay,
Even when he strode before the Queen
And three times charged me with the lie!),
As my keen axe. More glad that day
She was, sure, than 'tis good to be,
Lest some that cannot be so glad
As she was then should chance go mad
Trying to laugh. Oh, all the way
She laughed so loud that even the wood
Laugh'd too. She seem'd so sure, that day,
That life is sweet and God is good.
I could not laugh, because her hood
Had fallen back, and so let stray
Of all her long hair's loveliness
A single shining yellow tress
Across her shoulder; which made me
(That could not choose, poor fool! but see)
More sad, I think, than men should be
When women laugh. The wood, I say,
Laugh'd with her, at me, all the way.
Once, too, her palfrey, while we rode,
Started aside, and in alarm
She lean'd her hand upon my arm;
Whose light touch did so overload
My heavy heart, that I believe,
Had she a moment longer so
Lean'd on me, from my saddle-bow
I must have dropp'd down dead. Near eve
We came out on the other land.
And I remember that I said,
"How still and lone the land is here!"
She only look'd, and shook her head,
And, looking, laugh'd still louder, and
Said, laughing loudly, " What's to fear?"
The accursed echo, that low lay
Under that lonesome land, I knew
For want of aught more wise to say,
Shriek'd " Fear!" and fell a-laughing too.
Deep melancholy meadow-grass,
Which never any man had mown,
So long our horses scarce could pass
Among it, all about was grown
For some bad purpose of its own
Up to the edge of the grey sky.
And underneath a stream ran by:
A little stream, that made great moan,
Half mad with pain, the Fiend knows why;
'Twixt stupid heaps of helpless stone,
That chose upon its path to lie,
It push'd and dash'd at desperate pace,
In extreme haste to get away.
The owls might fly about by day
For all the sky, there, had to say;
Which took no care to change its face
To any other hue but grey,
Having to light up such a place.
But for the moan of that mad stream,
All things were dumb, resign'd, and still,
And strange, as things are in a dream.
The whole land self-surrender'd lay,
And let harsh Nature work her will,
For lack of strength to answer nay
To any sort of wrong or ill
That chose to vex it. Laughing gay
Into that lonesome land rode she.
The grass above her palfrey's knee
Was long and green as green could be.
She, laughing as she rode, 'gan trill
Some canzonet or vine lay,
It matter'd little, good or ill,