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 top-
most 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