The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, No. 03, March 1891
    
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Title: The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, No. 03, March 1891

Author: Various

Editor: George Newnes

Release date: June 26, 2012 [eBook #40084]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Dianna Adair, Jonathan Ingram, Ernest Schaal,
        and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRAND MAGAZINE, VOL. 01, NO. 03, MARCH 1891 ***




Produced by Dianna Adair, Jonathan Ingram, Ernest Schaal,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration: THE QUEEN'S FIRST BABY.
_Drawn and Etched by Her Majesty the Queen._]


                       _Pictures with Histories._


A PICTURE within a picture--there is a romance surrounding every canvas,
a story hidden away with every product of the pencil or brush. Our
frontispiece, "The Queen's First Baby," provides an excellent example.
During the first few years of Her Majesty's married life a room in
Buckingham Palace was fitted up with all necessities for printing
etchings, and here the Queen and Prince Consort would come and take
impressions of their own work from the printing press. It is such a one
that we are enabled to reproduce--a _fac-simile_ of an etching, sketched
in the first place, prepared and put on the press, and finally printed
by the Royal mother of the little one it represents. The original
etching is now in the possession of the writer. It is probably the
earliest picture known of the Empress Frederick of Germany, Princess
Royal at the time--for the etching bears date February 22, 1841, when
the Princess was but three months old. Every line, every item betokens
how anxious the Royal artist was to obtain a faithful drawing of her
first child, whose name, "Victoria," is written under it. The little
Princess is so held that the nurse's face is quite concealed, and in no
way divides the attention the mother was desirous of winning for her
little one. When the Queen was making the sketch, a cage with a parrot
had been placed on a table near at hand, in order to rivet the child's
attention. The whole thing is suggestive of the simplicity and
homeliness which characterised the dispositions of the Royal workers at
the press; and we think the picture tells its own history of life in the
Palace fifty years ago.

[Illustration: HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA.
_The first portrait painted after her Coronation._]

The history as to how the first portrait of Her Majesty after her
coronation was obtained is also full of interest. The Queen is
represented in all her youthful beauty in the Royal box at Drury Lane
Theatre, and it is the work of E. T. Parris, a fashionable portrait
painter of those days. Parris was totally ignorant of the fact that when
he agreed with Mr. Henry Graves, the well-known publisher, to paint "the
portrait of a lady for fifty guineas," he would have to localise himself
amongst the musical instruments of the orchestra of the National
Theatre, and handle his pencil in the immediate neighbourhood of the big
drum. Neither was he made aware as to the identity of his subject until
the eventful night arrived. Bunn was the manager of Drury Lane at the
time, and he flatly refused to accommodate Mr. Graves with two seats in
the orchestra. But the solution of the difficulty was easy. Bunn was
indebted to Grieve, the scenic artist, for a thousand pounds. Grieve was
persuaded to threaten to issue a writ for the money unless the "order
for two" was forthcoming. Bunn succumbed, and the publisher triumphed;
and whilst the young Queen watched the performance, she was innocently
sitting for her picture to Parris and Mr. Graves, who were cornered in
the orchestra. Parris afterwards shut himself up in his studio, and
never left it until he had finished his work. The price agreed upon was
doubled, and the Queen signified her approval of the tact employed by
purchasing a considerable number of the engravings. The reproduction of
the picture in these pages becomes the more interesting from the fact
that it is done by permission of the still living occupant of one of the
two orchestra seats--Mr. Henry Graves.

[Illustration: IN THE ORCHESTRA: SKETCHING THE QUEEN.]

Much might be said regarding missing and mutilated pictures. The story
as to how Gainsborough's "Duchess of Devonshire" was cut from the frame
a few days after 10,100 guineas had been paid for it is well known, but
we may add a scrap of information hitherto unpublished, which will, we
think, add somewhat to the value of the work as a picture with a
history. The ingenious thief knew very well that in order to get his
prize in safety through the streets it would be necessary to roll it up.
This, of course, could not be done without cracking the paint.
Accordingly, he had provided himself with paste and paper to lay over
the picture. But when he came to lay the paper on the canvas, he found
that he had forgotten--a brush! The people who flocked to see the
beautiful "Duchess" were kept at a respectful distance by the customary
barrier of silken rope. The clever purloiner cut off a few inches of the
thick cord, and, fraying out one of the ends, improvised a really
excellent substitute wherewith to lay on the paste. The brush of rope
was found next morning on the floor, where he had left it, and told a
story of such ingenuity as certainly demands a word of recognition.

It is probable that were a novelist to concoct a plot out of the story
surrounding a certain Sir Joshua Reynolds in the possession of Lord
Crewe, the public would snap their fingers at it and dub the whole thing
ridiculous and impossible.

A former Lord Crewe had a picture painted of his son and daughter.
Though the faces were faithful, the attitudes of the figures were
somewhat fanciful; the daughter is holding a vase, and the boy is posing
as a cupid. When the son had grown to manhood he quarrelled with his
father, and he, to mark his extreme anger, caused the cupid to be cut
out of the canvas, giving instructions for it to be destroyed, and a
tripod painted in its place. Thus it remained for over a hundred years.
But the little cupid was not lost. It had, by some mysterious means,
after this lapse of time, found its way into the hands of a dealer, who
recognised it, having seen an engraving of the original before it was
cut. He immediately communicated with the present Lord Crewe, who still
had the picture. It was found that the cupid fitted exactly into the
space where the tripod stood. Lord Crewe not only caused the cupid to be
restored to its proper place, but, in order to commemorate this
remarkable incident, took out the now historical tripod, had a piece of
canvas with appropriate scenery painted, and caused the tripod to be
inserted therein. The cupid now hangs in his house as a memento of a
strange act on the part of one of his ancestors.

[Illustration: SON AND DAUGHTER OF LORD CREWE. _By Sir Joshua
Reynolds._]

Lord Cheylesmore, well known as having one of the finest collections of
Landseers in the world, has a dog painted by this great artist, with a
curious story attached to it. After Charles Landseer had all but
completed the painting of his celebrated picture of "Charles I. at Edge
Hill," he persuaded his brother Edwin to paint in a dog. This Sir Edwin
consented to do; and, after the work was engraved, the original got into
the hands of a dealer, who cleverly cut out the dog, and had another put
in place of it. He secured the services of an able artist to paint a
background for the animal which had been so ignominiously deprived of
the honour of reclining in the presence of Charles I. This he sold as a
Landseer--as, indeed, it was; and this highly interesting little
creature is the one now owned by Lord Cheylesmore. As regards that of
"Charles I. at Edge Hill," we believe we are correct in saying that it
was recently purchased by the Walker Art Gallery at Liverpool.

A somewhat similar circumstance befell Holbein's famous picture of "The
Field of the Cloth of Gold," which hangs at Hampton Court Palace. After
the execution of Charles I., Cromwell proposed to sell many of the late
monarch's pictures to dealers and others who approached him on the
subject, and amongst others that painted by Holbein. Negotiations for
the purchase concluded, the time came round for its delivery. On
examining "The Field of the Cloth of Gold" it was discovered that one of
the principal faces--that of Henry VIII.--had been cut out in a complete
circle. Naturally, the dealer--a foreigner--declined to conclude the
bargain, and the mutilated Holbein was stowed away. After the
Restoration, a nobleman appeared at court and begged Charles II. to
graciously accept an article which the king might possibly be glad to
know was still preserved to the English nation. It proved to be a
circular piece of canvas, representing the robust countenance of Henry
VIII., which the nobleman had himself cut from the picture in Cromwell's
time. This great work was seen at the Tudor Exhibition last year, the
mark of the circle being plainly visible.

[Illustration: "THE CHILDREN THREW THEIR MARBLES AT THE BEAUTY."]

The fact of a picture worth £10,000 being converted into a sort of
bullseye mark for schoolboys' marbles is a little history in itself. The
work, by Gainsborough, is that of the Honourable Miss Duncombe--a
renowned beauty of her day, who lived at Dalby Hall, near Melton
Mowbray. She married General Bowater. For over fifty years this
magnificent work of art had hung in the hall of this old house in
Leicestershire, and the children, as they played and romped about the
ancient oaken staircases, delighted to make a target of the
Gainsborough, and to throw their marbles at the beauty. It hung there
year after year, full of holes, only to be sold under the hammer one day
for the sum of £6, a big price for the torn and tattered canvas. The
owner of the bargain let it go for £183 15s., the lucky purchaser this
time being Mr. Henry Graves. The day it came into the famous
printseller's shop in Pall Mall, Lord Chesterfield offered 1,000 guineas
for it, at which price it was sold. But romances run freely amongst all
things pertaining to pictures, for before the work was delivered a fever
seized Lord Chesterfield and he died. Lady Chesterfield was informed
that, if she wished, the agreement might be cancelled. Her ladyship
replied that she was glad of this, as she did not require the picture,
which accordingly remained in Mr. Graves' shop waiting for another
purchaser. It had not long to wait. One of the wealthiest and most
discriminating judges of pictures in England, Baron Lionel Rothschild,
came in search of it, and the following conversation between him and the
owner, Mr. Graves, ensued:

[Illustration: THE HONOURABLE MISS DUNCOMBE. _By Gainsborough._]

"You ask me fifteen hundred guineas for it?" exclaimed the great
financier, when he was told the price; "why, you sold it the other day
for a thousand!"

"Yes, I know I did," replied the dealer, "but that was done in a hurry,
before it had been restored."

"Well, now I'll give you twelve hundred for it--twelve hundred," said
the Baron, looking longingly at the work.

"Now, Baron," said Mr. Graves, good-humouredly, though firmly, "if you
beat me down another shilling, you shan't have the picture at all."

"Very good--then send it home at fifteen hundred guineas." It is now
amongst the most valued artistic treasures of the Rothschilds, and
£10,000 would not buy it to-day.

The two illustrations we now give of pictures--one of which is still
missing and the other recovered after a long lapse of time--are both
after Sir Joshua Reynolds. It is certain that the missing one will never
be seen again. Reward after reward has been offered, but all to no
avail--"The Countess of Derby," by Sir Joshua, so far as the original
goes, is a thing of the past. The mystery as to its sudden disappearance
has never been fully cleared up, but it is indisputable that the Earl of
Derby of the period had this picture painted of his wife, that he
quarrelled with her, and that just at this time the picture vanished.
Little room is left for doubt that the Earl himself destroyed the work.

[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF DERBY. _By Sir Joshua Reynolds._]

The other is that of Miss Gale, painted when she was fifteen, a canvas
worth at least £5,000 (page 232). She married Admiral Gardner, who was
so much attached to his wife, that whenever he went to sea he always
took the picture with him, and had it conspicuously hung up in his
cabin. His vessel was wrecked off the West Indies, and though the
Admiral was saved, the ship, with "Miss Gale" in the cabin, went down.
There it lay at the bottom of the ocean for a considerable period, until
at last attempts were made to recover it. This was successfully
accomplished, though the canvas was much damaged, and was afterwards
reduced in length and breadth. The picture seems to have been peculiarly
unfortunate, both on land and sea, for in 1864 it was damaged again by
the Midland Railway. Until recently it was in the possession of the Rev.
Allen Gardner Cornwall.

[Illustration: MISS GALE. _By Sir Joshua Reynolds._]

The fact of a picture of fabulous value being picked up in a
pawnbroker's shop, or veritable gems being discovered fastened with
tin-tacks to the wall of a servant's bedroom, is alone sufficient cause
to rank them among pictures with a history. But surely no such
remarkable instance of innocence regarding the real value of a work has
been known for a long time as that which came to light in a West End
picture dealer's shop a few weeks ago. The story is a simple one. A
painter--presumably an amateur--ran short of canvas, and, living in the
country, some days must needs elapse before he could get a fresh supply.
Hanging up in his house was an old work, representing an ancient-looking
gentleman. He had hung there a long time, practically unnoticed. To meet
the emergency, the painter conceived a happy thought, and one which he
immediately proceeded to carry into effect. Why not paint on the back of
the ancient-looking gentleman who had hung uncared-for for so long? The
canvas was taken off the stretcher, turned round, and re-stretched, the
back of the picture being used on which to paint a copy of Sir Joshua
Reynolds' "Age of Innocence." Innocence there truly was--for the
painting which the amateur had screened from view turned out to be a
Gainsborough. The original Gainsborough is at the present moment at the
back of the newly-painted picture, and is partly hidden by the
stretcher, as shown in the sketch (page 233), made as it lay by the
counter in the dealer's shop.

[Illustration: THE HIDDEN "GAINSBOROUGH."]

One artist might be singled out of whom it may safely be said that he
never painted a picture without a history attached to it. Landseer's
works abound in suggestive incident and delightful romance. He would
paint out of sheer gratitude a picture worth £10,000 simply because an
admirer, for whom he had executed a commission, had expressed his
approval of the artist's genius, by paying him more money than that
originally agreed upon. Such an incident as this was the means of
bringing Landseer's brush to work on "The Maid and the Magpie," now in
the National Gallery.

There are two or three anecdotes--hitherto unpublished, we
believe--relating to pictures with histories, and associated with
Landseer's name.

It is said--and results have proved how justly--that Landseer never
forgot a dog after once seeing it. "The Shepherd's Bible" is a rare
instance of this. Mr. Jacob Bell referred to this work as "the property
of a gentleman who was for many years a candidate for a picture by Sir
E. Landseer, and kept a collie dog in the hope that he might some day be
so fortunate as to obtain his portrait." The collie, however, died. Some
two years afterwards, its owner received a note from Sir Edwin
appointing a day for a sitting. Fortunately, he had provided himself
with another dog, hoping yet to secure the services of the greatest of
all animal painters, and taking the creature with him, kept the
appointment on the day named. He told Landseer that the old favourite
was dead, and gave a description of his colour and general appearance.

"Oh! yes," the painter replied, "I know the dog exactly," and he made a
sketch which proved the truth of his words. The picture was painted in
less than two days, and the portrait of the dead animal was exact, even
to the very expression of the dog's eye.

Landseer, too, was often very happy in his choice of a subject. "Dignity
and Impudence" is one of the treasures of the National Gallery, and
though the one is a fine bloodhound named "Grafton," and the other a
little terrier called "Scratch," it is likely that two gentlemen
innocently suggested the whole thing to him. It seems that one day
Landseer entered a picture shop, and was annoyed at the way in which he
was treated by one of the assistants, who mistook him for a customer,
and who addressed him in a style a trifle too pushing and businesslike
to suit his taste.

Just then the proprietor entered, a fine, handsome, dignified man.

"Well, have you got anything new in the way of a picture?" he asked.

"No," replied Landseer, "but I've just got a subject. I'll let you know
when it is finished." The result was the picture referred to, and it is
said that the grand bloodhound bore a striking resemblance to the
picture dealer, whilst the little terrier, presumably, was suggested by
the assistant; whose manner, after all, was simply that of a sharp man
of business.

"There's Life in the Old Dog Yet," another fine work, was, in 1857, the
property of Mr. Henry McConnell, for whom it was painted in 1838. Mr.
McConnell was asked if he would lend it to the Art Treasures Exhibition
at Manchester. He had a very great horror of railway travelling, but
agreed to grant the request on one condition, that the picture, with the
others asked for, should be sent down by road. Everything was packed up,
and the precious load started on its journey. The van had got about
half-way to Manchester, when, in passing over a level crossing--common
enough in those days--the horses were startled by an approaching train.
It was impossible to get across the lines in time, and the engine dashed
into the van, shattering many of the pictures, including "There's Life
in the Old Dog Yet." So great was the destruction that when the driver
went to the front wheel of the engine, he found entwined round it a
piece of the canvas of this famous picture.

An anecdote might be told regarding "The Cavalier's Pets," further
illustrating the rapid rate at which Landseer worked, and the fate which
seemed to hang over his canine subjects. The dogs were pets of Mr.
Vernon's, and a sketch was made in his house as a commission to Sir
Edwin. It seems, however, that Landseer forgot all about it, until some
time afterwards he was met by the owner of the pets in the street, who
gently reminded him of his little commission. In two days the work as it
is now seen was completed and delivered, though not a line had been put
on the canvas previous to the meeting. Both the beautiful creatures came
to an untimely end. The white Blenheim spaniel was killed by a fall from
a table, whilst the King Charles fell through the railings of a
staircase at his master's house, and was picked up dead at the bottom of
the steps.

We cannot do better than conclude with an anecdote which connects this
great painter with the early life of Her Majesty.

That the Queen has always displayed a marked interest in works of art is
indisputable. Her collection of pictures, many of them of the Flemish
and Dutch schools, her Vandykes and Rubens, are almost priceless. But
Her Majesty's favours bestowed on matters artistic have also drifted
into home channels, as witness her generous spirit shown at all times
towards Sir Edwin Landseer.

Amongst all the priceless works to be found in the Royal galleries, one
picture may here be singled out with a pleasing story attached to it.
"Loch Laggan" shows the Queen in a quiet and unassuming gown, beside her
camp-stool, at which she has a few moments before been sketching. The
Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales are there as children. In the
centre stands a pony with a burden of deer on its back, its owner, a
stalwart Highlander, at its head, with an expression of countenance
half-amused, half-surprised.

Sir Edwin Landseer--who painted the picture--was at the time in Scotland
giving lessons to the Queen. Whilst on his way to Balmoral he wandered
in the direction of Loch Laggan, and became perplexed as to which path
to take. Espying the Highlander, he bade him hasten to find the Queen,
and say that Sir Edwin would reach her ere long. The man needed no
second bidding, and jumped on the pony's back. He had not proceeded far
round the lake before he drew up his pony in front of a lady, who was
sketching, whilst her two children were busying themselves by handing
her the various drawing implements as required.

Respectfully removing his cap, he asked if she could tell him where he
might possibly find the Queen.

"Oh, yes," replied the lady, turning from her drawing, "I am the Queen."

This was too much for the worthy Scot. He could not associate the great
stone on which Her Majesty had been sitting with all the splendour of a
throne. All he could do was to put his hands upon his knees and
suggestively utter the single word--"_Gammon!_"

By this time Sir Edwin had arrived. He drew the picture with the
Highlander in the very act of relieving himself of an expression not
often heard in the presence of Royalty. Our drawing is a sketch of the
figures in the painting of this highly interesting scene.

[Illustration: "GAMMON!"]




_Making an Angel._

BY J. HARWOOD PANTING.


GROTESQUE--yes, that is the word for the gathering.

An ogre cannot always enjoy the regal society of a king; nor can it be
said that the features of Hodge are usually to be seen glancing, with
grinning condescension, upon a grave Prime Minister. There were other
anomalies, too numerous to mention, in the room; for this was one of the
workshops of the curious Kingdom of Make-Believe, of which, at the
present time, if we may except the aforesaid company, John Farley was
the solitary occupant.

[Illustration: "DAUBS."]

John Farley, nicknamed "Daubs," was scene-painter of the Comedy Theatre,
Porchester, and this was the room whence proceeded those marvellous
designs that stirred the gallery to enthusiastic applause, the boxes to
derisive laughter.

It was the season of pantomime. The curtain had been rung down upon the
"grand phantasmagorical, allegorical, and whimsicorical" legend of "King
Pippin," and the denizens of that monarch's court--or, rather, their
faces--were resting peacefully from their labours on the wall. John
Farley, too, was presumably resting from _his_ labours, for he was
sitting upon a wooden stool, smoking vigorously, and gazing, with a
far-away glance, into the region of Nowhere. It was not a satisfied
expression, this of John Farley's--no, decidedly not. It appeared to
have a quarrel with the world, but did not seem to know precisely at
which quarter of it to commence hostilities. Truth to tell, he was a
disappointed man. He had started life, as many another, with high aims
and ambitions, and they had brought him no better fruit than
scene-painter to the Porchester Theatre, with, instead of academic
diplomas and honours, the unflattering title of "Daubs!" Do you wonder,
then, that sitting there, a man verging upon the "thirties," he looked
upon life with little love, and upon the constituents of its big
constituency with little admiration?

John had a private grievance as well as a public. He lived in a flat of
a block of houses situate in Seymour-street, about a quarter of an
hour's walk from the theatre. For some days past he had determined on
making another bid for fame and fortune by painting a grand picture. He
had commenced various designs for this "masterpiece," but none of them
had proved entirely satisfactory. And now, as though to frustrate all
his hopes, a new source of disturbance had arisen. John possessed one of
those mercurial, nervous temperaments, born principally of a morbid,
solitary life, which demanded absolute quiet for any profitable
employment of the intellect. For this reason he detested the atmosphere
of a theatre, and for this reason he yet more detested the fate that had
cast his fortunes in its midst. In the apartments where he lived, mean
as they were, he usually found tranquillity. He could at least think,
smoke, sketch, or write, as the fit took him, without disturbance. But
now, just at the time when he most desired and needed quiet, the bugbear
he fled had attacked him in his very stronghold.

In the rooms beneath those he occupied lived a poor widow with her two
children, a boy and girl. John knew this much from the landlady. He
knew, too, that the boy was employed at the Comedy Theatre. Further than
this he had not cared to inquire. Usually they were as quiet as the
proverbial mouse, but latterly John's ears had been afflicted with
groans and cries of pain, proceeding from the widow's apartments, and
kept up with aggravating regularity throughout the night. They were the
cries of a child--no doubt about that--and a child in great suffering. A
person less centred in his own projects than John might have at least
felt some sympathy with the sufferer, but John had evidently lost
kinship with the deeper emotions, and instead of sympathy he experienced
only a feeling of annoyance and keen resentment against the widow and
"her brats," as he styled them. Thus it was that, think as he would, the
subject of this grand picture which was to take the world by storm and
out-Raphael Raphael, persisted in evading him; and thus it is we find
him, in a more cynical mood than usual, at the Comedy Theatre, in no
haste to return to the scene of his failures.

"What is the use of striving?" mused John, as he slowly puffed his pipe.
"One might as well throw up the sponge. Fate is too much for me. He
follows at my elbow everywhere. His usual running-ground is not enough
for him. Now he follows me home, and gives me a solo of his own peculiar
music through one of his imps."

A timid knock sounded upon the door. John was busy with his thoughts,
and did not hear it.

"That theory of Longfellow's is correct--art _is_ long. In what sphere
could you find a longer? Supportable might this be, but cold
indifference to a poor devil aching for a gleam of sympathy is
insupportable."

The knock at the door was repeated, but with the same effect as before.

"The grinning public--just tickle its side: that is all it needs. He who
caters most to its stupidity in life is he who gains the proud
distinction of a public mausoleum at his death. I have not got quite
into the way, but still I see in perspective a monument dedicated
to--'Daubs.'"

A sound, light as gossamer wing, was heard in the room. John Farley
turned his head. Then he stared; then he rubbed his eyes; then he stared
again. Well he might. Was this an offspring of the immortal whom he had
just been apostrophising?

It was decidedly an imp--at least it had the apparel of one. It was
clothed in scarlet; dependent from its haunches was a tail; on its head
a Satanic cowl. But there was melancholy rather than mischief in its
eye, and it was of a restful, confiding brown rather than an unrestful,
flashing black.

[Illustration: "IT WAS AN IMP."]

John again inserted his knuckles in his eyes, and waved off the smoke
from his pipe. And then he recognised his uncanny visitor. It was the
little son of the widow who lived under his flat. He was one of the imps
of King Pippin's kingdom in the pantomime, and doomed for a small
pittance to indulge his apish tricks nightly with the gnomes and fairies
of that fanciful realm.

"Daubs!" said the imp.

Yes, only that was necessary to incite John's wrath. A nickname that was
supportable from the actors and scene-shifters was insupportable from a
child.

"Daubs" therefore turned sharply upon the boy:--

"Are you referring to me?"

"Yes, sir."

John was on the point of brusquely informing the lad that he was not
acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Daubs, and peremptorily
showing him the door. A glance from the honest brown eyes, however,
restrained him. It told him that what he had at first assumed to be
impudence was really the result of ignorance--that, and only that.

"I would like to know you, Mr. Daubs. You don't mind knowing a little
boy--do you?"

John opened his eyes in astonishment. What a curious imp! John was not
aware that anybody had any particular desire for his society; in fact,
the reverse had hitherto seemed the case. He was usually regarded as an
unsociable being.

"I have not the least objection to making your acquaintance," said he,
_un_reluctantly, it must be confessed.

"Oh, thank you," said the little fellow, drawing nearer, and putting his
hand confidingly in John's, and looking up at him with bright, happy
eyes. "Then perhaps I may--may I?"

What "may I" meant was a gentle pressure of the lips upon the smoky
cheek of John. If John had been astonished before he was still more
astonished now--so much so that the pipe he was smoking fell from his
fingers, and was broken into fragments on the floor. What had he, a
grumpy bachelor, to do with kissing? Twenty years had passed since his
cheek had felt the pressure of lips, and then they were the death-cold
lips of a younger brother--surely about the size of this strange
imp--who had left him with that dumb farewell for ever.

"What is your name, my lad?" said he, softly.

"Willie Maxwell. Mother calls me 'her Willie.' Dodo--that is my sister,
you know--when she is well" (here the little fellow sighed) "says that
I'm her pet. But at the theatre I'm only known as 'Fourth Imp.' Mr.
Billings"--Mr. Billings was the stage-manager of the Comedy--"has
promised that, if I'm a good boy, I shall some day be First Imp!"

"That will be a rise in the world, and no mistake," remarked John.

"Well, Mr. Daubs, it will be a little more money for mother--threepence
extra a night--but I shouldn't like to push out Teddy Morris. You know
Teddy?"

John was obliged to confess that he had not the honour of that young
gentleman's acquaintance. He never troubled himself with anything or
anybody outside his own department.

"Teddy Morris is First Imp. He doesn't like me, you know, because he
thinks I'm--what do you call it, Mr. Daubs?"

"Ambitious?"

"Yes, 'bitious, that's the word."

John's crusty humour was gradually melting, and he smiled--first, at
anyone disliking this frank, affectionate boy; next, at the rivalry of
the imps. "All the world," thought he, "is indeed a stage, and the
struggle for a position on it extends to strange quarters."

"But I'm not 'bitious, Mr. Daubs"--here Willie paused, and deliberately
climbed on John's knee--"no, I really ain't, 'cept of you!"

John started at this bold confession. He was on the point of exploding
into loud laughter, but the brown eyes were looking earnestly into his,
and with these searching witnesses before him John thought that such an
ebullition of mirth would be little short of profanation.

"Oh, you're ambitious of me, are you? Well, my little man, if it's your
intention to supplant me as scene-painter to the Comedy Theatre, I'm
exceedingly grateful to you for giving me due notice of the fact. Only
let me know when you think I ought to resign my position, won't you?"

"Yes," assented Willie, with childish _naïveté_; and then, putting his
head nearer to John's, as though to take him into still closer
confidence--"Do you know, I've often seen you, and wanted to speak to
you, but somehow I've not liked to. I've watched you when you weren't
looking, and you've always seemed to look like--you don't mind a little
boy saying it, Mr. Daubs--like that." Willie pointed to a mask of one of
the ogres. John did not think the comparison very flattering, and felt
very uncomfortable. The next instant the child was nestling closer to
him; a pair of thin arms were clasped tightly round John's neck; and the
lips which again pressed his whispered softly: "But you're not a bit
like that now, Mr. Daubs."

Then the comparison was forgiven, but not forgotten.

"Tell me, Willie, why you are ambitious of me? Ambitious of me," John
mentally added, "who thought myself the least envied mortal in the
world!"

Willie's only answer was to take John's big hand into his small one;
then he instituted a minute comparison between the two; then he patted
it fondly; then he dropped it suddenly, and remained buried in deep
thought. John gave himself up to the child's whim. It was a delicious
experience--the more delicious because unexpected. This was an infantile
world, made up of quaint ideas and actions, of which even the memory had
been almost obliterated from his mind. Thought took him back to its last
link--that which had been rudely snapped by the death of his brother. He
sighed, and the sigh was echoed.

"It will be a long while--many years, I suppose, Mr. Daubs--before my
hand gets like yours?"

Mr. Daubs thought it would be. Willie sighed again. "Painting's very
hard, sir--ain't it?"

[Illustration: "PAINTING'S VERY HARD, SIR--AIN'T IT?"]

"Oh, no, my boy; it's the easiest thing in the world," said the artist
bitterly; "and the world accepts it at its right value, for it is never
inclined to pay very dearly for it. Just a few paints, a brush, and
there you are."

"Well, Mr. Daubs, I hardly think that's quite right--you don't mind my
saying so, do you?--'cause I saved up a shilling and bought a paintbrush
and some paints, and tried ever so hard to make a picture, but it was no
use. No, it was nothing like a picture--all smudge, you know--so I
thought that p'raps God never meant little boys should make pictures,
and that I would have to wait till I grew up like you, Mr. Daubs."

"It's as well somebody should think I can paint pictures; but do you
know, my young art critic, that many persons have no higher estimate of
my efforts than you have of yours--that is to say," seeing the eyes
widening in astonishment, "their term for them is 'smudge!'"

"No, do they say that? No, Mr. Daubs, they wouldn't dare," said Willie,
indignantly. "Why, you paint lovely horses and flowers, and trees, and
mountains, and your birds, if they could only sing, like the little bird
Dodo once had, they would seem quite alive."

John had never had so flattering, nor so unique a criticism of his art.
"Molière," thought he, "used to read his plays to the children, and
gather something from their prattle. Why should I disdain opinion from a
like source, especially as it chimes in so beautifully with what my
vanity would have had me acknowledge long since?"

"Well, youngster, admitting that I am the fine artist you would make of
me, what then? In what way do you expect to convert a world which
prefers real horses, real trees, and real birds? See, now, even here--at
the Comedy Theatre--we have only to announce on the playbills that a
_real_ horse, a _real_ steam-engine, or a _real_ goose or donkey, for
that matter, will be exhibited, and the best efforts of my artistic
genius are thrown into the shade. You are a case in point. Could I draw
an imp that would meet with half the success that you do? But what
nonsense I am talking--you don't understand a word of it."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Daubs, I do--something. Do you know what I think?"

"Say on, youngster."

"I think we don't often know or think what _is_ best for us. Mother says
little boys don't always know what is best for them. 'Real' is a live
thing--ain't it? I used to _think_, Mr. Daubs, you were a real live ogre
once. But now I know you ain't--are you?" This with a pressure of the
arms again round John's neck. What could the "real live ogre" say to
such an appeal? After a pause: "Mr. Daubs, can I tell you something--may
I?"

John assented, wondering what was the next strange thing this curious
sprite would ask.

"And will you say 'yes' to what I ask?"

John again assented, though he thought that possibly his assent might
necessitate a journey to Timbuctoo.

"Well, I want you to make me--an angel!" And then he quickly added,
seeing the startled expression on John's face, "You are so clever!"

"An angel!"

"Yes, an angel. You won't say no?" There was a quiver of anxiety in the
boy's tones. "It's for Dodo."

"For Dodo! But, child, I'm not a manufacturer of angels!"

"But you can draw birds. Birds have wings, and so have angels, and it's
for Dodo," he again repeated.

The logic of Willie's reasoning was irrefutable. Where was John
standing? He scarcely knew. He had caught the boy's conception. This,
then, was the reason of his anxiety to become an artist. Never imp was
surely such a seraph! The angel was for his sister. They were her moans
and cries John had heard in his lonely chamber these three nights past,
and it was with an angel her brother hoped, in his childish imagination,
to bring relief from pain and suffering. With one quick flash of
inspiration John saw it all--the intense longing, the all-embracing
love, the unselfishness, the exquisite sense of bringing to suffering
its one great alleviation. And as he thought, John's head dropped, and a
tear fell on the eager, youthful face upturned to his.

"Mother says that all angels are in heaven, and Dodo's always talking
about angels. She says she wants to see one, and would like one to come
to her. But they can't, Mr. Daubs, unless we first go to them. And I
don't want--no, no, I don't want"--with a big sob--"Dodo--to--go--away.
If _I_ could take it to her she would stay here."

John's heart was full--full to overflowing. He could scarcely speak.

"Go--go, and change your clothes, youngster, and we will try to make you
an angel."

"Oh, thank you so much."

In a flash Willie was gone, and John was left alone. "Heaven help me!"
he said, with a tender, pathetic glance in the direction whence the
little figure had vanished; "Heaven help me!" and John did what he had
not done since his own brother died. He fell upon his knees, and sent a
hasty prayer heavenward for inspiration. Then he took a large piece of
cardboard, and some crayons, and commenced--making an angel! He worked
as one inspired. With nervous, skilful fingers he worked. All was silent
in the great city below; the stillness lent inspiration to the artist's
imagination. Never had he seemed in closer touch with Heaven. To give
John his due, the petty contentions of men had always been beneath him,
but the "peace which passeth understanding" had never been his, because
of the selfishness by which his better nature had been warped. Now,
through this child's _un_selfishness, he almost heard the flapping of
angelic wings, and he depicted them, in all their softened beauty, upon
his cardboard, with a face between that seemed to look out in ineffable
love upon a guilt-laden world. This was what the artist wrought.

"Oh, Mr. Daubs!"

The exclamation was pregnant with meaning. Willie had returned, and was
devouring with open mouth and eyes the sketch of the angel.

"Well, youngster, do you think that will do for Dodo?"

"And that's for Dodo?" was the only answer, for the boy was still
absorbed in the artist's creation.

"Have you ever seen an angel, Mr. Daubs? Ah, you must have. I knew you
were clever at horses, and trees, and birds, and skies, but I didn't
guess you were so good at angels. It's just what mother said they were!"

"There, don't make me vain, but take it; and"--added John partly to
himself, "may the King of Cherubim hold in reserve _his_ messenger, not
for a death-warrant, but a blessing!"

"Thank you, so much. But I'm going to pay you, you know." And Willie
drew out proudly an old pocket-handkerchief, and, applying his teeth
vigorously to a special corner of it, took therefrom a sixpence.

John smiled, but took the coin without a word. Then he lifted the boy
up, and kissed him tenderly. The next moment he was alone; Willie had
departed with his angel. The artist listened to the pattering footsteps
as they descended the stairs, then bowed his head upon his arms, and
what with his three nights of unrest, and thinking over what he had been
and might have been, fell into a profound sleep.

                               * * * * *

Not long had he been in the land of counterpane, when of a sudden there
was a stir from without.

The night air was quick with cries, and a childish treble seemed to echo
and re-echo above them all. There was something familiar in this latter
sound. It was as a harsh note on a diapason that had but recently
brought him sweetest music.

In a moment John had gained the street. He had connected the cry with
one object--Willie. That object had for him a value infinite, so quick
in its power of attraction is the spark of sympathy when once kindled.
John's view of life had seemed, in this last half-hour, to have greatly
widened. It took account of things previously unnoticed; it opened up
feelings long dormant. His ear was strangely sensitive to the beat of
this new pulse--so much so that a vague terror shaped itself out of that
night-cry. It seemed to him to portend disaster.

But surely his worst fears are realised! What is that moving mass away
in the distance? Soon John has reached the spot. He hears a hum of
sympathy, and then there is a reverential silence: John's ears have
caught the pitying accents of a bystander, "Poor lad! Heaven help him!"

[Illustration: "WHAT IS THAT?"]

"Help him! Help whom?"

John's mind is quick at inference. He parts the crowd, and with certain
glance looks upon its point of observation. He knew it: no need of words
to tell him. A little form is there, mangled with the hoofs of a horse.
Its life-blood is slowly oozing out on the pavement. The face has the
hue of death--no mistaking that--and yet it has around it something of
the halo of saintship. John gazes as one distraught. The face he sees,
now pinched with the agonies of death, is that of Willie Maxwell!

"Good God, is it possible?"

But a brief moment or two since, it seemed to John, this poor boy was in
the bloom of health, full of the radiant sunshine of life. Now the
finger of death had touched him, and he stood on the threshold of the
Kingdom of Shadows.

For an instant John was ready to launch again his maledictions against
Fate. The presence of this child had cast a ray of sunshine on a sunless
existence--had given to it a brief gleam of happiness, which was
flickering out in this tragic way on the roadside. John had so
frequently taken a selfish estimate of life, that even in this supreme
crisis that feeling was momentarily uppermost, but only momentarily. The
child was resting in the arms of a rough carman, and as John looked a
spasm of returning consciousness passed over the little sufferer's
frame. Then there was a faint moan. Was there a chance of saving the
boy's life? John came closer, and as he did so a light seemed to radiate
from the child's face on to his.

Now the eyes are looking at him in a pained, dazed way. There is a gleam
of recognition, and about the mouth flickers a smile of content.

"Mr. Da--Da--Daubs,--I'm--so--glad-you've--come."

John kneels on the ground, and kisses the pale, cold lips of the
sufferer. The little arms are nervously at work; then with an effort
they are extended towards him: "Will you please take this, Mr. Daubs?"

John looked. It was the sketch of the angel! "I'm so glad I didn't drop
it. I held it tight, you see, Mr. Daubs--oh, so tight! I was afraid Dodo
wouldn't get it. No one knows Dodo, you see. I can't--take--it--to
her--to-night; so--will you--please?"

John's tears are falling fast upon the pavement. He seems to hear the
stifled sobs of the bystanders as he takes in his hand the sketch of the
angel. "I shall--see her--again--when the--light comes. Now--it is--so
dark--and cold--so cold!" John mechanically takes off his coat, and
wraps it around the little form.

"Thank you--Mr. Daubs--you're--a--kind--gentleman. May I--may
I?"----John had heard a similar request before that evening, and thanked
God that he knew what it meant. He bent his face forward. "That for
dear--_dear_ mother, and that for--darling--sister--sister Dodo."

As John's lips received the death-cold kisses, a strange thing happened.
The picture of the angel was suddenly wrested from his grasp, and flew
upward and upward, in shape like a bat. There was a moment of
mystery--of intense darkness and solemn silence. Then the heavens were
agleam with sunshine, and John seemed to see radiant forms winging their
way earthward. One of these outsped the rest. Nearer and nearer it came,
and John in wonderment fixed his gaze intently thereon. He had never
seen a real angel before, but he recognised this one. It was the angel
he had sketched, transfigured into celestial life. It came to where the
child rested, and John fell backward, dazzled with its light. When he
looked up again the child and the angel had both vanished, and all was
again dark.

                               * * * * *

[Illustration: "WAKE UP, WAKE UP!"]

"Daubs, Daubs! Wake up, wake up!"

John looked up with sleepy eyes. Where the deuce was he? Not in any
angelic presence, that was certain. The voice was not pitched in a very
heavenly key, and wafted odours of tobacco and beer rather than
frankincense and myrrh. John pinched himself to make sure he was awake.
This was assuredly no celestial visitor, but Verges--that was his
theatrical nickname--the Comedy Theatre watchman.

"Is it you, Verges? Will you have the kindness to tell me where I am?"
John looked around him in bewilderment. The masks seemed grinning at him
in an aggravating way.

"Well, you are at present, Mister, in the Comedy Theatre; but you was
just now very soundly in the land of Nod, I guess. You'd make a splendid
watchman, you would!"

Verges' denunciation came with beautiful appropriateness, as he had just
come from the public-house opposite, where he had been indulging in
sundry libations for this hour past at the expense of some of its
customers.

"It _is_ a dream, then--not a hideous reality? Thank God, thank God!"

"What's a dream?" said Verges, looking with some apprehension at John.
When he saw that gentleman begin to caper round the room his fears were
not lessened, for he thought that John had taken leave of some of his
senses.

"Am I awake now, Verges?"

"Well, you look like it."

"You are certain?" and he put a shilling into Verges' hand.

"I never knew you to be more waker. You can keep on being as wide-awake
as you please at the same price, Mister!"

"Give me my hat and coat, Verges. Thank you," and John passed rapidly
out at the door with a hasty "Good night!" Verges looked after him with
wide-mouthed astonishment; then he looked at the piece of money in his
hand; then he tapped his forehead, and shook his head ominously,
muttering, "Daubs is daft--clean daft!"

John would not trust his waking senses till he reached the corner of the
street at which he had seen so vividly in his dream the incidents just
recorded. A solitary policeman was walking up and down, and not so much
as a vehicle was to be seen. And then another fear took possession of
John. Was his dream a presentiment of danger, and had an accident
befallen Willie in some other form?

He soon reached his lodgings, hurried up the staircase, and listened
fearfully outside the widow's door. Nobody seemed astir, but he could
see that a light was burning within. Should he knock? What right had he,
a perfect stranger, to intrude at this unreasonable hour? He remembered,
too, his bitter thoughts and words about the widow and her children--her
"brats!" So he mounted reluctantly to his apartments. How the
silence--previously so much desired--oppressed him! He would eagerly
have welcomed at that moment a cry, a sob, or any sound of life from the
room below. But the sufferer gave no token, and John, in turn, became
the sufferer in the worst form of suffering--that of mental anguish.

He could stand it no longer. John determined, at any cost, to see
whether or not Willie had returned in safety. So he descended, and
knocked at Mrs. Maxwell's door.

"Come in," said a quiet voice, and John opened the door. The first thing
that met his gaze was his picture of the angel hanging at the head of a
child's cot. Beneath it, calmly asleep, was Dodo--Willie's sister. A
frail morsel of humanity she seemed, with pale, almost transparent,
complexion--the paler by its contrasting framework of golden hair. Mrs.
Maxwell was busily engaged at needlework. She hastily rose when she saw
her visitor. "I thought it was Mrs. Baker" (Mrs. Baker was the
landlady), she said. "She usually looks in the last thing."

"Pardon me for intruding, but I was anxious to know whether your son had
arrived here in safety?"

"Yes, oh yes; some time since. Are you the gentleman who gave him the
angel?"

"Yes," said John, simply.

"Thank you so much; you have made my little girl so happy. Children have
strange fancies in sickness, and she has been talking about nothing but
angels for days past. See," pointing to the sleeping child, "it is the
first night she has slept soundly for a whole week."

The holiest feeling John had ever experienced since he knelt as a child
at his mother's knee passed over him. He had never before felt so
thoroughly that a good action was its own reward.

"May I crave one great favour as a return for so trivial a service? Will
you let me see your son?"

The widow immediately arose, took a lamp, and beckoned John to follow
her into the next room. There was little Willie fast asleep in his cot.
His lips, even in his sleep, were wreathed in a happy smile, and as John
bent and reverently kissed them, they murmured softly: "Mr. Daubs!"

When John again mounted to his chamber it was with a light heart. His
evil angel--dissatisfaction--had gone out of him, and his good
angel--contentment--reigned in its stead.

From that time forth he shared the widow's vigils; he was to her an
elder son--to the children, a loving brother. His heart, too, expanded
in sympathy for his fellows, and under this genial influence his
energies, previously cramped, expanded also. The best proof I can give
of this, if proof be necessary, is that the picture which he shortly
afterwards exhibited, entitled "The Two Angels," was the picture of the
year, and brought to him the fame which had previously so persistently
evaded him. One of the happiest moments in his life was when he took
Dodo--now quite recovered--and Willie to view his "masterpiece."

                             [Illustration]




                [Illustration: BIRTHDAY CARDS]

THE birthday card, as we know it now, can scarcely have been with us
more than fifty or fifty-five years, and there is very little doubt that
the more ancient reminder of St. Valentine's Day suggested the idea of
putting a verse, appropriate to a birthday, in the place of the often
far-fetched sentiments of February the fourteenth. Nearly all our later
poets have contributed to birthday literature, and we may presume that
the delightful _morceaux_ which came from their pens were written on a
card or sheet of paper, and quietly dispatched to the recipient. Eliza
Cook, Tom Moore, Burns, Cowper, Johnson, Tom Hood, Charles Lamb, and
Mrs. Hemans have given to the world the most beautiful of thoughts
within the limits of a four-line verse. Where is a more suggestive
sentiment--considered by many the finest of all such verse--than that
which Pope addressed to Martha Blount?--

  Is that a birthday? 'Tis, alas! too clear
  'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Thackeray, too, could write delightful lines. His daughter--Mrs.
Thackeray-Ritchie--sent the following to the writer, written by her
father to Miss Lucy Batler in America:--

                            LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.

  Seventeen rosebuds in a ring,
  Thick with silver flowers beset
  In a fragrant coronet,
  Lucy's servants this day bring.
  Be it the birthday wreath she wears,
  Fresh and fair and symbolling
  The young number of her years,
  The sweet blushes of her spring.

  Types of youth, and love, and hope,
  Friendly hearts, your mistress greet,
  Be you ever fair and sweet,
  And grow lovelier as you ope.
  Gentle nursling, fenced about
  With fond care, and guarded so,
  Scarce you've heard of storms without,
  Frosts that bite, and winds that blow!

  Kindly has your life begun,
  And we pray that Heaven may send
  To our floweret a warm sun,
  A calm summer, a sweet end.
  And where'er shall be her home,
  May she decorate the place,
  Still expanding into bloom,
  And developing in grace.

To-day our birthday poets are limited--not in numbers, for the
publishers of cards are inundated with verses--but in those of merit.
One firm, indeed, during the last twelve or thirteen years has received
no fewer than 150,000 compositions, of which number only some 5,600 have
been found usable; not a very great number, when it is remembered that
something between ten and twelve millions of cards pass between
well-wishers in this country alone every year, and that a similar
quantity are exported to the United States, India, China, and the
Colonies. From five shillings to two or three guineas represents the
market value of a birthday poem, and the shorter such expressions are,
the greater is their value. But eminent writers of course obtain much
more. Lord Tennyson was once asked to pen a dozen birthday poems of
eight lines each. A thousand guineas were offered for the stanzas--but,
alas for birthday literature, the great poet declined to write verse on
order, even at the rate of ten guineas a line.

The Bishops, too, have been approached on the subject, for verses of a
religious tendency are more sought after than any others; those of the
late Frances Ridley Havergal are an instance. But the worthy bishops
frankly admitted that the gift of poetry had not been allotted to them.
The late Bishop of Worcester said: "I have not poetical talent enough to
write short poems." Dr. King, Bishop of Lincoln, said: "I am sorry, but
I am not a poet." The Bishops of Manchester and Liverpool also honestly
confessed to being no poets, whilst Dr. Temple, Bishop of London, said:
"I am afraid I should make a great mistake if at my age I began to write
short poems;" generously adding, "the Bishop of Exeter is a genuine
poet."

[Illustration: MISS HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.]

Perhaps the most popular writer to-day is the lady whose initials--H. M.
B.--have been appended to many millions of cards--Miss Helen Marion
Burnside, of whom we give a portrait. Miss Burnside was born at Bromley
Hall, Middlesex, in 1843, and at twelve years of age was seized with a
severe attack of scarlet fever, the result of which was that she lost
her hearing. A year later she commenced to write birthday poetry, and
her prolific abilities will be understood, when we mention that she has
written, on the average, two hundred birthday poems yearly ever since.
Miss Burnside, too, is clever with her brush, and before she was
nineteen years of age the Royal Academy accepted one of her pictures of
fruit and flowers, and, later, a couple of portraits in crayons.

We now turn to the designs for birthday cards--for though the motto is
the principal consideration, a pretty and fanciful surrounding is by no
means to be despised.

Royal Academicians really do little in this branch of art. Though both
Mr. Poynter and Mr. Sant have applied their brushes in this direction,
and Sir John Millais has before now signified his willingness to accept
a commission, it is presumed that R.A.'s prefer not to have their work
confined to the narrow limits of a birthday card. An R.A. could ask a
couple of hundred pounds for a design, and get it. Mr. Alma Tadema, when
asked what he would charge to paint a pair of cards, replied--£600.
Ordinary designs fetch from three to six guineas, though a distinctly
original and novel idea, be it only in the shape of a score of splashes
from the brush, is worth from ten to fifteen guineas.

Both the Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice have done some really
artistic work, but their efforts have not been made public--save in the
instance of the Princess Beatrice, whose Birthday Book is well known.
Cards designed by Royalty have passed only between members of the Royal
Family. They are very simple and picturesque, flowers and effective
landscapes with mountain scenery figuring prominently. It is
indisputable that women excel in such designs. Theirs seems to be a
light, airy, graceful, and almost fascinating touch; there appears to be
no effort--they seem only to play with the brush, though with delightful
results. Amongst those ladies who are just now contributing excellent
work might be mentioned the Baroness Marie Von Beckendorf, a German
lady, whose flowers are delicate and fanciful to a degree. Miss Bertha
Maguire is also gifted in the way of flower-painting, whilst Miss Annie
Simpson paints many an exquisite blossom combined with charming
landscape.

The illustrations we give show a page of what have now become ancient
cards, and another of the very latest modern styles.

[Illustration: OLD STYLE.]

It will at once be seen how the birthday card has grown out of the
valentine. The two designs in the top corner of the first are
essentially of a fourteenth of February tendency. Note the tiny god of
love, that irrepressible mite of mischief, Cupid, playing with a garland
of roses; and there, too, is the heart, a trifle too symmetrical to be
natural, with the customary arrow, almost as big as young Cupid himself,
cruelly thrust through the very middle of it. The centre card is a
French design, embossed round the edges with lace paper, with a silken
cross and hand-painted passion flowers laid on the card proper, which is
of rice-paper. The remaining specimen is exceedingly quaint in the
original, and has passed through more than forty birthdays. It is almost
funereal in appearance, as indeed were most of those made at that
period; indeed, many of the specimens of old-time birthday cards we have
examined are made up of weeping willows, young women shedding copious
tears into huge urns at their feet, and what, to all appearance, is a
mausoleum in the distance. And above all is written, "Many happy returns
of the day!"

[Illustration: NEW STYLE.]

The other set of cards, the modern ones, are all suggestive of the good
wishes they carry with them. Many of them are of satin with real lace,
delicately hand-painted marguerites, pansies, and apple-blossoms, whilst
the elaborate fan, with its flowing ribbons, is edged with white
swan's-down and gaily decorated with artificial corn and poppies. These
are from designs kindly placed at our disposal by Messrs. Raphael Tuck &
Sons. The printing of the cards is in itself an art. One of the largest
printing establishments in the world devoted to this purpose is that of
Messrs. Raphael Tuck & Sons, in Germany, whence comes the greater
portion of those required for the English market. In the little village
of Rendnitz, just outside Leipsic, from a thousand to twelve hundred
people find employment. Here may be found a room containing no fewer
than thirty-two of the largest presses, on which colour-lithography is
being printed. Every machine does its own work, and the amount of labour
required on a single birthday card is such that many cards pass through
eighteen or twenty different stages of printing, and in some
exceptionally elaborate instances the number has run up to thirty-seven.

The cards are printed on great sheets of board, and from a thousand to
fifteen hundred such sheets, so far as one colouring is concerned,
constitute a good day's work. These sheets measure 29 inches by 30
inches, and when the various colours are complete, they are cut up by
machinery into some twenty or more pieces, according to the size of the
card. Nor is the printing of birthday cards confined to cardboard.
Effective work has been of late years produced on satin, celluloid, and
Japanese paper; and prices range from as low as twopence half-penny a
gross to as much as seven and eight guineas for each card. The
production of a birthday card, from the time it is designed to the time
when it is laid before the public, generally occupies from eight to nine
months.

                             [Illustration]




                        _The Architect's Wife._

                  FROM THE SPANISH OF ANTONIO TRUEBA.

    [ANTONIO TRUEBA, who is still alive, was born on Christmas Eve,
    1821, at Sopuerta, in Spain. As in the case of Burns, his father
    was a peasant, and Antonio, as a child, played in the gutters
    with the other village urchins, or worked with his father in the
    fields. But at fifteen, one of his relations, who kept a shop
    at Madrid, made him his assistant. By day he waited on the
    customers; by night he studied in his room. Genius like that of
    Burns and of Trueba cannot be kept down. Like Burns, the boy
    began to put forth songs, strong, sweet, and simple, which
    stirred the people's hearts like music, and soon were hummed in
    every village street. His fame spread; it reached the Court; and
    Queen Isabella bestowed upon him the lofty title of Queen's
    Poet. He wrote also, and still writes, prose stories of all
    kinds, but mostly such as, like the following, belong to the
    romance of history, and are rather truth than fiction.]


                                   I.

TOWARDS the middle of the fourteenth century, Toledo was laid under
siege by Don Enrique de Trastamara; but the city, faithful to the King
surnamed "the Cruel," offered a brave and obstinate resistance.

Often had the loyal and valiant Toledans crossed the magnificent bridge
of San Martin--one of the structures of greatest beauty of that city of
splendid erections--and had cast themselves on the encampment of Don
Enrique, which was pitched on the Cigarrales, causing sad havoc to the
besieging army.

In order to prevent the repetition of these attacks, Don Enrique
resolved upon destroying the bridge.

The Cigarrales, upon which the army was encamped, were beautiful lands
enclosing luxuriant orchards, pleasure gardens, and summer residences.
The fame of their beauty had inspired Tirso and many Spanish poets to
sing its praises.

One night the luxuriant trees were cut down by the soldiers of Don
Enrique, and heaped upon the bridge. At day-dawn an immense fire raged
on the bridge of San Martin, which assumed huge proportions, its
sinister gleams lighting up the devastating hordes, the flowing current
of the Tagus, the Palace of Don Rodrigo, and the little Arab Tower. The
crackling of the strong and massive pillars, worked with all the
exquisite skill of the artificers who created the marvels of the
Alhambra, sounded like the piteous cry of Art oppressed by barbarism.

The Toledans, awakened by this terrible spectacle, ran to save the
beautiful erection from the utter ruin which menaced it, but all their
efforts were unavailing. A tremendous crash, which resounded throughout
the creeks and valleys watered by the Tagus, told them that the bridge
no longer existed.

Alas! it was too true!

When the rising sun gilded the cupolas of the Imperial City, the Toledan
maidens who came down to the river to fill their pitchers from the pure
and crystal stream, returned sorrowfully with empty pitchers on their
heads; the clear waters had become turbid and muddy, for the roaring
waves were carrying down the still smoking ruins of the bridge.

[Illustration: "MAIDENS RETURNED SORROWFULLY WITH EMPTY PITCHERS."]

Popular indignation rose to its highest pitch, and overflowed all
limits; for the bridge of San Martin was the only path that led to the
lovely Cigarrales.

Joining their forces for one supreme effort, the Toledans made a furious
onslaught on the camp, and, after blood had flowed in torrents,
compelled the army to take flight.


                                  II.

Many years passed since the bridge of San Martin had been destroyed.

Kings and Archbishops had projected schemes to replace it by another
structure, of equal strength and beauty; but the genius and perseverance
of the most famous architects were unable to carry out their wishes. The
rapid, powerful currents of the river destroyed and swept away the
scaffolding and framework before the gigantic arches could be completed.

Don Pedro Tenorio, Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, to whom the city owes
her glory almost as much as to her Kings, sent criers throughout the
cities and towns of Spain, inviting architects, Christian and Moorish,
to undertake the reconstruction of the bridge of San Martin; but with no
result. The difficulties to be encountered were judged insurmountable.

At length one day a man and a woman, complete strangers to the place,
entered Toledo through the Cambron Gate. They carefully inspected the
ruined bridge. Then they engaged a small house near the ruins, and
proceeded to take up their quarters there.

On the following day the man proceeded to the Archbishop's Palace.

His Eminence was holding a conference of prelates, learned men, and
distinguished knights, who were attracted by his piety and wisdom.

Great was his joy when one of his attendants announced that an architect
from distant lands solicited the honour of an audience.

The Cardinal Archbishop hastened to receive the stranger. The first
salutations over, his Eminence bade him be seated.

"My Lord Archbishop," began the stranger, "my name, which is unknown to
your Eminence, is Juan de Arèvalo, and I am an architect by profession."

"Are you come in answer to the invitation I have issued calling upon
skilful architects to come and rebuild the bridge of San Martin, which
in former times afforded a passage between the city and the Cigarrales?"

"It was indeed that invitation which brought me to Toledo."

"Are you aware of the difficulties of its construction?"

"I am well aware of them. But I can surmount them."

"Where did you study architecture?"

"In Salamanca."

"And what erection have you to show me as a proof of your skill?"

"None whatever, my lord."

The Archbishop made a gesture of impatience and distrust which was
noticed by the stranger.

"I was a soldier in my youth," continued he, "but ill-health compelled
me to leave the ardous profession of arms and return to Castille, the
land of my birth, where I dedicated myself to the study of architecture,
theoretical and practical."

"I regret," replied the Archbishop, "that you are unable to mention any
work of skill that you have carried out."

"There are some erections on the Tormes and the Duero of which others
have the credit, but which ought to honour him who now addresses you."

"I do not understand you."

"I was poor and obscure," rejoined Juan de Arèvalo, "and I sought only
to earn bread and shelter. Glory I left to others."

"I deeply regret," replied Don Pedro Tenorio, "that you have no means of
assuring us that we should not trust in you in vain."

"My lord, I can offer you one guarantee which I trust will satisfy your
Eminence."

"What is that?"

"My life!"

"Explain yourself."

[Illustration: "EXPLAIN YOURSELF."]

"When the framework of the centre arch shall be removed, I, the
architect, will stand upon the keystone. Should the bridge fall, I shall
perish with it."

"I accept the guarantee."

"My lord, trust me, and I will carry out the work!"

The Archbishop pressed the hand of the architect, and Juan de Arèvalo
departed, his heart full of joyous expectation. His wife was anxiously
awaiting his return. She was young and handsome still, despite the
ravages of want and suffering.

"Catherine! my Catherine!" cried the architect, clasping his wife to his
arms, "amid the monuments that embellish Toledo there will be one to
transmit to posterity the name of Juan de Arèvalo!"


                                  III.

Time passed. No longer could the Toledans say, on approaching the Tagus
across the rugged cliffs and solitary places where in former times stood
the Garden of Florinda, "Here once stood the bridge of San Martin."
Though the new bridge was still supported by solid scaffolding and
massive frames, yet the centre arch already rose to view, and the whole
was firmly planted on the ruins of the former.

The Archbishop, Don Pedro Tenorio, and the Toledans were heaping gifts
and praises on the fortunate architect whose skill had joined the
central arch, despite the furious power of the surging currents, and who
had completed the gigantic work with consummate daring.

It was the eve of the feast of San Ildefonso, the patron saint of the
city of Toledo. Juan de Arèvalo respectfully informed the Cardinal
Archbishop that nothing was now wanting to conclude the work, but to
remove the woodwork of the arches and the scaffolding. The joy of the
Cardinal and of the people was great. The removal of the scaffolding and
frames which supported the masonry was a work attended with considerable
danger; but the calmness and confidence of the architect who had pledged
himself to stand on the keystone and await the consequences of success
or lose his life, inspired all with perfect trust.

The solemn blessing and inauguration of the bridge of San Martin was
fixed to take place on the day following, and the bells of all the
churches of Toledo were joyously ringing in announcement of the grand
event appointed for the morrow. The Toledans contemplated with rejoicing
from the heights above the Tagus the lovely Cigarrales, which for many
years had remained solitary and silent--indeed, almost abandoned--but
which on the day following would be restored to life.

Towards nightfall Juan de Arèvalo mounted the central arch to see that
all was ready for the opening ceremony. He went humming to himself as he
inspected all the works and preparations. But, suddenly, an expression
of misgiving overspread his countenance. A thought had struck him--a
thought that froze his blood. He descended from the bridge and hastened
home.

At the door his wife received him with a joyous smile and a merry word
of congratulation. But on beholding his troubled face she turned deadly
pale.

"Good heavens!" she cried, affrighted, "are you ill, dear Juan?"

[Illustration: "ARE YOU ILL, DEAR JUAN?"]

"No, dear wife," he replied, striving to master his emotion.

"Do not deceive me! your face tells me that something ails you?"

"Oh! the evening is cold and the work has been excessive."

"Come in and sit down at the hearth and I will get the supper ready, and
when you have had something to eat and are rested you will be at ease
again!"

"At ease!" murmured Juan to himself, in agony of spirit, whilst his wife
busied herself in the preparation of the supper, placing the table close
to the hearth, upon which she threw a faggot.

Juan made a supreme effort to overcome his sadness, but it was futile.
His wife could not be deceived.

"For the first time in our married life," she said, "you hide a sorrow
from me. Am I no longer worthy of your love and confidence?"

"Catherine!" he exclaimed, "do not, for heaven's sake, grieve me further
by doubting my affection for you!"

"Where there is no trust," she rejoined in feeling tones, "there can be
no true love."

"Then respect, for your own good and mine, the secret I conceal from
you."

"Your secret is a sorrow, and I wish to know it and to lighten it."

"To lighten it? That is impossible!"

"To such a love as mine," she urged, "nothing is impossible."

"Very well: then hear me. To-morrow my life and honour will be lost. The
bridge must fall into the river, and I on the keystone shall perish with
the fabric which, with so much anxiety and so many hopes, I have
erected!"

"No, no!" cried Catherine, as she clasped her husband in her arms with
loving tenderness, smothering in her own heart the anguish of the
revelation.

"Yes, dear wife! When I was most confident of my triumph, I discovered
that, owing to an error in my calculations, the bridge must fall
to-morrow when the framework is removed. And with it perishes the
architect who projected and directed it."

"The bridge may sink into the waters, but not you, my loved one. On
bended knees I will beseech the noble Cardinal to release you from your
terrible engagement."

"What you ask will be in vain. Even should the Cardinal accede to your
entreaty, I refuse life destitute of honour."

"You shall have life and honour both, dear husband," replied Catherine.


                                  IV.

It was midnight. Juan, worn out with grief and anxious work, at last had
fallen asleep; a feverish sleep that partook more of the character of a
nightmare than of Nature's sweet restorer.

Meanwhile his wife had for some time made a show of sleeping. But she
watched her husband anxiously. When she felt certain that he had at
length succumbed to a deep sleep, she softly rose, and scarcely daring
to breathe, crept out into the kitchen. She opened the window gently and
looked out.

The night was dark; now and again vivid flashes of lightning lit up the
sky. No sound was heard save the roar of the rushing currents of the
Tagus, and the sighing of the wind as it swept in and out among the
scaffolding and complicated framework of the bridge.

Catherine noiselessly closed the window. From the hearth she took one of
the half-burnt faggots which still smouldered, and throwing a cloak over
her shoulders went out into the silent streets, her heart beating
wildly.

Where was she proceeding? Was she carrying that burning faggot as a
torch to light her path in the dense darkness of a moonless night? It
was indeed a dangerous track, covered as it was with broken boulders,
and uneven ground. Yet she strove rather to conceal the lighted wood
beneath her cloak.

At last she reached the bridge. The wind still sighed and whistled, and
the river continued to break its current against the pillars, as though
irritated at meeting obstacles which it could no longer sweep away.

Catherine approached the buttress of the bridge. An involuntary shudder
of terror passed through her frame. Was it because she stood on the edge
of that abyss of roaring waters? Or was it because her hand, only
accustomed hitherto to deeds of goodness, was now brandishing the torch
of destruction? Or rather did she tremble because a tremendous peal of
thunder at that moment resounded through the vault of heaven.

Waving the torch to kindle it afresh, she applied it to the dry,
resinous wood of the scaffolding. The wood quickly ignited, and the
flame, fanned by the wind, ascended with fearful rapidity, spreading and
involving arches and framework and the whole structure of the bridge.

[Illustration: "THE FLAME ASCENDED WITH FEARFUL RAPIDITY."]

Then she quitted the scene swiftly. Aided by the glare of the
conflagration and the vivid flashes of lightning which lit up the sky,
Catherine soon traversed the space which separated her from her home.
She entered as noiselessly as she had left it, and closed the door. Her
husband still slept soundly, and had not missed her. Catherine again
pretended to be fast asleep, as though she had never left her bed.

A few moments later, a noise of many people running arose within the
city, while from every belfry the bells rang forth the terrible alarm of
fire. A tremendous crash succeeded, followed by a cry of anguish such as
had been uttered years before, when the besieging army wrecked the
former bridge.

Juan awoke in terror; Catherine lay at his side, apparently sleeping
calmly. He dressed himself in haste, and ran out to learn the reason of
the uproar. To his secret joy he beheld the ruin of the burning bridge.

The Cardinal Archbishop and the Toledans attributed the disaster to a
flash of lightning which had struck the central arch, and had, moreover,
ignited the whole structure. The general sorrow was intense. Great also
was the public sympathy with the despair which the calamity must have
caused the architect, who was on the eve of a great triumph. The
inhabitants never knew whether it was fire from heaven, or an accident
that had caused the conflagration; but Juan de Arèvalo, who was good and
pious, and firmly believed in the protection of heaven, never wavered
for an instant in the belief that the bridge had really been destroyed
by lightning.

The destruction of the bridge, however, only retarded Juan's triumph for
a twelve-month. On the following year, on the same festival of San
Ildefonso, his new bridge was solemnly thrown open by the Cardinal; and
the joyous Toledans once more crossed the Tagus to visit the lovely
grounds of the Cigarrales, which they had been deprived of for so many
years. On that auspicious day the Cardinal celebrated the event by
giving a magnificent banquet. At his right hand sat the architect and
his noble wife; and after a highly complimentary speech from the
Cardinal, the whole company, amidst a tumult of applause, conducted Juan
and Catherine to their home.

[Illustration: "AT HIS RIGHT HAND SAT THE ARCHITECT AND HIS NOBLE
WIFE."]

Five hundred years have passed since then, but Juan's bridge still
stands secure above the rushing waters of the Tagus. His second
calculation had no error. The following illustration shows its
appearance at the present day.

[Illustration: ST. MARTIN'S BRIDGE TOLEDO.]




           _On the Decay of Humour in the House of Commons._

                    BY HENRY W. LUCY ("TOBY, M.P.").


THERE is no doubt--it is not feigned by tired fancy--that the present
House of Commons is a less entertaining assembly than it was wont to be.
This is partly due to the lack of heaven-born comedians and largely to
the curtailment of opportunity. The alteration of the rules of time
under which the House sits for work was fatal to redundancy of humour.
The House of Commons is, after all, human, and it is an indisputable
fact that mankind is more disposed to mirth after dinner than before. If
the record be searched it will be found that ninety per cent. of the
famous scenes that have established its reputation as a place of public
entertainment have happened after dinner.

Under the new rules, which practically close debate at midnight, there
is no "after dinner." Mechanically, apparently involuntarily, the old
arrangement of debate has shifted. Time was, within the memory of many
sitting in the present House, when the climax of debate was found in its
closing hours. The Leader of the House rose at eleven or half-past, and
before a crowded and excited assembly cheered on his followers to an
impending division. When he sat down, amid thundering cheers from his
supporters, the Leader of the Opposition sprang to his feet, was hailed
with a wild cheer from his friends, struck ringing blows across the
table, and then, at one o'clock, or two o'clock, or whatever hour of the
morning it might chance to be, members poured forth in tumultuous tide,
parting at the division lobby.

This was the period of the evening when chartered libertines of debate
appeared on the scene and the fun grew fast and furious. It was Mr.
O'Donnell's pleasing habit to rise when the duel between the Leaders was
concluded, and the crowded House roared for the division like caged
lions whose feeding-time is overstepped. Pausing to recapture his errant
eyeglass, Mr. O'Donnell was accustomed to gaze round the seething mass
of senators with admirably-feigned surprise at their impatience. When
the uproar lulled he began his speech; when it rose again he stopped;
but the speech was inevitable, and members presently recognising the
position, sat in sullen silence till he had said his say.

[Illustration: "ADMIRABLY-FEIGNED SURPRISE."]

This was comedy, not highly conceived it is true, but worked out with
great skill, the enraged House chiefly contributing to its success. It
was varied by the tragedy of the desperate English or Scotch member who,
striving vainly night after night to catch the Speaker's eye, made a mad
plunge at his last chance, and was literally howled down. It was a
favourite hour for the late Mr. Biggar's manifestations, and the
lamented and immortal Major O'Gorman never failed to put in an
appearance at eleven o'clock, ready for any fun that might be going or
might be made.

Now, when members slowly fill the House after dinner, dropping in
between ten and eleven o'clock, they know there is no time for anything
but business. If a division is imminent the debate must necessarily stop
before midnight for the question to be put. If it is to be continued, it
must be adjourned sharp on the stroke of midnight. As the House rarely
refills much before eleven o'clock, there is not opportunity after
dinner for more than one set speech from a favourite orator. The
consequence is that the plums of debate are in these days all pulled out
before dinner; and though at this period, the withers of the House being
unwrung it is ready for a brisk fight, it is not in the mellow mood that
invites and encourages the humorous.

Whilst the opportunities of the Parliamentary Yorick are thus
peremptorily curtailed, he is at a further disadvantage in view of the
personality of the Leadership. It is impossible that a House led by Mr.
W. H. Smith can be as prone to merriment as was one which found its head
in Mr. Disraeli. When, in the Parliament of 1868, Mr. Gladstone was
Premier and Mr. Disraeli Leader of the Opposition, or in the succeeding
Parliament, when these positions were reversed, the House of Commons
enjoyed a unique incentive to conditions of humour. Mr. Gladstone, with
his gravity of mien, his sonorous sustained eloquence, and his
seriousness about trifles, was a superb foil for the gay, but always
mordant humour of Mr. Disraeli.

[Illustration: "ELOQUENCE."]

From the outset of his career that great Parliamentarian enjoyed
extraordinary advantage by reason of the accident of the personality
against which, first and last, he was pitted. Having had Sir Robert Peel
to gird against through the space of a dozen years, it was too much to
hope that for fully a quarter of a century he should have enjoyed the
crowning mercy of being opposed to and contrasted with Mr. Gladstone.
Yet such was his good fortune. How little he did with Lord Hartington in
the interregnum of 1874-7, and how little mark he made against Lord
Granville when he met him in the Lords, brings into strong light the
advantage fortune had secured for him through the longer period of his
life.

Whilst the tone and habit of the House of Commons in matters of humour
are to a considerable extent conformable with the idiosyncrasy of its
leaders, it will sometimes, in despair of prevailing dulness, assume a
joke if it has it not. There is nothing more delightful in the happiest
efforts of Mr. Disraeli than the peculiar relations which subsist
between the present House of Commons and Mr. W. H. Smith. On one side we
have a good, amiable, somewhat pedagogic gentleman, unexpectedly thrust
into the seat haunted by the shades of Palmerston and Disraeli. On the
other side is the House of Commons, a little doubtful of the result, but
personally liking the new Leader, and constitutionally prone to
recognise authority.

[Illustration: "HAUNTED."]

At first Mr. Smith was voted unbearably dull. His hesitating manner, his
painful self-consciousness, his moral reflections, and his all-pervading
sense of "duty to his Queen and country" bored the House. In the first
few months of his succession to Lord Randolph Churchill, there was seen
the unwonted spectacle of members getting up and leaving the House when
the Leader presented himself at the table. But Mr. Smith plodded on,
patiently, pathetically, trolling out his moral reflections, and
tremulously preserving what with full consciousness of the contradiction
of words may be described as an air of submissive authority. Members
began to perceive, or perhaps to invent, the fun of the thing. Mr. Smith
realised their boyhood's idea of Mr. Barlow conversing with his pupils;
only he was always benevolent, and though he frequently shook his ferule
with threatening gesture, Sandford and Merton felt that the palms of
their hands were safe.

Mr. Smith is, however, peculiarly a House of Commons' possession. No one
out of the House can quite understand how precious he is, how
inimitable, how indescribable. To the outsider he makes poor amends for
the Irish Members of the Parliament of 1874, or the Fourth Party that
played so prominent a _rôle_ in the House that met in 1880. The Fourth
Party, like the Major, Mr. Biggar, Mr. Delahunty, Mr. McCarthy Downing,
and the famous Lord Mayor of Dublin--who warned Mr. Forster what would
happen in the event of an (absolutely uncontemplated) attempt on the
part of the Chief Secretary to drag his lordship's spouse out of her bed
in the dead of the night--are with us no more. Gone too, faded into
dreamland, are the characters who made up the Fourth Party. Happily
three of them remain with us, though in strangely altered circumstances.
Two sit on the Treasury Bench, and one watches it from behind with
friendly concern that adds a new terror to Ministerial office.

[Illustration: "THREE-FOURTHS OF A PARTY."]

Each in his way brilliantly sustains the reputation of the famous school
in which he was trained. There is in the House only one possibly
superior combination of debaters to Lord Randolph Churchill, Mr. Arthur
Balfour, and Sir John Gorst. In the quality of humour especially under
consideration, this combination carries away the palm from the other. I
think it is untrue to say, as is commonly accepted, that Mr. Gladstone
is devoid of the sense of humour, though it must be admitted that it
does not predominate in his House of Commons speeches. Mr. Chamberlain
is even more conspicuously lacking in this commanding quality. On the
other hand, Mr. Balfour in his House of Commons addresses does not shine
as a humorist. He is in his public character (in strange contrast, by
the way, with his personal habitude) not sufficiently genial. But he has
a pretty wit of the sarcastic, poisoned-dagger style, which, differing
from the effects of humour, makes everybody laugh, save the object of
the attack. _He_ writhes.

[Illustration: "HE WRITHES."]

Mr. Balfour's Parliamentary style, doubtless unconsciously, perhaps for
reasons connected with heredity, is shaped upon his distinguished
uncle's. He lacks the grave ponderosity which gives the finishing touch
to Lord Salisbury's occasional trifling with public questions. But he is
still young, and his style inchoate.

The Minister who answers for India in the House of Commons cannot fairly
be expected to contribute to the hilarity of its proceedings. Yet
occasionally Sir John Gorst, more particularly at question-time,
standing at the table with almost funereal aspect, drops a parenthetical
remark that convulses the House with laughter. Lord Randolph Churchill,
since he has taken to racing, has assumed a gravity of manner which
militates against repetition of his old successes in setting the table
in a roar.

But the gloom under which he has enveloped himself is, like that which
just now obscures the sunlight of laughter over the House generally,
only a temporary condition. The present House has accidentally run into
a groove of gloom, which will probably outlast its existence. But there
is no reason to believe that the decay of humour noted will be
permanent. There is no assembly in the world so pathetically eager to be
amused as is the House of Commons. It sits and listens entranced to
bursts of sustained argument. It follows with keen intellectual delight
the course of subtle argument. It burns with fierce indignation at a
story of wrong-doing. It flashes with generous impulse at an invitation
to do right. But it likes, above all things, to be made to laugh. In its
despair of worthier efforts, almost anything will do. An agitated orator
rounding off his peroration by sitting down on his hat; a glass of water
upset; or, primest joke of all, an impassioned oratorical fist brought
down with resonant thud on the hat of a listener sitting attentive on
the bench below--these are trivial, familiar accidents that never fail
to bring down the House.

[Illustration: "AN IMPASSIONED ORATORICAL FIST."]

So persistently eager is the House to be amused that, failing the gift
of beneficent nature, it will, as in the case of Mr. W. H. Smith, invent
a humorous aspect of a man, and laugh at its own creation. There are
many cases where a man has commenced his Parliamentary career amidst
evidences not only of personal disfavour, but of almost malignant
animosity, and has finished by finding his interposition in debate
hailed by hilarious cheering. Such a case was that of the late Mr.
Biggar, who for fully ten years of his Parliamentary career was an
object of unbridled execration. He lived to find himself almost a prime
favourite in the House, a man who, when he had not got further in his
speech than to ejaculate "Mr. Speaker, sir," found himself the focus of
a circle of beaming faces, keenly anticipatory of fun. Mr. Biggar in the
sessions of 1886-9 was the same member for Cavan who, in the Parliament
of 1874, was a constant mark of contumely, and even of personal hatred.
The House had grown used to him, and had gradually built up round his
name and personality an ideal of eccentric humour. But the creative
power was with the audience--a priceless quality that remains with it
even in these dull times, and though temporarily subdued, will presently
have its day again.

[Illustration: "A PRIME FAVOURITE."]




                            _The Snowstorm._

                 FROM THE RUSSIAN OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN.


TOWARDS the end of 1811, at a memorable period for Russians, lived on
his own domain of Nenaradova the kind-hearted Gavril R. He was
celebrated in the whole district for his hospitality and his genial
character. Neighbours constantly visited him to have something to eat
and drink, and to play at five-copeck boston with his wife, Praskovia.
Some, too, went to have a look at their daughter, Maria; a tall pale
girl of seventeen. She was an heiress, and they desired her either for
themselves or for their sons.

Maria had been brought up on French novels, and consequently was in
love. The object of her affection was a poor ensign in the army, who was
now at home in his small village on leave of absence. As a matter of
course, the young man reciprocated Maria's passion. But the parents of
his beloved, noticing their mutual attachment, forbade their daughter
even to think of him, while they received him worse than an ex-assize
judge.

[Illustration: "THE LOVERS MET IN THE PINE WOOD."]

Our lovers corresponded, and met alone daily in the pine wood or by the
old roadway chapel. There they vowed everlasting love, inveighed against
fate, and exchanged various suggestions. Writing and talking in this
way, they quite naturally reached the following conclusion:--

If we cannot exist apart from each other, and if the tyranny of
hard-hearted parents throws obstacles in the way of our happiness, then
can we not manage without them?

Of course, this happy idea originated in the mind of the young man; but
it pleased immensely the romantic imagination of Maria.

Winter set in, and put a stop to their meetings. But their
correspondence became all the more active. Vladimir begged Maria in
every letter to give herself up to him that they might get married
secretly, hide for a while, and then throw themselves at the feet of
their parents, who would of course in the end be touched by their heroic
constancy and say to them, "Children, come to our arms!"

Maria hesitated a long while, and out of many different plans proposed,
that of flight was for a time rejected. At last, however, she consented.
On the appointed day she was to decline supper, and retire to her room
under the plea of a headache. She and her maid, who was in the secret,
were then to go out into the garden by the back stairs, and beyond the
garden they would find a sledge ready for them, would get into it and
drive a distance of five miles from Nenaradova, to the village of
Jadrino, straight to the church, where Vladimir would be waiting for
them.

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria did not sleep all night; she was
packing and tying up linen and dresses. She wrote, moreover, a long
letter to a friend of hers, a sentimental young lady; and another to her
parents. Of the latter, she took leave in the most touching terms. She
excused the step she was taking by reason of the unconquerable power of
love, and wound up by declaring that she should consider it the happiest
moment of her life when she was allowed to throw herself at the feet of
her dearest parents. Sealing both letters with a Toula seal, on which
were engraven two flaming hearts with an appropriate inscription, she at
last threw herself upon her bed before daybreak, and dosed off, though
even then she was awakened from one moment to another by terrible
thoughts. First it seemed to her that at the moment of entering the
sledge in order to go and get married, her father stopped her, and with
cruel rapidity dragged her over the snow, and threw her into a dark
bottomless cellar--down which she fell headlong with an indescribable
sinking of the heart. Then she saw Vladimir, lying on the grass, pale
and bleeding; with his dying breath he implored her to make haste and
marry him. Other hideous and senseless visions floated before her one
after another. Finally, she rose paler than usual, and with a real
headache.

Both her father and her mother remarked her indisposition. Their tender
anxiety and constant inquiries, "What is the matter with you, Masha--are
you ill?" cut her to the heart. She tried to pacify them and to appear
cheerful; but she could not. Evening set in. The idea that she was
passing the day for the last time in the midst of her family oppressed
her. In her secret heart she took leave of everybody, of everything
which surrounded her.

Supper was served; her heart beat violently. In a trembling voice she
declared that she did not want any supper, and wished her father and
mother goodnight. They kissed her, and as usual blessed her; and she
nearly wept.

Reaching her own room, she threw herself into an easy chair and burst
into tears. Her maid begged her to be calm and take courage. Everything
was ready. In half an hour Masha would leave for ever her parents'
house, her own room, her peaceful life as a young girl.

[Illustration: "SHE BURST INTO TEARS."]

Out of doors the snow was falling, the wind howling. The shutters
rattled and shook. In everything she seemed to recognise omens and
threats.

Soon the whole home was quiet and asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a
shawl, put on a warm cloak, and with a box in her hand, passed out on to
the back staircase. The maid carried two bundles after her. They
descended into the garden. The snowstorm raged; a strong wind blew
against them, as if trying to stop the young culprit. With difficulty
they reached the end of the garden. In the road a sledge awaited them.

The horses, from cold, would not stand still. Vladimir's coachman was
walking to and fro in front of them, trying to quiet them. He helped the
young lady and her maid to their seats, and packing away the bundles and
the dressing-case, took up the reins, and the horses flew forward into
the darkness of the night.

                               * * * * *

Having entrusted the young lady to the care of fate and of Tereshka the
coachman, let us return to the young lover.

Vladimir had spent the whole day in driving. In the morning he had
called on the Jadrino priest, and, with difficulty, came to terms with
him. Then he went to seek for witnesses from amongst the neighbouring
gentry. The first on whom he called was a former cornet of horse, Dravin
by name, a man in his forties, who consented at once. The adventure, he
declared, reminded him of old times and of his larks when he was in the
Hussars. He persuaded Vladimir to stop to dinner with him, assuring him
that there would be no difficulty in getting the other two witnesses.
Indeed, immediately after dinner in came the surveyor Schmidt, with a
moustache and spurs, and the son of a captain-magistrate, a boy of
sixteen, who had recently entered the Uhlans. They not only accepted
Vladimir's proposal, but even swore that they were ready to sacrifice
their lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with delight, and drove off
to get everything ready.

It had long been dark. Vladimir despatched his trustworthy Tereshka to
Nenaradova with his two-horsed sledge, and with appropriate instructions
for the occasion. For himself he ordered the small sledge with one
horse, and started alone without a coachman for Jadrino, where Maria
ought to arrive in a couple of hours. He knew the road, and the drive
would only occupy twenty minutes.

But Vladimir had scarcely passed from the enclosure into the open field
when the wind rose, and soon there was a driving snowstorm so heavy and
so severe that he could not see. In a moment the road was covered with
snow. All landmarks disappeared in the murky yellow darkness, through
which fell white flakes of snow. Sky and earth became merged into one.
Vladimir, in the midst of the field, tried in vain to get to the road.
The horse walked on at random, and every moment stepped either into deep
snow or into a rut, so that the sledge was constantly upsetting.
Vladimir tried at least not to lose the right direction; but it seemed
to him that more than half an hour had passed, and he had not yet
reached the Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes passed, and still the wood
was invisible. Vladimir drove across fields intersected by deep ditches.
The snowstorm did not abate, and the sky did not clear. The horse was
getting tired and the perspiration rolled from him like hail, in spite
of the fact that every moment his legs were disappearing in the snow.

[Illustration: "ALL LANDMARKS DISAPPEARED."]

At last Vladimir found that he was going in the wrong direction. He
stopped; began to reflect, recollect, and consider; till at last he
became convinced that he ought to have turned to the right. He did so
now. His horse could scarcely drag along. But he had been more than an
hour on the road, and Jadrino could not now be far. He drove and drove,
but there was no getting out of the field. Still snow-drifts and
ditches. Every moment the sledge was upset, and every moment Vladimir
had to raise it up.

Time was slipping by; and Vladimir grew seriously anxious. At last in
the distance some dark object could be seen.

Vladimir turned in its direction, and as he drew near found it was a
wood.

"Thank Heaven," he thought, "I am now near the end."

He drove by the side of the wood, hoping to come at once upon the
familiar road, or, if not, to pass round the wood. Jadrino was situated
immediately behind it.

He soon found the road, and passed into the darkness of the wood, now
stripped by the winter. The wind could not rage here; the road was
smooth, the horse picked up courage, and Vladimir was comforted.

He drove and drove, but still Jadrino was not to be seen; there was no
end to the wood. Then, to his horror, he discovered that he had got into
a strange wood! He was in despair. He whipped his horse, and the poor
animal started off at a trot. But it soon got tired, and in a quarter of
an hour, in spite of all poor Vladimir's efforts, could only crawl.

Gradually the trees became thinner, and Vladimir drove out of the wood;
but Jadrino was not to be seen. It must have been about midnight. Tears
gushed from the young man's eyes. He drove on at random; and now the
weather abated, the clouds dispersed, and before him was a wide stretch
of plain covered with a white billowy carpet. The night was
comparatively clear, and he could see a small village a short distance
off, which consisted of four or five cottages. Vladimir drove towards
it. At the first door he jumped out of the sledge, ran up to the window,
and tapped.

After a few minutes a wooden shutter was raised, and an old man stuck
out his grey beard.

"What do you want?"

[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"]

"How far is Jadrino?"

"How far is Jadrino?"

"Yes, yes! Is it far?"

"Not far; about ten miles."

At this answer Vladimir clutched hold of his hair, and stood motionless,
like a man condemned to death.

"Where do you come from?" added the man. Vladimir had not the courage to
reply.

"My man," he said, "can you procure me horses to Jadrino?"

"We have no horses," answered the peasant.

"Could I find a guide? I will pay him any sum he likes."

"Stop!" said the old man, dropping the shutter; "I will send my son out
to you; he will conduct you."

Vladimir waited. Scarcely a minute had passed when he again knocked. The
shutter was lifted, and a beard was seen.

"What do you want?"

"What about your son?"

"He'll come out directly: he is putting on his boots. Are you cold? Come
in and warm yourself."

"Thanks; send out your son quickly."

The gate creaked; a youth came out with a cudgel, and walked on in
front, at one time pointing out the road, at another looking for it in a
mass of drifted snow.

"What o'clock is it?" Vladimir asked him.

"It will soon be daylight," replied the young peasant. Vladimir spoke
not another word.

The cocks were crowing, and it was light when they reached Jadrino. The
church was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove into the yard of
the priest's house. In the yard his two-horsed sledge was not to be
seen. What news awaited him!

                               * * * * *

But let us return to the kind proprietors of Nenaradova, and see what is
going on there.

Nothing.

The old people awoke, and went into the sitting-room, Gavril in a
night-cap and flannel jacket, Praskovia in a wadded dressing gown. The
samovar was brought in, and Gavril sent the little maid to ask Maria how
she was and how she had slept. The little maid returned, saying that her
young lady had slept badly, but that she was better now, and that she
would come into the sitting-room in a moment. And indeed the door opened
and Maria came in and wished her papa and mamma good morning.

"How is your head-ache, Masha?" (familiar for Mary) inquired Gavril.

"Better, papa," answered Masha.

"The fumes from the stoves must have given you your headache," remarked
Praskovia.

"Perhaps so, mamma," replied Masha.

The day passed well enough, but in the night Masha was taken ill. A
doctor was sent for from town. He came towards evening and found the
patient delirious. Soon she was in a severe fever, and in a fortnight
the poor patient was on the brink of the grave.

No member of the family knew anything of the flight from home. The
letters written by Masha the evening before had been burnt; and the
maid, fearing the wrath of the master and mistress, had not breathed a
word. The priest, the ex-cornet, the big moustached surveyor, and the
little lancer were equally discreet, and with good reason. Tereshka, the
coachman, never said too much, not even in his drink. Thus the secret
was kept better than it might have been by half a dozen conspirators.

But Maria herself, in the course of her long fever let out her secret.
Nevertheless, her words were so disconnected that her mother, who never
left her bedside, could only make out from them that her daughter was
desperately in love with Vladimir, and that probably love was the cause
of her illness. She consulted her husband and some of her neighbours,
and at last it was decided unanimously that the fate of Maria ought not
to be interfered with, that a woman must not ride away from the man she
is destined to marry, that poverty is no crime, that a woman has to live
not with money but with a man, and so on. Moral proverbs are wonderfully
useful on such occasions, when we can invent little or nothing in our
own justification.

Meanwhile the young lady began to recover. Vladimir had not been seen
for a long time in the house of Gavril, so frightened had he been by his
previous reception. It was now resolved to send and announce to him the
good news which he could scarcely expect: the consent of her parents to
his marriage with Maria.

But what was the astonishment of the proprietors of Nenaradova when, in
answer to their invitation they received an insane reply. Vladimir
informed them he could never set foot in their house, and begged them to
forget an unhappy man whose only hope now was in death. A few days
afterwards they heard that Vladimir had left the place and joined the
army.

A long time passed before they ventured to tell Masha, who was now
recovering. She never mentioned Vladimir. Some months later, however,
finding his name in the list of those who had distinguished themselves
and been severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted, and it was feared
that the fever might return. But, Heaven be thanked! the fainting fit
had no bad results.

                               * * * * *

Maria experienced yet another sorrow. Her father died, leaving her the
heiress of all his property. But the inheritance could not console her.
She shared sincerely the affliction of her mother, and vowed she would
never leave her.

Suitors clustered round the charming heiress; but she gave no one the
slightest hope. Her mother sometimes tried to persuade her to choose a
companion in life; but Maria shook her head, and grew pensive.

Vladimir no longer existed. He had died at Moscow on the eve of the
arrival of the French. His memory was held sacred by Maria, and she
treasured up everything that would remind her of him: books he had read,
drawings which he had made; songs he had sung, and the pieces of poetry
which he had copied out for her.

The neighbours, hearing all this, wondered at her fidelity, and awaited
with curiosity the arrival of the hero who must in the end triumph over
the melancholy constancy of this virgin Artemis.

Meanwhile, the war had been brought to a glorious conclusion, and our
armies were returning from abroad. The people ran to meet them. The
music played by the regimental bands consisted of war songs, "Vive
Henri-Quatre," Tirolese waltzes and airs from Joconde. Nourished on the
atmosphere of winter, officers who had started on the campaign mere
striplings, returned grown men, and covered with decorations. The
soldiers conversed gaily among themselves, mingling German and French
words every moment in their speech. A time never to be forgotten--a time
of glory and delight! How quickly beat the Russian heart at the words,
"Native land!" How sweet the tears of meeting! With what unanimity did
we combine feelings of national pride with love for the Tsar! And for
him, what a moment!

[Illustration: "A TIME OF GLORY AND DELIGHT."]

The women--our Russian women--were splendid then. Their usual coldness
disappeared. Their delight was really intoxicating when, meeting the
conquerors, they cried, "Hurrah!" And they threw up their caps in the
air.

Who of the officers of that period does not own that to the Russian
women he was indebted for his best and most valued reward? During this
brilliant period Maria was living with her mother in retirement, and
neither of them saw how, in both the capitals, the returning troops were
welcomed. But in the districts and villages the general enthusiasm was,
perhaps, even greater.

In these places the appearance of an officer became for him a veritable
triumph. The accepted lover in plain clothes fared badly by his side.

We have already said that, in spite of her coldness, Maria was still, as
before, surrounded by suitors. But all had to fall in the rear when
there arrived at his castle the wounded young captain of
Hussars--Bourmin by name--with the order of St. George in his
button-hole, and an interesting pallor on his face. He was about
twenty-six. He had come home on leave to his estates, which were close
to Maria's villa. Maria paid him such attention as none of the others
received. In his presence her habitual gloom disappeared. It could not
be said that she flirted with him. But a poet, observing her behaviour,
might have asked, "S'amor non è, che dunque?"

Bourmin was really a very agreeable young man. He possessed just the
kind of sense that pleased women: a sense of what is suitable and
becoming. He had no affectation, and was carelessly satirical. His
manner towards Maria was simple and easy. He seemed to be of a quiet and
modest disposition; but rumour said that he had at one time been
terribly wild. This, however, did not harm him in the opinion of Maria,
who (like all other young ladies) excused, with pleasure, vagaries which
were the result of impulsiveness and daring.

But above all--more than his love-making, more than his pleasant talk,
more than his interesting pallor, more even than his bandaged arm--the
silence of the young Hussar excited her curiosity and her imagination.
She could not help confessing to herself that he pleased her very much.
Probably he too, with his acuteness and his experience, had seen that he
interested her. How was it, then, that up to this moment she had not
seen him at her feet; had not received from him any declaration
whatever? And wherefore did she not encourage him with more attention,
and, according to circumstances, even with tenderness? Had she a secret
of her own which would account for her behaviour?

At last, Bourmin fell into such deep meditation, and his black eyes
rested with such fire upon Maria, that the decisive moment seemed very
near. The neighbours spoke of the marriage as an accomplished fact, and
kind Praskovia rejoiced that her daughter had at last found for herself
a worthy mate.

The lady was sitting alone once in the drawing-room, laying out
grande-patience, when Bourmin entered the room, and at once inquired for
Maria.

"She is in the garden," replied the old lady: "go to her, and I will
wait for you here." Bourmin went, and the old lady made the sign of the
cross and thought, "Perhaps the affair will be settled to-day!"

Bourmin found Maria in the ivy-bower beside the pond, with a book in her
hands, and wearing a white dress--a veritable heroine of romance. After
the first inquiries, Maria purposely let the conversation drop;
increasing by these means the mutual embarrassment, from which it was
only possible to escape by means of a sudden and positive declaration.

[Illustration: "IN THE IVY-BOWER."]

It happened thus. Bourmin, feeling the awkwardness of his position,
informed Maria that he had long sought an opportunity of opening his
heart to her, and that he begged for a moment's attention. Maria closed
the book and lowered her eyes, as a sign that she was listening.

"I love you," said Bourmin, "I love you passionately!" Maria blushed,
and bent her head still lower.

"I have behaved imprudently, yielding as I have done to the seductive
pleasure of seeing and hearing you daily." Maria recollected the first
letter of St. Preux in "La Nouvelle Heloise." "It is too late now to
resist my fate. The remembrance of you, your dear incomparable image,
must from to-day be at once the torment and the consolation of my
existence. I have now a grave duty to perform, a terrible secret to
disclose, which will place between us an insurmountable barrier."

"It has always existed!" interrupted Maria; "I could never have been
your wife."

"I know," he replied quickly; "I know that you once loved. But death and
three years of mourning may have worked some change. Dear, kind Maria,
do not try to deprive me of my last consolation; the idea that you might
have consented to make me happy if----. Don't speak, for God's sake
don't speak--you torture me. Yes, I know, I feel that you could have
been mine, but--I am the most miserable of beings--I am already
married!"

Maria looked at him in astonishment.

"I am married," continued Bourmin; "I have been married more than three
years, and do not know who my wife is, or where she is, or whether I
shall ever see her again."

"What are you saying?" exclaimed Maria; "how strange! Pray continue."

"In the beginning of 1812," said Bourmin, "I was hurrying on to Wilna,
where my regiment was stationed. Arriving one evening late at a station,
I ordered the horses to be got ready quickly, when suddenly a fearful
snowstorm broke out. Both station-master and drivers advised me to wait
till it was over. I listened to their advice, but an unaccountable
restlessness took possession of me, just as though someone was pushing
me on. Meanwhile, the snowstorm did not abate. I could bear it no
longer, and again ordered the horses, and started in the midst of the
storm. The driver took it into his head to drive along the river, which
would shorten the distance by three miles. The banks were covered with
snowdrifts; the driver missed the turning which would have brought us
out on to the road, and we turned up in an unknown place. The storm
never ceased. I could discern a light, and told the driver to make for
it. We entered a village, and found that the light proceeded from a
wooden church. The church was open. Outsides the railings stood several
sledges, and people passing in and out through the porch.

"'Here! here!' cried several voices. I told the coachman to drive up.

"'Where have you dawdled?' said someone to me. 'The bride has fainted;
the priest does not know what to do; we were on the point of going back.
Make haste and get out!'

"I got out of the sledge in silence, and stepped into the church, which
was dimly lighted with two or three tapers. A girl was sitting in a dark
corner on a bench; another girl was rubbing her temples. 'Thank God,'
said the latter, 'you have come at last! You have nearly been the death
of the young lady.'

"The old priest approached me, saying,

"'Shall I begin?'

"'Begin--begin, reverend father,' I replied, absently.

"The young lady was raised up. I thought her rather pretty. Oh, wild,
unpardonable frivolity! I placed myself by her side at the altar. The
priest hurried on.

"Three men and the maid supported the bride, and occupied themselves
with her alone. We were married!

"'Kiss your wife,' said the priest.

"My wife turned her pale face towards me. I was going to kiss her, when
she exclaimed, 'Oh! it is not he--not he!' and fell back insensible.

[Illustration: "IT IS NOT HE!--NOT HE!"]

"The witnesses stared at me. I turned round and left the church without
any attempt being made to stop me, threw myself into the sledge, and
cried, 'Away!'"

"What!" exclaimed Maria. "And you don't know what became of your unhappy
wife?"

"I do not," replied Bourmin; "neither do I know the name of the village
where I was married, nor that of the station from which I started. At
that time I thought so little of my wicked joke that, on driving away
from the church, I fell asleep, and never woke till early the next
morning, after reaching the third station. The servant who was with me
died during the campaign, so that I have now no hope of ever discovering
the unhappy woman on whom I played such a cruel trick, and who is now so
cruelly avenged."

"Great heavens!" cried Maria, seizing his hand. "Then it was you, and
you do not recognise me?"

Bourmin turned pale--and threw himself at her feet.

                             [Illustration]




                   _A Night at The Grand Chartreuse._

                           BY J. E. MUDDOCK.

  "La vie d'un bon Chartreux doit être
  Une oraison presque continuelle."


[Illustration: Entrance Court
to La Grande Chartreuse]

THE above is the legend that is painted on the door of every cell
occupied by a monk of the silent Order of Carthusians. To pray always
for those who never pray; to pray for those who have done you wrong; to
pray for those who sin every hour of their lives; to pray for all sorts
and conditions of men, no matter what their colour, no matter what their
creed; to pray that God will remove doubt and scepticism from the world,
and open all human eyes to the way of faith and salvation. Such is the
chief duty of the Chartreux. That the lives of these men is a continual
prayer would seem to be an undoubted fact; but they are more than
that--they are lives of silence, that must not be broken, save under
exceptional circumstances. Time has been when they were surrounded by
their families, their friends, when perhaps they had ambitions like
other men, hopes like other men, and, it may be, have given their love
to women. But then something has happened to change the current of their
lives, the course of their thought: the mundane world has become
distasteful, and with heavy hearts and weary feet they have sought the
lonely monastery, and, having once entered, the door has closed upon
them for ever. Henceforth the horizon of their world is the monastery
wall; and the only sounds they will hear save the wind when it howls, or
the thunder when it rolls, are the eternal tolling of the bell, and the
wail and chant of the monotonous prayers. It is difficult to understand
how men, young, rich, well-favoured, can seclude themselves in this busy
and wonderful age; and, renouncing all the pleasures and gaiety of the
world, take upon themselves solemn vows of chastity and silence, which,
once taken, are devoutly kept. To God and God's service they dedicate
themselves; and though on the earth, they are scarcely of it. They live,
but for them it is the beginning of eternity; the passion and fret of
the world will never more disturb them, and their one longing is to
change the finite for the infinite. It is surely no ordinary faith that
impels men to enter into a living death of this kind, nor is it
fanaticism, but a devotion too deep for words, too mysterious for
ordinary comprehensions to grasp. One must go back to the eleventh
century for the beginning of the history of this strange Order. It was
founded by St. Bruno, of Cologne, who imposed upon his votaries
"Solitude," "Silence," and "Fasting." For above eight hundred years the
Carthusians have been true to their saint, and wherever they have
established themselves they have lived their lives of silence, knowing
nothing of the seductive and tender influence of women, or the love and
sweetness of children; dying, when their time came, without a pang of
regret at leaving the world, and with nothing to perpetuate their
memories, save a tiny wooden cross, on which a number is painted. But in
half a dozen years or so the cross rots away, and is never renewed, and
the dead brother is referred to no more.

The lonely convent of the Grande Chartreuse is as old as the Order,
although it has undergone considerable change. It is now a great
building, occupying a considerable extent of ground, but originally it
must have been a single small house. It stands in a defile, in a region
of utter loneliness. Gradually it has grown and expanded, and in order
to protect it against the attacks of thieves and marauders, it is
surrounded by a massive wall that is loopholed and embrasured. For what
purpose it is difficult to say, for these monks would never take human
life, not even to save their own. So far, however, as I have been able
to learn there is no record of the convent having been seriously
attacked during any period of its history. But in the Revolution of 1792
the monks were cruelly expelled, and their most valuable library was
destroyed. They separated in little groups, and found refuge in holy
houses of their order in different parts of Europe, until the
restoration of 1815--that memorable year--when they reunited and
returned to their beloved monastery amid the solitude of the eternal
mountains.

La Grande Chartreuse is situated amidst scenes of savage grandeur, 3,800
feet above the sea, at the foot of the Mont Grand Som, which reaches a
height of 6,668 feet, and commands a view of surpassing magnificence. It
is in the Department of Isère, France, and eight hours' journey from
Grenoble, which is the capital of the Department, and famous for its
gloves. The nearest railway station is a five hours' journey away, and
there is no other human habitation within many miles of the convent. The
approaches are by wild and rugged gorges, through which excellent roads
have of late years been made, but formerly these gorges might have been
held by a handful of men against a host. In the winter the roads are
blocked with snow, and between the lonely convent and the outer world
there is little communication. In summer the pine woods look solemn and
dark, and the ravines are filled with the music of falling waters. There
is a strange absence of bird melody, and the wind sighs amongst the
pines, and moans around the rocks. And yet the region is one of
entrancing beauty, and full of a dreamy repose that makes its influence
felt.

To this lonely convent I travelled one day in the late autumn, when the
falling leaves spoke sadly of departed summer glories, and the shrill
blasts that came down the glens were messengers from the regions of ice
and snow. I had gone by train to Voiron, between Rives and Grenoble, and
thence had tramped through the beautiful gorges of Crossey for five
hours. The afternoon had been sullen, and bitterly cold, and the shades
of night were fast falling as, weary and hungry, I rang the great bell
at the convent gate, and begged for hospitality. A tall, cowled monk
received me, but uttered no word. He merely made a sign for me to follow
him, and, closing the gate and shooting the massive bolts, he led the
way across a court, where I was met by another monk, who was allowed to
break the rigid vow of silence so far that he could inquire of strangers
what their business was. He asked me if I desired food and rest, and on
my answering in the affirmative he led me to a third and silent brother,
and by him I was conducted to a cell with whitewashed walls. It
contained a small bed of unpainted pine wood, and a tiny table, on which
was an iron basin and a jug of water. A crucifix hung on the wall, and
beneath it was a _prie-dieu_. The cell was somehow suggestive of a
prison, and yet I am not sure that there was as much comfort to be found
in it as a prison cell affords in these humanitarian times. Everything
about the Grande Chartreuse is of Spartan-like simplicity. There the
body is mortified for the soul's sake, and nothing that could pander in
the least degree to luxurious tastes is allowed. As I was to learn
afterwards, even such barren comfort as is afforded by this "Visitor's
Cell" is unknown in the cells occupied by the monks.

[Illustration: A VISITORS CELL]

When I had somewhat freshened myself up by a wash, I went into the
corridor where my attendant was waiting, and, following him in obedience
to a sign he made, I traversed a long, lofty, cold passage, with bare
walls and floor. At the end of the passage there was carved in the stone
the Latin inscription, _Stat crux dum volvitur orbis_. Passing through
an arched doorway we reached the refectory. The great hall or supper
room was cold, barren, and dismal. Everything looked ghostly and dim in
the feeble light shed by two small swinging lamps, that seemed rather to
emphasise the gloom than dispel it. Comfort there was none in this
echoing chamber, with its whitewashed walls and shadowy recesses, from
which I half expected to see the spirit forms of dead monks glide.
Taking my seat at a small, bare table, a silent brother placed before me
a bowl of thin vegetable soup, in which some chopped eggs floated. Fish
followed, then an omelette, and the whole was washed down with a bottle
of excellent red wine. It was a frugal repast, but an Epicurean spread
as compared with the dietary scale of the monks themselves. Meat of
every kind is rigorously interdicted, that is, the flesh of animals in
any form. Each brother only gets two meals a day. They consist of hot
water flavoured with egg; vegetables cooked in oil; while the only drink
allowed is cold water. The monks do not eat together except on Sundays
and religious _fête_ days, when they all sup in the refectory.

On other days every man has his meals alone, in the solitude of his
cell, and but a brief time is allowed him, for it is considered sinful
to spend more time in eating and drinking than is absolutely necessary
to swallow down so much food as will hold body and soul together. That
men may keep themselves healthy, even on such meagre diet as that I have
mentioned, is proved by the monks of the Grande Chartreuse, for they
enjoy excellent health, and generally live to a green old age. Even the
weak and delicate grow strong and hardy under the severe discipline. The
rasping friction of the nervous system, which annually slays its tens of
thousands in the outer world, is unknown here. All is calm and peaceful,
and the austerity of the life led is compensated for by the abiding and
hopeful faith. It is a brief preparation for an eternal life of
unsullied joy in a world where man's sin is known no more. Surely
nothing else but such a faith could sustain mortal beings under an
ordeal so trying.

[Illustration: CARTHUSIAN FATHER GOING TO MIDNIGHT OFFICE]

This strange community of Carthusians is divided into categories of
"Fathers" and "Brothers." The former wear robes of white wool, cinctured
with a girdle of white leather. Their heads and faces are closely
shaven, and the head is generally enveloped in a cowl, which is attached
to the robe. They are all ordained priests, and it is to them the rule
of silence, solitude, and fasting, more particularly applies. The
fasting is represented by the daily bill of fare I have given, and it
never varies all the year round, except on Fridays and certain days in
Lent, when, poor as it is, it is still further reduced. The solitude
consists of many hours spent in prayer in the loneliness of the cell,
and the silence imposed is only broken by monosyllabic answers to
questions addressed to them. Sustained conversation is a fault, and
would be severely punished. Aspirants for the Fatherhood have to submit
to a most trying novitiate, which lasts for five full years. After that
they are ordained, and from that moment they renounce the world, with
all its luring temptations and its sin. Their lives henceforth must be
strictly holy in accordance with the tenets of their religion. The
Brothers are the manual labourers, the hewers of wood and drawers of
water. They do everything that is required in the way of domestic
service. They wear sandals on their bare feet, and their bodies are
clothed in a long, loose, brown robe, fastened at the waist by a rope
girdle. On both branches of the Order the same severe _régime_ is
compulsory, but on Fridays the Brothers only get a morsel of black bread
and a cup of cold water. The attention to spiritual duties is
all-absorbing, and under no circumstances must it be relaxed. Matins
commence in the chapel at twelve o'clock at night, and continue until
about two o'clock. After a short rest, the Divine service is resumed at
six o'clock. But all the monks do not attend the matins at one time.
While some sleep others pray. And it is doubtful if amongst the
religious orders of the world anything more solemn and impressive than
this midnight service could be found. To witness it was my chief aim in
going to the convent, and so I left my cell after a short sleep, and
proceeded to the chapel as the deep-toned bell struck twelve with
sonorous sounds that rolled in ghostly echoes along the lofty corridors.
The passage through which I made my way was a vast one, and a solitary
lamp ineffectually struggled to illumine the darkness. I groped along
until I reached a door that swung silently open to my touch. Then I
stood within the chapel, where all was silent, and a Cimmerian gloom
reigned. Far in the depths of the darkness was a glimmering, star-like
lamp over the altar, but its beams, feeble and straggling, revealed
nothing, it only accentuated the pitchy blackness all around. The feeble
lanterns of the monks, one to every third stall, were invisible from my
position. Everything was suggestive of a tomb far down in the bowels of
the earth--the silence, the cold, the damp earthy smell that filled
one's nostrils, all seemed to indicate decaying mortality. Suddenly,
with startling abruptness, a single voice broke into a plaintive,
monotonous chant. Then others took up the cadence with a moaning wail
that gradually died away until there was unbroken silence again. There
was something strange and weird in this performance, for the
impenetrable darkness, the star-like lamp, the wailing voices of unseen
figures, seemed altogether unnatural. It begot in me a shudder that I
could not repress, for the moaning and wailing appeared to be associated
with death rather than life. There was nothing in the whole ceremony
indicative of joy or hope, but rather their converse--sadness and
despair. Throughout those weary hours the wailing chant and the silence
alternated. I wanted to go away, but could not. Some strange fascination
kept me there, and I recalled some of the wonderful descriptive scenes
in Dantè which were irresistibly suggested. My imagination was wrought
on to such an extent that I pictured that vast gloomy space as filled
with unquiet spirits condemned to torture; and the lamp as typical of
the one ray of hope that told them that after a long period of penance
they should pass from the gloom of woe to the lightness and joy of
eternal day, when their anguish should cease for ever and rest be found.
At last, to my great relief, I saw the beams of a new morn steal in at
the chapel windows. The bowed forms of the cowled monks were faintly
discernible, kneeling before the altar, where still burned the
watch-lamp. One by one they rose and flitted away like shadows; no sound
came from their footfalls, no rustle from their garments. Warmly clad
though I was, I shivered with the cold, and was cramped with the
position I had maintained for hours; for I had been fearful of moving
lest any harsh, grating noise should break in upon that solemn and
impressive silence. When all had gone I too went, and made my way back
to the cell, where I tried to snatch a few hours' sleep, but it was all
in vain, for my mind seemed as if it had been upset by a strange and
terrible dream. Although I have had a wide and varied experience of men
and manners in all parts of the world, I never witnessed such a strange
scene before as I witnessed that night. It was like a nightmare picture,
a poem evolved from a distorted imagination. I say a poem because it had
the elements of poetry in it, but it was the poetry of ineffable human
sadness.

[Illustration: IN THE CHAPEL: DAYBREAK.]

Truly it is singular that men can so strengthen their faith, so enwrap
themselves, as it were, in a gloomy creed, that they are willing to deny
themselves every pleasure in life, to shut themselves off from all that
is joyous and beautiful in the world, in order to submit to an endless
sorrowing for human sins; a sorrowing that finds expression every hour
of their lonely, saddened lives. For from sunset to sunrise, and sunrise
to sunset again, they are warned by the mournful tolling of the iron
bell, every quivering stroke of which seems to say "death," to pray
without ceasing.

[Illustration: A MONKS CELL]

Many of the monks at the Grande Chartreuse are still in the very prime
of their manhood, and not a few of them are members of distinguished and
wealthy families. Yet they have renounced everything; all the advantages
that influence and wealth could give them; all the comforts of home; the
love of wife and children; the fascination of travel and of strange
sights--every temptation that this most beautiful world could hold out
has been resisted, and they have dedicated themselves to gloom, fasting,
and silence. Verily, human nature is an unfathomable mystery. One may
well ask if these monks are truly happy? If they have no longings for
the flesh-pots of Egypt? If they do not sometimes pine and sigh for the
busy haunts and the excitement of the great towns? Such questions are
not easily answered, unless we get the answer in the fact that the
monastic vows are faithfully and religiously kept; and there is no
record of a Carthusian monk ever having broken his vow. Surely then
there must be something strangely, even terribly attractive in that
stern life which is so full of hardship and trial, and from year's end
to year's end knows no change, until the great change which comes to us
all, sooner or later, whether we be monks or revellers.

I have already mentioned that notwithstanding their sparse and meagre
diet, which seems to us ordinary mortals to lack nutriment and
sustaining power, the monks of the Grande Chartreuse are healthy and
vigorous. The Brothers labour in their fields and gardens, and they
cultivate all the vegetables that they use, as well as grow most of
their own corn for the bread. They do any bricklaying, carpentering, or
painting that may be required, as well as all the washing and mending of
the establishment, for a woman is never allowed to enter the sacred
precincts. The furniture of each cell consists of a very narrow bed as
hard as a board, and with little covering; a small stove, for the
rigours of the climate render a fire indispensable at times, and yet the
fires are used but sparingly; a little basin, with a jug of water for
ablutions; and of course there is the _prie-dieu_, and the image of a
saint. Attached to the convent is a cemetery, which cannot fail to have
a very melancholy interest for the visitor. It is divided into two
parts, one being for the Fathers, the other for the Brothers, for as the
two branches of the Order are kept distinct in life, so they are
separated in death. No mounds mark the last resting-places of the quiet
sleepers; but at the head of each is a wooden cross, though it bears no
indication of the name, age, or date of death of the deceased--only a
number. Having played his little part and returned to the dust from
whence he sprang, it is considered meet that the Carthusian should be
forgotten. And the cross is merely an indication that beneath moulder
the remains of what was once a man.

As is well known, the monks distil the famous liqueur which finds its
way to all parts of the world, and yields a very handsome revenue. The
process of its concoction is an inviolable secret, but it is largely
composed of herbs and cognac. It is said that the recipe was brought to
the convent by one of the fathers, who had been expelled in 1792, and
that at first the liqueur was used as a medicine and distributed amongst
the poor. In the course of time, however, it was improved upon, for its
fame having spread a demand for it sprang up, and it was resolved to
make it an article of commerce. For this purpose a separate building was
erected apart from the monastery, and placed in charge of one of the
Fathers, who has a staff of brothers under him. The basis of the liqueur
is supposed to be an indigenous mountain herb combined with the petals
of certain wild flowers. These are macerated with honey until
fermentation takes place. The liquid is then refined and brandy is
added. Formerly it was made without brandy. The "green" is most favoured
by connaisseurs, and its exquisite, delicate fragrance and flavour have
never been imitated. More care is bestowed upon the "green" than the
"yellow," which is somewhat inferior in quality and of a coarser
flavour. On several occasions very large sums have been offered for the
right to manufacture the chartreuse by financial speculators, but all
such offers have been resolutely refused. Although I believe that the
greater part of the income of the convent is spent in deeds of charity,
it may be doubted by some people whether it is not a somewhat
questionable way for a religious Order to augment its funds by the
preparation of an intoxicating liquor for which, according to their own
doctrine, there is absolutely no need. The chartreuse has a strong rival
in the well-known benedictine, made by the Benedictine Monks; and which,
while being similar in character, is said by some to be superior. There
is little doubt, however, that the chartreuse has much the larger sale
of the two. Many attempts have been made from time to time by outsiders
to manufacture both these liqueurs, but without success, and the exact
secret of their decoction is as religiously preserved as are the secrets
of Freemasonry.

Like the Great St. Bernard, the Grande Chartreuse, though not to the
same extent, is a show place in summer. Perhaps this is hardly a fair
way of putting it, for it would be a cruel injustice to let it be
supposed that the Chartreux had the slightest desire to make an
exhibition of their lonely convent. But the travelling facilities
afforded the tourist nowadays enable him to penetrate to the remotest
recesses of the earth. No place is sacred to him; and as he thinks
nothing of going into a Continental theatre dressed in a tweed suit, so
he does not hesitate, garbed in hob-nailed boots and knickerbockers, to
demand entrance into the Grande Chartreuse, whose mystery he does not
understand and cares nought for, and whose solemnity does not awe him.
To refuse hospitality even to the irreverent curiosity-monger would be
contrary to the Carthusian's creed, which teaches charity to all men,
and to "turn no deaf ear to him who asks for bread and succour." And so
anything of the masculine gender is admitted and fed with the frugal
fare that is now specially provided for visitors; and very properly he
who partakes of this hospitality, not being in actual want of it, is
required to pay for his entertainment. The ordinary visitor is not
allowed to pass the night under the roof of the convent, and therefore
that strange and ghostly service in the chapel during the hours of
darkness is rarely witnessed. The Grande Chartreuse boasts of a
magnificent library, which numbers upwards of 20,000 volumes, for the
most part of a theological nature. Many of these books are unique and of
great age, and to the theological student would probably prove a mine of
wealth. Amongst the volumes are some very rare Bibles and Prayer-books
of nearly every civilised country in the world. This library replaces
the one that was destroyed, and has been collected during the present
century.

[Illustration: CARTHUSIAN BROTHERS IN THE KITCHEN]

What is known as the Chapter-room is an exception to the rest of the
place, inasmuch as it is hung with portraits of the Father Superiors
from the very foundation of the Order. There are about fifty of these
portraits altogether, and some of the earlier ones are more curious than
artistic. The "Superiors" are the only men of the Order whose memory is
thus kept alive.

The Grand Cloister is the largest apartment in the building. It is a not
quite perfect square, and is lighted by a hundred and thirty windows. A
portion of this cloister dates back to the early part of the thirteenth
century. There are two main corridors, seven hundred and twenty-two feet
long, and abutting on these corridors are the cells, thirty-six in
number. There is also a Chapelle des Morts, built about the end of the
thirteenth century. Here the bodies of the dead monks rest during the
religious services that are held over them before they are finally
consigned to the little cemetery to which I have already made reference.
Nor must I forget to mention what is known as the Map-room, where there
is a very valuable collection of maps of different parts of the world,
but particularly of France. There is also a small museum of insects and
butterflies indigenous to the mountains of the region in which the
convent is situated. That region is the southern group of the singularly
interesting limestone Alps of Savoy, and the convent stands in about the
middle section of the group which culminates in the Pointe de
Chamchaude, 6,845 feet high.

In choosing the site for the convent, there is little doubt that
isolation as well as a position of natural defence were aimed at.
Isolated it truly is, and up to a couple of hundred years ago it must
have been absolutely impregnable. But it is well known that the monks of
old had an eye also to beauty of surroundings, and it is doubtful if the
faithful followers of St. Bruno could have found a site commanding a
view of more magnificent beauty in all France than that which the Grande
Chartreuse occupies, and by ascending to the summit of the Grand Som,
which throws its shadow over the convent, a panorama of unsurpassed
grandeur is unfolded to the wondering gaze. To the west it embraces the
valley of the Rhône, the town of Lyons, and the mountains of Ardèche and
Forez; to the east the chain of glittering Alps that stretches from Mont
Visio to Mont Blanc; to the north is the Mont du Chat of Chambéry, the
Lake of Bourget, and that part of the Rhône Valley which is bounded by
the rugged peaks of the purple Jura, while to the south are smiling
valleys and rolling uplands.

This view of the outer world is all the monks ever obtain, for, having
once taken the vows, they leave the convent no more; and they know
little of what goes on in the busy haunts of men, where the passion of
life reaches fever heat, save what they gather from the chattering of
the throngs of summer idlers. In winter they live in a silent, white
world, and the face of a stranger is very rarely seen.

Before leaving the neighbourhood I paid a visit to the Chapelle de St.
Bruno, which is within half an hour's walk of the monastery. It is
erected in a very wild spot, said to be the site of the saint's original
hermitage. There is nothing particularly interesting in the chapel,
which is in a state of dilapidation. But it is curious to speculate that
here dwelt, in what was little more than a cavern, the man who, by the
austerity of his life and his gloomy views, was able to found a
religious Order which has endured for many ages, and is one of the few
that escaped destruction during the revolutions and upheavals of the
last century. The situation of the Chapelle is one of singular
loneliness and desolation, and for eight months of the year at least it
is buried in snow.

As I turned my back upon the Grande Chartreuse, after that memorable
night spent under its roof, and feeling grateful for the shelter and
refreshment it had afforded me, the morning sun was gilding the glorious
landscape, and I breathed a sigh of relief and gladness, for I seemed to
have come from a region of sorrow and gloom, where the coldness of death
was ever present, into the healthy, joyous life of the throbbing,
breathing world.

[Illustration: CHAPEL OF ST. BRUNO]




       _Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._

                       HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA.

[Illustration: _From a Drawing by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A._

AGE 6 MONTHS.]

[Illustration: _From a_] AGE 8. [_Miniature._]

[Illustration: _From a Drawing by_] AGE 18. [_R. Lane, A.R.A._]

[Illustration: _From a Painting by_] AGE 45. [_A. Gracfle._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] PRESENT DAY. [_Wallery._]

WE here present a series of portraits of the Queen,
which, together with the portrait given on our first page, completely
represent the features of Her Majesty from baby-hood until the present
day.


                           PRINCESS BEATRICE.

                               BORN 1857.

IT is fitting that next the portraits of Her Majesty the
Queen should be placed those of the daughter who has been her most
constant companion of late years.

[Illustration: _From a_] AGE 4. [_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a Painting by_] AGE 7. [_Lauchert._]

[Illustration: _From a Lithograph by Maclure & Macdonald._

AGE 17.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_] PRESENT DAY. [_Messrs. Elliott &
Fry._]


                   THE EMPRESS FREDERICK OF GERMANY.

BABY, child, bride, and widow--such are the four portraits of the
Queen's eldest daughter which we give above. An earlier portrait even
than the first of these, and one of the most interesting in existence,
is that which the Queen with her own hand depicted of her baby while it
was still in swaddling-clothes, and which we have the pleasure of
presenting to our readers as the frontispiece of the present number.

[Illustration: _From a Miniature by W. C. Ross, A.R.A., Miniature
Painter to the Queen._

AGE 12 MONTHS.]

[Illustration: _From a_] AGE 6. [_Painting._]

[Illustration: _From a Picture by_] AGE 18. [_F. Winterhalter._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo by_] PRESENT DAY. [_Byrne & Co.,
Richmond._]


                              THE DUKE OF
                                 ARGYLL.

                               Born 1823.

AT the age of eight-and-twenty the Duke of Argyll, who had succeeded to
the dukedom four years earlier, was already well known as a writer, a
politician, and a public speaker, and as one who took keen interest in
all Scottish questions which came before the public. At this age, also,
he was elected Chancellor of the University of St. Andrews, and was
already, what he has since remained, one of the most prominent figures
in the House of Lords. The Duke, who has held many of the highest
offices, in various Governments, was, at the age at which he is
represented in our second picture, Secretary of State for India under
Mr. Gladstone. But as a politician the Duke's position is not easy to
define; he has been described as "Whig by family, Liberal by intellect,
Independent by nature, and Conservative by inclination." But it is in
questions of science and theology rather than in politics that the
Duke's name is known, and his most celebrated book, "The Reign of Law,"
was considered by Darwin himself so powerful an attack upon the Theory
of Descent as to call for special refutation.

[Illustration: _From a Drawing by_]   AGE 28.   [_J. E. Swinton._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 45.  [_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 67.  [_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]


                           H. BEERBOHM TREE.

THE first photograph we give of Mr. Herbert Beerbohm Tree, shows him at
the age of five, then a cherubic and rosy boy of seemingly serious
disposition. The second likeness represents him at seventeen, soon after
he had left the college of Schnepfenthal in Thuringia, where he received
his education, but where, according to his own modest statement, he
acquired no distinction in the walks of learning. But so great was his
evident talent for acting that he was persuaded to adopt the stage as a
profession, with what instant success we all know. He became manager of
the Haymarket in 1887. As a manager he has shown not only enterprise,
but an almost quixotic liberality. His latest Monday night venture has
proved one of the happiest of his many happy thoughts.

For leave to reproduce these portraits we have to thank the kindness of
Mr. Beerbohm Tree.

[Illustration: _From a_]   AGE 5.  [_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 17.  [_The Stereoscopic Co._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 29.   [_A. Bassano_.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 36.   [_The Stereoscopic Co._]


                             WILLIAM BLACK.

                               BORN 1841.

MR. BLACK'S ambition as a boy was to become an artist, and he studied
for a short time in the School of Art at Glasgow, in which city he was
born. "As an artist," he tells us, "I was a complete failure, and so
qualified myself for a time in after life as an art critic." Yet in
feeling for the beauty of sea, forest, moor, and hill, and in graphic
power of painting them in words, Mr. Black has rarely had a rival. At
twenty, the age at which our first portrait shows him, he had already
turned to journalism, and was writing in the _Glasgow Weekly Citizen_.
Three years afterwards he came to London, where he wrote for newspapers
and magazines. During the Prusso-Austrian War of 1866 he acted as the
Special Correspondent of the _Morning Star_. Scenes taken from his
adventures appeared in his first novel, "Love or Marriage," which he
wrote on his return. Several other novels followed during the next four
or five years, none of which had any great success; but in 1871, just at
the age depicted in our second portrait, Mr. Black produced the striking
story--"A Daughter of Heth." Since then, his books have become household
words, and probably no living author has given pleasure to so many
readers by means at once so simple and so fine. With less of plot and
startling incident than almost any novelist, Mr. Black has two points of
excellence in which he stands alone--in power of painting scenery and of
depicting charming girls.

We are indebted for these portraits to the courtesy of Mr. Black.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 20.   [_Cramb Bros., Glasgow_.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 30.   [_Sarony, Birmingham_.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]   AGE 45.   [_Messrs. Elliott &
Fry_.]


                            CHARLES WYNDHAM.

MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM was, at eighteen, the age at which our first
portrait represents him, a medical student at Liverpool, at which city
he was born; but having taken his degrees of L.R.C.S. and L.S.A., he
went, at twenty-one, to America, and made his first appearance as an
actor at Washington, with John Wilkes Booth, to whose _Hamlet_ he played
_Osric_. Booth, who perhaps was never wholly sane, and who three years
later made himself a name of world-wide infamy by shooting President
Lincoln in a theatre-box, saw so little sign of genius in the new actor
that he discharged him for incompetency. Mr. Wyndham then served as
surgeon to the 19th Army Corps, and was present at some of the most
deadly battles of the Civil War. His appearance at that time was that of
our second portrait, which represents him in his uniform. Two years
later, on his return to England, he again went on the boards, and
entered at once upon the career which has long been recognised as that
of the finest light comedian at present on the stage.

[Illustration: _From a_]      AGE 18.      [_Miniature._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo, by_]      AGE 22.      [_Purviance, New
York._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo, by_]      PRESENT DAY.      [_Vernon
Heath._]


                         HENRY M. STANLEY.

AT 19, John Rowlands, a poor Welsh boy, had emigrated to America, had
been adopted by a merchant of the name of Stanley, and had assumed the
latter name. At 22, his adopting father having died without a will,
young Stanley was serving as a petty officer on board the war-ship
_Minnesota_. At 26 he had become a journalist, and was about to
represent the _New York Herald_ with the British army in Abyssinia. On
returning from this expedition he delivered lectures on his adventures,
a handbill of which we reproduce on the page opposite, as a veritable
curiosity. At 31 he had discovered Dr. Livingstone, and had returned
with glory. What Mr. Stanley has done recently is known to all the
world.

[Illustration: _From a_]      AGE 19.      [_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a_]      AGE 22.      [_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]      AGE 26.      [_Rockwell & Co.,
New York._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]      AGE 31      [_The Stereoscopic
Co._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_]      PRESENT DAY.      [_John Fergus,
Cannes._]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of Handbill of Mr. H. M. STANLEY's first
Lecture in America.

(_Half original size._)]




    _Stories of the Victoria Cross: Told by Those who have Won it._


NO tales of heroism are more thrilling and exciting than the narratives
of the exploits which have gained the coveted reward of the Victoria
Cross; and a story never has so much reality and vividness as when it
comes first-hand from the performer of the deed. Accordingly, we have
asked a number of the heroes of the Victoria Cross--a truly noble
army--to relate in their own language how they came to win the most
glorious decoration open to a soldier, the plain bronze cross "For
Valour." The narratives which follow require no further introduction,
and will, we think, be found to possess an interest which is all their
own--the interest and impression of reality.


                            SERGEANT ABLETT.

One of the most gallant acts which can be conceived is the seizing a
live shell and casting it away, so as to prevent mischief from its
explosion. A second's delay may be fatal, and the man who picks up the
shell cannot tell whether the second in question will be allowed him. If
it bursts in his hands it means certain death. Not only the greatest,
but also the promptest, courage is needed for such an act of courage.
Among the few who have performed such a feat is Sergeant Ablett, late
Grenadier Guards, whose own modest account is as follows:--

    On the 2nd September, 1854, when in the trenches before
    Sebastopol, the sentries shouted "Look out there!" a shell
    coming right in the trenches at the same moment and dropping
    amongst some barrels of ammunition. I at once pulled it from
    them. It ran between my legs, and I then picked it up and threw
    it out of the trench; it burst as it touched the ground. From
    the force of it I fell, and was covered by its explosion with
    gravel and dirt.

    Sergeant Baker and others picked me up, and asked if I was hurt.
    I said, "No; but I have had a good shaking." There was a great
    number in the trenches at the time, but I am glad to say no one
    was hurt. The Sergeant reported the circumstances to the officer
    in charge.

    On coming off duty I was taken before the commanding officer,
    and promoted to the rank of Corporal, and then Sergeant. He also
    presented me with a silk necktie made by her most gracious
    Majesty. I was at the battles of Alma, Balaclava, Inkerman, and
    the capture of Sebastopol after eleven months' siege. This is
    all I think I need say as to myself and the Victoria Cross. My
    likeness is to be found in Victoria Cross Picture Gallery,
    Crystal Palace, and Alexandra Palace.

[Illustration: "I THREW IT OUT OF THE TRENCH."]


                          MAJOR JOHN BERRYMAN.

Among those who won the Victoria Cross at Balaclava none gained it more
worthily than Major John Berryman, who served in the Crimea as
Troop-Sergeant Major in the 17th Lancers. This is how Major Berryman
describes the charge of the Light Brigade:--

    "Gallop!" was the order as the firing became general. And here a
    discharge from the battery in our front, whose guns were doubly
    shotted, first with shot or shell, and then with case, swept
    away Captain Winter and the whole division on my right. The gap
    was noticed by Captain Morris, who gave the order, "Right
    incline," but a warning voice came from my coverer in the rear
    rank (Corporal John Penn), "Keep straight on, Jack; keep
    straight on." He saw what I did not, that we were opposite the
    intervals of the guns, and thus we escaped, for the next round
    must have swept us into eternity. My attention here was
    attracted to James Melrose, a Shakespearian reciter, calling
    out, "What man here would ask another man from England?" Poor
    fellow, they were the last words he spoke, for the next round
    from the guns killed him and many others. We were then so close
    to the guns that the report rang through my head, and I felt
    that I was quite deaf for a time. It was this round that broke
    my mare's off hind leg, and caused her to stop instantly. I felt
    that I was hit, but not till I dismounted. Seeing that the
    mare's leg was broken, I debated in my own mind whether to shoot
    her or not, when Captain Webb came up to me, and asked me, was I
    wounded? I replied, "Only slightly, I thought, in the leg, but
    that my horse was shot." I then asked, "Are you hurt, sir?" He
    said that he was, and in the leg, too; what had he better do?
    "Keep to your horse, sir, and get back as far as you can." He
    turned, and rode back. I now caught a loose horse, and got on to
    his back, but he fell directly, the brass of the breast-plate
    having been driven into his chest. Seeing that there was no hope
    of my joining the regiment in the _mêlée_, and the 11th Hussars
    being close upon me, I moved a little to the right, so as to
    pass through the interval between the squadrons. Both squadrons
    closed in a little, and let me pass through. I well remember
    that Sergeant Gutteridge was the right guide of the 2nd
    squadron. Finding that Captain Webb had halted, I ran to him,
    and on inquiries found that his wound was so painful that he
    could not ride any further. Lieutenant George Smith, of my own
    regiment, coming by, I got him to stand at the horse's head
    whilst I lifted the captain off. Having accomplished this, I
    assisted Smith to mount Webb's horse, and ride for a stretcher,
    taking notice where we were. By this time the Russians had got
    back to their guns, and re-opened fire. I saw six men of my own
    regiment get together to recount to each other their escapes.
    Seeing their danger, I called to them to separate, but too late,
    for a shell dropped amongst them, and I don't think one escaped
    alive. Hearing me call to these men, Captain Webb asked what I
    thought the Russians would do?

    "They are sure to pursue, sir, unless the Heavy Brigade comes
    down."

    "Then you had better consult your own safety, and leave me."

    "Oh no, sir, I shall not leave you now."

    "Perhaps they will only take me prisoner."

    "If they do, sir, we will go together."

    "Don't mind me, look to yourself."

    "All right, sir; only we will go together, whatever happens."

    Just at this time I saw Sergeant Farrell coming by. I called to
    him. He asked, "Who is it?" When told, he came over. I said, "We
    must get Captain Webb out of this, for we shall be pursued."

    He agreeing, we made a chair of our hands, lifted the Captain
    up, and found that we could carry him with comparative ease. We
    had got about 200 yards in this manner, when the Captain
    complained that his leg was very painful. A private of the 13th
    being near, Malone, I asked him would he be good enough to
    support Captain Webb's legs, until we could procure a stretcher?
    He did so, and several of the officers passed us. Sir G.
    Wombwell said, "What is the matter, Peck?" (Captain Webb's
    nickname.)

    "Hit in the leg, old fellow. How did you escape?"

    "Well, I was unhorsed and taken prisoner, but when the second
    line came down, in the confusion I got away, and, seizing the
    first horse I could, I got away, and I find that it is
    Morris's."

    Sir W. Gordon made the same inquiry, and got the same answer. He
    had a very nasty cut on the head, and blood was then running
    down his face. He was carrying his dress cap in his hand. We had
    now reached the rear of the Greys, and I procured a stretcher
    from two Infantry band boys, and a young officer of the "Greys"
    gave me a "tourniquet," saying that he did not know how to apply
    it, but perhaps I might. I put it on the right thigh, and
    screwed it up. Doctor Kendal came here, and I pointed out what I
    had done, and asked was it right?

    "I could not have done it better myself; bring him along."

    [Illustration: "I LIFTED THE CAPTAIN OFF."]

    I and Farrell now raised the stretcher and carried it for about
    fifty yards, and again set it down. I was made aware of an
    officer of the Chasseurs d'Afrique being on my left by his
    placing his hand upon my shoulder. I turned and saluted.
    Pointing to Captain Webb, but looking at me, he said:--

    "Your officer?"

    "Yes."

    "Ah! and you sergeant?" looking at the stripes on my arm.

    "Yes."

    "Ah! If you were in French service, I would make you an officer
    on the spot." Then, standing in his stirrups and extending his
    right hand, said:--

    "Oh! it was grand, it was _magnifique_, but it is not war, it is
    not war."

    This officer was General Morris. We resumed our patient, and got
    to the doctors (Massy and Kendal). I saw the boot cut off and
    the nature of the wound, the right shin bone being shattered.
    Farrell made an exclamation, and I was motioned to take him
    away. I told him that I should go and see the end of it. He said
    that he was too exhausted to do any more. Finding a horse in the
    lines, I mounted him, although the animal belonged to the 4th
    Light Dragoons, and thus dropped in behind the Duke of
    Cambridge, and heard what passed. The Duke, speaking to Lord
    Cardigan, said:--

    "Cardigan, where's the Brigade, then?"

    "There," said Cardigan.

    "Is that all of them? You have lost the finest Brigade that ever
    left the shores of England."

    A little further on he spoke to Captain Godfrey Morgan (Lord
    Tredegar):--

    "Morgan, where's the regiment, then?"

    "Your Royal Highness, that is all of them!"

    "My poor regiment, my poor regiment!"

    I now took my place in the ranks, and, in numbering off, being
    on the extreme left, I counted 22. We fell back during the
    night, and, being dismounted, I, with my servant, was left
    behind. I suffered intensely with my head, and got a napkin and
    tied it as tightly as possible round my brows. I also had time
    to examine my wound, which was inside the calf of my leg. A
    small piece about the size of a shilling had been cut clean out
    of my leg; but except that the blood had run into my boots, I
    felt but very little inconvenience from it. Cold water bandage
    was all I used; but, unfortunately, scurvy got to it, and it was
    a long time healing.


                        PRIVATE WILLIAM NORMAN.

Private William Norman, of the 7th Regiment, in a true modest and
soldier-like style thus describes the exploit which won for him the
Victoria Cross:--

    On the night of December 19, 1854, I was placed on single sentry
    at some distance in front of the advanced sentries of an
    out-lying picquet in the White Horse Ravine--a post of much
    danger, and requiring great vigilance. The Russian picquet was
    posted 300 yards in our front. Three Russian soldiers advanced
    under cover of the brushwood for the purpose of reconnoitring. I
    immediately fired my rifle, which was the signal of alarm, and
    then jumped into the trench almost on the top of the three
    Russians, two of whom I succeeded single-handed in taking
    prisoners, and marched them into our lines, the other one having
    fled back to the Russian lines.

    [Illustration: "I JUMPED ALMOST ON THE TOP OF THREE RUSSIANS."]

    My feelings I can hardly describe, as what I did was on the spur
    of the moment. But it was no doubt the means of saving our
    position.


                          PRIVATE JAMES DAVIS.

The attack on Fort Ruhiya on April 15, 1858, gave an opportunity for
much display of courage and devotion. Among those who conspicuously
distinguished themselves was Private James Davis, of the 42nd
Highlanders. This gallant soldier, who had previously served throughout
the Crimean War, also saw much fighting during the Indian Mutiny, and
for his conduct at Fort Ruhiya was awarded the Victoria Cross.

The following is his account of the feat which won for him the
much-prized honour:--

    I belonged to the Light Company, under the command of Captain
    (now Sir John) Macleod.  We got orders to lie down under some
    trees for a short time. Two Engineer officers came up and asked
    for some men to come with them to see where they could make a
    breach with the artillery. I was one who went. There was a small
    garden ditch under the walls of the fort, not high enough to
    cover our heads. After a short time the officers left. I was on
    the right of the ditch with Lieut. Alfred Jennings Bramley, of
    Tunbridge Wells, as brave a young officer as ever drew sword,
    and saw a large force coming out to cut us off. He said, "Try
    and shoot the leader. I will run down and tell Macleod." The
    leader was shot, by whom I don't know. I never took credit for
    shooting anyone. Before poor Bramley got down he was shot in the
    temple, but not dead. He died during the night.

    [Illustration: "I RAN ACROSS THE OPEN SPACE."]

    The captain said, "We can't leave him. Who will take him out?" I
    said, "I will." The fort was firing hard all the time. I said,
    "Eadie, give me a hand. Put him on my back." As he was doing so
    he was shot in the back of the head, knocking me down, his blood
    running down my back. A man crawled over and pulled Eadie off.
    At this time I thought I was shot, the warm blood running down
    my back. The captain said, "We can't lose any more lives. Are
    you wounded?" I said, "I don't think I am." He said, "Will you
    still take him out?" I said, "Yes." He was such a brave young
    fellow that the company all loved him. I got him on my back
    again, and told him to take me tight round the neck. I ran
    across the open space. During the time his watch fell out; I did
    not like to leave it, so I sat down and picked it up, all the
    time under a heavy fire. There was a man of the name of Dods,
    who came and took him off my back. I went back again through the
    same fire, and helped to take up the man Eadie. Then I returned
    for my rifle, and firing a volley we all left. It was a badly
    managed affair altogether.


                         PRIVATE ROBERT JONES.

[Illustration: "FIGHTING AT THE DOOR."]

At the gallant defence of the fort at Rorke's Drift, every man fought
like a hero, but some were fortunate enough to attract the particular
attention of their superiors. Among these was a private of the 24th
Regiment, named Robert Jones, who obtained the Victoria Cross for his
conduct on the occasion. His story is as follows:--

    "On the 22nd January, 1879, the Zulus attacked us, we being only
    a small band of English soldiers and they in very strong and
    overwhelming numbers. On commencing fighting, I was one of the
    soldiers who were in the hospital to protect it. I and another
    soldier of the name of William Jones were on duty at the back of
    the hospital, trying to defeat and drive back the rebels, and
    doing our endeavours to convey the wounded and sick soldiers out
    through a hole in the wall, so that they might reach in safety
    the small band of men in the square. On retiring from one room
    into another, after taking a wounded man by the name of Mayer,
    belonging to the volunteers, to join William Jones, I found a
    crowd in front of the hospital and coming into the doorway. I
    said to my companion, 'They are on top of us,' and sprang to one
    side of the doorway. There we crossed our bayonets, and as fast
    as they came up to the doorway we bayoneted them, until the
    doorway was nearly filled with dead and wounded Zulus. In the
    meanwhile, I had three assegai wounds, two in the right side and
    one in the left of my body. We did not know of anyone being in
    the hospital, only the Zulus, and then after a long time of
    fighting at the door, we made the enemy retire, and then we made
    our escape out of the building. Just as I got outside, the roof
    fell in--a complete mass of flames and fire. I had to cross a
    space of about twenty or thirty yards from the ruins of the
    hospital to the leagued company where they were keeping the
    enemy at bay. While I was crossing the front of the square, the
    bullets were whishing past me from every direction. When I got
    in, the enemy came on closer and closer, until they were close
    to the outer side of our laager, which was made up of boxes of
    biscuits on sacks of Indian corn. The fighting lasted about
    thirteen hours, or better. As to my feelings at the time, they
    were that I was certain that if we did not kill them they would
    kill us, and after a few minutes' fighting I did not mind it
    more than at the present time; my thought was only to fight as
    an English soldier ought to for his most gracious Sovereign,
    Queen Victoria, and for the benefit of old England."


                          GUNNER JAMES COLLIS.

Gunner James Collis tells his story in these words:--

    On the twenty-seventh of July, 1880, we were encamped at
    Khushk-i-Nakhud, in Afghanistan. At 4 a.m. that day we--Battery
    E, Battery B Brigade--marched with the rest of the force on
    Maiwand to meet Ayub Khan. About 9 a.m. we came in sight of him
    in position under the hills. We were on the open plain. Major
    Henry Blackwood, commanding my battery, gave the order "Action
    front." I was a limber gunner that day. We began firing with
    common shell from the right of the battery. After we had fired a
    few rounds, their artillery replied. The first shot struck the
    near wheel of my gun, killing a gunner, wounding another, and
    Lieutenant Fowler.

    The limber box upon my gun was smashed by a shell which also
    killed the wheel horses, but did not touch the driver. Several
    riding horses of my battery were killed, and a good deal of
    damage done to guns and carriage. Four gunners and Sergeant
    Wood, the No. 1 of my gun, were killed, and two men wounded,
    leaving only three men to work the gun. I took Sergeant Wood's
    place.

    At about 1.30 p.m., some of Jacob's Rifles, who were lying down
    about ten yards in rear of the trail, began to be
    panic-stricken, and crowded round our guns and carriages, some
    getting under the carriages. Three got under my gun. We tried to
    drive them away, but it was no use. About that time we ceased
    firing a little, the enemy having set the example. During that
    pause the enemy on the left got pretty close. To check them,
    General Nuttall formed up the 3rd Bombay Cavalry and the 3rd
    Scinde Horse to charge. Gunner Smith of my gun, seeing what was
    going to be done, mounted his horse and joined the cavalry.
    General Nuttall led the charge, Gunner Smith being at his side.
    After going about 300 yards, the enemy being about 200 yards
    off, the whole line, with the exception of the General, the
    European officers, and Gunner Smith, turned tail, forming up
    when in line with the guns. General Nuttall with the officers,
    finding themselves deserted, returned, General Nuttall actually
    crying from mortification. Gunner Smith dashed on alone, and was
    cut down.

    About 4 p.m. a large body of the enemy's infantry charged the
    left of the battery, the men of the left division 5 and 6 being
    compelled to use their handspikes and charge staves to keep them
    off. Major Blackwood on this ordered the battery to limber up
    and retire. When Lieutenant Maclaine heard this order he said,
    as I was afterwards informed, "Limber up be damned! Give them
    another round." We limbered up and retired at a gallop about
    2,000 yards. In the meantime Major Blackwood remained behind
    with Lieutenant Maclaine's guns and was killed, Lieutenant
    Osborne by his side, Lieutenant Maclaine fighting to the last.
    At length, seeing no use in stopping, he galloped after us--we
    had got separated from the right division--and called out to us,
    only two guns, "Action, rear." We fired two rounds with
    shrapnel. Captain Slade, who had been in temporary command of
    the smoothbores, finding Major Blackwood dead, came up with his
    smoothbores and took command of all the guns. Colonel Malcolmson
    a moment later ordered Captain Slade to retire, saying, "Captain
    Slade, if you and the Lieutenant keep those two guns, he will
    lose them the same as he has lost his own." We then limbered up
    and went off. Just then a shell burst open our treasure chest.
    Many of the troops and camp followers stopped to pick up the
    money and were overtaken and killed. Just after that some of the
    enemy's cavalry caught up the guns. One of them wounded me on
    the left eyebrow as he passed. He wheeled round and came at me
    again; I took my carbine, waited till he was within four or five
    yards, and let drive, hitting him on the chest and knocking him
    off his horse. As he fell his money fell out of his turban, and
    Trumpeter Jones jumped off his horse and picked it up. He
    escaped, and is now corporal R.H.A., and wears the Distinguished
    Service medal for his conduct at Maiwand.

    It was now beginning to get dusk, and I got off to walk by the
    side of my gun. Seeing a village close by, and some men at a
    well, I followed them and got some water. Just as we got to the
    well the enemy charged and drove us off, killing a good many.

    On my return I missed my gun, and picked up with No. 2, which I
    stuck to till I reached Candahar. It was now dark, and we were
    with a stream of men of all regiments, camp followers, camels,
    and waggons. Going along I saw a lot of sick and wounded lying
    by the side of the road, and I picked them up and put them on
    the gun and limber. I had about ten altogether; they were all
    66th men, and a colonel whose name I do not know and never heard
    of.

    We had been fighting all day, marching all night and next day
    without a bit of food or a drink of water. I did not feel it so
    much, as I was so occupied, but I saw several dying by the
    roadside from thirst and fatigue. About four in the afternoon of
    the 28th, we came to a place called Kokeran, 7-1/2 miles from
    Candahar; I saw a village where I could get water for the men
    who were with me. I went off and brought the water back and the
    men with me. On going to the village I saw Lieutenant Maclaine
    mounted; when I came back I saw two horses without a rider. I
    then went again for more water. I was about 150 yards from the
    gun when I saw ten or twelve of the enemy's cavalry coming on at
    a slow pace towards the gun. The gun went off and I lay down and
    allowed the gun to pass me, and began firing with a rifle which
    I had got from a wounded 66th man, in order to draw their fire
    upon myself, and stop them from going forward with the gun. I
    was concealed in a little nullah, and I fancy they thought there
    was more than one man, for they stopped and fired at me from the
    saddle. I shot one horse and two men. After firing about
    thirty-five rounds General Nuttall came up with some native
    cavalry, and drove them off. When I first saw the enemy they
    were about 300 yards off, when they left they had got 150 yards.
    General Nuttall asked me my name, saying, "You're a gallant
    young man, what is your name?" I said, "Gunner Collis, of E. of
    B, R.H.A." He entered it into a pocket-book and rode off. I then
    followed up my gun, which I found some 500 yards distant by the
    side of a river. The enemy's fire, which had been going on all
    the way from Maiwand, now became hotter, the surrounding hills
    being full of them. Some of the garrison of Candahar met us
    about four miles from the Fort and escorted us in. I arrived
    about seven p.m.

    [Illustration: "I WAS LET DOWN."]

    [Illustration: "I TOOK MY CARBINE AND LET DRIVE."]

    On the occasion of the sortie from Candahar in the middle of
    August, 1880, the fighting was going on in the village situated
    about 200 yards from the edge of the ditch of the fort. I was
    standing by my gun on the rampart, when General Primrose,
    General Nuttall, and Colonel Burnet came up. I heard them
    talking about sending a message to General Dewberry, who had
    succeeded General Brooke, who had been killed. I spoke to
    Colonel Burnet and said that I would take the message over the
    wall. After a little hesitation General Primrose gave me a note.
    I was let down a distance of about thirty or forty feet to the
    bottom of the ditch by a rope. When half down I was fired at but
    not hit by matchlock men about 250 yards distant, and I
    scrambled up the open side of the ditch and ran across to the
    village. I found the officer commanding in the middle of it, and
    fighting going on all round. I delivered the note and returned.
    When half way up the rope I was fired at again, one bullet
    cutting off the heel of my left boot. General Primrose
    congratulated me and Colonel Burnet gave me a drop out of his
    flask, for what with not having recovered from the fatigues of
    Maiwand and the exertion and excitement of this trip, I was a
    bit faint.

    I was recommended for the Victoria Cross without my knowledge
    about September 10, by Sir F. Roberts, on the report of General
    Nuttall and Colonel Burnet. It was given to me July 28, 1881.

                          (_To be continued._)

                             [Illustration]




                  _How Novelists Write for the Press._


HOW authors work--what methods are peculiar to each individual in
preparing MS. for the printer--is a question on which, we think, the
following fac-similes, of the same size as the originals, of the work of
four representative novelists of the present day, will throw an
interesting light. William Black, Walter Besant, Bret Harte, and Grant
Allen--here is a page from the manuscript of each. Mr. Black's, with
which we commence, fine and careful as it is, is however only a rough
draft, which is afterwards re-copied, with slight alterations, for the
press.

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. WILLIAM BLACK'S
_Prince Fortunatus_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of the last page but one of the MS. of Mr.
WALTER BESANT'S novel, _Children of Gibeon_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of the MS. of Mr. BRET HARTE'S
story, _The Twins of Table Mountain_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of the MS. of Mr. GRANT
ALLEN'S story, _Jerry Stokes_ (see next page).]




                            _Jerry Stokes._

                            BY GRANT ALLEN.


JERRY STOKES was a member of Her Majesty's civil service. To put it more
plainly, he was the provincial hangman. Not a man in all Canada, he used
to boast with pardonable professional pride, had turned off as many
famous murderers as he had. He was a pillar of the constitution, was
Jerry Stokes. He represented the Executive. And he wasn't ashamed of his
office, either. Quite on the contrary, zeal for his vocation shone
visible in his face. He called it a useful, a respectable, and a
necessary calling. If it were not for him and his utensils, he loved to
say to the gaping crowd that stood him treat in the saloons, no man's
life would be safe for a day in the province. He was a practical
philanthropist in his way, a public benefactor. It is not good that foul
crime should stalk unpunished through the land; and he, Jerry Stokes,
was there to prevent it. He was the chosen instrument for its salutary
repression. Executions performed with punctuality and despatch; for
terms, apply to Jeremiah Stokes, Port Hope, Ontario.

[Illustration: "HE WAS A PUBLIC BENEFACTOR."]

Not that philanthropy was the most salient characteristic in Jerry's
outer man. He was a short and thick-set person, very burly and
dogged-looking; he had a massive, square head, and a powerful lower jaw,
and a coarse, bull neck, and a pair of stout arms, acquired in the
lumber trade, but forcibly suggestive of a prize-fighter's occupation.
Except on the subject of the Executive, he was a taciturn soul; he had
nothing to say, and he said it briefly. Silence, stolidity, and a marked
capacity for the absorption of liquids without detriment to his centre
of gravity, physical or mental, were the leading traits in Mr. Stokes'
character. Those who knew him well, however, affirmed that Jerry was "a
straight man"; and though the security was perhaps a trifle doubtful, "a
straight man" nevertheless he was generally considered by all who had
the misfortune to require his services.

It was a principle with Jerry never to attend a trial for murder. This
showed his natural delicacy of feeling. Etiquette, I believe, forbids an
undertaker to make kind inquiries at the door of a dying person. It is
feared the object of his visits might be misunderstood; he might be
considered to act from interested motives. A similar and equally
creditable scruple restrained Jerry Stokes from putting in an appearance
at a court of justice when a capital charge was under investigation.
People might think, he said, he was on the look-out for a job. Nay,
more; his presence might even interfere with the administration of
justice; for if the jury had happened to spot him in the body of the
hall, it would naturally prejudice them in the prisoner's favour. To
prevent such a misfortune--which would of course, incidentally, be bad
for trade--Mr. Stokes denied himself the congenial pleasure of following
out in detail the cases on which he might in the end be called upon to
operate--except through the medium of the public press. He was a
kind-hearted man, his friends averred; and he knew that his presence in
court might be distasteful to the prisoner and the prisoner's relations.
Though, to say the truth, in thus absenting himself, Mr. Stokes was
exercising considerable self-denial; for to a hangman, even more than to
all the rest of the world, a good first-class murder case is replete
with plot-interest.

[Illustration: THE PRISONER.]

Every man, however, is guilty at some time or other in his life of a
breach of principle; and once, though once only, in his professional
experience, Jerry Stokes, like the rest of us, gave way to temptation.
To err is human; Jerry erred by attending a capital trial in Kingston
court-house. The case was one that aroused immense attention at the time
in the Dominion. A young lawyer at Napanee, it was said, had poisoned
his wife to inherit her money, and public feeling ran fierce and strong
against him. From the very first, this dead set of public opinion
brought out Jerry Stokes' sympathy in the prisoner's favour. The crowd
had tried to mob Ogilvy--that was the man's name--on his way from his
house to jail, and again on his journey from Napanee to Kingston
assizes. Men shook their fists angrily in the face of the accused; women
surged around with deep cries, and strove to tear him to pieces. The
police with difficulty prevented the swaying mass from lynching him on
the spot. Jerry Stokes, who was present, looked on at these irregular
proceedings with a disapproving eye. Most unconstitutional, to dismember
a culprit by main force, without form of trial, instead of handing him
over in due course of law to be properly turned off by the appointed
officer!

So when the trial came on, Jerry Stokes, in defiance of established
etiquette, took his stand in court, and watched the progress of the case
with profound interest.

The public recognised him, and nudged one another, well pleased. Farmers
had driven in with their waggons from the townships. All Ontario was
agog. People stared at Jerry, and then at the prisoner. "Stokes is
looking out for him!" they chuckled in their satisfaction. "He's got no
chance. He'll never get off. The hangman's in waiting!"

The suspected man took his place in the dock. Jerry Stokes glanced
across at him--rubbed his eyes--thought it curious. "Well, I never saw a
murderer like him in my born days afore," Jerry philosophised to
himself. "I've turned off square dozens of 'em in my time, in the
province; and I know their looks. But hanged if I've come across a
murderer yet like this one, any way!"

"Richard Ogilvy, stand up: are you guilty or not guilty?" asked the
clerk of assigns.

And the prisoner, leaning forward, in a very low voice, but clear and
distinct, answered out, "Not Guilty!"

He was a tall and delicate pale-faced man, with thoughtful grey eyes and
a high white forehead. But to Jerry Stokes' experienced gaze all that
counted for nothing. He knew his patients well enough to know there are
murderers and murderers--the refined and educated as well as the coarse
and brutal. Why, he'd turned off square dozens of them, and both sorts,
too, equally. No; it wasn't that--and he couldn't say what it was--but
as Richard Ogilvy answered "Not Guilty" that morning a thrill ran cold
down the hangman's back. He was sure it was true: he felt intuitively
certain of it.

From that moment forth, Jerry followed the evidence with the closest
interest. He leaned forward in his place, and drank it all in anxiously.
People who sat near him remarked that his conduct was disgusting. He was
thirsting for a conviction. It was ghastly to see the hangman so intent
upon his prey. He seemed to hang on the lips of the witnesses for the
prosecution.

But Jerry himself sat on, all unconscious of their criticism. For the
very first time in his life, he forgot his trade. He remembered only
that a human soul was at stake that day, and that in one glimpse of
intuition he had seen its innocence.

Counsel for the Crown piled up a cumulative case, very strong and
conclusive against the man Ogilvy. They showed that the prisoner had
lived on bad terms with his wife--though through whose fault they had
lived so, whether his or hers, wasn't very apparent. They showed that
scenes had lately occurred between them. They showed that Ogilvy had
bought poison at a chemist's in Kingston on the usual plea, "to get rid
of the rats." They showed that Mrs. Ogilvy had died of such poison.
Their principal witness was the Napanee doctor, a man named Wade, who
attended the deceased in her fatal illness. This doctor was intelligent,
and frank, and straightforward; he gave his evidence in the most
admirable style--evidence that told dead against the prisoner in every
way. At the close of the case for the Crown, the game was up: everybody
in court said all was finished: impossible for Ogilvy to rebut such a
mass of damning evidence.

Everybody in court--except Jerry Stokes. And Jerry Stokes went home--for
it was a two days' trial--much concerned in soul about Richard Ogilvy.

It was something new for Jerry Stokes, this disinterested interest in an
accused criminal; and it took hold of him with all the binding and
compelling force of a novel emotion. He wrestled and strained with it.
All night long he lay awake, and tossed and turned on his bed, and
thought of Richard Ogilvy's pale white face, as he stood there, a
picture of mute agony, in the court-house. Strange thoughts surged up
thick in Jerry Stokes' soul, that had surged up in no other soul among
all those actively hostile spectators. The silent suffering in the man's
grey eyes had stirred him deeply. A thousand times over, Jerry said to
himself, as he tossed and turned, "That man never done it." Now and
again he dozed off, and awoke with a start, and each time he woke he
found himself muttering in his sleep, with all the profound force of
unreasoned conviction, "He never done it! he never done it!"

Next morning, as soon as the court was open, Jerry Stokes was in his
place again, craning his bull-neck eagerly. All day long he craned that
bull-neck and listened. The public was scandalised now. Jerry Stokes in
court! Jerry Stokes scenting blood! He ought to have kept away! This was
really atrocious!

Evidence for the defence hung fire sadly. To say the truth, Ogilvy's
counsel had no defence at all to offer, except an assurance that he
didn't do it. They confined themselves to suggesting a possible
alternative here, and a possible alternative there. Mrs. Ogilvy might
have taken the rat-poison by mistake; or this person might have given it
her somehow unawares, or that person might have had some unknown grudge
against her. Jerry Stokes sat and listened with a sickening heart. The
man in the dock was innocent, he felt sure; but the case--why, the case
was going dead against him!

[Illustration: "JERRY WATCHED HIM CLOSELY."]

Slowly, as he listened, an idea began to break in upon Jerry Stokes'
mind. Ideas didn't often come his way. He was a thick-headed man, little
given to theories, and he didn't know even now it was a theory he was
forming. He only knew this was the way the case impressed him. The
prisoner at the bar had never done it. But there had been scenes in his
house--scenes brought about by Mrs. Ogilvy's conduct. Mrs. Ogilvy, he
felt confident from the evidence he heard, had been given to
drink--perhaps to other things; and the prisoner, for his child's sake
(he had one little girl of three years old), was anxious to screen his
wife's shame from the public. So he had suggested but little in this
direction to his counsel. The scenes, however, were not of his making,
and he certainly never meant to poison the woman. Jerry Stokes watched
him closely as each witness stood up and told his tale, and he was
confident of so much. That twitching of the lips was no murderer's
trick. It was the plain emotion of an honest man who sees the
circumstances unaccountably turning against him.

There was another person in court who watched the case almost as closely
as Jerry himself, and that person was the doctor who attended Mrs.
Ogilvy and made the _post-mortem_. His steely grey eyes were fixed with
a frank stare on each witness as he detailed his story; and from time to
time he gave a little satisfied gasp, when anything went obviously
against the prisoner's chances. Jerry was too much occupied, however,
for the most part, in watching the man in the dock to have any time left
for watching the doctor. Once only he raised his eyes and caught the
other's. It was at a critical moment. A witness for the defence, under
severe cross-examination, had just admitted a most damaging fact that
told hard against Ogilvy. Then the doctor smiled. It was a sinister
smile, a smile of malice, a smile of mute triumph. No one else noticed
it. But Jerry Stokes, looking up, observed it with a start. A shade
passed over his square face like a sudden cloud. He knew that smile
well. It was a typical murderer's.

"Mind you," Jerry said to himself, as he watched the smile die away, "I
don't pretend to be as smart a chap as all these crack lawyer fellows,
but I'm a straight man in my way, and I know my business. If that doctor
ain't got a murderer's face on his front, my name isn't Jeremiah Stokes;
that's the long and the short of it."

He looked hard at the prisoner, he looked hard at the doctor. The longer
and harder he looked, the more was he sure of it. He was an expert in
murderers, and he knew his men. Ogilvy hadn't done it; Ogilvy couldn't
do it; the doctor might; the doctor was, at any rate, a potential
murderer. Not that Jerry put it to himself quite so fine as that; he
contented himself with saying in his own dialect, "The doctor was one of
'em."

Evidence, however, went all against the prisoner, and the judge, to
Jerry's immense surprise, summed up upon nothing except the evidence.
Nobody in court, indeed, seemed to think of anything else. Jerry rubbed
his eyes once more. He couldn't understand it. Why, they were going to
hang the man on nothing at all but the paltry evidence! Professional as
he was, it surprised him to find a man could swing on so little! To
think that our lives should depend on such a thread! Just the gossip of
nurses and the tittle-tattle of a doctor with a smile like a murderer's!

[Illustration: "IT WAS A SINISTER SMILE."]

At last the jury retired to consider their verdict. But they were not
long gone. The case, said everybody, was as clear as daylight. In the
public opinion it was a foregone conclusion. Jerry stood aghast at that.
What! hang a man merely because they thought he'd done it! And with a
face like his! Why, it was sheer injustice!

The jury returned. The prisoner stood in the dock, now pale and
hopeless. Only one man in court seemed to feel the slightest interest in
the delivery of the verdict. And that one man was the public hangman.
Everybody else knew precisely how the case would go. But Jerry Stokes
still refused to believe any jury in Canada could perpetrate such an act
of flagrant injustice.

"Gentlemen of the jury, do you find the prisoner, Richard Ogilvy, Guilty
or Not Guilty of wilful murder?"

There was a slight rhetorical pause. Then the answer rang out, in
quietly solemn tones: "We find him Guilty. That is the verdict of all of
us."

Jerry Stokes held his breath. This was appalling, awful! The man was
innocent. But by virtue of his office he would have to hang him!


                                  II.

If anybody had told Jerry Stokes the week before that he possessed an
ample, unexhausted fund of natural enthusiasm, Jerry Stokes would have
looked upon him as only fit for Hatwood Asylum. He was a solid, stolid,
thick-headed man, was Jerry, who honestly believed in the importance of
his office, and hanged men as respectably as he would have slaughtered
oxen. But that incredible verdict, as it seemed to him, begot in him
suddenly a fierce outburst of zeal which was all the more violent
because of its utter novelty. For the first time in his life he woke up
to the enthusiasm of humanity. You'll often find it so in very
phlegmatic men; it takes a great deal to stir their stagnant depths; but
let them once be aroused, and the storm is terrible, the fire within
them burns bright with a warmth and light which astonishes everybody.
For days the look on Richard Ogilvy's face, when he heard that false
verdict returned against him, haunted the hangman's brain every hour of
the twenty-four. He lay awake on his bed and shuddered to think of it.
Come what might, that man must never be hanged. And, please heaven,
Jerry added, they should never hang him.

The sentence, Canadian fashion, was for six clear weeks. And at the end
of that time, unless anything should turn up meanwhile to prevent it, it
would be Jerry's duty to hang the man he believed to be innocent.

For all those years, Jerry had stolidly and soberly hanged whomever he
was bid, taking it for granted the law was always in the right, and that
the men on whom he operated were invariably malefactors. But now, a
great horror possessed his soul. The revulsion was terrible. This one
gross miscarriage of justice, as it seemed to him, raised doubts at the
same time in his startled soul as to the rightfulness of all his
previous hangings. Had he been in the habit of doing innocent men to
death for years? Was the law, then, always so painfully fallible? Could
it go wrong in all the dignity of its unsullied ermine? Jerry could hang
the guilty without one pang of remorse. But to hang the innocent!--he
drew himself up; that was altogether a different matter.

Yet what could he do? A petition? Impossible! Never within his memory
could Jerry recollect so perfect a unanimity of public opinion in favour
of a sentence. A petition was useless. Not a soul would sign it.
Everybody was satisfied. Let Ogilvy swing! The very women would have
lynched the man if they could have caught him at the first. And now that
he was to be hanged, they were heartily glad of it.

Still, there is nothing to spur a man on in a hopeless cause like the
feeling that you stand alone and unaided. Jerry Stokes saw all the world
was for hanging Ogilvy--with the strange and solitary exception of the
public hangman. And what did the public hangman's opinion count in such
a case? As Jerry Stokes well knew, rather less than nothing.

Day after day wore away, and the papers were full of "the convict
Ogilvy." Would he confess, or would he not? that was now the question.
Every second night the Toronto papers had a special edition with a
"Rumoured Confession of the Napanee Murderer," and every second morning
they had a telegram direct from Kingston jail to contradict it. Not a
doubt seemed to remain with anybody as to the convict's guilt. But the
papers reiterated daily the same familiar phrase, "Ogilvy persists to
the end in maintaining his innocence."

[Illustration: "IT COST HIM DEAR, THAT EPISTLE."]

Jerry had read these words a hundred times before, about other
prisoners, with a gentle smile of cynical incredulity; he read them now
with blank amazement and horror at the callousness of a world which
could hang an innocent man without appeal or inquiry.

Time ran on, and the eve of the execution arrived at last. Something
must be done: and Jerry did it. That night he sat long in his room by
himself, in the unwonted throes of literary composition. He was writing
a letter--a letter of unusual length and surprising earnestness. It cost
him dear, that epistle; with his dictionary by his side, he stopped many
times to think, and bit his penholder to fibre. But he wrote none the
less with fiery indignation, and in a fever of moral zeal that
positively astonished himself. Then he copied it out clean on a separate
sheet, and folded the letter when done, with a prayer in his heart. It
was a prayer for mercy on a condemned criminal--by the public hangman.

After that he stuck a stamp on with trembling fingers, and posted it
himself at the main office.

All that night long Jerry lay awake and thought about the execution. As
a rule, executions troubled his rest very little. But then, he had never
before had to hang an innocent man--at least he hoped not--though his
faith in the law had received a severe shock, and he trembled to think
now what judicial murders he might have helped in his time unconsciously
to consummate.

Next morning early, at the appointed hour, Jerry Stokes presented
himself at Kingston jail. The sheriff was there, and the chaplain, and
the prisoner. Ogilvy looked at him hard with a shrinking look of horror.
Jerry had seen that look, too, a hundred times before, and disregarded
it utterly: it was only the natural objection of a condemned criminal to
the constitutional officer appointed to operate on him. But this time it
cut the man to the very quick. That an innocent fellow-creature should
regard him like that was indeed unendurable, especially when he, the
public hangman, was the only soul on earth who believed in his
innocence!

[Illustration: "I AIN'T A-GOING TO HANG THIS MAN."]

The chaplain stood forward and read the usual prayers. The condemned man
repeated them after him in a faltering voice. As he finished, the
sheriff turned with a grave face to Jerry. "Do your duty," he said. And
Jerry stared at him stolidly.

"Sheriff," he began at last, after a very long pause, bracing himself up
for an effort, "I've done my duty all my life till this, and I'll do it
now. There ain't going to be no execution at all here this morning!"

The sheriff gazed at him astonished.

"What do you mean, Stokes?" he asked, taken aback at this sudden turn.
"No reprieve has come. The prisoner is to be hanged without fail to-day
in accordance with his sentence. It says so in the warrant: 'wherein
fail not at your peril.'"

Jerry looked round him with an air of expectation. "No reprieve hasn't
come yet," he answered, in a stolid way; "but I'm expecting one
presently. I've done my duty all my life, sheriff, I tell you, and I'll
do it now. I ain't a-going to hang this man at all--because I know he's
innocent."

The prisoner gasped, and turned round to him in amaze. "Yes, I'm
innocent!" he said slowly, looking him over from head to foot; "but
you--how do you know it?"

"I know it by your face," Jerry answered sturdily; "and I know by the
other one's face it was him that did it."

The sheriff looked on in puzzled wonderment. This was a hitch in the
proceedings he had never expected. "Your conduct is most irregular,
Stokes," he said at last, stroking his chin in his embarrassment; "most
irregular and disconcerting. If you had a conscientious scruple against
hanging the prisoner, you should have told us before. Then we might have
arranged for some other executioner to serve in your place. As it is,
the delay is most unseemly and painful: especially for the prisoner.
Your action can only cause him unnecessary suspense. Sooner or later
this morning, somebody must hang him."

But Jerry only looked back at him with an approving nod. The sheriff had
supplied him, all inarticulate that he was, with suitable speech. "Ah,
that's just it, don't you see," he made answer promptly, "it's a
conscientious scruple. That's why I won't hang him. No man can't be
expected to go agin his conscience. I never hanged an innocent man
yet--least-ways not to my knowledge; and s'help me heaven, I won't hang
one now, not for the Queen nor for nobody!"

The sheriff paused. The sheriff deliberated. "What on earth am I to do?"
he exclaimed, in despair. "If _you_ won't hang him, how on earth at this
hour can I secure a substitute?"

Jerry stared at him stolidly once more, after his wont. "If _I_ don't
hang him," he answered, with the air of one who knows his ground well,
"it's _your_ business to do it with your own hands. 'Wherein fail not at
your peril.' And I give you warning beforehand, sheriff, if you _do_
hang him--why, you'll have to remember all your life long that you
helped to get rid of an innocent man, when the common hangman refused to
execute him!"

To such a pitch of indignation was he roused by events that he said it
plump out, just so, "the common hangman." Rather than let his last
appeal lack aught of effectiveness in the cause of justice, he consented
so to endorse the public condemnation of his own respectable, useful,
and necessary calling!

There was a pause of a few minutes, during which the sheriff once more
halted and hesitated; the prisoner looked around with a pale and
terrified air; and Jerry kept his eye fixed hard on the gate, like one
who really expects a reprieve or a pardon.

"Then you absolutely refuse?" the sheriff asked at last, in a despairing
sort of way.

"I absolutely refuse," Jerry answered, in a very decided tone. But it
was clear he was beginning to grow anxious and nervous.

"In that case," the sheriff replied, turning round to the jailor, "I
must put off this execution for half an hour, till I can get someone
else to come in and assist me."

Hardly had he spoken the words, however, when a policeman appeared at
the door of the courtyard, and in a very hurried voice asked eagerly to
be admitted. His manner was that of a man who brings important news.
"The execution's not over, sir?" he said, turning to the sheriff with a
very scared face. "Well, thank heaven for that! Dr. Wade's outside, and
he says, for God's sake, he must speak at once with you."

The sheriff hesitated. He hardly knew what to do. "Bring him in," he
said at last, after a solemn pause. "He may have something to tell us
that will help us out of this difficulty."

[Illustration: "HE WAS PALE AND HAGGARD."]

The condemned man, thus momentarily respited on the very brink of the
grave, stood by with a terrible look of awed suspense upon his bloodless
face. But Jerry Stokes' lips bore an expression of quiet triumph. He had
succeeded in his attempt, then. He had brought his man to book. That was
something to be proud of. Alone he had done it! He had saved the
innocent and exposed the guilty!

As they stood there and pondered, each man in silence, on his own
private thoughts, the policeman returned, bringing with him the doctor
whose evidence had weighed most against Ogilvy at the trial. Jerry
Stokes started to see the marvellous alteration in the fellow's face. He
was pale and haggard; his lips were parched; and his eyes had a sunken
and hollow look with remorse and horror. Cold sweat stood on his brow.
His mouth twitched horribly. It was clear he had just passed through a
terrible crisis.

He turned first to Jerry. His lips were bloodless, and trembled as he
spoke; his throat was dry; but in a husky voice he still managed to
deliver himself of the speech that haunted him. "Your letter did it," he
said slowly, fixing his eyes on the hangman; "I couldn't stand _that_.
It broke me down utterly. All night long I lay awake and knew I had sent
him to the gallows in my place. It was terrible--terrible! But I
wouldn't give way: I'd made up my mind, and I meant to pull through with
it. Then the morning came--the morning of the execution, and with it
your letter. Till that moment I thought nobody knew but myself. I wasn't
even suspected. When I saw _you_ knew, I could stand it no longer. You
said: 'If you let this innocent man swing in your place, I, the common
hangman, will refuse to execute him. If he dies, I'll avenge him. I'll
hound you to your grave. I'll follow up clues till I've brought your
crime home to you. Don't commit two murders instead of one. It'll do you
no good, and be worse in the end for you.' When I read those
words--those terrible words!--from the common hangman, 'Ah, heaven!' I
thought, 'I need try to conceal it no longer.' All's up now. I've come
to confess. Thank heaven I'm in time! Sheriff, let this man go. It was I
who poisoned her!"

There was a dead silence again for several seconds. Jerry Stokes was the
first of them all to break it. "I knew it," he said solemnly. "I was
sure of it. I could have sworn to it."

"And I am sure of it, too," the condemned man put in, with tremulous
lips. "I was sure it was he; but how on earth was I to prove it?"

The sheriff looked about him at all three in turn. "Well," he said
deliberately, with a sigh of relief, "I must telegraph for instructions
to Ottawa immediately. Prisoner, you are _not_ reprieved; but under
these peculiar circumstances, as Dr. Wade makes a voluntary confession
of having committed the crime himself, I defer the execution for the
present on my own responsibility. Jailer, I remit Mr. Ogilvy to the
cells till further instructions arrive from the Viceroy. Policeman, take
charge of Dr. Wade, who gives himself into custody for the murder of
Mrs. Ogilvy. Stokes, perhaps you did right after all. Ten minutes' delay
made all the difference. If you'd consented to hang the prisoner at
first, this confession might only have come after all was over."

The doctor turned to Jerry, with the wan ghost of a grim smile upon his
worn and pallid face. The marks of a great struggle were still visible
in every line. "And you won't be baulked of your fee, after all," he
added, with a ghastly effort at cynical calmness; "for you'll have _me_
to hang before you have seen the end of this business."

But Jerry shook his head. "I ain't so sure about that," he said,
scratching his thick, bullet poll, and holding his great square neck a
little on one side. "I ain't so sure of my trade as I used to be once,
sheriff and gentlemen. I always used to hold it was a useful, a
respectable, and a necessary trade, and of benefit to the community. But
I've began to doubt it. If the law can string up an innocent man like
this, and no appeal, except for the exertions of the public executioner,
why, I've began to doubt the expediency, so to speak, of capital
punishment. I ain't so certain as I was about the usefulness of hanging.
Dr. Wade, I think somebody else may have the turning of you off. Mr.
Ogilvy, I'm glad, sir, it was me that had the hanging of you. An
unscrupulous man might ha' gone for his fee. I couldn't do that: I gone
for justice. Give me your hand, sir. Thank you. You needn't be ashamed
of shaking hands once in a way with a public functionary--especially
when it's for the last time in his official career. Sheriff, I've had
enough of this 'ere work for life. I go back to the lumbering trade. I
resign my appointment."

It was a great speech for Jerry--an oratorical effort. But a prouder or
happier man there wasn't in Kingston that day than Jeremiah Stokes, late
public executioner.




                          _The Piece of Gold._

                  FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS COPPÉE.

    [François Coppée, who was born in January, 1842, is known
    chiefly as a poet, and is, indeed, considered by some critics as
    the greatest poet now alive in France. For many years he acted
    as librarian to the Senate, but since 1878 he has held the post
    of Keeper of the Records at the Comédie-Française, at which
    theatre several of his plays have been produced. His poems have
    gained for him the glory of the Legion of Honour; but his short
    prose tales are full of the same fine qualities which are
    conspicuous in his verse.]


                                   I.

WHEN Lucien Hem saw his last hundred-franc note gripped by the
bank-keeper's rake, and rose from the roulette-table, where he had lost
the last fragments of his little fortune, collected for this supreme
struggle, he felt giddy, and thought he was going to fall.

With dizzy head and tottering legs, he went and threw himself down upon
the broad leathern settee surrounding the play-table.

[Illustration: "HE FELT GIDDY."]

For some minutes he gazed vacantly on the clandestine gambling-house in
which he had squandered the best years of his youth; recognised the
ravaged faces of the gamblers, crudely lit by the three large shaded
lamps; listened to the light jingle of gold on the cloth-covered table;
felt that he was ruined, lost; recollected that he had at home the pair
of regulation pistols which his father, General Hem, then a simple
captain, had used so well in the attack of Zaatcha; then, overcome by
fatigue, he sank into a profound sleep.

When he arose, with a clammy mouth, he saw by the clock that he had
slept for barely half an hour, and felt an imperious need for breathing
the night air. The clock-hands marked a quarter before midnight. While
rising and stretching his arms, Lucien remembered that it was Christmas
Eve, and, by an ironic trick of memory, he saw himself a little child,
putting its shoes into the chimney before going to bed.

At that moment old Dronski--a pillar of the gaming house, the classic
Pole, wearing the threadbare hooded woollen cloak, ornamented all over
with grease stains--approached Lucien, and muttered a few words in his
grizzled beard: "Lend me a five-franc piece, monsieur. It's now two days
since I have stirred out of the club, and for two days the 'seventeen'
has never turned up. Laugh at me, if you like, but I'll suffer my hand
to be cut off if that number does not turn up on the stroke of
midnight."

Lucien Hem shrugged his shoulders. He had not even enough in his pocket
to meet this tax, which the frequenters of the place called "The Pole's
hundred sous." He passed into the antechamber, took his hat and fur
coat, and descended the stairs with feverish rapidity.

Since four o'clock, when Lucien had shut himself up in the gaming-house,
snow had fallen heavily, and the street--a street in the centre of
Paris, very narrow, and built with high houses on either side--was
completely white.

In the calm sky, blue-black, the cold stars glittered.

The ruined gambler shuddered under his furs, and walked away, his mind
still teeming with thoughts of despair, and more than ever turning to
the remembrance of the box of pistols which awaited him in one of his
drawers; but after moving forward a few steps, he stopped suddenly
before a heart-wringing sight.

On a stone bench, placed according to old custom near the monumental
door of a mansion, a little girl of six or seven years of age, dressed
in a ragged black frock, was sitting in the snow. She was sleeping, in
spite of the cruel cold, in an attitude of frightful fatigue and
exhaustion: her poor little head and tiny shoulder pressed as if they
had sunk into an angle of the wall, and reposing on the icy stone. One
of her wooden shoes had fallen from her foot, which hung helplessly and
lugubriously before her.

With a mechanical gesture, Lucien put his hand to his waistcoat pocket,
but a moment afterwards he recollected that he had not been able to find
even a forgotten piece of twenty-sous, and had been obliged to leave the
club without giving the customary "tip" to the club attendant; yet,
moved by an instinctive feeling of pity, he approached the little girl,
and might, perhaps, have taken her in his arms and given her a night's
lodging, when in the wooden shoe which had slipped from her foot he saw
something glitter.

He stooped: it was a gold coin.


                                   II.

Some charitable person, doubtless some lady, had passed by, had seen on
this Christmas night the little wooden shoe lying in front of the
sleeping child, and, recalling the touching legend, had placed there,
with a secret hand, a magnificent offering, so that this poor abandoned
one might believe in presents made for the infant Saviour, and preserve,
in spite of her misfortune, some confidence and some hope in the
goodness of Providence.

A gold piece! It was several days of rest and riches for the beggar, and
Lucien was on the point of waking her to tell her this, when he heard
near his ear, as in an hallucination, a voice--the voice of the Pole,
with its coarse drawling accent, almost whispering: "It's now two days
since I stirred out of the club, and for two days the 'seventeen' has
never turned up; I'll suffer my hand to be cut off, if that number does
not turn up on the stroke of midnight."

[Illustration: "HE STOLE THE GOLD PIECE FROM THE FALLEN SHOE!"]

Then this young man of three-and-twenty, descended from a race of honest
men, who bore a proud military name, and who had never swerved from the
path of honour, conceived a frightful idea; he was seized with a mad,
hysterical, monstrous desire. After glancing on all sides, to make sure
that he was alone in the deserted street, he bent his knee, and
carefully out-stretching his trembling hand, he stole the gold piece
from the fallen shoe!

Hurrying then, with all his speed, he returned to the gambling-house,
scaled the stairs two and three at a stride, and entering the accursed
play-room as the first stroke of midnight was sounding, placed the piece
of gold on the green cloth, and cried:--

"I stake on the seventeen!"

The seventeen won.

With a turn of the hand Lucien pushed the thirty-six louis on to the
"red."

The "red" won.

He left the seventy-two louis on the same colour; the "red" again won.

[Illustration: "AND STILL HE WON."]

Twice he "doubled"--three times--always with the same success. He had
now before him a pile of gold and notes, and began to scatter stakes all
over the board; the "dozen," the "column," the "number," all the
combinations succeeded with him. His luck was unheard of, supernatural.
It might have been imagined that the little ivory ball dancing in the
roulette was magnetised, fascinated by the eyes of this player and
obedient to him. In a dozen stakes he had recovered the few wretched
thousand-franc notes, his last resources, which he had lost at the
beginning of the evening.

Now, punting with two or three hundred louis at a time, and aided by his
fantastic vein of luck, he was on the way to regaining, and more
besides, the hereditary capital he had squandered in so few years, and
reconstituting his fortune.

In his eagerness to return to the gaming-table, he had not taken off his
fur coat. Already he had crammed the large pockets with bundles of notes
and rouleaux of gold pieces; and, not knowing where to heap his
winnings, he now loaded the inner and exterior pockets of his
frock-coat, the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers, his cigar-case,
his handkerchief--everything that could be made to hold his money.

And still he played, and still he won, like a madman, like a drunken
man! And he threw handfuls of louis on to the "picture," at hazard, with
a gesture of certainty and disdain!

Only something like a red-hot iron was in his heart, and he thought of
nothing but of the little mendicant sleeping in the snow whom he had
robbed.

"Is she still at the same spot! Surely she must be still there!
Presently--yes, when one o'clock strikes--I swear it! I will quit this
place. I will take her sleeping in my arms and carry her to my home; I
will put her into my warm bed; I will bring her up, give her a dowry,
love her as if she were my own daughter, care for her always, always!"


                                  III.

But the clock struck one, and then a quarter, and then a half, and then
three-quarters.

And Lucien was still seated at the infernal table.

At length, one minute before two o'clock, the keeper of the bank rose
abruptly, and said in a loud voice:

"The bank is broken, gentlemen--enough for to-day."

With a bound Lucien was on his feet. Roughly pushing aside the gamblers
who surrounded him and regarded him with envious admiration, he hurried
away quickly, sprang down the stairs and ran all the way to the stone
bench. In the distance, by the light of a lamp, he saw the little girl.

"God be praised!" he said; "she is still there."

He approached her, he took her hands.

"Oh! how cold she is, poor little one!"

He took her under the arms and raised her, so that he might carry her;
her head fell back without her awaking.

"How soundly children of her age sleep!"

He pressed her against his bosom to warm her, and, seized by a vague
inquietude, and, with a view to rousing her out of this heavy slumber,
he kissed her eyelids.

Then it was that he perceived with terror that these eyelids were half
open, showing half the eyeballs--glassy, lightless, motionless. Upon his
brain flashed a horrible suspicion. He placed his mouth close to that of
the little girl; no breath came from it.

While with the gold piece which he had stolen from this mendicant,
Lucien had won a fortune at the gaming table, the homeless child had
died--died of cold!


                                  IV.

Seized by the throat by the most frightful of agonies, Lucien tried to
utter a cry, and, in the effort which he made, awoke from his nightmare
on the club settee, on which he had gone to sleep a little before
midnight, and where the attendant who had quitted the house last had
left him out of charity.

The misty dawn of a December morning was greying the window-panes.

Lucien went out into the street, pledged his watch, took a bath,
breakfasted, and then went to the recruiting-office, and signed an
engagement as volunteer in the 1st Regiment of Chasseurs d'Afrique.

At the present time Lucien Hem is a lieutenant; he has only his pay to
live upon, but he contrives to make it suffice, being a very steady
officer and never touching a card. It appears even that he has found the
means of saving, for the other day, at Algiers, one of his comrades who
was following him, at a few paces distant, in one of the hilly streets
of the Kasba, saw him give something in charity to a little Spanish girl
sleeping in a doorway, and had the indiscretion to see what it was that
Lucien had given to the child.

Great was his surprise at the poor lieutenant's generosity.

Lucien Hem had put into the hand of the poor child a _piece of gold_!

                             [Illustration]




                        _The Voice of Science._


MRS. ESDAILE, of the Lindens, Birchespool, was a lady of quite
remarkable scientific attainments. As honorary secretary of the ladies'
branch of the local Eclectic Society, she shone with a never-failing
brilliance. It was even whispered that on the occasion of the delivery
of Professor Tomlinson's suggestive lecture "On the Perigenesis of the
Plastidule" she was the only woman in the room who could follow the
lecturer even as far as the end of his title. In the seclusion of the
Lindens she supported Darwin, laughed at Mivart, doubted Haeckel, and
shook her head at Weissman, with a familiarity which made her the
admiration of the University professors and the terror of the few
students who ventured to cross her learned but hospitable threshold.
Mrs. Esdaile had, of course, detractors. It is the privilege of
exceptional merit. There were bitter feminine whispers as to the
cramming from encyclopædias and text-books which preceded each learned
meeting, and as to the care with which in her own house the conversation
was artfully confined to those particular channels with which the
hostess was familiar. Tales there were, too, of brilliant speeches
written out in some masculine hand, which had been committed to memory
by the ambitious lady, and had afterwards flashed out as extempore
elucidations of some dark, half-explored corner of modern science. It
was even said that these little blocks of information got jumbled up
occasionally in their bearer's mind, so that after an entomological
lecture she would burst into a geological harangue, or _vice versâ_, to
the great confusion of her audience. So ran the gossip of the malicious,
but those who knew her best were agreed that she was a very charming and
clever little person.

[Illustration: "SCIENTIFIC PROOF."]

It would have been a strange thing had Mrs. Esdaile not been popular
among local scientists, for her pretty house, her charming grounds, and
all the hospitality which an income of two thousand a year will admit
of, were always at their command. On her pleasant lawns in the summer,
and round her drawing-room fire in the winter, there was much high talk
of microbes, and leucocytes, and sterilised bacteria, where thin,
ascetic materialists from the University upheld the importance of this
life against round, comfortable champions of orthodoxy from the
Cathedral Close. And in the heat of thrust and parry, when scientific
proof ran full tilt against inflexible faith, a word from the clever
widow, or an opportune rattle over the keys by her pretty daughter Rose,
would bring all back to harmony once more.

Rose Esdaile had just passed her twentieth year, and was looked upon as
one of the beauties of Birchespool. Her face was, perhaps, a trifle long
for perfect symmetry, but her eyes were fine, her expression kindly, and
her complexion beautiful. It was an open secret, too, that she had under
her father's will five hundred a year in her own right. With such
advantages a far plainer girl than Rose Esdaile might create a stir in
the society of a provincial town.

A scientific conversazione in a private house is an onerous thing to
organise, yet mother and daughter had not shrunk from the task. On the
morning of which I write, they sat together surveying their accomplished
labours, with the pleasant feeling that nothing remained to be done save
to receive the congratulations of their friends. With the assistance of
Rupert, the son of the house, they had assembled from all parts of
Birchespool objects of scientific interest, which now adorned the long
tables in the drawing-room. Indeed, the full tide of curiosities of
every sort which had swelled into the house had overflowed the rooms
devoted to the meeting, and had surged down the broad stairs to invade
the dining-room and the passage. The whole villa had become a museum.
Specimens of the flora and fauna of the Philippine Islands, a ten-foot
turtle carapace from the Gallapagos, the os frontis of the Bos montis as
shot by Captain Charles Beesly in the Thibetan Himalayas, the bacillus
of Koch cultivated on gelatine--these and a thousand other such trophies
adorned the tables upon which the two ladies gazed that morning.

"You've really managed it splendidly, ma," said the young lady, craning
her neck up to give her mother a congratulatory kiss. "It was so brave
of you to undertake it."

"I think that it will do," purred Mrs. Esdaile complacently. "But I do
hope that the phonograph will work without a hitch. You know at the last
meeting of the British Association I got Professor Standerton to repeat
into it his remarks on the life history of the Medusiform Gonophore."

"How funny it seems," exclaimed Rose, glancing at the square box-like
apparatus, which stood in the post of honour on the central table, "to
think that this wood and metal will begin to speak just like a human
being."

"Hardly that, dear. Of course the poor thing can say nothing except what
is said to it. You always know exactly what is coming. But I do hope
that it will work all right."

"Rupert will see to it when he comes up from the garden. He understands
all about them. Oh, ma, I feel so nervous."

Mrs. Esdaile looked anxiously down at her daughter, and passed her hand
caressingly over her rich brown hair. "I understand," she said, in her
soothing, cooing voice, "I understand."

"He will expect an answer to-night, ma."

"Follow your heart, child. I am sure that I have every confidence in
your good sense and discretion. I would not dictate to you upon such a
matter."

"You are so good, ma. Of course, as Rupert says, we really know very
little of Charles--of Captain Beesly. But then, ma, all that we do know
is in his favour."

"Quite so, dear. He is musical, and well-informed, and good-humoured,
and certainly extremely handsome. It is clear, too, from what he says,
that he has moved in the very highest circles."

"The best in India, ma. He was an intimate friend of the
Governor-General's. You heard yourself what he said yesterday about the
D'Arcies, and Lady Gwendoline Fairfax, and Lord Montague Grosvenor."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Esdaile resignedly, "you are old enough to know
your own mind. I shall not attempt to dictate to you. I own that my own
hopes were set upon Professor Stares."

"Oh, ma, think how dreadfully ugly he is."

"But think of his reputation, dear. Little more than thirty, and a
member of the Royal Society."

"I couldn't, ma. I don't think I could, if there was not another man in
the world. But, oh, I do feel so nervous; for you can't think how
earnest he is. I must give him an answer to-night. But they will be here
in an hour. Don't you think that we had better go to our rooms?"

The two ladies had risen, when there came a quick masculine step upon
the stairs, and a brisk young fellow, with curly black hair, dashed into
the room.

"All ready?" he asked, running his eyes over the lines of relic-strewn
tables.

"All ready, dear," answered his mother.

"Oh, I am glad to catch you together," said he, with his hands buried
deeply in his trouser pockets, and an uneasy expression on his face.
"There's one thing that I wanted to speak to you about. Look here,
Rosie; a bit of fun is all very well; but you wouldn't be such a little
donkey to think seriously of this fellow Beesly?"

"My dear Rupert, do try to be a little less abrupt," said Mrs. Esdaile,
with a deprecating hand outstretched.

"I can't help seeing how they have been thrown together. I don't want to
be unkind, Rosie; but I can't stand by and see you wreck your life for a
man who has nothing to recommend him but his eyes and his moustache. Do
be a sensible girl, Rosie, and have nothing to say to him."

"It is surely a point, Rupert, upon which I am more fitted to decide
than you can be," remarked Mrs. Esdaile, with dignity.

"No, mater, for I have been able to make some inquiries. Young
Cheffington, of the Gunners, knew him in India. He says--"

But his sister broke in upon his revelations. "I won't stay here, ma, to
hear him slandered behind his back," she cried, with spirit. "He has
never said anything that was not kind of you, Rupert, and I don't know
why you should attack him so. It is cruel, unbrotherly." With a sweep
and a whisk she was at the door, her cheek flushed, her eyes sparkling,
her bosom heaving with this little spurt of indignation, while close at
her heels walked her mother with soothing words, and an angry glance
thrown back over her shoulder. Rupert Esdaile stood with his hands
burrowing deeper and deeper into his pockets, and his shoulders rising
higher and higher to his ears, feeling intensely guilty, and yet not
certain whether he should blame himself for having said too much or for
not having said enough.

[Illustration: "I WON'T STAY HERE TO HEAR HIM SLANDERED."]

Just in front of him stood the table on which the phonograph, with
wires, batteries, and all complete, stood ready for the guests whom it
was to amuse. Slowly his hands emerged from his pockets as his eye fell
upon the apparatus, and with languid curiosity he completed the
connection, and started the machine. A pompous, husky sound, as of a man
clearing his throat proceeded from the instrument, and then in high,
piping tones, thin but distinct, the commencement of the celebrated
scientist's lecture. "Of all the interesting problems," remarked the
box, "which are offered to us by recent researches into the lower orders
of marine life, there is none to exceed the retrograde metamorphosis
which characterises the common barnacle. The differentiation of an
amorphous protoplasmic mass--" Here Rupert Esdaile broke the connection
again, and the funny little tinkling voice ceased as suddenly as it
began.

The young man stood smiling, looking down at this garrulous piece of
wood and metal, when suddenly the smile broadened, and a light of
mischief danced up into his eyes. He slapped his thigh, and danced round
in the ecstasy of one who has stumbled on a brand-new brilliant idea.
Very carefully he drew forth the slips of metal which recorded the
learned Professor's remarks, and laid them aside for future use. Into
the slots he thrust virgin plates, all ready to receive an impression,
and then, bearing the phonograph under his arm, he vanished into his own
sanctum. Five minutes before the first guests had arrived the machine
was back upon the table, and all ready for use.

There could be no question of the success of Mrs. Esdaile's
conversazione. From first to last everything went admirably. People
stared through microscopes, and linked hands for electric shocks, and
marvelled at the Gallapagos turtle, the os frontis of the Bos montis,
and all the other curiosities which Mrs. Esdaile had taken such pains to
collect. Groups formed and chatted round the various cases. The Dean of
Birchespool listened with a protesting lip, while Professor Maunders
held forth upon a square of triassic rock, with side-thrusts
occasionally at the six days of orthodox creation; a knot of specialists
disputed over a stuffed ornithorhynchus in a corner; while Mrs. Esdaile
swept from group to group, introducing, congratulating, laughing, with
the ready, graceful tact of a clever woman of the world. By the window
sat the heavily-moustached Captain Beesly, with the daughter of the
house, and they discussed a problem of their own, as old as the triassic
rock, and perhaps as little understood.

"But I must really go and help my mother to entertain, Captain Beesly,"
said Rose at last, with a little movement as if to rise.

"Don't go, Rose. And don't call me Captain Beesly; call me Charles. Do,
now!"

"Well, then, Charles."

[Illustration: "Call me Charles. Do now."]

"How prettily it sounds from your lips! No, now, don't go. I can't bear
to be away from you. I had heard of love, Rose; but how strange it seems
that I, after spending my life amid all that is sparkling and gay,
should only find out now, in this little provincial town, what love
really is!"

"You say so; but it is only a passing fancy."

"No, indeed. I shall never leave you, Rose--never, unless you drive me
away from your side. And you would not be so cruel--you would not break
my heart?"

He had very plaintive, blue eyes, and there was such a depth of sorrow
in them as he spoke that Rose could have wept for sympathy.

"I should be very sorry to cause you grief in any way," she said, in a
faltering tone.

"Then promise----"

"No, no; we cannot speak of it just now, and they are collecting round
the phonograph. Do come and listen to it. It is so funny. Have you ever
heard one?"

"Never."

"It will amuse you immensely. And I am sure that you would never guess
what it is going to talk about."

"What then?"

"Oh, I won't tell you. You shall hear. Let us have these chairs by the
open door; it is so nice and cool."

The company had formed an expectant circle round the instrument. There
was a subdued hush as Rupert Esdaile made the connection, while his
mother waved her white hand slowly from left to right to mark the
cadence of the sonorous address which was to break upon their ears.

"How about Lucy Araminta Pennyfeather?" cried a squeaky little voice.
There was a rustle and a titter among the audience. Rupert glanced
across at Captain Beesly. He saw a drooping jaw, two protruding eyes,
and a face the colour of cheese.

[Illustration: "WHO WAS IT WHO HID THE ACE?"]

"How about little Martha Hovedean of the Kensal Choir Union?" cried the
piping voice.

Louder still rose the titters. Mrs. Esdaile stared about her in
bewilderment. Rose burst out laughing, and the Captain's jaw drooped
lower still, with a tinge of green upon the cheese-like face.

"Who was it who hid the ace in the artillery card-room at Peshawur? Who
was it who was broke in consequence? Who was it----?"

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Esdaile, "what nonsense is this? The machine
is out of order. Stop it, Rupert. These are not the Professor's remarks.
But, dear me, where is our friend Captain Beesly gone?"

"I am afraid that he is not very well, ma," said Rose. "He rushed out of
the room."

"There can't be much the matter," quoth Rupert. "There he goes, cutting
down the avenue as fast as his legs will carry him. I do not think,
somehow, that we shall see the Captain again. But I must really
apologise. I have put in the wrong slips. These, I fancy, are those
which belong to Professor Standerton's lecture."

                               * * * * *

Rose Esdaile has become Rose Stares now, and her husband is one of the
most rising scientists in the provinces. No doubt she is proud of his
intellect and of his growing fame, but there are times when she still
gives a thought to the blue-eyed Captain, and marvels at the strange and
sudden manner in which he deserted her.

                             [Illustration]




                               _Camille._

                    FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

    [Alfred de Musset was born in the middle of old Paris, in the
    year 1810. Musset is the Byron of the French; but at the age
    when Byron was playing cricket in the grounds of Harrow, Alfred
    and his brother Paul were poring day and night over old
    romances, and dressing themselves up as knights and robbers, to
    represent the characters of whom they read. At nineteen he began
    to write, and, unlike Byron, his first book of poems was a
    complete success. At twenty-three he went to Italy, in the
    capacity of George Sand's private secretary, fell passionately
    in love with her, was jilted, and returned home broken-hearted.
    This, however, did not prevent him from falling in love, and out
    again, like Byron, at constant intervals throughout his life,
    and celebrating the event in verses infinitely sweet and bitter.
    From Louis Philippe, who had been his school-fellow, he received
    the post of Librarian to the Minister of the Interior, which,
    however, he lost at the Revolution of 1848. In 1852 he was
    elected to the French Academy; but, though only forty-two, his
    health was already breaking. Like Byron, who loved to write at
    midnight with a glass of gin-and-water at his elbow, Musset used
    to prime himself with draughts of the still deadlier absinthe.
    He sank, and died in May, 1857, leaving the greatest name of all
    French poets except Victor Hugo, and a reputation as a writer of
    prose stories which may be very fairly estimated by the specimen
    which follows--the charming little story of "Camille."]


                                   I.

THE Chevalier des Arcis was a cavalry officer who, having quitted the
service in 1760, while still young, retired to a country house near
Mans. Shortly after, he married the daughter of a retired merchant who
lived in the neighbourhood, and this marriage appeared for a time to be
an exceedingly happy one. Cécile's relatives were worthy folk who,
enriched by means of hard work, were now, in their latter years,
enjoying a continual Sunday. The Chevalier, weary of the artificial
manners of Versailles, entered gladly into their simple pleasures.
Cécile had an excellent uncle, named Giraud, who had been a
master-bricklayer, but had risen by degrees to the position of
architect, and now owned considerable property. The Chevalier's house
(which was named Chardonneux) was much to Giraud's taste, and he was
there a frequent and ever welcome visitor.

By and by a lovely little girl was born to the Chevalier and Cécile, and
great at first was the jubilation of the parents. But a painful shock
was in store for them. They soon made the terrible discovery that their
little Camille was deaf, and, consequently, also dumb!


                                  II.

The mother's first thought was of cure, but this hope was reluctantly
abandoned; no cure could be found. At the time of which we are writing,
there existed a pitiless prejudice against those poor creatures whom we
style _deaf mutes_. A few noble spirits, it is true, had protested
against this barbarity. A Spanish monk of the sixteenth century was the
first to devise means of teaching the dumb to speak without words--a
thing until then deemed impossible. His example had been followed at
different times in Italy, England, and France, by Bonnet, Wallis,
Bulwer, and Van Helmont, and a little good had been done here and there.
Still, however, even at Paris, deaf mutes were generally regarded as
beings set apart, marked with the brand of Divine displeasure. Deprived
of speech, the power of thought was denied them, and they inspired more
horror than pity.

A dark shadow crept over the happiness of Camille's parents. A sudden,
silent estrangement--worse than divorce, crueller than death--grew up
between them. For the mother passionately loved her afflicted child,
while the Chevalier, despite all the efforts prompted by his kind heart,
could not overcome the repugnance with which her affliction affected
him.

The mother spoke to her child by signs, and she alone could make herself
understood. Every other inmate of the house, even her father, was a
stranger to Camille. The mother of Madame des Arcis--a woman of no
tact--never ceased to deplore loudly the misfortune that had befallen
her daughter and son-in-law. "Better that she had never been born!" she
exclaimed one day.

"What would you have done, then, had _I_ been thus?" asked Cécile
indignantly.

To Uncle Giraud his great-niece's dumbness seemed no such tremendous
misfortune. "I have had," said he, "such a talkative wife that I regard
everything else as a less evil. This little woman will never speak or
hear bad words, never aggravate the whole household by humming opera
airs, will never quarrel, never awake when her husband coughs, or rises
early to look after his workmen. She will see clearly, for the deaf have
good eyes. She will be pretty and intelligent, and make no noise. Were I
young, I would like to marry her; being old, I will adopt her as my
daughter whenever you are tired of her."

For a moment the sad parents were cheered by Uncle Giraud's bright talk.
But the cloud soon re-descended upon them.


                                  III.

In course of time the little girl grew into a big one. Nature completed
successfully, but faithfully, her task. The Chevalier's feelings towards
Camille had, unfortunately, undergone no change. Her mother still
watched over her tenderly, and never left her, observing anxiously her
slightest actions, her every sign of interest in life.

[Illustration: "SHE SANK UPON A SEAT."]

When Camille's young friends were of an age to receive the first
instructions of a governess, the poor child began to realise the
difference between herself and others. The child of a neighbour had a
severe governess. Camille, who was present one day at a spelling-lesson,
regarded her little comrade with surprise, following her efforts with
her eyes, seeking, as it were, to aid her, and crying when she was
scolded. Especially were the music-lessons puzzling to Camille.

The evening prayers, which the neighbour used regularly with her
children, were another enigma for the girl. She knelt with her friends,
and joined her hands without knowing wherefore. The Chevalier considered
this a profanation; not so his wife. As Camille advanced in age, she
became possessed of a passion--as it were by a holy instinct--for the
churches which she beheld. "When I was a child I saw not God, I saw only
the sky," is the saying of a deaf mute. A religious procession, a
coarse, gaudily bedizened image of the Virgin, a choir boy in a shabby
surplice, whose voice was all unheard by Camille--who knows what simple
means will serve to raise the eyes of a child? And what matters it, so
long as the eyes are raised?


                                  IV.

Camille was _petite_, with a white skin, and long black hair, and
graceful movements. She was swift to understand her mother's wishes,
prompt to obey them. So much grace and beauty, joined to so much
misfortune, were most disturbing to the Chevalier. He would frequently
embrace the girl in an excited manner, exclaiming aloud: "I am not yet a
wicked man!"

At the end of the garden there was a wooded walk, to which the Chevalier
was in the habit of betaking himself after breakfast. From her chamber
window Madame des Arcis often watched him wistfully as he walked to and
fro beneath the trees. One morning, with palpitating heart, she ventured
to join him. She wished to take Camille to a juvenile ball which was to
be held that evening at a neighbouring mansion. She longed to observe
the effect which her daughter's beauty would produce upon the outside
world and upon her husband. She had passed a sleepless night in devising
Camille's toilette, and she cherished the sweetest hopes. "It must be,"
she told herself, "that he will be proud, and the rest jealous of the
poor little one! She will say nothing, but she will be the most
beautiful!"

The Chevalier welcomed his wife graciously--quite in the manner of
Versailles! Their conversation commenced with the exchange of a few
insignificant sentences as they walked side by side. Then a silence fell
between them, while Madame des Arcis sought fitting words in which to
approach her husband on the subject of Camille, and induce him to break
his resolution that the child should never see the world. Meanwhile, the
Chevalier was also in cogitation. He was the first to speak. He informed
his wife that urgent family affairs called him to Holland, and that he
ought to start not later than the following morning.

Madame understood his true motive only too easily. The Chevalier was far
from contemplating the desertion of his wife, yet felt an irresistible
desire, a compelling need of temporary isolation. In almost all true
sorrow, man has this craving for solitude--suffering animals have it
also.

His wife raised no objection to his project, but fresh grief wrung her
heart. Complaining of weariness, she sank upon a seat. There she
remained for a long time, lost in sad reverie. She rose at length, put
her arm into that of her husband, and they returned together to the
house.

The poor lady spent the afternoon quietly and prayerfully in her own
room. In the evening, towards eight o'clock, she rang her bell, and
ordered the horse to be put into the carriage. At the same time she sent
word to the Chevalier that she intended going to the ball, and hoped
that he would accompany her.

An embroidered robe of white muslin, small shoes of white satin, a
necklace of American beads, a coronet of violets--such was the simple
costume of Camille, who, when her mother had dressed her, jumped for
joy. As Madame was embracing her child with the words, "You are
beautiful! you are beautiful!" the Chevalier joined them. He gave his
hand to his wife, and the three went to the ball.

As it was Camille's first appearance in public, she naturally excited a
great deal of curiosity. The Chevalier suffered visibly. When his
friends praised to him the beauty of his daughter, he felt that they
intended to console him, and such consolation was not to his taste. Yet
he could not wholly suppress some emotion of pride and joy. His feelings
were strangely mixed. After having saluted by gestures almost everybody
in the room, Camille was now resting by her mother's side. The general
admiration grew more enthusiastic. Nothing, in fact, could have been
more lovely than the envelope which held this poor dumb soul. Her
figure, her face, her long, curling hair, above all, her eyes of
incomparable lustre, surprised everyone. Her wistful looks and graceful
gestures, too, were so pathetic. People crowded around Madame des Arcis,
asking a thousand questions about Camille; to surprise and a slight
coldness succeeded sincere kindliness and sympathy. They had never seen
such a charming child; nothing resembled her, for there existed nothing
else so charming as she! Camille was a complete success.

[Illustration: "IT WAS CAMILLE'S FIRST APPEARANCE."]

Always outwardly calm, Madame des Arcis tasted to-night the most pure
and intense pleasure of her life. A smile that was exchanged between her
and her husband was well worth many tears.

Presently, as the Chevalier was still gazing at his daughter, a
country-dance began, which Camille watched with an earnest attention
that had in it something sad. A boy invited her to join. For answer, she
shook her head, causing some of the violets to fall out of her coronet.
Her mother picked them up, and soon put to rights the coiffure, which
was her own handiwork. Then she looked round for her husband, but he was
no longer in the room. She inquired if he had left, and whether he had
taken the carriage. She was told that he had gone home on foot.


                                   V.

The Chevalier had resolved to leave home without taking leave of his
wife. He shrank from all discussion and explanation, and, as he intended
to return in a short time, he believed that he should act more wisely in
leaving a letter than by making a verbal farewell. There was _some_
truth in his statement of that business affair calling him away,
although business was not his first consideration. And now one of his
friends had written to hasten his departure. Here was a good excuse. On
returning alone to his house (by a much shorter route than that taken by
the carriage), he announced his intention to the servants, packed in
great haste, sent his light luggage on to the town, mounted his horse,
and was gone.

Yet a certain misgiving troubled him, for he knew that his Cécile would
be pained by his abrupt departure, although he endeavoured to persuade
himself that he did this for her sake no less than for his own. However,
he continued on his way.

Meanwhile, Madame des Arcis was returning in the carriage, with her
daughter asleep upon her knee. She felt hurt at the Chevalier's rudeness
in leaving them to return alone. It seemed such a public slight upon his
wife and child! Sad forebodings filled the mother's heart as the
carriage jolted slowly over the stones of a newly-made road. "God
watches over all," she reflected; "over us as over others. But what
shall we do? What will become of my poor child?"

At some distance from Chardonneux there was a ford to be crossed. There
had been much rain for nearly a month past, causing the river to
overflow its banks. The ferryman refused at first to take the carriage
into his boat; he would undertake, he said, to convey the passengers and
the horse safely across, but not the vehicle. The lady, anxious to
rejoin her husband, would not descend. She ordered the coachman to enter
the boat; it was only a transit of a few minutes, which she had made a
hundred times.

In mid-stream the boat was forced by the current from its straight
course. The boatman asked the coachman's aid in keeping it away from the
weir. For there was not far off a mill with a weir, where the violence
of the water had formed a sort of cascade. It was clear that if the boat
drifted to this spot there would be a terrible accident.

[Illustration: "IN MID-STREAM."]

The coachman descended from his seat, and worked with a will. But he had
only a pole to work with, the night was dark, a fine rain blinded the
men, and soon the noise of the weir announced the most imminent danger.
Madame des Arcis, who had remained in the carriage, opened the window in
alarm. "Are we then lost?" cried she. At that moment the pole broke. The
two men fell into the boat exhausted, and with bruised hands.

The ferryman could swim, but not the coachman. There was no time to
lose. "Père Georgeot," said Madame to the ferryman, calling him by his
name, "can you save my daughter and myself?"

"Certainly!" he replied, as if almost insulted by the question.

"What must we do?" inquired Madame des Arcis.

"Place yourself upon my shoulders," replied the ferryman, "and put your
arms about my neck. As for the little one, I will hold her in one hand,
and swim with the other, and she shall not get drowned. It is but a
short distance from here to the potatoes which grow in yonder field."

"And Jean?" asked Madame, meaning the coachman.

"Jean will be all right, I hope. If he holds on at the weir, I will
return for him."

Père Georgeot struck out with his double burden, but he had
over-estimated his powers. He was no longer young. The shore was farther
off, the current stronger than he had thought. He struggled manfully,
but was nearly swept away. Then the trunk of a willow, hidden by the
water and the darkness, stopped him suddenly with a violent blow upon
the forehead. Blood flowed from the wound and obscured his vision.

"Could you save my child if you had only her to convey?" asked the
mother.

"I cannot tell, but I _think_ so," said the ferryman.

The mother removed her arms from the man's neck, and let herself slip
gently into the water.

When the ferryman had deposited Camille safely on _terra firma_, the
coachman, who had been rescued by a peasant, helped him to search for
the body of Madame des Arcis. It was found on the following morning,
near the bank.


                                  VI.

Camille's grief at her mother's loss was terrible to witness. She ran
hither and thither, uttering wild, inarticulate cries, tearing her hair,
and beating the walls. An unnatural calm succeeded these violent
emotions; reason itself seemed well-nigh gone.

It was then that Uncle Giraud came to his niece's rescue. "Poor child!"
said he, "she has at present neither father nor mother. With me she has
always been a favourite, and I intend now to take charge of her for a
time. Change of scene," said Uncle Giraud, "would do her a world of
good." With the Chevalier's permission (obtained by letter), he carried
off Camille to Paris. The Chevalier returned to Chardonneux, where he
lived in deepest retirement, shunning every living being, a prey to
grief and keen remorse.

[Illustration: THE DISCOVERY OF THE BODY OF MADAME DES ARCIS.]

A year passed heavily away. Uncle Giraud had as yet failed utterly to
rouse Camille. She steadily refused to be interested in anything. At
last, one day he determined to take her, _nolens volens_, to the opera.
A new and beautiful dress was purchased for the occasion. When, attired
in this, Camille saw herself in the glass, so pleased was she with the
pretty picture that, to her good uncle's intense satisfaction, she
actually smiled!


                                  VII.

Camille soon wearied of the opera. All--actors, musicians,
audience--seemed to say to her:--"We speak, and you cannot; we hear,
laugh, sing, rejoice. You rejoice in nothing, hear nothing. You are only
a statue, the simulacrum of a being, a mere looker-on at life."

When, to exclude the mocking spectacle, she closed her eyes, the scenes
of her early life rose before the eyes of her mind. She returned in
thought to her country home, saw again her mother's dear face. It was
too much! Uncle Giraud observed, with much concern, tears rolling down
her cheeks. When he would have inquired the cause of her grief, she made
signs that she wished to leave. She rose, and opened the door of the
box.

Just at this moment, something attracted her attention. She caught sight
of a good-looking, richly-dressed young man, who was tracing letters and
figures with a white pencil upon a small slate. He exhibited this slate
now and then to his neighbour, a man older than himself, who evidently
understood him at once, and promptly replied in the same manner. At the
same time the two exchanged signs.

[Illustration: "SHE LEANED OVER THE EDGE OF THE BOX."]

Camille's curiosity and interest were deeply stirred. She had already
observed that this young man's lips did not move. She now saw that he
spoke a language which was not the language of others, that he had found
some means of expressing himself without the aid of speech--that art for
her so incomprehensible and impossible. An irresistible longing to see
more seized her. She leaned over the edge of the box, and watched the
stranger's movements attentively. When he again wrote something upon his
slate, and passed it to his companion, she made an involuntary gesture
as if to take it. Whereupon the young man, in his turn, looked at
Camille. Their eyes met, and said the same thing, "We two are in like
case; we are both dumb."

Uncle Giraud brought his niece's wrap, but she no longer wished to go.
She had reseated herself, and was leaning eagerly forward.

The Abbé de l'Epée was then just becoming known. Touched with pity for
the deaf and dumb, this good man had invented a language that he deemed
superior to that of Leibnitz. He restored deaf mutes to the ranks of
their fellows by teaching them to read and write. Alone and unaided he
laboured for his afflicted fellow-creatures, prepared to sacrifice to
their welfare his life and fortune.

The young man observed by Camille was one of the Abbé's first pupils. He
was the son of the Marquis de Maubray.


                                 VIII.

It goes without saying that neither Camille nor her uncle knew anything
either of the Abbé de l'Epée, or of his new method. Camille's mother
would assuredly have discovered it, had she lived long enough. But
Chardonneux was far from Paris; the Chevalier did not take _The
Gazette_, nor, if he had taken it, would he have read it. Thus a few
leagues of distance, a little indolence, or death, may produce the same
result.

Upon Camille's return from the opera, she was possessed with but one
idea. She made her uncle understand that she wished for writing
materials. Although the good man wanted his supper, he ran to his
chamber, and returned with a piece of board and a morsel of chalk,
relics of his old love for building and carpentry.

Camille placed the board upon her knee, then made signs to her uncle
that he should sit by her and write something upon it. Laying his hand
gently upon the girl's breast, he wrote, in large letters, her name,
_Camille_, after which, well satisfied with the evening's work, he
seated himself at the supper-table.

Camille retired as soon as possible to her own room, clasping her board
in her arms. Having laid aside some of her finery, and let down her
hair, she began to copy with great pains and care the word which her
uncle had written. After writing it many times, she succeeded in forming
the letters very fairly. What that word represented to her, who shall
say?

[Illustration: "SHE BEGAN TO COPY WITH GREAT CARE."]

It was a glorious night of July. Camille had opened her window, and from
time to time paused in her self-imposed task to gaze out, although the
"view" was but a dreary one. The window overlooked a yard in which
coaches were kept. Four or five huge carriages stood side by side
beneath a shed. Two or three others stood in the centre of the yard, as
if awaiting the horses which could be heard kicking in the stable. The
court was shut in by a closed door and high walls.

Suddenly Camille perceived, beneath the shadow of a heavy diligence, a
human form pacing to and fro. A feeling of fear seized her. The man was
gazing intently at her window. In a few moments Camille had regained her
courage. She took her lamp in her hand, and, leaning from the casement,
held it so that its light illumined the court. The Marquis de Maubray
(for it was he), perceiving that he was discovered, sank on his knees
and clasped his hands, gazing at Camille meanwhile with an expression of
respectful admiration. Then he sprang up, and nimbly clambering over two
or three intercepting vehicles, was in a few minutes within Camille's
room, where his first act was to make her a profound bow. He longed for
some means of speaking to her, and, observing upon the table the board
bearing the written word _Camille_, he took the piece of chalk, and
proceeded to write beside that name his own--_Pierre_.

[Illustration: "HE WAS IN A FEW MINUTES WITHIN CAMILLE'S ROOM."]

"Who are you? and what are you doing here?" thundered a wrathful voice.
It was that of Uncle Giraud, who at that moment entered the room, and
bestowed upon the intruder a torrent of abuse. The Marquis calmly wrote
something upon the board, and handed it to Uncle Giraud, who read with
amazement the following words: "I love Mademoiselle Camille, and wish to
marry her. I am the Marquis de Maubray; will you give her to me?"

The uncle's wrath abated.

"Well!" remarked he to himself, as he recognised the youth he had seen
at the opera--"for going straight to the point, and getting through
their business quickly, I never saw the like of these dumb folk!"


                                  IX.

The course of true love, for once, ran smooth. The Chevalier's consent
to this highly desirable match for his daughter was easily obtained.
Much more difficult was it to convince him that it was possible to teach
deaf mutes to read and write. Seeing, however, is believing. One day,
two or three years after the marriage, the Chevalier received a letter
from Camille, which began thus:--"Oh, father! I can speak, not with my
mouth, but with my hand."

She told him how she had learned to do this, and to whom she owed her
new-born speech--the good Abbé de l'Epée. She described to him the
beauty of her baby, and affectionately besought him to pay a visit to
his daughter and grandchild.

After receiving this letter, the Chevalier hesitated for a long time.

"Go, by all means," advised Uncle Giraud, when he was consulted. "Do you
not reproach yourself continually for having deserted your wife at the
ball? Will you also forsake your child, who longs to see you? Let us go
together. I consider it most ungrateful of her not to have included me
in the invitation."

"He is right," reflected the Chevalier. "I brought cruel and needless
suffering upon the best of women. I left her to die a frightful death,
when I ought to have been her preserver. If this visit to Camille
involves some pain to myself, that is but a merited chastisement. I will
taste this bitter pleasure; I will go and see my child."


                                   X.

In the pretty boudoir of a house in the Faubourg St. Germain, Camille's
father and uncle found Camille and Pierre. Upon the table lay books and
sketches. The husband was reading, the wife embroidering, the child
playing on the carpet. At sight of the welcome visitors the Marquis
rose, while Camille ran to her father, who, as he embraced her tenderly,
could not restrain his tears. Then the Chevalier's earnest look was bent
upon the child. In spite of himself, some shadow of the repugnance he
had formerly felt for the infirmity of Camille stirred afresh at sight
of this small being who had doubtless inherited that infirmity.

"Another mute!" cried he.

Camille raised her son to her arms; without hearing she had understood.
Gently holding out the child towards the Chevalier, she placed her
fingers upon the tiny lips, stroking them a little, as if coaxing them
to speak. In a few moments he pronounced distinctly the words which his
mother had caused him to be taught:--

"Good morning, papa!"

"Now you see clearly," said Uncle Giraud, "that God pardons everything
and for ever!"

                             [Illustration]




                             [Illustration]

                           THE STONE BREAKER

          A STORY FOR CHILDREN. FROM THE FRENCH OF QUATRELLES.

    [Quatrelles' real name is Ernest Louis Victor Jules L'Épine. He
    lives at Paris--a grey old gentleman of sixty-five, who during
    the greater part of his life has held a post in the French
    Government, who wears in his button-hole the rosette of the
    Legion of Honour, and who can do almost anything
    delightful--whether it be to paint a picture, or to compose a
    piece of music, or (as in the following example) to tell a
    charming little story to amuse the children.]


THERE was once, in Japan, in times so far away that the learned hardly
now dare speak of them, a poor little stone-breaker who worked on the
highways.

[Illustration: "BEFORE THE DOOR OF A SPLENDID DWELLING."]

He worked on the highways as long as the day lasted, in all weathers, in
all seasons, in rain, in the burning sunshine, and in snow. He was
always half dead with fatigue and three-quarters dead with hunger; and
he was not at all contented with his lot. "Oh! how I would bless
heaven," he said, "if one day I became rich enough to sleep far into the
morning, to eat when I was hungry, and drink when I was athirst. I am
told that there are people so blessed by fate as always to be gay and
full of food. Stretched at ease upon thick mats before my door, my back
covered with soft silken vestments, I would take my afternoon nap,
wakened every quarter of an hour by a servant, who should remind me that
I had nothing to do, and that I might sleep without remorse."

A passing angel overheard these words, and smiled.

"Be it according to your wish, poor man!" the angel said. And, suddenly,
the stone-breaker found himself before the door of a splendid dwelling
of his own, stretched at his ease upon a pile of thick mats and dressed
in sumptuous garments of silk. He was no longer hungry, no longer
thirsty, no longer tired--all of which appeared to him as agreeable as
it was surprising.

He had feasted for half an hour on these unknown enjoyments, when the
Mikado passed by. The Mikado! It was a great thing to be the Mikado. The
Mikado was Emperor of Japan, and the Emperor of Japan was, especially in
those far-off times, the most powerful of all the emperors of the East.

[Illustration: "SURROUNDED BY HIS MINISTERS."]

The Mikado was travelling for his pleasure, preceded by couriers,
surrounded by cavaliers more embroidered and belaced than the Grand Turk
of Turkey, followed by famous warriors, escorted by musicians,
accompanied by the most beautiful women in the world, who reclined in
howdahs of silver borne on the backs of white elephants.

The Mikado lay upon a bed of down in a palanquin of fine gold, decked
with precious stones. His prime minister had the unequalled honour of
holding above his master's head a large umbrella fringed all round with
tiny jingling bells.

The enriched stone-breaker followed the imperial procession with an eye
of envy.

"Much advanced I am!" he said to himself. "Shall I be happy with the few
paltry indulgences I am able to give myself? Why am I not the Mikado? I
could then traverse the highways in a splendid carriage, in a golden
palanquin powdered with precious stones, followed by my prime minister,
under the shade of a great umbrella fringed with jingling bells, while
my second minister refreshed my visage with the waving of a fan of
peacocks' feathers. Ah, I wish I were the Mikado!"

"Be as you wish to be!" said the angel.

And instantly he found himself stretched on the down bed of the golden
palanquin powdered with precious stones, surrounded by his ministers,
his warriors, his women and his slaves, who said to him, in Japanese:

"Mikado, you are superior to the sun, you are eternal, you are
invincible. All that the mind of man can conceive you can execute.
Justice itself is subordinate to your will, and providence waits on your
counsels tremblingly."

The stone-breaker said to himself:

"Very good! these people know my value."

[Illustration: "THE LITTLE STONE-BREAKER SPARKLED IN THE HEAVENS."]

The sun, which had been shining very ardently for some days, had parched
the country. The road was dusty, and the glare from it fatigued the eyes
of the apprentice Mikado, who, addressing his minister, the bearer of
the jingling umbrella, said:

"Inform the sun that he is incommoding me. His familiarities displease
me. Tell him that the great Emperor of Japan authorises him to retire.
Go!"

The prime minister confided to a chamberlain the honour of carrying the
jingling umbrella, and went on his mission.

He returned almost instantly, his face expressing the utmost
consternation.

"Great Emperor, sovereign of gods and men, it is inconceivable! The sun
pretends not to have heard me, and continues to burn up the road!"

"Let him be chastised."

"Certainly! such insolence deserves it; but how am I to get hold of him
to administer his punishment?"

"Am I not the equal of the gods?"

"Assuredly, great Mikado, at least their equal."

"You told me, just now, that nothing is impossible to me. Either you
have lied, or you resist me, or you have badly executed my orders; I
give you five minutes to extinguish the sun, or ten to have your head
chopped off. Go!"

The prime minister departed, and did not return.

The exasperated stone-breaker was purple with anger.

"This is a pretty sort of a dog's business, upon my word, to be emperor,
if he has to submit to the familiarities, caprices, and brutalities of a
mere circulating star. It is plain that the sun is more powerful than I.
I wish I were the sun."

"Be it as you wish!" said the angel.

[Illustration: "NEVER DID SO MUCH RAIN FALL."]

And the little stone-breaker sparkled in the highest heavens, radiant,
flaming. He took pleasure in scorching trees, withering their leaves,
and parching up springs; in covering with perspiration the august
visages of emperors as well as the dusty muzzles of the wayside
stone-breakers--his companions of the morning.

But a cloud came between the earth and him, and the cloud said:

"Halt, my dear fellow; you can't come this way!"

"By the moon, that's too much! A cloud--a poor little misty, bodiless
cloud--calls me familiarly, 'my dear fellow,' and bars my way! Clouds,
it is plain, are more powerful than I. If I do not become a cloud, I
shall burst with jealousy."

"Don't burst for so trifling a cause," said the angel, always on the
watch. "Be a cloud, since you prefer to be so."

Proudly the new cloud planted himself between the earth and the
resplendent planet.

Never, in the records of memory, did so much rain fall. The transformed
stone-breaker took pleasure in launching rain and hail upon the earth,
and that in such a terrible fashion that the uprooted trees found
nothing left but mud in which to hold on to the ground. Under his
aquatic reign of several hours, streams became floods, floods became
torrents, the seas were confounded with each other, and dreadful
waterspouts whirled in every direction, wringing and destroying whatever
was above the surface of the waters.

A rock, however, made head against the force of the hurricane. In spite
of all, it remained unmoved. On its granite sides the waves broke in
frothy showers, the waterspouts sank at its feet, and the thunder made
it laugh every time it burst against its unyielding flanks.

"I am at the end of my powers!" said the cloud; "this rock defies me,
masters me, and fills me with envy."

"Take its place!" said the angel, "and let us see whether, at last, you
are satisfied."

The transformed cloud did not yet feel at his ease. Immovable,
inaccessible, insensible to the burning caresses of the sun and to the
booming of the thunder, he believed himself to be the master of the
world. But at his feet a sharp hammering sound attracted his attention.
He stooped and beheld a wretched being covered with rags, thin and bald,
as he had been in the time of his deepest poverty, who, with a heavy
hammer in his hand, was engaged in chipping off pieces of the granite
for the purpose of mending the neighbouring road.

[Illustration: "AT HIS FEET A SHARP HAMMERING SOUND ATTRACTED HIS
ATTENTION."]

"What is the meaning of this?" cried the haughty rock; "a poor
wretch--wretched amongst the most wretched--mutilating me, and I cannot
defend myself! I am profoundly humiliated--reduced to envy the lot even
of this wretched being!"

"Take his place!" said the angel, smiling.

And the insatiate personage became again what he had been before--a poor
little stone-breaker. As in the past, he worked on the highways as long
as day lasted, in all weathers, in all seasons, in rain, in the burning
sunshine, and in snow. He was always half dead with hunger,
three-quarters dead with fatigue. But that did not prevent his being
perfectly contented with his lot.

[Illustration: "PERFECTLY CONTENTED WITH HIS LOT."]




                           Transcriber Notes:

Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.

Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.

Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the
speakers. Those words were retained as-is.

The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up
paragraphs and so that they are next to the text they illustrate.

Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected
unless otherwise noted.

On page 234, the single quotation mark after "DAUBS" was replaced with a
double quotation mark.

On page 255, "idosyncrasy" was replaced with "idiosyncrasy".

On page 263, an apostrophe before "Tsar" was deleted.

On page 307, "custudy" was replaced with "custody".

On page 307, "onscrupulous" was replaced with "unscrupulous".








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