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[Illustration: "MY SON, BE OF GOOD CHEER!"

(_A Torture by Hope._)]




_A Torture by Hope._

FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM.

  [COUNT VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM, who lives at Paris, where he edits
  the _Revue des Lettres et des Arts_, is one of several living
  French writers who have made a special study of short stories. He
  is a highly original writer, and, although as yet quite unknown to
  English readers, an extremely powerful one. Many of his stories are
  such as could have been written by no one but himself; but probably
  he approaches more nearly to Edgar Allan Poe than to any other
  English author.]


Below the vaults of the _Official_ of Saragossa one nightfall long ago,
the venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, sixth Prior of the Dominicans of
Segovia, third Grand Inquisitor of Spain--followed by a _fra redemptor_
(master-torturer), and preceded by two familiars of the Holy Office
holding lanterns--descended towards a secret dungeon. The lock of a
massive door creaked; they entered a stifling _in pace_, where the
little light that came from above revealed an instrument of torture
blackened with blood, a chafing-dish, and a pitcher. Fastened to
the wall by heavy iron rings, on a mass of filthy straw, secured by
fetters, an iron circlet about his neck, sat a man in rags: it was
impossible to guess at his age.

This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Aragon,
who, on an accusation of usury and pitiless contempt of the poor, had
for more than a year undergone daily torture. In spite of all, "his
blind obstinacy being as tough as his skin," he had refused to abjure.

Proud of his descent and his ancestors--for all Jews worthy of the name
are jealous of their race--he was descended, according to the Talmud,
from Othoniel, and consequently from Ipsiboe, wife of this last Judge
of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his courage under the
severest of the incessant tortures.

It was, then, with tears in his eyes at the thought that so stedfast
a soul was excluded from salvation, that the venerable Pedro Arbuez
d'Espila, approaching the quivering Rabbi, pronounced the following
words:--

"My son, be of good cheer; your trials here below are about to cease.
If, in presence of such obstinacy, I have had to permit, though
with sighs, the employment of severe measures, my task of paternal
correction has its limits. You are the barren fig-tree, that, found so
oft without fruit, incurs the danger of being dried up by the
roots ... but it is for God alone to decree concerning your soul.
Perhaps the Infinite Mercy will shine upon you at the last moment! Let
us hope so. There _are_ instances. May it be so! Sleep, then, this
evening in peace. To-morrow you will take part in the _auto da fé_,
that is to say, you will be exposed to the _quemadero_, the brazier
premonitory of the eternal flame. It burns, you are aware, at a certain
distance, my son; and death takes, in coming, two hours at least, often
three, thanks to the moistened and frozen clothes with which we take
care to preserve the forehead and the heart of the holocausts. You will
be only forty-three. Consider, then, that, placed in the last rank,
you will have the time needful to invoke God, to offer unto Him that
baptism of fire which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope, then, in the Light,
and sleep."

As he ended this discourse, Dom Arbuez--who had motioned the wretched
man's fetters to be removed--embraced him tenderly. Then came the turn
of the _fra redemptor_, who, in a low voice, prayed the Jew to pardon
what he had made him endure in the effort to redeem him; then the two
familiars clasped him in their arms: their kiss, through their cowls,
was unheard. The ceremony at an end, the captive was left alone in the
darkness.

Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, his lips parched, his face stupefied by
suffering, stared, without any particular attention, at the closed
door. Closed? The word, half unknown to himself, awoke a strange
delusion in his confused thoughts. He fancied he had seen, for one
second, the light of the lanterns through the fissure between the sides
of this door. A morbid idea of hope, due to the enfeeblement of his
brain, took hold on him. He dragged himself towards this strange thing
he had seen; and, slowly inserting a finger, with infinite precautions,
into the crack, he pulled the door towards him. Wonder of wonders! By
some extraordinary chance the familiar who had closed it had turned the
great key a little before it had closed upon its jambs of stone. So,
the rusty bolt not having entered its socket, the door rolled back into
the cell.

The Rabbi ventured to look out.

By means of a sort of livid obscurity he distinguished, first of all, a
half-circle of earthy walls, pierced by spiral stairways, and, opposite
to him, five or six stone steps, dominated by a sort of black porch,
giving access to a vast corridor, of which he could only see, from
below, the nearest arches.

Stretching himself along, he crawled to the level of this threshold.
Yes, it was indeed a corridor, but of boundless length. A faint
light--a sort of dream-light--was cast over it; lamps suspended to the
arched roof, turned, by intervals, the wan air blue; the far distance
was lost in shadow. Not a door visible along all this length! On
one side only, to the left, small holes, covered with a network of
bars, let a feeble twilight through the depths of the wall--the light
of sunset apparently, for red gleams fell at long intervals on the
flag-stones. And how fearful a silence!... Yet there--there in the
depths of the dim distance--the way might lead to liberty! The wavering
hope of the Jew was dogged, for it was the last.

Without hesitation he ventured forth, keeping close to the side of
the light-holes, hoping to render himself indistinguishable from the
darksome colour of the long walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself
along the ground, forcing himself not to cry out when one of his
wounds, recently opened, sent a sharp pang through him.

[Illustration: "IT WAS A FAMILIAR HURRYING ALONG."]

All of a sudden the beat of a sandal, coming in his direction, echoed
along the stone passage. A trembling fit seized him, he choked with
anguish, his sight grew dim. So this, no doubt, was to be the end! He
squeezed himself, doubled up on his hands and knees, into a recess,
and, half dead with terror, waited.

It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed rapidly, carrying
an instrument for tearing out the muscles, his cowl lowered; he
disappeared. The violent shock which the Rabbi had received had half
suspended the functions of life; he remained for nearly an hour unable
to make a single movement. In the fear of an increase of torments if
he were caught, the idea came to him of returning to his cell. But the
old hope chirped in his soul--the divine "Perhaps," the comforter in
the worst of distresses. A miracle had taken place! There was no more
room for doubt. He began again to crawl towards the possible escape.
Worn out with suffering and with hunger, trembling with anguish, he
advanced. The sepulchral corridor seemed to lengthen out mysteriously.
And he, never ceasing his slow advance, gazed forward through the
darkness, on, on, where there _must_ be an outlet that should save him.

But, oh! steps sounding again; steps, this time, slower, more sombre.
The forms of two Inquisitors, robed in black and white, and wearing
their large hats with rounded brims, emerged into the faint light. They
talked in low voices, and seemed to be in controversy on some important
point, for their hands gesticulated.

At this sight Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes, his heart beat as
if it would kill him, his rags were drenched with the cold sweat of
agony; motionless, gasping, he lay stretched along the wall, under the
light of one of the lamps--motionless, imploring the God of David.

As they came opposite to him the two Inquisitors stopped under
the light of the lamp, through a mere chance, no doubt, in their
discussion. One of them, listening to his interlocutor, looked straight
at the Rabbi. Under this gaze--of which he did not at first notice the
vacant expression--the wretched man seemed to feel the hot pincers
biting into his poor flesh; so he was again to become a living wound, a
living woe! Fainting, scarce able to breathe, his eyelids quivering, he
shuddered as the robe grazed him. But--strange at once and natural--the
eyes of the Inquisitor were evidently the eyes of a man profoundly
preoccupied with what he was going to say in reply, absorbed by what
he was listening to; they were fixed, and seemed to look at the Jew
_without seeing him_.

[Illustration: "THEY HAD NOT SEEN HIM!"]

And indeed, in a few minutes, the two sinister talkers went on their
way, slowly, still speaking in low voices, in the direction from which
the prisoner had come. They had not seen him! And it was so, that,
in the horrible disarray of his sensations, his brain was traversed
by this thought: "Am I already dead, so that no one sees me?" A
hideous impression drew him from his lethargy. On gazing at the wall,
exactly opposite to his face, he fancied he saw, over against his, two
ferocious eyes observing him! He flung back his head in a blind and
sudden terror; the hair started upright upon his head. But no, no.
He put out his hand, and felt along the stones. What he saw was the
_reflection_ of the eyes of the Inquisitor still left upon his pupils,
and which he had refracted upon two spots of the wall.

Forward! He must hasten towards that end that he imagined (fondly, no
doubt) to mean deliverance; towards those shadows from which he was no
more than thirty paces, or so, distant. He started once more--crawling
on hands and knees and stomach--upon his dolorous way, and he was soon
within the dark part of the fearful corridor.

All at once the wretched man felt the sensation of cold _upon_ his
hands that he placed on the flag-stones; it was a strong current
which came from under a little door at the end of the passage. O God,
if this door opened on the outer world! The whole being of the poor
prisoner was overcome by a sort of vertigo of hope. He examined the
door from top to bottom without being able to distinguish it completely
on account of the dimness around him. He felt over it. No lock, not
a bolt! A latch! He rose to his feet; the latch yielded beneath his
finger; the silent door opened before him.

"Hallelujah!" murmured the Rabbi, in an immense sigh, as he gazed at
what stood revealed to him from the threshold.

The door opened upon gardens, under a night of stars--upon spring,
liberty, life! The gardens gave access to the neighbouring country that
stretched away to the sierras, whose sinuous white lines stood out in
profile on the horizon. There lay liberty! Oh, to fly! He would run all
night under those woods of citrons, whose perfume intoxicated him. Once
among the mountains, he would be saved. He breathed the dear, holy air;
the wind re-animated him, his lungs found free play. He heard, in his
expanding heart, the "Lazarus, come forth!" And, to give thanks to God
who had granted him this mercy, he stretched forth his arms before him,
lifting his eyes to the firmament in an ecstasy.

And then he seemed to see the shadow of his arms returning upon
himself; he seemed to feel those shadow-arms surround, enlace him, and
himself pressed tenderly against some breast. A tall figure, indeed,
was opposite to him. Confidently he lowered his eyes upon this figure,
and remained gasping, stupefied, with staring eyes and mouth drivelling
with fright.

Horror! He was in the arms of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the
venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, who gazed at him with eyes full of
tears, like a good shepherd who has found the lost sheep.

The sombre priest clasped the wretched Jew against his heart with
so fervent a transport of charity that the points of the monacal
hair-cloth rasped against the chest of the Dominican. And, while the
Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, his eyes convulsed beneath his eyelids, choked
with anguish between the arms of the ascetic Dom Arbuez, realising
confusedly _that all the phases of the fatal evening had been only a
calculated torture, that of Hope!_ the Grand Inquisitor, with a look of
distress, an accent of poignant reproach, murmured in his ear, with the
burning breath of much fasting:--"What! my child! on the eve, perhaps,
of salvation ... you would then leave us?"

[Illustration]




_How the Blind are Educated._

BY EDWARD SALMON.


[Illustration]

How many of the thousands who go every year to the Crystal Palace
remember, or even know, that hard by is an institution which should
claim the support of all who have hearts to feel for the afflictions
of their fellows? Perhaps if some of us, on pleasure bent, knew as
much of the working of the Royal Normal College for the Blind as we do
of the neighbouring giant palace of glass, we should appreciate the
blessing of sight at a truer value. It is to be feared that few who
go through life noting its facts, observing the beauties of Nature,
regarding the faces of those they love, and transacting their private
business without help from other people's eyes, give the thought they
ought to the precious nature of the vision they boast, however limited
it may be. Still fewer are they who take the trouble to inquire what is
being done for those who share not the glories of God's light. Yet to
be plunged in a lifelong darkness; to be doomed, whilst breath lasts,
to a constant round of blind man's bluff; to be able to walk, but not
to see where one is going; to be able to talk, but not to know, by the
expression of another's face, whether one's remarks are welcomed or
not; to be able to listen, and not to watch the speaker--in a word, to
be robbed of half life's joys, is surely a fate which should command
sympathy, prompt, practical, and universal.

The writer of this paper has, during the last twelve or thirteen years,
been more or less intimately associated with the blind. Nothing ever
strikes him as more extraordinary than the genuine happiness of most of
them. What ought, it would seem, to have proved a crushing blow, has
apparently had little or no effect on the brightness of their lives.
Nor does the infirmity prove any great bar to their independence. Think
of, among many others, Milton undertaking his "Paradise Lost," his
history of England, and his Latin dictionary after he became blind;
of Philip Bourke Marston--whose sorrows were not primarily due to his
affliction--mastering the typewriter, so that he could communicate with
his friends and produce his poems without the aid of an amanuensis; of
Henry Fawcett, who refused to allow the accident which cost him his
sight, to change his life, and who not only kept up his riding and his
fishing, but won his way to Cabinet rank. To men like Mr. Fawcett, no
doubt the possession of a life's partner means much, and indeed ample
material exists for an interesting article on the wives of blind men,
who have been to them what Francis Huber's was to him--"A good pair of
eyes, a right hand in all his troubles, and a light for his darkest
days."

We are, however, not now concerned with blind men but with blind boys
and girls, and with those especially who are receiving their education
at the Royal Normal College at Upper Norwood. This institution owes its
existence to two men, whose efforts on behalf of their fellow-sufferers
cannot be too gratefully acknowledged--to the late Dr. Armitage, and to
Dr. Campbell, the president, whose portrait, together with a picture of
the college, is shown at the head of this paper. The meeting of these
gentlemen in London some twenty years ago revolutionised the whole
system of education for the sightless. Dr. Armitage spared no trouble,
no money, no time to advance the interests of the blind, and it was a
fortunate circumstance which threw one so ready to place his energy
and his wealth at their disposal, in contact with another who, like
Dr. Campbell, wanted only such support to enable him to enter on the
experiment of helping the blind to take their part in life's battle
with the confidence and the same chances of success and independence as
the seeing. How completely they worked together is shown by a little
anecdote which Dr. Campbell is fond of relating. They had been to a
conference at York, and, as was their custom, travelled third-class.
Some other congressmen, with firstclass tickets, were considerably
astonished, and exclaimed:--

"What, are you going third-class?"

Dr. Armitage's reply was characteristic of the practical and cheery
kindliness of the man.

"Campbell and I have too many children to be able to afford to travel
first," he said.

"Have you a large family, doctor?" asked one of his friends in surprise.

"Yes," he answered, "our English family alone numbers about 32,000, and
they have relatives in all parts of the world."

The moral was plain. The few shillings Dr. Armitage and his colleague
were saving, were destined to assist the work of amelioration, and the
gentlemen paid them a chivalrous and graceful compliment by exchanging
their tickets and travelling in the same compartment with the two
benefactors and servants of blind humanity.

[Illustration: THE LATE DR. ARMITAGE.]

To such self-denying spirits as these is England indebted for the
institution which forms the subject of this paper. The _régime_ adopted
by Dr. Campbell--who by the way it should be said is an American--was
flat rebellion against the systems previously in vogue, and still
maintained by other bodies. Dr. Campbell's belief in physical training
amounts to a religion. He does everything with reference to it and
it alone. A quarter of a century ago he himself was to have died of
consumption, but what did he do? Quietly sit down and wait for the end
to come? No; blind as he was, he took the boat to Europe and climbed
Mont Blanc. There are a good many thousands in the world who would
like to have the health he enjoys to-day. What physical exercise
has done for him, he believes it will invariably do for his pupils.
Determination to conquer obstacles is the only thing which will make
a two-legged creature a man or woman, he says; determination is only
possible to a vigorous and healthy mind; a vigorous and healthy mind
can only come of a vigorous and healthy body; and a man who has not
been trained physically, is, to Dr. Campbell, an engine without motive
power. The outcome of the adoption of such ideas is that the blind
boys and girls at the Normal College, like Dr. Campbell himself,
are selfreliant, cheerful, and healthy, and seen trotting about the
beautiful grounds of the College, no one would ever think they are
sightless. The manner in which Dr. Campbell leads the way from his
house to any part of the grounds is somewhat disquieting to those who
do not know him. He walks without stick, and without stumbling, and
runs up and down flights of steps without troubling even to grasp the
rail at the side. How can he tell when he reaches a corner or the top
of a flight of steps, to tumble down which would be to break his neck?
He learns where he is by the most ingenious contrivance imaginable.
Wherever there is a turning, or an obstacle, or a step which might
prove a source of danger or embarrassment, the asphalted pathway is
slightly raised. It is high enough to prevent one's stepping over it
without noticing it; it is too low to cause one to catch one's toe and
trip up. Hence, it is only necessary for the blind promenader to keep
his or her wits moderately alive to be able to go wherever he or she
pleases in perfect ease and safety.

The Armitage Gymnasium, which we visit first, is declared by an expert
to be one of the most complete he has ever seen. Lads of all ages are
going through every form of exercise; here two or three are vaulting
the horse with a neatness incredible almost to those who have not seen
it; there another is working his way along the parallel bars; here
one stretches himself at length on the long incline, a machine used
for pulling up one's own weight, for strengthening the muscles and
broadening the chest; there another turns a nautical wheel or is doing
a mile or two on a home trainer. This last is calculated to inspire
more enthusiasm among the lads than any other athletic or gymnastic
feat. Ordinary home trainers, of course, have a dial which indicates
the distance ridden. In order that his boys, even in such a matter,
should be made as independent of other people's eyes, as it is the
object of the school to make them in all details of life, Dr. Campbell
has had fitted to the machine a bell which strikes at the completion of
every quarter of a mile. How this broad-shouldered, strong-limbed lad
astride it works away with might and main, bent, apparently, on making
a record; how keenly he enjoys the effort, and how utterly and happily
oblivious he seems of the fact that he is not as the majority of his
fellows are!

[Illustration: RINKING.]

From the boys' gymnasium let us make our way to the girls', where
roller-skating is going on. It is an apartment some 24 feet long by
some 18 wide. Here are a dozen or more girls moving on the tiny wheels
rapidly round and round. They touch neither the wall nor the seats by
the wall, whilst the immunity from collisions induces one to exclaim:
"Surely here we are not in the presence of the totally blind, whatever
may have been the case in the gymnasium." We are, indeed. But how is
it these sightless young ladies move so rapidly, and yet with a safety
and precision which might make their seeing sisters envious of their
skill? Solely by instinct and practice. When roller-skating was first
introduced, Dr. Campbell had electric bells ringing on the walls, but
he has now accustomed his pupils to do without these disturbing guides,
and for all the spectator can see they find no sort of inconvenience
from their reliance on their own senses. Here they go two and two,
three and three, hands locked in hands, with smiling faces bespeaking
infinite enjoyment. Nor does their accomplishment on the skates begin
and end in what we now see. They have been trained with the most
perfect care, and are capable of going through the most involved
manoeuvres. Those who observe them skating in lines, parting, wheeling,
crossing and recrossing each other's paths, may imagine that this sort
of performance is only possible in their own rink, but last year I had
a privileged opportunity, at St. James's Hall, of seeing that they
are as much under control in a strange place and in the presence of a
considerable public as in their own grounds. Moving solely by word of
command, they go within a few inches of obstacles in entire safety. It
is a performance, the wonder of which can only be appreciated by those
who have watched it.

[Illustration: ON THE LAKE.]

[Illustration: CYCLING.]

Making our way now towards the other end of the beautiful grounds
of the College, we come to a small lake which Dr. Campbell has
constructed. On it is a boat containing eight girls, who dip their oars
"with a long, long pull and a strong, strong pull," not unworthy of the
men who sang to the midship-mite. Dr. Campbell--who stops short only
at pure miracles--does not expect a blind child to steer a boat round
and about a lake. Consequently a person with eyes occupies the stern
seat. So, too, with tricycling. Some people, carried off their balance
by the marvels which he introduces to them, have given publicity to the
statement that blind girls and boys go careering away together on a
machine. So they do, but they are invariably steered by someone who can
see. To have such a person with every blind rider, however, would mean
the employment of an immense number of people. An eight-in-hand is,
therefore, devised, and this machine may often be seen on the country
roads of England, carrying its seven sightless riders. They go out for
a twenty-mile spin, have tea at a country inn, and come back tired and
ready for bed. Dr. Campbell and his good wife are both riders, whilst
Dr. Campbell and his son have together done their 1,000 miles on the
tricycle. The Doctor gives an amusing account of a tour in Norway. His
tricycle was probably among the first seen by the Norwegian peasant,
and he relates how one man with a pony-cart on a country road followed
them for hours, and when they put up at an inn and wanted water, how he
ran off to get some from the mountain spring as joyously as though the
tricyclists had been creatures of a celestial world, and how, when they
were having their feed at the inn, this rapt admirer rang the bell of
the machine, to the delight of a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers.

Other forms of outdoor amusement and recreation to be seen at the
College are swinging, running, skittles, and the rocking-boat.
Ingenuity is the characteristic of everything we examine. How, for
instance, can the blind play skittles, you may well ask? Thus: The
men are placed at the end of a long platform, and are prevented from
rolling away by a cord which passes through a hole in the board and
holds them where they fall. The ball having rolled to the end of
the platform, drops over on to a slope, and returns to the players.
So having made a shot, they can find out how many men have been
bowled over, and there is never any risk of losing the ball. Whilst
several boys amuse themselves in this way, a dozen girls get into the
rocking-boat close by, and as they swing themselves backwards and
forwards sing softly and melodiously to the roll of the boat.

[Illustration: THE ROCKING-BOAT.]

Even now we have not exhausted the possibilities of enjoyment which the
grounds afford the pupils of the College. During the summer time many
of the girls have their little plot of flower garden. They take the
greatest interest in the cultivation of plants which they cannot see,
and to place in their bosoms a flower which they have grown themselves,
is one of the delights of their lives.

[Illustration: THE KINDERGARTEN.]

So much for what Dr. Campbell properly regards as the generation of
the motive power of his young people's lives. The steam being ready,
along what lines does he make the human engine travel? We start with
the Kindergarten class. Half a dozen little girls are sitting at a
table interweaving slit paper which presently is to decorate baskets
and other things. One is a mite recently from Port Elizabeth, South
Africa. She has mastered the theory of her work, and her little fingers
only need practice to make them as efficient as those of her older
companions. In this room is a glass case containing some clay models
of pea-pods, buttercups, and other things that grow--which one would
imagine they could never readily grasp in detail--every one executed
by the pupils of the College. Even a small dog has not proved beyond
the powers of these magic modellers. From the Kindergarten to the
Geography class. Embossed maps lie on the table, and the pupils put
their fingers on The Wash in England, or on the Andes, or on Tasmania,
as quickly almost as one's eyes can travel from point to point. They
answer questions as to what grows in a certain place, or who discovered
it, accurately and readily. Other classes are learning geometry, the
rudiments of agriculture, French and arithmetic. The reading class is
one of the most interesting. Books in the Braille system lie before the
pupils, who are running their fingers deftly over the mass of dots, and
delivering passages from "Hamlet," with sufficient hesitation to prove
the genuineness of the reading, and yet with an intelligence not always
displayed by those with eyes who read Shakespeare aloud. Now and again
the pupil comes to a word such as "Fortinbras," and it gives her just
a moment's pause, creating an impression on one's mind of difficulties
overcome, which only _naïveté_ or the highest art could convey.
Some idea of the extraordinary pains necessary to teach the Braille
system--and it is unquestionably the best invented--may be gleaned from
the fact that it has to be written backwards. For instance, the paper
is placed between two strips of brass, the under strip being impressed
with a succession of holes, and the upper divided into small squares
through which the stylus or punch is passed.

[Illustration: CARPENTERING AND PIANO-MENDING.]

As the writing has to be done from the back of the paper, it is easy
to understand that the reading runs in the opposite direction--a
circumstance adding immensely to the labour of the learner. All sorts
of contractions have of course been adopted, and the blind write
from dictation certainly as fluently as the ordinary school-boy, and
they can read what they have written more fluently, for the average
school-boy reads things better than his caligraphy. In the same way
the most difficult sums are done by means of a type board, and it
simply astounding how rapidly the pupils write down figures delivered
as units and read them off as billions, millions, or hundreds of
thousands. The angle of a cypher, which might play the part of a hyphen
in ordinary type, alone tells them what numeral is intended. As one
watches this one realises the force of Mr. W. W. Fenn's words:--"Give
the blind man in his fingers an equivalent for his eyes, and the
darkness in which he lives is dispelled." On this condition the Normal
School at Norwood is a veritable creator of light.

Let us now take a glance at the workshop, where the boys are using
plane and chisel, pointing and dovetailing pieces of wood which not
only answer ends in themselves, but the treatment of which serves to
make the blind useful with their hands. They seldom cut their fingers,
extra care no doubt giving greater immunity. Another workshop near at
hand is occupied by young men perfecting themselves in all the branches
of pianoforte making and tuning. They learn to do everything, from
tightening a wire to putting a new one in, and hundreds of testimonials
from those who have employed blind tuners speak for the thoroughness
with which they do their work. To enable the learners to familiarise
themselves with the parts of an instrument, Messrs. Broadwood made
specially for them a model which can be taken to pieces and put
together again till they know all about it. The interest which Messrs.
Broadwood have shown in the College has assumed very practical shape,
and it is noteworthy that among the employés of the firm is an old
pupil of Dr. Campbell's.

[Illustration: Musica: Lux in Tenebris.]

Music of course is the principal means of gaining a livelihood with the
blind. An organ recital and some glees fittingly bring this succession
of wonders to a close so far as the visit to the College is concerned,
but really only lands us on the verge of the great question of life
after the College training is ended. Throughout the world blind
musicians, who owe their education and their skill to Dr. Campbell and
his wife, are earning their own livelihoods. In 1886 the aggregate
earnings of ex-pupils amounted to nearly £10,000. Last year the sum was
£15,000. This great result, however, has been accomplished in the teeth
of a mountain of prejudice, ignorance, and I must add injustice, to
surmount which has cost Dr. Campbell a mightier effort than the ascent
of Mont Blanc. All he asks on behalf of his pupils is a fair field: he
wants no favour. Two instances of the difficulty of securing even this
may be given. An organist was wanted for a large church; Dr. Campbell
was anxious that one of his pupils should compete. From the first the
authorities declared it was impossible a blind man could hold the
position, and to make it impossible the candidates were to be called
on to play any two tunes from the hymn-book which any two people in
the congregation might select. Here was a test which it was believed
would defeat the blind man's chances. It reached Dr. Campbell's ears,
and he forthwith obtained a list of the 250 tunes which had been
most sung in that particular church during the last few years, set
his man to translate their score into his own Braille, and to master
them by heart. The day of trial came, and the first hymn called for
was played by the blind candidate not merely as it was written, but
with variations. The authorities marvelled, but said it was chance.
The second was called, and still the blind man was ready. "It's a
miracle!" was the exclamation, but the blind man won, and holds to-day,
the position competed for against not only the world but the world's
uncharitableness.

A second instance is equally eloquent of the completeness with which
these sightless lads are equipped by Dr. Campbell to battle with the
world. An organist and choirmaster was wanted, and the idea of putting
a blind man up for the post was scouted as ludicrous. In the organ part
of the business, the blind candidate came out indisputably first.

"But," said to him the gentleman with whom the appointment rested, "you
could not possibly teach our boys."

"Is it fair to say I could not till you have given me an opportunity of
showing whether I could or not?"

The only way to dispose of the claims of this sightless irrepressible
was to have the boys in. He immediately put them through their
exercises, and handled them in a way which argued greater knowledge of
what is wanted than most seeing masters display. Some even of the rival
candidates declared the blind man to be the best among them, and he
secured the appointment, to the advantage of all concerned.

In the old days the poor blind were educated as beggars, and the more
intelligent of the indigent blind were appropriately nicknamed by
Theodore Hook the indignant blind. Dr. Campbell does not mind where
his pupils come from. Whatever they may be when they are admitted to
the College, there is only one thing to be said of nearly every one
of those who leave it--they are ladies and gentlemen in education and
deportment, equally able to earn their own living and to grace the
society in which they may find themselves. Such a result has been
accomplished by terribly hard work. Like Milton, Dr. Campbell "steers
right onward." He is a sort of Napier, and only expects others to
do what he does not shrink from himself. He is the most kindly of
martinets. Blindness with him is no reason for non-punctuality, and
if a boy is late in getting out of bed, he orders him to retire at
night half an hour earlier, so that he may have the sleep he seems to
need. Such punishment is, we may be sure, felt all the more keenly,
because the doctor himself sets the example of what is right. For
instance, every boy is supposed to be ready for a swim in the splendid
bath of the College at a certain hour, and he cannot excuse himself,
even to his own mind, for being absent or late on the score that the
Doctor enforces rules he does not carry out, for every morning Dr.
Campbell takes his plunge with his scholars. He is determined that in
everything possible his boys and girls shall go forth into the world
unsurpassed by their more fortunate brothers and sisters. His efforts
to rob the blind of any sense of dependence on others, which they find
so humiliating--efforts which Dr. Armitage fostered with such lavish
generosity--and to make them useful citizens instead of the helpless
recipients of local doles, are deserving of a support which has hardly
been accorded to them. The Royal Normal College for the Blind is a
wondrous illustration of the adage that even the darkest cloud has its
silver lining. Here, at least, we find the drawbacks consequent on one
of the most appalling of human infirmities reduced to a minimum. God
alone can restore the light of day to the brain from which it is now
excluded, but that He has delegated to man the power to do almost all
else, let the College we have now described so fully bear witness.

[Illustration]




_Out of a Pioneer's Trunk._

BY BRET HARTE.


It was a slightly cynical, but fairly good-humoured crowd that had
gathered before a warehouse on Long Wharf in San Francisco, one
afternoon in the summer of '51. Although the occasion was an auction,
the bidders' chances more than usually hazardous, and the season and
locality famous for reckless speculation, there was scarcely any
excitement among the bystanders, and a lazy, half-humorous curiosity
seemed to have taken the place of any zeal for gain.

[Illustration: "IT WAS AN AUCTION OF UNCLAIMED TRUNKS AND BOXES."]

It was an auction of unclaimed trunks and boxes--the personal luggage
of early emigrants--which had been left on storage in hulk or warehouse
at San Francisco, while the owner was seeking his fortune in the mines.
The difficulty and expense of transport, often obliging the gold-seeker
to make part of his journey on foot, restricted him to the smallest
_impedimenta_, and that of a kind not often found in the luggage of
ordinary civilisation. As a consequence, during the emigration of
'49, he was apt on landing to avail himself of the invitation usually
displayed on some of the doors of the rude hostelries on the shore:
"Rest for the Weary and Storage for Trunks." In a majority of cases
he never returned to claim his stored property. Enforced absence,
protracted equally by good or evil fortune, accumulated the high
storage charges until they usually far exceeded the actual value of the
goods; sickness, further emigration, or death also reduced the number
of possible claimants, and that more wonderful human frailty--absolute
forgetfulness of deposited possessions--combined together to leave the
bulk of the property in the custodian's hands. Under an understood
agreement they were always sold at public auction after a given time.
Although the contents of some of the trunks were exposed, it was found
more in keeping with the public sentiment to sell the trunks _unlocked_
and _unopened_. The element of curiosity was kept up from time to time
by the incautious disclosures of the lucky or unlucky purchaser, and
general bidding thus encouraged--except when the speculator, with the
true gambling instinct, gave no indication in his face of what was
drawn in this lottery. Generally, however, some suggestion in the
exterior of the trunk, a label or initials; some conjectural knowledge
of its former owner, or the idea that he might be secretly present in
the hope of getting his property back for less than the accumulated
dues, kept up the bidding and interest.

A modest-looking, well-worn portmanteau had been just put up at a
small, opening bid, when Harry Flint joined the crowd. The young man
had arrived a week before at San Francisco friendless and penniless,
and had been forced to part with his own effects to procure necessary
food and lodging while looking for an employment. In the irony of
fate that morning the proprietors of a dry-goods store, struck with
his good looks and manners, had offered him a situation, if he could
make himself more presentable to their fair clients. Harry Flint was
gazing half abstractedly, half hopelessly, at the portmanteau without
noticing the auctioneer's persuasive challenge. In his abstraction he
was not aware that the auctioneer's assistant was also looking at him
curiously, and that possibly his dejected and half-clad appearance
had excited the attention of one of the cynical bystanders, who was
exchanging a few words with the assistant. He was, however, recalled to
himself a moment later when the portmanteau was knocked down at fifteen
dollars, and considerably startled when the assistant placed it at his
feet with a grim smile. "That's your property, Fowler, and I reckon you
look as if you wanted it back bad."

"But--there's some mistake," stammered Flint. "I didn't bid."

"No, but Tom Flynn did for you. You see, I spotted you from the
first, and told Flynn I reckoned you were one of those chaps who came
back from the mines dead broke. And he up and bought your things for
you--like a square man. That's Flynn's style, if he is a gambler."

"But," persisted Flint, "this never was my property. My name isn't
Fowler, and I never left anything here."

The assistant looked at him with a grim, half-credulous, half-scornful
smile. "Have it your own way," he said, "but I oughter tell ye, old
man, that I'm the warehouse clerk, and I remember _you_. I'm here
for that purpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid for by
somebody else and given to you, it's nothing more to me. Take or leave
it."

[Illustration: "HE EXAMINED ITS CONTENTS."]

The ridiculousness of quarrelling over the mere form of his good
fortune here struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as
abruptly disappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Reaching his
cheap lodging-house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, it
contained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, and suitable to
his urban needs. There were a few articles of jewellery, which he put
religiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of a
purely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of pretty
faces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But there
was another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvellous
resemblance _to himself_! In a flash of intelligence he understood it
all now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for
whom the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at
the envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the
name by which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain
now. And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and
trust to later fortune to justify himself.

Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himself
once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the large
gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader
disengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilised garb
emboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered
the saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when man
suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in his
face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again
the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched
the weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his
strength failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into
the furious eyes of his adversary, and the man's grasp mechanically
relaxed. The half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was
accidentally discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead.
No one in the crowd had stirred or interfered.

"You've done for French Pete this time, Mr. Fowler," said a voice at
his elbow. He turned gaspingly, and recognised his strange benefactor,
Flynn. "I call you all to witness, gentlemen," continued the gambler,
turning dictatorially to the crowd, "that this man was _first_ attacked
and was _unarmed_." He lifted Flint's limp and empty hands and then
pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. "Come!" He
caught the half-paralysed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.

"But," stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, "what does
it all mean? What made that man attack me?"

"I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed
it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn't the square thing,
and you're all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had
agin you."

"But," protested the unhappy Flint, "I never laid eyes on the man
before, and my name isn't Fowler."

Flynn halted, and dragged him in a doorway. "Who the devil are you?" he
asked roughly.

Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically Flint told him his scant
story. An odd expression came over the gambler's face.

[Illustration: "THE SHOT MISSED."]

"Look here," he said abruptly, "I have passed my word to the crowd
yonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that
you might have had some row with that Sydney Duck, Australian Pete, in
the mines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it's a lie,
that your name ain't Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they'll
jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands
of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that
d---- clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is
there here who knows who you really are?"

"No one," said Flint, with sudden hopelessness.

"And you say you're an orphan, and ain't got any relations livin' that
you're beholden to?"

"No one."

"Then, take my advice, and _be_ Fowler, and stick to it! Be Fowler
until Fowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you've saved Fowler's
life, as Pete would never have funked and lost his grit over Fowler as
he did with you; and you've a right to his name."

He stopped, and the same odd, superstitious look came into his dark
eyes.

"Don't you see what all that means? Well I'll tell you. You're in the
biggest streak of luck a man ever had. You've got the cards in your own
hands! They spell 'Fowler'! Play Fowler first, last, and all the time.
Good-night, and good luck, _Mr. Fowler_."

The next morning's journal contained an account of the justifiable
killing of the notorious desperado and ex-convict, Australian Pete, by
a courageous young miner by the name of Fowler. "An act of firmness
and daring," said _The Pioneer_, "which will go far to counteract the
terrorism produced by those lawless ruffians."

In his new suit of clothes, and with this paper in his hand, Flint
sought the dry goods proprietor--the latter was satisfied and
convinced. That morning Harry Flint began his career as salesman and as
"Shelby Fowler."

       *       *       *       *       *

From that day Shelby Fowler's career was one of uninterrupted
prosperity. Within the year he became a partner. The same miraculous
fortune followed other ventures later. He was mill owner, mine owner,
bank director--a millionaire! He was popular, the reputation of his
brief achievement over the desperado kept him secure from the attack of
envy and rivalry. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There was
no danger of exposure by others--the one custodian of his secret, Tom
Flynn, died in Nevada the year following. He had quite forgotten his
youthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; remembered
nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had
fascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and
die as Shelby Fowler.

His business a year later took him to Europe. He was entering a train
at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who
had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the
window followed by a young lady in mourning.

"Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau. That belongs
to this young lady. This is yours."

[Illustration: "THE PORTER REAPPEARED AT THE WINDOW."]

Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainly
was not his, although it bore the initials "S. F." He was mechanically
handing it back to the porter, when his eyes fell on the young
lady's face. For an instant he stood petrified. It was the face of
the daguerreotype. "I beg pardon," he stammered, "but are these
your initials?" She hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the
question, but he saw she looked confused.

"No. A friend's."

She disappeared into another carriage, but from that moment Harry
Flint knew that he had no other aim in life but to follow this clue
and the beautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at
the next station, and discovered that she was going to York. On their
arrival, he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few
words disclosed the fact that she was a fellow-countrywoman, although
residing in England, and at present on her way to join some friends at
Harrogate. Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied
she looked disturbed.

They met again and again; the informality of his introduction was
overlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectably
and responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of his
future. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned;
but he felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told
her his real name and how he came to assume another's. He did so
alone--scarcely a month after their first meeting. To his alarm, she
burst into a flood of tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far
beyond any apparent cause. When she had partly recovered, she said, in
a low, frightened voice:

"You are bearing _my brother's_ name. But it was a name that the
unhappy boy had so shamefully disgraced in Australia that he abandoned
it, and, as he lay upon his death-bed, the last act of his wasted life
was to write an imploring letter begging me to change mine too. For the
infamous companion of his crime who had first tempted, then betrayed
him, had possession of all his papers and letters, many of them from
_me_, and was threatening to bring them to our Virginia home and expose
him to our neighbours. Maddened by desperation, the miserable boy twice
attempted the life of the scoundrel, and might have added that blood
guiltiness to his other sins, had he lived. I _did_ change my name to
my mother's maiden one, left the country, and have lived here to escape
the revelations of that desperado, should he fulfil his threat."

In a flash of recollection Flint remembered the startled look that
had come into his assailant's eye after they had clinched. It was the
same man who had too late realised that his antagonist was not Fowler.
"Thank God! you are for ever safe from any exposure from that man,"
he said, gravely, "and the name of Fowler has never been known in
San Francisco save in all respect and honour. It is for you to take
back--fearlessly and alone!"

She did--but not alone, for she shared it with her husband.

[Illustration:




ANECDOTES OF THE WAR PATH

IRVING MONTAGU]


"One never can tell." This is a world of change, and anything beyond
the limits of the most fertile imagination may happen to anyone,
anywhere, at any moment.

Were I a bellicose Bellamy, I might incline towards "Looking backwards"
from the standpoint of a hundred years hence, and thus, posing as a
special of 1991, might sigh for the shortcomings of the past, and
picture myself crossing, on an aërial machine, the erst dark Continent
(now lit by electric light) at a pace which would have even shattered
the nerves of the driver of an old Brighton express--"a ponderous
steam conveyance which, a hundred years ago, succeeded the stage
coach." Again, I might suppose myself sending sketches or despatches
from remote battlefields by means of "the electric communicator," a
coil carried in one's portmanteau, and which, by a simple mechanical
arrangement--one end being secured at the office of your newspaper
in Fleet-street or the Strand--unwinds as you travel, so that,
wherever the fates have destined you to go, you may be in immediate
communication with the editor of the journal you represent; nay, more,
the electric current passing through your pen or pencil, simultaneously
producing copy or sketches with a corresponding pen or pencil at the
other end. I say, were I a sort of bellicose Bellamy, I might compare
the possible perfection of the future with the shortcomings of to-day;
but then, you see, I'm not, and, though quite content to admit that
"one never can tell," I'm still more disposed in these "Anecdotes of
the War-path," by sticking to the practical present, to convey some
idea of the doings of correspondents at the front.

To begin with, an iron constitution is the best basis on which to build
up the war special, whose gifts with pen or pencil will depend entirely
on the diplomacy he possesses by means of which to get to the front
himself, and, at the same time, keep sufficiently in touch with the
rear, to be in perpetual communication with his own headquarters at
home.

I remember how one, otherwise most brilliant Special, whose talent won
for him a reputation which he continues to enjoy, came utterly to grief
through want of that tact which enabled others, during the siege of
Plevna, to get their articles and sketches through. Between the slowly,
very slowly contracting girdle of Muscovite steel which encircled
that place and the Danube, there was a perfectly free communication.
The historic bridge of boats was crossed without difficulty, and,
Roumania being thus reached, one was in direct, uninterrupted
correspondence with the street beloved of Doctor Johnson. The Special
in question, however, being assured by suave, courteous, and in many
cases English-speaking officers, that the Russian Bear was the soul
of honour, and the Russian field-post the most convenient mode of
conveyance, put his despatches into the military post bags at Plevna.
Then, "with a smile that was childlike and bland," did those Muscovite
postal authorities receive them, stamp them officially--and--well,
they were never seen again! Thus was a most daring Special, possessed
of marvellous talent (I will not say if with pen or pencil) recalled
to England, and, in that capacity, lost to the world. He lacked a
diplomatic faculty, without which success is impossible to the war
correspondent.

A case of a camp-kettle, too, comes vividly back to me, in which a man
delayed his departure from London for three days in consequence of some
fad about a peculiar commodity of this kind which was being specially
made for him, and this when Europe was ablaze with war. Through that
confounded camp-kettle he might lose the key to the position, yet
the tinker came in _facile princeps_ and that knight of the pen was
nowhere. Happily, however, "fads" very seldom get to the front at all,
or, if they do, change front themselves soon after their arrival.

It seems to me that the man who would win his spurs on the war-path
must, by being ready to start at any moment, accept the inevitable in
the light of "Kismit," and be prepared to turn circumstances, good,
bad, or indifferent, to the best account possible; he will meet with
fewer difficulties, and be better able to cope with those he does
experience.

By the way, were you ever shadowed? The sensation, novel to begin with,
is trying in the long run, and infinitely less endurable than being
made prisoner of war, pure and simple.

I had this experience shortly after the entry of the Versailles troops
into shattered, still burning, Paris.

My wandering propensities and the notes I from time to time made led
to my being so persecuted that I would have done much to change places
with Peter Schimmel, of shadowless fame. I think my nose, which, in
polite society, might be called _retroussé_, must have suggested the
tip-tilted organ of the typical Teuton, and that hence suspicions of
fresh complications were aroused. Suffice it to say I was shadowed by
a hawk-eyed, hook nosed, beetle-browed, oily-looking, parchment-faced
being, who seemed, by his very pertinacity, becoming my second self. I
hurried from place to place in quest of incident, the pattering feet
of my shadow--if I may so put it--announced his presence everywhere.
I mounted an omnibus, and there was a double ascent up those spiral
steps which led to the roof, that hawk-eyed shade was seated either by
my side or with his back to me. In the evening I strolled down, say,
the Boulevard des Capucines, while, with measured tread, smoking a
cigarette the while, I was followed by the oily one; in short, through
the many occupations of my life he was ever in my wake, till at last
release came.

I was arrested and taken before the Commissary of Police, when it
was discovered I had been mistaken for somebody else, and, with many
apologies and regrets that I was _not_ the rogue I might have been, I
was released, my shadow being "unhooked," so to speak. And now, oddly
enough, I had a morbid satisfaction in remembering the wild-goose
chases I had taken that Government spy--up one street, down another,
away into the suburbs of Paris, back to its centre, only to repeat
the dose when I had time, till, more attenuated and cadaverous than
ever, that hawk-eyed minion of the law could barely drag one leg after
another. Strange as it may seem, when rid of him, I missed him, missed
him awfully, I assure you; feeling quite lonely and incomplete without
him, and should have been almost pleased to have had him tacked on
again.

[Illustration: "A SUBSTANTIAL SHADOW."]

Those Parisian shadows suggest to me a strange shadow pantomime I once
saw in Spain, during the Carlist campaign, at an engagement at Behobie.
The fighting began at about five in the morning in a dense white fog,
when the Carlists made a desperate effort to take that small town from
an inferior but unflinching force. The effect was, on approaching the
scene, most ludicrous. In the first place, one was strangely impressed
by mingled sounds as of the barking of dogs and the quacking of
ducks, which turned out to be only terms of derision which each side
was hurling at the other. Then, on coming closer still, the shadow
pantomime of which I have spoken presented itself, just for all the
world like mimic war on a white sheet, till, the veil of fog lifting,
fighting--literally to the knife--presented itself in all its terrible
reality. Under cover of that fog the Carlist hordes had come down from
their Pyrenean retreats without the aid of those arranged ruses which
the armies of all nations have so often to fall back upon. Amongst
these is the common one, when wind and locality serve, of attacking
under cover of the smoke of burning forests or furze bushes. One ruse
during the siege of Plevna has always struck me in this connection as
having been cleverly conceived.

The Turks, on the occasion of a sortie, secured as many uniforms
of dead Russians as was possible. These they promptly put on, and,
covering their main body, advanced _backwards_, as if retreating
in good order on a strong Russian position. The Turkish officer in
command--understanding the Russian tongue--gave the order to "Retire."
Seeing and hearing this, the Russians, supposing it to be an unexpected
retreat of their own men, made no defence, till, when too late, they
discovered them to be Moslems in Muscovite garb, who, after a most
sanguinary fight, succeeded in occupying the vantage point they had
gained.

The eccentricities of bullets, too, are not a little interesting.
There was a case in Asia Minor of a bullet which made six distinct
holes of entry and exit in a man's body, without materially injuring
him, before it passed away into the open. It may be explained that the
man was in a kneeling position and firing at the time he was struck.
This erratic ball passed first through the biceps of his right arm,
between his ribs, and again through the triceps of his left arm. In
Spain, also, I remember an instance in which a bullet passed through an
officer's chacot, the draught of which stunned him; he was found quite
insensible, though uninjured, while that chacot had been drilled with
the ball which had thus prostrated him. On two occasions I have myself
had similar and most providential escapes--once at a place known as La
Puncha, on the banks of the Bidassoa, where, when sketching for _The
Illustrated London News_, I was brought suddenly to the ground by a
Carlist bullet, _with one leg completely shattered_, but then, you see,
it was the leg of the camp stool on which I was seated; the other was
when Conigsby, _The Times'_ correspondent, and myself were going in a
drosky in the direction of Zimnitza, to join the Russians at Plevna.

Our route lay for some considerable distance along an exposed road by
the side of the Danube, and it was then that the Turkish batteries on
the opposite shore opened a deliberate fire on us with such telling
effect that the back of our conveyance was considerably splintered,
and a portmanteau against which I was leaning completely smashed,
its contents being hardly recognisable. I am reminded, while on this
subject, of how the correspondent to the Macon journal was once in
imminent peril of being blown to atoms, a circumstance to which I was
an eye-witness.

He was about to return through a huge wooden gate into a besieged
Spanish town. During his absence of only about ten minutes, however, a
large mortar had been put in position behind it, and a large roughly
sawn aperture made. Just at the very moment of his return, it was
fired, the draught sending him flying for some considerable distance!

Though within a hair's breadth of death, he was happily only bruised,
while thus unwittingly seeking "the bubble reputation even at the
cannon's mouth." Nor are the eccentricities of shot and shell more
curious than those of cold steel, the most remarkable instance which I
remember being that of a Russian and a Turk, who, meeting, fought to
the death with fixed bayonets in a wood in Anatolia. The fatal thrusts
must have been simultaneous, the strange fact being that both stood,
with their legs much apart, each with his bayonet embedded deeply in
his adversary's breast, for several days, and were to be seen, still
erect, in the attitude of their last terrible death-struggle.

But it's not with men alone that the wanderer on the war-path is in
touch. His faithful ally, the horse, has a share of his sympathy,
specially if in the course of his peregrinations he waded through the
mud to headquarters in Bulgaria in 1877. Facts are stubborn things,
and, when I say it was a matter of statistics that twenty-two thousand
draught and other horses alone fell between Sistova and Plevna from the
combined effect of fatigue and mud, it will be seen that "going to the
front" is as difficult as getting to the rear--touching which, by the
way, I may on another occasion have something interesting to say.

[Illustration: "GOING TO THE FRONT."]

Mud! why, we were in a very sea of mud; it found its way over the tops
of our jack-boots till it saturated our socks, this always happening
when, and it was often, we dismounted to lend a hand at the spokes of
our supply waggon, from the bottom of which came many-coloured streams
of half-diluted coffee, weak tea, and moist, very moist sugar. Crimean
mud is historic, yet one who had gone through that campaign and who was
with me in Bulgaria assured me we ran it very close.

Dead horses were to be seen here, there, and everywhere, some having
died in the most grotesque attitudes, and all the victims of that muddy
deluge. In some cases, reaching as it did to our own horses' girths,
we came to a standstill altogether, and it was only after hiring at
enormous cost many others, to which we sometimes added oxen, that we
could plough our way through it at all to some more elevated spot, with
the prospect on our arrival of descending into an equally deep and
depressing slough of despond within the next five minutes on the other
side.

Did it ever strike you that the mother-in-law is often a
much-misunderstood and under-valued individual?

If great men owe their greatness in many cases to maternal influence,
is it not possible that even the much-derided mother-in-law may
sometimes have had hers, too, on the destinies of mankind? Yet, it
would seem in Servia--at least, when I was there, during that short
but sharp campaign--that the mother-in-law was at a greater discount
than here. And this is my reason--not a bad one, I take it--for coming
to that conclusion. One morning, when in Belgrade, I saw a sturdy Serb
being roughly hustled off to prison. Inquiring the cause, I found he
had been condemned for the murder of his mother-in-law to five years'
penal servitude, but that his conduct had been so exemplary that he had
for some weeks been out on a sort of Servian ticket-of-leave. When I
saw him, however, he had just committed an offence beside which the
"ineffectual fire" of murder paled--he had stolen a leaden spoon from
an ice-shop, and for this theft he was promptly executed the following
morning--by which, I take it, leaden spoons must have been very scarce
in Belgrade at that time, and mothers-in-law very plentiful.

Looking from that capital, which, unpicturesque in itself, is
picturesquely situated at the juncture of the Trave and the Danube,
the panorama presented of the shores of Hungary is most inviting, and
at the time of which I am writing its effectiveness was added to by
a large encampment of Pharaoh Nepeks--Hungarian gipsies. Ever on the
alert for subjects for my pencil, I was not long before I chartered
a small boat, and joined those wanderers, with whose brethren I had
forgathered in many countries, and concerning whom I had written
much and made innumerable sketches, and by whom I had always been
received as a "Romany rye." This, however, was my first acquaintance
with the Pharaoh Nepeks, of whose hospitality I cannot speak too
highly. It appeared, however, that I had arrived at the moment of a
political crisis. What the particular disagreement may have been--not
understanding Romany sufficiently--I am unable to say. I only know that
I had not been there many hours before a wordy warfare led to blows,
and that encampment of about seven or eight hundred gipsies was at
desperate logger-heads. Indeed, I have only on one occasion seen more
frantic hand-to-hand fighting at close quarters in actual war.

Rushing on each other with long-bladed knives, they fought with a skill
which must have been begotten of long practice, and terrible were the
wounds which were presently inflicted; in fact, the matter was looked
on as so serious that troops from the Hungarian garrison of Semlin,
hard by, were sent to put a stop to the disturbance. This at once
caused a diversion. Whatever their intestine troubles may have been,
they were one against the invaders of their camp.

[Illustration: "A NEPEK BEAUTY."]

It was at this moment, fired by the wildest enthusiasm, that a
perfectly bewitching gipsy girl rushed forward and led her tribe
against the common enemy. Bayonets, however, if sometimes brittle, are
often stubborn things, and the steadily advancing lines of Hungarian
troops quieted at last those desperate Nepeks; not, however, before
many were severely wounded and numbers of prisoners taken, amongst whom
I found myself being hurried off to a guard tent, much to my annoyance,
since night was approaching, and I wanted to get back to Belgrade
before sundown. That annoyance, however, was short-lived, since I found
myself placed in the same tent as that lovely young gipsy girl, to
whom I had lost my all-too-susceptible heart an hour ago; indeed, then
it was that I made the rough sketch which illustrates this article.
Her chiselled features, the wildfire in her sloe-black eyes, her
dishevelled hair, and the coins and beads with which those locks were
interwoven, her torn green velvet bodice and coarse salmon-coloured
skirt are all as vividly before me now as then. Nor did she seem averse
to my companionship, especially when she found I could make myself
understood through the medium of two languages--that of Romany, which
is, of course, common to gipsies of all nationalities, and that of the
eye, which is common to humanity at large. Indeed, when, later on, we
were liberated, my freedom came all too soon. I had been made captive
by one who now had to return to her kinsfolk, while I, in melancholy
mood, was pulled across "the Danube's blue waters" in the direction
of Belgrade, casting, as I did so, many furtive glances behind at my
fair fellow-prisoner, who, with several others, was waving me adieux
from the shore; and I think, if I remember rightly, in my dreams that
night, coils of dishevelled raven hair and sloe-black eyes played a
conspicuous part.

Should you ever be called upon to assist at an operation on the leg
of a fellow-creature under circumstances in which chloroform is not
obtainable, insist on holding the wounded or otherwise affected limb.
I speak advisedly, since I recall, while writing, a little incident
which happened to me in the hospital at Belgrade on the occasion of my
bringing to that place several men who had been wounded at Delegrad
and Alixenatz. One of these had to go through the painful process of
probing for a bullet, which had taken up its quarters somewhere in the
calf of his _left_ leg.

"Hold his _right_ leg, Montagu," said Dr. McKeller, the head of the
medical staff (than whom there was never a more brilliant Britisher
on the war-path); "hold on to the right, and we'll look after the
left." There was a merry twinkle in his eye which, at the time, I only
attributed to his natural good humour.

Directly the probe made itself felt, that right leg was drawn up
till the knee almost touched the nose of the patient, when, the pain
becoming unbearable, that leg, to which I was still clinging, shot out
straight, and, striking me in the chest, sent me, like a pellet from
a catapult, flying across the ward, greatly to the merriment of the
assembled doctors and nurses. Never, I say, under any circumstances,
unless you are a Hercules, undertake, unaided, to hold--_the other_ leg.

In these rambling reminiscences I wish rather to give to the reader
a rough _résumé_ of some few of my experiences than make any attempt
at an abbreviated story of my life. Thus it is I pass in rapid review
such incidents as in accidental succession present themselves. Indeed,
as I write, I am reminded, by the snarls and contention for a bone of
several dogs in the street below, of the Fosse Commune at Erzeroum, a
deep entrenchment across which those who would from any point enter
that grimy Oriental city have to pass on rough wooden bridges.

[Illustration: "WAR, PESTILENCE, AND FAMINE."]

There must be some Eastern sentiment which necessitates the Turks
of Anatolia being more or less in touch with the dead--otherwise why
those mangy man-eaters (no, not tigers, but half savage dogs) which
prowl about o' nights in the byways of Erzeroum, or scratch up in the
graveyards, as they too often do, all that remains of poor humanity,
which, in this part of the world, is but thinly and lightly covered
with mother earth? The backs of these scavengers, raw, and sometimes
bleeding, tell too plainly the nature of their calling, since they
suffer from a peculiar scurvy so induced. When the commissariat is
low, they go further afield, even to that cordon of corruption outside
the place, where vultures, hawks, owls, and other birds of prey fight
or forgather with wolves and such like four-footed adventurers, and
where, though metaphorically the man-eater takes a back seat, he still
picks up some loathsome trifles--the _menu_ is not perhaps so choice
as in his own graveyards, but the supply is plentiful enough in all
conscience--everything corruptible, from a dead cat to a dead camel,
finding a last resting-place somewhere within that seething circle.

Hark! Do you hear the thunder of the guns in the _Devé Boyun_ Pass
yonder? Do you see the smoke mingling with the fleeting clouds in the
far distance? How complete a picture this--could you see it as I do now
in my mind's eye--of "war, pestilence, and famine!"

It's a far cry from Anatolia to Bulgaria, from Erzeroum to the Russian
lines round about Plevna; but such a flight to pen and pencil on the
plains of paper-land is nothing. Thus do we now, on the wings of fancy,
find ourselves at Porodim, in the Cossack camp, during Osman Pasha's
stubborn resistance--where Conigsby, of _The Times_, and McGahan, of
_The Daily News_, and many others, including myself, were later on
sending home news or sketches, and awaiting developments.

[Illustration: "TIT-BITS AT THE FRONT."]

Not unlike a sack of potatoes on legs, your average Cossack, when
he has dismounted, has more the clumsiness of the clown than the
cut of the crack cavalry soldier about him, while his peculiar
aversion to water at once negatives any notion of personal smartness,
from a European point of view. On the other hand, put him in the
stirrups, mount him with all his paraphernalia on his shaggy little
steed, and he will ride, if need be, "through fire, and--if quite
unavoidable--water," too, if it be only the will of the Czar.

It's a beautiful, nay, touching sight to see the Cossack of the Don at
the first streak of early dawn on commissariat duty. As an explorer
and discoverer of dainties in obscure hen-roosts, he stands--save
for Reynard himself--alone; seldom returning without bringing in
trophies on his lance-head which will give a zest to the Major's
breakfast--or--his own.

One morning at Porodim several correspondents and myself were making
desperate efforts to break the ice with a view to something like a
lame apology for the homely tub. At length, having succeeded in doing
so, we commenced our ablutions, and soon found ourselves the subject
of comment on the part of several burly fellows, who seemed quite
entertained at our proceedings.

"Wonderful!" said a Cossack Corporal, turning to my interpreter
Nicholoff. "Wonderful! Englishmen, are they? Why, they wash in the
winter time!"

While on the subject of Cossacks, several odd incidents present
themselves:

_The Times_ correspondent and myself having one day secured (no matter
how) a fowl, promptly proceeded to pluck, cook, cut up and--but no,
I mustn't put the cart before the horse--we were interrupted in
our arrangements for the mid-day meal by the passing of a number
of ox-teams, taking supplies of all kinds to the front, which were
driven by Cossack camp followers. One of these, allowing his oxen to
continue the even tenor of their way, stopped for a moment to take
in the situation. Our preparations evidently amused him, and we,
noting his interest in our movements--more especially, _The Times_
correspondent--indulged in a certain amount of Anglo-Saxon badinage, at
which that Cossack seemed to wonder more vaguely than before, till my
companion felt it quite safe to say--in the vulgar vernacular, holding
up at the same time _his_ half of that mutilated fowl before the burly
bullock driver--"There now, I dare say you'd make small bones of that
if you could get it, wouldn't you?"

In an instant the Cossack had seized the dainty morsel in his grimy
grip; the next it was quite beyond reclaim between his teeth, and then,
to our utter astonishment, in unmistakable North Country dialect he
said:--

"Wull, p'raps I shall, now I've got 'un; I'm a Yarkshermun, I am." And
with this, munching to his infinite satisfaction that drum-stick as he
went, he turned on his heel and rejoined his oxen.

On inquiry we found him to be a Yorkshire ne'er-do-weel, who, after
many vicissitudes, had somehow enlisted in the Cossack contingent.

Before the siege was over, however, we had more than forgiven the
unexpected appropriation of the succulent drum-stick.

One night--one of the most severe of that terrible winter--when such
little wood as was obtainable was almost too damp to ignite, myself
and several other correspondents were sitting in sorry plight round
an apology for a camp fire, half frozen, and utterly demoralised, in
a condition, in fact, of benumbed misery, which I at least have never
before or since experienced. Save for the lurid glare of Plevna, like
a smouldering volcano in the distance, and the tread now and again
of a sentry in the crisp snow, we might have been, as indeed we in
some senses were, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Presently,
however, a sound broke the stillness of the night--a sound which
caused our hearts to throb, and circulated anew the blood in our
half-frozen veins, a sound which spoke to each of "England, home, and
beauty," of a welcome in store for us in the old country, of hopes
realised, and promises fulfilled--that sound took the form of music,
and probably the most acceptable form music, at such a moment, could
take; for, proceeding from a rough reed pipe, there floated across
to us on the cold night air the welcome old strains of "Home, sweet
home:" sympathetically, exquisitely rendered, it seemed literally to
resuscitate us. Yes, indeed, we had each of us something to live for,
much to be thankful for, and when afterwards we ascertained the player
to have been none other than our Yorkshire Cossack, it was pleasant to
reflect that if he had once played the dickens with our dinner he had
more than recompensed us with "Home, sweet home."

[Illustration: "HOME, SWEET HOME."]

Although we were sometimes in such sorry plight as I've referred to,
Conigsby was well pleased to mix with the Muscovites; he had previously
been accredited to the Turks, and at Philippopolis, Adrianople, and
elsewhere, had been frequently warned that the strong Russian bias of
his letters to _The Times_ boded him no good; indeed, that "a cup of
black coffee," as poison is politely termed by the Moslems, was in
active preparation for him.

Loth to accept these hints, it's more than probable he would never
have come to Plevna at all, had not a very forcible argument been
presented to him. It happened thus:--The representative of Printing
House-square--quite innocent of coming events--rose one morning rather
earlier than usual. His room seeming unusually dark, he proceeded at
once to draw up the blind, when, to his intense horror, he suddenly
found himself face to face with a corpse--the corpse of a Bulgarian
traitor--which, during the night, had been hoisted by means of pulleys
outside his bedroom window. The Turks, to say the least of it, had
a design on his appetite for breakfast. This gentle reminder was
sufficient for him; he quite understood now how matters stood, and so
exchanged as soon as possible to the Russian lines.

His successor, whose views, alas! were also Russophile, sent only a
limited number of despatches to _The Times_. It was _café noir_ that
did it. I think he was buried at Scutari.

I have heard it remarked by some stay-at-home critics of war that they
"don't know what fear is," that they are, in other words, ready-made
heroes for whom there is, unfortunately, no scope. To such I would
recommend some of the minor emergencies of a campaign as tests worth
trying. Personally, I am quite willing to confess to having experienced
at times painfully unpleasant qualms, and fully believe that to do
so is only human. Overcoming fear is declared by some to be heroic,
and individual acts of unselfish bravery under such circumstances
cannot certainly be too generously commended; but defend me from the
untried swash-buckler who "doesn't know what fear is." Let him, as soon
as occasion serves, take a dose of ignominious retreat--_one_ dose
before bedtime will be found quite sufficient. Let him experience a
retreat, say, down a rugged mountain defile in Spain, with the enemy
in comparatively close proximity on a parallel ridge, a deep gorge
between them, pouring in a deadly fire on retreating artillery and
cavalry. This I experienced once not far from San Sebastian. "Everyone
for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." I cite the apt quotation
of my old friend Edmund O'Donovan, of _The Daily News_, who was there
at the time. There was a tooth and nail illustration of that proverb
then I shall never forget: panic reigned supreme, each struggling in
mad confusion to be first out of the fray, yelling, shouting, hooting
in their frenzy, even to the free use of the butt ends of carbines and
revolvers, anything, in short, to clear the way for that best beloved
and all-important "Number One."

[Illustration: "A RETREAT IN SPAIN."]

It's astonishing, isn't it, with what jealous care poor humanity looks
after number one, even though life be at a discount, as it was during
the siege of Plevna, when one morning Conigsby and myself sallied forth
in opposite directions in quest of material for our respective papers?
Each in turn, though separated by some miles, found himself under a
withering fire from Turkish rifle pits, and later on each found himself
hastening for the kindly protection of the same advanced Russian
earthworks.

"This, Montagu," said Conigsby, "is an incident which should
not be overlooked. A sceptical world will never believe it--yet
stay--unless--oh, yes, I have it. You do a picture for _The Illustrated
News_ representing our noble selves, specially your humble servant, you
know, as we now are in the forefront of the fighting, while I write up
the occurrence in _The Times_. Such corroborative evidence, which is,
moreover, absolutely true, will place our zeal beyond question, and
show the reading and picture-loving public that life at the front is
not all 'beer and skittles.'"

That day is particularly marked on my memory as having been one of
exceptional interest, incident, and hard work, terminating in a night
made almost unbearable by the howling of wolves and the neighing of
terror-stricken horses. With this--"An Attack on the Encampment of _The
Times_ and _Illustrated London News_," forming a subject for the pages
of that journal--and with Conigsby's version of the experience (it may
be taken with several grains of salt), which he gave at a Press dinner
on our return, I will bring this chapter of accidents and incidents to
a close.

"Never, gentlemen," said he, "never on any account go to the front with
a war artist. They are dangerous individuals, I assure you. Most of you
will remember a certain illustration of Montagu's in which our camp was
represented as being attacked by wolves; but you don't, I think, know
the true story concerning it.

"One night, wearied beyond measure with a long day at the front, I
was striving in vain to sleep through a medley of sounds in which the
short, quick, raspy barking of wolves, and shouts of men striving to
pacify scared horses, combined to make night hideous, when, unable
to stand it any longer, I rushed into Montagu's tent--for, without
enlisting his aid, I felt apoplexy must be the end of it--and aroused
him.

"Montagu, my dear fellow, do you hear those wolves? They are simply
unbearable. I have tried every expedient but one--it's our last
resource. If there's one thing in this world more than another
calculated to scare wolves it will be one of your pictures for _The
Illustrated London News_! Whereupon I seized one of his latest
productions, and, rushing out, faced those fiery invaders.

"The result was instantaneous. With a fearfully prolonged yelp they
scuttled off helter-skelter to the hills, where they were very soon
lost to sight.

"But, remember, I have already warned you against going to the front
with a war artist, and would ask you now to listen to Montagu's
terrible retaliation. Goodness knows, I am loth enough to admit it.

[Illustration]

"Those wolves came back again, and then it was that he, rushing into
my tent, said that lunacy, ay, raving madness, stared him in the
face, unless the last die were cast--if that wouldn't settle them,
nothing would. With this he grasped a half-finished article of mine
to _The Times_, and confronting those wolves, read aloud to that
astonished pack the first short paragraph. Then it was that, utterly
panic-stricken, they fled, howling in wild confusion, to the Balkans,
and I understand they have been scarce in Bulgaria ever since. Who,
after this, will question for one moment the far-reaching influence of
the British press?"

                         (_To be continued._)

[Illustration:




The Rynard Gold Reef C'oy L'd.]

BY WALTER BESANT.


ACT I.

"You dear old boy," said the girl, "I am sure I wish it could be--with
all my heart--if I have any heart."

"I don't believe you have," replied the boy, gloomily.

"Well, but Reg, consider; you've got no money."

"I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't make his way upon that,
he must be a poor stick."

"You would go abroad with it and dig, and take your wife with you--to
wash and cook."

"We would do something with the money here. You should stay in London,
Rosie."

"Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, perhaps. No, Reg, when
I marry, if ever I do--I am in no hurry--I will step out of this room
into one exactly like it." The room was a splendid drawing-room in
Palace Gardens, splendidly furnished. "I shall have my footmen and my
carriage, and I shall----"

"Rosie, give me the right to earn all these things for you!" the young
man cried impetuously.

"You can only earn them for me by the time you have one foot in the
grave. Hadn't I better in the meantime marry some old gentleman with
his one foot in the grave, so as to be ready for you against the time
when you come home? In two or three years the other foot I dare say
would slide into the grave as well."

"You laugh at my trouble. You feel nothing."

[Illustration: "THIS HEARTLESS HAND."]

"If the pater would part--but he won't--he says he wants all his money
for himself, and that I've got to marry well. Besides, Reg"--here her
face clouded and she lowered her voice--"there are times when he looks
anxious. We didn't always live in Palace Gardens. Suppose we should
lose it all as quickly as we got it. Oh!" she shivered and trembled.
"No, I will never, never marry a poor man. Get rich, my dear boy, and
you may aspire even to the valuable possession of this heartless hand."

She held it out. He took it, pressed it, stooped and kissed her. Then
he dropped her hand and walked quickly out of the room.

"Poor Reggie!" she murmured. "I wish--I wish--but what is the use of
wishing?"


ACT II.

Two men--one young, the other about fifty--sat in the verandah of a
small bungalow. It was after breakfast. They lay back in long bamboo
chairs, each with a cigar. It looked as if they were resting. In
reality they were talking business, and that very seriously.

"Yes, sir," said the elder man, with something of an American accent,
"I have somehow taken a fancy to this place. The situation is healthy."

"Well, I don't know; I've had more than one touch of fever here."

"The climate is lovely----"

"Except in the rains."

"The soil is fertile----"

"I've dropped five thousand in it, and they haven't come up again yet."

"They will. I have been round the estate, and I see money in it. Well,
sir, here's my offer: five thousand down, hard cash, as soon as the
papers are signed."

[Illustration: "FIVE THOUSAND DOWN, HARD CASH."]

Reginald sat up. He was on the point of accepting the proposal, when a
pony rode up to the house, and the rider, a native groom, jumped off,
and gave him a note. He opened it and read. It was from his nearest
neighbour, two or three miles away: "Don't sell that man your estate.
Gold has been found. The whole country is full of gold. Hold on. He's
an assayer. If he offers to buy, be quite sure that he has found gold
on your land.--F. G."

He put the note into his pocket, gave a verbal message to the boy,
and turned to his guest, without betraying the least astonishment or
emotion.

"I beg your pardon. The note was from Bellamy, my next neighbour. Well?
You were saying----"

"Only that I have taken a fancy--perhaps a foolish fancy--to this place
of yours, and I'll give you, if you like, all that you have spent upon
it."

"Well," he replied, reflectively, but with a little twinkle in his eye,
"that seems handsome. But the place isn't really worth the half that
I have spent upon it. Anybody would tell you that. Come, let us be
honest, whatever we are. I'll tell you a better way. We will put the
matter into the hands of Bellamy. He knows what a coffee plantation is
worth. He shall name a price, and if we can agree upon that, we will
make a deal of it."

The other man changed colour. He wanted to settle the thing at once
as between gentlemen. What need of third parties? But Reginald stood
firm, and he presently rode away, quite sure that in a day or two this
planter, too, would have heard the news.

A month later, the young coffee-planter stood on the deck of a steamer
homeward bound. In his pocket-book was a plan of his auriferous estate,
in a bag hanging round his neck was a small collection of yellow
nuggets; in his boxes was a chosen assortment of quartz.


ACT III.

"Well, sir," said the financier, "you've brought this thing to me. You
want my advice. Well, my advice is, don't fool away the only good thing
that will ever happen to you. Luck such as this doesn't come more than
once in a lifetime."

"I have been offered ten thousand pounds for my estate."

"Oh! Have you! Ten thousand? That was very liberal--very liberal
indeed. Ten thousand for a gold reef."

"But I thought as an old friend of my father you would, perhaps----"

"Young man, don't fool it away. He's waiting for you, I suppose, round
the corner, with a bottle of fizz ready to close."

"He is."

"Well, go and drink his champagne. Always get whatever you can. And
then tell him that you'll see him----"

"I certainly will, sir, if you advise it. And then?"

"And then--leave it to me. And--young man--I think I heard, a year or
two ago, something about you and my girl Rosie."

"There was something, sir. Not enough to trouble you about it."

"She told me. Rosie tells me all her love affairs."

"Is she--is she unmarried?"

"Oh yes, and for the moment I believe she is free. She has had one
or two engagements, but, somehow, they have come to nothing. There
was the French Count, but that was knocked on the head very early in
consequence of things discovered. And there was the Boom in Guano, but
he fortunately smashed, much to Rosie's joy, because she never liked
him. The last was Lord Evergreen. He was a nice old chap when you could
understand what he said, and Rosie would have liked the title very
much, though his grandchildren opposed the thing. Well, sir, I suppose
you couldn't understand the trouble we took to keep that old man alive
for his own wedding. Science did all it could, but 'twas of no use----"
The financier sighed. "The ways of Providence are inscrutable. He died,
sir, the day before."

"That was very sad."

"A dashing of the cup from the lip, sir. My daughter would have been a
Countess. Well, young gentleman, about this estate of yours. I think
I see a way--I think, I am not yet sure--that I do see a way. Go now.
See this liberal gentleman, and drink his champagne. And come here in a
week. Then, if I still see my way, you shall understand what it means
to hold the position in the City which is mine."

"And--and--may I call upon Rosie?"

[Illustration: "VERY LIBERAL INDEED!"]

"Not till this day week, not till I have made my way plain."


ACT IV.

"And so it means this. Oh, Rosie, you look lovelier than ever, and I'm
as happy as a king. It means this. Your father is the greatest genius
in the world. He buys my property for sixty thousand pounds--sixty
thousand. That's over two thousand a year for me, and he makes a
company out of it with a hundred and fifty thousand capital. He says
that, taking ten thousand out of it for expenses, there will be a
profit of eighty thousand. And all that he gives to you--eighty
thousand, that's three thousand a year for you; and sixty thousand,
that's two more, my dearest Rosie. You remember what you said, that
when you married you should step out of one room like this into another
just as good?"

"Oh, Reggie"--she sank upon his bosom--"you know I never could love
anybody but you. It's true I was engaged to old Lord Evergreen, but
that was only because he had one foot--you know--and when the other
foot went in too, just a day too soon, I actually laughed. So the pater
is going to make a company of it, is he? Well, I hope he won't put any
of his own money into it, I'm sure, because of late all the companies
have turned out so badly."

"But, my child, the place is full of gold."

"Then why did he turn it into a company, my dear boy? And why didn't he
make you stick to it? But you know nothing of the City. Now, let us sit
down, and talk about what we shall do--Don't, you ridiculous boy!"

[Illustration: "OH, ROSIE. YOU LOOK LOVELIER THAN EVER!"]


ACT V.

Another house just like the first. The bride stepped out of one palace
into another. With their five or six thousand a year, the young couple
could just manage to make both ends meet. The husband was devoted; the
wife had everything that she could wish. Who could be happier than this
pair in a nest so luxurious, their life so padded, their days so full
of sunshine?

It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary to her usual custom,
was the first at breakfast. A few letters were waiting for her--chiefly
invitations. She opened and read them. Among them lay one addressed to
her husband. Not looking at the address, she opened and read that as
well:

"DEAR REGINALD,--I venture to address you as an old friend of your own
and schoolfellow of your mother's. I am a widow with four children.
My husband was the Vicar of your old parish--you remember him and me.
I was left with a little income of about two hundred a year. Twelve
months ago I was persuaded in order to double my income--a thing which
seemed certain from the prospectus--to invest everything in a new and
rich gold mine. Everything. And the mine has never paid anything. The
Company--it is called the Rynard Gold Reef Company--is in liquidation
because, though there is really the gold there, it costs too much to
get it. I have no relatives anywhere to help me. Unless I can get
assistance my children and I must go at once--to-morrow--into the
workhouse. Yes, we are paupers. I am ruined by the cruel lies of that
prospectus, and the wickedness which deluded me, and I know not how
many others, out of my money. I have been foolish, and am punished:
but those people, who will punish them? Help me, if you can, my dear
Reginald. Oh! for _God's_ sake, help my children and me. Help your
mother's friend, your own old friend."

"This," said Rosie, meditatively, "is exactly the kind of thing to make
Reggie uncomfortable. Why, it might make him unhappy all day. Better
burn it." She dropped the letter into the fire. "He's an impulsive,
emotional nature, and he doesn't understand the City. If people are so
foolish. What a lot of fibs the poor old pater does tell, to be sure.
He's a regular novelist--Oh! here you are, you lazy boy!"

"Kiss me, Rosie." He looked as handsome as Apollo and as cheerful.
"I wish all the world were as happy as you and me. Heigho! Some poor
devils, I'm afraid----"

"Tea or coffee, Reg?"

[Illustration: W. S. Stacey.]




_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._


JOHN LAWRENCE TOOLE.

Wherever the English tongue is spoken the name of J. L. Toole is a
household word. After winning his spurs in Dublin, he made his first
appearance in London at the St. James's Theatre, which was then under
the management of Mrs. Seymour. This was in 1855. From the St. James's
he migrated to the Lyceum, where he played, among other characters,
_Flip Flap_ to Charles Dillon's _Belphegor_, Mrs. Bancroft, then Marie
Wilton, being in the cast. It was but a step from the Lyceum to the
Adelphi; and his merry reign there, in conjunction with Paul Bedford,
will be always remembered in connection with that theatre. It was
during this period that our first two portraits were taken. The third
portrait represents him at forty-five years of age, before which time
he had produced Byron's "Dearer than Life" at the Queen's, Henry Irving
playing _Bob Gassett_, and Lionel Brough _Uncle Ben_. The theatre he
built for himself in King William-street was opened in 1879. Our fourth
portrait was taken in Dunedin, New Zealand, about five months ago, in
the course of his remarkably successful tour through the Australasian
colonies.

[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 20. |_Photo._]

[Illustration: AGE 25. _From a Photo._]

[Illustration: AGE 45. _From a Photo._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Burton Bros.,
Dunedin._]

For these portraits we are indebted to Mr. Toole's courtesy.


EDWARD S. WILLARD.

BORN 1854.

Mr. E. S. Willard, whose career at the Shaftesbury Theatre within the
last two years firmly established his claim to be regarded as one
of our few really great actors, made his first bow to a theatrical
audience at the Theatre Royal, Weymouth, in December, 1869, and
afterwards gained some useful experiences on the "Western Circuit." In
1875 he married Miss Emily Waters, now well known in literary circles
as "Rachel Penn," and then he made his first appearance in London at
the Covent Garden Theatre. Five years of hard work in the provinces
followed, leading to his engagement at the Princess's under the
management of Mr. Wilson Barrett. His performance of the _Spider_ in
"The Silver King" was no less popular than that of his chief. Although
Mr. Willard's position in the first rank of actors could not have been
long delayed, his sudden leap to the front was almost the result of a
fortunate accident. He had accepted a long engagement from Mr. Hare
for the new Garrick Theatre, which, fortunately for Mr. Willard, was
cancelled by him when he refused to play the opening part assigned
to him. This left him free to assume the reins of management at the
Shaftesbury Theatre, where his remarkable performances of _Cyrus
Blenkarn_ and _Judah_ established his claim to pre-eminence, and more
than justified the faith and confidence of his numerous admirers.

[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 18. |_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 27. |_Photograph._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 36. |_J. Templeton Grove._]


MISS KATE RORKE.

Miss Kate Rorke, at the age at which our first portrait represents
her, was already on the stage, in the character of one of the
little school-girls in "Olivia." At fourteen she was still a stage
school-girl, this time in the Bancrofts' production of "School" at the
Haymarket. Soon afterwards she joined Mr. Charles Wyndham's touring
company, and at the age of our third portrait was delighting the
audiences of the chief provincial theatres in a variety of characters.
These early studies, combined with great natural abilities, have borne
the fruit to be expected; and to-day Miss Rorke, as the frequenters of
the Garrick Theatre know to their delight, is one of the most charming
and finished actresses at present on the English stage.

[Illustration: AGE 12.]

[Illustration: AGE 14.]

[Illustration: AGE 16.]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.]


THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.

BORN 1864.

At the age of seven Prince Albert Victor was receiving his education
at home. At fourteen--at which age he is here depicted in a Highland
costume--he was, like his brother George, a cadet on board H.M.S.
_Britannia_ at Dartmouth. At nineteen, he became an undergraduate at
Trinity College, Cambridge; after which he was transferred to Aldershot
to study military science.

These portraits are published by special arrangement with Messrs.
W. and D. Downey, whose permission thus to reproduce photographs of
celebrities from their enormous and unique assortment we are the first
to obtain.

[Illustration: AGE 5.

_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: AGE 7.

_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: AGE 14.

_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: AGE 19.

_From a Photo. by Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 26. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]


THE DUCHESS OF FIFE.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 3 MONTHS. |_Messrs. W. & D.
Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 6. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 10. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 15. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Messrs. W. & D.
Downey._]

The Duchess of Fife, as our readers are aware, inherits in no small
degree the conspicuous gifts of grace and beauty for which her Royal
mother is so pre-eminently distinguished. That such has been the case
throughout her life is manifested by the charming portraits which here
represent her from the age when, as a solemn baby, her first photograph
was taken, down to her appearance at the present day.

These portraits are reproduced by special arrangement with Messrs. W.
and D. Downey.


PRINCE GEORGE OF WALES.

BORN 1865.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 3. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 5. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 14. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 25. |_Messrs. W. & D. Downey._]

Of Prince George at the ages of three and five we have nothing to
record; but at the time at which our third portrait represents him, he
was a middy on board H.M.S. _Britannia_. A sailor is always a popular
member of all classes of society, and "our sailor prince" enjoys the
reputation of being among the most popular of his profession.

These portraits are reproduced by special arrangement with Messrs. W.
and D. Downey.


MME. ALBANI.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_Levitsky, Paris._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 19. |_Bergamasco, St.
Petersburg._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 25. |_Sarony, New York._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_Sarony, New York._]

The first portrait we give of Mme. Albani-Gye shows her at eighteen
years, when a student under M. Duprez, of Paris. The second represents
her at nineteen, as _La Sonnambula_, in which _rôle_ she made a
triumphant _début_ in 1872 at Covent Garden. Mme. Albani spent her
25th birthday in New York, where she created the part of _Elsa_. The
last photograph represents her as _Desdemona_, a character which
particularly appeals to her.


MISS AGNES JANSEN.

The first photograph we give of Miss Agnes Jansen brings her before
us at eighteen years of age, then a student at the Royal Academy of
Music in Stockholm. Under the guidance of her accomplished master, Hugo
Beyer, she made such marked progress that she was shortly afterwards
engaged to appear in the leading contralto _rôles_ at the Opera House
of her native city. In 1885, on pleasure bent, she came to England,
and, in the cause of a charity, made her _début_ at the Albert Hall,
since when she has been continually sought for concerts in town and
country. Only a few weeks back she appeared for the first time in a
London opera at Covent Garden, where she is now performing.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 18. |_M. Hansen, Stockholm._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 24. |_Florman._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 27. |_Chancellor, Dublin._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| PRESENT DAY. |_The Stereoscopic
Co._]




_Humours of the Post Office._

WITH FAC-SIMILES.


II.

The pages in the "Post Office Album," through which we were looking
in our last number, are by no means exhausted. There is yet another
curiously addressed missive to Her Majesty--"To the lady queen
vicktorieha queens pallice London" (Fig. 1); the late Earl of
Beaconsfield was also signalled out for an hieroglyphic wrapper (Fig.
2); the gentleman occupying the civic chair at the Mansion House in
1886 was the recipient of a somewhat remarkable envelope--sufficiently
suggestive, however, to reach him (Fig. 3); whilst the Receiver and
Accountant-General of the Post Office received a veritable puzzle in
"Receive the county general Cheapy hall London" (Fig. 4). One remaining
specimen (Fig. 5) here reproduced--which was actually delivered to the
proper persons for whom it was intended--we will leave to those of our
readers who revel in the unravelling of the mysterious.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.]

Turn over another leaf, and you are requested to make yourself
acquainted with an interesting little Welsh town in Merionethshire,
familiarly known as "Llanllanfairpyllghyllgheryogogogoch"; and the next
page gives rise to unbounded sympathy for the unfortunate postman who
dutifully delivered a letter to--

    "Mr. Paddy O'Rafferty O'Shaugnessy,
    'The Beautiful Shamrock'
    Next door to Barney Flynn's Whiskey Store.
    Knock me down entirely street,
      Stratford on Avon
    In the County Cork if ye like Dublin."

[Illustration: FIG. 3.]

One gentleman is evidently partial to boxing--all his envelopes are
pugilistically illustrated, whilst another individual's wrappers
always bear a request--in big capitals--to carry his communication
by a British vessel, and on no account by a foreign one. A minister,
evidently just ordained, and residing in Jamaica, is depicted in the
pulpit with his old college cap and boots in the distance, with the
reminder to "Never forget old friends." One envelope strongly suggests
that somebody has a weakness for anything but toast and water, for the
gentleman is represented fast asleep, with a huge barrel of beer above
him, and the tap still flowing freely into his opened mouth, which is
waiting to receive it.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.]

[Illustration: FIG. 5.]

The volumes devoted to humours nearer at home are brimming over
with merriment, whilst not a few leaves contain somewhat serious
impressions. Suggestions of holiday making form a prominent feature.
Pretty and effective views of the sea and country lanes, picturesque
valleys and mountains, are liberally displayed on the various
envelopes. One lady is at Margate, attired in such masculine clothing,
with binocular under her arm, that the artist has added a flowing beard
to her face. There is a landlady presenting a bill, whilst the next
is really a very original idea of the various stages of matrimony. On
a number of boards resting on an easel, is one marked "1883," with a
pair of lovers drifting down a stream in a boat, whilst "1884" finds
the same pair in wedding garments. Other "years" are waiting for their
events in the lives of the young people.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.]

Poetical addresses are as numerous as they are varied. Here are one or
two examples. A postman read the following instructions:--

    "Near Bristol City may patience lead thee;
    At Totterdown Row--postman, heed me--
    Stands Gordon House, 'tis passing fair,
    And Mr. Brittain dwelleth there."

[Illustration: FIG. 7.]

Another envelope, bearing the Peckham post-mark, thus silently
appeals:--

    "To Exeter fair city, by Western Mail,
    Good postman, send me without fail;
    And when in Devonshire I arrive,
    Over Exe Bridge and through St. Thomas drive,
    Past the old turnpike, and up the hill
    Held sacred to Little John's [+] still,
    Just where the road begins to turn,
    You'll find Rose Cottage and Mrs. Hearn.
    Ask her if there's a fair young lass
    Come down from London her holidays to pass;
    To her please deliver without delay,
    For I'm postage paid, and so you need not stay."

The poetry is not great, but it is suggestive.

An eminent maker of umbrellas received a most artistic wrapper, with
numerous illustrations showing the position his umbrellas held amongst
the community. Gentlemen are using them as a means of roaming the seas,
whilst a more adventuresome spirit, remarking that "Umbrellas make
you rise in the world," is going up _à la_ balloon with one. Finally,
at the death of the worthy manufacturer his own umbrella is carried
in state followed by an appreciative populace, and the head of his
memorial stone is further decorated by a number of these very useful
protectors. The uncertainty of our glorious climate is the subject for
another wit, who has drawn a monumental stone over which a watering can
is freely flowing with the words--

    Sacred
    to the
    memory of the fine weather
    which departed from this land
    June, 1888.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Also
    the sun of the above.

[Illustration: FIG. 8.]

One envelope has an ingenious direction on it. It is intended for s.s.
_Kaisow_, lying in the Red Sea. It shows a very intelligent-looking sow
labelled K, with a belt round it in the form of the letter C painted
red.

A somewhat similarly addressed wrapper is one despatched to Wales.
Swansea is represented by a swan with a capital C in the immediate
vicinity of its tail (Fig. 6); whilst following the word South is a
representation of a number of enthusiastic fishermen making every
effort to harpoon some whales. A stalwart Highlander, in all his glory,
appears upon another, wishing "A guid New Year to ye," and as he holds
out a palm almost as large as himself, he merrily exclaims, "And here's
_a hand_, my trusty fren'!" An invalid is lying with a heavy box on
him, labelled appropriately "A Chest Complaint." John Bull and Young
Australia occupy two corners of the wrapper, shaking hands across the
sea, whilst the next is a loving message to an ocean roamer, showing an
energetic little nigger indulging in what is frankly admitted to be a
"mangled version of an old song," to the effect of--

                    "Good bye, John,
                    Don't stop long,
    Come back soon to your numberless chickabiddies;
                    My heart is low,
                    The winds blow so,
                And takes away my sailor."

[Illustration: FIG. 9.]

Niggers seem strong favourites for illustrative purposes. A magnificent
specimen of a black is that of a gentleman in a huge broad-brimmed
straw hat, with the name and address written on an equally prodigious
collar. The gentleman destined to receive the letter rejoiced in the
name of Black, hence the presence of our dark friend (Fig. 7). Here
(Fig. 11) is a merry little drummer boy, whose face is hidden by the
paper he is reading, which bears the postage stamp.

[Illustration: FIG. 10.]

A young lady residing at Port Elizabeth probably felt a shock when
she found on an envelope from "home," a gentlemanly but gluttonous
cannibal making a small lunch out of a venturesome white man, whom he
is swallowing at a single bite. "A Native Swallowing a Settler" is
the comforting inscription on it. Equally startled, too, probably,
was the lady who found that she had been singled out as "Lost,
Stolen, or Strayed," with a crowd of interested onlookers--including
representatives of the military and police--eagerly scanning the bill
on which was set forth her name and address (Fig. 8).

What looks like a sly hint at matrimony was sent by an amorous swain
to a young damsel at Cape Town. A gentleman's head, labelled "An
unfurnished flat," surely suggests house furnishing. Page after page
of the postal scrap-book is replete with illustrations: artists,
sculptors, eminent politicians, all classes of the community, all have
their own particular "skit"--a musician, probably, and a violinist to
wit, receiving his envelope with a pictorial representation suggesting
the weight of his instrument, so much so that it took a couple of men
to carry it between them, and even then the fiddle and case proved too
heavy, and was allowed to fall to the ground, much to the evident hurt
of one of those engaged in the job (Fig. 9).

"The lion is a noble animal, and to his keeper he appears to possess
no small degree of attachment." So says an envelope with the king of
beasts taking his unwary keeper into his paws.

It is needless to say that married people receive a fair share of
attention from the envelope artist. The "delighted parent" is in strong
evidence, whilst the nurse approaches with gladdened step and joyfully
exclaims "Twins, sir!"

And a wit winds the series up with a request on his missive addressed
to the care of a post-office to the effect:--"Don't give him this
unless he calls for it."

[Illustration: FIG. 11.]

We append a couple of illustrations which seem to have escaped the
usually keen eye of those at the Post Office, always on the look-out
for these little curiosities in envelopes. One is kindly forwarded by
a gentleman interested in these "Postal Humours," and shows a boar
partial to boating playfully flying a kite, on the tail of which is the
name and address. The sun looks on somewhat dubiously from above (Fig.
10). The second is a specimen of many similar ones which arrive at the
office of _Tit-Bits_, and depicts the various stages through which a
letter passes whilst on its way to compete for the weekly "Vigilance
Prize," until it is finally handed in at its proper destination (Fig.
12).

[Illustration: FIG. 12.]




_Celebrated Beauties._

    "Woman, be fair, we must adore you;
    Smile, and the world is all before you."


Looking back across the gulf of years which divides us from the latter
portion of the last century, we must be struck by the total change
that has passed over society generally. No men like those giants in
intellect, Chatham, Fox, Swift, Johnson, now fill the canvas; no fine
gentlemen, who, as Thackeray says, were in themselves a product of the
past, and for which the finikin, white-vested masher is but a poor
substitute. And the women!--those wondrously fair creatures, whose
faces have been handed down to us by Reynolds or Gainsborough, and who
smile at us from their gilt frames. What witchery in the almond-shaped
eyes, long and languishing; what pouting lips; what arched and lovely
necks; what queenly dignity in their gait and carriage, and withal
nothing of the voluptuous immodesty which marks the wanton beauties of
Charles II.'s Court: they were mistresses, these were wives.

[Illustration: ELIZABETH GUNNING (DUCHESS OF HAMILTON).

(_From the Picture by C. Read._)]

There was never a period when so much homage was paid to beauty as in
the last century. Men went mad for a lovely face, fought duels for
a smile or a flower given by their mistress to a rival, and threw
prudence to the winds to obtain her. We are now going to take a glance
at some of these fair magicians, whose stories read, many of them, like
fairy tales; Cinderella, for instance, pales before the history of the
two Irish girls who, more than 150 years ago, crossed the fish-pond
which divides the sister countries, and came to seek their fortunes,
with only their lovely faces _pour tout potage_. The surpassing beauty
of the sisters has become matter of history, nor, perhaps, is there a
parallel instance of mere beauty exciting so extraordinary a sensation
as that produced by these portionless girls.

Horace Walpole, writing to Sir Horace Mann, says:--"You who know
England in other times will find it difficult to conceive what
indifference reigns with regard to Ministers; the two Miss Gunnings
are twenty times more the subject of conversation than the Duke of
Newcastle or Lord Granville."

Again he says:--"The Gunning girls have no fortune, and are scarce
gentlewomen, but by their mother. (She was the Honourable Bridget
Bourke, third daughter to Theobald, sixth Viscount Mayo.) The Bourkes
have Plantagenet blood, quite enough to compensate for the inferior tap
of the Gunnings."

Maria was the eldest of "the goddesses," as Mrs. Montagu styles
the two girls. She was born in 1733, Elizabeth two years later.
Consequently, when they appeared in London, one was nineteen, the other
seventeen.

The character of the beauty of the Gunnings will be seen in the
accompanying portrait of Elizabeth--long swimming eyes, and small,
delicate mouth, and the soft, composed face, breaking from between the
two lace lappets, secured in a top-knot over the head.

Soon both sisters had admirers. "Lord Coventry, a grave lord of the
remains of the patriot breed," dangled after Maria, while Elizabeth was
singled out by the Duke of Hamilton, who was wild and dissipated. He
fell desperately in love with the young beauty, who, on her side, was
well tutored by her Plantagenet mother how to play the noble fish she
had on her line. The sequel is well known; how the Duke, inflamed by
Elizabeth's coyness and coquetry, insisted upon the extempore marriage
at midnight, the curtain-ring doing duty for a golden fetter. Her
sister's good fortune decided the fate of Maria, who in a short time
wedded her grave lord.

It is an old maxim that "Nothing succeeds like success," and the furore
caused by the "goddesses" increased after their elevation to the
peerage. "The world is still mad about the Gunnings.[1] The Duchess
of Hamilton was presented on Friday; the crowd was so great that
even the noble crowd in the drawing-room clambered upon chairs and
tables to look at her. There are mobs at their doors to see them get
into their chairs, and people go early to get places at the theatre
when it is known they will be there. Doctor Sacheverell never made
more fuss than these two beauties." A shoemaker got two guineas for
showing a shoe he was making for Lady Coventry. But the mind of her
ladyship was not equal to her beauty, the fact being that neither of
the girls had been educated decently. The Duchess, however, concealed
her deficiency better than Lady Coventry, who, Horace Walpole tells
us, said every day some new "sproposits." Stories flew about of her
sayings which, no doubt, lost nothing in the repetition; as when she
told the good-natured king that the only sight she wished to see was a
coronation. It was to him she also complained that she could not walk
in the park, the people stared at her so much; upon which George II.
sent her a guard to keep the starers in order. This incident caused the
circulation of the accompanying ballad, composed by Horace Walpole:--

[1] Horace Walpole's letters.

    "Shut up the park, I beseech you,
      Lay a tax upon staring so hard;
    Or, if you're afraid to do that, sir,
      I'm sure you will grant me a guard.

    "The boon thus requested was granted,
      The warriors were drawn up with care.
    With my slaves and my guards I'm surrounded,
      Come, stare at me now, if you dare!"

The beautiful Coventry enjoyed her title but a short time, killing
herself by the excessive use of white paint. She died at the early age
of twenty-eight, and it was a tribute to her that she was regretted by
all who had known her; even the heartless set who made up her world
have a word of sorrow for this beautiful simpleton.

Elizabeth was more prosperous. Her life from end to end was a success.
She was double-duchessed, marrying, a second time, after a year's
widowhood, Colonel Campbell, who succeeded to the Dukedom of Argyle.
The Duke of Bridgewater had also proposed for her. She was created
Baroness in her own right, and given the office of Lady of the
Bedchamber to Queen Charlotte. She died in 1791, having been mother to
four dukes and wife to two, a dignity which few women could claim.

Here come another pair of charming sisters, Catherine and Mary Horneck,
daughters to Reynolds' kinsman, Captain Kane Horneck; they are best
known to this generation through the medium of Oliver Goldsmith's
admiration for them, just as the Miss Berrys' best claim to celebrity
is Horace Walpole's quasi-Platonic friendship. The loving nicknames
of the "Jessamy Bride" and "Little Comedy," which were given to the
sisters by Oliver, show the terms of intimacy upon which he stood. And
this friendship seems to have brought out some of the best points in
the character of the lovable author of the "Immortal Vicar." Now we
see him leading them through the crowded masquerade at the Pantheon,
arrayed in his plum-coloured suit and laced hat; or he is conducting
them and their mother on a trip to Paris, his simple, harmless vanity
highly pleased at being the escort of such a lovely trio (for Mrs.
Horneck was as handsome as her daughters). As usual, his innocent pride
was misinterpreted. Boswell, whom Horace Walpole calls the "Mountebank
to a Zeno," talks of his envious disposition, and adds that when
accompanying two beautiful young women with their mother on a tour in
France, he was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them
than to him. But Boswell seems always to have hated Goldsmith.

Of the two sisters, Mary, the younger, the "Jessamy Bride," seems to
have exerted a strange fascination over him. "Heaven knows," as his
biographer, Mr. Forster says, "what impossible dreams may have come to
the awkward, unattractive man of letters, but he never aspired to other
regard than his genius and simplicity might claim at least, for the
sisters heartily liked him, and perhaps the happiest years of his life
were passed in their society."

[Illustration: MARY AND CATHERINE HORNECK. (_From the Picture by Sir
Joshua Reynolds._)]

One is glad to hear of even a ray of happiness crossing the path of the
poor, sensitive poet; but it was nevertheless through his admiration
for the "Jessamy Bride" that he met one of those mortifications which
press keenly upon one of his highly strung, nervous temperament. This
annoyance came when he was in the full tide of the success of "She
Stoops to Conquer." We may assume that the sweetest part of this
success had been that it raised him in the eyes of his dear Mary.
Nine days after, _The London Packet_, in an abusive article directed
against the author of the new comedy, attacked him coarsely. "Goldsmith
had patiently suffered worse attacks, and would doubtless here have
suffered as patiently, if baser matters had not been introduced, but
the libeller had invaded private life and dragged in the 'Jessamy
Bride.' 'Was but the lovely H---- k as much enamoured, you would not
sigh, my gentle swain, in vain.'"

On reading this, Goldsmith fell into one of his sudden furies. He
rushed off to the publisher, Evans, and beat him with his cane. Evans,
who was a sturdy man, returned the blows; the combatants were at last
separated, and Goldsmith was sent home in a coach much disfigured.
The affair did not end here; the poor, sensitive poet was abused in
every newspaper of the day, all steadily ignoring the _real_ ground of
offence. He had in the end to pay fifty pounds to Evans for the assault.

It is pleasant to think that during the lifetime of the poet no rival
disturbed his peace of mind. Catherine, "Little Comedy," married early
Mr. Bunbury, second son to Sir Charles Bunbury, of good Suffolk family,
but up till the time of Oliver's death, the "Jessamy Bride" had no
declared lover, nor did she marry Colonel Gwynn until three years
later. Both sisters mourned their gentle friend sincerely. At their
request his coffin was opened that a lock of hair might be cut from his
head for them. It was in Mrs. Gwynn's possession when she died nearly
seventy years later. She lived to a great age, preserving her beauty
even in years. The Graces in her case had triumphed over Time. Haslett
met her at Northcote, the artist's; she was talking of her favourite,
Dr. Goldsmith, with recollection and affection, unabated by age.

"I could almost fancy the shade of Goldsmith in the room," adds
Haslett, "looking round with complacency."

Let us make place now for the most lovely of all Sir Joshua's lovely
creations--and the woman in the flesh was quite as beautiful. Her
beauty got her a royal husband, hers legally with all sanction of
Church, but not of State. Ah! there was the sore place. It was, in
fact, her beguiling of the Duke from the right path of royalty that
induced the famous Marriage Act of 1772. The Duke of Cumberland, third
brother to George III., was little more than an overgrown school-boy;
his manners, Wraxall says, made his faculties, which were limited
enough, appear even meaner. He was immensely attracted by Lady Anne
Horton, recently a widow, and daughter to Colonel Simon Luttrell, of
famous, or rather infamous memory; an Irishman of wild, roistering
habit, who had been put forward to fight Wilkes, and so made Lord
Carhampton.

Anne Horton is described as having bewitching, languishing eyes,
which she could animate to enchantment if she pleased. Her coquetry
was so active, so varied, and yet so habitual, that it was difficult
not to see through it, and yet as difficult to resist. She danced
divinely, sang charmingly, and was by no means deficient in talent.
Like all the members of her family, who were cunning and specious,
she laid her snares for the weak prince so adroitly that he fell in
with all her plans; and, her marriage being duly witnessed, she had
none of the heart-burnings and uncertainty which poisoned the life of
Lady Waldegrave, who had married the Duke of Gloucester, but had left
matters very much to his honour. Both ladies, to say the truth, had a
troublous time. It was hardly worth the fuss and the turmoil, the ups
and the downs, the humiliations and the slights inflicted upon them by
the Royal pair, and their subservient Court.

[Illustration: ANN, DUCHESS OF CUMBERLAND.

(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]

Here we have another group of sisters--Irish too--the Miss Montgomerys,
daughters to Sir William Montgomery. They are painted by Sir Joshua as
twining wreaths round a statue of Hymen, a pretty allegory, for the
three girls were standing hand in hand on the threshold of Hymen, one
of them being engaged to Mr. Gardiner, afterwards Lord Blessington; the
other to the Honourable J. Beresford; the third and handsomest to the
Marquis of Townshend, then Viceroy of Ireland. The Marquis, who was
son to the odd Lady Audrey, who figures in Walpole and Selwyn, was a
frank and fearless soldier, having fought at Dettingen and Fontenoy.
His fancy had been taken by Miss Montgomery, whom he had seen some two
years before performing in a Masque of Comus at Marlay, the residence
of Mr. Latouche. He had then prophesied she would be a lovely woman,
and felt bound to set the seal of his approval upon the fair creation.
Mrs. Delaney says that the women did not admire Lady Townshend, which,
no doubt, is a proof that she attracted the admiration of the worthier
sex. In Sir Joshua's picture she fills the canvas--her attitude is
commanding, her smile bewitching. Her sisters are of a less majestic
type.

What a lovely creature have we here--Elizabeth Linley, whose talents
and mental endowments were something surprising, joined as they were
to a beauty which seems to have captivated every soul who came near
her; indeed, we have only to look at her portraits by Sir Joshua and
Gainsborough, both evidently stimulated by love of their subject, to
gather an idea of the spell she worked. The expression of the faultless
face is so divinely sweet, there is such a mixture of archness and
intelligence in the wondrous eyes, that we can make a guess at what
the impression must have been when life animated the lovely picture.
So, too, it was with her singing; she was possessed of the double power
of delighting an audience equally in pathetic strains and songs of
brilliant execution, a combination allowed to few vocalists.

[Illustration: MRS. BERESFORD.

LADY TOWNSHEND.

(THE MISS MONTGOMEREYS.)

(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)

MRS. GARDINER.]

The life of this gifted being was a troubled one. It began in a
romance, which added to her interest in the eyes of the public. The
Linleys were all musicians; her father, Dr. Linley, was a teacher of
great eminence, living at Bath. When the Sheridans came to reside
there, the two brothers fell at once in love with the siren Elizabeth,
who had already more lovers than she knew how to manage. She preferred,
however, Richard Sheridan, and eloped with him to France, to avoid
an importunate lover, Captain Matthews. On their arriving in France,
the astute Richard worked on his companion's feelings and persuaded
her to be married to him at Lille by a clergyman who performed these
irregular marriages. The bride at once retired to a convent, where she
remained until her father came to fetch her. Of late this version of
the incident has been denied, and it is said there was no marriage;
anyhow, the father, daughter, and Sheridan returned to London. Richard
fought two duels with Captain Matthews, and finally the course of true
love ran smooth, and he and Elizabeth were publicly wedded, with all
pomp and ceremony, in April, 1773. From the first the public took the
young pair under its protection; they made friends everywhere. It was
in truth an ideal union of beauty and talent. Mrs. Sheridan's lovely
voice would have ensured them a good income; but her husband would
not allow her to sing in public. This resolution on his part earned
him the hearty commendation of Johnson:--"He has acted wisely and
nobly. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing
publicly for hire? No, sir, there can be no doubt here." _Autre temps,
autres moeurs_--a gentleman does not now disdain to live by his wife's
earnings!

Meantime, admirers crowded round the beautiful Mrs. Sheridan. Sir
Joshua's portrait of her as "St. Cecilia" was exhibited in the Academy
of 1775. Most simple and beautiful, was the praise of the carping
critic, Horace Walpole. Even the excellent and most virtuous King took
notice of the young beauty, and it was said ogled her when she sang in
oratorios.

The struggle in which Sheridan was more or less engaged during his
whole life had begun. A brilliant, erratic genius, such as was the
author of the "Rivals," is not a safe guard of domestic happiness; but,
after all is said and done, Sheridan was not so much to blame, and
even his worst enemy cannot deny that he had a warm heart.

Moore tells us that, with all her beauty and talent, Mrs. Sheridan
was not happy, nor did she escape the censure of the world; but that
Sheridan was ever unmindful of her, Moore declares to be untrue. On
the contrary, he says he followed her with a lover's eye throughout.
Her letters to him would certainly give the reader the idea that she
was on the best terms with her husband. They are delightful, fresh,
and natural, and perfectly frank.... This gifted woman died early. She
was only thirty-one when consumption laid its fatal hand upon her....
During her last illness Sheridan was devoted to her. His grief and his
remorse for any shortcomings in his married life are most touching!
Miss Le-Fanu, writing an account of the last days to Miss Sheridan,
says: "Your brother behaved most wonderfully, although his heart was
breaking, and at times his feelings were so violent that I feared he
would be quite ungovernable at the last. Yet he summoned up courage
to kneel by the bedside till he felt the last pulse of expiring
excellence." And Mr. Moore tells us that, some weeks after his wife's
death, "a friend, happening to sleep in the room next his, could hear
him sobbing through the greater part of the night." But soon after he
fell in love with Pamela, and married a Miss Ogle in two years.

[Illustration: MISS LINLEY.

(_From the Picture by Gainsborough._)]

And now we come to the most beautiful woman of her time, Isabella,
Duchess of Rutland. Looking at her picture by Sir Joshua, we cannot
but be struck by the infinite grace of the attitude, the queenly
dignity mixed with womanly sweetness. The Duchess was in fact eminently
womanly, although acknowledged to be a queen of beauty. No word
of scandal touched her name; and this in an age of Sneerwells and
Backbites.

In _The European Magazine_ of 1782 there is this curious testimony to
her Grace's devotion to her lord:--"Annexed to the respective names are
the amusements which the following women of fashion principally delight
in:--

  Lady Spencer, riding.
  Lady Salisbury, dancing.
  Lady Craven, acting.
  Lady Pembroke, Viol de Gambe.
  Mrs. Damer, platonics.
  Mrs. Greville, poetry.
  Duchess of Devonshire, admiration.
  Lady Weymouth, mankind.
  Lady Huntingdon, The Tabernacle.
  Lady South, the last word.
  The Duchess of Rutland, her husband."

In 1782 the Duchess accompanied the Duke to Ireland, where he filled
the post of Lord Lieutenant. She was well fitted to win the hearts of
the Irish people, who were then, as now, easily impressed by beauty.
The magnificence of the little Court had never been equalled, while at
the same time decorum and a certain order were preserved, which had
not always been the case. Under Lords Chesterfield and Townshead, Mrs.
Deans talks of the guests carrying the dishes off the supper tables,
and in Lady Hardwicke's time there it was that the romping bouts and
the famous Cutchacutchoo prevailed, but no wicked tales are told of
our Duchess's Viceroyalty. Once only did she descend from her pedestal
of dignity: it might be that the breath of frolic was too strongly in
the air for even a Saxon nature to resist. Anyhow she _did_ repair to
the Irish Ranelagh Gardens to see the fun, disguised in the dress of
one of her own waiting-women She was of course recognised, and mobbed.

On another occasion, her jealousy was excited by hearing the Duke say
he had accidentally seen the loveliest woman he had ever beheld. She
never rested until she found out the residence of this Mrs. Dillon, and
forced her way into her presence, when a glance told her she was both
beautiful and virtuous. Ashamed of her suspicions, she frankly told
what had brought her, and warmly invited the other to return the visit.
This, however, Mrs. Dillon had the good sense and dignity to decline.

In Mr. Gilbert's interesting history of Dublin, he mentions that the
body of the Duke was waked (according to the Irish custom) in the House
of Lords for three nights. The coffin was then carried by bearers to
Christ Church Cathedral, where it lay in State. The Duchess returned to
England, and never married again.

[Illustration: ISABELLA, DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

(_From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds._)]




_Three Birds on a Stile._

BY B. L. FARJEON.


A learned bishop has declared that the night before men and women are
married should be spent in solitude, and devoted to prayer, repentance,
and meditation; but a bishop may be very learned, and yet deficient
in common sense. Miss Adelaide Dorr, who was to be married to-morrow
to Mr. Arthur Gooch, had several sisters, two brothers, and the usual
number of parents. With all these around her, popping in and out,
asking questions, making remarks, laughing, crying, teasing, and
kissing, and trying on things, you may imagine the state she was in.
Arthur had put in an appearance, but he had gone away early, he had so
much to do to complete his arrangements for to-morrow. There was, of
course, a tender leave-taking in the passage, from which Adelaide came
in rather quieter than usual, but she was not allowed to be quiet long.
The entire house was in a flutter of excitement, and had the charming
girl expressed a desire for solitude, for the purpose of following the
learned bishop's advice, it would instantly have been feared that the
prospect of approaching bliss had turned her head. She had no wish
for solitude, and as to her having anything to repent, the idea was
monstrous and absurd. There is little doubt that before she fell asleep
on this important night in her young life she would breathe a prayer,
but it would not be exactly such a prayer as the bishop had in view.
And it is true she thought a great deal of Arthur; indeed, she thought
of little else--a statement, perhaps, which my female readers will
dispute when they take into consideration the wedding dress and the
trousseau. All I can advance in proof of my assertion is that Adelaide
was very much in love, and that there are circumstances--rare, I
grant--in which dress does not occupy the first place in a woman's mind.

Neither did Arthur Gooch, who was as much in love as Adelaide, spend
the last night of his bachelor existence in solitude and repentance.
When he left Adelaide, he jumped into a hansom, and was driven to his
chambers, where he expected to find a letter of pressing importance.
He was not a man of fortune; he had good prospects, which were almost
certain of realisation, and he had a little investment or two which
paid him fair interest, and which could not, without loss, be turned
immediately into cash. Now, the expenses of the coming wedding, and the
furnishing and decoration of a house he had taken on lease, had made
more serious inroads on his bank balance than he expected. Calculating
the expenses of the honeymoon trip on the Continent, he found that he
would run short of money, and in this dilemma he applied to a friend,
Jack Stevens by name, for a loan of seventy-five pounds, which, with
seventy-five of his own, which he had by him, would carry him and his
pretty bride comfortably through. It was Jack Stevens' answer to his
letter asking for the loan that he was expecting as he rode to his
chambers with the image of Adelaide in his mind. What a dear girl she
was! Was there ever such another? Was he not the happiest man in the
world? And so on, and so on. Who is not familiar with a true lover's
rhapsodies? Arthur was the sort of man who would have rivalled Orlando,
had the positions been similar. He would have carved Adelaide's name on
every tree.

Running up to his rooms, which were at the top of the house, he found
half a dozen letters in his letter box, and among them one from his
friend. It may be mentioned that Jack Stevens would have been his
best man, had it not been that his presence was imperatively demanded
in another part of the country on the day of the wedding. It was
provoking, but it could not be helped.

"Dear Arthur," said Jack Stevens in his letter, "certainly you can have
the money, and more if you want it. As time is so short, I do not care
risking it through the post, and a crossed cheque might not suit you.
I have to catch an early train in the morning for Manchester, as you
know, but I shall be at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' between eleven
and twelve o'clock to-night. I saw a card for the crush stuck in your
looking glass. Look me up there, and I will hand you the notes. I am
awfully sorry to give you the trouble, but I can't come to you, and I
am anxious to be certain that you are properly furnished before you
and your bride start for Paradise. Always yours, dear boy, JACK."

Lady Weston White was not one of Arthur's intimate friends, but he was
on her list, and he generally received cards from her three or four
times in the course of the year. He had not intended to go to her house
in Grosvenor-street on this occasion, but Jack's letter settled it,
and he got out his swallow-tail. The money he must have, and there was
no other way of getting it. There were letters to write, and a lot of
things to be attended to which he calculated would keep him up till one
o'clock in the morning. Well, he would have to stop up another hour
or so, that was all. At half-past eleven he was in Grosvenor-street,
engulfed in one of those London crowds of ladies and gentlemen which
contribute to the success of a London season. The beautiful house was
literally packed; to ascend a staircase was a work of several minutes,
and to find his friend Jack in such a vast assemblage a matter of
considerable difficulty. It was a notable gathering; the _élite_ of
society were present, distinguished men and fair women, and Arthur,
as he squeezed his way along, thought he had never seen so wonderful
a profusion of diamonds and lovely dresses. The ladies seemed to vie
with each other in the display of jewels. They glittered in the hair,
round the necks, in the ears, on the arms and bosoms, on shoes, and
fans, and ravishing gowns; and Arthur observed that a new fashion was
coming into vogue, diamond buttons on ladies' gloves. "If any of the
light-fingered fraternity were here," thought Arthur, "they could
gather a fine harvest." And said aloud, "Allow me." A lady had dropped
her fan, and Arthur managed to rescue it from the crush of feet. It
sparkled with diamonds. At length Arthur reached the hostess, who held
out two fingers to him.

[Illustration: "ALWAYS YOURS--JACK."]

Lady Weston White was a woman of great penetration, and, as became a
society leader, of perfect self-possession. She never forgot a face
or a circumstance, and, busy as she was at present in the performance
of her arduous duties, she remembered that Arthur Gooch was to be
married within a few hours; she remembered, also, that to her R. S.
V. P. she had received a line from him regretting he could not accept
her kind invitation. She said nothing, however, but gave him rather a
questioning look as he passed on to allow other guests behind him to
pay their respects to their hostess. The look puzzled him somewhat; it
seemed to ask, "What brings you here?" He had quite forgotten that he
had declined her invitation. At length, after much polite squeezing
and hustling, after dropping his handkerchief and picking it up again,
to the annoyance of some neighbours who had become fixtures and could
scarcely move for the crush, he saw Jack Stevens in the distance. They
were both tall men, and communication being established between them
they made simultaneous efforts to get to each other. This accomplished,
Arthur hooked Jack's arm, and said:

"Let us get out of this as quick as we can."

It happened that Lady Weston White was close enough to hear the words,
of which fact Arthur was oblivious, but as they moved on he turned in
her direction, and caught another strange look from her. "What on earth
does she look at me in that manner for?" he thought. "One might suppose
I came without an invitation." He and Jack got their hats and coats,
and going from the house, stopped at the corner of a street a few yards
off.

"I haven't a moment to spare, Arthur," said Jack, "nor have you, I
should imagine. I had almost given you up; it is a mercy we met each
other in that crowd." He took out his pocket-book. "I would walk home
with you, old fellow, if I had time; you must take the will for the
deed."

"All right, old man," said Arthur; "it was very good of you to take
all this trouble for me. I don't know how it was I miscalculated my
finances so stupidly."

"Oh, these accidents happen to all of us. Feel nervous about
to-morrow?"

"It makes me rather serious, you know."

"Of course. Wish I could be there. Now, no nonsense, Arthur. Will
seventy-five be enough? Isn't it cutting it rather close? Don't spoil
the honeymoon for a ha'porth of tar. You can have a couple of hundred
if you like. I've got it by me."

"Well, make it a hundred," said Arthur. "It will be safer perhaps.
Adelaide might take a fancy to a new bonnet."

"Or to some chocolate creams, or to the moon and stars," said Jack,
with a good-humoured smile, "and you'd get them for her. Say a hundred
and fifty."

"All right. A hundred and fifty."

Jack Stevens, shaded by his friend's tall form--for several persons
passed them as they were talking--counted out thirty five-pound Bank of
England notes, and slipped them into Arthur's hand.

"Thank you, Jack."

"Not necessary. Good night, old fellow, and good luck to you. Kiss the
pretty bride for me, and give her my love."

"I will, old man."

A few minutes afterwards Arthur Gooch was in his chambers, "clearing
up," as he called it. He wanted to leave things as orderly as he
could, and in the accomplishment of this laudable design there was a
great deal to do. All the time he was writing and tearing up papers
and burning them, and packing bags and portmanteau, he was thinking of
Adelaide.

"Dear little woman! I wonder if she is asleep. She hasn't left things
to the last as I have done. Altogether too tidy for that. While I am
fussing about in this musty room--what a cosy nest we shall come home
to after the honeymoon!--there she lies, with a smile on her pretty
mouth, dreaming of me. Your health, my darling!"

[Illustration: "LET US GET OUT OF THIS AS QUICK AS WE CAN."]

He had opened a bottle of champagne, of which he had already drunk a
glass, and now he poured out another, and as he held it up to the light
he saw Adelaide's bright eyes amid the sparkling bubbles.

"Your health, my darling, and God bless you!"

He drained the glass, and set it down.

It was really a love match, of which there are more in this prosaic
world than cynics will admit. These young people were all the world to
each other, and if anything had occurred to prevent the wedding coming
off their hearts would have been broken.

Arthur set the glass upon the table with a tender light in his eyes,
and as he did so he heard a ring at the street door below. As has been
stated, his chambers were at the top of the house, but everything was
very quiet, and that is why he heard the bell so plainly. The window of
the room in which he was working looked out upon the street. He took
no notice of the ringing, and proceeded dreamily with his packing.
The wine he had drunk intensified his sentimental mood, and he paused
many times to gaze upon the portrait of his darling which stood in the
centre of the mantelpiece. It was a speaking likeness of the beautiful
face; the eyes seemed to look at him with looks of love; the lovely
lips seemed to say, "I love you, I love you." And Arthur pressed his
lips to the sweet face, and murmured in response, "I love you, I love
you! With all my heart and soul, I love you, and will be true to you."

Suddenly it occurred to him that the street door bell continued to
ring. The sound jarred upon his ears. Throwing up his window he leaned
forward, and at the top of his voice inquired who it was that continued
to ring so pertinaciously.

"I have come to see Mr. Arthur Gooch," was the answer.

"To see me?" he cried in wonder.

"Yes, you, if you are Mr. Gooch."

"What for?"

"On most particular business."

[Illustration: "YOUR HEALTH, MY DARLING!"]

Wondering more and more, the young man ran down the stairs and opened
the street door. In the dim light he saw the figure of a gentleman with
whose face he was not familiar.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

"It will be best for us to speak privately," replied the stranger. "It
is a most delicate matter."

"A most delicate matter!" stammered Arthur.

"A most delicate matter!" repeated the stranger in a grave tone.

The young man did not reflect upon the imprudence of asking a stranger
up to his rooms at such an hour of the night. With the exception of
the housekeeper, who occupied the basement, and who had been heard to
declare that nothing less than an earthquake would wake her, once she
was asleep, Arthur Gooch was the only night resident in the house.
All the chambers, with the exception of his, were let as offices, and
were tenanted only during the day. It is scarcely probable, however,
if Arthur had given the matter a thought, that he would have acted
differently. Here was a stranger paying him a visit, at an untimely
hour it was true, but upon a delicate matter, which had best be
disclosed in private. Arthur was a man of muscle, and stood six feet
and half an inch in his stocking feet. The man who had intruded himself
upon him was about five feet eight, a weed of a man in comparison with
him. There was, moreover, no lack of physical courage in Arthur--a
quality, it may be remarked, very different indeed from moral courage,
in which respect a pigmy may be superior to a giant.

"Come up," said Arthur, and the two men ascended the stairs. "Now," he
said, when they were together in his room, with the door closed, "you
see that I am very busy. Explain your errand as briefly as possible.
What is this delicate matter you speak of? I have not the pleasure of
your acquaintance. Oh," he said, looking at a card presented by his
visitor, "Mr. P. Foreman. Your name is as strange to me as your face.
Who are you? What are you?"

"I am a private detective," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"A private detective!" cried Arthur, with an ominous frown. "And what
business can you have with me at this hour of the night? I've a mind to
pitch you out of window."

"Don't try it," said Mr. P. Foreman. "I should be bound to resist, and
my shouts would be certain to bring someone to my assistance. As to my
business, it is, as I have informed you, of a delicate nature."

"Speak in plain English if you have any regard for yourself."

"It is a very simple affair," said Mr. P. Foreman, "and it rests with
you whether I shall take my leave of you with an apology, or adopt
other measures. You were at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' a couple of
hours ago."

"I was. What of it?"

"I am employed by her ladyship," proceeded Mr. P. Foreman. "She has
given other 'At Homes' this season."

[Illustration: "DON'T TRY IT."]

"She has, and I have been present at them."

"So I understand. Very serious things have occurred at those parties of
her ladyship's at which you were present. Some of her guests have made
complaints to her, and it is only at great expense and trouble that
these complaints, and their very serious nature, have been kept out of
the society papers."

"What has all this rhodomontade to do with me?" demanded Arthur,
impatiently.

"I am about to tell you. Valuable diamonds have been lost at her
ladyship's 'At Homes,' and have not been recovered. Her ladyship is
naturally anxious to put a stop to this, and to bring the--" (Mr. P.
Foreman hesitated, and chose another word than the one he intended to
use)--"the offenders to justice."

"Quite proper," said Arthur. "Go on, and cut it short."

"The display to-night was brilliant, and knowing that it would be so
her ladyship employed me and one or two others to keep watch upon
suspicious persons. As you see"--he unbuttoned his light overcoat--"I
am in evening dress. I was supposed to be present as a guest, but I
was really there in my professional capacity, keeping my eyes open.
Had it been regular pickpockets whom her ladyship suspected I should
have found it an easy job, as I know most of them, but it was not. She
suspected certain gentlemen upon her list, to whom she was in the habit
of sending cards."

Mr. P. Foreman spoke in a significant tone, and there was no mistaking
his meaning. Arthur laughed.

"Does her ladyship do me the honour to suspect me?"

"I am not at liberty to say; my orders are to speak not one word that
might compromise her ladyship."

"A very prudent instruction. Well?"

"Certain articles of jewellery have been lost to-night in her
ladyship's house. A crescent diamond brooch, another with the device
of three birds on a stile, and a pin of brilliants with a pearl in the
centre. There may be other articles missing, but we have not heard
of them. Of the three ornaments I have mentioned the one most easily
traced is the three-birds-on-a-stile brooch. The birds are perched
upon a stile of gold; one is set with sapphires, one with brilliants,
and one with rubies. I remarked to her ladyship that it was a pretty
device. She is quite determined to make the matter public, and to bring
the--the offenders to justice without an hour's delay, if we are
fortunate enough to track them down."

"I infer," said Arthur, glaring at his visitor, "from the very guarded
answer you gave to a question I put to you that her ladyship really
does suspect me. I am greatly obliged to her ladyship." He recalled
the strange looks which Lady Weston White had given him, and believed
that he could now interpret them. He strode to the door and threw it
open. "If you have any regard for your bones, you will now take your
departure. I give you just one minute."

"If you send me away unsatisfied," said Mr. P. Foreman, composedly,
"I shall, in accordance with instructions received, have you arrested
the first thing in the morning, and brought before a magistrate on a
distinct charge."

Arthur's heart seemed suddenly to cease beating. There was no mistaking
that the man was in deadly earnest, and would carry out his threat.
What! To be arrested on the very morning of his wedding! True, the
charge was false and monstrous, but it would take time to prove it so,
and meanwhile--

[Illustration: "GO ON AND CUT IT SHORT."]

Yes, meanwhile, there was Adelaide in her bridal dress waiting for her
bridegroom. Indignant as he was he could not but inwardly acknowledge
that his best course would be to hush up the affair if possible--not
for his own sake, but for Adelaide's. The shock to her feelings would
be too great; she might never recover from it, and the happiness of
her life might be for ever destroyed. Mr. P. Foreman, standing rather
timidly near the open door, kept his eyes fixed upon Arthur's face. He
shrank back as Arthur approached him.

"I am not going to hurt you," said the young man. "Come in and shut the
door." Mr. P. Foreman obeyed. "You said at the commencement of this
interview that it rested with me whether you would take leave of me
with an apology, or adopt other measures. By other measures you meant
my arrest." Mr. P. Foreman nodded. "But how do you propose to arrive at
the apology?"

"It is entirely in your hands," replied Mr. P. Foreman. "You have
only to prove your innocence, and I apologise. Her ladyship trusts
everything to me, and will be guided entirely by the report I present
to her."

"I have only to prove my innocence!" exclaimed Arthur. "But how can
that be done if you will not take my word for it? I swear to you that I
am innocent, and I declare this to be a foul and monstrous charge, for
which, if I am put to any inconvenience or annoyance, I will make her
ladyship and all concerned in it suffer. Now are you satisfied?"

"That is not what I meant," said Mr. P. Foreman, quietly. "What I
require is _proof_ of your innocence. I cannot take your word. Any
other gentleman would say as much."

Arthur could not help admitting that this was true. "Again I ask you,"
he cried, "how can I prove my innocence, except by my word?"

"It is very easily done. You have not changed your clothes. You have on
your dress trousers and waistcoat; your dress coat hangs upon the back
of that chair. If none of the missing articles are in the pockets I
will offer you the completest apology in my power, and shall sincerely
regret that I have caused you so much uneasiness."

[Illustration: "HE SHRANK BACK AS ARTHUR APPROACHED."]

Mr. P. Foreman was a private detective, but he certainly spoke like
a gentleman. Throughout the interview he had conducted himself with
moderation; there was even a sadness in his manner which, now that so
reasonable a course was suggested, impressed itself upon Arthur.

"I am quite willing," he said, "to do what you ask, though I dispute
your right, mind."

"I understand that," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"It is only," continued Arthur, "because I am to be married in the
morning, and wish to spare a young lady's feelings, that I submit."

There was a deeper sadness in Mr. P. Foreman's voice as he observed,
"To be married in the morning! I must be mistaken." He took a step
towards the door.

"No, you don't go now," exclaimed Arthur. "I insist upon your stopping,
and being completely satisfied. There's my coat. Search the pockets."

But Mr. P. Foreman would not touch the garment. "If you insist," he
said, "you must go through the formality yourself. I should be ashamed
to have a hand in it."

"You are a good fellow, after all," said Arthur, with a great sigh of
relief. Will you have a glass of champagne?"

"Thank you," said Mr. P. Foreman. Arthur filled two glasses. "Your
health," he said.

"Your health," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Allow me to wish you joy and
happiness."

"Now you shall see," said Arthur, in a gay tone. "Come a little nearer;
I might be a master of legerdemain."

A melancholy smile crossed Mr. P. Foreman's mouth, and he stood,
apparently unconcerned, while Arthur turned out the pockets of his
waistcoat and trousers.

"Nothing there," he said.

"Nothing there," said Mr. P. Foreman, and again moved towards the door.

"Stop a moment," said Arthur, "there is my coat."

He turned out the pockets upon the table; from the breast pocket he
produced the bank notes he had received from his friend, Jack Stevens;
from the tail pockets a handkerchief and gloves. Nothing more. He
laughed aloud, and lifted the handkerchief from the table. The laugh
was frozen in his throat. As he lifted the handkerchief there fell from
it a jewelled brooch, the device a stile of gold, with three birds
perched thereon, one of sapphires, one of rubies, one of brilliants.

"My God!" he gasped, and sank into a chair.

Mr. P. Foreman did not break the silence that ensued. With sad eyes he
gazed upon the crushing evidence of guilt. At length Arthur found his
voice.

"You do not, you cannot," he cried in an agonised tone, "believe me
guilty!"

Mr. P. Foreman uttered no word. Arthur's face was like the face of
death. A vision of his ruined life rose before him, and in that vision
the image of his fair young bride, stricken with despair.

"What am I to do?" moaned the unhappy man. "What am I to do? As I hope
for mercy in heaven, I swear that I am innocent!"

Mr. P. Foreman in silence pointed to the brooch on the table. It was an
eloquent sign, but he seemed to sympathise with the hapless man before
him. Arthur rose to his feet, trembling in every limb.

"Have mercy upon me!" he murmured, stretching forth his hands. "Before
God I am innocent!"

"I am sorry for the young lady," said Mr. P. Foreman, "deeply, deeply
sorry. I have a daughter of my own, whom I hope one day to see happily
married. But she is in delicate health."

[Illustration: "HE GASPED, AND SANK INTO A CHAIR."]

There was a plaintiveness in his voice, and Arthur, overwhelmed as
he was, caught at the despairing hope which presented itself to his
distracted mind. He and the man who held his fate in his hands were
alone; there were no witnesses, and not a sound reached them from house
or street.

"Save me!" implored Arthur. "As you hope for your daughter's happiness,
save an innocent man--save an innocent girl from despair and death!"

Mr. P. Foreman put his hands before his eyes. "My duty!" he murmured.

"You owe a duty elsewhere," said Arthur, in a rapid, feverish voice.
"The lady who has employed you trusts you implicitly, and will receive
your report without question."

"I do not grasp your meaning," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"Your daughter is in delicate health, you say," continued Arthur. "You
hope to see her one day happily married. You are not rich?"

"I am very poor," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Do you think I would otherwise
follow this miserable occupation? Fortune has been against me all my
life."

"It smiles upon you now," pursued Arthur, desperately; "it offers you a
chance. You speak like a gentleman; you have a soul above your station.
See here. There are a hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes. Take
them; they are yours--and keep my secret, guiltless as I am. You are
not a young man; you have had experience of the world; you must know
the voice of innocence when you hear it. Could a guilty man plead as I
am pleading? By all your hopes of happiness, save me! No one is near;
no one knows but you and I. It is so easy, so easy!--and I shall bless
you all my life!"

"You tempt me sorely," said Mr. P. Foreman. "My daughter is ordered
abroad for her health, and I have no means to take her."

"You have means here, at your hand. Take the money--it is yours; I
give it to you freely. No one will be the wiser, and you will be an
instrument in the hands of Providence to save two innocent lives!"

"Let me think a moment," said Mr. P. Foreman, and he turned his head.
Arthur awaited his decision in an agony of despair. Presently he spoke
again. "I will express no opinion of your guilt or innocence, but you
have offered what I cannot resist. I will take the money, and will
keep your secret, for the sake of the lady you are about to marry, for
the sake of my poor daughter. It may be the means of restoring her to
health. As for this brooch----"

"Take it," cried Arthur, impetuously, "and do what you will with it. It
is one of my conditions. Heaven bless you--Heaven bless you!"

"We are accomplices in a transaction that must not be spoken of," said
Mr. P. Foreman, who had put the money and the brooch into his pocket.
"I pity and despise you, as I pity and despise myself."

He did not wish Arthur good night; seemingly ashamed of the bargain
they had made, he went downstairs, accompanied by Arthur, who closed
the street door upon him.

Dazed and bewildered, the young man returned to his room, and with
great throbbings of his breast at the mysterious danger he had escaped,
completed his preparations for the wedding and the honeymoon. Before he
threw himself upon his bed in the vain attempt to seek oblivion for an
hour or two, he wrote a letter to his friend Jack Stevens, saying he
had unfortunately lost the money that had been lent to him, and begging
for another loan, which was to be forwarded to a hotel in Paris where
he intended to stop with his young wife for a few days.

[Illustration: "TAKE THE MONEY--IT IS YOURS!"]

There is no need to describe the wedding. Everything passed off well,
and everybody in church declared they had never seen a lovelier bride;
but they observed, at the same time, that the bridegroom appeared far
from happy, and one of the spectators remarked that he looked several
times over his shoulder, with the air of a man who feared that a ghost
was standing behind him. His own people and his new relatives, being
in a state of excitement, did not take the same view of it; they said
he was nervous, which was quite natural on such an occasion. Adelaide
was tremblingly happy, and she and her lover-husband departed on their
honeymoon amid the usual showers of rice and hurling of old slippers.
In Paris, Arthur received from Jack Stevens a draft for another hundred
and fifty pounds; but in the letter which accompanied the welcome draft
Jack said he could not understand how Arthur had managed to lose the
money. "I saw you," wrote Jack, "put the money in the side pocket of
your dress coat, and button your overcoat over it. How could you have
lost it? Did you have an adventure, and are you keeping it from me?
Make a clean breast of it, old fellow. I should like to know. And if
there is anything I can do for you while you are away, do not fail
to call upon me. I am in London for good, and am entirely at your
service." Arthur pondered over this letter, and pondered deeply, also,
over the events which had occurred on the night before the wedding;
and the more he pondered the more he was dissatisfied. Once his young
wife, who had noticed that something was weighing on her hero's
spirits, said to him:

"Arthur, dear, are you happy?"

"Very happy, darling."

"But quite happy, Arthur?"

"Yes, darling, quite happy. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know--only you seem so melancholy sometimes."

"All your fancy, darling."

"I suppose so, Arthur, dear."

But the young bride was not satisfied for all that. She was sure that
her hero was keeping something disagreeable from her. However, like a
sensible little woman, she did not worry him; no bride could expect
greater attention and devotion than he showed towards her, and she
lectured herself, and said that she could not expect to know everything
about her husband all at once. "I shall have to study him," she said,
"and when I know him thoroughly I will make him perfectly, perfectly
happy."

On the eighth day of the honeymoon something curious happened. They had
travelled from Paris to Geneva, and they put up at the Grand Hôtel de
la Paix. The first time they dined in the hotel, Arthur, looking up,
saw exactly opposite to him the forms of Mr. P. Foreman and a lady. He
turned red and white, and his heart beat furiously. There appeared,
however, to be no cause for apprehension; Mr. P. Foreman looked him
straight in the face, and evinced no sign of recognition. Perceiving
this, Arthur took courage, and glanced at the lady. Again he turned red
and white. On the bosom of the lady's dress was affixed a beautiful
brooch--a stile of gold, with its three little birds of rubies,
sapphires, and brilliants.

"Did you think the lady opposite to us was very pretty, Arthur?" asked
Adelaide, as she and her husband stood close together after dinner,
looking into the clear waters of the lake.

"I did not take particular notice, dear," replied Arthur, awkwardly.

"Oh, Arthur! I saw your eyes fixed upon her."

Arthur did not dare confess that it was the brooch he was staring at,
and not at the lady, so he diverted Adelaide's thoughts by means of
those tender secret caresses which render young brides supremely happy.
But he thought very seriously, nevertheless. The lady who accompanied
Mr. P. Foreman seemed to be in perfect health, and she was not young
enough to be his daughter, by a good many years. The dreadful position
in which he had stood upon the occasion of Mr. P. Foreman's nocturnal
visit to his chambers weighed terribly upon him. He knew himself to be
innocent; but the brooch which his accuser had now appropriated was
found in his pocket; he had taken it out himself. How had it got there?
That was the mystery that was perplexing him, and he felt that he could
not be at peace with himself until it was solved. That night he wrote
to Jack Stevens, and made a full confession of how he had lost the
money, and in his letter he gave a very faithful description of Mr. P.
Foreman.

"If you can clear up the mystery," he said in his letter, "for Heaven's
sake do so. I do not advise you to go to Lady Weston White to make
inquiries, for that might result in attracting attention which, as
things stand, I wish to avoid; but do what you can for me, and act as
you think best, for the sake of your old and unhappy friend, Arthur."
He directed Jack to reply to him at the Hôtel Victoria, Interlaken,
where he proposed to take Adelaide after a stay in Geneva. He made his
visit to this beautiful city shorter than he intended, so anxious was
he to receive Jack's reply. It was not there when he arrived, but on
the following mid-day it was delivered to him.

"My dear Arthur," (Jack wrote), "my dear simple friend, my timid
love-stricken swain, your letter astonished me, and in your interests
I set to work at once. I have a friend who is a real detective--a real
one, mark you--and when I entrusted him with your precious secret, and
read to him the careful description you have given of your saviour, Mr.
P. Foreman, he first looked at me in blank amazement, and then burst
into a fit of laughter. 'By Jove!' he cried, when he got over his fit,
'that is my friend Purdy. He's been at his tricks again.' 'Who is your
friend Purdy,' I inquired, 'and what are the particular tricks you
refer to?' He did not favour me with an answer, but stipulated that I
should pay an immediate visit to Lady Weston White, and ask whether
the jewels lost in her house on the night before your wedding had been
recovered. I did as he bade me, and learned from her ladyship--what
do you think? Why, that there were no jewels lost in her house, and
never had been, to her knowledge. I did not enlighten her, old fellow,
having some regard for your reputation for shrewdness. I went straight
from her to my friend the real detective. Learn from me, O wise young
bridegroom, that Mr. P. Foreman, _alias_ Purdy, is no more a detective
than I am, that he must have slipped the brooch (all false stones,
my boy) himself into your pocket, having previously ascertained that
you were to be married in a few hours, and that he practised upon you
a rather clever trick which he has practised successfully upon other
victims as simple as yourself. Now I come to think of it, I shouldn't
wonder if he was one of the men who passed us when I gave you the
thirty five-pound notes at the corner of the street. My friend the
real detective tells me that Purdy is one of the best actors he has
ever seen, and that his skill would beat the devil himself. Let us
hope he will soon have the chance of trying it on with his Satanic
majesty. Anyways, he is enjoying himself on the Continent with your
money and mine, and, as he has cast a cloud over the first fortnight
or so of your honeymoon, I should recommend you to lengthen it by just
as many days of happiness as he has robbed you of. And here is another
recommendation, my dear, simple, old fellow. Tell your little wife all
about it, and tell her at the same time that I have given an order for
a brooch, of which I shall beg her acceptance, with the very original
design of a gold stile and three little birds perched atop of it. Give
her my love, and accept the same from yours ever and ever."

[Illustration: "BY JOVE!" HE CRIED, "THAT IS MY FRIEND PURDY."]

Arthur danced about the room when he read this comforting letter.
Adelaide looked up from a novel in which she had been absorbed.

"Why, whatever is the matter with you," she cried, "you dear old goose?"

"Never mind the dear old goose," said Arthur. "Let us have a waltz
round the room, you dear young darling!"

A waltz they had, and they made some glasses on the table jingle so
that a chambermaid knocked at the door, and asked whether her services
were required.

"Not at all," replied Arthur, in very indifferent German. "I am only
giving madame a lesson."

At the end of which lesson Arthur related to his bride what it was
that had been disturbing him. How she pitied him! The tears ran down
her pretty face as she took his between her little hands, and gave him
kisses which he returned with interest. Of that you may be sure.

"Oh, Arthur," said Adelaide, with the fondest of looks, "I am glad I
married you; because, you know, you do want someone to look after you."

As for the rest of the honeymoon, I leave you to imagine it. All I will
say is, that I wish no newly married young couple a happier.

[Illustration]




_A Night in an Opium Den._

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A DEAD MAN'S DIARY."


Yes, I have smoked opium in Ratcliff Highway, and in the den which was
visited by Charles Dickens, and through the pipe which had the honour
of making that distinguished novelist sick.

"And did you have lovely dreams? and what were they like?" asks a fair
reader.

Yes, I had lovely dreams, and I have no doubt that by the aid of
imagination, and a skilful manipulation of De Quincey, I could concoct
a fancy picture of opium-smoking and its effects, which might pass for
a faithful picture of what really occurred. But, "My Lord and Jury"--to
quote the historic words of Mrs. Cluppins, when cross-examined by
Serjeant Buzfuz--"My Lord and Jury, I will not deceive you": what those
dreams were, I could not for the life of me now describe, for they were
too aërial and unsubstantial to be caught and fixed, like hard facts,
in words, by any other pen than that of a Coleridge, or a De Quincey.
I might as well attempt to convey to you, by means of a clay model, an
idea of the prism-fires and rainbow-hues that circle, and change, and
chase each other round the pictured sides of that floating fairy-sphere
which we call a soap-bubble, as attempt, unassisted, to describe my
dreams in words. Hence it is that in this narrative, I have confined
myself strictly to the facts of my experiences.

[Illustration: THE PROPRIETOR.]

The proprietor of the den which I visited was a Chinaman named Chang,
who positively grinned me over from head to foot--not only when I
was first made known to him by the friend who had piloted me to the
establishment, but as long as I remained within grinning range. An
uninformed onlooker might not unnaturally have concluded that I was
stone-deaf and dumb, and that our host was endeavouring to express,
by his features, the cordiality he was unable to convey in words. In
reply to every casual remark made by my companion, the Chinaman would
glance up for a moment at his face, and then turn round to grimace
again at me, as though I, and I only, were the subject of their
conversation, and he was half afraid I might think he did not take a
becoming interest in it. In the few words which I exchanged with him,
I found him exceedingly civil, and he took great pains to explain
to me that his wearing no pigtail was attributable, not to his own
act and deed, but to the fact that that ornament had been cut off by
some person or persons unknown, when he was either drunk or asleep--I
could not quite make out which. The deadliest insult which can be
offered a Chinaman (so I understood him) is to cut off his pigtail,
and it was only when referring to this incident, and to his desire to
wreak a terrible vengeance upon the perpetrators, that there was any
cessation of his embarrassing smile. The thought of the insult to which
he had been subjected, and of his consequent degradation in the eyes
of his countrymen, brought so evil a look upon his parchment-coloured
features, and caused his small and cunning eyes to twist and turn
so horribly, that I was glad to turn the conversation to pleasanter
topics, even though it necessitated my being once more fixed by that
bland and penetrating smile so peculiarly his own. The smile became
more rigid than ever, when I informed him that I was anxious to smoke a
pipe of opium. The way in which he turned his face upon me (including
the smile, which enveloped and illumined me in its rays) was, for all
the world, like the turning-on by a policeman of a bull's-eye lantern.
With a final grin which threatened to distort permanently his features,
he bade us follow him, and led the way up the most villainously
treacherous staircase which it has ever been my lot to ascend.

[Illustration: A VILLAINOUS STAIRCASE.]

"Den" was an appropriate name for the reeking hole to which he
conducted us. It was dirty and dark, being lit only by a smoking
lamp on the mantel-shelf, and was not much larger than a full-sized
cupboard. The walls, which were of a dingy yellow (not unlike the
"whites" of the smokers' eyes) were quite bare, with the exception of
the one facing the door, on which, incongruously enough, was plastered
a coarsely-coloured and hideous print of the crucifixion. The furniture
consisted of three raised mattresses, with small tables on which were
placed pipes, lamps, and opium.

[Illustration: IN THE DEN.]

Huddled or curled up on these mattresses lay two wretched smokers--one
of them with the whites, or, I should say, "yellows," of his eyes
turned up to the ceiling, and another, whose slumbers we had
apparently disturbed, staring about him with a dazed and stupefied
air. Something in the look of these men--either the ghastly pallor of
their complexion, or the listlessness of their bearing--reminded me
not a little of the "white lepers" of Norway. I have seen patients
in the hospitals there whose general aspect greatly resembled that
of these men, although the skin of the white leper has more of a
milky appearance--as if it had been bleached, in fact--than that of
the opium-smoker, which is dirtier and more yellow. The remaining
occupants of the den, two of whom were Chinamen, were wide awake. The
third was a partly naked Malay of decidedly evil aspect, who shrank
back on my entrance, and coiled himself up in the recesses of a dark
corner, whence he lay furtively watching me, very much in the same way
in which the prisoned pythons in a serpent-house watch the visitors
who come to tap at the glass of their cages. The Chinamen, however,
seemed pleased to see me; and, after I had handed my cigar-case to the
nearest, begging that he and his friend would help themselves, they
became quite companionable. One of them, to my surprise, immediately
relinquished the drug which he had been smoking, and began to suck
with evident relish at the cigar. The other, after pocketing the
weed, lay down on his back with his arms behind his head, and with
his legs drawn up to his body, in which singularly graceful and easy
attitude he carried on a conversation with his friend, watching me
narrowly all the time, through the chink between his knees. At this
point of my visit, and before I could take any further stock of the
surroundings, I was not a little surprised by the entrance of a young,
and by no means ill-looking Englishwoman, to whom I gave a civil "good
evening," receiving, however, only a suspicious and surly nod in reply.
She occupied herself at first by tickling one of the Chinamen under
the armpits, evidently finding no little amusement in the fits of
wild, unearthly, and uncontrollable laughter into which he broke, but
growing weary of this, she seated herself on the raised mattress where
I was located, and proceeded to take stock of her visitor. Beginning
at my boots, and travelling up by way of trousers and waistcoat, up
to my collar and face, she examined me so critically and searchingly
from head to foot that I fancied once or twice I could see the row
of figures she was inwardly casting up, and could hear her saying to
herself, "Boots and trousers, say, sixty bob; and watch and chain, a
couple of flimsies each; which, with coat and waistcoat, bring it up to
thirty shiners; which, with a couple of fivers for links, loose cash
and studs make about forty quid--that's _your_ figure young man, as
near as I can reckon it."

[Illustration: A MALAY.]

While this was going on, my host, Mr. Chang, was busily making
preparations for my initiatory smoke by sticking small pellets of the
opium (a brownish, glue-like substance) upon a pin, and rolling and
re-rolling them against the pipe, which is about the size of a small
flute, and has a big open bowl with a tiny aperture at the base. Into
this aperture the drug-smeared pin is slipped, and the pipe is then
held over a lamp, and the fumes of the burning opium inhaled. The
occupation is by no means a luxurious one; for, as surely as I removed
the pipe from my lips to indulge in a furtive cough (and it did make
me cough a bit at first), it inevitably went out. By means of repeated
applications to the lamp, however, I managed to get through the
allotted number of pipes, and sank slowly and insensibly into the deep
waters of slumber, until at last they closed over my head, and I was
swept and borne unresistingly away upon the vast seaward setting tide
of sleep.

Of my dreams, as I have already said, I have but the haziest of
recollections. I can just recall a sensation of sailing, as on a cloud,
amid regions of blue and buoyant ether; of seeing, through vistas of
purple and gold, a scene of sunny seas and shining shores, where, it
seemed to me, I beheld the fabled "Blessed Isles," stretching league
beyond league afar; and of peeps of paradisial landscapes that swam up
to me as through a world of waters, and then softened and sank away
into a blending of beauteous colours, and into a vision of white warm
arms and wooing bosoms.

And so we slept on, I and my wretched companions, until, to quote
Rossetti:--

    Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
      And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
    Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
      Of watered light, and dull drowned waifs of day;
    Till, from some wonder of new woods and streams,
      He woke and wondered more.

Yes, "I woke and wondered more"--woke to wonder where I was, and where
were my boots, my hat, and my umbrella; woke to find the faithless
friend, who had promised to guard my slumbers, sleeping peacefully
at his post; and woke with a taste in my mouth which can only be
likened to a cross between onions and bad tobacco. And this taste, in
conjunction with a splitting headache and a general lowness of spirits,
served, for the next day or two, to keep me constantly in remembrance
of my visit to the Opium Den in Ratcliff Highway.

[Illustration]




_Janko the Musician._

FROM THE POLISH OF SIENKIEWICZ.

  [HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ is perhaps the most popular of contemporary
  Polish novelists. He is a realist, but his realism is tempered
  by a dash of romance. Keenly in sympathy with the poor, the
  oppressed, the despised, and possessed of a genius for portraying
  the character of Polish peasants, he has a particular gift for
  depicting the sufferings of artistic natures dimly conscious of
  their gifts, or blighted by the curse of mediocrity. Sienkiewicz
  was born in 1845, and was educated at the University of Warsaw.
  In 1876 he went to California, and first attracted attention by
  letters descriptive of the New World contributed to the newspapers
  of his native country. These sketches were collected, and, together
  with some short tales, published at Warsaw in 1880 under the title
  of "Pisma." To his American experiences we owe Sienkiewicz's
  delightful story, "For Daily Bread," one of the most simple and
  touching narratives possible. His chief work, "With Fire and
  Sword," has been translated into English. This gifted writer was
  almost entirely unknown in this country until recently. At the
  present day he resides at Warsaw, where he edits a paper.]


Weak and frail came he into the world. The neighbours, assembled round
the bedside, shook their heads over mother and child. The blacksmith's
wife, the most experienced amongst them, began to comfort the sick
woman after her fashion.

"You just lie quiet," she said, "and I will light a blessed candle.
It's all up with you, poor dear, you must make your preparations for
another world. Someone had better run for the priest to give you the
last Sacraments."

"And the youngster must be baptized at once," said another. "I tell you
he won't live till the priest comes, and it will be some comfort not to
have an unbaptized ghost spooking about."

As she spoke, she lit a blessed candle, took the baby, sprinkled
it with holy water, till it winked its eyes, and at the same time
pronounced the words:

"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost, and give thee the name of Jan," adding immediately (with a
vague recollection of the form of prayer used for the dying): "And now
depart, O Christian Soul! out of this world, and return to the place
you came from. Amen."

The Christian soul, however, had not the least intention of departing
out of this world. It began, on the contrary, to kick with the legs
of the body as hard as ever it could, and to cry, but in a fashion so
feeble and whimpering, that it sounded to the women like the mewing of
a kitten.

[Illustration: "THE PRIEST WAS SENT FOR."]

The priest was sent for, discharged his sacred office, and retired;
but, instead of dying, the mother recovered, and, after a week, went
back to work.

The life of the baby hung on a thread; he scarcely seemed to breathe,
but, when he was four years of age, the cuckoo cried three times over
the cottage roof--a good omen, according to Polish superstition--and
after that matters mended so that he somehow attained his tenth year.
To be sure, he was always thin and delicate, with a slouching body and
hollow cheeks. His hay-coloured hair fell over his clear, prominent
eyes, that had a far-away look in them, as if he saw things hidden from
others.

In winter the child crouched behind the stove and wept softly from
cold, and not unfrequently from hunger if "Mammy" had nothing in the
cupboard or in the pot. In summer he ran about in a little white
blouse, tied round the waist with a handkerchief, and wore an old straw
hat on his head. His flaxen hair poked its way through the holes, and
his eager glance darted hither and thither like a bird's. His mother,
poor creature! who lived from hand to mouth, and lodged under a strange
roof like a swallow, loved him, no doubt, after a fashion, yet she gave
him many a cuff, and generally called him a "changeling." At eight
years of age he began life on his own account, now driving a flock of
sheep, now making his way deep into the forest to look for mushrooms
when there was nothing to eat at home. He had Providence only to thank
that the wolves did hot devour him on one of these expeditions. He was
not a particularly precocious boy, and, like all village children, had
the habit of sticking his finger into his mouth when addressed. The
neighbours prophesied that he would not live long, or that, if he did
live, he would not be much of a comfort to his mother, for he would
never be strong enough for hard work.

One distinguishing characteristic he had. Who can say why the gift was
bestowed in so unlikely a quarter? But music he loved, and his love was
a passion. He heard music in everything; he listened to every sound,
and the bigger he grew the more he thought of melody and of harmony. If
he tended the cattle, or went with a playfellow to gather berries in
the forest, he would return empty-handed, and lisp, "O mammy, there was
such beautiful music! It was playing like this--la, la, la!"

"I'll soon play you a different tune, you good-for-nothing monkey!" his
mother would cry angrily, and rap him with the ladle.

[Illustration: "YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING MONKEY!"]

The youngster might shriek, and promise not to listen to the music
again, but he thought all the more of how beautiful the forest was, and
how full of voices that sang and rang. Who or what sang and rang he
could not well have told; the pine-trees, the beeches, the birch-trees,
the thrushes, all sang; the whole forest sang, and the echo sang
too ... in the meadows the blades of grass sang; in the garden behind
the cottage the sparrows twittered, the cherry-trees rustled and
trilled. In the evening he heard all imaginable voices, such as are
audible only in the country, and he thought to himself that the whole
village resounded with melody. His companions could only wonder at him;
they heard none of these beautiful things. When he was set to work to
toss out hay he fancied he heard the wind playing through the prongs of
his pitchfork. The overseer, who saw him standing idly, his hair thrown
back from his forehead, listening intently to the wind's music on the
fork, seized a strap, and gave the dreamer a few cuts to bring him to
his senses, but it was of no avail. The neighbours, at last, nicknamed
him "Janko the Musician."

At night, when the frogs croaked, the corncrakes cried across the
meadows, the bitterns boomed in the marsh, and the cocks crowed behind
the fences, the child could not sleep, he could but listen with
delight, and heaven only knows what harmonies he heard in all these
mingled sounds. His mother dared not bring him with her to church, for
when the organ murmured or pealed, the eyes of the boy grew dim and
moist or else brightened and gleamed as if the light of another world
illumined them.

The watchman, who nightly patrolled the village and counted the stars,
or carried on a low-toned conversation with the dogs in order to keep
himself awake, more than once saw Janko's little white blouse scudding
through the gloom to the alehouse. The child did not enter the tavern,
but crouched close up to the wall and listened. Within, couples
revolved merrily to lively music, and now and then a fellow would cry
"Hooray!" One could hear the stamping of feet and the affected voices
of the girls. The fiddles murmured softly, the big 'cello's deep notes
thundered, the windows streamed with light, every plank in the taproom
seemed to creak, to sing, to play, and Janko listened to it all. What
would he not have given to have a fiddle that would give forth such
sounds, a bit of board that would make such music! Alas! where was _he_
to get it; how could he make it? If they would only allow him just to
take one in his hand!... But no! all he could do was to listen, and so
he listened till the voice of the watchman would call to him out of the
darkness--

"Off to bed with you, you imp!"

[Illustration: "OFF TO BED WITH YOU, YOU IMP."]

Then the little bare feet would patter away to the cabin, and the
voices of the violins would follow him as he ran through the night.

It was a great occasion for him when at harvest time or at a wedding he
heard the fiddlers play. At such times he would creep behind the stove,
and for days would not speak a single word, looking straight before him
with great glowing eyes, like those of a cat at night.

At last he made himself a fiddle out of a shingle, and strung it
with horsehair, but it did not sound as beautifully as those in the
alehouse; the strings tinkled softly, ever so softly, they hummed like
flies or midges. All the same, he played on them from morning until
night, though many a kick and cuff he got till he was black and blue.
He could not help himself, it was in his nature.

The child grew thinner and thinner; his shock of hair became thicker,
his eyes grew more staring and swam with tears, and his cheeks and
chest became hollower. He had never resembled other children, he was
more like his own poor little fiddle that one could scarcely hear.
Moreover, before harvest-time he was almost starving, living as he did
chiefly on raw turnips, and on his longing, his intense longing, to own
a violin. Alas! this desire bore evil fruit.

Up at the Castle the footman had a fiddle that he sometimes played in
the evening to please his pretty sweetheart and his fellow-servants.
Janko often crept amongst the climbing plants to the very door of the
servants' hall to hear the music, or, at least, to catch a glimpse of
the fiddle. It generally hung on the wall, exactly opposite the door,
and the youngster's whole soul was in his eyes as he gazed at it,
an unattainable treasure that he was unworthy to possess, though he
held it to be the most precious thing on earth. A dumb longing took
possession of him to touch it just once with his very own hand--or, at
any rate, to see it closer.... At the thought the poor little childish
heart leaped with delight.

One evening there was no one in the servants' hall. The family had for
a long time lived abroad, the house was empty, and the footman, with
his sweetheart, was elsewhere. Janko, hidden amongst the creepers, had
already been looking for many minutes through the half-open door at the
goal of his desires.

The moon, at her full, swam high in the heavens; her beams threw
a shaft of light across the room, and fell on the opposite wall.
Gradually they moved towards where the violin hung, and streamed
full upon it. To the child in the darkness a silvery halo seemed to
shine around the instrument, illumining it so brightly that Janko was
almost dazzled; the strings, the neck, the sides were plainly visible,
the pegs shone like glow-worms, and the bow like a silver wand....
How beautiful it was; almost magical! Janko gazed with hungry eyes.
Crouching amidst the ivy, his elbows supported on his little bony
knees, he gazed open-mouthed and motionless at this one object. Now
fear held him fast, next moment an unappeasable longing urged him
forward. Was it magic, or was it not? The violin, with its rays of
glory, absolutely appeared to draw near to him, to hover over his head.

[Illustration: "JANKO WAS ALMOST DAZZLED."]

For a moment the glory darkened, only to shine again more brilliantly.
Magic, it really was magic! Meantime, the wind murmured, the trees
rustled, the creepers whispered softly, and to the child they seemed to
say, "Go on, Janko, there is not a soul there.... Go on, Janko."

The night was clear and bright. By the pond in the garden a nightingale
began to sing--now softly, now loudly. Her song said, "Go on; have
courage; touch it." An honest raven flew softly over the child's head
and croaked, "No, Janko; no." The raven flew away, but the nightingale
remained, and the creepers cried more plainly than ever, "There's no
one there."

The fiddle still hung in the track of the moonbeams. The little
crouching figure crept softly and cautiously nearer, and the
nightingale sang "Go on--on--on--take it."

The white blouse glimmered nearer the doorway. Soon it was no longer
hidden by the dark creepers. On the threshold one could hear the quick,
panting breath of the delicate child. A moment more and the little
white blouse had disappeared, only one tiny bare foot still stood upon
the steps. In vain the friendly raven flew by once more, and cawed "No,
no,"--Janko had already entered.

The frogs in the pond began suddenly to croak as if something had
frightened them, and as suddenly were silent. The nightingale ceased to
sing, the climbing plants to whisper. In the interval Janko had edged
nearer and nearer to his treasure, but fear seized him. In the shadow
of the creepers he felt at home, like a wild creature in a thicket, now
he quivered like a wild creature in a snare. His movements were hasty,
his breath came short.

The pulsing summer lightning that glanced from east to west illumined
the apartment for an instant, and showed poor trembling Janko almost
on his hands and knees, his head stretched out, cowering before the
violin, but the summer lightning ceased, a cloud passed before the
moon, and there was nothing to be seen nor heard.

Then, after a pause, there sounded through the darkness a low wailing
note, as if someone had accidentally touched a string, and all at once
a rough, sleepy voice broke from a corner of the room, asking angrily--

"Who's there?"

A match cracked against the wall. Then there was a little spurt of
flame, and then--great heaven!--then were to be heard curses, blows,
the crying of a child, appeals, "Oh, for God's sake!" barking of dogs,
people running with lights before the windows, uproar in the whole
house.

Two days later poor Janko stood before the magistrates. Should he be
prosecuted as a thief? Of course.

The justice and the landlord looked at the culprit as he stood in the
dock, his finger in his mouth, with staring, terrified eyes, small,
emaciated, dirty, beaten, unable to tell why or wherefore he found
himself there, or what they were about to do to him. How, thought the
justice, could anyone try a wretched little object like that, only ten
years of age, and barely able to stand on its legs? Was he to be sent
to prison, or what? One must not be too severe with children. Would it
not be well if a watchman took him and gave him a few strokes with a
cane, so that he might not steal a second time, and so end the matter?

"Just so. A very good idea!"

Stach, the watchman, was called.

"Take him, and give him a caning as a warning."

Stach nodded his stupid, bull head, took Janko under his arm like a
kitten, and carried him off to the barn.

[Illustration: "HE TOOK JANKO UNDER HIS ARM LIKE A KITTEN."]

Either the youngster did not understand what it was all about, or he
was too terrified to speak; in either case he uttered not a word, and
looked round him like a little frightened bird. How did he know what
they wanted with him. It was only when Stach seized him, laid him on
the barn floor, and, holding him fast with one hand, turned up his
little shirt with the cane, that poor Janko shrieked "Mammy!" and after
every blow he cried "Mammy, mammy!" but lower and weaker each time,
until after a certain number of strokes, the child was silent, and
called for his mother no more....

The poor broken fiddle!

You clumsy, wicked Stach! Who ever flogged a child in such a fashion?
The poor, tiny fellow was always thin and weakly, and scarcely had
breath in his body!

At last the mother came and took the child with her, but she had
to carry him home. Next day Janko did not rise. On the third day
he breathed out his soul in peace, on the hard bed covered by the
horsecloth....

As he lay dying, the swallows twittered in the cherry-tree that grew
before the window, a sunbeam peered through the pane, and flooded with
glory the child's rough hair and his bloodless face. The beam seemed
like a track for the little fellow's soul to ascend to heaven.

Well for him was it that at least at the hour of death he mounted a
broad and sunny path, for thorny would have been his road in life. The
wasted chest still heaved softly, and the child seemed still conscious
of the echoes of the outer world that entered through the open window.
It was evening; the peasant girls returning from hay-making passed by
and sang as they went; the brook purled close at hand.

Janko listened for the last time to the musical echoes of the village.
Beside him, on the horsecloth, lay the fiddle he had made from a
shingle. Suddenly the dying child's face lit up, and his white lips
whispered--

"Mammy!"

"What is it, dearie?" asked the mother, her voice stifled with sobs.

"Mammy, God will give me a real fiddle in heaven."

"Yes, darling, yes," replied the mother. She could speak no more,
for from her heart the pent-up sorrow burst suddenly forth. She only
murmured, "Jesus, my Jesus!" and laying her head on the table, wept as
those weep from whom death robs their dearest treasure.

And so it was. When she raised her head and looked at the child, the
eyes of the little musician were open but fixed, the countenance was
grave, solemn, and rigid. The sunbeam had disappeared.

"May you rest in peace, little Janko!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Next day the Baron and his family returned from Italy to the Castle.
The daughter of the house and her suitor were there amongst the rest.

"What a delightful country Italy is!" remarked the gentleman.

"Yes, and the people! They are a nation of artists! It is a pleasure to
note and encourage their talent," answered the young lady.

       *       *       *       *       *

The larches rustled over Janko's grave!




_A Silver Harvest._


[Illustration: SHOOTING SEINE-NET.]

Cornish pilchards are, no doubt, sufficiently well known to create some
interest in the method by which they are caught. Some years back the
fisheries were worked almost entirely by the "seine" net system, and
had developed into a most flourishing industry; but, at present, owing
principally to the large increase of drift-net boats which, in their
more regular expeditions, tend to break up the "schools" or "shoals,"
the old picturesque way of catching them by the "seine" boats is
more or less falling into desuetude. The glory and excitement of the
pilchard fishing belongs, however, to the seine-net almost exclusively.
For weeks the cliffs are patrolled by anxious watchers, and when once
the red streak in the water shows to the practised eye the "school"
slowly moving, the cry "heva" or "hubba" is heard shouted from one
to another, and every man, woman, and child rushes to the beach. A
volunteer colonel the writer once met touring about Cornwall with a
camera had skilfully arranged a characteristic group of fishermen and
lasses in a disused fish-cellar, and had carefully had an artistic
background of nets, lobster-pots, &c., built up after some hours of
trouble and difficulty, when, just as he was about to raise the cap, a
tap at the little window, a cry of "hubba," and his group flew off like
lightning out of the place. He never got them again. For many weeks
they were all busy with the pilchards.

Another visitor, not knowing the colloquial terms of the fisher-folk,
was alarmed to hear his landlady, in great excitement, shout to a
neighbour, "Shot at Cadgwith," and anxiously inquired whether anyone
was hurt or killed. Though the fishing villages as a rule are in
communication only through coaches, or more often carts, the news of
the first catch rapidly flies; naturally each place anticipating the
advent of the pilchards at any moment.

[Illustration: LAUNCHING THE TUCK-BOAT.]

Many of the fishermen are almost practised athletes. Down a long "way"
or "slip" the big seine boat is shot, the men hanging on, pushing, or
clambering on as the boat is launched into the sea. In a second the
big heavy oars are shipped, every man in his place, and pulling with
all his strength for the "shoal," guided by the "huer" who, on the top
of the cliff, directs them by waving two branches of furze-bush in
the direction required. The turn-out of a metropolitan fire-engine is
not accomplished more expeditiously. This work, as may be supposed,
is very arduous, and on many parts of the coast the manual labour is
superseded by steam seine-boats, which are constantly kept at sea on
the look-out, the men being paid weekly wages by the proprietors.
Occasionally the "school" is missed, and sometimes, in the difficulty
of manoevering the heavy boats in a comparatively rough sea, a small
portion only is secured. Many tries have often to be made, the fish
sometimes turning out too young and small, and, though these latter
are valuable to the sardine factories, many of which are established
in Cornwall, the cost of packing and drawing the fish over many miles
of rough country prevents it being worth the labour and trouble. And
the roads in some places, say, for instance, the way down to Sennen
Cove, Lands End, are most decidedly rough, the writer having once seen
a poor old blind man, who perambulated the country with a donkey-cart
and apples, once literally hung up on a huge boulder of rock in the
middle of the road. The fish once reached, the net is thrown into the
sea and a complete circle made round them, the net righting itself
in the water by the leads at the bottom and the corks at the top.
Then comes the "tuck-boat," often launched by women and children,
carrying a smaller net, which is fastened inside the bigger "seine,"
and partly under the fish, by means of which, by gradually lessening
the circle, the precious catch is forced to the surface. Large heavy
boats, characteristically called "loaders," are used to convey the fish
to the shore. Stalwart young men dip the "tuck-basket" into the shoal
of live fish, the water naturally draining out when it is raised to
the surface, while the pilchards are stowed in the "loader" by large
wooden shovels, to the accompaniment of the screams of thousands of
sea-gulls.

It is almost alarming, too, to see how deep in the water the boats are
loaded, within an inch or two of the gunwale, Mr. Plimsoll's load-line
evidently not applying; though, fortunately, accidents are rare.

Upon arriving at the shore or landing-place many from their own and
neighbouring villages are there to take them up in "creels" to the
cellars. We have once seen a large influx of Cornish miners for this
work only. They are paid 2d. a basket, and can make £1 a day, though
the work is comparatively laborious.

Of course the natives manage at these times to get fairly well provided
with fish. The children are very busy picking up the stray pilchards,
and the stray ones getting scarce, an apparently accidental stumble
on the rough stones may upset a large creel full, which is not worth
gathering up when fish is plentiful.

[Illustration: DIPPING FOR PILCHARDS.]

If large catches, or perhaps two or three catches fill the cellars,
an interesting sight is to see the fish packed on the ground by the
women and children, salt being plentifully used, of course, and the
heads placed outwards. The row of carefully arranged pilchards is then
thatched over and left to pickle for about a month.

The pay is pretty good for this work, the children even getting 3d.
per hour. The pile is then undone, the fish packed with great care in
barrels, and by means of a long lever with a heavy stone hooked on at
the end, pressed down tightly. It is then ready for the market.

The inland villagers are good customers for pilchards, and, indeed, for
all sorts of fish, conger and mackerel being especial favourites with
all. They are usually supplied by the country dealers called "jowters,"
though how the word arose is uncertain; but the biggest market is
Italy, several Italians being permanently established in Cornwall in
the business. It might be supposed that the fishermen themselves would
care but little for fish, but experience shows that few people are so
particularly fond of it. We have often heard the natives declare that a
bit of fresh or salted fish was better at any time than meat, roast or
boiled. In the winter, when unable to go to sea, the storms and gales
preventing the men from doing anything for a livelihood, the salted
pilchard is the staple article of food. Served with a boiled potato
it makes a savoury enough dish, though I think, perhaps, it needs an
acquired taste on behalf of the town dwellers to enjoy it thoroughly.

Most of the fishermen have their plot of land, and in their intervals
of enforced leisure are assiduous gardeners, cultivating generally
sufficient potatoes to last the winter.

[Illustration: PACKING.]

The oil which is pressed out of the fish is drained by little gutters
into a small well, and although after some lapse of time it becomes
anything but odorous, or even agreeable to the view, it is very
valuable to the men for dressing their boots, &c., which become so
hardened by the sea-water. Many of the fishermen in days gone by have
made a considerable lot of money by Cornish pilchards. In some of the
fishing villages it is not at all uncommon for the men to have built
their own cottages out of their earnings and to have put a little by
besides. Formerly, too, the "schools" came along as early as August,
but now they are seldom seen until October. No satisfactory reason
either for their present apparent scarcity or the change of the time of
their appearance can be given, the fishermen themselves being at a loss
for an explanation.

[Illustration]




_The State of the Law Courts._


III.--THE BAR.

Undoubtedly the Bar possesses a charm that belongs to no other
profession. Not only are its possibilities magnificent, extending as
they do to the Woolsack, but it has the further attraction of being the
one calling wherein the youthful aspirant may rely upon his personal
attributes even more than upon industry and training for success. Many
instances could be mentioned of eminent leaders who have been inundated
with briefs, and have easily made their £10,000 or more a year, not on
account of their legal lore, but because they have been brilliant and
persuasive speakers, charming of manner, and quick at repartee.

Perhaps it is natural that most of the smart young graduates who swell
the ranks of the Bar should feel themselves fully equipped, if not
in their store of learning, at least in personal qualifications. But
it is unfortunately a fact that this feeling of youthful confidence,
admirable in itself, has in a great measure led to the growth of a
numerous army of needy barristers, many of whom are only too anxious to
pick up an occasional guinea at the County or the Criminal Courts.

[Illustration: THE TEMPLE: "HERE LIES OLIVER GOLDSMITH."]

The prizes of the Bar are only for the few, and the disappointments for
the many. This uncertainty itself, perhaps, is an attraction to some
of the numerous aspirants who would emulate the successes of Cockburn,
Ballantine, Russell, Davey, and other great counsel. The advocates'
profession is a very ancient one, and goes back to Roman times. The
independence of the Bar has always been its greatest boast. Whether
it has worthily maintained that characteristic of recent years is a
question that we shall discuss later on, but that it did so formerly
there can be no doubt. In illustration of this, we may relate a story
of a counsel named Wilkins, who was defending a prisoner before Baron
Gurney, a very severe judge. Wilkins thought that the judge had made
up his mind to convict the prisoner, and, in the course of his address
to the jury, he had the temerity to say: "There exist those upon the
Bench who have the character of convicting judges. I do not envy their
reputation in this world, or their fate hereafter!" The prisoner was
in the end acquitted, but whether as the result of this attack, which
Baron Gurney felt very keenly, or not, it is impossible to say. It may
be doubted whether any advocate nowadays would venture to speak in a
similar way. It is possible, however, that Baron Gurney was unaware of
his reputation for severity, and Mr. Wilkins' remarks may have had a
salutary effect upon him.

The appointment of barristers is now effected by the four Inns of
Court, namely, the Inner Temple, the Middle Temple, Lincoln's Inn,
and Gray's Inn. These Inns are voluntary associations, having no
statutory powers, and it is only by virtue of ancient custom that they
enjoy the right of calling students to the Bar. They are respectively
governed by a self-elected body called "Benchers," who consist of the
judges, a number of Queen's counsel, and a few veteran "juniors." The
barristers as a class have no voice in the management of the Inns, or
in the discipline of their profession. The social status of the Bar
has of late years deteriorated, although it is true that barristers
are generally drawn from a much higher social level than solicitors.
Individual merit is, somewhat erroneously perhaps, supposed to be
as great a factor for success as interest, and this, together with
other considerations that we have already alluded to, induces a large
proportion of the most accomplished University graduates to devote
themselves to the Bar in preference to any other profession. University
men, however, are not the only aspirants to the Woolsack, whose first
step is to obtain a call to the Bar. There is quite a gathering of
coloured gentlemen in the Middle Temple, including natives of India,
many of whom, no doubt, intend to practise in their own courts;
Hottentots, Negroes, Mongolians, dreamy-eyed Japanese, and perhaps
an occasional Redskin--many of whom seem to take to the methods of
European civilisation quite naturally.

[Illustration: NEW COURT, MIDDLE TEMPLE.]

The Inner Temple is considered more fashionable than the Middle, and
is preferred by University men, especially perhaps those who are
prejudiced in favour of uniformity of colour in their fellow-students.
Lincoln's Inn and Gray's Inn call comparatively few men to the Bar.

[Illustration: MIDDLE TEMPLE LIBRARY.]

Some particulars of the process of being "called to the Bar" may be
of interest. The aspiring barrister must remain a student for three
years, and will have to pay nearly £200 in stamp duty and fees to
his Inn. Exception is, however, made in the case of solicitors, who,
under recent regulations, can be admitted to the Bar without delay on
payment of the fees. Within the last fifteen years an examination has
been instituted for all students except solicitors, the latter having
been examined by their own society; but, before that time, it was only
necessary to eat twenty-four dinners a year for three years in the
Hall of the Inn, besides paying the fees, in order to become qualified
for the Bar. The dinners are still retained, and although it is not
pretended that students insensibly imbibe legal knowledge with their
meals in the atmosphere of the picturesque old dining halls, there can
be no doubt that the dinners serve a useful purpose in enabling the
future barristers to form each other's acquaintance. With what mingled
feelings these dinners must be looked back upon in after life! Of two
boon companions in student days one may, perhaps, be judge of the High
Court, while the other is still struggling for a precarious livelihood
in the County Court.

Students coming from the Universities are only expected to eat twelve
dinners a year. The reason for this distinction is shrouded in mystery,
but perhaps some solution may occur to the ingenious mind of the
reader. It is usual for students to read with junior counsel in large
practice, to whom they pay a hundred guineas a year. In return for
this they have the run of the papers, from which they are no doubt
enabled in some degree to familiarise themselves with the advocate's
profession; if they require tuition, they must employ a regular coach.
The examinations, however, are by no means severe. They secure a
certain amount of legal knowledge on the part of the barrister, which
can easily be acquired by a few attendances at the lectures held at the
Inn, and a not very assiduous reading of Roman and Common Law. Upon
the completion of his three years, the student is called to the Bar,
by going through the solemn ceremony of taking a glass of wine with
the Benchers of his Inn, and, together with a crowd of his compeers,
listening to a friendly monition from the Senior Bencher, or some other
venerable greybeard. Having purchased his wig and gown and a brandnew
blue bag, the young barrister is then started on his career. He takes
chambers in the Temple or Lincoln's Inn, which he probably shares with
some other aspirants, and then proceeds on his way to the Woolsack.

[Illustration: CORRIDOR, INNER TEMPLE HALL.]

The sensations of a young barrister when he first addresses the Court
are usually somewhat agonising. Serjeant Ballantine describes his first
experience as follows:--"I rose, but could see nothing; the court
seemed to turn round and the floor to be sinking. I cannot tell what I
asked, but it was graciously granted by the Bench."

He sat down with a parched throat and a sort of sickening feeling that
he would never succeed. "Most successful advocates," he adds, "have
experienced these sensations, and to this day I believe that many rise
to conduct cases of importance with some of their old emotions."

The work of the Bar is divided into several sections, so that the
beginner has a fairly wide choice as to which department of his
profession he will make his own. There is the Parliamentary Bar, the
Common Law Bar, the Equity Bar, and the Criminal Bar; and besides
these, several barristers are exclusively occupied with Patents and
Conveyancing.

But there are sections within sections, consisting of small coteries of
specialists who devote themselves to the Divorce Court, to the Privy
Council, or to Admiralty work.

While the majority of barristers pass the legal year in the Metropolis,
except when on circuit, there are a good many who settle down in
populous districts and become known in the profession as local
barristers. Both Common Law and Equity men who are, through the
pressure of competition, unable to make their way in London, or who
perhaps have the advantage of being related to some eminent firm
of provincial solicitors, prefer the certainty of making a decent
livelihood in a busy manufacturing town to the keener competition of
the Metropolis.

They are somewhat looked down upon by their brethren in London, the
work in the provinces being of an inferior kind, mainly confined to the
police courts, county courts, and quarter sessions.

The occupation of the local barrister, in fact, does not commend itself
to the majority of the Bar, notwithstanding that a few are able to make
their £2,000 or £3,000 a year.

[Illustration: INNER TEMPLE HALL.]

The Parliamentary Bar, probably the most lucrative branch of the
profession, is engaged in Private Bill business before Parliamentary
Committees. A popular Parliamentary Q.C. will make as much as £20,000
a year, and sometimes even those figures are exceeded. The leading
"silks" have always a great number of cases going on at the same time
before Committees of the Lords and Commons, and they spend their
day in walking from one committee-room to another, opening a case
here, replying on a case there, and cross-examining witnesses whose
evidence-in-chief they have never heard. This perambulatory practice
led to such abuse that in 1861 the committees decided not to allow a
barrister to cross-examine who had not been present during the whole
of the examination-in-chief, and recently Mr. Hanbury has endeavoured
to enforce this rule. No doubt it is, generally speaking, a wholesome
regulation, for the reiteration by successive counsel of the same
questions leads to an inordinate waste of public time and money. It
ought, however, to be enforced with moderation, for it by no means
follows that a counsel who has not heard the examination-in-chief
is the less able to cross-examine effectively. One of the objects
of cross-examination, it should be understood, is to elicit fresh
facts, and in that respect it is not necessarily dependent upon
evidence-in-chief.

Undoubtedly cross-examination is one of the most difficult as well
as one of the most important of a counsel's duties, and a barrister
who makes his mark in this particular function is pretty certain to
be in general request. It is no less important to know what questions
to put than what to refrain from asking. Many counsel are too apt to
imagine that by browbeating a witness, and overwhelming him with a
multitude of questions, they are conducting their cross-examination
effectively. Baron Alderson once withered up an advocate of this
character by remarking: "Mr. So-and-so, you seem to think that the art
of cross-examination is to examine crossly."

The Parliamentary Bar certainly numbers within its ranks several
highly-talented counsel, not the least eminent of whom are Mr. Pope,
Mr. Bidder, Mr. Littler, and Mr. Pembroke-Stephens, of whom we give
portraits. We have already referred to the great incomes that are made
in this department of the Bar, and when it is remembered that the work
is limited to the time during which Parliament is sitting, it becomes
apparent that the fees paid to leading counsel must be enormous.
Indeed, the fees marked on their briefs often amount to hundreds of
guineas, and the junior gets a sum equal to two-thirds of the amount
paid to the leader, except in cases where the latter receives a special
fee. And, added to this, both receive a refresher of fifteen guineas a
day. Surely such payment is excessive.

[Illustration: MR. LITTLER. MR. PEMBROKE-STEPHENS. MR. BIDDER. MR.
POPE.]

In one very essential particular the members of the Equity Bar differ
in their customs from other branches of their profession. Practising
before the five Chancery judges and the Chancery Court of Appeal, the
leaders of the Equity Bar attach themselves to particular Courts, and
invariably decline to leave their own favourite sphere of operations
to appear in another Court without a special fee. The result of this
arrangement is that litigants employing eminent counsel in Chancery
cases can be almost certain of their attendance throughout. However
heavy may be the fees paid to counsel of the Equity Bar, it can at
least be said that they generally give full value for their money--a
gratifying compliment that can hardly be extended to other branches of
the profession. But satisfactory as the system may seem to be from the
client's point of view, experience shows that it is not without its
serious disadvantages. The continuous contact of particular counsel
with particular judges is varying in its effects. In some cases it
leads to an undue influence on the part of the counsel over the judges,
while in others the judges use their power to such an overbearing
extent that even eminent Queen's counsel are sometimes subjected to
a degree of abasement that is painful to witness. The demeanour of
one or two of the Equity judges is, in fact, characterised by an
absurd pomposity, and, however great their abilities, they are not so
high-minded as to disdain the petty delight of trying to humiliate the
leaders of the Bar. There have been several instances of a judge taking
a personal dislike to a counsel, and by making him feel it on every
possible occasion, practically dismissing him from the Court. Thus it
will be recognised that the system gives judges too much power over
members of the Bar.

There are always two favourite "silks" in each Court, who practically
divide the work between them. The special fees that we have already
referred to are, however, frequently obtained by eminent Queen's
counsel. The greatest advocates of the Equity Bar--like Sir Horace
Davey or Mr. Rigby--do not attach themselves to any Court, and will
not, in fact, appear in Court at all without a special fee. The incomes
made by some of the most eminent Equity counsel are prodigious. Lord
Selborne, when Sir Roundell Palmer, is said to have made over £30,000 a
year; and rumour has it that neither Sir Horace Davey nor Mr. Rigby are
earning much less than that amount.

Although, as a rule, the members of the Equity Bar do not shine
in public life, it has nevertheless associated with it several
distinguished names, such as those of Westbury, Cairns, and Selborne,
all of whom found in the Chancery Courts the stepping-stone to fame.

The Criminal Bar of London congregates at the Old Bailey (which is
the Assize Court for the Metropolis and part of the Home Counties)
as well as at the Middlesex and Surrey Sessions, held respectively
at Clerkenwell and Newington. In speaking of the Criminal Bar, the
brilliant exploits of such men as Ballantine, Parry, Huddleston,
Gifford, Hawkins, and Clarke naturally occur to one's memory. But
what a sad falling off is now apparent! There is not a single name
of distinction now associated with the historic Court that has in
the past resounded to the eloquence of so many splendid advocates.
Nowadays the mention of the Criminal Bar only brings to mind such men
as the Government prosecutor (official in all but name), Mr. Poland,
and a crowd of lesser lights, among whom Mr. Forest Fulton, M.P., and
Mr. Gill stand forth as the most talented. There are at the Criminal
Bar a number of newly-fledged barristers, and several indigent and
disappointed men who are content to gain a small and precarious
livelihood. A handful secure a respectable living, and comparatively
large incomes are only made in two or three cases, notably among those
who have Treasury work. The compulsory litigants, who often have to
send the hat round among their friends for the purpose, can for the
most part only provide small fees, and small as they are, they do not
always reach the hands of counsel.

[Illustration: MR. BESLEY. MR. C. MATTHEWS. MR. C. F. GILL. MR. POLAND.
MR. FOREST FULTON.]

It may be interesting to mention here the curious fact that barristers
cannot recover their fees at law. The fee, it appears, is an
honorarium, and nothing more. Of course, while barristers have no
legal claim for their fees, no action for negligence, however gross,
can lie against them; and it is obvious that, if the power were
accorded to them of recovering their fees at law, they would also be
liable to action in case of negligence. If we may judge by the very
rare occasions of actions for negligence being successful against
solicitors, there is no reason why they should have any terrors for
counsel. It would certainly be satisfactory to see the barrister's
profession put upon a more business-like footing. Advocates are, under
the present conditions, sometimes the prey of unscrupulous solicitors,
who hand them briefs marked with tempting fees that are never paid,
and when these harpies have tired out the patience of one guileless
counsel, they devote similarly undesirable attentions to another.
Happily, such solicitors are comparatively few; but even respectable
firms often avail themselves of the inability of counsel to recover
fees by taking unconscionable credit.

The system should be changed, and if barristers were made liable for
negligence it would, perhaps, have a wholesome effect in preventing
some of them from accepting briefs to which they or their clerks must
know that they cannot attend.

To return to the Criminal Bar, one cannot help observing how great
is the disadvantage at which a prisoner is sometimes placed. The
unfortunate man has perhaps been unable by himself or his friends to
find the necessary funds to instruct a counsel, or perhaps he has
managed to scrape together a guinea, which he hands over the dock, as
his case is called, to some inexperienced barrister, who thereupon
finds himself face to face with a wary and experienced advocate like
Mr. Poland or Mr. Gill. The prisoner's chances of vindicating himself,
innocent though he may be, must be greatly reduced by the disadvantages
under which he labours.

The State, which expends enormous sums for the conviction of criminals,
ought, undoubtedly, as is the case in many other countries, to provide
legal assistance for the accused in order to secure a fair trial. So
far as we are aware, there is only one case in which this is done in
England, namely, when an offence, while in the execution of duty, is
charged against a member of the police force, a body of men who are in
a much better position to secure for themselves legal assistance than
the majority of ordinary prisoners.

[Illustration: MR. INDERWICK. SIR EDWARD CLARKE.]

Perhaps the deplorable dearth of highly talented men at the Criminal
Bar is in some degree accounted for by the curious circumstance that
when a man once becomes a criminal lawyer he can be nothing else. The
dismal atmosphere of the Old Bailey seems to permeate all his future
prospects, and he is rarely able to emerge from it into the higher
ranks of his profession. The Lord Chancellor, Mr. Justice Hawkins,
and Sir Edward Clarke are, perhaps, the only living instances to the
contrary; but even they belong to a somewhat bygone time, and were
never exclusively criminal lawyers.

The leading common-law work of the High Court is practically divided
among a dozen or so eminent Queen's counsel. It is a matter of common
complaint that the leaders accept briefs, knowing well at the time they
receive them that they will not be able to attend to them. There is a
good deal of truth in this, although the supposed delinquents are able
to put forward a very plausible plea of justification. It is certain
that they cannot always know what briefs they will be able to give
full attention to, seeing that there are a number of Courts engaged
in trying cases some of which may last days, and some only minutes.
Indeed, a counsel with a very small practice may find that, owing to
the unexpected manner in which the cases on the list are sometimes
disposed of, the two or three briefs that have been entrusted to him
may all require his attention in different Courts on the same day,
although when he accepted them he might reasonably have anticipated
that the cases would be called on different days. It must, however,
be admitted that there are some eminent counsel who accept briefs,
although it is morally certain that they will be unable to give them
any personal attention.

No other professional man expects to be paid for work that he does not
perform, and there can be no doubt that the proper course for counsel
overwhelmed with briefs to pursue is to return those that he cannot
attend to, thereby enabling his client to obtain legal assistance
elsewhere, and at the same time distributing a little work among his
less fortunate brethren of the Bar. The public are, however, at fault
in insisting on retaining an eminent advocate at a fancy price, when
their cases could be just as well conducted at much smaller cost by
men whose names figure less frequently in the reports of important
trials. In any sensational _cause célèbre_ it is almost certain that
the names of Sir Charles Russell, Sir Edward Clarke, and Mr. Lockwood,
will appear on one side or the other. These eminent men have, in fact,
the pick of the work, and the same may be said, in regard to great
commercial cases, of Sir R. Webster and Mr. Finlay, and, before his
recent elevation to the Bench, of Mr. Henn-Collins.

The work of a somewhat less distinguished character is in the hands
of half a dozen Queen's counsel, among whom may be mentioned Mr.
Kemp, Mr. Willis, Mr. Jelf, and Mr. Winch, while there is a "tail" of
"silks" who, not being fortunate enough to rank as popular favourites,
have to content themselves with a very much smaller practice as well
as smaller fees. Under the present conditions there is nothing like
a fair distribution of work among the leaders of the Bar. This is
perhaps in a great measure due to the action of solicitors, who, if
they have a rich client in a big action, are sure to run after one of
the half-dozen most popular advocates, and with a less wealthy client
they will retain one of the next half-dozen. It is indeed curious to
observe how slavishly solicitors run after the most eminent counsel on
the chance of securing their services, rather than entrust their briefs
to less noted men, who, even if their ability be less, would at least
make up for it by greater assiduity and closer attention. The result
is that these favoured gentlemen may be seen popping in and out of the
ten or twelve Queen's Bench Courts that are sitting at the same time,
examining a witness in one place, and addressing the jury in another;
while their imperfect knowledge of their cases must inevitably tell to
the disadvantage of their clients, who perhaps have paid them fees of
one or even two hundred guineas, with corresponding refreshers.

[Illustration: SIR HENRY JAMES. SIR RICHARD WEBSTER. SIR CHARLES
RUSSELL.]

From what we have said it will be obvious that it is only the very
few who can hope to become wealthy at the Bar, and such a lottery
is "taking silk" that many "juniors" refuse to have the distinction
conferred upon them, preferring the modest income that they are able
to earn to the uncertainty and disappointment that falls to the lot of
most of those who become leaders. Even a prosperous junior who gives up
his practice to become a Q.C. runs the risk of being left out in the
cold altogether.

A state of things that practically places the monopoly of the legal
work in a few hands tends neither to the advantage of the public nor to
the prosperity of the Bar as a body. The evil is undoubtedly caused by
the centralisation of litigation in London, and the compression within
a few months of the year of the whole of the High Court business.
There is no valid reason why the Courts should not sit the whole
year through, and barristers and judges take their holidays as they
personally like to arrange. The amalgamation of the two branches of
the legal profession has been much discussed in recent years, and it
has many warm advocates both among barristers and solicitors, one of
the strongest being the Solicitor-General. But no doubt the majority
are opposed to the suggested change. Its supporters, in fact, are for
the most part to be found among ambitious young solicitors who have
acquired a taste for advocacy in the Police and County Courts. They
urge that it would cheapen litigation, inasmuch as there would be only
one person to pay instead of two, and they point to the United States
and to the Colonies as indicating that amalgamation would work well. In
great cities, however, the division of labour between the advocate and
the solicitor, although theoretically non-existent, is in reality very
similar to what it is in this country. The advocate must always be the
advocate, and nothing more, and the drudgery of preparing the material
for him to work upon must be reserved for other persons, whether they
occupy the position of solicitors, partners, or clerks.

Under the present system, a solicitor can exercise his judgment in
retaining the counsel most suited to his client's case, an advantage
which would disappear if solicitors had barristers for partners.
The solicitor, it should be remembered, has multifarious duties in
connection with litigation, whilst the barrister is only the adviser
on points of law and the advocate. It is further to be observed that
the barrister, not being associated with the pecuniary interests of
his client, but arguing his case solely on legal grounds, and on
the weight of evidence, possesses a degree of independence and a
reputation for trustworthiness which, if he were a solicitor as well,
he would be unable to enjoy. It is not from an amalgamation, such as
that suggested, that an amelioration of the present system is to be
looked for. Notwithstanding its high reputation, the Bar, by tamely
submitting to a system that works out to its own detriment, is itself
responsible not only for its own unsatisfactory condition, whereby
the bulk of the profits of the profession go into a few hands, but
also in a considerable degree for the gross defects of our judicial
system. Recently the members of the Bar have formed among themselves a
Bar Committee to protect their interests, but it appears to have done
little practical work, and to be little more than a mutual admiration
society.

[Illustration: IN THE TEMPLE CHURCH.]

It is obviously to the interest of the leading and wealthy members
of the profession, several of whom are legislators, that the present
state of things should continue. They make splendid incomes within the
short legal year; while the Long Vacation, which completely closes the
Courts, prevents the intrusion of competitors during their holidays.
The present system practically secures to them a monopoly of work,
and gives them an extravagant time for rest and enjoyment. The Long
Vacation, then, which is also the chief cause of the law's delay, is at
the root of the evil. The younger barristers as well as the less lucky
Queen's counsel, who are anxious for work that they are fully capable
of performing, would regard with pleasure the abolition or curtailment
of the Vacation, as a means of enabling them to share in that work
which cannot properly be done within the brief period now occupied.

Are the members of the Bar, notwithstanding all their boasted
independence, afraid to speak out even in their own interests? They
alone are capable of properly exposing the scandals of our judicial
system, and of bringing about improvements that would be as much to
the advantage of the public as of themselves; and yet their voice is
uniformly silent. It is certain that had the leaders of the Bar opened
their lips in the House of Commons, those scandals to which we adverted
in former articles would either have been non-existent or would have
been promptly remedied. It is not, however, from the leaders of the Bar
that reform is to be expected; the first step must be taken by the rank
and file, who, by a united movement showing that they do indeed possess
independence and grit, will increase their own prosperity and at the
same time commend themselves to the public.




_The Home for Lost Dogs._


The Home for Lost Dogs, near Battersea Park, is a veritable haven
of rest for the "lost and strayed." It was started in the most
unpretentious way, some thirty years ago, in a back kitchen at
Islington; to-day its premises possess ample accommodation for the
temporary lodging of over 20,000 wanderers every year; indeed, during
1890, no fewer than 21,593 passed through its gates (homes being found
for 3,388), 1,771 were restored to their owners, and 1,617 new homes
were provided where satisfactory safeguards were assured. Such are the
interesting canine statistics given to us as we start on our tour of
inspection, under the guidance of Mr. Matthias Colam, the secretary.

We have entered the great red gates, and stand for a moment upon the
threshold of the Receiving House, for a van passes almost at our
elbow. Its appearance suggests "police"; at any rate, the driver is an
indisputable representative of law and order in mufti. Those familiar
cries betray who the inmates are--all sorts and conditions of dogs
picked up by the police; this is a deposit of some thirty lost animals
about to find apartments for a time. When the muzzling order was first
put into force, such a van would have to run over to Battersea three
and four times a day, and then leave a load of the lost behind. The
conveyance is specially constructed for this purpose. Our friendly
"policeman in plain clothes" opens the back door, and there one can see
that the interior of the van is made into a tenement of two floors,
the bigger dogs being placed below, and the more diminutive species
above. Iron rings are arranged round the sides, to which the animals
are attached by their chains. A small but important apartment, however,
is that placed at the bottom of the van, between the two back wheels.
It takes the form of a cage, with iron bars and a grating of fine
wire. This is designed for the accommodation of a more than usually
troublesome dog, sometimes one that is mad, so that he is carried from
the police-station to the "Home" without upsetting the quieter-disposed
dispositions of his fellow-animals above.

[Illustration: IN THE CAGE.]

Of course some dogs are brought here by kind-hearted individuals
other than the police, and as many as 500 from all sources have been
received in the course of a day. It is impossible to single out one
part of London more famous for its "lost" than another--they arrive
from the East and from the West. That delightful little King Charles
which is just now cuddled up in a corner of the Receiving House has
probably strayed from its customary luxuriousness of a drawing-room
in Belgravia--it will surely be claimed in a few hours--whilst its
next-door neighbour is a bull-dog, with a prodigious head, which
strongly suggests pugilism and Whitechapel. The Receiving House is
situated on your immediate right. It is the first room into which
the lost dog goes when it claims admission to the home. A dozen dogs
are waiting to be examined--collies, fox terriers, and two or three
nondescripts in addition to the tiny King Charles and massive bull-dog
already caught sight of. On a beam above, which stretches from one side
of the apartment to the other, are hanging the chains and collars of
the animals admitted during the past week, under their proper divisions
of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and so on. This little collection of a
dozen are taken in hand one by one. Should any of them be suffering
from rabies, they are at once sent to the "Condemned Cell," to which
we shall presently pay a visit. The hon. veterinary surgeon, A. J.
Sewell, Esq., is sent for, and if he endorses the opinion of the
receiver--himself a man who "knows a dog"--the animal is at once
destroyed. Some poor creatures pass a day or two in the Infirmary, and
are quickly mended under kind and humane treatment, whilst those dogs
who have had their day, and are past all aid, are destroyed.

[Illustration: THE RECEIVING ROOM.]

This Receiving House has been accorded Royal patronage, for amongst
what might be called the canine sweepings of London who have found
their way here, the Duchess of Teck's dog has looked in; so has the
Marquis of Harrington's, and Lord Brassey's. Amongst the rarest of the
wanderers located here have been a couple of African sand dogs, little
creatures without a vestige of hair on their bodies, saving a relieving
tuft on the head. Even at the Dogs' Home many a romance might be found.
Think of a poor lost creature being picked up for a few shillings--for
dogs may be purchased after a certain lapse of time--and then running
away with its new owner and winning an important prize at the Brighton
show! More startling still was the case of a bloodhound sold to Mr.
Mark Beaufoy, M.P., for a small sum. That dog, once numbered amongst
the lost, was destined to become the mother of the champion bloodhound
of the world--"Cromwell." Dogs have been sold over and over again and
have returned. One little story which we hear as we pass into the main
yard is worth repeating.

"Bluebeard" was his name, and he was a lively boarhound. All that is
known of his early life is that he was found walking about, without
visible means of subsistence, in the vicinity of Wandsworth. He was
lost--hence, away with him to Battersea. On four separate occasions
"Bluebeard" was restored, and every time he found his way back. One
night, after the gates were closed, the keeper heard a tap-tap-tap
at the entrance. It was the paw of a dog, and when the keeper opened
the door it was none other than our old friend "Bluebeard" who had
delivered himself up again for the third time. When he crept in he went
straight to his former kennel. Eventually, "Bluebeard" was despatched
to the country, where, according to the latest reports, he is doing
well.

We are now on our way to the kennels--fine, light, airy, and well-built
places. We pause just a moment, however, in the playground; for all the
bigger kennels have a playground in the rear, where the dogs are let
out to enjoy a merry gambol, or indulge in the luxury of a shower-bath,
where at one end of the ground a fountain is playing, under the
refreshing sprays of which the dogs delight to run. Wooden boxes are
provided under which the animals may go in the summer months, when
the sun proves too warm for them, or shelter from the rain during an
occasional shower, or inclement weather. This particular playground
is inhabited principally by large dogs--retrievers, Scotch collies,
greyhounds, and even what are generally known as carriage-dogs. We
invite them to the sides of the playground--round which substantial
iron bars run--and what a noise is there! Yet we are assured that at
night not a sound is to be heard--the sudden shriek of the whistle of
a passing train over the bridge close at hand, or the warning note of
a steam tug on the river never disturbs them. Dogs in company seem to
ensure contentment. You may peep into half a dozen other playgrounds,
where the creatures will be found to be more of a diminutive
type--hundreds of fox-terriers; indeed, it would seem that the lost
terriers number ten times more than any of the other species, whilst
retrievers and collies vie with each other for next place on the roll.
And round these immense open cages good people wander with distressful
countenances in search of those who have left their kennels in the back
garden without notice, or wagged their tails for freedom by forsaking
the comforts of the hearth-rug in the front parlour. Suddenly a visitor
recognises and is recognised.

"Jack, Jack!" the owner cries. Jack jumps up in mad delight, barks and
barks again, makes a frantic effort to pull down the iron bars in its
joy, but all to no avail. Then a keeper enters the playground, picks
Jack up in his arms, and surely never was a happier recognition. It
is really this that those in authority at Battersea depend upon more
than anything else, so as to ensure the lost animal being returned to
its rightful owner. As a rule, the person losing a dog goes into the
yard accompanied by a keeper. He picks out a dog, and it is fastened
near the gates, where it can be seen from the office. The owner is
invited to this part of the yard, and the keeper watches how the dog
and its master meet one another again. This simple plan seldom fails.
Furthermore, a set of questions have to be answered by the claimant,
and mistakes seldom occur.

[Illustration: THE PLAYGROUND.]

It is whilst we are watching the dogs at play, just as Jack--lost no
longer--is tripping away merrily over the stones of the yard, that we
are entertained with numerous anecdotes by our genial guide. We hear of
a devoted owner of a little pet terrier. Hers was but an instance of
many who come several miles in search of their favourites. This lady
travelled some six or seven miles every day for a week in the hopes
of having this same little terrier returned to her. It was the last
day of the week, and there was the affectionate owner scanning eagerly
every dog that entered. At last the rumble of the wheels of the police
van was heard, and when the door was opened, there amongst the other
inmates lay a tiny creature in the corner fast asleep.

"That's Dot! my little Dot!" cried the lady, and at the sound of her
voice the wandering terrier jumped up, and seemed as though it would
go mad ere one of the assistants could loosen its chain. Dot went away
again with its mistress.

[Illustration: THE KENNELS.]

It is needless to say--to put it kindly--that wrongful appropriators of
dogs occasionally pay a visit to Battersea, and a capital story is told
of one of these gentry who had seen a kind-hearted policeman taking in
a lost pug that same morning.

"Good mornin', sir," said this worthy, entering the office; "I've lost
my dawg, and if you don't mind, I should feel mich obliged if yer'd let
me 'ave a look round the 'ome?"

"What sort of a dog was it?" asked the secretary, coming in at that
moment, and recognising the man as a well-known dog stealer. "When did
you lose it?"

"This mornin', sir. An' it's a pug, with a collar and studs and a blue
ribbin round its neck."

"Quite right--we had such a dog come in this morning," the secretary
said. "Just wait a moment--sit down."

Our friend from Whitechapel did, evidently much pleased with his
tactics.

In a few moments he was invited to step into the yard, where some four
or five pugs were held in check by a keeper.

"Which is yours?" was asked.

"Vy, that's it, sir--that with the collar and blue ribbon round 'is
neck. See 'ow 'e knows me!"

When this enterprising gentleman was told that the dog he had chosen
had been in the home a fortnight, and, further, that the collar and
ribbon had been taken off the real dog's neck and temporarily decorated
the throat of another animal, Whitechapel was somewhat abashed, and was
glad to get away.

The principal kennels are in the centre of the yard, and are divided
into compartments denoting the various days on which the dog entered,
so that at the completion of the period which the law requires all
dogs should be kept, the animal will have been a temporary tenant of
all of them in rotation. The two sexes are separated immediately they
enter, and you may walk down the centre avenue enjoying the frolics of
the merriest of fox-terriers in one cage, and stay to admire the fine
coat of a lost St. Bernard, or pat a good-looking collie on the back
as they look almost pitifully towards you. This little army of dogs
eat some two tons of biscuits and meal in a fortnight. At six o'clock,
when the place is closed, the dogs are bedded down with plenty of clean
straw and a liberal supply of sawdust, and every hour a night watchman
goes his rounds to see that there is no fighting, and to attend to the
Crematorium--the latter one of the most important branches in the work
of the institution.

There is just a moment to peep in at a substantial looking shed,
specially built for the protection of puppies born at the Home. A
magnificent St. Bernard is lying convalescent in the corner. Then,
in another part of the yard, more kennels are visited, scrupulously
clean, patterns of neatness; and one compartment in the far corner
rivets our attention for the moment, for a blue enamelled plate bears
the significant word "Dangerous." It would not be well at any time to
attempt to cultivate the acquaintance of any of its inmates.

[Illustration: "DANGEROUS."]

The Home has every reason to be proud of its collies. It was a
smooth-coated collie borrowed from the Home for Lost Dogs which figured
so prominently in the last Military Tournament at the Agricultural
Hall. The dog was borrowed for the purpose of testing the value of the
German system of sending messages by these useful creatures during the
progress of military operations in time of war. The dog was attached to
a cyclist who rode the whole length of the hall--over bridges, ruts,
and other difficulties in the way--the animal following him. Then the
cyclist wrote a message, and tied it round the collie's neck. The way
was pointed out to him, he took a silent view of the road before him,
and then, with a sudden bark suggestive that he understood, away the
collie went, and delivered the despatch safely as required. This dog is
now the property of Major Crabb.

We are now nearing what is, perhaps, the most important part of the
Battersea Home, the Infirmary--which is practically the condemned
cell--the Lethal Chamber, and the Crematorium. The condemned cell
is a huge kennel separated into two compartments, through the iron
grating of which often as many as a hundred dogs are to be counted.
It should be said that a dog is never put to death unless it is past
all cure, and, further, that the means employed are as quick and
humane as scientists have yet discovered. For many years the method of
killing was by the administration of hydrocyanic acid, but Dr. B. W.
Richardson, F.R.S., conclusively proved that the most painless way of
causing death was by the use of narcotic vapour, and he superintended
the erection of an excellent Lethal Chamber, which was finished in May,
1884, and since then has been in constant use.

[Illustration: THE CONDEMNED CELL.]

It is possible to narcotise as many as a hundred dogs at one time.
This generally takes place at night. The unfortunate animals are
conveyed from the Condemned Cell to a large cage some ten feet long,
by four feet in depth and width. Two such cages--each of which is
divided into tiers--are here. When the dogs are safely secured in the
cage, they are taken to the chamber, the door of which is unlocked,
the bar-bolt lifted, and the cage with its inmates is run into the
Lethal apartment. Here it remains for some six or seven minutes, during
which time the chamber is charged with carbonic acid gas, and a spray
of chloroform is pumped in, which the dogs immediately inhale. This
process of bringing about all that is needed is not strangulation or
suffocation, but is essentially a death sleep. There are also two
smaller chambers presented to the Home by Dr. Richardson, constructed
on similar principles, intended for use when a dog has to be destroyed
at once.

[Illustration: LETHAL CHAMBER AND CREMATORIUM.]

Exactly opposite the Lethal Chamber is the Crematorium. This is a white
brick structure, with a chimney some 65 ft. high. It is so built that
the bodies of the dogs do not in any way come in contact with the fuel;
the heat being obtained from the coke furnace below. The door of the
Crematorium is wound up by the means of a windlass, and the interior
reveals a space of about 10 ft. long by 9 ft. in width. After the lapse
of some five or six hours from leaving the Lethal Chamber, the animals
are put in here. By the morning all that of them is a few charred
bones, and in a corner of the yard may be seen a dozen or so of sacks,
containing all that remains of many a domestic pet, waiting for the
soap-makers (who buy them) to come and fetch them away. The number of
dogs thus destroyed every week averages three hundred.

A very touching incident occurred just where we are standing, only a
few weeks before.

A gentleman entered the gates of the home, followed by as pure a a
St. Bernard as could be wished for. He said quietly that he wanted it
to be destroyed. The secretary looked at it. A valuable dog indeed;
a splendid creature. The owner knew it. No money would purchase it,
but, unfortunately, the dog had proved himself a bit snappish, and his
master had only just paid a considerable sum of money as atonement for
damage done. It was to be destroyed.

[Illustration: THE CAT'S HOUSE.]

The master left the dog, and said he would return in an hour's time.
He did so, and by this time the creature had been taken to the Lethal
Chamber, and lay there on a slab apparently asleep. It was hard
for his master to believe that he was dead. The gentleman even felt
the dog's heart to see if it was beating, but there was no sign of
movement. Then he broke down; the strong, stalwart fellow burst into
tears as he talked to his favourite. He told the dead creature that
they had been companions for ten years, and he felt the parting more
than that of a brother.

Again he went away, but the next day found him once more at the gates.
He had had no sleep--could he see his dog again? But it was too late.
All that was left of the once envied St. Bernard was a few ashes, and
without a word the heart-broken master turned and left the place.

One corner of the premises is particularly interesting, and we look
in whilst passing. It is the cats' house. These are in many instances
stray cats, picked up in West-end areas, and brought to Battersea by
benevolent ladies. They are fed twice a day. In the morning they get
new milk, and a varied diet of the customary horse-flesh and fish.
Many parcels of fish are sent as presents for the cats. The frolicsome
pussies have decidedly comfortable quarters, and they, too, have a
playground, in which are planted tree trunks, of which they freely
avail themselves. One of the cats' houses is peculiarly noticeable.
These are the boarders, for cats may be left here at a charge of 1s.
6d. per week. This little collection in front of us is the property of
a lady who has no fewer than a dozen here. All have their pet names,
and she frequently comes to feed them herself. These splendid Persians
and Angoras--the latter with a marvellous tail--have been residents
here for some three years, and amongst them may be seen a fine specimen
of a Russian cat with a wonderful head, which seems to while away
its time by curling itself up in its own particular box or sleeping
apartment; and a bob-tail may also be found playing merrily.

As we leave the yard, we look in at the men's reading-room, plentifully
supplied with newspapers, and a small library, the shelves of which
are principally taken up by volumes of a "doggy" nature. The office,
too, must not be forgotten. These rows of immense ledgers contain
the records of hundreds of thousands of dogs which have enjoyed the
hospitality of the Institution at some time or other. The Board-room
is a fine apartment, and round the sides of its walls legacies and
donations are chronicled in letters of gold. Framed missives from
Royalty may be read in abundance--Her Majesty the Queen, the Prince of
Wales, and the Duke of Cambridge are the patrons of the Home. There
is recorded in a book at Battersea an expression of opinion, none
other than that of Her Majesty, which is worthy of being quoted in
these pages. On the occasion of the Queen's Jubilee an address was
presented by those interested in the work in connection with this very
admirable institution. Her Majesty made reply and said:--"The objects
of your association appear to be deserving of the greatest sympathy and
commendation; and your solicitude for the welfare of dogs, the friends
of man, who have shown so much zeal, fidelity, and affection in the
service of mankind, is the fitting complement of the charity which
strives to comfort and succour the unfortunate and afflicted members of
our own race."

[Illustration]

[Illustration:




THE HERMIT]

A STORY FOR CHILDREN: FROM THE FRENCH OF VOLTAIRE.


In the reign of King Moabdar there lived at Babylon a young man named
Zadig. He was handsome, rich, and naturally good-hearted; and at the
moment when this story opens, he was travelling on foot to see the
world, and to learn philosophy and wisdom. But, hitherto, he had
encountered so much misery, and endured so many terrible disasters,
that he had become tempted to rebel against the will of Heaven, and
to believe that the Providence which rules the world neglects the
good, and lets the evil prosper. In this unhappy spirit he was one
day walking on the banks of the Euphrates, when he chanced to meet a
venerable hermit, whose snowy beard descended to his girdle, and who
carried in his hand a scroll which he was reading with attention. Zadig
stopped, and made him a low bow. The hermit returned the salutation
with an air so kindly, and so noble, that Zadig felt a curiosity to
speak to him. He inquired what scroll was that which he was reading.

"It is the Book of Destiny," replied the hermit, "would you like to
read it?"

He handed it to Zadig; but the latter, though he knew a dozen
languages, could not understand a word of it. His curiosity increased.

"You appear to be in trouble," said the kindly hermit.

"Alas!" said Zadig, "I have cause to be so."

"If you will allow me," said the hermit, "I will accompany you. Perhaps
I may be useful to you. I am sometimes able to console the sorrowful."

[Illustration: THE MYSTERIOUS SCROLL.]

Zadig felt a deep respect for the appearance, the white beard, and
the mysterious scroll of the old hermit, and perceived that his
conversation was that of a superior mind. The old man spoke of destiny,
of justice, of morality, of the chief good of life, of human frailty,
of virtue and of vice, with so much power and eloquence, that Zadig
felt himself attracted by a kind of charm, and besought the hermit not
to leave him until they should return to Babylon.

"I ask you the same favour," said the hermit. "Promise me that,
whatever I may do, you will keep me company for several days."

Zadig gave the promise; and they set forth together.

[Illustration: "THEY WERE SERVED WITH DELICACIES."]

That night the travellers arrived at a grand mansion. The hermit
begged for food and lodging for himself and his companion. The
porter, who might have been mistaken for a prince, ushered them in
with a contemptuous air of welcome. The chief servant showed them the
magnificent apartments; and they were then admitted to the bottom
of the table, where the master of the mansion did not condescend to
cast a glance at them. They were, however, served with delicacies in
profusion, and after dinner washed their hands in a golden basin set
with emeralds and rubies. They were then conducted for the night into a
beautiful apartment; and the next morning, before they left the castle,
a servant brought them each a piece of gold.

"The master of the house," said Zadig, as they went their way, "appears
to be a generous man, although a trifle haughty. He practises a noble
hospitality." As he spoke, he perceived that a kind of large pouch
which the hermit carried appeared singularly distended; within it was
the golden basin, set with precious stones, which the old man had
purloined. Zadig was amazed; but he said nothing.

At noon the hermit stopped before a little house, in which lived a
wealthy miser, and once more asked for hospitality. An old valet in a
shabby coat received them very rudely, showed them into the stable,
and set before them a few rotten olives, some mouldy bread, and beer
which had turned sour. The hermit ate and drank with as much content
as he had shown the night before; then, addressing the old valet, who
had kept his eye upon them to make sure that they stole nothing, he
gave him the two gold pieces which they had received that morning, and
thanked him for his kind attention. "Be so good," he added, "as to let
me see your master."

The astonished valet showed them in.

"Most mighty signor," said the hermit, "I can only render you my humble
thanks for the noble manner in which you have received us. I beseech
you to accept this golden basin as a token of my gratitude."

The miser almost fell backwards with amazement. The hermit, without
waiting for him to recover, set off with speed, with his companion.

"Holy Father," said Zadig, "what does all this mean? You seem to me to
resemble other men in nothing. You steal a golden basin set with jewels
from a Signor who receives you with magnificence, and you give it to a
curmudgeon who treats you with indignity."

"My son," replied the hermit, "this mighty lord, who only welcomes
travellers through vanity, and to display his riches, will henceforth
grow wiser, while the miser will be taught to practise hospitality. Be
amazed at nothing, and follow me."

Zadig knew not whether he was dealing with the most foolish or the
wisest of all men. But the hermit spoke with such ascendency that
Zadig, who besides was fettered by his promise, had no choice except to
follow him.

That night they came to an agreeable house, of simple aspect, and
showing signs of neither prodigality nor avarice. The owner was a
philosopher, who had left the world, and who studied peacefully the
rules of virtue and of wisdom, and who yet was happy and contented.
He had built this calm retreat to please himself, and he received
the strangers in it with a frankness which displayed no sign of
ostentation. He conducted them himself to a comfortable chamber, where
he made them rest awhile; then he returned to lead them to a dainty
little supper. During their conversation they agreed that the affairs
of this world are not always regulated by the opinions of the wisest
men. But the hermit still maintained that the ways of Providence are
wrapt in mystery, and that men do wrong to pass their judgment on a
universe of which they only see the smallest part. Zadig wondered how a
person who committed such mad acts could reason so correctly.

At length, after a conversation as agreeable as instructive, the host
conducted the two travellers to their apartment, and thanked heaven
for sending him two visitors so wise and virtuous. He offered them
some money, but so frankly that they could not feel offended. The old
man declined, and desired to say farewell, as he intended to depart
for Babylon at break of day. They therefore parted on the warmest
terms, and Zadig, above all, was filled with kindly feelings towards so
amiable a man.

When the hermit and himself were in their chamber, they spent some time
in praises of their host. At break of day the old man woke his comrade.

"We must be going," he remarked. "But while everyone is still asleep, I
wish to leave this worthy man a pledge of my esteem." With these words,
he took a torch and set the house on fire.

[Illustration: "THE HERMIT DREW HIM AWAY."]

Zadig burst forth into cries of horror, and would have stopped the
frightful act. But the hermit, by superior strength, drew him away. The
house was in a blaze; and the old man, who was now a good way off with
his companion, looked back calmly at the burning pile.

"Heaven be praised!" he cried, "our kind host's house is destroyed from
top to bottom!"

At these words Zadig knew not whether he should burst out laughing,
call the reverend father an old rascal, knock him down, or run away.
But he did neither. Still subdued by the superior manner of the hermit,
he followed him against his will to their next lodging.

This was the dwelling of a good and charitable widow, who had a nephew
of fourteen, her only hope and joy. She did her best to use the
travellers well; and the next morning she bade her nephew guide them
safely past a certain bridge, which, having recently been broken, had
become dangerous to cross over. The youth, eager to oblige them, led
the way.

"Come," said the hermit, when they were half across the bridge, "I must
show my gratitude towards your aunt;" and as he spoke he seized the
young man by the hair and threw him into the river. The youth fell,
reappeared for an instant on the surface, and then was swallowed by the
torrent.

[Illustration: "ANGEL OF HEAVEN!" CRIED ZADIG.]

"Oh, monster!" exclaimed Zadig, "oh, most detestable of men!"----

"You promised me more patience," interrupted the old man. "Listen!
Beneath the ruins of that house which Providence saw fit to set on
fire, the owner will discover an enormous treasure; while this young
man, whose existence Providence cut short, would have killed his aunt
within a year, and you yourself in two."

"Who told you so, barbarian?" cried Zadig, "and even if you read the
issue in your Book of Destiny, who gave you power to drown a youth who
never injured you?"

While he spoke, he saw that the old man had a beard no longer, and that
his face had become fair and young; his hermit's frock had disappeared;
four white wings covered his majestic form, and shone with dazzling
lustre.

"Angel of heaven!" cried Zadig, "you are then descended from the skies
to teach an erring mortal to submit to the eternal laws?"

"Men," replied the angel Jezrael, "judge all things without knowledge;
and you, of all men, most deserved to be enlightened. The world
imagines that the youth who has just perished fell by chance into the
water, and that by a like chance the rich man's house was set on fire.
But there is no such thing as chance; all is trial, or punishment, or
foresight. Feeble mortal, cease to argue and rebel against what you
ought to adore!"

As he spoke these words the angel took his flight to heaven. And Zadig
fell upon his knees.

[Illustration: FINIS]




INDEX.

[Illustration]


                                                                      PAGE

  ACTORS' DRESSING ROOMS                                               178
  (_Illustrations_ by W. H. J. BOOT, R.B.A.)

  ANECDOTES OF THE WAR PATH                                            576
  (_Written_ and _Illustrated_ by IRVING MONTAGU.)

  ANIMALS' HOSPITAL, AT THE                                             70
  (_Illustrations_ from Special Photographs and from Drawings by Miss
    MABEL HARDY.)

  ARCHITECT'S WIFE, THE. From the Spanish of ANTONIO TRUEBA            248
  (_Illustrations_ by SIDNEY PAGET, and W. H. J. BOOT, R.B.A.)

  ARTISTS ON LADIES' DRESS, LETTERS FROM                               162
  (_Illustrations_ by G. F. WATTS, R.A., Hon. JOHN COLLIER, and
    Madame STARR CANZIANI.)

  BABIES                                                               348
  (_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)

  BARAK'S WIVES.
      A Story for Children, from the Hungarian of MORITZ JOKAI         220
  (_Illustrations_ by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.)

  BELISAIRE'S PRUSSIAN (_See_ SCENES OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS)             36

  BIRTHDAY CARDS                                                       244
  (_Illustrations_ by EDGAR WILSON.)

  BLIND, HOW EDUCATED                                                  563

  BOY SPY, THE (_See_ SCENES OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS)                     31

  BRIGHT, RIGHT HON. JOHN, FAC-SIMILE NOTES OF SPEECH OF               206

  BURNSIDE, MISS HELEN M.                                              245

  CAMILLE. From the French of ALFRED DE MUSSET                         318
  (_Illustrations_ by H. FORESTIER.)

  CANNIBAL KING, THE GUEST OF A                                        476

  CAPTAIN JONES OF THE "ROSE." By W. CLARK RUSSELL                     491
  (_Illustrations_ by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)

  CHILD WORKERS IN LONDON                                              501
  (_Illustrations_ by Miss LE QUESNE.)

  CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, AT THE                                          197
  (_Illustrations_ by Miss KATE CRAUFURD and HAROLD OAKLEY.)

  CHILDREN'S STORIES:--
    BARAK'S WIVES                                                      220
    ENCHANTED WHISTLE, THE                                             552
    GENIES, THE TWO                                                    105
    HERMIT, THE                                                        655
    SPIDER'S WEB, THE                                                  437
    STONE-BREAKER, THE                                                 328

  COUNTY COURT, THE                                                    531

  DAY WITH AN EAST-END PHOTOGRAPHER, A                                 458
  (_Illustrations_ by J. L. WIMBUSH.)

  DEADLY DILEMMA, A. By GRANT ALLEN                                     14
  (_Illustrations_ by W. RAINEY.)

  DECAY OF HUMOUR IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
      By HENRY W. LUCY ("TOBY, M.P.")                                  254
  (_Illustrations_ by F. C. GOULD.)

  DOGS, HOME FOR LOST                                                  648
  (_Illustrations_ by Miss MABEL D. HARDY.)

  DRESSING-ROOMS, ACTORS'                                              178

  EAST-END PHOTOGRAPHER, A DAY WITH AN                                 458

  EIGHTEENTH CENTURY JULIET, AN. A Story founded on the French.
      By JAMES MORTIMER                                                447
  (_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

  ENCHANTED WHISTLE, THE. From the French of ALEX. DUMAS               552
  (_Illustrations_ by H. MILLAR.)

  FAC-SIMILES:--
    HANDBILL OF H. M. STANLEY'S FIRST LECTURE                          285
    HUMOURS OF THE POST OFFICE                                    520, 599
    NOVELISTS' MSS.                                                    295
    PLAYWRIGHTS' MSS.                                                  415
    SERMON NOTES BY CARDINAL MANNING                                    84
    SPEECH BY JOHN BRIGHT                                              206

  FAIR SMUGGLER, A. From the Russian of MICHAEL LERMONTOFF              49
  (_Illustrations_ by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.)

  FIRE BRIGADE, THE METROPOLITAN, ITS HOME, AND WORK                    22

  GENIES, THE TWO, A Story for Children. From the French of VOLTAIRE   105
  (_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)

  GRANDE CHARTREUSE, A NIGHT AT THE. By J. E. MUDDOCK                  268
  (_Illustrations_ by G. LAMBERT and HAROLD OAKLEY.)

  GUEST OF A CANNIBAL KING, THE. By J. E. MUDDOCK                      476
  (_Illustrations_ by F. BANNISTER.)

  HERMIT, THE. From the French of VOLTAIRE                             655
  (_Illustrations_ by ALAN WRIGHT.)

  HOW NOVELISTS WRITE FOR THE PRESS. Fac-similes of the MSS. of
    WILLIAM BLACK, WALTER BESANT, BRET HARTE, and GRANT ALLEN.         295

  HOW THE BLIND ARE EDUCATED. By EDWARD SALMON                         563
  (_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)

  HOUSE OF COMMONS, DECAY OF HUMOUR IN THE.
      By H. W. LUCY ("TOBY, M.P.")                                     254

  HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN. From the French of PROSPER MÉRIMÊE        174
  (_Illustrations_ by SIDNEY PAGET.)

  JAMRACH'S                                                            429
  (_Illustrations_ by J. L. WIMBUSH.)

  JANKO THE MUSICIAN. From the Polish of SIENKIEWICZ                   628
  (_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)

  JENNY. From the French of VICTOR HUGO                                527
  (_Illustrations_ by CYRUS JOHNSON, R.I.)

  JERRY STOKES, By GRANT ALLEN                                         299
  (_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)

  KING'S STRATAGEM, THE. By S. J. WEYMAN                               361
  (_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

  LADIES' DRESS, LETTERS FROM ARTISTS ON                               162

  LADIES, A NEW INDUSTRY FOR                                           378

  LANDSEER, A PICTURE-LETTER BY                                        334

  LAW COURTS, THE STATE OF THE                               402, 531, 638
  (_Illustrations_ by A. LUDOVICI.)

  LAWSON, SIR WILFRID                                                  359

  LONDON, CHILD WORKERS IN                                             501

  LONDON, OLD STONE SIGNS OF                                           487

  LOST DOGS, HOME FOR                                                  648

  LUCKIEST MAN IN THE COLONY, THE. By E. W. HORNUNG                    422
  (_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)

  MAID OF TREPPI, THE. From the German of PAUL HEYSE               57, 133
  (_Illustrations_ by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.)

  MAKING AN ANGEL. By J. HARWOOD PANTING                               235
  (_Illustrations_ by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.)

  MATHEW, FATHER                                                       357

  METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE, THE: ITS HOME AND WORK                     22
  (_Illustrations_ from Special Photographs by the LONDON
    STEREOSCOPIC COMPANY, and Drawings by Miss MABEL HARDY and W. B.
    WOLLEN, R.I.)

  MINISTER'S CRIME, THE. By MACLAREN COBBAN                            185
  (_Illustrations_ by W. S. STACEY.)

  MINT, THE                                                            143

  MIRROR, THE. From the French of LEO LESPES                            78
  (_Illustrations_ by N. PRESCOTT DAVIES)

  MONEY MANUFACTORY, OUR                                               143
  (_Illustrations_ by J. JOHNSON.)

  NEW INDUSTRY FOR LADIES, A. By Miss GRACE HARRIMAN                   378
  (_Illustrations_ by Miss I. G. BRITTAIN.)

  NIGHT AT THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE, A                                    268

  NIGHT IN AN OPIUM DEN, A. By the Author of "A Dead Man's Diary"      624
  (_Illustrations_ by J. L. WIMBUSH.)

  NIGHT WITH THE THAMES POLICE, A                                      124
  (_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)

  NOTORIOUS MISS ANSTRUTHER, THE. By E. W. HORNUNG                     466
  (_Illustrations_ by W. S. STACEY.)

  NOVELISTS, HOW THEY WRITE FOR THE PRESS                              295

  OLD STONE SIGNS OF LONDON                                            487
  (_Written_ and _illustrated_ by C. B. B. BARRETT.)

  ON THE STUMP FOR THE PUMP. By Sir WILFRID LAWSON                     356
  (_Illustrations_ by J. F. SULLIVAN, C. HARRISON, and from Photographs.)

  ORCHIDS: FROM A POPULAR POINT OF VIEW                                391
  (_Illustrations_ by J. H. HIPSLEY.)

  OUR MONEY MANUFACTORY                                                143
  (_Illustrations_ by J. JOHNSON.)

  OUT OF A PIONEER'S TRUNK. By BRET HARTE                              571
  (_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)

  PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, THE. From the German of JULIUS THEIS              539
  (_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)

  PASSION IN THE DESERT, A. From the French of BALZAC                  210
  (_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)

  PICTURE-LETTER, A. By Sir EDWIN LANDSEER                             334

  PICTURES WITH HISTORIES                                         227, 335
  (_Illustrations_ from pictures by REYNOLDS, GAINSBOROUGH, LANDSEER,
    and E. T. PARRIS, and Drawings by ALAN WRIGHT.)

  PIECE OF GOLD, THE. From the French of FRANÇOIS COPPÉE               308
  (_Illustrations_ by J. FINNEMORE.)

  PISTOL-SHOT, THE. From the Russian of ALEXANDER PUSHKIN              115
  (_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

  PORTRAITS OF CELEBRITIES AT DIFFERENT TIMES OF THEIR LIVES:--

  ALBANI, MADAME                                                       597
  ARGYLE, DUKE OF                                                      280
  BANCROFT, MR. AND MRS.                                               159
  BARRETT, WILSON                                                      512
  BLACK, WILLIAM                                                       282
  BLACKIE, PROFESSOR                                                    42
  BRADLAUGH, CHARLES                                                   376
  CLARENCE AND AVONDALE, DUKE OF                                       594
  EMPRESS OF GERMANY                                                   279
  FARJEON, B. L.                                                       515
  FIFE, DUCHESS OF                                                     595
  GEORGE, PRINCE                                                       596
  GLADSTONE, W. E                                                      156
  GRANVILLE, EARL                                                      370
  HAGGARD, H. RIDER                                                     48
  HARE, JOHN                                                           158
  HUXLEY, PROFESSOR                                                    160
  IRVING, HENRY                                                         45
  JANSEN, MISS AGNES                                                   598
  JOACHIM, HERR                                                        516
  JONES, HENRY A.                                                      518
  LANGTRY, MRS.                                                        157
  LUBBOCK, SIR J., BART.                                                47
  MANNING, CARDINAL                                                    154
  MILLAIS, SIR JOHN E., BART. (R.A.)                                   372
  PATTI, ADELINA                                                       161
  PETTITT, H.                                                          377
  PINERO, A. H.                                                        517
  PRINCESS BEATRICE                                                    278
  QUEEN, HER MAJESTY THE                                               277
  RORKE, MISS MARY                                                     517
  RORKE, MISS KATE                                                     593
  RUSKIN, JOHN                                                         155
  SIMS, GEORGE R.                                                      514
  STANLEY, HENRY M.                                                    284
  SPURGEON, REV. C. H.                                                  43
  SWINBURNE, ALGERNON C.                                                46
  TENNYSON, LORD                                                        41
  TERRISS, WILLIAM                                                     375
  TERRY, MISS ELLEN                                                     44
  TERRY, MISS MARION                                                   374
  TOOLE, J. L.                                                         591
  TREE, H. BEERBOHM                                                    281
  WALLIS, SIR PROVO                                                    513
  WATTS, G. F. (R.A.)                                                  371
  WEBSTER, SIR RICHARD                                                 373
  WILLARD, E. S.                                                       592
  WYNDHAM, CHARLES                                                     283

  POST OFFICE, HUMOURS OF THE. WITH FAC-SIMILES                   520, 599

  QUEEN OF SPADES, THE. From the Russian of ALEXANDER PUSHKIN           87
  (Illustrated by PAUL HARDY.)

  QUEEN'S FIRST BABY, THE                                              226

  RYNARD GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED. By WALTER BESANT                  586
  (_Illustrated_ by W. S. STACEY.)

  SCENES OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS                                          31
  1.--The Boy Spy. 2.--Belisaire's Prussian. From the French of
    ALPHONSE DAUDET.
  (_Illustrations_ by SIDNEY PAGET.)

  SCIENCE, THE VOICE OF                                                312

  SERMON BY CARDINAL MANNING, FAC-SIMILE NOTES OF A                     84

  SHAW, CAPTAIN                                                         22

  SILVER HARVEST, A                                                    634
  (_Written_ and _Illustrated_ by H. TUCK.)

  SLAP-BANG. From the French of JULES CLARETIE                         150
  (_Illustrations_ by W. RAINEY.)

  SMUGGLER, A FAIR                                                      49

  SNOWSTORM, THE. From the Russian of ALEXANDER PUSHKIN                258
  (_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

  SPEECH BY JOHN BRIGHT, FAC-SIMILE OF NOTES OF A                      206

  SPIDER'S WEB, THE. From the French of JAQUES NORMAND                 437
  (_Illustrations_ by GORDON BROWNE, R.B.A.)

  STATE OF THE LAW COURTS, THE                               402, 531, 638
  (_Illustrations_ by A. LUDOVICI.)

  STONE-BREAKER, THE. From the French of QUATRELLES                    328
  (_Illustrations_ by ALAN W. WRIGHT.)

  STORIES OF THE VICTORIA CROSS:
      TOLD BY THOSE WHO HAVE WON IT.                         286, 410, 547
  (_Illustrations_ by HARRY PAYNE, SYDNEY PAGET, and W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.)

  STORY OF THE STRAND, THE                                               4
  (_Illustrations_ by G. C. HAITÉ.)

  THAMES POLICE, A NIGHT WITH THE                                      124
  (_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)

  THING THAT GLISTENED, A. By F. R. STOCKTON                           397
  (_Illustrations_ by F. FELLER.)

  THREE BIRDS ON A STILE. By B. L. FARJEON                             612
  (_Illustrations_ by GORDON BROWNE.)

  TORTURE BY HOPE, A. From the French of VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM       559
  (_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)

  TREPPI, THE MAID OF                                                   57

  TWO FISHERS. From the French of GUY DE MAUPASSANT                    343
  (_Illustrations_ by LESLIE BROOKE.)

  VICTORIA CROSS, STORIES OF THE                             286, 410, 547

  VOICE OF SCIENCE, THE. By A. CONAN DOYLE                             312
  (_Illustrations_ by W. S. STACEY.)

  WALTZ IN FAUST, THE. By RICHARD DOWLING                              382
  (_Illustrations_ by ERNEST G. BEACH.)

UNWIN BROTHERS, PRINTERS, 27, PILGRIM STREET, LUDGALE HILL, E.C.




  Transcriber's Notes:


  Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were corrected.

  Punctuation normalized.

  Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed.

  Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.

  Maltese cross is indicated by [+].