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  italics presented like _
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The Strand Magazine - Vol.1 - No. 4 - April 1891


[Illustration: A PICTURE-LETTER.

+By Sir Edwin Landseer.+]




_Pictures with Histories._

(_Continued._)


The frontispiece we are enabled to give this month is penned in what
may be termed pictorial hieroglyphics by Sir Edwin Landseer. The letter
was addressed to Charles George Lewis, the celebrated engraver. The
first house represented is Lewis's residence in Charlotte-street,
whilst the final sketch is a very correct drawing of the artist's house
in St. John's Wood-road. It remains just in the same state to-day, and
is occupied by Mr. H. W. B. Davis, R.A. This delightfully original
missive reads--evidently in response to an invitation:--

[Illustration: WOBURN ABBEY. 1826

A SPORTSMAN'S CARD, BY SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.]

"+Dear Charles+,--I shall be delighted to come to your house, also
Maria, William, and Henry.--Yours, +Neddy Landseer+."

The only other occasion on which Landseer departed from his usual
routine of work seems to have been when he was on a visit to the
Duke of Bedford at Woburn Abbey, in December, 1826, at which time
the artist was in his twenty-third year. He set himself to sketch a
couple of sportsman's cards, of which we give the one considered the
most picturesque, and best calculated to show the great painter's
versatility and ingenuity. The writing is that of the Duke of Bedford,
and, to judge by the number of hares, rabbits, and pheasants bagged,
sport at Woburn Abbey during this particular week must have been fairly
brisk. There is no question as to the genuine nature of this veritable
curiosity, for on the back of it is written the signature--in ink
almost faded--of Lady Georgiana Russell.

From our remarks in the previous chapter on "Pictures with Histories,"
it will be readily gathered that behind nearly every canvas which
Landseer touched some happy incident lies hidden away. His magnificent
work, "A Distinguished Member of the Humane Society," was suggested to
him by seeing the noble creature which figures in the picture carrying
a basket of flowers in its mouth.

"Lion"--a picture he painted for Mr. W. H. Merle for £50--has its story
to tell. Landseer particularly wished to see the dog--Lion--excited.
There chanced to be in the house a live mouse in a trap. The mouse
was let loose, Lion gave chase, and the next instant the mouse had
disappeared. There was no accounting for such a rapid exit, when
somebody suggested that possibly Lion had swallowed it. And such was
the fact; the poor little mouse had found safety in the dog's huge
jowls. Immediately Lion's lips were opened the tiny creature jumped out
uninjured and made good its escape.

Lion, being a particularly powerful dog, was not easy to play tricks
with. On one occasion whilst he was walking along the bank of a canal,
a passing bargeman began to poke him with his oar. With a sudden rush
and a jerk, Lion seized the oar, and lifted his tormentor into the
water. It is interesting to note that Lion's portrait was despatched in
a heavy case to Paris, just at the time of the Revolution, and narrowly
escaped being used as a barricade.

Here is another anecdote of one of Landseer's pictures. "Beauty's Bath"
was a portrait of Miss Eliza Peel, daughter of Sir Robert Peel, in
which she is shown with a pretty little pet poodle, named Fido, in her
arms. At the time the picture was engraved and about to be issued to
the public, Sir Robert was not on the best of terms with the populace.
This the publisher knew, and saw that, if he issued the work as "a
portrait of Miss Peel," it would ruin the sale. Accordingly, he gave it
this very taking title, by which it has ever since been known.

One day Sir Robert met the publisher and demanded why the title had
been changed. He was assured that "Beauty's Bath" was most appropriate.

"Oh! yes, that's all right," said Sir Robert. "I've no objection to
that. Only," he continued thoughtfully, evidently thinking of the pet
poodle and his charming daughter, "which do you intend for the beauty?"

"Well," replied the publisher merrily, "you pay your money and you take
your choice!"

[Illustration: HUNTSMAN AND HOUNDS.]

Landseer loved to have his artistic joke. This is excellently seen in
the two sketches which we reproduce. "Huntsman and Hounds" is a little
pen-and-ink drawing done for Miss Wardrop at the age of thirty-four.
Miss Wardrop, herself, was fond of the pencil and brush, and was
particularly partial to animals. She found no small difficulty in
drawing accurately a horse's hoofs. One day she went to Landseer and
told him frankly of her non-success, at the same time asking him to
give her a hint as to the best way of drawing them correctly. The
artist good-humouredly complied with her request, and showed her that
it was by no means necessary to depict them at all. This he did by
hiding the horse's hoofs in a wealth of grass, as shown in the sketch.

[Illustration: "THE EXPECTANT DOG."]

"The Expectant Dog" is another example of the artist's merry moments.
The poodle was the property of the Hon. F. Byng, a distinguished member
of the Humane Society, and also prominent through his connection with
the Metropolitan Commission of Sewers. Landseer was dining with Mr.
Byng, when he was asked to make a little sketch of Mr. Byng himself.
This he immediately did by drawing that gentleman's favourite dog with
its head up a sewer in the midst of a puddle of water, and a rat making
a very speedy exit at its approach. The eminent Commissioner of Sewers
saw the joke at once, as did also his friends, and for many a long day
he was known by the nickname of "Poodle Byng."

We now turn to some works by Sir Joshua Reynolds, to which a history is
attached, and, in so doing, there occurs a somewhat curious incident,
which has the interest of connecting two of our greatest painters. Sir
Joshua's famous picture of "The Gleaners" shows one of the toilers of
the field carrying a bundle of wheat on her head. This figure was put
in, as the lady--Miss Potts--who posed as the model for it, happened
to be staying with her friends, the Macklins, where Sir Joshua was
staying also. Miss Potts was destined to become the mother of Sir
Edwin Landseer; for, some time afterwards, she met John Landseer,
loved and married him. In passing, it may be mentioned that Sir Joshua
is credited with having expressed the opinion that if an artist
painted four or five distinctly original subjects in his lifetime,
the achievement should be sufficient to satisfy the demands of the
expectant public. Hence he painted no fewer than a quartette of "The
Strawberry Girl," each single picture being as good as the others,
though probably the first one painted would be preferred for choice.
Any of them would easily fetch £2,000 or £3,000 each. We have
had the privilege of examining Sir Joshua's own ledgers, and in 1766 we
find that he was only receiving £150 for a whole length portrait,
£70 for half-length, £50 for a kit cat (36 in. x 25 in.), and
£30 for a head. Gainsborough received about the same figure.

The recent tragic death of the Duke of Bedford suggests to us a picture
which Sir Joshua painted of "The Bedford Family"--a work worth, at the
lowest estimate, £10,000. The curious circumstance of allowing this
valuable painting to be turned towards the wall in a darkened room
for a great number of years is in itself suggestive of some unknown
story. At last it was decided to have the picture renovated, for it
had become perfectly black. It was accordingly sent to be cleaned; but
it was found impossible to remove the dire results which a darkened
room and a dusty atmosphere had worked upon it. It was then suggested
that the very opposite means should be tried. The canvas was hung in a
room, the roof of which was of glass, through which the bright sunshine
could fall upon it. As the week and month passed by, the sunlight
scattered the gloom by degrees, until, at the end of a year, all had
disappeared, and the rich colouring was once more visible. One of the
boys represented in the picture is Lord William Russell--the father of
the late Duke of Bedford--who was killed by his valet in 1840.

[Illustration: "THE BEDFORD FAMILY."]

A "Sir Joshua" worth £15,000 has been thrown out of window during a
fire, and reached the ground untouched by smoke or flame. This was
"Lady Williams Wynn and children," which now hangs at Wynstay. A
very interesting incident may be told to show how minute Sir Joshua
was--even to a hair. At the sale of his books, there was found amongst
the leaves a little curl wrapped up in a small piece of tissue paper on
which the artist had written "Lady Waldegrave's hair." He had painted
a picture of the Countess of Waldegrave and her daughter, and, in
order to get the exact colour of the hair, had persuaded the Countess
to cut off a lock. It was recently beautifully mounted, surrounded by
portraits of the pictures connected with it, and presented to the late
Countess; and it now hangs underneath the original work.

Can a leopard change its spots? Yes, so far as a pictorial leopard
goes--as may be illustrated by a painting by Sir Joshua of Master
Herbert as a Bacchus. He made an error here, for he depicted the god
of wine surrounded by lionesses, when, of course, leopards should
have figured in the festive scene. The engraver in whose hands the
picture was placed saw the mistake, and took it upon himself to add the
spots to the lionesses, thereby converting them into leopards in his
engraving. He even went further, and painted the necessary spots on the
animals on the canvas. One hundred years passed away, and the picture
was sent to London to be cleaned and restored, when, to the great
dismay of the cleaner, he noticed that as he worked the leopards began
to lose their spots! Examination soon showed what was the reason. All
the spots were removed, the lionesses appeared in their proper skins,
and so the picture now appears.

We reproduce two pictures by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The history of one is
as sensational as the other is broadly humorous. They happen, too, to
be the stories of a husband and wife.

[Illustration: MRS. MUSTERS.]

Mrs. Musters was a great beauty of her day, and in 1778 Sir Joshua
painted her. The picture he sent home to Mr. Musters to his seat at
Colwick. An application was received from the artist that the canvas
should be returned to him, as he desired to make one or two important
alterations which would considerably benefit the picture. It was sent
back to him, and it remained in his possession seven years. Time after
time it was applied for, but all to no effect--it was impossible to get
it back; the applicants got nothing but excuse after excuse. At last,
in desperation, Sir Joshua declared that he had spoiled the work, and
so destroyed it, and to make up for this he painted another of Mrs.
Musters in the character of Hebe, after a lapse of seven years. Where
was the original picture? It transpired that George IV.--then Prince of
Wales--was at that time engaged in making a collection of the beauties
of his Court, and had often asked Mr. Musters to allow his wife to sit
for her portrait for this purpose. This Mr. Musters firmly refused.
The Prince then brought some pressure to bear on Sir Joshua Reynolds
to get the picture. How Sir Joshua set to work has already been seen.
The painting was afterwards sold at the Pavilion at Brighton, and was
purchased by the Earl of Egremont of Petworth, at whose seat it now
hangs. It should be mentioned that this is the only instance on record
where Sir Joshua did anything to cast a shade upon a character which
was in every other respect a truly honourable one. The pressure which
the Prince enforced was too great, and he succumbed.

[Illustration: JOHN MUSTERS, ESQ.]

Surely nothing can be more humorous than the fact of a man having
his portrait painted, and, as the fashion in clothing changed, so
having the latest thing in satin coat and flowered vest put on his
figure! Yet this was actually done, and by the husband of the very
lady who figures prominently in the preceding story. Mr. Musters was
exceptionally eccentric. Not content with a picture of himself by Sir
Joshua, he secured from time to time the services of another artist to
re-clothe him up to date. Some years after his death, the canvas was
submitted to a well-known expert, when the momentous question arose
as to how it could possibly be a genuine Sir Joshua when the clothing
was of a date some thirty years after the great artist had ceased to
exist? The picture was put into the hands of a cleaner, when he, almost
bewildered, sent a hasty message to the expert to say that all the
clothes were gradually coming off! Part of the coat had disappeared,
the flowers on the vest were fading, the fob of the watch-chain had
gone. The whole truth was soon made evident, and very soon the old,
though valuable, clothes were all found underneath, and Mr. Musters
appeared in the proper costume of his day as Sir Joshua painted him. As
such he is to be seen in our copy of the engraving from the picture.

The works of Gainsborough are replete with anecdote. One incident is
worthy of being chronicled as associating Sir Joshua Reynolds and this
great artist together. It happened in 1782, when the two painters, to
put it plainly, were not on speaking terms. At the Royal Academy of
that year Gainsborough exhibited a picture, "Girl and Pigs." Sir Joshua
was much impressed with it, and, as a token of his appreciation of
unquestionable genius, and, we venture to think, possibly with a view
to bringing about a renewal of friendship, purchased the work for £100.
It would bring thousands now. The Earl of Carlisle possesses it.

Gainsborough was generous to a high degree. When he was at Bath he
was anxious to paint Quin, the actor, and in return for the sitting
said that he would make him a present of the portrait. Quin refused.
Gainsborough pleaded with him, and made use of these remarkable words:
"If you will let me paint your portrait _I shall live for ever!_" The
actor gave way, but today the picture preserves the memory of Quin. On
one occasion Gainsborough actually gave half-a-dozen pictures to a Mr.
Wiltshire, a carrier, who, "solely for the love of art," volunteered
to convey one of his important canvases to London free of charge. These
pictures were the price paid for the van hire, and two of them now hang
in the National Gallery--"The Market Cart," and "The Parish Clerk."

The two next reproductions we give have exceptionally singular
histories. One indeed is a romance of the purest type. The fact of his
celebrated Duchess of Devonshire having been stolen has probably had
much to do with making the public regard it as the finest thing that
Gainsborough ever did. But art connoisseurs say that the "Hon. Mrs.
Graham" is a far finer bit of colouring. It now hangs in the National
Gallery of Scotland, and its value is put down at £25,000. Here is its
history--a truly romantic one.

[Illustration: THE HONOURABLE MRS. GRAHAM.]

Mrs. Graham was the wife of Captain Graham, who years afterwards
became General Lord Lynedoch, G.C.B. She was only seventeen when her
husband commissioned Gainsborough to paint her. He was passionately
attached to his beautiful wife, their married life was one long day
of happiness, and when, at a comparatively early age, she died, her
broken-hearted husband could not bear even to look upon the picture,
and it disappeared. He tried in every way to put an end to his life
honourably; but at all times failed. He went into the Peninsular War,
volunteered for every "forlorn hope" in the hope of getting killed; but
he seemed to bear a charmed life, and rose to be a Field Marshal in
the English Army, and lived to ninety-one years of age. Where was the
picture of such fabulous value? It was not until after Lord Lynedoch's
death that it was discovered in a furniture warehouse, where it had
been packed away in a heavy case and concealed from view for very many
years.

We now come to the picture that was the means of bringing about the
historical quarrel between Gainsborough and the Royal Academy; and, in
order that its history should be fully set forth in these pages, the
writer has searched the various newspapers of that day with a view of
showing the extreme feeling that existed. Gainsborough sent a picture
of the three daughters of George III. to the Academy, with a polite
request that it should be hung the same distance from the ground as it
would be when placed in position in the Royal residence. The Academy
Council ignored this wish, and hung it far too high. This so enraged
Gainsborough--who was of a somewhat irritable disposition--that he sent
for all his pictures, and had them brought back from the Academy. _The
Morning Herald_ of May 5, 1784, says:--

"Yesterday, the three pictures of the Princess Royal, Princess
Elizabeth, and Princess Augusta were removed from the Exhibition Room
of Somerset House on the Strand to Mr. Gainsborough's at Pall Mall,
and from thence are to be fixed as furniture at Carlton House."

_The Morning Herald_ was, however, wrong, there was only one picture,
not three.

Again, the following extract, which appeared in the same paper on May
7, 1784, is worthy of being quoted:--

"Gainsborough, whose professional absence every visitor of the Royal
Academy so feelingly deplores, is fitting up his own saloon in Pall
Mall for the display of his matchless productions, where he may
safely exhibit them without further offence to the Sons of Envy and
Dullness.... By the bye, let it be remembered to the honour of Sir
Joshua Reynolds and Sir William Chambers, that, so far from abetting
the conduct of the Academy Hangmen, they have in the handsomest
manner protested against the shameful outrage offered by these fatal
executioners to genius and taste!"

[Illustration: PRINCESS ROYAL, PRINCESS AUGUSTA, AND PRINCESS
ELIZABETH: DAUGHTERS OF GEORGE III.]

The history of the picture does not end here. It remained at Carlton
House until the building was pulled down, and was then removed to
Buckingham Palace. At some subsequent period an unknown individual
requiring a picture to fit in a space over a door to one of the State
Rooms, positively had it cut down to the required size. It is still
there. Its value at the present moment, had it been left untouched,
would be £20,000; as it is, it is worth about half that sum. Our
illustration shows the painting as it is to-day.




_Two Fishers._

+From the French of Guy de Maupassant.+


    [+Henri Réné Albert Guy de Maupassant+ was born on the 5th of
    August in the year 1850. His parents lived in Normandy, and
    were people of position; but when, in 1870, the war broke out
    with Prussia, Guy, then just twenty, buckled on his sword and
    served his country as a common soldier. When the war was over,
    he became acquainted with Gustave Flaubert, and the brilliant
    author of "Salammbô" introduced him to the world of letters, in
    which he quickly won himself a foremost place. He is not a very
    prolific writer, but the quality of his work is always fine,
    and he is one of the best writers of short tales now living.
    He is fond of using his experience of the war as a basis for
    his stories--of which "Two Fishers" is an excellent example, as
    well as of his remarkably artistic style, which tells a story
    in its full effect without a word too much or little.]

[Illustration: THE TWO FISHERS.]

Paris was blockaded--famished--at the point of death. Even the sparrows
on the housetops were few and far between, and the very sewers were in
danger of becoming depopulated. People ate anything they could get.

Monsieur Morisot, watchmaker by trade, was walking early one bright
January morning down the Boulevards, his hands in the pockets of his
overcoat, feeling hungry and depressed, when he unexpectedly ran
against a friend. He recognised Monsieur Sauvage, an old time chum of
the river-side.

Every Sunday before the war Morisot used to start at daybreak with his
bamboo fishing rod in his hand, his tin bait and tackle box upon his
back. He used to take the train to Colombes, and to walk from there to
the Island of Maranthe. No sooner had he arrived at the river than he
used to begin to fish and continue fishing until evening. Here every
Sunday he used to meet Monsieur Sauvage, a linen-draper from Paris, but
stout and jovial withal, as keen a fisherman moreover as he was himself.

Often they would sit side by side, their feet dangling over the water
for half a day at a time and say scarcely a word, yet little by little
they became friends. Sometimes they never spoke at all. Occasionally
they launched out into conversation, but they understood each other
perfectly without its aid, for their tastes and ideas were the same.

On a spring morning in the bright sunshine, when the light and delicate
mist hovered over the river, and these two mad fishermen enjoyed a
foretaste of real summer weather, Morisot would say to his neighbour:
"Hein! not bad, eh?"

And Sauvage would reply: "I know nothing to beat it."

This interchange of sentiments was quite enough to engender mutual
understanding and esteem.

In autumn, toward evening, when the setting sun reddened the sky and
cast shadows of the fleeting clouds over the water; when the river was
decked in purple; when the whole horizon was lighted up and the figures
of the two friends were illumined as with fire; when the russet-brown
of the trees was lightly tinged with gold, and the trees themselves
shivered with a wintry shake, Monsieur Sauvage would smile at Monsieur
Morisot and say, "What a sight, eh?"

And Monsieur Morisot, without even raising his eyes from his float
would answer, "Better than the Boulevards, hein!"

This morning, as soon as they had recognised each other they shook
hands warmly, quite overcome at meeting again under such different
circumstances.

Monsieur Sauvage sighed and murmured, "A nice state of things."

Monsieur Morisot, gloomy and sad, answered, "And what weather! To-day
is New Year's day." The sky in fact was clear, bright, and beautiful.

They began to walk along, sorrowful and pensive. Said Morisot, "And our
fishing, eh? What times we used to have!"

Sauvage replied, "When shall we have them again?"

They went into a little "café" and had a glass of absinthe, and then
started again on their walk.

They stopped at another "café" for another glass. When they came out
again they were slightly dazed, like people who had fasted long and
then partaken too freely.

It was lovely weather; a soft breeze fanned their faces. Monsieur
Sauvage, upon whom the fresh air was beginning to take effect, suddenly
said: "Suppose we were to go!"

"Go where?"

"Why, fishing!"

"But where?"

"To our island, of course. The French outposts are at Colombes. I know
Colonel Dumoulin; he will let us pass through easily enough."

[Illustration: "THEY WENT ON THEIR WAY REJOICING."]

Morisot trembled with delight at the very idea: "All right, I'm your
man."

They separated to fetch their rods.

An hour afterwards they were walking fast along the high-road, towards
the town commanded by Colonel Dumoulin. He smiled at their request but
granted it, and they went on their way rejoicing in the possession of
the password.

Soon they had crossed the lines, passed through deserted Colombes, and
found themselves in the vineyard leading down to the river. It was
about eleven o'clock.

On the other side the village of Argenteuil seemed as if it were dead.
The hills of Orgremont and Saumons commanded the whole country round.
The great plain stretching out as far as Nanterne was empty as air.
Nothing in sight but cherry trees, and stretches of grey soil.

Monsieur Sauvage pointed with his finger to the heights above and said,
"The Prussians are up there," and a vague sense of uneasiness seized
upon the two friends.

The Prussians! They had never set eyes upon them, but for months past
they had felt their presence near, encircling their beloved Paris,
ruining their beloved France, pillaging, massacring, insatiable,
invincible, invisible, all-powerful, and as they thought on them a
sort of superstitious terror seemed to mingle with the hate they bore
towards their unknown conquerors. Morisot murmured, "Suppose we were to
meet them," and Sauvage replied, with the instinctive gallantry of the
Parisian, "Well! we would offer them some of our fish for supper."

All the same they hesitated before venturing into the country,
intimidated as they were by the all-pervading silence.

Eventually Monsieur Sauvage plucked up courage: "Come along, let's make
a start; but we must be cautious."

They went through the vineyard, bent double, crawling along from bush
to bush, ears and eyes upon the alert.

Only one strip of ground lay between them and the river. They began to
run, and when they reached the bank they crouched down among the dry
reeds for shelter.

Morisot laid his ear to the ground to listen for the sound of
footsteps, but he could hear nothing. They were alone, quite alone;
gradually they felt reassured and began to fish.

The deserted island of Maranthe hid them from the opposite shore. The
little restaurant was closed, and looked as if it had been neglected
for years.

Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Monsieur Morisot the second.
And every minute they pulled up their lines with a little silver object
dangling and struggling on the hook. Truly, a miraculous draught of
fishes. As the fish were caught they put them in a net which floated
in the water at their feet. They positively revelled in enjoyment of a
long-forbidden sport. The sun shone warm upon their backs. They heard
nothing--they thought of nothing--the rest of the world was as nothing
to them. They simply fished.

Suddenly a smothered sound, as it were underground, made the earth
tremble. The guns had recommenced firing. Morisot turned his head,
and saw above the bank, far away to the left, the vast shadow of Mont
Valerien, and over it the white wreath of smoke from the gun which had
just been fired. Then a jet of flame burst forth from the fortress in
answer, a moment later followed by another explosion. Then others, till
every second as it seemed the mountain breathed out death, and the
white smoke formed a funeral pall above it.

Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders. "They are beginning again," he
said.

Monsieur Morisot, anxiously watching his float bob up and down, was
suddenly seized with rage against the belligerents and growled out:
"How idiotic to kill one another like that."

Monsieur Sauvage: "It's worse than the brute beasts."

Monsieur Morisot, who had just hooked a bleak, said: "And to think that
it will always be thus so long as there are such things as Governments."

Monsieur Sauvage stopped him: "The Republic would not have declared
war."

Monsieur Morisot in his turn: "With Kings we have foreign wars, with
the Republic we have civil wars."

Then in a friendly way they began to discuss politics with the calm
common-sense of reasonable and peace-loving men, agreeing on the one
point that no one would ever be free. And Mont Valerien thundered
unceasingly, demolishing with its cannon-balls French houses, crushing
out French lives, ruining many a dream, many a joy, many a hope
deferred, wrecking much happiness, and bringing to the hearts of women,
girls, and mothers in France and elsewhere, sorrow and suffering which
would never have an end.

"It's life," said Monsieur Morisot.

"Say rather that it's death," said Monsieur Sauvage.

They started, scared out of their lives, as they felt that someone was
walking close behind them. Turning round, they saw four men, four
tall, bearded men, dressed as servants in livery, and wearing flat caps
upon their heads. These men were covering the two fishermen with rifles.

[Illustration: "TURNING ROUND THEY SAW FOUR MEN."]

The rods dropped from their frightened hands, and floated aimlessly
down the river. In an instant the Frenchmen were seized, bound, thrown
into a boat, and ferried over to the island.

Behind the house they had thought uninhabited was a picket of Prussian
soldiers. A hairy giant, who was sitting astride a chair, and smoking
a porcelain pipe, asked them in excellent French if they had had good
sport.

A soldier placed at the feet of the officer the net full of fish, which
he had brought away with him.

"Not bad, I see. But we have other fish to fry. Listen, and don't alarm
yourselves. You are a couple of French spies sent out to watch my
movements, disguised as fishermen. I take you prisoners, and I order
you to be shot. You have fallen into my hands--so much the worse for
you. It is the fortune of war. Inasmuch, however, as you came through
the lines you are certainly in possession of the password. Otherwise
you could not get back again. Give me the word and I will let you go."

The two friends, livid with fear, stood side by side, their hands
nervously twitching, but they answered not a word.

The officer continued: "No one need ever know it. You will go home
quietly, and your secret will go with you. If you refuse it is death
for you both, and that instantly. Take your choice."

They neither spoke nor moved.

The Prussian calmly pointed to the river and said: "Reflect, in five
minutes you will be at the bottom of that water. I suppose you have
families."

Mont Valerien thundered unceasingly.

The two Frenchmen stood perfectly still and silent.

The officer gave an order in German. Then he moved his chair farther
away from the prisoners, and a dozen soldiers drew up in line twenty
paces off.

"I will give you one minute," he said, "not one second more."

He got up leisurely, and approached the two Frenchmen. He took Morisot
by the arm and said, in an undertone: "Quick! Give me the word. Your
friend will know nothing. I will appear to give way."

Monsieur Morisot did not answer.

The Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage aside and said the same thing to him.

Monsieur Sauvage did not answer.

They found themselves once more side by side.

The officer gave another order; the soldiers raised their guns.

By accident Morisot's glance fell upon the net full of fish on the
ground a few steps off. A ray of sunshine lit up their glittering
bodies, and a sudden weakness came over him. "Good-bye, Monsieur
Sauvage," he whispered.

"Good-bye, Monsieur Morisot," replied Monsieur Sauvage. They pressed
each other's hands, trembling from head to foot.

"Fire," said the officer.

Monsieur Sauvage fell dead on his face. Monsieur Morisot, of stronger
build, staggered, stumbled, and then fell right across the body of his
friend, with his face turned upwards to the sky, his breast riddled
with balls.

The Prussian gave another order. His men dispersed for a moment,
returning with cords and stones. They tied the stones to the feet of
the dead Frenchmen, and carried them down to the river.

Mont Valerien thundered unceasingly.

Two soldiers took Morisot by the head and feet. Two others did the same
to Sauvage. The bodies swung to and fro, were launched into space,
described a curve, and plunged feet first into the river.

The water bubbled, boiled, then calmed down, and the little wavelets,
tinged with red, circled gently towards the bank.

The officer, impassive as ever, said, "It is the fishes' turn now."

His eye fell upon the gudgeon lying on the grass. He picked them up,
and called out, "Wilhelm." A soldier in a white cap appeared. He threw
the fish towards him.

"Fry these little animals for me at once, while they are still alive
and kicking. They will be delicious."

Then he began smoking again.

[Illustration]




_Babies._


It is what a simple young writer once called "a beautiful truism" that
baby is one of oldest subjects in the world--indeed, it is almost
as old as man--and yet it has seldom or never been treated with
completeness. No doubt one reason for that is the fact that baby has
never been able to make itself heard except in inarticulate cries, and
no doubt also another reason is that people in general have not been
until lately interested in any babies but their own.

The difference between ancient and modern times is remarkable in
nothing more than in the treatment of babies. Human life, merely as
such, was considered less sacred then than now, and the average view
of the baby was simply utilitarian. Was the baby, male or female, a
healthy baby? Was it likely to become a sturdy citizen or a stout
soldier, or to be the capable mother of strong children? Then let the
baby live. Babies that did not satisfy these conditions were disposed
of much as we dispose of superfluous puppies or kittens. And not even
now, moreover, is baby life considered throughout all the world as
something in itself delightful and valuable. Savage people and tribes
are not such sinners in this regard as half-civilised nations like
those of India and China.

"What is the use of rearing daughters?" asked an intelligent Chinaman
not long ago of an inquiring Englishman. "When young they are only an
expense, and when grown they marry and go away. Whereas a son----."

What a world of difference there is between that sentiment and this of
"A Cradle Song," a recent poem by the young poet W. B. Yeats, where the
mother addresses her baby thus:--

    "I kiss you and kiss you, my arms round my own;
    Ah! how I shall miss you, my dear, when you're grown!"

To us, in these later times, and with all the sentiments of Christian
civilisation fostered in us, it is almost incomprehensible that any
grown human beings could have the heart to extinguish the first
struggling life of babies; most of all does it seem incomprehensible
that the mother, whose nature is wont to well up and flow out at the
first helpless cry of her infant, and the father, whose instinct is to
hover over and protect and "fend for" both mother and child in their
weakness, could ever surrender, or with their own hands destroy, the
creature whom they have brought into the world. But, strong as are the
natural instincts, stronger still in many is religious fanaticism,
stronger is a national or tribal tradition. And when we consider that
it has taken ages of Christian culture and feeling to bring us to our
present height of imaginative sympathy with all forms of life, till now
we are agreed that no more beautiful, sacred, or divine sight is to be
seen under the sun than that of a mother with a child in her arms, then
we can understand that, while it is an outrage, a sin, and a crime to
destroy a child among the taught of Christendom, it is but a hideous
barbarism among the uninstructed of heathendom.

Turning to consider particularly the treatment of babies in various
lands, by various peoples and tongues, we are compelled to note that
even where infanticide or "exposure" is not practised, a similar result
is worked out through the hardships--sometimes unconscious, sometimes
designed--of infant life. The conditions of existence among many savage
tribes are so severe that only the "fittest," the sturdiest, and
wiriest constitutions can survive. There is, for instance, a very fine
and intelligent tribe of blacks in the neighbourhood of the Cameroons,
named the Duallas, which imposes from the first a very violent test
upon the constitutions of their offspring. Like the ancient Germans,
the Duallas take a child when only four or five days old and plunge
it in the river. This is repeated every day till the child is strong
and hardy enough to bathe itself, or till it has succumbed beneath the
treatment. Other less intelligent and more savage tribes of Africans
train their children to endure torture from a very early age. Even the
average nursing of the negro mother is enough to try the toughness of
the child's constitution. When the child is being fed he is set astride
his mother's hip; and he must hold on how he can and get what nutriment
he can, while his mother moves about her ordinary duties. When he is
not thus attached to his mother he lies on a little bed of dried grass
on the ground, in all the simplicity in which Nature brought him into
the world, and crams himself with earth or whatever he can lay his
little black hands on.

[Illustration: +Red indian "papooses"+:]

Akin to the negro's treatment of children--though considerably in
advance as regards tenderness and picturesqueness--is that of the Red
Indians of North America. The father and mother combine to make a very
curious and ornamental close cradle or bed for the "papoose." In shape
it is not unlike the long oval shield of the Zulu. The father cuts it
out of wood or stout bark with his tomahawk and scalping-knife, and
covers it with deer or buffalo skin, or, if he has not these, with
matting or the softest bark of trees, leaving the upper side loose and
open. The mother then adorns and embroiders it with beads and grasses,
and lines and pads it with the softest grass or moss or rags she can
find. The "papoose" is lightly strapped in with soft thongs fastened
to the board and passing under his arms, and then the covering is
laced over him as one laces up a shoe, and nothing but the face of
the "papoose" is left exposed. Thus done up, baby can be hung (with
a thong attached to his cradle) on the branch of a tree, or from the
pole of the wigwam, or set in a corner out of the way. It may seem to
us that the close confinement and the upright position of these nests
cannot be very comfortable, but it is said that after tumbling about
a while on the grass or among the dogs of the wigwam the Indian baby
frequently cries to go back to his solitary nest. In this wise, too,
is he carried, slung over his mother's back, when the tribe is on the
march. The oval thing we have described is the prevalent pattern of
cradle among American Indians, though in the extreme north or in the
extreme south modifications of the style obtain. The Flat-head mother,
for instance, makes her papoose into a round bundle, with folds of
bark and thongs of deer-skin, and carries it in a wooden receptacle
something like a canoe, slung on her back, with a little pent-house or
shade projecting over the baby's face.

[Illustration: +A Flat-head Mother.+]

It is worth noting that this complete swaddling of infants is almost
universal among both barbarous and civilised peoples who dwell in
sub-tropical or temperate climates. It is done not so much (or not
only) to keep the child warm, but to prevent it from scratching itself,
from moving about and hurting itself, and from bruising itself or
breaking its tender bones if it should chance to fall. A baby, however,
that is done up tight and flat as a Red-skin baby is, must be almost
as safe on a top-shelf as on the ground. The close swaddling and
padding of baby is found, the more we consider it, to be the fashion
among both civilised and barbarous kindreds, and peoples, and tongues,
where women are very hard-worked. It is easy to understand how that
must be. When the mother digs and plants the soil, and grinds the corn,
draws the water and cooks the food for her husband and children--as
does the savage woman of every clime--when she spins and brews, and
makes and mends, and cooks and cleans, as does the house-wife of almost
every degree in almost every country of Europe; when the mother has
thus her hands full of toil or occupation from morning till night,
and when the expense or the convenience of a nurse is not available,
what can she do, what must she do, with baby, but contrive some means
of keeping him from troubling her and at the same time from damaging
himself? Therefore the American Indian papoose is bound and laced in
the thing we have seen; therefore the Amazon Indian child is slung
in a close net-like hammock from tree to tree; therefore the New
Guinea child hangs like a bunch of onions in a bag-net either from a
jutting bamboo of his father's hut or on his mother's back by a strap
passed across the forehead; and therefore the European baby of several
countries is wrapped and padded in the ways we are about to describe.

[Illustration: A GERMAN BABY.]

[Illustration: "BABY WAS FOUND ASLEEP IN THE SNOW."]

Of all house-wives in Europe, probably the German is the hardest
worked, and of all European mothers the German practises most
completely the art of swathing and padding her baby, and of putting it
on the shelf. The German baby is swaddled in a long, narrow pillow,
which is made to meet completely round him, being tucked up over his
feet and turned under his solemn chin. Three bands of gay blue ribbons
are then passed round the whole bundle and tied in large, florid bows
about where his chest, his waist, and his ankles may be supposed to
be. In this guise he can be deposited as an ornament either on the
sumptuous best bed, or on the kitchen dresser, or on the drawing-room
table. How fond the Germans are of this presentment of baby may be
guessed from the fact that it figures largely in their picture-books,
among their dolls, and even in the bakers' shops at Easter-time, made
of dough and covered with sugar to be devoured by greedy live babies.

[Illustration: "A VERY QUEER FISH."]

The German mother has the completest confidence in the safety of her
baby when swaddled thus. But the confidence is sometimes betrayed by
the wrappage, as witnesseth the following story. A party of peasants
set out for the christening of a new baby, the baby being swaddled
and wrapped in the usual manner. The way was long to the church, and
the weather was cold; indeed, snow lay on the ground. The anxiety
of the christening over, the whole party--parents, sponsors, and
friends--adjourned to the village inn to warm and cheer themselves with
_schnaps_, or what the Londoner terms "a drop of something short." They
then set off on their return home lightly and gaily, and their hearts
being merry within them they essayed a snatch or two of song and a
step or two of dance. Home at length was reached, and the interesting
christened bundle was laid on the table. The whole party--parents,
sponsors, and friends--stared agape and in silence; there was the
pillow, the ribbons, and the bows all complete, but where was the baby?
Someone ventured to raise the bundle; it was quite limp and empty! Baby
was gone! Back the whole party hurried on its lonely track, and baby
was found asleep in the snow, about midway between the church and the
village. He was a sturdy child, and the story runs that he escaped with
a violent sneeze or two, which, it is said, the anxious parents strove
to allay by popping him into the oven. There can be no doubt that the
German child that could survive the pillow, and the snow, and the oven,
must have been sturdy indeed.

Like the German mother in her treatment of infants is the Austrian--the
real Austrian, that is, who is of Teutonic origin; for the
Austro-Hungarian monarchy includes so many nationalities, so many
kindreds and peoples and tongues, that it would need a whole article
to write of them all. And like also, with a curious difference, is the
Swedish and Norwegian mother. The Swedish child, or _barn_--(compare
the Yorkshire _barn_, and the Scottish _bairn_)--is swaddled in more
complex fashion than the German. It is wound about with six-inch-wide
bandages, sometimes with the arms free and sometimes not, sometimes
the legs included in the whole bundle, but usually swathed separately.
The bandages are traditionally supposed to make the limbs and figure
grow straight. The bandaged _barn_ is then wrapped in a pillow and
tied about with ribbons and bows like the German child, except that
frequently his arms are free and his legs are shortly and stoutly
suggested by the tucking in of the pillow. After that he may be
fastened flatwise to another pillow, and slung perpendicularly from
a supple pole stuck in the wall, so that he looks like a very queer
fish indeed, fit to be shown outside the shop of an angling-tackle
maker. Like the German, the Swedish child always wears a cap, which
is borderless and of special fineness for its first Sunday, when it
is christened. Then, also, it wears beads upon its neck, and gorgeous
garments with gay bows of ribbon, all which are provided by the
godmother. In the remoter parts of both Sweden and Norway it is still
the custom every Sunday to carry these swaddled infants to church,
which is probably a long way off. They are not taken _into_ church,
however, but buried for warmth in the snow, in which a small hole is
left for them to breathe through.

In less primitive parts of Sweden and Norway, however, and among the
better-off, the pillow-bundle often gives place to a wooden cradle,
shaped like a trough or a French _baquet_, which is usually suspended
by a spiral spring from the roof. The elastic motion can scarcely be
of the most delightful kind to baby we should think, for there is
nothing to prevent the cradle from spinning or twisting round at its
will, and so producing dizziness. In Russia, too, a similar cradle
is used--contrived, however, more rudely as to both structure and
motion. It is an oblong box or wicker basket, with a cord from each of
its four corners converging to the hook or the rafter from which it
is hung, and with a looped cord underneath, in which the mother puts
her foot to swing her baby. In winter--which in Russia is long and
severe--the cradles or, sometimes, the hammocks in which the youngest
children sleep are slung round the great stove upon which the parents
and other adult members of the family pass the night, wrapped in their
sheep-skins.

[Illustration: +A Swedish Cradle.+]

[Illustration: FRENCH BABY--OLD STYLE.]

France is the only other country in which the pillow is a necessary
complement of the baby. But the attachment of the two is nowadays
characteristically French. It is a compromise between the old and
the new, between tradition and fashion, and consequently it is not
universal. The French baby (especially on gala days) is laid upon the
pillow, and his fine frocks and gay ribbons, instead of enveloping his
tender body, are spread upon him as he lies, so that he is no more
than a kind of _bas-relief_. In France, however, it must be noted
there came earlier than elsewhere in Europe--(one of the results of
the Revolution)--the revolt against mere tradition and usage in the
treatment of babies. Among well-to-do and aristocratic French folk,
in particular, a change in that regard has long been in progress. The
French child used to have always its pillow or cradle; now it begins to
lie upon a fresh, wholesome bed, neither of wool nor of feathers, but
of hair or straw, or among country or sea-faring folk of sweet dried
fern or bracken or pungent-smelling sea-weed; and Government bureaux
circulate among the peasants such directions as these:--"Lay the infant
to sleep on its right side; avoid putting it to sleep in the lap before
putting it in bed." The French baby used to wear a multiplicity of
caps--a small close cap of fine linen, over which was a second of light
flannel, and over that a third of some light and ornamental stuff;
now the caps are being discarded, and baby goes openly and baldly
bareheaded. There is, however, one infantile institution to which
well-to-do French folk cling obstinately, and that is the foster-mother
or wet-nurse. The institution had its origin ages ago, and was
popular with other than fine ladies who feared to spoil their shape
with nursing. It was under the early Bourbon kings that the practice
first became established of sending infants into the country, to some
well-known dependant of the house, to be nursed and fed and brought up.
That is why one reads so much in French literature of foster-brothers
and foster-sisters, who were the peasant children brought up in the
same lap, and at the same breast as the young lords and ladies.
The wet-nurse who lived in the family was--and is still--commonly
a Burgundian, an ample, handsome, and good-natured type of woman,
something like our own woman of Devonshire. The fine Burgundian nurse
is still a feature of Parisian life, with her black eyes, her rich
colour, and her opulent form, her red cloak, her full-bordered cap,
and her long, floating ribbons. It is evident that this large and
productive type is very old, for there is a curious statute in ancient
French law, called the "_droit de douze enfants_:" it obtained only in
Burgundy, and it enacted that all parents of a dozen children should be
exempt from the payment of any taxes whatever.

[Illustration: A BURGUNDIAN NURSE.]

[Illustration: +A Chinese mother & child+:]

Before we finally turn, whither we have all this while been tending,
to the completest and wholesomest treatment of babies, let us note one
or two remarkable curiosities in that way. There is, first of all,
the well-worn, and now almost out-worn, tradition that Chinese female
babies have their feet tortured by tight bandaging to make and keep
them small. That practice, let us say at once, was never prevalent,
except in very high society--like really tight-lacing in England--and
even there it is now gradually becoming obsolete. But, among the
sweltering millions of China there is a practice which seems to have
a curious result. The mother carries her infant in a kind of bag or
pannier on her back, and not--as in other countries where the dorsal
carriage is affected--with the face turned outwards, but--as, probably,
we ought to expect in China, where everything seems to go and come
by the rule of contraries--with the face turned inwards. The result
of that is that the baby's nose is of necessity pressed against its
mother's back, whence, no doubt, say the learned in these matters,
has been evolved, in the course of ages, the peculiarly flattened or
blunted nose, characteristic of the Chinaman. Furthermore, Chinese
girls, even when allowed to live, are little thought of. In the family
generally they bear no names: they are known as Number One or Number
Two, like convicts, and they are no more reckoned members of the family
than the cat or the dog. So when a Chinaman is asked what family he
has, he counts only his boys. And a boy is treated with great honour
and ceremony by the women. When he is four months old, he is set for
the first time in a chair, and his mother's mother sends or brings
him many presents, notably among which is sugar-candy. The candy is
emblematic of the sweet things of life, and it is stuck to the chair to
signify the hope that he may never lack such things. His first birthday
is the second great day of rejoicing. He is then set upon a table in
front of many things, such as ink, books, tools, &c., and whichever he
first lays his hand on decides his future occupation.

It is an odd thing that by no people on earth are children--both girls
and boys--treated with more affection and indulgence than by the island
neighbours of the Chinese--the Japanese, namely; and no children have
a greater abundance of toys and amusements. It must, however, be said
that the fondness and patience of Japanese parents are reciprocated by
the love and obedience of their children. Both father and mother are
equally devoted to their offspring. The mother commonly carries her
baby slung in front of her, and when she is tired the father cheerfully
accepts the burden; but fathers and mothers, and elder sisters and
brothers may often be seen in the gay, sunny streets of Tokio or
Yokohama giving pick-a-backs to delighted, crowing babies. The Japanese
baby, moreover, is not only indulged, he is also treated with the
greatest care and intelligence. He is judiciously fed; he is regularly
bathed either at home or in the public bath-houses; and his skin is
stimulated and his health hardened by his being frequently plunged in
a cold stream, or even in the snow. A Japanese baby would appear to us
a very droll creature. If you would know how he looks you have only to
examine a well-made Japanese doll. He has his head shaved, with the
exception of four tufts of hair--one in front, one behind, and one
over either ear. He wears bright and gaudy clothes (or did wear; for
children, like their parents, sad to say, are gradually being arrayed
in European fashion), and his loose jacket has very long and very wide
sleeves. Very poor children go barefoot; others wear stockings and
clogs, the stockings having a separate pocket for the big toe.

[Illustration: +Some Japanese Children+:]

To find other children as well, wisely, and wholesomely treated as
children are in Japan, we must come to an English home, with a look
in by the way at an American home, where, it is said by many, the
child is made somewhat too much of, and therefore spoiled. But it
must be sorrowfully admitted that it is only the child of well-to-do
or cultured parents in Great Britain that is as well and wisely cared
for, and that is as happy as the child of Japan: there is no doubt that
the average of childish comfort and happiness is very much greater
in Japan than in England. Yet a well-ordered English home is baby's
paradise. There he is not swathed in bandages and rolled in a pillow
and crowned with a nightcap; he is kept always clean and sweet, he
is lightly but sufficiently clothed, and he is allowed to kick, and
crow, and grow strong as much as ever he likes. He is no longer put
to bed in a deep wooden cradle set on wooden rockers, but in a light
and airy bassinette, which either is stationary or swings lightly upon
hooks. That question of stationary or moving bassinette has become
somewhat vexed among mothers, many doctors favouring the opinion that
it is neither necessary nor desirable that infants should be sent to
sleep with rocking or swinging. The old rocking cradle had a much more
fearsome motion than the swinging bassinette. Rocked by a careless or
energetic person it would often make the baby ill; indeed, there used
to be a tradition among humble mothers (a tradition which still obtains
in Scotland) that if the cradle was rocked when empty the baby would
certainly be ill when next put into it. The rocking cradle with its
great wooden hood has had its day (and how magnificent the height of
its day was may be guessed from the cradle of James I. that was shown
in the Stuart Exhibition)--it has had its day, and is now departing
into the limbo of things obsolete and forgotten, and thither probably
in the course of years the swinging bassinette will follow it.

We have in this article treated of babies only when they are
inarticulate, when none but the mother or the constant nurse can
understand them. That is commonly reckoned by the stranger or the mere
male person the least interesting age of all, but to the mother--and,
indeed, to all women and grown girls--it is the most interesting.
Then the baby's clinging helplessness, its wide stare of wonder, and
its bright, human smile and crow of response to a kind look or tone,
suffuse the female heart with an unimaginable delight. What pride is
felt in the health and beauty and weight of the baby! ("Here's a leg
for a babe of a week!" says the doctor in Tennyson's "Grandmother.")
How his active crawling is admired!--and sometimes his singular taste
for buttons, and marbles, and cinders! With what wonder and gratulation
is the appearance of his first tooth hailed! With what expressions
of joy is attention called to his first attempts at walking, and how
"dear" he is when he first goes "pattering over the boards!" But
beyond and beneath all these common phenomena the earliest infancy has
ravishing mysteries which only the mother can patiently watch, and pore
over, and understand. Every day, every hour brings to her a new joy,
of which she can speak to no one; for that which no else one sees--the
waking attention, the dawning reason--the mother sees, and that which
no one else hears the mother hears.

[Illustration]




"_On the Stump for the Pump._"

+By Sir Wilfrid Lawson.+

[Illustration]

"The Editor of +The Strand+ asks Sir W. Lawson to send him an article
with some such title as 'Thirty Years of Temperance Advocacy,' or 'On
the Stump for the Pump.'"

    You ask me to write "On the Stump for the Pump,"
    Don't you think 'twould be better, "The Pump on the Stump?"
    Sure that "pump" should be able a tale to unfold,
    For you hint in your letter it's thirty years old!
    Just think of one pumping for thirty long years,
    And the water scarce yet has got up to their ears.
    Yet while water's so hard to the right pitch to rise,
    The full tide of beer mounts quite up to our eyes.
    There is Goschen, and Randolph, and Booth, and old Smith,
    Men of fame and renown, and great vigour and pith,
    They come with their brooms, and they come with their mops,
    And they labour and sweep, but the tide never stops.
    Away in the torrent go virtue and wealth,
    Peace, plenty, and happiness, order and health,
    And "Bung" with a chuckle cries, "Pump as you may,
    But beer and the brewer still carry the day."
    Now you kindly have asked me to say what I think
    On this troublesome, terrible question of drink.
    So the "Pump" will endeavour to pour something out,
    A "pump" at the least should be able to "spout!"
    Well, well, I must hope that I shall not quite fail,
    So the "Pump," as you've asked him, will pour out his tale.

Almost everyone who proposes a toast at a public dinner commences his
speech by saying that he feels himself to be the most unfit person who
could have been selected to perform the duty.

In this matter I am neither the most fit, nor the most unfit person to
give such a narrative as the Editor desires. There are many advocates
of temperance still living who have addressed far more audiences on the
subject than I have done, and whose account of their experience would
be far more interesting and instructive than mine can be.

On the other hand--

    "I've been about a bit in my time,
      And troubles I've seen a few;
    But I always found it the best of plans
      To paddle my own canoe."

And I have sometimes had to paddle that canoe through tolerably stormy
waters. For generations a "Temperance lecturer" has usually been viewed
by the "respectable" classes with a mixture of pity and contempt.
Drink was blended with all our ideas of real happiness and enjoyment.
Doctors ordered drink as a potent medicine, and, at the same time, as a
valuable article of daily diet. Clergymen, certainly at times, mildly
hinted that their flocks might peradventure be more moderate in its
consumption, but rarely indeed condemned the thing itself.

Elections were won to the inspiriting cry of the "National Church and
the National Beverage," while all those who had enriched themselves by
the making and selling of strong drink were held in the highest esteem
and veneration by the rest of the community.

For anyone to enter on a crusade against drink was held to be
audacious, vulgar, disreputable, and unconstitutional, and a man who
took such a course was considered to be, if not a fool, certainly a
hypocritical knave. I have always thought that Dickens' portrait of
"Stiggins, the Temperance lecturer," did much to maintain this idea.
Any way, it was in full force at the time when I ventured to launch the
above-mentioned cause.

But I did not start as a Temperance lecturer. The field was already
well occupied. Father Mathew, Joseph Livesey, Samuel Bowling, and many
other devoted men had said pretty well all that could be said in favour
of abstinence from intoxicating liquor, and, where their teaching had
been followed, had done a world of good. What struck me as very hard
was, that these noble men should expend time, money, and labour at
their own charges in promoting the Temperance reformation which Richard
Cobden says "lies at the foundation of every social and political
reform," and that all the time the Government of the country should
appoint thousands and thousands of agents to promote the sale and
consumption of the very article which causes all the drunkenness and
misery.

[Illustration: FATHER MATHEW.]

[Illustration: AT EXETER.]

Be it remembered that the philanthropic Temperance advocates got no
monetary premium on any success which they might attain among the
people, while the Government agents who sold the drink were pecuniarily
interested in every glass which they could get their customers to
consume--their system being one of "payment by results." For anyone
to raise his voice against this most lucrative and powerful monopoly
was looked upon as an audacious impertinence. Our meetings were
occasionally broken up by the friends and supporters of the liquor
power. I remember a big meeting at Exeter with the present Bishop of
London in the chair. A disorderly force of men well primed for the
business invaded and pervaded the hall, yelling, singing, and jostling
the audience. They broke up the chairs and used them as weapons of
offence. The Bishop kept his seat, perfectly calm and collected, but,
as the police declined to interfere for our protection, the enemy
succeeded in their object and broke up the meeting, after breaking the
ribs of our unlucky men and covering the Bishop and Sir G. Trevelyan
and myself with flour, so that we looked as though we had just returned
from the "Derby."

At Sandwich, also, we once had a great row. The publicans' friends
pretty well packed the meeting, and with songs, coees, horns, &c.,
prevented our speaking. But we got a speech out of one of the rioters,
and although short, it was the best speech I had ever heard in favour
of prohibition.

The man was tolerably drunk, but able to stand. Close to the platform
was sitting the great brewer of the place, looking most demure and
respectable, but who had probably directly or indirectly organised the
riot. Steadying himself as well as he could, the man pointed with his
hand towards the great brewer, and simply said, "I want to know what's
to become of this gentleman?" If anyone will ponder on this speech for
a moment or two the nature and object of the licensing system will be
clear enough.

[Illustration: "WHAT'S TO BECOME OF THIS GENTLEMAN?"]

As a rule, I think it was generally in the places where the
brewers--our British Ale Kings--were exceptionally strong that these
violent scenes occurred. But generally when there had been a pretty
good rowdy meeting, we used to come again soon after, when our friends,
taught by the experience, used to take precautions for ensuring "law
and order," so that the rows probably eventually did us more good than
harm.

One thing which struck me much in perambulating the country was, that
wherever I went the friends who kindly entertained me were almost
always pessimists, who asserted that the place we were then in was one
of the very worst places for drunkenness which could possibly be found.

[Illustration: "A PESSIMIST."]

Of course they could always be the worst, but this testimony leads one
to think that things must be bad enough all round.

I suppose the Editor, when asking for reminiscences of "Thirty Years'
Temperance Advocacy" includes advocacy in the House of Commons. No one
would think that it was personally needed in that assembly, but only
for the check of intemperance outside.

Yet I once heard a member, who was known not to be a teetotaler, say
that he could not believe something which the Government had stated,
although he could swallow a great deal--a statement which was received
with great acquiescent cheering from all parts of the House. But my
advocacy in the House was of prohibition of the liquor traffic, and
not of total abstinence. I proposed that there should be prohibitory
districts wherever the inhabitants clearly and distinctly expressed a
desire for freedom from liquor shops. This was thought to be a most
shocking proposition. Was it to be supposed that the magistrates, who
were the licensing authorities, did not know the requirements of the
neighbourhood far better than the inhabitants of that neighbourhood
knew it themselves! The very idea was looked upon as a species of
blasphemy.

A Bill must have two names endorsing it before it can be introduced
into the House of Commons. At that time I hardly knew where I should
get the second name which was required. I at last got it in this way.
Mr. Bazley (afterwards Sir Thomas Bazley) then represented Manchester.
Some working men who were either his neighbours or constituents, and
who were very keen about the Bill, interviewed him and talked over the
Bill. I fancy he made some objection to it, when the men said, "Mr.
Bazley, is there not a village which belongs to you, and where you
prohibit all sale of drink?"

"Yes," said Mr. Bazley, "and with the best effect."

"And will you not give us the same power of protecting ourselves which
you enjoy?"

"I will," said Mr. Bazley, and he put his name on the back of my Bill.

[Illustration: SIR WILFRID LAWSON.]

But few indeed would vote for such a measure in those days. Lord
Randolph Churchill said that in that very year, 1890, two-thirds of
the members of the House of Commons were terrorised by the liquor
trade. And many must have been in that abject condition in 1865, when
the first Bill was introduced. At all events, whether through terror
of publicans, or contempt for Temperance advocates, or ignorance of
the enormity of the evil arising from drinking, the great majority
of the House of Commons were dead against any legislation tending to
cripple the "liquor traffic." We had all the old arguments trotted
out--"Liberty of the Subject"--"Making men sober by Act of Parliament,"
and so forth. I have sometimes wondered why they thought it absolutely
necessary to iterate and reiterate all this unmeaning jargon. They
had made up their minds that it would not be safe to vote against the
publicans, and the preliminary talk was a superfluous expenditure
of energy. On the first division I only got about forty votes, and
that was a larger number than most persons expected. But I must not
commence a long story of how we slowly but steadily gained ground
in the House. The history of all reforms is in its general features
pretty much the same. Someone has roughly summed up the progress of
reforms by saying, First, they are laughed at; then they are said to
be contrary to Scripture; then it is said that everybody knew them
before. We have long left for ever the days of divisions of forty,
and now almost everyone admits that the public are entitled to _some_
powers of self-protection from the liquor trade. It is still thought
the proper thing to call everyone who is in earnest in trying to get
that protection for the people, an extreme man; but everyone knows that
this is only the orthodox political slang which must be employed when
argument is wanting.

Lord Rosebery has declared that the Temperance men are the backbone of
the Liberal Party. The Conservative Party also now announce themselves
to be warm advocates of Temperance. We cannot say that they have been
at it for "thirty years," since they only took, as a party, any overt
legislative action two years ago by their Compensation to Brewers'
Bill, which they again attempted to pass last year.

Many persons thought that endowing publichouses would not tend to
reduce drinking, but, be that as it may, it was pleasant to see the
intense zeal with which the leaders of the Conservative Party devoted
themselves to what they considered the interests of Temperance. All
the other business of the Session was set aside. The Government
Press urged no surrender. Diminishing majorities did not damp their
ardour. The forces were summoned to be present at all costs when this
Temperance measure was on hand. One memorable day many legislators were
absolutely compelled to hurry back from Ascot to take part in an early
division. Lord Hartington was among the number, and it is said that,
being only just in time, he was seen to _run_ through the lobby, a fact
unprecedented in modern political history.

All this proves that there never were so many Temperance advocates as
there are at this instant. At the same time, I am inclined to think
that there has seldom been more drinking than there is in the season of
good trade and high wages. Whether it will require an additional thirty
years of Temperance advocacy before we deal an effectual blow at what
has been termed the "intoxicating interests," who can say? The good
sign, as noted above, is, that everybody is calling out that something
must be done. Englishmen generally say this for a long time before they
really do anything, but the recent prolific response to General Booth's
appeal for funds to rescue the perishing, seems to indicate that the
public are really and keenly touched by all the misery around them.

[Illustration]

The General says "Nine-tenths of England's misery is Drink." That is
just what the Temperance advocates have been saying for nearly twice
thirty years. Their hour of triumph is growing appreciably nearer. It
will come so soon as the good, noble, and self-denying men who now deal
with the misery which General Booth tells us is the effect of drink,
will strike at the drink which is the _cause_ of that misery. When we
have done that, we may confidently look forward to an England which
shall be as different from the England of to-day, as light is from
darkness.

    "Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
      In their lowly dwelling sing,
    Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
      Undiscovered as their spring;
      We shall scatter through the land
      Blessing with a secret hand."

_The King's Stratagem._

+By Stanley G. Weyman.+


In the days when Henry the Fourth of France was King of Navarre only,
and in that little kingdom of hills and woods which occupies the
south-west corner of the larger country, was with difficulty supporting
the Huguenot cause against the French court and the Catholic League--in
the days when every isolated castle, from the Garonne to the Pyrenees,
was a bone of contention between the young king and the crafty
queen-mother, Catherine de Medicis, a conference between these notable
personages took place in the picturesque town of La Réole.

[Illustration: "TWO MEN SAT AT PLAY."]

La Réole still rises grey, time-worn, and half-ruined on a lofty cliff
above the broad green waters of the Garonne, forty odd miles from
Bordeaux. But it is a small place now. In the days of which we are
speaking, however, it was important, strongly fortified, and guarded
by a castle which looked down on a thousand red-tiled roofs, rising in
terraces from the river. As the meeting-place of the two sovereigns it
was for the time as gay as Paris itself, Catherine having brought with
her a bevy of fair maids of honour, in the effect of whose charms she
perhaps put as much trust as in her own diplomacy. But the peaceful
appearance of the town was delusive, for even while every other house
in it rang with music and silvery laughter, each party was ready to fly
to arms without warning, if it saw that any advantage was to be gained
thereby.

On an evening shortly before the end of the conference two men sat at
play in a room, the deep-embrasured window of which looked down from
a considerable height upon the river. The hour was late, and the town
silent. Outside, the moonlight fell bright and pure on sleeping fields
and long, straight lines of poplars. Within the room a silver lamp
suspended from the ceiling threw light upon the table, leaving the
farther parts of the room in shadow. The walls were hung with faded
tapestry. On the low bedstead in one corner lay a handsome cloak, a
sword, and one of the clumsy pistols of the period. Across a chair
lay another cloak and sword, and on the window seat, beside a pair of
saddle-bags, were strewn half-a-dozen such trifles as soldiers carried
from camp to camp--a silver comfit-box, a jewelled dagger, a mask, and
velvet cap.

The faces of the players, as they bent over the dice, were in shadow.
One--a slight, dark man of middle height, with a weak chin, and a mouth
as weak, but shaded by a dark moustache--seemed, from the occasional
oaths which he let drop, to be losing heavily. Yet his opponent, a
stouter and darker man, with a sword-cut across his left temple, and
that swaggering air which has at all times marked the professional
soldier, showed no signs of triumph or elation. On the contrary, though
he kept silence, or spoke only a formal word or two, there was a gleam
of anxiety and suppressed excitement in his eyes, and more than once he
looked keenly at his companion, as if to judge of his feelings or learn
whether the time had come for some experiment which he meditated. But
for this, an observer looking in through the window would have taken
the two for only one more instance of the hawk and pigeon.

At last the younger player threw down the caster, with a groan.

"You have the luck of the evil one," he said, bitterly. "How much is
that?"

"Two thousand crowns," replied the other without emotion. "You will
play no more?"

"No! I wish to heaven I had never played at all!" was the answer. As
he spoke the loser rose, and going to the window stood looking moodily
out. For a few moments the elder man remained seated, gazing at him
furtively, but at length he too rose, and, stepping softly to his
companion, touched him on the shoulder. "Your pardon a moment, M. le
Vicomte," he said. "Am I right in concluding that the loss of this sum
will inconvenience you?"

"A thousand fiends!" exclaimed the young Vicomte, turning on him
wrathfully. "Is there any man whom the loss of two thousand crowns
would not inconvenience? As for me----"

"For you," continued the other, smoothly filling up the pause, "shall I
be wrong in saying that it means something like ruin?"

"Well, sir, and if it does?" the young man retorted, drawing himself up
haughtily, his cheek a shade paler with passion. "Depend upon it you
shall be paid. Do not be afraid of that!"

"Gently, gently, my friend," the winner answered, his patience in
strong contrast with the other's violence. "I had no intention of
insulting you, believe me. Those who play with the Vicomte de Lanthenon
are not wont to doubt his honour. I spoke only in your own interest. It
has occurred to me, Vicomte, that the matter might be arranged at less
cost to yourself."

"How?" was the curt question.

"May I speak freely?" The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, and the
other, taking silence for consent, proceeded: "You, Vicomte, are
governor of Lusigny for the King of Navarre; I, of Créance, for the
King of France. Our towns lie only three leagues apart. Could I by any
chance, say on one of these fine nights, become master of Lusigny, it
would be worth more than two thousand crowns to me. Do you understand?"

"No," the young man answered slowly, "I do not."

"Think over what I have said, then," was the brief answer.

For a full minute there was silence in the room. The Vicomte gazed
out of the window with knitted brows and compressed lips, while his
companion, sitting down, leant back in his chair, with an air of
affected carelessness. Outside, the rattle of arms and hum of voices
told that the watch were passing through the street. The church bell
struck one. Suddenly the Vicomte burst into a hoarse laugh, and,
turning, snatched up his cloak and sword. "The trap was very well laid,
M. le Capitaine," he said almost jovially; "but I am still sober enough
to take care of myself--and of Lusigny. I wish you good-night. You
shall have your money, never fear."

"Still, I am afraid it will cost you dearly," the Captain answered, as
he rose and moved towards the door to open it for his guest. His hand
was already on the latch when he paused. "Look here," he said, "what do
you say to this, then? I will stake the two thousand crowns you have
lost to me, and another thousand besides against your town. Fool! no
one can hear us. If you win, you go off a free man with my thousand. If
you lose, you put me in possession one of these fine nights. What do
you say to that? A single throw to decide."

The young man's pale face reddened. He turned, and his eyes sought
the table and the dice irresolutely. The temptation indeed came at
an unfortunate moment, when the excitement of play had given way to
depression, and he saw nothing before him outside the door, on which
his hand was laid, but the cold reality of ruin. The temptation to
return, and by a single throw set himself right with the world was too
much for him. Slowly he came back to the table. "Confound you!" he said
irritably. "I think you are the devil himself, Captain."

"Don't talk child's talk!" said the other coldly, drawing back as his
victim advanced. "If you do not like the offer you need not take it."

[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?"]

But the young man's fingers had already closed on the dice. Picking
them up he dropped them once, twice, thrice on the table, his eyes
gleaming with the play-fever. "If I win?" he said doubtfully.

"You carry away a thousand crowns," answered the Captain, quietly. "If
you lose you contrive to leave one of the gates of Lusigny open for me
before next full moon. That is all."

"And what if I lose, and not pay the forfeit?" asked the Vicomte,
laughing weakly.

"I trust to your honour," said the Captain. And, strange as it may
seem, he knew his man. The young noble of the day might betray his
cause and his trust, but the debt of honour incurred at play was
binding on him.

"Well," said the Vicomte, "I agree. Who is to throw first?"

"As you will," replied the Captain, masking under an appearance of
indifference a real excitement which darkened his cheek, and caused the
pulse in the old wound on his face to beat furiously.

"Then do you go first," said the Vicomte.

"With your permission," assented the Captain. And taking the dice up in
the caster he shook them with a practised hand, and dropped them on the
board. The throw was seven.

The Vicomte took up the caster and, as he tossed the dice into it,
glanced at the window. The moonlight shining athwart it fell in
silvery sheen on a few feet of the floor. With the light something
of the silence and coolness of the night entered also, and appealed
to him. For a few seconds he hesitated. He even made as if he would
have replaced the box on the table. But the good instinct failed. It
was too late, and with a muttered word, which his dry lips refused to
articulate, he threw the dice. Seven!

Neither of the men spoke, but the Captain rattled the little cubes, and
again flung them on the table, this time with a slight air of bravado.
They rolled one over the other and lay still. Seven again!

The young Vicomte's brow was damp, and his face pale and drawn. He
forced a quavering laugh, and with an unsteady hand took his turn. The
dice fell far apart, and lay where they fell. Six!

The winner nodded gravely. "The luck is still with me," he said,
keeping his eyes on the table that the light of triumph which had
suddenly leapt into them might not be seen. "When do you go back to
your command, Vicomte?"

The unhappy man stood like one stunned, gazing at the two little cubes
which had cost him so dearly. "The day after to-morrow," he muttered
hoarsely, striving to collect himself.

"Then shall we say the following evening?" asked the Captain.

"Very well."

"We quite understand one another," continued the winner, eyeing his man
watchfully, and speaking with more urgency. "I may depend on you, M. le
Vicomte, I presume?"

"The Lanthenons have never been wanting to their word," the young
nobleman answered, stung into sudden haughtiness. "If I live I will put
Lusigny into your hands, M. le Capitaine. Afterwards I will do my best
to recover it--in another way."

[Illustration: "HE WAS ALONE WITH HIS TRIUMPH."]

"I shall be entirely at your disposal," replied the Captain, bowing
lightly. And in a moment he was alone--alone with his triumph, his
ambition, his hopes for the future--alone with the greatness to which
his capture of Lusigny was to be the first step, and which he should
enjoy not a whit the less because as yet fortune had dealt out to him
more blows than caresses, and he was still at forty, after a score of
years of roughest service, the governor of a paltry country town.

Meanwhile, in the darkness of the narrow streets, the Vicomte was
making his way to his lodgings in a state of despair and unhappiness
most difficult to describe. Chilled, sobered, and affrighted he looked
back and saw how he had thrown for all and lost all, how he had saved
the dregs of his fortune at the expense of his loyalty, how he had seen
a way of escape and lost it for ever! No wonder that as he trudged
alone through the mud and darkness of the sleeping town his breath
came quickly and his chest heaved, and he looked from side to side as
a hunted animal might, uttering great sighs. Ah, if he could only have
retraced the last three hours!

Worn out and exhausted, he entered his lodging, and securing the door
behind him stumbled up the stone stairs and entered his room. The
impulse to confide his misfortunes to someone was so strong upon him
that he was glad to see a dark form half sitting, half lying in a chair
before the dying embers of a wood fire. In those days a man's natural
confidant was his valet, the follower, half-friend, half-servant, who
had been born on his estate, who lay on a pallet at the foot of his
bed, who carried his _billets-doux_ and held his cloak at the duello,
who rode near his stirrup in fight and nursed him in illness, who not
seldom advised him in the choice of a wife, and lied in support of his
suit.

The young Vicomte flung his cloak over a chair. "Get up, you rascal!"
he cried, impatiently. "You pig, you dog!" he continued, with
increasing anger. "Sleeping there as though your master were not ruined
by that scoundrel of a Breton! Bah!" he added, gazing bitterly at his
follower, "you are of the _canaille_, and have neither honour to lose
nor a town to betray!"

The sleeping man moved in his chair and half turned. The Vicomte, his
patience exhausted, snatched the bonnet from his head, and threw it
on the ground. "Will you listen?" he said. "Or go, if you choose look
for another master. I am ruined! Do you hear? Ruined, Gil! I have lost
all--money, land, Lusigny itself, at the dice!"

The man, aroused at last, stooped with a lazy movement, and picking up
his hat dusted it with his hand, and rose with a yawn to his feet.

[Illustration: "SIRE!" HE SAID.]

"I am afraid, Vicomte," he said, his tones quiet as they were, sounding
like thunder in the Vicomte's astonished and bewildered ears, "I am
afraid that if you have lost Lusigny, you have lost something which was
not yours to lose!"

As he spoke he struck the embers with his foot, and the fire, blazing
up, shone on his face. The Vicomte saw, with unutterable confusion
and dismay, that the man before him was not Gil at all, but the last
person in the world to whom he should have betrayed himself. The astute
smiling eyes, the aquiline nose, the high forehead, and projecting
chin, which the short beard and moustache scarcely concealed, were only
too well known to him. He stepped back with a cry of horror. "Sire!" he
said, and then his tongue failed him. He stood silent, pale, convicted,
his chin on his breast. The man to whom he had confessed his treachery
was the master whom he had conspired to betray.

"I had suspected something of this," Henry of Navarre continued,
after a pause, a tinge of irony in his tone. "Rosny told me that that
old fox, the Captain of Créance, was affecting your company a good
deal, M. le Vicomte, and I find that, as usual, his suspicions were
well-founded. What with a gentleman who shall be nameless, who has
bartered a ford and a castle for the favour of Mademoiselle de Luynes,
and yourself, I am blest with some faithful followers! For shame!" he
continued, seating himself with dignity, "have you nothing to say for
yourself?"

The young noble stood with his head bowed, his face white. This was
ruin, indeed, absolutely irremediable. "Sire," he said at last, "your
Majesty has a right to my life, not to my honour."

"Your honour!" quoth Henry, biting contempt in his tone.

The young man started, and for a second his cheek flamed under the
well-deserved reproach; but he recovered himself. "My debt to your
Majesty," he said, "I am willing to pay."

"Since pay you must," Henry muttered softly.

"But I claim to pay also my debt to the Captain of Créance."

"Oh," the King answered. "So you would have me take your worthless
life, and give up Lusigny?"

"I am in your hands, sire."

"Pish, sir!" Henry replied in angry astonishment. "You talk like a
child. Such an offer, M. de Lanthenon, is folly, and you know it. Now
listen to me. It was lucky for you that I came in to-night, intending
to question you. Your madness is known to me only, and I am willing to
overlook it. Do you hear? Cheer up, therefore, and be a man. You are
young; I forgive you. This shall be between you and me only," the young
prince continued, his eyes softening as the other's head drooped, "and
you need think no more of it until the day when I shall say to you,
'Now, M. de Lanthenon, for France and for Henry, strike!'"

He rose as the last word passed his lips, and held out his hand. The
Vicomte fell on one knee, and kissed it reverently, then sprang to his
feet again. "Sire," he said, standing erect, his eyes shining, "you
have punished me heavily, more heavily than was needful. There is only
one way in which I can show my gratitude, and that is by ridding you of
a servant who can never again look your enemies in the face."

"What new folly is this?" said Henry, sternly. "Do you not understand
that I have forgiven you?"

"Therefore I cannot give up Lusigny, and I must acquit myself of my
debt to the Captain of Créance in the only way which remains," replied
the young man, firmly. "Death is not so hard that I would not meet it
twice over rather than again betray my trust."

"This is midsummer madness!" said the King, hotly.

"Possibly," replied the Vicomte, without emotion; "yet of a kind to
which your Majesty is not altogether a stranger."

The words appealed strongly to that love of the chivalrous which formed
part of the King's nature, and was one cause alike of his weakness and
his strength, which in its more extravagant flights gave opportunity
after opportunity to his enemies, in its nobler and saner expressions
won victories which all his astuteness and diplomacy could not have
compassed. He stood looking with half-hidden admiration at the man whom
two minutes before he had despised.

"I think you are in jest," he said, presently.

"No, sire," the young man answered, gravely. "In my country they have
a proverb about us. 'The Lanthenons,' say they, 'have ever been bad
players, but good payers.' I will not be the first to be worse than my
name!"

[Illustration: "THE VICOMTE FELL ON ONE KNEE."]

He spoke with so quiet a determination that the King was staggered, and
for a minute or two paced the room in silence, inwardly reviling the
generous obstinacy of his weak-kneed supporter, yet unable to withhold
his admiration from it. At length he stopped, with a low, abrupt
exclamation.

"Wait!" he cried. "I have it! _Ventre Saint Gris_, man, I have it!" His
eyes sparkled, and, with a gentle laugh, he hit the table a sounding
blow. "Ha! ha! I have it!" he repeated, joyously.

The young noble gazed at him in surprise, half sullen, half
incredulous. But when Henry in low, rapid tones had expounded his plan,
the Vicomte's face underwent a change. Hope and life sprang into it.
The blood flew to his cheeks. His whole aspect softened. In a moment
he was on his knee, mumbling the King's hand, his eyes full of joy and
gratitude. After that the two talked long, the murmur of their voices
broken more than once by the ripple of low laughter. When they at
length separated, and Henry, his face hidden by the folds of his cloak,
had stolen away to his lodgings, where, no doubt, more than one watcher
was awaiting him with a mind full of anxious fears, the Vicomte threw
open his window and looked out on the night. The moon had set, but the
stars still shone peacefully in the dark canopy above. He remembered on
a sudden, his throat choking with silent repressed emotion, that he was
looking towards his home--the stiff grey pile among the beech woods of
Navarre which had been in his family since the days of St. Louis, and
which he had so lightly risked. And he registered a vow in his heart
that of all Henry's servants he would henceforth be the most faithful.

Meanwhile the Captain of Créance was enjoying the sweets of coming
triumph. He did not look out into the night, it is true, but pacing up
and down the room he planned and calculated, considering how he might
make the most of his success. He was still comparatively young. He had
years of strength before him. He would rise. He would not easily be
satisfied. The times were troubled, opportunities many, fools many;
bold men with brains and hands few.

At the same time he knew that he could be sure of nothing until Lusigny
was actually his, and he spent the next few days in considerable
suspense. But no hitch occurred. The Vicomte made the necessary
communications to him; and men in his own pay informed him of
dispositions ordered by the governor of Lusigny which left him in no
doubt that the loser intended to pay his debt.

It was, therefore, with a heart already gay with anticipation that the
Captain rode out of Créance two hours before midnight on an evening
eight days later. The night was dark, but he knew the road well. He
had with him a powerful force, composed in part of thirty of his own
garrison, bold, hardy fellows, and in part of six score horsemen, lent
him by the governor of Montauban. As the Vicomte had undertaken to
withdraw, under some pretence or other, one-half of his command and
to have one of the gates opened by a trusty hand, the Captain trotted
along in excellent spirits, and stopped to scan with approval the dark
line of his troopers as they plodded past him, the jingle of their
swords and corselets ringing sweet music in his ears. He looked for
an easy victory; but it was not any slight misadventure that would
rob him of his prey. As his company wound on by the river-side, their
accoutrements reflected in the stream or passed into the black shadow
of the olive grove which stands a mile to the east of Lusigny, he felt
little doubt of the success of his enterprise.

[Illustration: "HIS COMPANY WOUND ON BY THE RIVER-SIDE."]

Treachery apart, that is; and of treachery there was no sign. The
troopers had scarcely halted under the last clump of trees before a
figure detached itself from one of the largest trunks, and advanced
to their leader's rein. The Captain saw with surprise that it was the
Vicomte himself. For a second he thought something had gone wrong, but
the young noble's first words reassured him. "It is all right," M. de
Lanthenon whispered, as the Captain bent down to him. "I have kept my
word, and I think that there will be no resistance. The planks for
crossing the moat lie opposite the gate. Knock thrice at the latter,
and it will be opened. There are not fifty armed men in the place."

"Good!" the Captain answered, in the same cautious tone. "But you--"

"I am believed to be elsewhere, and must be gone. I have far to ride
to-night. Farewell."

"Till we meet again," the Captain answered; and with that his ally
glided away and was lost in the darkness. A cautious word set the
troop again in motion, and a very few minutes saw them standing on
the edge of the moat, the outline of the gateway tower looming above
them, a shade darker than the wrack of clouds which overhead raced
silently across the sky. A moment of suspense, while one and another
shivered--for there is that in a night attack which touches the nerves
of the stoutest--and the planks were found, and as quietly as possible
laid across the moat. This was so successfully done that it evoked no
challenge, and the Captain crossing quickly with some picked men, stood
almost in the twinkling of an eye under the shadow of the gateway.
Still no sound was heard save the hurried breathing of those at his
elbow or the stealthy tread of others crossing. Cautiously he knocked
three times and waited. The third rap had scarcely sounded, however,
before the gate rolled silently open, and he sprang in, followed by his
men.

So far so good. A glance at the empty street and the porter's pale face
told him at once that the Vicomte had kept his word. But he was too
old a soldier to take anything for granted, and forming up his men as
quickly as they entered, he allowed no one to advance until all were
inside, and then, his trumpet sounding a wild note of defiance, his
force sprang forward in two compact bodies, and in a moment the town
awoke to find itself in the hands of the enemy.

As the Vicomte had promised, there was no resistance. In the small
keep a score of men did indeed run to arms, but only to lay them down
without striking a blow when they became aware of the force opposed
to them. Their leader, sullenly acquiescing, gave up his sword and
the keys of the town to the victorious Captain, who, as he sat his
horse in the middle of the market-place, giving his orders and sending
off riders with the news, already saw himself in fancy Governor of a
province and Knight of the Holy Ghost.

[Illustration: "THEY HAVE GOT CRÉANCE!"]

As the red light of the torches fell on steel caps and polished
hauberks, on the serried ranks of pikemen, and the circle of
white-faced townsmen, the picturesque old square looked doubly
picturesque. Every five minutes, with a clatter of iron on the rough
pavement and a shower of sparks, a horseman sprang away to tell the
news at Montauban or Cahors; and every time that this occurred, the
Captain, astride on his charger, felt a new sense of power and triumph.

Suddenly the low murmur of voices was broken by a new sound, the
hurried clang of hoofs, not departing but arriving. There was something
in the noise which made the Captain prick his ears, and secured for
the messenger a speedy passage through the crowd. Even at the last the
man did not spare his horse, but spurring to the Captain's side, then
and then only sprang to the ground. His face was pale, his eyes were
bloodshot. His right arm was bound up in blood-stained cloths. With an
oath of amazement, the Captain recognised the officer whom he had left
in charge of Créance, and thundered out, "What is it?"

"They have got Créance!" the man gasped, reeling as he spoke. "They
have got Créance!"

"Who?" the Captain shrieked, his face purple with rage.

"The little man of Béarn! He assaulted it five hundred strong an hour
after you left, and had the gate down before we could fire a dozen
shots. We did what we could, but we were but one to seven. I swear,
Captain, we did all we could. Look at this!"

Almost black in the face, the Captain swore another frightful oath.
It was not only that he saw governorship and honours vanish like
Will-o'-the-wisps, but that he saw even more quickly that he had made
himself the laughing-stock of a kingdom! And he had. To this day, among
the stories which the southern French love to tell of the prowess and
astuteness of the great Henry, there is none more frequently told,
or more frequently laughed over, than that of the famous exchange of
Créance for Lusigny.

[Illustration]

_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._

[Illustration:

    _From a Painting by_       +AGE 37.+
    _R. Lehmann._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_   +PRESENT DAY.+
    _Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]


EARL GRANVILLE.

+Born 1815.+

At the age of thirty-seven, as our first portrait shows him, Earl
Granville, who had succeeded to the peerage six years earlier, and
who had already been for four years Vice-President of the Board of
Trade, had just obtained a seat in the Cabinet, and succeeded Lord
Palmerston at the Foreign Office. Since that time Lord Granville
has filled almost every office of importance in successive Liberal
Governments. He was moreover, as everybody knows, one of Her Majesty's
most confidential friends and counsellors. No Royal ceremony, whether
a marriage, a christening, or a funeral, was complete without his
well-known dignified, yet genial presence; and he probably attended
more ceremonies of this kind, at different Courts of Europe, than any
other person of his time.

Earl Granville's recent lamented death gives the above portraits a
melancholy interest.

[Illustration:

    _From a Painting_       +AGE 17.+
    _by G. F. Watts._]

[Illustration:

    _From a_     +AGE 21.+
    _Painting._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_      +AGE 47.+
    _Mrs. Cameron._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_      +AGE 68.+
    _Messrs. Cameron & Smith._]


G. F. WATTS, R.A.

+Born 1820.+

Our portraits of Mr. G. F. Watts depict him at most interesting ages.
The first was painted at seventeen by Mr. Watts himself, at which age
his first picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy. At twenty-one, he
had painted his first great historical picture; while at forty-seven,
the age of our third portrait, he had just received the title of R.A.


[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 22.+
    _Photograph._]


SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS, BART., R.A.

+Born 1827.+

Although our first portrait shows Sir John Millais at the early age of
twenty-two, he was already an important figure in the world of Art;
for he had gained his first medal at the Society of Arts when only
nine, and had, like Mr. Watts, exhibited his first picture in the Royal
Academy at seventeen. At the age of this portrait he had founded, with
Holman Hunt and D. G. Rossetti, the famous Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
of which the object was to depict Nature, not as tinged by the
imagination, but as they really saw it; a movement which was at first
received with the most violent abuse, but which, greatly owing to the
eloquent support of Mr. Ruskin, at last made good its way. Two years
later he was elected A.R.A., and ten years afterwards, R.A. At the age
depicted in our second portrait he was known, as he is still, as a
painter without rival in range, manliness, and vigour, and in bold and
masterly brush-work. In the year 1885 the Queen marked her sense of his
commanding abilities by conferring upon him the honour of a baronetcy.

[Illustration:

    _From a_      +AGE 40.+
    _Photograph._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_      +PRESENT DAY.+
    _Messrs. Window & Grove._]


[Illustration:

    _From a Photo._       +AGE 17.+
    _by Maull & Co._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 32.+
    _Hills & Saunders._]


SIR RICHARD EVERARD WEBSTER.

+Born 1842.+

Sir Richard Webster at seventeen, the age of our first portrait,
was leaving the Charterhouse School for Trinity College, Cambridge,
where he was greatly distinguished as an athlete, and where he won
the two miles race against Oxford. Our second portrait shows him at
this period, in his running costume. At thirty-two, as in our third
portrait, he had already so distinguished himself at the Bar that two
years later he was made a Q.C., at the earliest age on record. The
brilliance of Sir Richard's subsequent career is well known. It may
interest our readers to be told that some portraits, at a country
house, of Sir Richard at various stages of his life, first suggested to
the Editor the notion of this series, which has proved so popular.

[Illustration: AGE 22.

_From a Photo. by Mayland, Cambridge._]

For the above photographs we are indebted to the kindness of Sir
Richard Webster.

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +PRESENT DAY.+
    _Hughes & Mullins, Ryde._]


[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 6.+
    _Daguerreotype._]

[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 24.+
    _Photograph._]

[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 18.+
    _Photograph._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +PRESENT DAY.+
    _Alfred Ellis._]


MISS MARION TERRY.

Miss Marion Terry is a clever member of a clever family, and her
ability developed itself early. Already at the age of six (as in the
first portrait above given) she was appearing in the part of little
_Sybil_ in Tom Taylor's play, "A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing." This
childish effort was followed up by others more successful still, and,
at the age at which our second portrait represents her, she had made
a strong impression, as a mature actress, in the exacting part of
_Ophelia_. Then she appeared in several of Mr. W. S. Gilbert's dramas,
as _Dorothy_ in "Dan'l Druce," and as _Galatea_ in "Pygmalion and
Galatea." Since that time Miss Marion Terry has played many parts, and
with the same unvarying success, in which her natural capacity is aided
by her grace of action and the striking charm of her appearance.


[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 9.+
    _Daguerreotype._]

[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 30.+
    _Photograph._]

[Illustration:

    _From a_       +AGE 21.+
    _Photograph._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 42.+
    _Conby, Boston._]


WILLIAM TERRISS.

+Born 1849.+

At nine years old, William Lewin (for Terriss is only a stage name,
and the popular actor is in reality the son of Mr. Herbert Lewin,
the barrister, and a nephew of George Grote, the celebrated Greek
historian) was at school at Dr. Grix's, Littlehampton. He afterwards
had several years' experience first as a sheep-farmer in South America,
and then in North America as a horse-breeder; but at the age of our
second portrait he had returned to England, and had appeared upon the
stage in the part of _Nicholas Nickleby_ at the Adelphi. From that time
his success was certain, and has ever since been growing. At thirty,
Mr. Terriss was playing _Captain Molyneux_ in the "Shaughraun," with
Dion Boucicault, on the first production of that play in England. Our
last portrait shows him as Mr. Irving's chief supporter, and, now as
ever, an immense favourite with his brother professionals. Mr. Terriss
holds the medal of the Royal Humane Society for saving life at sea.

We are indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Terriss for permission to
reproduce these photographs.


[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_      +AGE 19.+
    _Marsters, Nottingham._]


CHARLES BRADLAUGH.

+Born 1833.+

At the age of nineteen Mr. Bradlaugh, after having been successively
errand-boy, coal-dealer, Sunday-school teacher, and lecturer, had
enlisted in the 7th Dragoon Guards, and had served for a time in
Ireland. He then became orderly-room clerk, obtained his discharge,
and took a situation as clerk to a solicitor in London. Soon, however,
he began to write and lecture, and before the age at which our
second portrait shows him, he was known throughout the country for
the opinions which it was the business of his life to advocate. And
erroneous as many of those opinions doubtless were, and fierce as was
the opposition which they excited, no one would now venture to dispute
his earnestness, his remarkable ability, or the goodness of his heart.

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 38.+
    _Van Loo._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 57.+
    _Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 3.+
    _Samuel A. Walker._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 28.+
    _Bertin, Brighton._]


HENRY PETTITT.

+Born 1853.+

Of Mr. Henry Pettitt, at the age of three, we have nothing to recount;
but at fourteen he ran away from school to Sadler's Wells Theatre,
obtained an engagement, went on the stage as an Irish boy armed with
a shillelagh, broke the head of a utility actor, and got a drubbing
which left him senseless. After this taste of stage-life he obtained
an engagement as an usher at the North London Collegiate School, a
post which he was holding at the age of our second portrait. But all
this while he was writing poems, sketches, and burlesque lectures, and
finally, in collaboration with Paul Meritt, he wrote his first play,
_British Born_, which was a grand success. Since then he has produced
innumerable dramas, and, as a master of construction and as a realistic
writer, he has probably no equal at the present day.

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 21.+
    _T. Coleman._]

[Illustration:

    _From a Photo. by_       +AGE 38.+
    _Samuel A. Walker._]




_A New Industry for Ladies._

+By Miss Grace Harriman.+


The object of this New Industry is to open up a new, profitable,
and, I hope, pleasant way out of the present congested state of the
Lady Labour Market. The Ladies' Fruit and Salad Gardens have been
established at Grange Gardens, Sawley, near Derby, to provide pleasant
homes and remunerative employment for gentle-women who have a taste for
gardening work and wish to add to their incomes or to earn a living.

[Illustration: MISS GRACE HARRIMAN.]

It seems to have been seven or eight years since the idea first came to
me that ladies with a taste for gardening might possibly earn a living
by it; but so much needed thinking out, and detail after detail fitting
in, that it is only five years since I myself became a practical
gardener.

The more I inquired into the matter the more plainly I saw that market
gardeners, as a rule, made a good thing of it.

After trying two rented gardens that only proved quicksands, as far as
money-spending on them went, the soil being worn out, and the fruit
trees that were in them most uncertain, I determined to take new ground
in hand, _i.e._, break up old pasture and plant a garden after my own
idea of obtaining the greatest amount of produce with the least amount
of labour. I advocate planting dwarf hardy fruit-trees in the open;
and for this reason, that during nine months of the year they need no
labour expending on them after they are once well planted and securely
fenced from rabbits, their winter depredators, and with reason we may
look for a good crop of fruit five years out of seven.

My own experimental garden was planted, March, 1889. That year we had
enormous crops of vegetables of splendid flavour, and a very fair
amount of fruit. Last year our crop of fruit, in addition to the
vegetables, was very considerable. Had the produce of this garden been
for sale, it must have realised a very handsome sum.

To my mind it would be unwise for a woman single-handed to expect to
make a sure, comfortable living out of one isolated garden, but by
well-directed cooperation, thereby being able to grow a great variety
of fruits and vegetables and salads to meet the wants of a private
trade, the chance of the possibility of failure is reduced to a minimum.

It is not desirable for more than six owners of gardens to live in one
house. When fruit, salads, and vegetables are grown by the acre, and
sold by the dozen, the bunch, or the pound, the book-keeping necessary
must be very considerable. These six ladies can well look after the
three-acre garden, or, rather, fruit plantation. Each lady has her own
portion of half an acre solely under her care, and she keeps a strict
account of everything sold off her portion; and, after all necessary
expenses are paid, the profits, are divided exclusively among the lady
cultivators in proportion as each may, by diligence and constant
attention, have produced abundant crops or otherwise.

Our cultivation of flowers is mainly directed to late autumn, winter,
and early spring ones, those for Christmas and Easter decorations
paying as well as any. The ladies gladly undertake table and other
decorations at any time, as we do not entirely confine ourselves to
autumn, winter, and spring flowers.

[Illustration: BEDDING OUT.]

Well directed co-operation being so much more powerful than
single-handed efforts, as soon as the sufficient number of ladies have
definitely signified their intention of joining and showed us they
have the necessary £100 capital (for my five years of active practical
gardening work have plainly showed me that a little capital is
absolutely necessary for a woman to start successful market gardening),
a private Limited Liability Company will be formed--of course composed
entirely of lady gardeners. The first year they must not expect to make
more than covers expenses, including board of each household. The work
is such that any lady is well able to perform; the produce grown, all
kinds of hardy and dessert fruit under glass and in the open. Especial
attention is given to delicate vegetables and salads, mushrooms, &c.,
with flowers and poultry as an adjunct.

The market of the produce grown has from the beginning stood out
plainly before me as the vital point of success. Fortunately by
starting in a thickly populated consuming neighbourhood there seems
every probability of the greater portion, if not the whole, of the
produce being taken by people kind enough to open up deposit accounts
with the lady gardeners. After April 1, the gardens may be seen each
Thursday between 2 and 5 o'clock. Those going will kindly write their
names in the visitors' book, and pay one shilling each for being shown
over. This latter is a necessity, as it takes up the valuable time of
the lady gardeners.

The household arrangements are conducted with the greatest regularity;
the details of the _menu_ even may be gathered by those visiting the
place. The hours of meals are as follow:--

    Breakfast at       8 a.m.
    Early dinner       1 p.m.
    Afternoon tea      4 p.m.
    High tea           7 p.m.

During the busiest months of the year, April, May, and June, most of
the day will be taken up with one kind or other of light gardening
work. The long holidays must be taken in the winter. Those left at
home can send off with ease the stored crops as ordered, attend to the
plants under glass, and feed the poultry.

[Illustration: THE VINERY.]

I have been repeatedly asked why I have not started the industry near
London. My reasons for not doing so are many:--

(1) Well-situated, good land, near to a station within a few miles of
town, commands far too high a price to be thought of.

(2) The London market all the year round is far from being the best
obtainable. Some instances have come under my notice where Middlesex
growers have sent their garden produce to one or other of the great
Midland markets, the far higher price obtainable more than out-weighing
the greater amount of freight.

(3) It seemed wiser to start the Industry in a neighbourhood where the
promoter was well known, and had many friends and acquaintances. It is
also within easy distance of one or more of the late summer and autumn
crowded health resorts. The late summer and autumn being the season
when the bulk of all perishable fruits ripen, a moment's reflection
will point out to all that these health resorts are, as a rule, whether
by the seaside or inland, usually in a non-fruit-growing district. But
it would not answer to rely on these places entirely, because for some
months of the year they are practically empty.

(4) No sane people would plant fruit trees on other land than their own
without the protection of a long lease, the very shortest being thirty
years.

[Illustration: PRUNING AND POTTING.]

I am continually receiving offers of land from all parts of the
country, but I wish it distinctly understood that we entertain the idea
of none unless owned by those of sufficient influence and enterprise to
secure a ready market for the produce grown by the lady gardeners.

[Illustration: PLANTING POTATOES.]

I gather from my correspondents that some do not even grasp the
fundamental fact that their £100 is required solely to provide their
own share of garden and house; the smallest, and at the same time
the largest, number to be advantageously placed during the summer
is thirty-six, as many expenses necessary to a fewer number could
well be common to all. More than that number I can also easily and
advantageously place. I have had some hundreds of applications, but I
prefer none to decide until they see the exact model of the Industry,
in full working order now.

Full particulars may be obtained of the business part by sending a
stamped address to the promoter,

    +Miss Grace Harriman+,
    The Hut, Mount-park.
    Harrow-on-the-Hill.

[Illustration]




_The Waltz in "Faust."_

+By Richard Dowling.+


My original name was John Fowler. I am known to the world by one much
more high sounding. This is the first time since I came to man's estate
that I have written the name of my boyhood, and I have never spoken
it. The one I have gone by most of my life is hardly more removed in
splendour from plain John Fowler than the life of variety and rich
experiences I now enjoy compared with the experience of my early years.
I follow one of the fine arts as a profession, and in the impetuous
days of my youth I adopted a _nom de guerre_ of fine sound and
picturesque associations.

I have refused all requests that I would furnish an account of my
youth. I would not speak of it now if I did not feel absolutely certain
that the man well known in certain art circles in London can never be
identified through the autobiographical sketch with John Fowler, the
miller's youngest son.

Private reasons, of no interest to the public, prevent me localising
my early home. I am neither a criminal nor a hero, that people should
be interested in my private life, and my only romantic experience will
be found in this narrative. Telling my story over here will beguile
my heart of a troublesome unrest which came to be positive pain,
pain springing from a flood of memories, when a few moments ago a
piano-organ at the next house played the waltz in "Faust."

[Illustration: THE MILL AT BRACKEN GLEN.]

I was born in the dwelling-house attached to a water-mill in a secluded
glen far away in the north of England. My family held religious views
shared by no sect I ever heard of, and lived lives of extraordinary
austerity. No mirror, no musical instruments, no volumes of poetry, no
novels, no games of any kind were permitted in our house. The furniture
was the most simple, consistent with maintaining bodily efficiency for
the performance of the day's work without hindrance or loss of time;
our carpets were of the dullest colour, and were considered merely as
a means of keeping out the cold and economising fuel. We had curtains
on the windows, but they were only to exclude or divert the draughts.
Our clothes were ample and warm, but they were of the hues of the
earth in winter. We spoke few words and in low tones. We ate and drank
in silence. We had no place of worship. The whole Sunday was spent
in solemn walks and reading the Scriptures and a few pious books. We
regarded Quakers as lax Christians.

The household consisted of my father, his wife and children, and my
father's brother, his wife and children. We were so large a family
that all the mill work was done without the aid of strangers, and we
all lived under one roof, in the mill house of Bracken Glen. I was the
youngest, the youngest of all.

Before I knew of any world beyond the mill and Bracken Glen, I thought
it was a busy and cheerful place. Now that I come to look back on
it I know it was one of the most desolate and lonely situations in
all England. People talk of the woes of solitude in the forest, in
an unpeopled island, in a crowd. But the most terrible and corroding
solitude of all is that of a small group of human beings, a large
family sunk deep among mountains far out of the reach of ordinary human
intercourse, and living in such strict customs and observances as
obtained at Bracken Glen. Of course we had the business always going
on, and that prevented our people from going mad. But the mill was not
in the main road. You had to turn up into the Glen to reach it, and
no faces ever appeared in the yard but the faces of people coming on
business to the mill.

[Illustration: "I FELL GRIEVOUSLY ILL."]

As I have said, I was the youngest of the whole Fowler family, brothers
and sisters and cousins. The winter that I was twelve years of age I
fell grievously ill, so ill that they thought I should never recover.
Then, for the first time, I saw a doctor. Our people had no great faith
in doctors, and this was the only occasion on which one had been in
Bracken Glen for ten years.

My father and mother were assured that I was certain to die if I were
not instantly sent to a milder climate, say the Isle of Wight or some
genial part of the South Coast. There was a grave demur, a long debate,
and finally I was despatched to the home of a married cousin whose name
I had heard and of whom I knew little except that he was the son of my
father's eldest sister, that he was not a miller, which was a reproach
to him, and that he did not conform to the observances seen at Bracken
Glen, or indeed hold the same form of religious belief.

I was too weak and wretched when I left home to care about anything, to
care whether I was moved or not, whether I was to taste warmer air or
not, whether I lived or not. If they would only let me alone I think I
should have preferred to die.

I was taken from the cold, bleak, northern Glen where, although we
ground corn never any grew, and carried hundreds of miles south; an
interminable journey, it seemed to my young mind and feeble, sensitive
body.

All through that winter I was delicate, and not allowed out of doors.
My cousin's name was Harding. I had never met either him or his wife
before. He was about thirty, and she twenty-five. They were simple
people, with much of the hereditary aversion from frivolity, but they
were not dogmatic or censorious, and they were beyond and above all the
very kindest people I ever met in all my life. They lived a mile out of
the little town of Bickerton, on the high road. They were childless. He
traded in corn in Bickerton. The taste for grain seemed to run in the
blood of our family.

In my old home my education had not been neglected. I could read and
cypher, and I knew the heaviness of all the weights, and the dryness
of all the dry measures. My father had taught me the elements of
Euclid and Algebra, and I remember that the most awful terrors were
in my mind of what these sciences could be in operation if their mere
elements were so forbidding, and cold, and tyrannical. My father had
a theory that any man able to "keep a set of books" could never be
ship-wrecked in life. He had tried to instil a passion for book-keeping
into my mind. So intense was my loathing of that black art that to this
day the mere mention of it rouses me to fury. In fine, I may say that
I had laid the foundation of what was called a commercial education,
and upon this I had raised up my own sole and overwhelming horror of
arithmetical figures, triangles, debtor and creditor, and unknown
quantities.

Sufficient of the old leaven of the Fowlers worked in Harding, not only
to draw him into the grain trade, but to make him still shy of "sweet
sounds that give delight and hurt not." There was no musical instrument
in the house, but books--

There were hundreds of books!

An inexhaustible mine of books, and such as I had never dreamed of
before! Books that my cousins Nellie and George had had when they were
young. Fairy tales and stories of adventure, novels and poetry!

In the cold grey times of that winter my soul took fire. My spirit
sprang up from long drowsing in the husk of the chrysalis, and put
forth golden and azure and purple wings, and soared into skies of
endless glories beyond the sun. All day long I went enchanted through
enchanted palaces, where moved stately princesses with gold brocaded
robes and haughty eyes, and voices of mystic tones. I led armies
against the Saracen, and spread terrors never dreamed on earth before,
and exercised clemencies that made heaven envious. I headed cavalcades
through winding streets where the air was thick with banners. I bore
the Black Knight backward out of his saddle in the list, and clove
the plumed helmet of the leaguer in the breach. I harangued my troops
on the field of victory, and pardoned my foes in the shrines of their
heathen gods.

But I did not know how the sound of a trumpet stirred, or what dancing
was, or love. I had never heard a musical instrument in my life or seen
a festival, and I was too young for love--and yet, perhaps, not all too
young for noble love and chivalry, if the princess or the lady came my
way.

With the spring of the next year health began to stir in my veins. I
shook off all the lassitudes and languors of illness, and by April I
felt better than ever in my young life before. With returning health,
the romantic rapture which had come to me out of books grew and
intensified. There was no talk of my going home, or more correctly,
there had been talk of it, and my kind relatives, the Hardings, had
declared that nothing but force should take me from them until I had
been fully fortified by spending a whole summer in the more genial
south.

In our own Glen, all the time I could steal from the detested weights
and measures and triangles, and debit and credit side of the fabulous
transactions of that creature, John Jones, Esq., I spent far afield
among the hills. Here, near Bickerton, this spring I found all I cared
for of Nature in the sky above me, and in the large, old-fashioned
garden; and all I desired of enchantment in the magical books. I
rarely went beyond the garden-gate, and never into the town. I became
a youthful recluse in the boundless realms of fancy. I lorded it over
empires and cities of men. Space, the space of the furthest wandering
star, was not vast enough to accommodate the realms that rose in mist
out of the pages of the poets and romancists.

I was a precocious boy. I knew nothing of boys' games and sports, and
all at once I had come out of the cold, arid life at Bracken Glen
into the rich and varied lights and colours of poetry. The change was
overwhelming and intoxicating. My reading had, in a vague way, been
progressive. I had begun with fairy tales. To these had succeeded
stories of adventure and travel, and to them poetry and plays. Prose
romances and novels came last, for I had fought shy of them at first,
considering that they dealt too much with people and scenes like those
in my own experience of life. When first I broke free among books I
wished to forget the world.

Towards the end of April two things drove me to the novels. The supply
of other books had been exhausted, and I began to yearn after a glimpse
at what possibilities of poetry and wonder still existed in the world,
as the world was going on outside the sphere of my experience. I
wanted to see in books the things now visible to other eyes still on
earth--things hidden from me by barriers of age and circumstances I
could not understand.

From this desire arose the romance of my life.

One evening George Harding mentioned at tea that Mr. Seymour, a
gentleman who owned an estate in the neighbourhood and had a fine
house, Trafford Manor, a couple of miles further out from Bickerton,
was going to give a ball the end of that month. The Hardings did not
look on balls as exactly wicked, and said nothing for or against the
approaching party. They did not, of course, know the Trafford Manor
folk, who were county people, and quite inaccessible to traders in
Bickerton.

If my cousins had conscientious scruples against going to balls, and
if the social position of the Seymours forbade any chance whatever
of an invitation, the husband and wife were willing to talk of the
approaching festival. They discussed it in no measured terms. They
said it would be the most distinguished and splendid event of the
neighbourhood for the year. They enumerated the distinguished and rich
and powerful people who would attend. They talked of the grounds being
lighted up with lamps, and the house one vast illumination from roof
to cellar. They spoke of the dancing and the bounteous table and the
plenteous wine and the strings of carriages coming up the drive, of the
brilliant costumes, and the jewels and lovely women, of the fountain
spouting on the lawn, and the band--the band of famous musicians from
London, who, though they came by night to places like Bickerton in
sober black cloth coats and played with fiddles, were yet entitled to
wear in London magnificent red coats all slashed and braided and piped
and gathered with cords and knots of gold; musicians who not only
could play with marvellous skill on stringed, brown wood instruments
while they sat on chairs, but had, in their natural sphere in London,
great brazen and silver instruments to play upon as they rode through
the crowded streets of the marvellous capital on jet black prancing
chargers, whose bridles were of steel shining like silver, and upon
whose forehead blazed burnished, brazen stars.

[Illustration: "THEY SPOKE OF THE FAMOUS MUSICIANS."]

In the novels I had read there had been descriptions of balls. I had no
more thought when reading that it could ever be my luck to see one than
I had considered my chance good of fighting North American Indians, or
cutting out French sloops, or riding from London to York on Black Bess.

Now, a ball had not only come within my ken, but had been brought to my
very door. What could be easier than for me to slip out of my room when
all the house was asleep, walk to Trafford Manor, enter the grounds,
and behold the miraculous sight through a window or open door, and,
when I had filled my soul with a scene of fairy-land realised, steal
back to my room unnoticed by anyone in the house? The Hardings were, of
course, much older than I. They were man and woman and I only a boy not
yet in his teens, but they had no halo of parental awe, no parental
authority or infallibility.

I had never in all my life heard a musical instrument. At the ball
there would be a band. A band was several musical instruments playing
all together. What could that be like? Would it resemble several people
talking at once? That would be horribly confusing. But it could not be
like several people talking together, for people spoke of a band as a
source of fine pleasure. Would a band of several instruments playing
at one time be like a parti-coloured card spun round? Hardly; for
that only confused the colours, so long as they could be known to be
separate colours, and only made a dull stain when they mingled in one
tint.

My first care was to keep my intention to myself. My second was to
survey the ground of future enterprise. There was no difficulty about
either of these precautions. I had merely to hold my tongue and to walk
to Trafford Manor along a beautiful, undulating, winding, wooded road
which passed by our modest gate, and before the stately portal of the
great house.

The beauty of Trafford Manor was renowned in all the south, and the
owner was proud of his grounds and opened them to all who chose to see
them.

One morning, to the astonishment of my cousin Nellie, I announced my
intention of going for a long walk. She was delighted, crammed my
pockets full of the best good things in the larder, and declared that
she should resent seeing me before dinner.

That whole day I spent in the Trafford demesne. Surely nowhere was
scene more fitted for a fairy _fête_. It was mid April, and clear
and sunny weather. The air was full of fresh spices of the swelling
buds and of the dainty, delicate, flat leaves already unsheathed and
glittering moist and green in the flowing air. It was rapture to live
and breathe, and heaven to know as much and no more of the world
of things than books taught, no more than enough to set the spirit
dreaming. All the senses brought fuel for poetry, if the sacred flame
fluttered inside. As yet the trees were only misty with verdure. The
depths in depth of vestal green in the woods took the eye into such
enchanted bowers of the imagination, it was like praying, to stand and
listen to the soft, ample murmurs of the multitudinous leaves as the
broad air came by them out of the opening south.

[Illustration: "CRAMMED MY POCKETS FULL."]

In that far off Bracken Glen I often knew promptings towards the
spirit of the heather and the glen and the skies. But then I felt
Nature spoke a language I did not understand, which no one about me
seemed to hear. In the midst of my most ecstatic trances I recalled
myself by conceiving what a poor opinion John Jones, Esquire, of the
soddened book-keeping, would hold of me if he knew that I was wasting
time in hearkening to fancy instead of those pipes of wine which never
knew rest in the day-book, journal, or ledger, or trying to remember
thirteen times, or endeavouring at all events to trisect the angle at
which the brown ground of the bluff bit through the verdure of the hill
to the gash where the stream gushed forth through ragged rocks on its
way to the pond above our overshot wheel.

But now I had met, in the modest library of the Hardings, men who would
gag John Jones, Esquire, if he opened his mouth to speak in those
sylvan dales of Trafford, men who would condescend to have no dealings
whatever with pipes of wine, except to drink in them the ladies of
their love, and who would not allow a triangle into their presence,
except for the purpose of tricing up John Jones, Esquire, to it, and
giving him five dozen with the cat!

[Illustration: "SLIPPED DOWNSTAIRS."]

The Hardings usually retired early, and in the first days of my visit,
when I felt the first flush of freedom from the stricter rules of my
own home, when I stirred under the inspiriting touch of the outer
world, faint though it might be, through the intercourse of George
Harding with it, I felt grieved that they would not sit later of nights
and let me listen in awakening silence to their news of the great world
beyond.

On the night of the ball I thought they would never rise to go. It
would not do for me to betray the least anxiety. Other nights I had
never shown any desire to go to bed. It would not do to challenge
attention or excite suspicion by exhibiting any hurry this night. It
was hard to sit and hear of all the preparations for the great ball,
and feel that my cousins were standing between me and a sight of the
glories about which they could only speculate.

I had heard that people would not begin to arrive at Trafford Manor
until late, but I was consumed with impatience to be off. At last the
blessed moment of release came. My cousins went to bed, and I found
myself alone in my room at the back of the house.

No great strategy or caution was necessary to escape. I waited half an
hour, then slipped downstairs, carrying my boots in my hand, and stole
out by the back door.

When I found myself in the garden I had almost to grope my way, the
night was so dark. I could not see the clouds over-head, but they must
have been thick, for not a star shone in all heaven, and they must have
been low, for the air was unusually warm considering the season. I sat
down on a garden chair and put on my boots. Then rising, I drew a full
breath, made quietly for the road, and, turning my back upon the town,
set off at a good pace towards Trafford Manor.

I don't know what o'clock it was, but the low mutter of vehicles was
behind me and before me in the darkness, and every now and then the
lights of a carriage flashed into view in the rear, and the carriage
dashed past, carrying before it into the blackness a shield of light
raised up by its lamps.

Here was lonely I at last, the hero of a romance! Surely it was a
romance to steal away in the dead of night and set out alone in
search of adventure. For although I had but one intention clearly
defined at starting, that of getting sight of the ball, now that I
found myself on the way was I not fairly circumstanced to encounter
adventures? Might not the horses under one of the carriages break away
from control, placing in peril the precious and lovely inmates, until
I dashed forward and rescued them, winning guerdon of lovely looks
and loud-sounding fame? Might not thieves and highwaymen lurk in the
impenetrable boscage, and, breaking forth, threaten the ladies with
death, until I, bursting among the throng, scattered the marauders
and entered the Manor in triumph with my peerless charge? A great
general driving by might fall into some terrible danger from onslaught
of enemies, or the breaking of a wheel, and I might chance upon his
deliverance, and he, in gratitude, might make a general of me, and
send me against the Indians or the Kaffirs. Or a high admiral, being
unused to the land, might be met by me wandering about on foot and
alone--lost, not knowing where to turn for food or shelter, and I might
guide him to both, and he might order that henceforth I was to be
Captain of the saucy _Arethusa_.

Any one of these adventures was likely to befall one in my position
and circumstances, and it would be only prudent to keep oneself in a
fit state of mind to deal with all of them. The fit state of mind was
the enthusiastic and heroic; and in a very enthusiastic and heroic
disposition I trod the road, and arrived at the lodge of Trafford Manor
demesne.

Here no difficulty presented itself, for both the great iron portal and
the two side gates stood wide, inviting all men to enter.

I had not in my old home at Bracken Glen been used to bars and bolts,
and I had no awe of social superiors, because I had come in contact
with none. But I had grave timidity towards strangers of any kind, and,
although the rank of the folk at Trafford Manor had no fears for me,
I stood in awe of people who could command the wonders of which the
Hardings had spoken. Such people were of rather a different order of
being, like the genii of Eastern tales, than merely richer and better
born people of the same race as myself.

I walked into the grounds with as much confidence as I had travelled
the high road.

All thoughts of the past and future left me in presence of the scene
on the lawn before the house. I no longer wanted to take part in any
enterprise of hazardous adventure. I no longer yearned to distinguish
myself and win plaudits or enduring fame. I only wanted to be let
alone. I only wanted to be. I only wanted to wander about this land of
romance, and drink in all the loveliness at my wide young eyes.

In the centre of the lawn the fountain threw up a ghostly wavering
pillar of water, soft as smooth, and tinted with light of various hues.
Down the arcades of the tress swung lines of coloured lamps. Here and
there, round the trunk of oak, or beech, or lime, clustered a group
of blue, and green, and yellow lamps, like the flame of giant gems
sparkling on the dark, tasselled, trailing robe of night.

People were walking about, not bidden guests at the Manor, but those
who, like myself, had come to see the place by night. I took no
notice of anyone. I took no notice of anything, but the intoxicating
atmosphere of delight through which I moved. I did not think. I was
content merely to feel the enthralling influence of the scene. This was
my first experience of poetry realised, of dreams in tangible form, of
visions of the day taking material form at night.

All at once I came upon a French window wide open, with, beyond it, a
vast room lit by one huge chandelier. The floor shone like dark ice
shadowed by brown rocks, and down the dark ice figures of men and
women glided. The necks and shoulders and arms of the women were bare,
and in their hair flashed incandescent points of shifting fire. Their
robes were flowing, and of all colours, like the silent column of smoke
rising up in the lawn, only the colours were richer and more varied.
The long dresses of the women swept the floor as they moved to and fro,
their white-gloved hands on the arms of their cavaliers.

I stood spell-bound. My eyes went on seeing, yet discovering nothing
new, as when one looks at the lonely sea. Mere seeing was a delight
inexpressible, a delight that held me fast, as though the air around me
was adamant.

In front of me, by the window, stood a woman whose beauty was so
splendid it did not seem human. It was a perfectly colourless face, of
most exquisite profile, clear and sweet as a cameo. She did not strike
me as of any age. As she seemed now she must always have been, for
any change would not leave her perfect, and it was very plain she was
designed for perfection. There was in her a settled decision of line
that precluded the idea of her ever being otherwise than as she was
now--beauty absolute.

Could ever man that lived be worthy to touch the hand of this ethereal
princess standing tall and dark against the light of the chandelier
in the doorway? Could any mere man be privileged to do her a service,
to save her from fire or battle or the sea? To breathe the air she
sanctified by her presence? To live in the garden through which she
walked? To merit her smile? To die for her?

When poets spoke of goddesses they thought of her.

Then softly, and yet all at once, as my amazed and incredulous eyes
were fixed upon this miracle, the air was stirred in a way I had never
known it stirred before. Something subtler than light came through it
and touched me, and stole into my veins, and made my blood richer and
indescribably precious in my heart. The flames of the candles swayed
in a strange, intelligible, inexplicable sympathy with this new sense
in me. The essences of all perfumes were poured in upon my brain and
made me giddy with a rapture I had never dreamed life could hold. All
at once and by no effort of my own I came into possession of some
property of joy beyond the glory of light and colour, beyond the reach
of perfume. It came from beyond where this miracle of womanhood against
the light stood. It beat by her like wind, and yet it stirred not one
petal of the flowers in her hair. But the influence of it possessed
her face, and she who had been Grecian goddess became an enraptured
spirit. What could it be? Had the gate of Paradise opened, and was some
large and subtle and fine rapture flowing towards me and around me, and
possessing me with rhythmical joy?

[Illustration: "THE POOR BOY HAS FAINTED."]

What could this new thing, this mysterious agony of delight be?

Then, like a flash, I knew.

It was the band!

It was the band, and I was hearing music for the first time in my life!

After that with me all grew dark and blank.

I had fainted.

I was found lying on the grass, and when I came to myself that being
whom I took for more than mortal was kneeling beside me and bending
over me, chafing my hands, and saying:--

"Quick! quick! bring a light and water! The poor boy has fainted."
Others were around me, and some hurried away.

"Poor boy!" I thought. "_Poor_ boy, whom _she_ has touched!"

"What caused it?" she asked me, pushing my hair back from my forehead.
"What a pretty boy he is. Do you know, dear, what caused it?"

"I don't know," I said, as well as I could; "I think it must have been
the band. I never heard music before."

"Never heard music before?" she cried in astonishment, "Are you sure?
Where have you lived that you never heard music before?"

"In Bracken Glen--a glen in the north," I said. "We have a mill there.
Our people do not have music, and I never heard music until I heard it
now."

"And you fainted when you heard it first?" she asked, helping me to
rise.

"I can think of nothing else to make me faint. This is the first time I
ever fainted."

"You are better now?"

"I am quite well, thank you. I shall go away now."

"No, not yet. I am much interested in you. There must be something
uncommon in the boy who fainted when he heard music for the first time.
It was the waltz in 'Faust.' My husband will be most interested in
this. He knows a great deal about music, but I think this will be new
to him."

There may have been something uncommon in that boy who fainted on
hearing music for the first time. People who know me by the name I
now bear before the public say I have a faculty of producing melody
that will satisfy. I have said that I follow one of the fine arts as a
profession. I am a musician--a composer of music. That lady who twenty
years ago saw me fall to the ground outside Trafford Manor, and came
to my help, has aided my career in many ways. She spoke of me to her
husband, who knows more about music than any other man I am acquainted
with. She encouraged me in my hours of depression, of despair. She has
done more kindnesses for me than any other woman--but one. I am now a
successful man. I am proud to owe all I own of value in the world to
her. The one woman I am more indebted to than to her, I owe, in a way,
to the lady of the "Faust" waltz also, for her daughter is my wife.
It was while I was a guest at a ball in Trafford Manor that I told my
wife Gertrude of that memorable night long ago. It was while she was
standing by the same window where her mother had stood nineteen years
before, and looking as her mother looked then, that I found courage to
speak. The band played again the waltz in "Faust." Then I lost control,
and the overwhelming love for the girl at my side bore me away; and I
cried out to her in my despair, and asked if there was any hope for me
in her heart.

She did not understand me. I had not made my meaning plain. We went
out upon the lawn, where many years ago I had watched the fountain
mount through the rainbow-coloured lights. It was not now early spring,
but deep summer. It was not now with me the admiration of a child for
a statue, but the passion of a man for a woman. The first strain of
melody had been a revelation to the boy. How poor and thin it seemed
to the revelation that there was hope for me in the heart of the girl
I loved. Before the band finished that waltz in "Faust," Gertrude
understood what I had whispered in the doorway. That waltz in "Faust"
had played in music to my soul, and my darling to my arms. I never hear
it without experiencing incommunicable emotions. Who can wonder?

[Illustration]




[Illustration: +Orchids.+

ODONTOGLOSSUM HASTILABIUM.]


Shakespeare's words to the effect that the man who has no music in
himself is fit only for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, might
appropriately be adapted to flowers. Certainly the man or woman who
finds it impossible to love the rose and the violet, the chrysanthemum,
and even the simple little primrose which will be so much abroad
during this month of April, is lamentably lacking in something. So
much is indisputable of flowers in general, and of the subject of this
paper in particular. The rose alone excepted, no plant has inspired
the abiding love shown for the orchid, and, not even excepting the
rose, none has been the object of such enthusiasm. The study of the
orchidaceous family, as some one has said, is a liberal education, and
it was once declared, with all the authority of print, that Mr. Joseph
Chamberlain must be possessed of a fine character because he loves
these extraordinary flowers. If the predilection for orchids is to be
accepted as proof of any such possession, the English race is in no
danger of deterioration.

Many of our readers will have heard of the tulip mania which raged
so fiercely in Holland about the middle of the seventeenth century,
when simply fabulous prices were given for a single bulb. There was
little that was either reasonable or explicable in the desire to secure
the tulip at all costs, but the popularity of the orchid is easily
understood by anyone who cares to go into the subject. We venture to
believe that by the time we have said all we have to say--and how small
a portion that is of what we could say!--those who peruse this paper
will find it somewhat difficult to resist running off to the nearest
nurseryman and asking to be shown over his houses, or to the nearest
bookseller and ordering one of the numerous popular manuals which will
instruct them how to set about becoming orchid growers themselves. We
have often heard the uninitiated wonder what there is to attract in the
orchid, more than in any other beautiful flower. Well, to say nothing
of its exquisite and unique charm as a mere spectacle, Darwin gave many
reasons, and the Darwinian mind, we believe, has actually sought to
show that the orchid is the missing link between animal and vegetable
nature. The student will find lots to support this fascinating theory,
and to induce him to think that if the other missing link--that between
the man and the animal--is discoverable, we shall have completed the
chain of nature starting with man and ending with the garden cabbage.
But all this is another story, with which it is not our province now to
deal.

Orchids have been really popular about twenty-five years. They were
well known in the last century, but they were the possession of
the privileged few, and were regarded as a mere floral curiosity.
One day, however, some sixty years or more ago, the late Duke of
Devonshire chanced to come across an orchid from Demerara, which bore
an extraordinary resemblance to a butterfly. His delight was immense,
and he proceeded forthwith to cultivate the plant, of which a variety
is shown in our illustration of the _Oncidium Kramerianum_. A little
later he purchased a "Moth Orchid," for which he paid 100 guineas; and
to the interest taken in these floral mimics by the ancestor of Lord
Hartington are traceable the developments which have been so remarkable
during the last decade or two.

Almost the first thing that strikes the spectator at an orchid show
for the first time, after he has recovered from a sort of shock at
the overwhelming beauty of the display--a display out-rivalling the
rainbow in its variety and blend of colour--is the quite ludicrous
resemblance of many of the flowers to animals, birds, and insects.
Bees, spiders, grasshoppers, flies, lizards, and toads are quite common
forms of orchid mimicry. Our illustration of _Cycnoches Warscewiczii_
shows a swan, with a curious-looking tuft upon its breast. Another
species is very like a dove as it may be seen hovering for an instant
near the branch of a tree before alighting. One group has a flower in
which a resemblance to the monkey is found; but the most ludicrous
of mimetic vagaries is surely that of the species known popularly as
the "Man Orchid." "Dressed like an acrobat in skin tunic of green,
it swings as if gibbeted, in company with some fifty other little
felons." But the flower is not content to run animate nature close
in outward appearance; it evinces a disposition to rival man in the
manufacture of various kinds of appliances. It takes a hint from the
boot-maker, and produces the "Lady's Slipper"; it provides for the
wants of a young family, and turns out a "Cradle"; it even resolves
itself into a sort of swimming bath, in which the bee sometimes finds
himself involuntarily immersed, and from which he escapes by means of
a side-door arrangement. Well might Darwin say that the orchid family
seemed to have been modelled in the wildest caprice. Proteus himself
was incapable of assuming so many shapes.

[Illustration: CYCNOCHES WARSCEWICZII.]

[Illustration: ONCIDIUM KRAMERIANUM.]

The prevalent notion that these marvels are only for the owners of
heavily-laden pockets dies hard. A pious wish that orchids were less
expensive and could be grown at home is not uncommon. It will be a
revelation to some people to learn that an orchid which shall be a
source of endless amusement and of considerable instruction may be had
for a few shillings. Whether, in short, you have a few odd hundred
pounds or merely a few odd hundred farthings to spare, you may gratify
your love for this particular flower. You cannot expect to walk into,
say, Mr. Bull's establishment in the King's-road, Chelsea, some day
when you are passing, and for the price of a couple of dozen cigars
appropriate the beautiful _Cœlogyne cristata alba_, some idea
of whose virgin purity is conveyed in our illustration. This plant
originally cost Mr. Bull £200. Great as this price is, it is barely
two-thirds of the record; £300 has been exceeded for a single plant.
Mr. Bull possesses a variety of the "Lady's Slipper" for which he paid
that very figure. In 1883 Sir Trevor Lawrence paid 235 guineas for an
orchid, and Baron Schröder paid £165 and £160 respectively for two
plants. Many firms have paid hundreds of pounds for the possession of
a rare species, whilst, of course, one may often hear of a collection
being sold for many thousands. At the same time, Mr. Bull or Messrs.
Veitch, or any well-known cultivator will be happy to place orchids,
which a few years ago were beyond the reach of even a large proportion
of the middle classes, at your disposal for five or six shillings.

[Illustration: CŒLOGYNE CRISTATA ALBA.]

And be it understood, in buying an orchid you can never be quite
sure that you have not secured a veritable treasure. The speculative
element enters into orchid-collection to a degree undreamt of by the
outsider. As the value of the most valuable just purchased by a duke
may disappear in an hour, so that of the most common just purchased by
yourself may be augmented a hundred-fold by an eccentricity. Take an
instance of depreciation recorded by Mr. F. W. Burbidge. A species of
"Lady's Slipper" was imported and the single plant fetched £100 easily.
But the home of the plant was discovered, and in the course of a week
or two nurserymen were selling the same thing for five shillings.
On the other hand, Pescatore's _Odontoglot_, we are told, had been
imported for years, and plants might be picked up for a few shillings
each, when "quite unexpectedly a lovely form heavily barred with purple
appeared, and, had it been sold by auction when first it flowered,
it would have brought from £50 to £100." Before it bloomed the plant
would, in common with others of the same species, have been readily
disposed of for a trifle.

A friend of Mr. Burbidge's chanced to buy cheap a number of
plants which were "hanging fire." "They were shrivelled plants of
_Odontoglossums_ in paper bags, and they took a good deal of skill
and attention to bring them into vigour and health again. But when
they bloomed some of them turned out very distinct, and an offer of
£500 made for the lot as they stood, after the first five or six had
bloomed, was not accepted." The most interesting piece of luck of this
sort, however, which we have come across is related by Mr. Frederick
Boyle. A Mr. Spicer, a tea planter in Sylhet, knowing his mother
in England was fond of orchids, sent her some plants. They were an
ordinary "Lady's Slipper" variety. Mrs. Spicer brought them to flower,
and noticed certain curious characteristics. She consulted an expert,
with the result that he paid her seventy guineas down and carried off
the plant. "For years," says Mr. Boyle, "this lovely species was a
prize for dukes and millionaires," and its introduction was due to
a son's desire to gratify his mother's tastes by sending her a few
everyday orchids!

The mention of this discovery brings us to the more tragic side of
orchid collecting. Mr. Sander, the famous orchid grower of St. Albans,
despatched a representative to try to find the particular species which
had proved so profitable to Mrs. Spicer. After many fruitless efforts,
"Mr. Forsterman got on the track, but in the very moment of triumph a
tiger barred the way, his coolies bolted, and nothing would persuade
them to go further. Mr. Forsterman was no _shikari_, but he felt
himself called upon to uphold the cause of science and the honour of
England at this juncture. In great agitation he went for that feline,
and, in short, its skin and its story were conspicuous attractions of
his cottage in the after years."

[Illustration: ODONTOGLOSSUM HUMEANUM.]

[Illustration: ODONTOGLOSSUM CERVANTESII DECORUM.]

The perils which men face in the search for orchids are as great as
those encountered by the prospector for precious stones and metal, or
by the missionary who goes forth into the wild corners of the earth
to preach God's Word. We know of one man who, by pluck and diplomacy,
has managed to pass unscathed among the cannibals of New Guinea. When
he first arrived, he was honoured by a careful overhauling on the
part of the natives, who ultimately declared that he was too thin to
eat. He has since made himself more or less at home with them, though
he has only succeeded in winning their esteem by sitting down to the
same dish and partaking of its contents, whatever they might be, and
in compelling their respect by placing a few inches of cold steel at
his side, and giving them an occasional object-lesson in the wonders
of the revolver. He carries his life in his hands, and all for the
sake of the chance of finding an orchid with some feature possessed
by none other. The collector who would make his mark must be prepared
for hazardous marches, for hanging like a sailor by his eyebrows over
mighty precipices, or for wading for days in swamps. He must have
self-reliance, resource, patience, knowledge, and endurance.

[Illustration: ODONTOGLOSSUM CRISPUM.]

The orchid has not only its heroes, it has its martyrs as well. Any
great grower will give one the names of a dozen men who have sacrificed
all in their efforts to add to the list of species. Collectors have
been lost in Panama, Rio Hacha, Ecuador, Sierra Leone, Orinoco, and
probably other places. "I wonder," said a friend to Mr. Burbidge,
"if orchid amateurs ever give a thought as to the real price their
orchids cost," and he proceeded to enumerate the names of such men as
Bruchmueller, Zahn, Hutton, Klaboch, Endres, Chesterton, and Freeman,
who have died in the interests of the orchid lover. "On the roll of
martyrs to orchidology," says Mr. Boyle, with enthusiasm, "Mr. Pearce
stands high. To him we owe, among many fine things, the hybrid Begonias
which are becoming such favourites for bedding and other purposes....
It was his great luck and great honour to find _Masdevallia Veitchii_,
so long, so often, so laboriously searched for from that day to
this, but never even heard of. To collect another shipment of this
glorious orchid, Mr. Pearce sailed for Peru in the service, I think,
of Mr. Bull. Unhappily--for us as well as for himself--he was
detained at Panama. Somewhere in those parts there is a magnificent
_Cypripedium_.[A] The poor fellow could not resist this temptation.
They told him at Panama that no white man had returned from the spot,
but he went on. The Indians brought him back some days or weeks later,
without the prize; and he died on arrival."

Even when the precious plant is secured, and danger to life and limb
is past, the difficulties to be overcome are enormous. To bring a
million sterling in gold from Paris or New York under special and
vigilant guard, is a process almost simple when compared with the
jealous care which has to be expended on the transportation of
orchids. It sometimes happens that on opening the cases on arrival in
England, a valuable collection is found to have rotted _en route_,
and the importer realises that hundreds of pounds have been spent and
lives risked, to secure worthless roots! The orchid importer needs a
stout heart and unlimited enterprise, and some of us may well wonder
how he manages to make the business pay at all when we think of the
ambassadors he employs in nearly every clime, of the funds which he has
occasionally to place at their disposal, and of the fact that one loss
may involve a sum equal to a fair annual income. On the other hand, if
he is the lucky possessor of a variety of value, the plant creates the
greatest enthusiasm in orchid circles, and is consequently a source of
immense profit.

We have in these pages taken a rapid glance at the more popular, it may
even be said the more romantic, side of the work of orchid collection.
Enough has been said, we hope, to show why the study of orchidology
is a liberal education. What a wealth of natural history of the most
fascinating kind it opens up! Nothing more striking is recorded in
nature than the manner in which the bee fertilises the orchid, to give
the least adequate account of which would involve another half-dozen
pages of this magazine. The majority of us probably would be surprised
to learn that but few orchids grow in the ground. They are found often
high up on the branches of some monarch of the primeval forest, and
the proverbial needle in the bundle of hay might be discovered half
a dozen times over whilst the collector is searching for a single
plant. Others appear, however, quite low down. The tree-growing orchid
is an epiphyte. That is to say, though it lives on the tree it makes
the branch a resting-place only. It gets its nourishment from the
atmosphere and not the tree, as does the mistletoe for instance. One
orchid, a _Diacrium_, actually grows on rocks within reach of the spray
from the salt sea waves.

[Illustration: ODONTOGLOSSUM CIRROSUM.]

To follow in the footsteps of the collector is to acquire a
considerable knowledge of the countries of the earth. Orchids luxuriate
in warm and humid places, thousands of feet above the level of the sea.
They have outdistanced the Anglo-Saxon in the number of lands they
have colonised. You may find them in Africa, in North, Central, and
South America, in Australia and New Zealand, in Asia, in Madagascar,
in Europe--everywhere except in very cold climates. One day the orchid
hunter may be on the high road of civilisation, pursuing his quest like
an ordinary tourist; another he will have plunged into regions dark as
darkest Africa, as far removed from modern conditions as the dwarfs
of Stanley's limitless forest. In the search for a single orchid he
comes across many varieties of the human race, and on a thousand points
connected with modes of life, of governments, of the relations of
places one to another, far and near, he is better informed than many an
arm-chair specialist.

[Footnote A: Lady's Slipper.]




_A Thing that Glistened._

+By Frank R. Stockton.+


In the fall of 1888 the steam-ship _Sunda_, from Southampton, was
running along the southern coast of Long Island, not many hours from
port, when she was passed by one of the great British liners, outward
bound. The tide was high, and the course of both vessels was nearer the
coast than is usual, that of the _Sunda_ being inside of the other.

As the two steamers passed each other there was a great waving of hats
and handkerchiefs. Suddenly there was a scream from the _Sunda_. It
came from Signora Rochita, the _prima donna_ of an opera troupe which
was coming to America in that ship.

"I have lost my bracelet!" she cried in Italian, and then, turning to
the passengers, she repeated the cry in very good English.

The situation was instantly comprehended by everyone. It was late
in the afternoon; the captain had given a grand dinner to the
passengers, at which the _prima donna_ had appeared in all her glories
of ornamentation, and the greatest of these glories--a magnificent
diamond bracelet--was gone from the arm with which she had been
enthusiastically waving her lace handkerchief.

The second officer, who was standing near, dashed into the captain's
office, and quickly reappeared with chart and instruments, and made
a rapid calculation of the position of the vessel at the time of the
accident, making due allowance for the few minutes that had passed
since the first cry of the signora. After consultation with the captain
and re-calculations of the distance from land and some other points, he
announced to the weeping signora that her bracelet lay under a little
black spot he made on the chart, and that if she chose to send a diver
for it she might get it, for the depth of water at that place was not
great.

By profession I am a diver, and the next day I was engaged to search
for the diamond bracelet of Signora Rochita. I had a copy of the chart,
and having hired a small schooner, with several men who had been my
assistants before, and taking with me all the necessary accoutrements
and appliances, I set out for the spot indicated, and by afternoon we
were anchored, we believed, at it or very near it.

I lost no time in descending. I wore, of course, the usual diver's
suit, but I took with me no tools nor any of the implements used
by divers when examining wrecks; but I carried in my right hand a
brilliant electric lamp, connected with a powerful battery on the
schooner. I held this by an insulated handle, in which there were two
little knobs, by which I could light or extinguish it.

[Illustration: "WAVING HER LACE HANDKERCHIEF."]

The bottom was hard and smooth, and lighting my lamp, I began to look
about me. If I approached the bracelet I ought to be able to see it
sparkle, but after wandering over considerable space, I saw no sparkles
nor anything like a bracelet. Suddenly, however, I saw something which
greatly interested me. It was a hole in the bottom of the ocean, almost
circular, and at the least ten feet in diameter. I was surprised that
I had not noticed it before, for it lay not far from the stern of our
vessel.

Standing near the rocky edge of the aperture, I held out my lamp and
looked down. Not far below I saw the glimmering of what seemed to be
the bottom of this subterranean well. I was seized with a desire to
explore this great hole running down under the ordinary bottom of the
sea. I signalled to be lowered, and although my comrades were much
surprised at such an order, they obeyed, and down I went into the well.
The sides of this seemed rocky and almost perpendicular, but after
descending about fifteen feet, they receded on every side, and I found
myself going down into a wide cavern, the floor of which I touched in a
very short time.

Holding up my lamp, and looking about me, I found myself in a sea cave
of some thirty feet in diameter, with a domelike roof, in which, a
little to one side of the centre, was the lower opening of the well. I
became very much excited; this was just the sort of place into which a
bracelet or anything else of value might be expected to have the bad
luck to drop. I walked about and gazed everywhere, but I found nothing
but rocks and water.

I was about to signal to be drawn up, when above me I saw what appeared
to be a flash of darkness, coming down through the well. With a rush
and a swirl it entered the cavern, and in a moment I recognised the
fact that a great fish was swooping around and about me. Its movements
were so rapid and irregular, now circling along the outer edge of the
floor of the cavern, then mounting above me, until its back seemed to
scrape the roof, that I could not form a correct idea of the size of
the creature. It seemed to me to be at least twenty feet long. I stood
almost stupefied, keeping my eyes as far as possible fixed upon the
swiftly moving monster.

Sometimes he came quite near me, when I shuddered in every fibre, and
then he shot away, but ever gliding with powerful undulations of his
body and tail, around, about, and above me. I did not dare to signal
to be drawn up, for fear that the terrible creature would enter the
well-hole with me. Then he would probably touch me, perhaps crush me
against the wall, but my mind was capable of forming no plans; I only
hoped the fish would ascend and disappear by the way he came.

[Illustration: "I STOOD STUPEFIED."]

My mind was not in its strongest condition, being much upset by a great
trouble, and I was so frightened that I really did not know what I
ought to do, but I had sense enough left to feel sure that the fish
had been attracted into the cavern by my lamp. Obviously the right
thing to do was to extinguish it, but the very thought of this nearly
drove me into a frenzy. I could not endure to be left alone with the
shark in darkness and water. It was an insane idea, but I felt that,
whatever happened, I must keep my eyes upon him.

Now the great fish began to swoop nearer and nearer to me, and then
suddenly changing its tactics, it receded to the most distant wall of
the cavern, where, with its head toward me, it remained for the first
time motionless. But this did not continue long. Gently turning over
on its side, it opened its great mouth, and in an instant, with a
rush, it came directly at me. My light shone full into its vast mouth,
glistening with teeth, there was a violent jerk which nearly threw me
off my feet, and all was blackness. The shark had swallowed my lamp! By
rare good fortune he did not take my hand also.

Now I frantically tugged at my signal rope. Without my lamp, I had no
thought but a desire to be pulled out of the water, no matter what
happened. In a few minutes I sat divested of my diving suit, and almost
insensible upon the deck of the schooner. As soon as I was able to talk
I told my astonished comrades what had happened, and while we were
discussing this strange occurrence, one of them, looking over the side,
saw, slowly rising to the surface, the body of a dead shark.

[Illustration: "IT WAS A PINT BOTTLE."]

"By George!" he cried, "here is the beast. He has been killed by the
current from the battery." We all crowded to the rail, and looked down
upon the monster. He was about ten feet long, and it was plain that he
had died for making himself the connection between the poles of the
battery.

"Well," said the captain, presently, "I suppose you are not going down
again?"

"Not I," I replied; "I give up this job."

Then suddenly I cried, "Come, boys, all of you, make fast to that
shark, and get him on board; I want him."

Some of the men laughed, but my manner was so earnest, that in a moment
they all set about to help me. A small boat was lowered, lines were
made fast to the dead fish, and, with block and tackle, we hauled him
on deck. I then got a butcher's knife from the cabin, and began to cut
him open.

"Look here, Tom!" exclaimed the captain, "that's nonsense. Your lamp's
all smashed to pieces, and if you get it out it will never be any good
to you."

"I don't care for the lamp," I answered, working away energetically,
"but an idea has struck me. It's plain that this creature had a fancy
for shining things. If he swallowed a lamp, there is no reason why he
should not have swallowed anything else that glistened."

"Oh-o!" cried the captain, "you think he swallowed the bracelet, do
you?"

And instantly everybody crowded more closely about me.

I got out the lamp--its wires were severed as smoothly as if they had
been cut with shears; then I worked on. Suddenly there was a cry from
every man. Something glimmered in the dark interior of the fish. I
grasped it and drew it out. It was not a bracelet, but a pint bottle,
which glimmered like a glow-worm. With the bottle in my hand I sat
upon the deck and gazed at it. I shook it; it shone brighter. A bit of
oiled silk was tied tightly over the cork, and it was plain to see that
it was partly filled with a light coloured oil, into which a bit of
phosphorus had been dropped, which on being agitated filled the bottle
with a dim light.

But there was something more in the bottle than phosphorus and oil.
I saw a tin tube corked at each end; the exposed parts of the corks
spreading enough to prevent the tin from striking the glass. We all
knew that this was one of those bottles containing a communication of
some sort; which are often thrown into the sea, and float about until
they are picked up. The addition of the oil and phosphorus was intended
to make it visible by night as well as by day, and this was plainly the
reason why it had been swallowed by a light loving shark.

I poured out the oil and extracted the tube. Wiping it carefully I
drew out the corks, and then from the little tin cylinder I pulled a
half-sheet of note-paper, rolled up tightly. I unrolled it, and read
these words:--

"Before I jump overboard, I want to let people know that I killed John
Polhemus. So I have fixed up this bottle. I hope it may be picked up in
time to keep Jim Barker from being hung. I did think of leaving it on
the steamer, but I might change my mind about jumping overboard, and I
guess this is the best way. The clothes I wore, and the hatchet I did
it with, are under the wood shed back of Polhemus' house."

    +Henry Ramsey.+

I sprang to my feet with a yell. Jim Barker was my brother, now lying
in prison under sentence of death for the murder of Polhemus. All the
circumstantial evidence, and there was no other, had been against him.
The note was dated eight months back. Oh! cruel fool of a murderer. The
shark was thrown overboard, and we made best speed to port, and, before
the end of the afternoon I had put Ramsey's note into the hands of the
lawyer who had charge of my brother's case.

Fortunately, he was able to identify the handwriting and signature of
Ramsey, a man who had been suspected of the crime, but against whom
no evidence could be found. The lawyer was almost as excited as I was
by the contents of this note, and early the next morning we started
together for the house of the Polhemus' family. There under the wood
shed we found, carefully buried, a blood-stained shirt and vest and the
hatchet.

My impulse was to fly to my brother, but this my lawyer forbade. He
would take charge of the affair, and no false hopes must be excited,
but he confidently assured me that my brother was as good as free.

Returning to the city I thought I might as well make my report to
Signora Rochita.

The lady was at home and saw me. She showed the most intense interest
in what I told her, and insisted upon every detail of my experiences.
As I spoke of the shark and the subterranean cave she nearly fainted
from excitement, and her maid had to bring the smelling salts. When I
had finished she looked at me steadily for a moment, and then said:

"I have something to tell you, but I hardly know how to say it. I never
lost my bracelet. I intended to wear it at the captain's dinner; but
when I went to put it on I found the clasp was broken, and, as I was
late, I hurried to the table without the bracelet, and thought of it no
more until, when we were all waving and cheering, I glanced at my wrist
and found it was not there. Then, utterly forgetting that I had not put
it on, I thought it had gone into the sea. It was only this morning,
that, opening what I supposed was the empty box, I saw it. Here it is."

I never saw such gorgeous jewels.

"Madam," said I, "I am glad you thought you lost it, for I have gained
something better than all these."

"You are a good man," said she, and then she paid me liberally for my
services. When this business had been finished, she asked--

"Are you married?"

I answered that I was not.

"Is there anyone you intend to marry?"

"Yes," said I.

"What is her name?" she asked.

"Sarah Jane McElroy."

"Wait a minute," said she, and she retired into another room. Presently
she returned and handed me a little box.

"Give this to your lady-love," said she; "when she looks at it she will
never forget that you are a brave man."

When Sarah Jane opened the box, there was a little pin with a diamond
head, and she gave a scream of delight. But I saw no reason for jumping
or crying out, for, after having seen the Signora's bracelet, this
stone seemed like a pea in a bushel of potatoes.

"I don't need anything," she said, "to remind me you are a brave man. I
am going to buy furniture with it."

I laughed, and remarked that "every little helps."

When I sit, with my wife by my side, before the fire in our comfortable
home, and consider that the parlour carpet, and the furniture, and
the pictures, and the hall and stair carpet, and all the dining-room
furniture, with the china and the glass and the linen, and all the
kitchen utensils, and two bedroom suites on the second story--both
hard wood--and all the furniture and fittings of a very pleasant room
for a single man, the third story front, were bought with the pin that
the Signora gave to Sarah Jane, I am filled with profound respect for
things that glitter. And when I look on the other side of the fire and
see Jim smoking his pipe just as happy as anybody, then I say to myself
that, if there are people who think that this story is too much out of
the common, I wish they would step in here and talk to Jim about it.
There is a fire in his eye when he tells you how glad he is that it was
the shark that died instead of him.

[Illustration]




_The State of the Law Courts._

I


A vivid public interest has of late been aroused in regard to the
administration of justice in this country. The wholesome feeling of
reverence that formerly attached to our judges seems now to be on the
wane, and in private circles, especially among the legal profession,
the conduct of the judicature has been severely commented upon, while
the Press has occasionally ventured to darkly hint that the retirement
of one of our most eminent judges is desirable in the public interest.
On all sides it is agreed that his infirmities unfit him for the
efficient discharge of his duties, his judgments show the melancholy
decline of a once brilliant intellect, and the continued occupation
of his seat upon the bench is a source of danger to the public. And
yet such is the state of our legal machinery that his retirement is
practically in his own hands. Only by an address of both Houses of
Parliament to the Crown can his removal be brought about--an odious
and invidious task, which the legislature naturally delays as long as
possible, and will only undertake as an extreme measure. Although of
recent years there has been a marked improvement in the _personnel_
of our judges, so far as bodily vigour is concerned, there are still
on the bench aged and infirm men who would have retired but for the
necessity of completing the statutory period of fifteen years, at the
expiration of which only can their pensions be earned. It is pitiable
to see these old public servants, who once ranked among the most
brilliant men of their day, attempting to discharge their duties with
an obvious effort and at great physical fatigue.

More than enough instances have recently arisen of judges being
incapacitated by deafness and other infirmities, and refusing to
retire. But public opinion has hitherto been very tolerant, and these
distinguished men have been permitted in their declining years to
exercise functions demanding the highest mental activity without
exciting adverse comment. That there are defects in our judicial
system, not the least of which is the absence of any controlling power
over our judges, becomes more and more apparent, and it will be useful,
therefore, to bring some of those which are most notorious in the legal
profession under the notice of the public.

The judicial system in this country is the most expensive in the
world. Our judges, it is true, are men of the highest integrity, and
the confidence of the public in their incorruptibility is absolute.
In this respect, no doubt, we compare favourably with many foreign
nations. But the public have a right to look for something more than a
strictly honourable bench, and it is desirable to inquire what we get
in return for the enormous annual outlay on our judicature. For the
sake of convenience let us begin with the higher tribunals. It will be
interesting, in the first place, to study the following table, which
shows the numerical strength of Her Majesty's judges, together with the
salaries they receive:--

     1 Lord Chancellor                    £10,000
     4 Lords of Appeal (£6,000)           £24,000
     1 Master of the Rolls                 £6,000
     5 Lords Justices (£5,000)            £25,000
     5 Chancery Judges (£5,000)           £25,000
     1 Lord Chief Justice                  £8,000
    13 Common Law Judges (£5,000)         £65,000
     2 Admiralty Judges (£5,000)          £10,000
     1 Judge Court of Arches               £5,000
    --                                   --------
    33                                   £178,000

There are, besides, a great number of highly paid officials known on
the Common Law side as masters, and in the Chancery Division as chief
clerks, who assist the judges by performing minor judicial functions.
These gentlemen receive £1,000 a year each. There are also Clerks of
the Crown and Associates on the various circuits who receive liberal
salaries, as well as a multitude of clerks and other officers who
are paid out of the public funds. But it is not our present purpose
to consider these minor functionaries, our object being to afford a
general conception of the working of the High Courts of Justice without
going into unnecessary details. For the information of the curious,
however, we may state that the total expenditure for law and justice
last year was more than four and a half millions sterling, a sum which
it should be understood includes the charges for maintaining prisons
and other expenses incidental to the administration of justice.

In face of such stupendous figures the intelligent foreigner may well
imagine that we have a judicial system well-nigh perfect, or at least
quite adequate to the requirements of a great commercial community. And
yet what are the facts? Among members of the legal profession it is a
matter of common observation and lament that commercial cases are year
by year growing less frequent. For a long time they consoled themselves
by attributing this to commercial stagnation. But of late their eyes
have been opened to the real cause, and neither by their smiles nor
their tears can they win back the vanished litigation that once so
satisfactorily brought grist to their mill. On all hands business men
declare that, so far from being satisfied with their expensive legal
machinery, they absolutely dread the law. They dare not risk its
dignified delay, they fear its endless expense, they are terrified at
the prospect of being dragged from Court to Court on Appeal, and they
have no confidence in the ability of a large proportion of our judges
to decide rightly on commercial disputes, especially those involving
technical matters.

[Illustration: MR. JUSTICE STEPHEN.]

This feeling has doubtless been intensified by the recent case of
Vagliano and the Bank of England. It is needless to go into the details
of this matter, which are well known to the public. Suffice it to say
that a judge of the High Court in 1888 gave a decision contrary to
the feeling of business men and subversive of commercial custom in
regard to bills of exchange, which was upheld in the Court of Appeal
by a majority of five to one. This decision was, however, reversed in
the House of Lords in March of this year by a majority of six to two.
Thus, after long delay and enormous expense, the case having been heard
by fifteen judges, a final decision was obtained that satisfied the
commercial community. But the uncertainty of the law is exemplified by
the fact that the verdict of seven judges, _i.e._, six in the House of
Lords and one in the Court of Appeal, outweighed that of the remaining
eight. And there is no reason to suppose that the judges of the House
of Lords who carried the day are men of higher legal ability than those
in the Court of Appeal.

Instead, therefore, of waiting months for their cases to be tried,
paying enormous fees to leading counsel, and possibly enduring the risk
and delay of appeal, men of commerce prefer to submit their disputes
to the arbitration of others in their own trade, and thereby get them
decided without any delay or legal expense. Innumerable disputes are in
this way settled in the City every year, and in some businesses it is
a matter of etiquette for men to accept the office of arbitrator when
asked to do so without any fee, they knowing full well that the time is
sure to come when they themselves will require to have a matter decided
in the same convenient and expeditious manner.

It is undoubtedly a great hardship for a commercial community to have
to put up with rough and ready justice in this way, instead of having
the advantage of highly trained legal minds. But business men cannot
afford to wait for the slow machinery of the law, and though they
have to maintain the Courts of Justice, they decide to do without
them. Doubtless many others would gladly do the same had they equal
facilities for arbitration.

The result of this widening breach between law and commerce is that a
large and increasing proportion of the work of the High Court consists
of libel, slander, malicious prosecution, and cases of a similar class,
together with actions varying in character not at all, and in the
amount sought to be recovered only infinitesimally, from those which
come within the jurisdiction of the County Court.

But though a great number of the suits may be of slight importance,
the cost of litigation is by no means insignificant. The court-fees,
it is true, are not proportionately so high as in the County Court,
although they might with advantage be largely reduced; but the average
charges for legal assistance are enough to make the boldest litigant
pause.

[Illustration: APPEAL COURT.]

In an ordinary action for £100, supposing the defendant to be
unsuccessful, he will probably have to pay, in addition to the £100,
not less than £120 to his opponents' solicitor for the costs taxed
against him, as well as, say, £150, the little account of his own
attorney. Supposing he conscientiously believes the verdict to be
unjust, and determines to go to the Court of Appeal, he will have
to pay at least £100 more if unsuccessful. This brings his bill up
to £470, instead of the original £100. A rational litigant would in
such a case be unlikely to want to go beyond the Court of Appeal, but
supposing he should desire to avail himself of the highest tribunal
that a generous country places at his disposal, and takes his case to
the House of Lords, he will be put to a further expense of about £200.

On the other hand, the successful suitor would also be at a
considerable loss, the costs that he would have to pay being far in
excess of the £100 recovered. By such a system a powerful and dangerous
weapon is undoubtedly placed in the hands of a wealthy litigant who
chooses oppressively to take his opponent from court to court. In
many cases the costs are augmented to a scandalous degree by the
multiplication of interlocutory proceedings. It is monstrous that in
an action to recover a sum of £100 a wealthy and perverse litigant
should have the power, on some incidental question of interrogatory, to
take his opponent from the master to the judge, from the judge to the
Divisional Court, from the Divisional Court to the Court of Appeal, and
from the Court of Appeal to the House of Lords.

An evil hardly less grave than the law's expense is the law's delay.
In a common law action of the simplest character, with little or no
interlocutory proceedings, the period that must elapse between the
issue of the writ and the trial of the action is little short of twelve
months, while in the event of appeal nearly another year will be lost.
In the Chancery Division the delay is still more marked.

At the commencement of the legal year, namely, October 24, 1890, there
were 448 Chancery cases set down for trial. Of these, when Christmas
arrived, only 74 had been decided, that is, after about one-third
of the judicial year had elapsed. At that rate of progress--without
allowing for the setting down of additional causes, which is, of
course, continuous throughout the year--there would only be, of the 448
causes set down in October, 1890, 222 disposed of by October, 1891,
thus leaving still unsettled half the cases that litigants were ready
to try twelve months before.

The appointment of an additional Chancery judge is by many advocated
for the purpose of battling with these arrears. It is, however,
notorious that, owing to the higher scale of costs in Chancery than
in Common Law, solicitors prefer the former for the purpose of trying
their actions. In consequence of this, a large number of cases that
should properly come before the Common Law judges are tried in the
Chancery Division. Surely the effect of removing this gross anomaly
should be seen before further expenditure be imposed upon the nation.

Few probably will go so far as Jeremy Bentham in laying down that the
State should provide for the administration of justice free of expense
to litigants; but there is a very general consensus of opinion in
favour of a simplification of procedure and a limitation of the powers
of appeal, and these are reforms that a willing legislature might well
undertake.

To return to the judges of the High Court, it will be instructive to
inquire how they earn the liberal salaries set forth in the foregoing
table. Commencing at the top, it will be well to consider the position
of that august official the Lord High Chancellor of England. And
whatever remarks we may find it necessary to make, we wish it to be
distinctly understood that we mean no disrespect to Lord Halsbury,
the present learned and capable occupant of the post. It is merely
our object to criticise the office, and our observations, therefore,
will have no personal bearing. In the first place, it is worthy of
note that the most highly paid temporal office in England--that of the
Lord Chancellor--is given rather as a reward for political than for
legal success. Of course, to occupy the post of Attorney-General, the
stepping-stone to that of Lord Chancellor, a man must be a lawyer of
considerable ability. It has, however, been very well said that a good
lawyer can be nothing else; and it is obvious that an Attorney-General
must be a man of some political as well as legal capacity. It is quite
conceivable that there may be a dearth of legal talent on any political
side, and that a moderate man maybe chosen as the chief law-adviser of
the Crown in consequence. Indeed, such a state of things has happened
before now. It by no means follows, therefore, that the Lord Chancellor
is necessarily a man of transcendent legal ability. It is probable,
in fact, that, as a rule, he is not so good a lawyer as the judges
who receive half his salary. And here it may be well to remark that,
although the Lord Chancellor is nominally at the head of the bench,
he can exercise no efficient control over the judges. He can make
appointments to the bench, but judges, once made, can, as already
stated, only be removed by the act of both Houses of Parliament. Thus
a judge, even if obviously suffering from mental decay, may continue
to exercise his functions, to the miscarriage of justice, for a
considerable period before the legislature can be set in motion to
bring about his retirement.

[Illustration: MR. JUSTICE JEUNE.]

The Lord Chancellor occasionally (when any of the Lords Justices are
absent from illness or other cause) sits in the Court of Appeal, which
is held in two sections--one hearing cases from the Common Law side,
and the other those from the Chancery Division. The principal duty of
the Lord Chancellor, however, consists in presiding over the House
of Lords--the final Court of Appeal both in Common Law and Chancery
matters. The House of Lords, as an appellate court, consists of the
Lord Chancellor, the Lords of Appeal, and such peers as are, or have
been, holding high judicial office. Ordinary peers, however, have also
the right of sitting and giving judgment, and, in consequence of this
anomaly, the judges of final appeal have sometimes had the assistance
of an eccentric nobleman endowed with a fancy for the law, whose vote
has carried as much weight as that of the Lord Chancellor himself. The
judicial work of the House of Lords is light. Indeed, it will not be
understating the case to say that the House does not dispose of more
than sixty or seventy causes in the year. It is thus not difficult to
calculate, supposing these cases to occupy an average of half a day,
and taking into consideration the salaries of the Lord Chancellor
and the Lords of Appeal, together with the heavy pensions paid to
ex-Chancellors and other expenses, that the Court of Final Appeal
exercises its judicial functions at a cost of something like a thousand
pounds a day!

Besides the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Chief Justice is by some legal
fiction supposed to exercise control over the judicial bench. As a
matter of fact, however, the judges are practically under no control
whatever save that of public opinion, as represented by the press,
which should never hesitate to expose their shortcomings when they come
to light. It is the duty of those on whom, by force of circumstances,
the public are obliged to rely to safeguard their interests, not to
relax their supervision out of deference to the high repute in which
our judges are held. Under the old system, when the Courts of Common
Pleas, Exchequer, and Queen's Bench existed, each division had a chief
who was responsible for the work of his court and the mode in which it
was administered. The judges now hold a meeting, at which they make
their own arrangements for circuits and for appointments to the various
courts. Although the Lord Chief Justice is supposed to control the
order of work, the judges in effect have a free hand as regards their
own duties.

With the development of modern civilisation and the increase of
democratic strength, the social status of the judges has materially
changed, and it is by no means in accordance with "end of the century"
ideas to grant them the almost despotic power that they held of old.

The Judicature Act did something towards diminishing their prestige,
and nowadays many of them are disappointed perhaps to find that their
office does not command a high social position.

[Illustration: ADMIRALTY COURT.]

Notwithstanding the decadence of the social status and prestige of
the judges, on circuit they maintain a pomp and splendour, it is
true somewhat tawdry, which finds its only counterpart in the mimic
state of the Lord Mayor. Quiet gentlemen who have been accustomed all
their lives to carry their own bags down to chambers, suddenly find
themselves, after being raised to the Bench and especially when going
on circuit, surrounded with unwonted splendour. They are attended by
a smart young gentleman who costs the country three guineas a day
while the Assizes last, as his reward for acting as judge's marshal,
or a sort of groom-in-waiting. If he fulfilled the functions of clerk,
perhaps there would not be much cause for complaint; but the judge has
a clerk of his own, to whom the nation pays a liberal salary, and the
marshal's duties are purely ornamental.

It is true the cost of the splendid equipage, generally drawn by
four hack horses from the local livery stables, the trumpeters, the
javelin men, and all the paraphernalia of the judge's progress from his
lodgings to the Court, falls upon the High Sheriff, and not upon the
country; but it is, nevertheless, a vexatious impost and an intolerable
anachronism.

[Illustration: HATS AND WIGS.]

The prerogatives of the judges still far exceed those of any other
public servants; they are permitted to perform their duties almost at
their own pleasure; even the Legislature refuses to recognise any power
over them, and they have also much patronage vested in them, such as
the appointment of revising barristers, chief clerks and masters, who
exercise judicial functions.

The holidays enjoyed by the members of the judicature are far in excess
of those in any other profession.

The following figures will give an idea of how many days out of the 365
are occupied by the judges in earning their salaries:--

    Christmas holidays                          21 days.
    Easter       "                              12   "
    Whitsuntide  "                              10   "
    Long Vacation                               72   "
    Queen's Birthday                             1   "
    Sundays (besides those included above)      36   "
    Courts sit                                 213   "
                                               ---
                                               365

Although there is no statutory authority for the closing of the courts
on the Queen's birthday, the judges have recently, with one or two
exceptions, made a point of showing their loyalty by doing no work on
that day. Many of them also are frequently absent on ordinary working
days from other causes than illness. These delinquents are well known
to the members of the legal profession, and it is unnecessary to
mention their names.

The hours of sitting are nominally from 10.30 in the morning to 4
in the afternoon, with an interval of half an hour for lunch. Some
judges, however, do not generally take their seats until a quarter to
11, and often later, and one or two are known occasionally to steal
a little time from the end of the sitting. It is also a matter of
common observation that the orthodox half-hour for lunch is very often
spun out to three-quarters. So that, including the short sitting on
Saturdays, when the courts rise at two o'clock, the judges do not sit
much more than an average of four hours a day.

[Illustration: LUNCHEON.]

Even if we give them credit for 4-1/2 hours a day, reckoning their
salaries at £5,000 (though many of them receive more) we find that
the payment they receive for their work comes to over £5 an hour. At
such a price it is only reasonable to expect them to give the fullest
attention to their duties. But, alas, for human fallibility! Even
judges sometimes nod.

It is true that our system is at fault in permitting our judicature to
be conducted by men whose physical infirmities prevent them from giving
due attention to their work. But such considerations do not soothe the
breast of the unfortunate litigant who has paid an eminent counsel a
hundred guineas to address a sleeping judge, or one whose deafness
prevents him from comprehending the weighty arguments offered for his
consideration.

[Illustration: A MESSENGER.]

It is part of the duty of the fourteen judges of the Queen's Bench
Division to go on circuit, and during the time of the circuits, as a
rule not more than two or three puisne judges are left in London. These
judges are absent from town, in fact, fully one-half of the judicial
year, and the occupants of the bench are not in the metropolis in
their full strength for more than a third of that period. As a result
of this arrangement, the business of the high courts, so far as the
trial of actions is concerned, is absolutely at a stand-still during
the greater part of the year. The cause lists become congested, suitors
wait vainly for their cases to be settled, and a multitude of the suits
entered never come on for trial at all, many of them being more or less
amicably arranged out of court, while others bring about their own
culmination through death or other causes. It is notorious that many of
the judges, when they observe that a case is of a complex character,
involving long and tedious investigation, will bring strong pressure on
the parties to induce them either to settle the case or to refer it to
an arbitrator. Such pressure it is dangerous for either side to resist,
and it results in further fees, further costs, and further delay.

The judges, while on circuit, receive a travelling allowance of
seven guineas a day. This is a comparatively recent arrangement, the
travelling expenses having formerly been paid in a lump sum. It would
be interesting to compare the average length of time occupied by the
judges on circuit under the old and under the new system. A great deal
of time is utterly wasted. For instance, a whole day is devoted to what
is termed "Opening the Commission." This is nothing but an antiquated
ceremony of no possible use, consisting of the reading of the Royal
Commission under which the judges hold the assizes. It occupies about
a quarter of an hour, the remainder of the day being lost. The assizes
are often concluded within a less number of days than the time assigned
to them, and the judges take advantage of this to enjoy a welcome
holiday, with a solatium for their enforced idleness of seven guineas a
day.

Our present circuit system undoubtedly leads to a scandalous and
deplorable waste of judicial time and public money. For instance, on
the South-Eastern Circuit, the largest towns of which are Cambridge
and Norwich, there is practically no business whatever; and yet all
the paraphernalia and expense of assizes goes on for eleven or twelve
weeks every year in respect of cases that might be disposed of in
London in about a week by one judge. On other circuits, too, time is
wasted in an equally reckless manner, the judges on several days being
absolutely idle.

Surely there is no necessity to allow a week for the judicial work at a
town where there are only a few cases that could easily be disposed of
in a couple of days. The public, who pay the bill, unfortunately have
but little opportunity of having the shortcomings of the judges brought
under their notice. Not only are the latter protected by the respectful
feeling, the result of ingrained reverence, that the judicial bench has
always been able to inspire; but it is also a fact that those whose
position makes them most capable of criticising the judges find it
contrary to their interests to do so. Barristers who have to make their
way at the bar, and who are well acquainted with the peculiarities of
the judges, are afraid to speak of them, for to do so would be to their
own professional detriment, and clerks and underlings, who have to rely
on the patronage of the judges, cannot be expected to tell what they
know.

In the present article it is to be hoped we have done enough to show
that defects exist, and that one of the most needed reforms is the
establishment of a complete and efficient controlling power over our
judicial bench, for judges, after all, are only human, and no human
beings, however honourable, can be relied upon always to perform their
duty to the public with thoroughness and energy if left entirely to
their own devices.

The fact that private arbitration, especially in commercial cases,
has in a great measure superseded the Courts, forms a most damaging
comment on our judicial system. The case, then, that we allege against
the judicature may be briefly summed up, the chief points being as
follows:--

(_a_) Excessive cost.

(_b_) Unreasonable delay in getting to trial.

(_c_) Unnecessary multiplication of appeals with consequent delay and
expense.

(_d_) Waste of judicial power on Circuit and Divisional Court
arrangements.

(_e_) Incapacity of individual judges.

(_f_) Unreasonably long holidays.

It is our intention in subsequent articles to bring forward further
particulars, and without going so deeply into technical details as
to be uninteresting to the ordinary reader, to suggest remedies with
a view to bringing our judicature more in touch with the people, and
making it adequate to the needs of a great commercial community.

[Illustration]




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

+Deputy Inspector-General J. Jee+, C.B., V.C.


Though military surgeons are technically non-combatants, yet
practically they are as much exposed to peril as other officers,
and frequently have to perform work demanding the greatest care and
calmness under the most disturbing dangers. In gallantry and devotion
to duty no other class of soldiers has surpassed them. The following
is the story of the exploit of one of these brave men, Surgeon Jee, as
told in his own words:--


    On the advance of the force to relieve the garrison of Lucknow,
    under Generals Havelock and Outram, my regiment, the 78th
    Highlanders, led the way. General Outram's order on leaving
    Lucknow ran as follows:--"I have selected the 78th Highlanders
    for covering the retreat of the force; they had the post of
    honour on the advance, and none are more worthy of the post of
    honour on leaving it."

    There was very hard fighting from the Alum Bagh till we arrived
    close to Lucknow, when I was told an officer was severely
    wounded. I dismounted from my horse to attend him, and found
    he was dead. At that moment a very rapid ordnance and musketry
    fire commenced close to us, and I was pulled into the bastioned
    gateway of the Char-Bagh Palace by some soldiers, to whom
    probably I owed my life, as the round shot passed by us in
    quick succession. Captain Havelock (now Sir Henry Havelock)
    then rode up to me, with a bullet hole through his topee, and
    said, "We have taken that position, at all events, at the point
    of the bayonet." That proved to be the bridge over the canal
    at the entrance of Lucknow, defended by heavy guns, which had
    evidently been well served, judging by the numbers of dead
    lying around them.

    [Illustration: SURGEON JEE DRESSING THE WOUNDED.]

    When the main body of the force arrived and crossed to the
    other side of the bridge, the Generals heard that the streets
    in the city, leading direct to the Residency, were entrenched
    and barricaded. It was, therefore, decided to take the outside
    route by the very narrow road to the right by the canal,
    leaving the 78th to hold the position until ordered to advance
    after the column. Captains Drummond-Hay and Lockhart were then
    ordered to proceed with their companies to a pagoda some little
    distance up the street leading from the bridge. All was
    pretty quiet for some time, and the force had got some distance
    away, when a message was sent down to the Colonel by Captain
    Drummond-Hay that the enemy were coming down upon them in great
    force with two guns. The Colonel sent up an order for them to
    charge them, which they did, and spiked the guns and brought
    them down and threw them into the canal, all the while hotly
    pursued by the enemy. I then got between twenty and thirty
    wounded men in a few minutes.

I was then informed that the regiment had disappeared round the corner
of the canal after the force, and that we should all be killed if I
remained to dress the wounded upon whom I was engaged, as the enemy was
firing at us from the corner of the street. So I sent to the Colonel
for men to carry the wounded on their backs till we came up with the
dhoolies. I was thus enabled to save them for a short time. It appeared
that Captain Havelock, the Assistant Adjutant-General, had been sent
back by his father to order the 78th to follow the force, when he was
badly wounded in his arm. Luckily I came across two dhoolies, in which
I placed him and a lieutenant of the 78th, who was mortally wounded.
The rest I put into sick-carts drawn by six bullocks; but shortly after
all of them were massacred within sight of us, as unfortunately a
native hackery containing round shot fell over, and completely blocked
the road. One poor fellow, Private Farmer, held his watch out from one
of the carts, asking his comrades to come and take it rather than the
enemy should get it, but no one responded, as the danger was too great.

One man had his lower jaw blown off by a round shot, whom I am seen
dressing in my V.C. picture at the Crystal Palace.

When we reached the force Captain Halliburton, 78th Highlanders
(afterwards killed in Lucknow), took charge of the wounded with his
company. We lost our way in the city, and were led by a guide, who
showed us the way to the Residency into the enemy's battery, where we
suffered considerable loss. After this we wandered about the suburbs
of the city, under an awful cannonading and shelling from the opposite
side of the River Goomtee, being fired at from loopholes in the houses
of the streets when we entered them, from which parties of natives,
clothed in white, often issued. We took refuge in the Mote-Mahul, as it
was too late at night to advance further. The Mote-Mahul is a square
courtyard with sheds round it, and two large gateway entrances. This
was crowded with soldiers, camp followers, and camels, so that you
could scarcely move. I had Captain Havelock and Lieutenant Woodhouse
(right arm afterwards amputated), 84th Regiment, with me under the
shed. The firing during the night was deafening, and gongs were
sounding the hour, and we knew not how far the Residency was. Some who
had been with the main body said the 78th were all killed, and they
could not tell what had become of the rest of the force. At daylight
the next day Brigadier Cooper gave us some tea, as we had taken
nothing since leaving Alum Bagh early the morning before. Our men then
commenced making loopholes in the wall of the shed to shoot the enemy
on the other side, and I heard them told not to make too many or they
would be shooting some of us, and soon afterwards Brigadier Cooper
was shot through one of them, and fell over me. I often had to cross
a gateway that was being raked up by bullets, to dress the wounded of
both the artillery and my own men, against the remonstrances of my
apothecary, Mr. de Soura, and others.

I then volunteered to attempt to get the wounded into the Residency,
and was told by Captain Halliburton, if I succeeded, to tell General
Outram to send him reinforcements or they would all be killed and the
guns lost. I soon came across Colonel Campbell, wounded in the leg
(afterwards amputated in Lucknow, and he died), and I got one of his
men to carry him on his back (who would have been recommended for the
V.C. if he could have been found, but he was supposed to have been
killed). I then wandered on, and had to cross a shallow stream under
fire of the guns of the extensive Palace of the Kaiser Bagh, where the
enemy were said to have 20,000 men. I was then hailed by an European
sentry at the gate of a very high wall, which I had the unpleasant
feeling was the Kaiser Bagh, and that I was on the wrong road, but to
my great relief he told me it led to the Residency, and that I must
keep well under the wall on the way to it, to avoid the firing that
was going on. On arriving at the Residency I delivered my message to
General Havelock, who congratulated me on my escape, as I was reported
killed.

Of course I lost a great many of my wounded, and one could see their
skeletons lying outside the Palace, which we afterwards took, during
the two months we were besieged in Lucknow. I did not see my horse
(that is painted in my V.C. picture from a photograph) till after I
arrived in Lucknow, where he was captured. He was badly wounded by a
large slug or bolt about two inches long (which I have now) entering
deeply on the side of the chest, and which was afterwards found most
difficult to extract with bullet forceps. Yet the horse lived to aid
Outram's relief outside Lucknow, and afterwards was sold as a very
valuable charger for £160.


[Illustration: "I CAME ACROSS COLONEL CAMPBELL."]


+Lance-Corporal William Goate.+

The following account, written by himself, of the military career of
William Goate, and of the heroic act of devotion for which he was
rewarded with the V.C., speaks for itself and needs no introduction:--

    My father died when I was only five years old, and left mother
    with a family of eleven of us, so as I grew up I had to work
    in the fields till I was big enough to mind horses. Then after
    a bit I got tired of the country, although it was a pretty
    village in Norfolk, called Tritton, close to Norwich; so I
    thought I would go to Norwich and get a job as a groom, which
    I did, and stopped till I was 18. Then I thought I would like
    another change, so up to London I went, and I had a wish to be
    a soldier. I was a smart lad and fresh-looking, so I went to
    Westminster in November, 1853, and enlisted in the 9th Lancers,
    and being a groom I was quite at home in a cavalry regiment;
    and I confess to being proud of our gay uniform and fluttering
    pennons. Well, after serving four years I was destined to ride
    in many a wild charge and see men and horses go down like
    ninepins, but I never thought of danger. When we got the order
    to charge, away we went determined to win, and I can tell you
    it must always be a terrible sight for any troops, let alone
    Sepoys, to see a regiment of cavalry sweeping down upon them.

    Our fighting began at Delhi. We were at Umballa when the Mutiny
    broke out, and we were ordered to join in the operations
    against Delhi. I was present at the siege and capture of that
    city. I will tell you of a little adventure of my own at this
    time. Before the city was taken I was on despatch duty at an
    advanced post with orders to fetch reinforcements when the
    enemy came out. One day I saw six men trying to steal round by
    the river into our camp. Believing them to be spies, I asked
    the officer in charge of the picket to allow me and two men to
    go and ascertain what their intentions were. He gave us leave.
    We had a very difficult job to get down to the riverside on
    account of the rocks, and when we got up to the men they showed
    fight. We shot three of them with our pistols--one
    each. Being on horseback we then attacked them with the lance.
    One daring fellow struck at me, and I couldn't get at him. He
    slightly wounded my horse and then made a run for the river.
    I jumped from my horse, and, going into the water after him,
    ran him through with my lance. Meanwhile, the other two of my
    companions had settled the two remaining men. All this while
    a heavy fire had played on us from the enemy's battery. We
    had now to ride for our lives. On getting back to the camp,
    the officer in command sent me to the camp with a note to the
    Colonel of the regiment, who made me a lance-corporal then and
    there.

[Illustration: "I RAN HIM THROUGH WITH MY LANCE."]

I might say I was two years in the saddle, almost continuously
fighting. I was with Sir Colin when he retook Cawnpore from the Gwalior
rebels. We went to the aid of General Wyndham, who had been repulsed.
We crossed the bridge of boats under a heavy fire, but forced our way
in. As soon as our brave leader got his men in position, he carried
everything before him. We could still see traces of Nana Sahib's
atrocity in June, and every soldier vowed vengeance. The affair that I
was in when I gained my Victoria Cross was before Lucknow, the second
time. Early in 1858 the rebels had strongly fortified the place, and it
became necessary for Sir Colin to take it. Our regiment had some hot
work. It was on March 6 that I won the Cross, in action at Lucknow,
having dismounted in the presence of the enemy and taken up the body of
Major Percy Smith, 2nd Dragoon Guards, which I attempted to bring off
the field, and after being obliged to relinquish it, being surrounded
by the enemy's cavalry, going a second time, under a heavy fire, to
recover the body, for which I received the Victoria Cross.

I will try and describe the fight, and what I saw of it. The enemy
appeared in great force on the race-course outside Lucknow, and the
9th Lancers, the 2nd Dragoon Guards, and two native cavalry regiments
were ordered to charge. The brigade swept on in grand style, and
clashed into the enemy. We had a fierce hand-to-hand fight; but our
troops behaved splendidly, and at last we broke them up. Then we were
obliged to retire under a heavy fire. As we did so Major Smith, of the
Dragoons, was shot through the body, and fell from his horse. Failing
to catch him, I sprang to the ground, and, throwing the bridle-rein
over my arm, raised the Major on to my shoulder; in this manner I ran
alongside of my horse for some hundreds of yards, until I saw the
enemy's cavalry close upon me. Clearly I couldn't get away with my
burden, so I determined to do what I could for myself.

Springing into my saddle, I shot the first Sepoy who charged, and with
my empty pistol felled another. This gave me time to draw my sword,
my lance having been left on the field. The Sepoys were now round me
cutting and hacking, but I managed to parry every slash and deliver
many a fatal thrust. It was parry and thrust, thrust and parry all
through, and I cannot tell you how many saddles I must have emptied.
The enemy didn't seem to know how to parry.

Taking advantage of this, I settled accounts with a jolly lot. I was
determined not to be taken alive. At last some of the Lancers saw me
and came to my rescue. Thinking the major might still be alive, I went
again to rescue him, but it was not until the enemy's forces were
driven back that we got his body.

After the action, General Sir Colin Campbell, General Sir Hope Grant,
and some of the cavalry officers shook hands with me and complimented
me.

In regard to the sword and lance, I certainly prefer the lance; the
lance is so keen, it goes through a man before he knows it. I was
always very careful never to let a swordsman get under my lance, and
in fighting with cavalry I made full use of the pennon to baffle an
enemy's horse.

The weapons of troops on active service are made as keen as razors,
and it was a common thing during the Mutiny to see a party of soldiers
under the shade of a great tree waiting their turn to get their blades
sharpened and the dints removed, ready for the next fight with the
rebels. Our gallant little army was like a ship cleaving its way
through the sea, for wherever we went, the enemy, like the waters,
closed in behind.

    (_To be continued._)

[Illustration: LANCE-CORPORAL GOATE WINNING THE V.C.]




_Playwrights' Manuscripts._


We here present our readers with fac-similes of the manuscripts of
several of the most popular of living playwrights, chosen from some of
the best-known of their plays. Most of them tell their own story; but
we may call particular attention to the specimen by Mr. Irving, who
is not generally known to be a playwright. Yet the manner in which he
treats a drama like "Louis XI." (a page of which we give), by cutting,
adding, and writing in soliloquies, manifestly makes him a joint-author
in the play.

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN'S
play, _Clarissa_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. GEORGE R. SIMS'
play, _The Lights o' London_.

Act III. Scene 1.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. H. PETTITT'S play,
_Hands across the Sea_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from a play now being
written by Mr. JEROME K. JEROME.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. HENRY A. JONES'
play, _The Dancing Girl_.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of original MS. of _Louis XI._,
with alterations by Mr. HENRY IRVING.]

[Illustration: Fac-simile of soliloquies inserted by Mr. HENRY IRVING
at the places marked Q and * in the preceding page.]




_The Luckiest Man in the Colony._

+By S. W. Hornung.+


That is never a nice moment when your horse knocks up under you,
and you know quite well that he has done so, and that to ride him
another inch would be a cruelty--another mile a sheer impossibility.
But when it happens in the Bush, the moment is apt to become more
than negatively disagreeable; for you may be miles from the nearest
habitation, and an unpremeditated bivouac, with neither food nor
blankets, is a thing that demands a philosophic temperament as well
as the quality of endurance. This once befell the manager of Dandong,
in the back-blocks of New South Wales, just on the right side of the
Dandong boundary fence, which is fourteen miles from the homestead.
Fortunately Deverell, of Dandong, was a young man, well used, from
his boyhood, to the casual hardships of station life, and well fitted
by physique to endure them. Also he had the personal advantage of
possessing the philosophic temperament large-sized. He dismounted the
moment he knew for certain what was the matter. A ridge of pines--a
sandy ridge, where camping properly equipped would have been perfect
luxury--rose against the stars a few hundred yards ahead. But Deverell
took off the saddle on the spot, and carried it himself as far as that
ridge, where he took off the bridle also, hobbled the done-up beast
with a stirrup-leather, and turned him adrift.

[Illustration: "DEVERELL TOOK OFF THE SADDLE."]

Deverell, of Dandong, was a good master to his horses and his dogs,
and not a bad one to his men. Always the master first, and the man
afterwards, he was a little selfish, as becomes your masterful man. On
the other hand, he was a singularly frank young fellow. He would freely
own, for instance, that he was the luckiest man in the back-blocks.
This, to be sure, was no more than the truth. But Deverell never
lost sight of his luck, nor was he ever ashamed to recognise it:
wherein he differed from the average lucky man, who says that luck
had nothing to do with it. Deverell could gloat over his luck, and do
nothing else--when he had nothing else to do. And in this way he faced
contentedly even this lonely, hungry night, his back to a pine at the
north side of the ridge, and a short brier pipe in full blast.

He was the new manager of Dandong, to begin with. That was one of the
best managerships in the colony, and Deverell had got it young--in
his twenties, at all events, if not by much. The salary was seven
hundred a year, and the homestead was charming. Furthermore, Deverell
was within a month of his marriage; and the coming Mrs. Deverell was
a girl of some social distinction down in Melbourne, and a belle
into the bargain, to say nothing of another feature, which was
entirely satisfactory, without being so ample as to imperil a man's
independence. The homestead would be charming indeed in a few weeks,
in time for Christmas. Meanwhile, the "clip" had been a capital one,
and the rains abundant; the paddocks were in a prosperous state, the
tanks overflowing, everything going smoothly in its right groove
(as things do not always go on a big station), and the proprietors
perfectly delighted with their new manager. Well, the new manager was
sufficiently delighted with himself. He was lucky in his work and lucky
in his love--and what can the gods do more for you? Considering that he
had rather worse than no antecedents at all--antecedents with so dark
a stain upon them that, anywhere but in a colony, the man would have
been a ruined man from his infancy--he was really incredibly lucky in
his love affair. But whatever his parents had been or had done, he had
now no relatives at all of his own: and this is a great thing when you
are about to make new ones in an inner circle: so that here, once more,
Deverell was in his usual luck.

It does one good to see a man thoroughly appreciating his good luck.
The thing is so seldom done. Deverell not only did this, but did
it with complete sincerity. Even to-night, though personally most
uncomfortable, and tightening his belt after every pipe, he could gaze
at the stars with grateful eyes, obscure them with clouds of smoke,
watch the clouds disperse and the stars shine bright again, and call
himself again and again, and yet again, the luckiest man in the Colony.

While Deverell sat thus, returning thanks on an empty stomach, at the
northern edge of the ridge, a man tramped into the pines from the
south. The heavy sand muffled his steps; but he stopped long before
he came near Deverell, and threw down his swag with an emancipated
air. The man was old, but he held himself more erect than does the
typical swagman. The march through life with a cylinder of blankets on
one's shoulders, with all one's worldly goods packed in that cylinder,
causes a certain stoop of a very palpable kind; and this the old man,
apparently, had never contracted. Other points slightly distinguished
him from the ordinary run of swagmen. His garments were orthodox, but
the felt wide-awake was stiff and new, and so were the moleskins;
these, indeed, might have stood upright without any legs in them at
all. The old man's cheeks, chin, and upper lip were covered with short
grey bristles, like spikes of steel; above the bristles he had that
"lean and hungry look" which Cæsar saw in Cassius.

[Illustration: "A MAN TRAMPED INTO THE PINES."]

He rested a little on his swag. "So this is Dandong," he muttered, as
if speaking to the Dandong sand between his feet. "Well, now that I am
within his boundary-fence at last, I am content to rest. Here I camp.
To-morrow I shall see him!"

Deverell, at the other side of the ridge dimming the stars with his
smoke, for the pleasure of seeing them shine bright again, heard a
sound which was sudden music to his ears. The sound was a crackle.
Deverell stopped smoking, but did not move; it was difficult to believe
his ears. But the crackle grew louder; Deverell jumped up and saw the
swagman's fire within a hundred yards of him; and the difficult thing
to believe in _then_ was his own unparalleled good luck.

"There is no end to it," he chuckled, taking his saddle over one arm
and snatching up the water-bag and bridle. "Here's a swaggie stopped to
camp, with flour for a damper, and a handful of tea for the quart-pot,
as safe as the bank! Perhaps a bit of blanket for me too! But I _am_
the luckiest man in the Colony; this wouldn't have happened to anyone
else!"

He went over to the fire, and the swagman, who was crouching at the
other side of it, peered at him from under a floury side palm. He was
making the damper already. His welcome to Deverell took a substantial
shape; he doubled the flour for the damper. Otherwise the old tramp did
not gush.

Deverell did the talking. Lying at full length on the blankets, which
had been unrolled, his face to the flames, and his strong jaws cupped
in his hands, he discoursed very freely of his luck.

"You're saving my life," said he, gaily. "I should have starved. I
didn't think it at the time, but now I know I should. I thought I could
hold out, between belt and 'baccy, but I couldn't now, anyhow. If I
hold out till the damper's baked, it's all I can do now. It's like my
luck! I never saw anything look quite so good before. There now, bake
up. Got any tea?"

"Yes."

"Meat?"

"No."

"Well, we could have done with meat, but it can't be helped. I'm lucky
enough to get anything. It's my luck all over. I'm the luckiest man in
the Colony, let me tell you. But we could have done with chops. Gad,
but I'd have some yet, if I saw a sheep! They're all wethers in this
paddock, but they don't draw down towards the gate much."

He turned his head, and knitted his brows, but it was difficult to
distinguish things beyond the immediate circle of firelit sand, and he
saw no sheep. To do the man justice, he would not have touched one if
he had; he had said what he did not mean; but something in his way of
saying it made the old man stare at him hard.

[Illustration: "HE HAD TURNED HIS BACK."]

"Then you're one of the gentlemen from Dandong Station, are you, sir?"

"I am," said Deverell. "My horse is fresh off the grass, and a bit
green. He's knocked up, but he'll be all right in the morning; the
crab-holes are full of water, and there's plenty of feed about. Indeed
it's the best season we've had for years--my luck again, you see!"

The tramp did not seem to hear all he said. He had turned his back,
and was kneeling over the fire, deeply engrossed, with the water-bag
and the quart-pot--which he was filling. It was with much apparent
preoccupation that he asked:--

"Is Mr. Deverell, the boss, there now?"

"He is." Deverell spoke drily, and thought a minute. After all, there
was no object in talking about himself in the third person to a man who
would come applying to him for work the next day. Realising this, he
added, with a touch of dignity, "I'm he."

The tramp's arm jerked, a small fountain played out of the bottle neck
of the water-bag and fell with a hiss upon the fire. The tramp still
knelt with his back to Deverell. The blood had left his face, his eyes
were raised to the pale, bright stars, his lips moved. By a great
effort he knelt as he had been kneeling before Deverell spoke; until
Deverell spoke again.

"You were on your way to see me, eh?"

"I was on my way to Dandong."

"Wanting work? Well, you shall have it," said Deverell, with decision.
"I don't want hands, but I'll take _you_ on; you've saved my life, my
good fellow, or you're going to, in a brace of shakes. How goes the
damper?"

"Well," said the old man, answering Deverell's last question shortly,
but ignoring his first altogether. "Shall I sweeten the tea or not?"

"Sweeten it."

The old man got ready a handful of tea and another of sugar to throw
into the quart-pot the moment the water boiled. He had not yet turned
round. Still kneeling, with the soles of his boots under Deverell's
nose, he moved the damper from time to time, and made the tea. His
hands shook.

Deverell made himself remarkably happy during the next half-hour. He
ate the hot damper, he drank the strong tea, in a way that indicated
unbounded confidence in his digestive powers. A dyspeptic must have
wept for envy. Towards the end of the meal he discovered that the
swagman--who sat remote from the fire, and seemed to be regarding
Deverell with a gaze of peculiar fascination--had scarcely broken his
bread.

"Aren't you hungry?" asked Deverell, with his mouth full.

"No."

But Deverell _was_, and that, after all, was the main thing. If the old
man had no appetite, there was no earthly reason for him to eat; his
abstinence could not hurt him under the circumstances, and naturally it
did not worry Deverell. If, on the other hand, the old man preferred
to feed off Deverell--with his eyes--why, there is no accounting for
preferences, and that did not worry Deverell either. Indeed, by the
time his pipe was once more in blast, he felt most kindly disposed
towards this taciturn tramp. He would give him a billet. He would
take him on as a rabbiter, and rig him out with a tent, camp fixings,
traps, and even--perhaps--a dog or two. He would thus repay in princely
fashion to-night's good turn--but now, confound the thing! He had been
sitting the whole evening on the old fool's blankets, and the old fool
had been sitting on the ground!

"I say! Why on earth don't you come and sit on your own blankets?"
asked Deverell, a little roughly; for to catch oneself in a grossly
thoughtless act is always irritating.

"I am all right here, thank you," returned the swagman, mildly. "The
sand is as soft as the blankets."

"Well, I don't want to monopolise your blankets, you know," said
Deverell, without moving. "Take a fill from my pouch, will you?"

He tossed over his pouch of tobacco. The swagman handed it back--he
did not smoke; had got out of the way of it, he said. Deverell was
disappointed. He had a genuine desire at all times to repay in kind
anything resembling a good turn. He could not help being a little
selfish; it was constitutional.

"I'll tell you what," said Deverell, leaning backward on one elbow, and
again clouding the stars with wreaths of blue smoke, "I've got a little
berth that ought to suit you down to the ground. It's rabbiting. Done
any rabbiting before? No. Well, it's easy enough; what's more, you're
your own boss. Catch as many as you can or care to, bring in the skins,
and get sixpence each for 'em. Now the berth I mean is a box-clump,
close to a tank, where there's been a camp before, and the last man
did very well there; still, you'll find he has left plenty of rabbits
behind him. It's the very spot for you; and, look here, I'll start you
with rations, tent, camp-oven, traps, and all the rest of it!" wound up
Deverell, generously. He had spoken out of the fulness of his soul and
body. He had seldom spoken so decently to a pound-a-week hand--never to
a swagman.

Yet the swagman did not jump at the offer.

"Mr. Deverell," said he, rolling the name on his tongue in a curious
way, "I was not coming exactly for work. I was coming to see you. I
knew your father!"

"The deuce you did!" said Deverell.

The old man was watching him keenly. In an instant Deverell had flushed
up from his collar to his wideawake. He was manifestly uncomfortable.
"Where did you know him?" he asked doggedly.

The tramp bared his head; the short grey hair stood crisply on end all
over it. He tapped his head significantly, and ran the palm of his hand
over the strong bristles of his beard.

"So," said Deverell, drawing his breath hard. "Now I see; you are a
brother convict!"

The tramp nodded.

"And you know all about him--the whole story?"

The tramp nodded again.

"By God!" cried Deverell, "if you've come here to trade on what you
know, you've chosen the wrong place and the wrong man."

The tramp smiled. "I have not come to trade upon what I know," said he
quietly, repeating the other's expression with simple sarcasm. "Now
that I've seen you, I can go back the way I came; no need to go on to
Dandong now. I came because my old mate asked me to find you out and
wish you well from him: that was all."

"He went in for life," said Deverell, reflecting bitterly. "I have the
vaguest memories of him; it happened when I was so very young. Is he
well?"

"He was."

[Illustration: "IT WAS ALL WRONG TOGETHER."]

"And you have been in gaol together! And you know what brought him
there, the whole story!" Curiosity crept into the young man's tone, and
made it less bitter. He filled a pipe. "For my part, I never had the
rights of that story," he said.

"There were no rights," said the convict. "It was all wrong together.
Your father robbed the bank of which he himself was manager. He had
lost money in mining speculations. He took to the bush, and fought
desperately for his life."

"I'm glad he did that!" exclaimed Deverell.

The other's eyes kindled, but he only said: "It was what anyone would
have done in his place."

"Is it?" answered Deverell scornfully. "Did _you_, for instance?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders. Deverell laughed aloud. His father
might have been a villain, but he had not been a coward. That was one
consolation.

A silence fell between the two men. There were no more flames from the
fire, but only the glow of red-hot embers. This reddened the face of
Deverell, but it did not reach that of the old man. He was thus free to
stare at Deverell as hard and as long as he liked, and his eyes never
left the young man's face. It was a sufficiently handsome face, with
eyes as dark as those of the old man, only lightened and brightened
by an expression altogether different. Deverell's pipe had soothed
him. He seemed as serene now as he had been before he knew that his
companion had been also the companion of his father--in prison. After
all, he had grown up with the knowledge that his father was a convicted
felon; to be reminded of it casually, but also privately, could not
wound him _very_ deeply. The tramp, staring at him with a fierce
yearning in his eyes, which the young man could not see, seemed to
divine this, but said:--

"It cannot be pleasant for you to see me. I wouldn't have come, only
I promised to see you; I promised to let him hear about you. It would
have been worse, you know, had he got out on ticket-of-leave, and come
himself!"

"It would so!" exclaimed Deverell sincerely.

In the dark, the old man grinned like one in torment.

"It would so," Deverell repeated, unable to repress a grim chuckle.
"It would be the most awkward thing that could possibly happen to
me--especially if it happened now. At present I call myself the
luckiest man in the Colony; but if my poor father were to turn up--"

Deverell was not interrupted; he stopped himself.

"You are pretty safe," said his companion in an odd tone--which he
quickly changed. "As your father's mate, I am glad you are so lucky; it
is good hearing."

Deverell explained how he was so lucky. He felt that the sentiments he
had expressed concerning his father's possible appearance on the scene
required some explanation, if not excuse. This feeling, growing upon
him as he spoke, led him into explanations that were very full indeed,
under the circumstances. He explained the position he had attained as
manager of Dandong; and the position he was about to attain through his
marriage was quite as clearly--though unintentionally--indicated. It
was made clear to the meanest perception how very awkward it would be
for the young man, from every point of view, if the young man's father
_did_ turn up and ostentatiously reveal himself. While Deverell was
speaking the swagman broke branches from the nearest pines and made up
the fire; when he finished the faces of both were once more illumined;
and that of the old man was stern with resolve.

"And yet," said he, "suppose the impossible, or at any rate the
unlikely--say that he does come back. I know him well; he wouldn't be a
drag or a burden to you. He'd only just like to see you. All he would
ask would be to see his son sometimes! That would be enough for him. I
was his chum, mind you, so I know. And if he was to come up here, as I
have come, you could take him on, couldn't you, as you offer to take
me?" He lent forward with sudden eagerness--his voice vibrated. "You
could give him work, as you say you'll give me, couldn't you? No one'd
know it was your father! No one would ever guess!"

"No!" said Deverell, decidedly. "I'll give _you_ work, but my father
I couldn't. I don't do things by halves: I'd treat my father _as_ my
father, and damn the odds! He had pluck. I like to think how he was
taken fighting! Whatever he did, he had grit, and I should be unworthy
of him--no matter what he did--if I played the coward. It would be
worse than cowardly to disown your father, whatever he had done, and I
wouldn't disown mine--I'd sooner shoot myself! No, I'd take him in, and
be a son to him for the rest of his days, that's what I'd do--that's
what I _will_ do, if ever he gets out on ticket-of-leave, and comes to
me!"

The young man spoke with a feeling and intensity of which he had
exhibited no signs before, leaning forward with his pipe between his
fingers. The old man held his breath.

"But it would be devilish awkward!" he added frankly. "People would
remember what they've been good enough to forget; and everybody would
know what now next to none know. In this country, thank God, the man is
taken for what the man is worth--his father neither helps nor hinders
him, when once he's gone. So I've managed to take my own part, and to
get on well, thanks to my own luck. Yes, it would be devilish awkward,
but I'd stand by him, before Heaven, I would!"

The old man breathed hard.

"I don't know how I've come to say so much to you, though you did know
my father," added Deverell, with a sudden change of tone. "It isn't
my way at all. I needn't tell you that from to-morrow forward you're
the same as any other man to me. And if you ever go to see my father,
you must not tell him all I have said to you about what, as you say,
is never likely to happen. But you may tell him--you may tell him I am
glad he was taken fighting!"

The old man was once more quite calm. "I shall never see your father
again. No more will you," he said slowly and solemnly; "for your father
is dead! I promised him to find you out when my time was up, and to
tell you. I have taken my own way of breaking the news to you. Forgive
me, sir; but I couldn't resist just seeing, first of all, if it would
cut you up very badly!"

Deverell did not notice the quiet bitterness of the last words. He
smoked his pipe out in silence. Then he said: "God rest him! Perhaps
it's for the best. As for you, you've a billet at Dandong for the rest
of your days, if you like to take and keep it. Let us turn in."

The worn moon rose very late, and skimmed behind the pines, but never
rose clear of them, and was down before dawn. It shone faintly upon the
two men lying side by side, packed up each in a blanket--Deverell in
the better one. From the other blanket a hand would steal out from time
to time, grope tremulously over Deverell's back, lie a minute, and then
be gently withdrawn. Long before dawn, however, the old man noiselessly
arose and rolled up his swag. He packed up every thing that he had
brought--every thing except the better blanket. Over that he smiled,
as though it was an intense pleasure to him to leave it behind, lapped
round the unconscious form of Deverell. Just before going, when the
swag was on his back, he stooped down once and put his face very close
to that of Deverell. The worn moon glimmered through the pines upon
them both. The faces were strangely alike; only Deverell's was smiling
sweetly in his dreams, while the other's shone moist with--something.

A few minutes later the gate in the Dandong boundary-fence closed for
the last time upon the gaol-bird tramp; and Deverell's father was dead
indeed--to Deverell. Lucky for Deverell, of course. But then he was the
luckiest man in the whole Colony. Didn't he say so himself?

[Illustration: "HE STOOPED DOWN."]




_Jamrach's._


[Illustration]

The shop we are about to visit--perhaps quite the most remarkable
in London--stands in a remarkable street, Ratcliff-highway.
Ratcliff-highway is not what it was--indeed, its proper name is now
St. George's-street, but it still retains much of its old eccentric
character. The casual pedestrian who wanders from the neighbourhood of
the Mint, past the end of Leman-street and the entrance to the London
Dock, need no longer fear robbery with violence; nor may he with any
confidence look to witness a skirmish of crimps and foreign sailors
with long knives; but, if his taste for observation incline to more
tranquil harvest, his eye, quiet or restless, will fall upon many a
reminder of the Highway's historic days, and of those relics of its
ancient character which still linger. Sailors' boarding-houses are seen
in great numbers, often with crossed flags, or a ship in full sail,
painted, in a conventional spirit peculiar to the district, upon the
windows. Here and there is a slop shop where many dangling oilskins
and sou'westers wave in the breeze, and where, as often as not, an old
figure-head or the effigy of a naval officer in the uniform of fifty
years ago stands as a sign. There are shops where advance notes are
changed, and where the windows present a curious medley of foreign bank
notes, clay pipes, china tobacco-jars, and sixpenny walking sticks, and
there are many swarthy-faced men, with ringed ears, with print shirts
and trousers unsupported by braces; also there are many ladies with
gigantic feathers in their bonnets, of painful hue, and other ladies
who get along very comfortably without any bonnets at all.

In a street like this, every shop is, more or less, an extraordinary
one; but no stranger would expect to find in one of them the largest
and most varied collection of arms, curiosities, and works of savage
and civilised art brought together for trade purposes in the world, and
this side by side with a stock of lions, tigers, panthers, elephants,
alligators, monkeys, or parrots. Such a shop, however, will be the most
interesting object of contemplation to the stray wayfarer through St.
George's-street, and this is the shop famed throughout the world as
Jamrach's. Everybody, of course, knows Jamrach's by name, and perhaps
most know it to be situated somewhere in the waterside neighbourhood
of the East-end; but few consider it anything more than an emporium
from which the travelling menageries are supplied with stock. This, of
course, it is, but it is something besides; and, altogether, one of the
most curious and instructive spots which the seeker after the quaint
and out-of-the-way may visit is Jamrach's.

The shop, which we find on the left-hand side as we approach it from
the west, is a double one, and might easily be taken for two separate
establishments. The first window we reach might be passed as that of
an ordinary bird fancier's, were the attention not attracted by the
unusually neat, clean, and roomy appearance of the cages displayed,
and the uncommon shapes and colours of the birds which inhabit them.
The next window is more catching to the eye. Furious Japanese figures,
squatting Hindoo gods, strange and beautiful marine shells, and curious
pottery bring the pedestrian to a stand, and arouse a desire to explore
within. All this outside, however, gives small promise of the strange
things to be seen and learnt behind the scenes. Returning to the door
by the aviary window, we enter, and find ourselves in a bright, clean
room, eighteen or twenty feet square, properly warmed by a stove
placed in the centre. The walls, from floor to ceiling, are fitted
with strong and commodious wire cages, in which birds of wonderful
voice and hue and monkeys of grotesque lineament yell, whistle, shriek,
and chatter. Great and gorgeous parrots of rare species flutter and
scream, and blinking owls screw their heads aside as we pass. But the
cause in chief of all this commotion is the presence of an attendant
in shirt-sleeves, who, carrying with him a basket, is distributing
therefrom certain eatables much coveted hereabout. Beaked heads are
thrust between bars, and many a long, brown arm reaches down-ward and
forward from the monkey-cages, in perilous proximity to the eager
beaks. In a special cage, standing out from the rest, a beautiful
black and white lemur sits and stretches his neck to be fondled as the
attendant passes, but shyly hides his face when we strangers approach
him.

[Illustration: THE AVIARY.]

Here Mr. Jamrach himself comes to meet us--a fine old gentleman, whose
many years and remarkable experiences have left but small impression
upon him. Coming from Hamburg--where his father before him was a
trading naturalist--he founded the present business in Shadwell more
than fifty years ago, and here he is still in his daily harness, with
all the appearance of being quite fit for another half-century of work
among snakes and tigers. His two sons--one of whom we shall presently
meet--have assisted him in the business all their lives. The elder of
these, who was a widely-known naturalist of great personal popularity,
died some few years since. Mr. Jamrach takes us into a small, dusty
back room, quaint in its shape and quaint in its contents. Arms of
every kind which is not an ordinary kind stand in corners, hang on
walls, and litter the floors; great two-handed swords of mediæval date
and of uncompromisingly English aspect stand amid heaps of Maori clubs,
African spears, and Malay kreeses; on the floor lies, open, a deal box
filled with rough sheets of tortoise-shell, and upon the walls hang
several pictures and bas-reliefs. Mr. Jamrach picks up by a string a
dusty piece of metal, flat, three-quarters of an inch thick, and of an
odd shape, rather resembling a cheese-cutter. This, we are informed is
a bell, or, perhaps more accurately, a gong, and was used on the tower
of a Burmese temple to summon the worshippers. Reaching for a short
knobkerry, which bears more than one sign of having made things lively
on an antipodean skull, Mr. Jamrach strikes the uninviting piece of
metal upon the side in such a way as to cause it to spin, and we, for
the first time, fully realise what sweet music may lie in a bell. The
sound is of the most startling volume--as loud as that of a good-sized
church bell, in fact--and dies away very slowly and gradually in a
prolonged note of indescribable sweetness. The metal is a peculiar
amalgam, silver being the chief ingredient; and oh that all English
church bells--and, for that matter, dinner bells--had the beautiful
voice of this quaint bit of metal!

[Illustration: A QUEER GONG.]

Then Mr. Jamrach shows us wonderful and gorgeous marine shells, of
extreme value and rarity, and some of a species which he originally
introduced to men of science, in consequence of which it now bears an
appalling Latin name ending with _jamrachus_.

Passing from the back of this little room, we enter a very large one,
extending from the front to the back of the entire premises, with a
gallery on three sides above. Here we are joined by the younger Mr.
Jamrach, and here we stand amid the most bewildering multitude of
bric-a-brac and quaint valuables ever jumbled together: fantastic gods
and goddesses, strange arms and armour, wonderful carvings in ivory,
and priceless gems of old Japanese pottery. Merely to enumerate in
the baldest way a tenth part of these things would fill this paper,
and briefly to describe a hundredth part would fill the magazine. And
when we express our wonder at the extent of the collection, we are
calmly informed that this is only a part--there are more about the
building--four or five roomfuls or so!

We have come to St. George's-street expecting to see nothing but a
zoological warehouse, and all this is a surprise. That such a store
as we now see were hidden away in Shadwell would have seemed highly
improbable, and indeed we are told that very few people are aware of
its existence. "The museums know us, however," says Mr. Jamrach the
younger, "and many of their chief treasures have come from this place."
Among the few curious visitors who have found their way to Jamrach's
there has been the Prince of Wales, who stayed long, and left much
surprised and pleased at all he had seen. The late Frank Buckland,
too, whose whole-souled passion for natural history took him to this
establishment day after day, often for all day, could rarely resist
the fascination of the museum, even while his beloved animals growled
in the adjacent lairs. The Jamrachs do not push the sale of this
bric-a-brac, and seem to love to keep the strange things about them.
Their trade is in animals, and their dealings in arms and curiosities
form almost a hobby. Many of the beautiful pieces of pottery have stood
here thirty years, and their proud possessors seem in no great anxiety
to part with them now. A natural love of the quaint and beautiful first
led Mr. Jamrach to buy carvings and shells from the seafaring men who
brought him his birds and monkeys, so that these men soon were led to
regard his warehouse as the regulation place of disposal for any new
or old thing from across the seas; and so sprang up this overflowing
museum.

Among hundreds of idols we are shown three which are especially
noteworthy. The first is a splendid life-sized Buddha--a work of
surprising grace and art. The god is represented as sitting, his back
being screened by a great shell of the purest design. The whole thing
is heavily gilt, and is set, in places, with jewels. Every line is a
line of grace, and the features, while of a distinct Hindoo cast, beam
with a most refined mildness. What monetary value Mr. Jamrach sets on
this we do not dare to ask; and, indeed, we are now placed before
the second of the three--a Vishnu carved in alto-relievo of some hard
black wood. This is a piece of early Indian art, and it has a history.
It was fished up some twenty years ago from the bottom of the river
Krishna, where it had been reverently deposited by its priests to save
it from insult and mutilation at the hands of the invading Mohammedan;
and there it had lain for eight hundred years. It is undamaged, with
the exception that the two more prominent of the four arms are broken
off; and that it has escaped the insult which its devout priests feared
is testified by the fact that the nose--straight, delicate, and almost
European in shape--has not been broken. It is an extremely rare thing
for a Vishnu free from this desecration--a fatal one in the eyes of
worshippers--to be seen in this country. Above the head are carved
medallions representing the ten incarnations of the god, for the last
of which mighty avatars millions still devoutly wait in mystic India;
while here, in Ratcliff-highway, after all its dark adventures, and
after its eight centuries of immersion below the Krishna, stands the
embodiment of the god himself, mildly serene and meekly dignified.

[Illustration: A FRIENDLY DEITY.]

The third of these gods is quite a different person. There is nothing
resembling beauty--either of conception or workmanship--about him.
He is very flat-chested, and his form is faithfully represented in
the accompanying illustration; without an illustration he would be
indescribable. The head is very small, and grotesquely carved, with
a large boar's tusk projecting from the jaw. The trunk and limbs,
however, are the parts of interest; they consist of an entire human
skin stretched on a sort of flat wooden framework, and partly stuffed
with dried grasses. The skin is a light brown, leathery looking stuff,
with here and there a small crack. The legs are clothed with loose blue
trousers, which appear to be of dungaree, or a similar material, and
the complete deity came from the Friendly Islands some time since. Just
at his feet lie, in an open packing box, certain mummified heads, some
bearing unmistakable marks of hard knocks, all having been, no doubt,
among the most cherished possessions of the gentleman who had separated
them from the shoulders upon which they originally grew.

Of heads and skulls we see many, and among them the skull of an
undoubted cannibal--a thing of very peculiar conformation. And so we
go on from room to room, where the sunlight peeps in with difficulty,
and paints with light and shadow the memorials of savage art, warfare
and worship, as well as many exquisite specimens of porcelain and metal
work from Japan and Florence. We see the garment of cowtails which
Ketchwayo wore when taken prisoner, and we see a testimony to the guile
of the wily Maori in an axe made of iron only, but painted and got up
to exactly resemble greenstone. The reason of the disguise becomes
apparent when it is explained that for the genuine greenstone article
of this pattern a collector will gladly pay a hundred pounds, while
the metal imitation is worth its weight as old iron, and no more. We
see two pairs of magnificent china vases five or six feet high, the
like of which it would be difficult to find offered for sale anywhere.
Another pair, which had stood here for thirty years, were bought
only a week or two back by a visitor of title with a cheque of three
figures--a bargain which the buyer jumped at. We are shown old Satsuma
ware of wondrous delicacy and richness, commanding something more than
its weight in sovereigns in the market. We see grand old _repoussé_
work in very high relief. We linger over a singular old Japanese
medicine cabinet, the outside of which is covered with hundreds of
little silver charms, against as many varieties of disease--each
charm a quaintly-wrought oval or scarabæus. We examine two immense
Japanese vases of copper, each six feet high, and of the most elaborate
workmanship, the design revealing here and there, in a surprising
manner, elementary forms and principles usually supposed to be wholly
and originally Greek. There are stone weapons, bronze weapons, steel
weapons, and wooden weapons of every outlandish sort, and musical
instruments such as one sees represented on Egyptian sculptures. There
are many things bought at the sale of the effects of the late king of
Oude, an enthusiastic old gentleman whose allowance from the British
Government was a lac of rupees a month, and who managed to spend it
all, and more than all, on curiosities and works of art, so that his
funeral was followed by a sale on behalf of his creditors. Among the
old king's treasures in this place are seven small figures, of a
dancing bear, a buck antelope, a gladiator, a satyr riding a furious
bull, another riding a camel, an armed man on a rhinoceros, and a
monkey mounted on a goat, respectively. Each of these little figures is
built up of innumerable smaller figures of beasts, birds, and fishes,
fighting and preying upon each other, not one speck of the whole
surface belonging to the main representation, while, nevertheless, the
whole produces the figure complete with its every joint, muscle, sinew,
and feature. And so we pass, by innumerable sacred masks, pashas' tails
and alligators' skulls, toward the other and main department of this
remarkable warehouse--that devoted to natural history.

We cross Britten's-court, where we observe a van with a small crowd
of boys collected about it. A crane is swung out from a high floor,
and from the end of the dependent chain hangs a wooden case or cage,
violently agitated by the movements of the active inhabitant. He is a
black panther, the most savage sort of beast with which Mr. Jamrach has
to deal, and, as this one feels himself gradually rising through the
air, his surprise and alarm manifest themselves in an outburst strongly
reminding the spectator of Mark Twain's blown-up cat "a-snorting, and
a-clawing, and a-reaching for things like all possessed." He arrives at
his appointed floor at last, however, and, as the cage is swung in, the
blazing eyes and gleaming teeth turn from our side toward the attendant
who receives him.

The wide doors on the ground floor are swung open, and we enter a large
apartment fitted with strong iron-barred cages on all sides. This is
the lowest of three floors, similarly fitted, in which is carried on
a trade in living creatures which is known from one end of the earth
to the other. Jamrach's is _the_ market for wild animals from all the
world over, and whatever a menagerie-keeper or a zoological collection
may want, from an elephant to an Angora cat, can be had in response to
an order sent here. Whatever animal a man may have to sell, here he
may sell it, providing that it be in good and healthy condition. Mr.
Jamrach has lived a lifetime among his beasts, and has had his troubles
and adventures with them. One of the most exciting of these adventures
took place some thirty years ago. A fine, full-grown Bengal tiger was
deposited, in his rough wooden cage, on this very spot at the gates,
having just been delivered from a ship in the docks. The lair at the
back was being prepared for his reception, when, the attention of Mr.
Jamrach and his merry men being otherwise engaged, _Tigris regalis_
set his hind quarters against the back of his temporary receptacle,
and, using all his strength, managed to burst out the boards. Then he
quietly trotted out, and down the main street. The sudden appearance of
a full-sized tiger at mid-day on the pavement of Ratcliff-highway was
the signal for a general skedaddle, excepting on the part of a little
boy of about eight years of age, who, never having seen a thing of the
sort before, innocently extended his hand and stroked the big cat. A
playful tap of the great soft paw at once knocked the child upon his
face, stunned; and, picking him up by the loose part of the jacket, the
animal was proceeding up the next turning, when Mr. Jamrach, who had
just discovered the escape, came running up. Empty-handed as he was, he
sprang at the tiger's neck from behind, and, grasping the throat with
both hands, drove his thumbs into the soft place behind the jaw. Mr.
Jamrach was an unusually powerful man--indeed, he is no weakling now,
though nearer eighty than seventy years of age--and at his scientific
grasp the tiger, half choked, let his captive fall, when a couple of
heavy blows across the eyes from a crowbar thrust into the naturalist's
hands by an attendant thoroughly cowed the great beast, who turned tail
and meekly trotted back straight into the lair prepared for him, the
door of which stood open for his reception. The little boy was without
a scratch; but, although £50 was offered his father as compensation,
Mr. Jamrach's intrepidity was rewarded by an action for £500 damages.
In the end the smaller amount first offered was awarded, and the loss
in costs was made sweeter by the judge's praise of the defendant's
prompt and courageous action. The monetary loss had already been
discounted by the arrival, in hot haste, the day after the accident,
of a showman, who gladly paid £300 for the culprit. This was no bad
speculation on his part, it was found, when he had counted up the
sixpences received all over the country for admission to see the "tiger
that had eaten a boy alive in Ratcliff-highway."

[Illustration: TACKLING THE TIGER.]

And so, with many an anecdote of his own and his father's experiences
in their peculiar business from Mr. Jamrach the younger, we go
upstairs and wander among the stock. This, of course, is ever varying
in quantity and species, but has always some interesting feature. We
are introduced to a solemn monkey, who salaams gravely three times,
and then waits to be asked to shake hands, which he does with great
ceremony. We see porcupines, black swans and antelopes, and we hear,
at the peril of never hearing anything afterwards, the noisy cranes.
There is a Sumatra civet cat, with a small, fox-like head, and a
magnificent tail; he is not cordial, and snaps an awkward-looking row
of sharp teeth at us. Just behind his little cage is a large one,
which contains a fine, tall guanaco or wild llama. The docile-looking
creature moves to and fro behind the bars, keeping his eye on us, and
pursing his mouth the while. Suddenly Mr. Jamrach says, "Look out,
he's going to spit!" and we all duck in different directions with great
celerity--only just in time. The intelligent quadruped has conceived
a prejudice against the shape of somebody's hat, or the colour of
somebody's tie, and expresses it by spitting, with much force and
precision, at the offender's face.

[Illustration: LUNCHEON.]

A large increase in the general chatter and growl around us announces
the approach of an attendant with food. The emus and cassowaries
stretch their long necks as far between the bars as possible, and the
pelicans and cranes yell agonisingly. A large black panther throws
himself against the bars of his cage, and gives voice unrestrainedly.
In contrast to these, the domestic cat of the establishment follows
the man's heels, with much tender purring and a sharp eye to any stray
fallen morsel. There are other cats here in cages--cats too valuable to
be allowed to run loose--magnificent Angoras and Carthusians, who rub
their heads against the wires, and, as we approach, extend their paws
in an appeal to be noticed and petted.

We are promised an interesting feeding sight downstairs, and we
descend to the ground floor. Among the more risky speculations of the
commercial naturalist are the alligator and the crocodile. They will
sulk and go into a decline on the least provocation or without any
provocation at all, and, being expensive to begin with, often prove
awkward losses. They almost invariably sulk at first, we are told, and,
refusing to take food, would be likely to get into a bad way unless
cured; and the curing of a crocodile's sulks is a surprising thing to
see. We find, on reaching the ground floor, poor crocodilus laid by the
heels and perfectly helpless, lashed immovably to iron rings and posts.
His head is ignominiously sat upon by a sturdy man in shirt-sleeves,
who presently pokes the end of a crowbar among the big teeth, and
forcibly prizes the mouth open into that position of comprehensive
smile so familiar to the readers of children's natural history books.
Then another man kneels before the unfortunate reptile and feeds him.
That is to say, he takes a lump of meat weighing five or ten pounds or
so, and dexterously pitches it into the œsophagus, afterwards firmly
and decisively ramming it home with a long pole. This is the dinner
of all naughty, sulky crocodiles, and, after having it served in this
fashion regularly four or five times, the victim gives up sulking as
a bad job. He will have to swallow it, one way or another, he argues
within himself, and in that case he may as well take it without being
tied up, and sat upon, and insulted generally; besides which, he may as
well enjoy the flavour as swallow all those eatables without tasting
them. Whereupon he reforms and becomes a respectable crocodile, taking
regular meals, and is in time promoted to the Zoological Gardens, or a
respectable menagerie.

This and other things we see, and we have it explained how dangerous
animals are transferred from cases to permanent cages, and back again.
To transfer a savage panther or tiger from a case to a cage is not
difficult. Certain of the bars of the cage are raised, the case is
put opposite the opening, and the side removed. Seeing an opening
the captive jumps at it, and the bars are at once shut down. But to
tempt him back again into a case, when he has become to some extent
accustomed to his quarters, is not always so easy a thing. Carefully
baiting the case with food usually has its effect, if circumstances
permit waiting; but, if not, recourse has to be had to smoke. A
little damp straw thrust between the bars and lighted soon makes the
lair uncomfortable, and then ensues a scene. Eyes gleam, and teeth
gnash from obscure corners, and presently, with a bound and a yell,
the powerful beast dashes through the opening into the case, and is
secured. It may be easily understood that any little clumsiness or
mistake at the critical moment might lead to the case being overturned
in the rush, or improperly closed. Then, with a tiger or black panther
worked to the highest pitch of frenzy by the fire and smoke, some
lively adventures would probably take place.

[Illustration: THE FORCE-MEAL TREATMENT.]

And so we reach the door into Britten's-court, and, with cordial thanks
to our entertainers for a most pleasant and instructive afternoon,
emerge into Ratcliff-highway, with its dock labourers, its sailors'
boarding-houses, and its slop-shops.

[Illustration]




_The Spider's Web._

+A Story for Children: from the French of Jacques Normand.+


[Illustration: "SUDDENLY THERE CAME A KNOCK AT THE DOOR."]

At that time my aunt Herminie, fatherless and motherless, was living
in the old abbey of Mauvoisin, near Corbeil, which was disaffected
and had become very national. It was during the Reign of Terror, and
she was nearly twenty years old. She was there with two old ladies,
Madame Maréchal and Madame Badouillet: the former tall and thin, the
latter little, stout, and one-eyed. One evening--but it will be better
to let Aunt Herminie tell the tale herself. I fancy I can hear her
now, relating this story which excited me so, the story which I was
continually asking her to repeat.

The story? You wish me to repeat it once more, my child? Well, it was
in _those_ days. That evening we were sitting by the fire: Madame
Maréchal and I were chatting, Madame Badouillet had fallen asleep. It
was about ten o'clock; outside it was very windy--blowing hard. Oh! I
remember it well. Suddenly, there came a knock at the door.

I must tell you first of all that a troop of soldiers, about a hundred,
had arrived during the day. The officer in command, a big red-headed
fellow, had shown us a paper, an order to billet them. They had taken
up their quarters in the chapel, and had passed the day there, eating,
drinking, singing, and playing cards. They made a dreadful din. They
all calmed down when evening came, and were all sleeping in groups.

You will understand, little one, that it was not very reassuring for
three lone women to be near such people. Madame Maréchal's husband was
away, Madame Badouillet was a widow, and I an orphan; so we bolted
ourselves in the little room on the ground floor which was situated
between the high road and the chapel, and that's where we were when the
knock came, as I have just told you.

Madame Badouillet woke up with a jump, and we all three looked straight
at each other with frightened eyes. A moment passed and there was
another knock--louder this time. We had a good mind to sham deafness,
as you may imagine, but joking was dangerous in those days. If you
refused hospitality to patriots, you were regarded as a "suspect," as
they called it, and then--the guillotine! It was all over with you in
no time.

Madame Maréchal began to recite her prayers; Madame Badouillet shook in
every limb; besides, I was the youngest, so I ought to open the door.

I found some men at the door, with large hats, making quite a black
group on the road-way. They looked harassed, and their boots were
covered with dust. My first impulse was to shut the door in their
faces, but one of them made a step forward, stretched out his hand, and
said in a low, shaking voice:--

"Shelter, citoyenne, give us shelter for the night. We are dropping
with fatigue--have pity upon us!" And these last words were repeated in
a murmur by the group of men.

"Who are you?"

"Fugitives--deputies of the Gironde--we are pursued, save us!"

They were Girondins! You will know one day, my child, what that meant.
It is enough now for you to know that they were poor fellows flying
from Paris, pursued by the Montagnards, that is, by their enemies.

"Wretched men," I replied, "go away! The chapel is full of soldiers. If
you come in you are lost!"

They hesitated a moment; then a pale young man, quite a youth, who was
leaning upon the arms of two of his comrades, murmured feebly:

"Walk again! I cannot go a step farther. Go on, comrades; save
yourselves and leave me here. I prefer to die!"

They were brave fellows, those Girondins. They would not hear of
abandoning the poor young fellow.

"Is there no other place but the chapel where we could rest for two
hours--just for two hours only?" asked the one who had already spoken
to me.

"None but this room," I answered, standing a little aside; "and the
chapel has no way out but that door (I pointed to the middle door), so
the soldiers pass through here to enter or go out. Let them see you,
and you are lost!"

Great dejection was apparent in the face of the poor man. I could see
it plainly, for it was a clear night and as light as day.

[Illustration: "HAVE PITY UPON US!"]

"Adieu, citoyennes," he said simply. "The district is full of people
who are pursuing us. Pray that we may escape them!" Then, turning to
his companions, he said in a low voice, "Onward!"

Well, my child, I was quite upset; my heart was rent at the sight
of their distress. I understood all that they had suffered, and all
they would yet suffer. I looked at their drooping shoulders, at their
bruised feet. Certainly, by sending them away I was shielding us
three from danger, because in helping them I was making myself their
accomplice, and exposing myself and my companions to severe punishment.
Yes, I understood all that, but pity conquered prudence; a kind of
fever seized me, and just as they were moving away--

"Listen," I whispered to them; "there might perhaps be a way to help
you, but it would be very risky, very daring."

They drew near eagerly, anxiously, with heads bent forward. Behind
me I could hear the trembling voices of Madame Badouillet and Madame
Maréchal as they whispered to each other, "What is she talking about?
What is she saying?" But that mattered little to me.

"At the other end of the chapel, above the altar," I continued, "there
is a granary for storing fodder. Once there, you would be all right,
but to get there----."

"Speak, speak!"

"You would have to follow a narrow passage, a sort of overhanging
cornice, the whole length of the wall--and just over the sleeping
soldiers. If they hear the least noise, should one of them wake up----!"

"Who will lead us?"

"I will!"

I have already told you, my child, that I was in a fever, that I was no
longer master of myself; I was acting as if in a dream. To save them
had become my sole aim. They took counsel briefly among themselves,
while Madame Badouillet continually pulled at my skirts and called me
mad. Oh! I remember it all as if I were going through it now!

"Thanks, citoyenne, for your devotion. We will accept the offer!"

I left the door and they entered noiselessly, on tip-toe. There were
about a dozen; their clothes were torn and their fatigue was extreme.
I told my two companions to keep watch at the door of the chapel, and
turned at once to the fugitives.

"You see those steps leading to the ledge?" I asked them. "Well, I am
going to ascend them. When I reach the top I will open the door and
look into the interior of the chapel, and if the moment is favourable I
will give you a sign. You will then ascend and follow me along the wall
to the granary. Once there--if God allows us to get there!--you will
rest yourselves. I will come to you when the soldiers are gone--they
ought to leave at daybreak. You understand?"

All this was uttered rapidly in a low voice; then, positively, I felt
as if I were lifted from the ground, as if impelled by some superior
will. I felt deep commiseration for these men, unknown to me only a few
minutes before; I felt a protecting sentiment towards them which elated
me. To save them I would have thrown myself in front of the cannon's
mouth, or have rushed upon the bayonet's point. And I, mite that I was,
seemed suddenly endowed with extraordinary strength and energy. Madame
Badouillet was right, I was positively mad.

I mounted the stairs, opened the door just a little, and looked in.
The soldiers were asleep in groups, their heads resting on their
knapsacks, their forms making dark spots on the white stones of the
chapel. Occasionally one would turn over with a grunt. A slight murmur
of breathing came from this human mass. In the corners the guns were
stacked; outside, the wind howled in fury. A ray of light from the moon
shone through a side window, lighting up one side of the nave, while
the other side--luckily, the side where the ledge was--remained quite
dark. To get to the door of the granary--dimly visible, like a dark
spot, along the narrow ledge, along the wall at about twenty feet from
the sleepers--would be the work of a few seconds in reality, yet these
few seconds would seem an age.

And now came the reaction; the excitement of the first few minutes
was over, and a dreadful feeling of depression came over me as I
saw myself face to face with the reality, and understood the almost
childish temerity of my plan. I was seized with a mad desire to tell
the Girondins that it was impossible to do it; that the soldiers were
waking up; that they must fly at once. Then I became ashamed of my
cowardice, and, turning towards the men who were watching me from below
with uneasy glances, I gave the sign to ascend.

They obeyed, and the first one was soon by my side. I made a sign to
keep silence--as if they needed it, poor men!--then I stepped upon the
ledge.

What a journey it was! I shall never forget it. I can feel myself now,
moving forward on tip-toe, my left hand lightly touching the cold wall,
my right hand in space, fearing every instant to lose my balance, or to
knock against some stone, some little heap of dirt and pieces of wall,
the falling of which would have roused the soldiers who were sleeping
below, so close to us. And behind me I can still feel the dumb presence
of those creatures who were following me, risking their life with mine.
We glided along the ledge like a troop of sleep-walkers, holding our
breath, treading with extraordinary carefulness, the eyes of each one
fixed upon the one who preceded him, all making with beating hearts for
that little door which grew larger as we approached it--and it was I
who was leading them!

Having reached this exciting point, Aunt Ninie stopped and looked at me
to judge the effect. She ought to have been pleased, for I was sitting
on the edge of my chair, my eyes out of my head, with open mouth,
listening with never-failing interest to a story which I had heard so
many times. "What then?" I asked.

[Illustration: "WE GLIDED ALONG THE LEDGE."]

At length, after a few minutes, terribly long minutes they seemed, I
reached the goal. I seized the key which was still in the door, turned
it, pushed the door--and then I thought we were lost!

Nobody had had occasion to go to the granary for a long time, so that
the hinges had become rusty; and as I pushed it open it gave out a
creaking sound, which went all over the chapel, and sent an icy chill
through me.

"What's the matter up there?" growled a soldier, with an oath.

I stood up straight, all of a shake, and I perceived the fugitives,
pale, motionless, and standing as closely as possible to the wall. It
seemed as if our last hour had come. Luckily, it was very windy, as I
have said, and at that very instant a strong gust shook the roof of the
chapel.

"Go to sleep, and rest easy, you great fool! It's the wind!" answered
another voice.

The first soldier listened again for a brief space, then stretched
himself, and went to sleep. We were saved--at least for the moment.

The door was only half open, but it was enough to enable us to squeeze
in. This I did when silence was completely restored below, and the
others followed one by one, easily enough generally, without being
obliged to open the door any further. This was very important, for
another creak would certainly have done for us.

You cannot imagine the joy and gratitude of those men when once they
were all gathered in the granary. They wept, went down on their knees,
and kissed the hem of my dress. One would have thought that I had
finally saved them; but, alas! the danger was still there, terrible and
threatening.

"Rest," I said to them; "stretch yourselves upon the straw. Here you
are fairly safe--for the time being, at least. As soon as they are
gone you will have nothing more to fear, and you can go away in your
turn. Now rest yourselves and sleep, and count on me if any new danger
menaces you."

I left them and passed through the door, leaving it as it was. Of
course it would have been better to shut it, but that was impossible on
account of the noise it would have made.

My return journey along the ledge was performed without incident.
Alone, I felt lighter, more skilful, and slipped along like a mouse. At
the end of a few seconds I was back in the room, where the two ladies
anxiously awaited me.

Each one received me in a different way. Madame Maréchal, severe and
sharp, reproached me cruelly, saying that _that_ was not the way
to behave: it was risking my life and theirs--that I ought to have
left them outside--that I was a fool, &c. Madame Badouillet, on the
contrary, approved what I had done, and defended me, saying that nobody
could reject the prayer of the fugitives--it would have been infamous.
And this good woman pressed me to her heart, and, pleased to see me
back again, kissed me, while she wiped away the tears from her one eye.

So we sat down again, commenting in a low voice upon the unforeseen and
terrible events which had come upon our hitherto peaceful existence.
And it was really a dreadful situation. All these men, enemies, so near
to each other; what might happen if the fugitives were discovered! It
was frightful, so much so that Madame Maréchal proposed that we should
run away, out in the night, across the fields to Corbeil, leaving the
men to settle matters amongst themselves as best they could--that was
her expression. Madame Badouillet and I rejected this proposal with
indignation, and we remained there whispering to each other, and longed
for the end of this interminable night.

The first streaks of dawn began to appear, and we felt within reach of
the moment when our anxiety would end. Suddenly we heard the gallop of
horses on the road-way. What now? We listened. The horses stopped, and
we heard a noise of voices. Everybody seemed to be paying us a visit
that night.

Then came a knock as before; and, as before, it was I who opened the
door. There was a man before me, surrounded by several hussars who had
dismounted.

[Illustration: "IT WAS I WHO OPENED THE DOOR."]

"They are here, eh, citoyenne?" asked the man, who was not a soldier,
but doubtless some Government agent. He was stout, and appeared out of
breath through having come so rapidly.

I started, but soon recovered my _sang-froid_. "Here! Who?"

"You know well enough. Those rascally Girondins!"

"There is nobody here but the soldiers who arrived yesterday, as you
probably know."

"That's what we intend to find out."

He motioned to one of the men to hold his horse, and dismounted
painfully, giving a grunt of satisfaction when he reached the ground.
He was certainly not accustomed to that sort of exercise. He was
attired in black, with big boots, and feathers in his hat. His round,
white face seemed good-natured at first sight, but the look of his
little sunken eyes was false and cruel.

He entered, followed by two hussars, and went straight towards the
chapel. As soon as he was perceived, there was a great stir; the mass
of soldiers began to move with a noise of swords and guns upon the
stones, and everybody was soon on foot. The officer in charge came
forward and saluted the new-comer, and we understood that this fat man
was an important personage.

A conversation in a low voice took place between them. Standing near
the door, we tried our hardest to hear what was said, but in vain; we
could only guess from the gestures that the agent was interrogating the
captain, and that the latter was replying in the negative. We feared
to see them raise their heads and perceive the half-opened door above.
This little door seemed enormous now, as if everybody must see it.

[Illustration: "A CONVERSATION TOOK PLACE BETWEEN THEM."]

However, it was not so, for the agent, finishing his conversation with
the captain, came up to me, and with that cunning look which boded no
good, he said, "So you are quite sure, citoyenne, that there is nobody
here but these men?"

He pointed to the soldiers, who were about to brush themselves and put
themselves in order. I looked him in the face and replied, "Nobody!"

He put that same question to Madame Badouillet, who bravely made the
same reply. Then it was Madame Maréchal's turn. I thought she was going
to betray us, and I gave her a fierce look. She hesitated a moment;
then, with her eyes on the ground, she stammered, "I do not know--I
have been asleep--I have heard nothing."

"Well, _I_ know more about it than _you_," said the agent. "Some
peasants have assured me that the Girondins came in here, that they
have passed the night here, and that they are here still. Is it true?"

We all were silent.

"Now just think well about it, citoyennes. You know what you are
exposing yourselves to by hiding these traitors?"

It was terrifying to be thus questioned in the midst of men who were
watching us closely, and whose looks seemed to pierce our very souls. I
felt that Madame Maréchal was giving way, that all was lost. Her lips
moved, she was about to speak. I did not give her the time to do so,
and putting a bold face on the matter, I replied:

"Since you doubt us, citoyen, search the place. I will lead you
wherever you like."

He hesitated, thrown off the scent by my effrontery, and I thought he
was going to give up all idea of pursuit, when a voice cried, "It is my
opinion that if any little plot has been contrived, it has been done up
there."

A soldier, doubtless the one who had woke up in the night, pointed with
an evil look to the ledge and the granary door. All eyes were raised,
and my legs trembled under me. I thought of the unfortunate men who
were behind that door, without weapons, without any possible means of
defence, listening to what was said. I cursed myself for having yielded
to their prayer, and having sheltered them. Outside they would have
been in just as great danger, but it would not have been my fault. They
could have fought, run away, anything; but there they were through my
fault! It was horrible, and I thought I should go mad.

After questioning the soldier--oh, I could have killed him, the
wretch!--the agent turned towards me.

"Well, citoyenne, as you propose it, you shall act as our guide. Lead
us to that door up there; it's a granary, I suppose?"

I nodded. I could not speak, my throat was too dry.

"A few men follow me! On!"

That was a most terrible moment, my child. I had to summon all my
strength to keep from swooning. I drew myself up, however, and went
towards the stair-case which led to the ledge, that stair-case which
I had ascended with the fugitives a few hours before. The agent came
next, then the captain and several soldiers.

What could I hope for in obeying the order? It would require a miracle
to save the Girondins. But I had fought it out to that point, and I
would fight it out to the end. And, frankly speaking, I scarcely knew
what I was doing, I was acting unconsciously--I had been told to go
there, and I was going, that's all!

I soon reached the ledge, the agent following painfully on account of
his corpulence. He seemed, moreover, very clumsy, and his fat body
embarrassed him much. When he reached the top of the staircase and saw
the ledge, on which I had already advanced a step or two, he hesitated.

"Oh! oh! it is very narrow!" he murmured.

Then he saw that all the soldiers were looking at him from below, and,
stung by their looks, he followed me slowly, supporting himself against
the wall, stepping with infinite caution. Really, if the situation had
not been so dreadful it would have been grotesque.

[Illustration: "LOOK! SPIDERS WEBS!"]

Two questions swam in my head. What should I do? Should I run rapidly
forward and join the unfortunate men and die with them? Or should I
throw myself down on the stones and kill myself?

Still, I went on slowly, slowly, expecting every minute to see the door
shut by the poor fellows as a frail and useless obstacle to a certain
capture; and I was so interested in their fate that I forgot my own
danger.

We had reached the centre of the ledge when suddenly the agent stopped,
and, turning towards those who followed, said: "Look! spiders' webs!"
and he pointed to the entrance of the granary.

And, in fact, by a providential chance, a large spider's web, torn when
I opened the door, had remained hanging on the woodwork; and the insect
had, during the few hours of the night, partly repaired the damage. The
fresh threads crossed the whole space of the opening, and nobody could
imagine for a moment that men had passed through that space that very
night without breaking the whole of the web. Yes, my child, a spider, a
simple spider, had done it. But one cannot help thinking that the good
God had something to do with it.

"It is useless to go further," said the agent.

Between you and me I believe the fat fellow was not sorry at heart, for
he was dreadfully afraid of rolling down below, and pride alone had
sustained him.

There is little need to say more. The Girondins were saved, and I
with them. The agent went off, followed by his hussars; and the other
soldiers marched away soon afterwards.

As soon as the chapel was empty I ran to the granary. It is not
necessary to tell you with what protestations of gratitude I was
received. One second more, and, as I had expected, they would have
shut the door, which would have been fatal; but Providence willed it
otherwise.

We gave them something to eat, and they remained all the day with us;
for it would have been imprudent to have left before night. When night
came they left us, after having thanked me much more than I deserved. I
had done my duty--nothing more.

We followed them with our eyes upon the road as long as we could. Then
they disappeared in the darkness.

Did they escape? Were they discovered, and killed on their way? I have
never heard. But I have rejoiced all my life that I, delicate as I am,
was able to go through so much without breaking down. Madame Badouillet
and Madame Maréchal were both ill afterwards.

And that is my story.

[Illustration]