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INDIANA

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY
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PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. I.

JANUARY TO JUNE, 1896.

PUBLIIBIMO AMD EDITORIAL OrrKIs:

C. ARTHUR PEARSON,

•PEARSON'S MAGAZINE" OFFICE, HENRIETTA STREET, LONDON, W.C.

V. I

INDIANA UN(vcRSITV

LIBRARIES

BLOOMINGTON

LONDON :

PRINTED BY HORACE COX, WINDSOR HOUSE, BREAM'S BUILDINGS, E.C.

INDIANA UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

Brief notes on prominent painters, with the

par traits of some,and representative examples

of their work.

" SIR," remarked Hiram

Powers to the President's

father, " your son may be

as eminent as he pleases." Sir Frederick

I.eighton has pleased to take the highest

eminence. Born at Scarborough sixty-five

years ago, he may be said to owe his artistic

career to the American sculptor just quoted.

Young Leighton at the age of fifteen was

wintering in Florence with his father, who

had strenuously opposed the lad's desire to

be a painter. The elder Leighton finally

consented to show his son's drawings to Mr.

Powers and abide by that authority's

judgment of their merit. The sculptor's

verdict gave us the President of the Royal

Academy.

All his training was obtained on the

Continent, and he spent fourteen or fifteen years working in Frankfort, Brussels, Paris, and

Rome before he returned to .England, to follow a reputation that had already preceded him.

From Rome he had sent t» Ac •Academy- iiv'rS^-ii; tifs-'^Cimafc^^/^Staj^nna, carried in

Procession through the Streets of Florence," a large canvas which, after attracting more

attention than any other picture of its year, became the property of the Queen. From that

time to this its painter has given the world a long series of pictures, seldom dramatic, but

always beautiful in richness of colcuring and superb drawing. As a sculptor he is scarcely

less brilliant.

rot. I.—January, 1896.—Xo. /.

PEARSON'S MA GAZIXE.

The President of the Royal Academy

must, however, not only be eminent in art.

He requires other qualities that are rarer

among his fraternity—he must be a man of

social tact, an administrator svi1h some

financial talent, and generally a man whose

personality will

command respect,

not only from

artistic circles, but

from the outer

world. Sir

Frederick Leigh-

ton is all this, and

more ; he is

painter, sculptor,

orator, and lin-

guist, the friend of

princes, and the

idol of a multi-

tude.

utter lack of art that many persons have who

pay large sums of money for paintings.

The panel was originally a portion of a

large painting which the gentleman purchased

for fifteen hundred pounds. He bought the

picture to fill a certain space upon his wall,

A Short Way with

Pictures.

On the wall of a

well-known art

collector's house

in New York there

hangs a hand-

somely framed

panel that has

attracted consider-

able attentionfrom

the owner's visi-

tors. There is

neither beginning

nor end to the

composition,

which contains

nothing except a

few branches and

some shrubs, ter-

minating abruptly

at either side of

the frame.

In the lower

right hand corner

of the picture is the signature of Corot, the

great French landscape painter. The owner

SIR FREDERICK LEIGHTON IN HIS STUDIO.

From a Photograph by Ralph IV. Rvbinson, Redhill.

but was disappointed on its arrival home to find

that it was some six inches too long. He sent

explained to the writer of these notes the origin for a carpenter and had seven inches cut off the

of the puzzle, and it is an illustration of the end—the end bearing the painter's signature!
Copyright, 1802, by Phokographliche GeBeUschaTt.

SWEETHEARTS.

From the Painting by H. Kosh. By permission cf the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W.
PEARSON'S MA GAZIXE.

Mr. R.Caton Wcod-

ville.R.I.

STUDY OF NAPOLEON.

down on one side to keep out the reflection

and to hide himself from the prying eyes of

foot passengers, he was painting at his eass,

through the opposite window, a view of the

Champs Elysees.

Mr. Richard Caton Wood-

ville is one of many

distinguished painters who

have first made their reputation in the

illustrated journals. Sir William

Ingra1n prides himself, with some

reason, on having "discovered"

him. Eighteen years ago

young Caton

Woodvi lie, then

a handsome

you tli of

, twenty, of-

'' fered his first

,. black and

white draw-

ing to the

office of The

Illustrated

London

News, and

Mr. William

Ingram

bought the

picture, and

encouraged

the young

artist to send

By R. Caton U'wdcille, R.I.

Cab Studios.

Painters of street scenes in

Paris have adopted a plan

for working up their subject which is as

ingenious as it is useful. The artist charters

a cab, and pays the driver his two francs an

hour for the privilege of remaining stationary

as long as he may choose.

It is hard to say who originated the idea,

but for years, indeed, ever since pictures of

modern Paris became so popular, it has been

very much in vogue.

Detaille. De Xeuville, Do Nittis, Duez,

Beraud, and other masters have used it. A

correspondent recently surprised Beraud at

work in one of these studios on wheels.

His canvas was perched on the seat in front,

his colour-box beside him. With the blind

in more.

This was the

beginning of a connection that has lasted

ever since.

Mr. Woodville's father was also a painter

who achieved some distinction both in the

United States, to which he belonged, and at

our own Royal Academy. His mother was a

Russian, and, on the death of her husband,

she, with her son, left England for St. Peters-

burg, and afterwards settled in Germany,

where, at Dusseldorf, young Woodville studied:

art under E. von (Jebhardt, the religious

painter. He has only once been accused of

s

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

"\

MR. R. CATON WOODVILLE, R.I.

From a Photograph by Elliott and Fry.

modernity, persistently referred to it as " Mr.

Caton Woodville's Biblical picture."

He had done a lot of fine black and white

work when his picture of " Saving the Guns

at Maiwand,'' painted some years ago and

bought by the Liverpool Corporation, brought

him at once to the front rank of military artists.

Since then he has more than maintained

his position with " Kassassin," " Kandahar,"

" 1815" — his picture of Waterloo, in which he

has represented, with the masterliness of

Meissonier, Napoleon's last move — with

"The Storming of Badajoz, 1812" (exhi-

bited in the Academy of 1894), and, with

" Balaclava," hung in this year's Exhi-

bition at Burlington House.

Like Meissonier, Mr. Caton Woodville is

a stickler for truth, and no temptation to the ^"~J (

purely picturesque will draw him from his *3frf-^

unflinching and exact realism. His know-

ledge of military costumes, especially of the Waterloo

period, is perhaps unequalled. You will find in his studio a great collection

of arms and uniforms, but never a model. Mr. Woodville has no use for

them, maintaining that, once the artist has learnt his

that a model could give, and more, can be attained

process of reasoning.

The scheme of his picture complete to his

mind's eye, he works out the detail in a series

black and white studies. His favourite tin

for this work is at night, and the

small hours of the morning, while

his wife (who is as charming and /'

clever as the wife of so admirable <5-/

an artist should be) reads aloud to

him.

Some of these studies are repro-'

duced on these pages, and, slight as

they are, they show Mr. Woodville 's

wonderful skill in expressing action.

The study of Napoleon was done

in Algiers, when the artist was

seriously ill, and was banished

from everything but his pencil and

paper.

For a man so popular in society,

Mr. Woodville is remarkably in-

dustrious. This year he has

finished something like two hun-

dred black and white drawings, two

large pictures, and two smaller

ones. "The Relief of Lucknow " HALT!-A STUDY OF THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAP..

is just on the stocks. For the last Bt. R. Ctlm wiMMut, R.,.
IO

PEA RSON- S MA GA ZIXE.

A STUDY FOR "BALACLAVA

By R. Caton IVoodville, R.I.

four years the illustrated periodicals have

seen less and less of Mr. Woodville's

work, owing to his devoting himself more

and more to painting, but the readers

of PEARSON'S MAGAZINE will have an oppor-

tunity of admiring his drawings from

time to time. If they should ever have the

good fortune to meet him face to face, they

will find him as delightful and entertaining

as his pictures, for his memory is stored with

amusing adventures of war and sport in many

parts of the world.

Born in Edinburgh sixty

years ago, Mr. Orchardson

is a Scotsman with a dash

of Spanish blood in his veins, and the

curious in such matters may find amusement

in tracing to this fact the combination of

qualities characteristic of his pictures.

The foundations of his art were laid at

the Trustees' Academy of his native city, and

it was not until the age of twenty-eight that,

encouraged by the reception of his first

picture at the Royal Scottish Academy, he

came to London and submitted his first

canvas to the oracles of Burlington House.

He was elected an Associate only four years

after his arrival, and he easily keeps the

place in public favour that he won in those early days with

" The Challenge " and "Prince Henry, Poins, and

Falstaff."

Mr. Orchardson is not of those who through

tribulation of minutest detail arrive at the per-

fection of the finished picture; you will find in

his studio no litter of chalk studies for his

great canvases. The subject grows in his

mind as he paces the floor, until the con-

ception is complete to. the smallest detail,

when he rapidly records it in miniature

on paper. He then paints the picture right

off before the freshness of his idea has time

to waste itself in fidgety experiments and

alterations.

Other artists have other methods, but for

v him success lies that way, and his successes

have been neither few nor small—"The

Queen of Swords,'' " The Mariage de Con-

venance," " The Mariage de Convenance—

After," " Hard Hit," and a score of others.

It has been stated recently

that the tendency to run after

the newest and latest in art,

as well as in science and industry, has caused

less competition among buyers for examples

of the " old masters." We are inclined to

think that the apparent apathy is due, not to

the fickleness of public taste, but to the fact

Masters Old and

New.

Mr. W. Q. Orchard-

son, R.A.

MR. W. Q. ORCHARDSON, R.A.

From a Pholvgraph by Elliott and Fry,

Copyright, Ufa, by Photosrr»phi»U.e Cm1l-

ECHO.

From lhc Painting by Eduuard Bisson. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Lvnsion, If'.
12

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Mr. B. W. Leader,

A.R.A.

that picture lovers have become too suspicious

of the authenticity of the work .that is

frequently offered to them with the cachet

of famous names. The fraudulent dealer is

not alone responsible for this, for over-

boastful collectors have done almost as

much mischief by their exaggerations as the

dealer has done with his frauds.

Mr. Benjamin Williams

Leader (the old family

name of Leader was added

to his original appellations to distinguish him

from the numerous other artists rejoicing in

the name of Williams) is not an artists' artist,

but them are few painters more popular

•with the Royal Academy public.

He was born in Worcester /^

sixty-fouryearsago, and showed

such an obstinate propensity

to stray, on sketching

tours, from the ranks of

the engineering pro-

fession, for which he

was intended, that he

was suffered to study

art at the School of

Design in his native

city.

Of systematic study

under a particular

master he has never

had the benefit, and

there are some pain-

ters who will hint

that Mr. Leader has

never overcome this dis-

advantage of his early train-

ing. But they are the painters who sneer at

the public enthusiasm for the sentiment of

a setting sun shining through trees, and

casting reflections on the little country church.

While that enthusiasm lasts, however, a great

deal of the best artistic talent will go to the

painting of landscapes, and it must be said

that few pictures are, on the whole, more

refreshing and satisfying, for they rest the

eye and soothe the spirit.

Mr. Leader's pictures are good to live with,

He gives us the romance of summer meadows

dappled with wild flowers ; denuded Nature

shivering in the breath of chill autumn, or

awakening at the reviving caress of spring;

A Story of

Stolen Pictures.

MR. B. W. LEADER, A.R.A.

From a Photograph ly Elliutt and Fry.

the vaporous glimmer of dawn, the splendour

of sunset, and the mystery of moonlight—

these are his inspiration.

Mr. Leader exhibited his first picture

in the Academy in 1854, but he was not

elected an Associate until 1883. He re-

ceived the gold medal at the Paris Ex-

hibition, 1889, and was made Chevalier of

the Legion of Honour. He has a charm-

ing house in the most beautiful part of

i"c

THE BRAVEST DEED I EVER SAW.

HOW LORD WILLIAM BERESFORD WON THE V.C.

BY ARCHIBALD FORBES.

IT was mid-December of 1878 when Sir

Sam Browne's column, having occupied Ali

Musjid and tramped on up the grim and

sullen Khyber Pass, was settling itself down

for the winter on the plain of Jellalabad.

Lord William Beresford and myself only

waited for the Christmas dinner of the head-

quarter staff, and then we rode down the

passes together, blazed at by the Afghan

hillmen all the way from Ali Boghan to

Khata Khoostia. At Umballa we parted,

Beresford to return to duty with the Viceroy

at Simla, while I made across the Bay of

Bengal for Mandalay. the capital of native

Burma, there to study the eharacter and sur-

roundings of King Thcebau. While engaged

in that somewhat barren operation, there

suddenly reached me a telegram informing

me of the catastrophe of Isandhvana, and

ordering me to betake myself to South Africa

with all speed.

Beresford and I, when parting at Umballa,

had trysted to meet next spring for the ex-

pected fighting on the way to Cabul; but the

startling tidings of misfortune in South

Africa disarranged that programme. At

Calcutta I found a letter from Beresford,

telling me that he had obtained six months'

leave, that he was bound for Zululand, and

that I should find him at Aden, waiting for

the fortnightly steamer down the east coast

of Africa. We duly foregathered in that

extinct volcano crater, dodged wearisomely

into every little obscure Portuguese-Negro

THE BRAVEST DEED I EVER SAW.

port along that coast—stagnant.fever-stricken,

half-barbarous holes where, as it seemed,

nobody was quite black or quite white.

Finally we reached Port Durban about the

middle of April, 1879, to find its roadstead

thronged with the transports which had

brought the reinforcements out from England,

and the hotels of the place crammed with

officers of all ranks and all branches of the

service. Beresford belonged to the Cavalry

arm—he was a Captain in the gallant 9th

Lancers—and during the voyage to South

Africa he was wishing with all his heart for a

position on the staff of his old friend General

Frederick Marshall, who was in command of

the regular Cavalry brigade which had been

sent out.

But yet better fortune was in store for my

comrade. That resolute fighting man, Colonel

(now General Sir) Redvers Buller, was in

command at Kambula, far up in the remote

Transvaal, of the irregular Volunteer Cavalry

of Evelyn Wood's grand little fighting force,

which had just gained a shining victory over

a host of 20,000 Zulus. In one of the recent

fights, Buller's staff-officer, Captain the Hon.

Ronald Campbell, had been killed.

It was a peculiar and difficult post, which

was vacant in consequence of his death, for

Campbell was a man whom it was not easy

effectively to succeed. The assignment rested

mainly with Marshall; and on the night of

our arrival he, knowing Beresford better than

did most men then, obtained Lord Chelms-

ford's sanction for that fortunate officer's

appointment to the post.

Beresford made no delay. Before break-

fast on the following morning he had got a

kit together, bought his horses, requisitioned

an Irish (very Irish) ex-trooper of the Royal

Dragoons as groom, cook, and body-servant,

and was ready for the long journey. A

couple of hours later he was on the road,

eager for duty.

Presently I, too, joined Wood's force up at

Kambuia, where I found Beresford too busy

to do more than give me a hurried hand-

shake. He was Redvers Buller's sole staff

officer, and the force Buller commanded,

some 800 strong, was the strangest and most

mixed congeries imaginable.

It consisted of broken gentlemen, of runa-

gate sailors, of fugitives from justice, of the

scum of the South African towns, of stolid

Africanders, of Boers whom the Zulus had

driven from their farms. Almost every

European nationality was represented ; and

there were men from the United States, a

Greaser, a Chilian, several Australians, and a

couple of Canadian Voyageurs. One and all

were volunteers, recruited for the campaign

at the pay of five shillings a day.

What added to the complication was that

the force comprised some eight or ten sub-

commands, each originally, and still to some

extent, a separate and distinct unit. Beresford

had to arrange all details, keep the duty

rosters, inspect the daily parades and the

reconnaissance detachments, accompany the

16

PEARSON'S MA GA ZINE.

some acquaintance with the ground in our

front, over which a final advance might have

to be made. So orders were issued that at

noon of the 3rd Buller should make a recon-

naissance across the river, without bringing

on an engagement, since Cetewayo's " close

time " was not yet up.

At the specified hour Buller and Beresford

sat on horseback in front of Evelyn Wood's

tent, waiting for their fellows to come on the

ground. Presently Baker came along at the

head of his assortment of miscreants ; brave

old Raaf brought up his miscellaneous

Rangers; Ferreira, leading his particular

bandits, was visible in the offing ; and then

Buller headed the procession of horsemen

down towards the ford, Beresford remaining

to see the turn-out complete and close up the

command. Then he galloped forward to

join the scouts; for it was, as ever, his place

to lead the advance, Buller bringing on the

main body.

There was no delay down by the Umvaloosi

bank, where the scattered fire from the Zulus

in the Kopjie on the further side whistled

over the heads of the horsemen—over whom,

too, screamed the shells from the laager,

which fell and burst among the crags where

the Zulus lurked. The spray of the Umva-

loosi dashed from the horse-hoofs as the

irregulars forded the stream on the left of the

Kopjie, and then, bending to the left, took it

in reverse.

The Zulu occupants of the rocks were

quick to perceive their risk of being cut off,

and hurriedly ran out into the plain through

the long grass in front of the riders. Some

fell as they headed for the nearest kraal,

Delyango, out of which a detachment rattled

the fugitives.

Nodwengo was found evacuated ; and then

the force—Beresford and his scouts still lead-

ing, the main body deployed on rather a

broad front—galloped on across the open

through the long grass in pursuit of the

groups of Zulu fugitives. It really seemed

a straight run in for Buller and Beresford as

they set their horses' heads for Ulundi and

galloped on.

Beresford, on his smart chestnut with the

white ticks on withers and flanks, was the

foremost rider of the force. The Zulu chief

bringing up the rear of the fugitives, suddenly

turned on the lone horseman who had so

outridden his followers. A big man, even

for a Zulu, the ring round his head proved

him a veteran. The muscles rippled on his

shoulders as he compacted himself behind

his cowhide shield, marking his distance for

the thrust of the gleaming assegai.

It flashed out like the head of a cobra as

it strikes : Beresford's cavalry sabre clashed

with it; the spear-head was dashed aside;

the horseman gave point with all the vigour

of his arm and the impetus of his galloping

horse, and lo ! in the twinkling of an eye,

the sword point was through the shield, and

half its length buried in the Zulu's broad

Beresford partly lifted, partly hustled thr rr.an into the saddle.'

voi. 1.-a.
PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

This droll argument prevailed. Still

facing his foes with his revolver, Beresford

partly lifted, partly hustled the man into the

saddle, then scrambled up himself and set

the chestnut a-going after the other horse-

men. Another moment's delay and both

must have been assegaied.

A comrade, the brave Sergeant O'Toole,

fortunately came back, shot down Zulu after

Zulu with cool courage, and then aided

Beresford in keeping the wounded man in

the saddle till the laager was reached, where

no one could tell whether it was the rescuer

or rescued who was the wounded man, so

smeared was Beresford with borrowed blood.

It had been one of Ireland's good days; if at

home she is the "distressful country," where-

ever gallant deeds are to be done and military

honour won, no nation excels it in brilliant

valour. Originally Norman, the Waterfords

have been Irish for centuries, and Bill

Beresford is an Irishman in heart and blood.

Sergeant Fitzmaurice, the wounded man

whose self-abnegation was so fine, was an

Irishman also ; and Sergeant O Toole—well,

there is no risk in the assumption that a man

bearing that name, in spite of all temptation,

remains an Irishman.

Going into Beresford's tent the same

afternoon, I found him sound asleep, and

roused him with the information which

Colonel Wood had given me, that he

was to be recommended for the Victoria

Cross.

'• Get along with your nonsense, you im-

postor!'' was his yawning retort as he threw

a boot at me, and then turned over and went

to sleep again.

But it was true all the same. As we

approached Plymouth on the home-coming,

the Prince of Wales, then in the Sound with

Bill's elder brother Charles, was the first to

forward the news that the Queen had been

pleased to give effect to the recommendation.

Lord William was commanded to Windsor

to receive the reward " for valour '' from the

hands of his Sovereign.

But something more may be told. Beres-

ford plainly told Her Majesty that he could

not hi honour receive recognition of the

service it had been his good fortune to per-

'form unless that recognition were shared in

by Sergeant O'Toole, who, he .persisted in

maintaining, deserved infinitely greater credit

than any which might attach to him.

Not less than soldierly valour can

Queen Victoria appreciate soldierly honesty,

generosity, and modesty; and so the next

Gazette announced that the proudest reward

a British soldier can aspire to had been con-

ierred on Sergeant Edmund O'Toole, of

Baker's Horse.
THE VIGIL OF COUNT. AMADEO.

BY ANTHONY HOPE.

I.

IN the days when Vittorio was Prince of

Mantivoglia there resided at the court a

young gentleman of high birth and great

fortune, by name Count Amadeo of C'asii-

vano. So well favoured was he, so accom-

plished, courteous, and brave, that there was

no lady in all Mantivoglia who would not

willingly have had him for her husband, and

all his companions in arms envied Amadeo

greatly for the indications of ready favour which

were bestowed on him.

But to Amadeo these things were as the

beauty of sky and sea to a man that is blind. Love

was a stranger to his heart; he spent the hours

wherein the rest danced and courted in high and

abstruse meditation, and the ladies of the Princess's train,

although verv handsome, amiable, and kind, yet could not

lure him from his retreat, nor persuade him to exchange his

gloomy musings for the brightness of their smiles. And at last he betook him to his

spiritual director, and prayed the reverend father that he might be suffered to bid farewell to

a world wherein was no delight, and sanctify himself to the service of Heaven by taking

the vows in the monastery of St. Joseph of Mantivoglia. But Father Eusebius, knowing

the instability of human determination, and how the heart of a young man may be turned

by this and that, bade him wait. And, having waited three months, Amadeo returned to

Cupyright, 1895, in the United States of America by A. H. Hawkiru.

20

PEARSON'S MA GAZL\E.

Eusebius, and Eusebius bade him wait again

for three months. And when he came

again Eusebius would.not receive him for

yet six months.

But when a year had thus gone by and

Amadeo was still steadfast. Eusebius. fearing

lest he might be fighting against God, with-

stood him no more, but bade him keep vigil

for three nights in the chapel of the palace

and after that take the vows as he purposed.

And it was spread through all the court that

Count Amadeo of Castivano would keep

vigil for three nights in the chapel, and,

having performed this obligation, would

forthwith assume the habit in the Monastery

of St. Joseph.

Now no sooner were these tidings pro-

claimed than the Lady Lucrezia, chief of the

ladies in attendance on the Princess, sum-

moned all her fellows to her; and there came

Jessica, Constantia, and Cecilia, Margherita.

Zarata, and Theodora, Eugenia, Euphemia.

and Beatrice, all very fair ladies, among

whom there was great indignation that none

of them should have power to wean Amadeo

from a religious life, and that a slight should

be put on one and all of them by the deter-

mination to which he had come.

"Although, in truth.'' said Eugenia bitterly,

"the blame is not ours, for he has not so

much as looked on our faces, and knows not

whether they be proper or uncomely."

Therefore they agreed that, before Count

Amadeo took any vow, it was right and just

that he should look on their faces. And they

took counsel together how this thing might

be contrived, saying nothing of what they did

to the Princess nor to any other.

Behind the altar in the chapel was a

window, and behind the window there was a

narrow gallery giving access from the

Princess's apartments on one side to those

of her ladies on the other; and on the

window was painted a representation of Our

Blessed Lord in Glory.

Amadeo, having fasted since noon, came

into the chapel a little before midnight, and

steadfastly fixing his eyes on this window

fell into a mystical reverie. Thus he abode

for two hours, and then hid his face in his

hands and prayed. But as he prayed he

heard a sound from the direction of the

window ; yet for a while he did not look up.

But the sound came again, and he looked

up; and the window was no more in its

place, but its frame was empty.

And while Amadeo watched what should

follow, there came the form of a damsel, clad

in celestial blue, and with a very fair face;

and she looked down on Amadeo, smiling.

Strange she looked, unsubstantial and

unearthly in the moonlight that shot across

the ancient chapel; yet her features bore a

resemblance to the features of Lucrezia, and

Amadeo, dimly remembering the fashion of

Lucrezia's face, perceived the likeness, and

fell into great trembling and agitation, making

no question but that Satan tempted him ia

THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

21

and greatly affronted at the conviction in

regard to them that possessed the mind of

Count Amadeo. Nevertheless, in order that

no chance should be lost, and they have

nothing wherewith to blame themselves, they

resolved that once more the temptation should

come to Count Amadeo in the chapel. For

they were not yet persuaded that he could with-

stand the beauty of their faces, provided that

he could be induced fairly to look upon them.

But when the evening came, it chanced that

the lady Beatrice was seized with a sudden

sickness, and lay on her bed, moaning and

almost beside herself, and her maid Jacinta

bathed her brow and chafed her hands and

sang to her soothingly, until at length the

afflicted lady fell asleep. And the hour when

they should all be in the gallery behind the

window was at hand.

Now Jacinta had been in the service of

Beatrice but one day, and few in the Palace

knew her face, for she came from a country

village, being the daughter of an impoverished

gentleman who had dwelt on a small estate,

bu\ was now dead, leaving his daughter with-

out means of subsistence, since his land had

been sold for the payment of his debts. And

Jacinta, who was very beautiful and sur-

passed all the ladies of the Court in love-

liness, having robed her mistress the evening

before, and thus became privy to the irreverent

and light jest which was afoot, stood looking

on the rich gown of white, cunningly broidered

with gold, that Beatrice should have worn.

And Beatrice slept peacefully. Then Jacinta

stood before the mirror and looked on her

own face; and she remembered also the face

of Count Amadeo, having seen him as he

valked that afternoon in the gardens.

" I will see how the robe would become

me," whispered Jacinta, and, having taken

off her own gown, with many a fearful glance

at her sleeping mistress (for sore would have

been her lot had Beatrice awaked), she

slipped into the white robe broidered with

gold, and, thus arrayed, again took counsel

of the mirror.

" It would be sinful," said she, sighing

heavily. " Yet, alas, that so fine a gentle-

man should turn monk ! " And, going to

Beatrice's couch, she laid her hand lightly

on her brow ; but Beatrice slept.

•' Now, Our Lady deliver me from this

temptation ! " cried Jacinta softly.

Count Amadeo kept vigil in the chapel;

and to-night there was exultation in his eyes

and a smile of rapt ecstasy on his lips, for

he was assured that no temptation could

conquer him, and that Satan, having done

his worst, was foiled. Thus, in peace and

elevation of spirit, he abode, till the time

came whereat the vision was wont to appear.

Again it came, the line of fair faces rich t

in varied beauty, and of forms each diversely

and most sumptuously arrayed ; the first

passed, and the second, and so to the ninth;

and the ninth, perceiving a tenth behind her,

and knowing nothing of Beatrice's sickness,

22

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

borne off from them the victory, and thus

marvellously overcome the constancy of

Count Amadeo.

" Surely," they cried, " all men are fools,

and this Count a fool above all men. We see

this girl for ourselves, and where is her

beauty ? " But though they could not find

beauty, they found presumption and insolence,

and, laying hold of poor Jacinta, they hurried

her to where Beatrice lay, and, having roused

Beatrice, shewed her Jacinta, clad in her

mistress's robe and now for fear weeping

bitterly.

On the sight, all sickness seemed to leave

Beatrice. She sprang up, full of anger, and

with her own hands tore off her robe from

Jacinta's shoulders, and took the silken cord

that had girdled Jacinta's waist and beat her

with it, the rest standing by and saying that

Jacinta came cheaply off. And when Beatrice

j1ad beaten her, she compelled her to put on

again her own worn and scanty raiment.

and, having given her a few pence, bade her

begone from the palace and show her face

there no more. And the rest also bade her

begone quickly, for, said they, it was not

fitting that such a bold and insolent wench

should remain among them.

Thus they drove her forth, and she went

out from the palace before day dawned,

weeping very sadly, and bemoaning herself

greatly because she had not withstood the

temptation that came upon her. Sore was

her heart, and her shoulders also, and her

tears fell fast. Yet still she remembered that

Count Amadeo had hailed her as an angel

from Heaven. Thus she went her ways, and

the Princess's ladies returned to their apart-

ments.

But Count Amadeo lay till dawn on the

floor of the chapel; then he rose in sore dis-

array, and in great trouble of mind, for he

could not tell the meaning of the vision and

fell into much perplexity. Now it seemed to

him that the vision was of a saint, and pur-

ported that he should the more steadfastly

devote his life to the service of Heaven. Xow

he feared that, notwithstanding his cry, the

face that he had seen was a last and most

potent temptation of Satan. But whether the

face were angel's or devil's, it abode with him,

and would not be thrust awav. It filled his

thoughts, and he seemed still to see it. as it

had looked down on him from the window

of the chapel, in rare and matchless beauty.

And as he pondered, it seemed to him an

impossible thing that he should take the vows

before he were resolved of these doubts, for

now there was nothing in this world—no, nor

in the next—so near to his heart as to leam

certainly and without error what the meaning

of this vision should be. Yet he did not tell

Father Eusebius of the vision, but sent him

word that certain affairs of moment called

him from Mantivoglia, and, having eaten and

drunk, and thus gained strength, he bade

them saddle his horse, and at noon of the

next day rode forth alone from the city.

THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

The moon was hrgh in heaven when she

awoke with a loud scream of wonder and

dismay ; for she lay no longer on the bank,

but was being carried swiftly along, flung like

a sack across the saddle of a cantering horse;

and the man in the saddle, a big fellow and

of a rustic comeliness, looked down on her

with a triumphant leer. She would have

cried out again but he pressed a great hand

across her mouth and with an oath bade her

be still, lest she should bring a worse thing

on her; and with this he dug in his spurs,

and the horse bounded forward at a gallop.

Thus they went for hard on an hour, keep-

ing the river close on the right hand: then

the horse was suddenly reined in, and Jacinta

perceived that they were in

front of a low hovel, roughly

built from the stones that

lined the river's edge.

Standing in the

doorway was

an old

woman,

gaunt,

and of

great

stature, . **'

and by

the side of the

old woman a

black he-goat.

Then Jacinta, be-

ing timid and full of

such superstitions as are

rife among country folk,

was even more terrified than before : for if

the man were a brigand or worse, surely the

old woman was a witch or worse, and the

black he-goat was that than which nothing

could be worse, aye, the very Evil One him-

self ; and she wept piteously. But the old

woman plucked her down from the saddle,

and cuffed her on the ears, telling her to

cease her tumult, while the man said,

" Here's a girl for you, grandam, though in

truth she is too handsome to be your drudge."

And with a laugh he went off to water and

feed his horse, while the old woman, having

looked very curiously at Jacinta, led her into

the hovel, gave her bread to eat and milk to

drink, and bade her stretch herself on a heap

of straw in a closet that opened off .the

kitchen.

This Jacinta did, but slept little by reason

of the old woman and her grandson who

talked through the greater part of the night;

and even when the man lay down to rest the

woman, to Jacinta's terror, continued to talk

to the he-goat, asking it questions and seem-

ing to unravel strange answers from its bleat-

ings. And Jacinta crossed herself in the

extremity of dismay, saying, " Because of the

sin I committed in the chapel, I am delivered

to perdition." And then she sighed most

sorrowfully, " Oh, that my lord the Count

were here! "

Early in the morning the old crone dragged

her from her heap of

PEARSOX'S MAGAZINE.

the door of it for fear, and lay quaking, while

the three talked lov: in the room without, and

the black he-goat bleated incessantly.

Then a storm broke with thunder, light-

ning, and a flood of rain, and in the midst of

the turmoil there came the sound of horse's

hoofs that stopped before the door of tte

hovel.

Jacinta raised her head to listen, and

presently she heard the voice of a gentleman

asking for shelter, and the old crone's voice

answering with such smoothness as its

cracked tones could achieve; and there

was a stir in the room without as though

preparations were made for the stranger's

entertainment. An hour went by, Jacinta

heard heavy steps pass over the threshold ;

then voices said : " We bid you good-night,

my lord. We lie by the horses, if you have

need of us.'' And then all was still.

Now the crone had charged Jacinta on no

account to betray her presence by any noise

or to come forth from the closet, promising

her a sound beating in case she should

disobey ; yet a very great desire came on her

to see who the stranger might be, and to

warn him that he would sleep in more safety

did he not sleep too soundly, for, having

heard what the young men said of his horse

and his purse, she conceived that they meant

no good by their hospitality. But for fear of

being beaten she lay still, and presently, from

weariness, fell into a restless slumber.

And a dream came to her, wherein she

seemed to be in the outer room and no

longer in the closet, but bound hand and

foot and with a handkerchief tied across her

mouth, so that she could utter no sound;

while before her stood the crone with a

hatchet in her hand and the young men each

with a knife, and on the pallet in the corner

lay the stranger; and in her dream the

stranger had the face of Count Amadeo.

Then the black he-goat began to bleat loud

and strangely, and when he bleated the two

young men with the knives stole nearer and

nearer to the pallet where Amadeo lay, with

looks of greed and c;;althy hate and with

their cruel knives uplifted in their hands.

The crone chuckled low and the he-goat

bleated loud; still Amadeo slept, and the

two were on him with a spring; the one held

him, while the arm of the other was raised

and the knife poised over his heart.

But when Jacinta saw this she awoke with

a low cry and sat up, raising herself from her

heap of straw; and she moaned in terror.

"Am I awake, or do I dream still? " For

from the room without she heard the bleating

of the black he-goat. Then, hardly knowing

whether she slept or were awake, but full of

fear, she sprang up, and, drawing back the

bolt of the door, flung it open wide, and cried

in a loud voice, " Awake, Count Amadeo,

awake! ''

And the thing was as she had seen in her

dream ; for as she cried the two young men

were springing on the stranger, while the old

woman stood by, holding the hatchet which

THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

no mercy if she were caught; yet she knew

not whither she ran ; her feet were sorely cut

with the stones, and now her breath came in

gasps and pants; she heard the old crone

behind, and it seemed as though she drew

nearer and nearer; so that Jacinta gave her-

self up for lost and had no longer any hope

of escape.

Yet even at that moment she rejoiced that

she had saved Count Amadeo, and would

have been content to die had she but known

that he had overcome the robbers. And with

her last breath she prayed for him, and was

about to sink down on the river's brink and

there await her doom with hidden face.

But on a sudden a new hope rose in her,

for a few yards ahead she perceived a plank

laid across the river from side to side.

Rousing herself with a great and last effort,

she came to the plank and darted over it;

then, throwing herself on her knees, she

sought to pull it over so that the crone should

be unable to cross. Alas, her strength did

not serve, and with a moan of despair she

beheld the crone running up, brandishing

the hatchet and laughing hoarsely in a cruel

exultation. And the crone was at one end

of the plank and Jacinta now lay in helpless

terror at the other end.

But at the same instant the black he-goat

also came to the other end of the plank, and,

seeking to cross before his mistress, he

butted at her; whereupon she, being already

in a mad fury, struck at him with the hatchet.

Then the goat gave a great bleat of rage and

fury; his eyes gleamed like fire (or so it

seemed to Jacinta), and he made straight at

the old woman.

She uttered a cry of mingled anger and

fear. "Thou devil!" she cried. "Thou

devil! '" And she struck at him again with

her axe ; but in the wildness of her rage she

missed the goat's head, and the axe imbedded

itself deep in the wood of the plank on which

she now stood ; and before she could draw

out the axe the goat made at her again,

bleating loudly and butting furiously, and

then and there he knocked her off the plank

and she fell backwards in the stream.

And by now the rain brought by the

thunderstorm had run down from the hills,

and the river was full and swollen, so that

she was rapidly carried away, and Jacinta

heard her curses and cries grow fainter, till

at last they were smothered by the rushing

waters. But the goat, having stood awhile on

the plank, seeming to watch the drowning

crone, bleated once more long, loud, and (as

to Jacinta's frightened fancy it appeared) in

an unholy and malicious triumph, and then

turned and bounded away into the night—

nor was he ever seen again. But Jacinta lay

on the bank with her face hidden in her

hands, and prayed for the kindly light of

day.

Thus marvellously was Jacinta delivered,

and Count Amadeo ran no less narrow a

peril of his life; for the first ruffian contrived

to deal him a sore blow with his club on the

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

Amadeo's eyes grew dim, his head swam,

and his feet gave way under him; for the

blood was flowing from his side. But the

blow had done its work, and he sank

fainting between the two that he had slain.

And thus, lying unconscious between his

dead enemies, he was found by a shepherd

in the early morning, and was by him carried

to the nearest village, and lay there many

days on the edge between life and death.

And when he came to himself, he told all

that had passed, save that he said naught of

the vision that had been vouchsafed to him,

nor told how its coming had saved his life.

But when at length he was healed, he mounted

his horse and set out for his own house at

Castivano, saying to himself :

" Now of a surety this vision that has twice

come to me is the vision of Saint Emilia,

who has ever been the protector of our house.

Therefore I will raise to her at Castivano a

fair and magnificent shrine, so that all men

may speak in her praise and exalt her glory.

And her I will serve all my life long, with

fasting, charity, and prayer."

And the news that Count Amadeo was gone

to Castivano to build a great shrine to Saint

Emilia was spread throughout all the princi-

pality of Mantivoglia.

III.

So soon as day dawned, Jacinta was on

her feet flying from a spot full of terrors;

and although she longed greatly to know

how Count Amadeo had sped, yet for fear of

the dead crone's grandsons, and of the dead

crone herself, and more than all of the black

he-goat (for what that gcat was God alone

knew) she dared not return to the hovel, but

set forward at her best speed straight away

from the river; and having walked the greater

part of the day, she came to a little grey

town that nestled in the lap of great blue-

grey hills. There was a wood on the out-

skirts and a little brook running through.

She sat by the brook and drank, and bathed

her sore feet, looking at her face in the

running water; and as she sat a voice came

suddenly from behind her, saying :

" Sweet mistress, for the love of heaven,

do not move."

Jacinta looked round in great confusion,

gathering her feet up out of the brook and

under the grudging shelter of her scanty

skirts, but to her comfort she saw only an

old man of a pleasant mild countenance,

who leant against the trunk of a tree a few

yards away and was drawing on a pad that

he rested in the curve of his arm. Jacinta

blushed red, but the stranger drew near

and told her softly that he was a painter

and prayed leave to draw her as she had

been sitting, and since he was an old man

and gentle, Jacinta dipped her feet again in

the cool water and suffered him to draw her

thus. When he had finished his work, he

sighed, saying : " Yet your face should make

an altar-piece." and he prayed her to tell him

whence she came.

On this, unused to kindness, she burst into

THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

27

did not know; for there were few people in

the little town, and those ignorant of such

matters, and she herself seldom went abroad,

save to the pleasant wood and the cool water

of the running brook.

Thus many weeks passed by, most happily

for her, save that still she wondered what had

befallen Amadeo; yet she did not fear greatly

for him, believing that none could overcome

him. Therefore she abode patiently where

she was, trusting that Amadeo would come

again, and not knowing that he was no more

than two days' journey distant, across the

passes of the great hills that circled the little

town.

For Amadeo was come to Castivano, and

there busied himself in preparing and setting

in hand the great and fair shrine, which he

was minded to build to the glory of Saint

Emilia. But he lived in his castle of Castivano

as a hermit lives, and did not mingle with men,

seeing none save those that came to him con-

cerning the building of the shrine, architects,

stonemasons, workers in marble, in iron, in

bronze, in silver and in gold, painters also,

and those who laid mosaic, all of whom he

gathered round him and encouraged to put

forth their best and highest skill.

Thus the reputation and fame of the shrine

grew great, even before it was built, and all

artists and artificers desired an opportunity to

display their skill in its erection or ornamen-

tation. Moreover, when the Prince of

Mantivoglia heard what Amadeo was pur-

posing, he sent him word by one of his

gentlemen that so soon as the shrine should

be built, he would come with the Princess

and all his Court and behold its beauty.

Amadeo, although he desired no such visit,

could not avoid accepting the honour with all

appearance of gratitude, and appointed the

Prince a day on which he should come,

and pressed on the work that all might be

ready.

But concerning one thing he was sore dis-

tressed ; for none of his painters could paint

for him such a picture of Saint Emilia as he

desired to place over the altar in his shrine;

nay, although he described most minutely

what the face and form should be, depicting

in words with all accuracy and animation the

vision that he had twice beheld, yet none of the

pictures were like to what he described. In

truth, small wonder need there be that it was

so, since none of the painters had seen Jacinta,

and the spoken word, howsoever eloquent, is

powerless to render the glowing colour and

the grace of form that make beautiful the

living countenance and shape.

But at last Amadeo made proclamation

that a great sum should be paid to the

painter who would paint him the fairest pic-

ture of Saint Emilia for his altar-piece, and,

the news of this proclamation having come to

Giacoino through the mouth of a wandering

friar, he went into his house and, having

prayed long on his knees, took his brushes

and painted.
28

PEARSON'S MA GA ZINE.

of black velvet. But

sently his steward

proached him, saying :

" My lord, there is yet

another painter come,

bringing a picture which

he desires to offer to

you."

" I'll have no more of

them," cried Amadeo,

impatiently. " Th'j

place of the picture

shall be empty, for

my eyes can fill it

better far than any

painting that has

been brought to me.

Give this painter

also what suffices

for his charges ant

his labour, and let him

go-"

But the steward

pleaded with Amadeo.

saying that the man was

old, and that his eyes had

filled with tears when he

was told that Amadeo

had declared that he would

look at no more pictures.

'• Let him come, then," said

Amadeo wearily.

"My lord," said the steward,

humbly and with some fear, "he

prevailed on me to allow him to set

the picture in its place that you might

judge of it the better.

'• Neither he nor you had right to

do the thing," said Amadeo, "but

since it is done, pull aside the curtain.'

Then old Giacomo, who had been

standing concealed behind an arch,

slipped forward and bowed low to

Amadeo, who flung him a careless

nod : and he laid his hand on the

string, and, drawing back the black

velvet curtain, displayed the picture

of Saint Emilia that he had

made.

At once Amadeo

sprang to his feet with

a loud cry, and

stood with

clasped hands

and his eyes

" And he put out his

hand and gently grasped

her hands."

J
THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

set greedily on the picture. Presently,

although his gaze could not leave the

picture, he beckoned with his hand to

Giacomo, who came near to him timidly.

And Amadeo said in a hushed voice, his

tones being full of awe :

" How came the vision to you ? How for

you also was the veil of Heaven drawn back

and the face revealed?"

Giacomo, bewildered by the strange

manner of Amadeo, and remembering how

men said that the Count was subject to

delusions and sometimes was carried out of

his right mind by religious fervour, and

especially by his unmeasured devotion to

Saint Emilia, stammered in his answer, saying

lamely that he had painted with his best skill

and trusted that the result was pleasing to

his Excellency.

"But from whom did you get the features?"

cried Amadeo fiercely.

"The model is something, my lord,"

answered Giacomo; ''but the hand and the

pallet are more." For fair as he held the

girl to be, it seemed to Giacomo that his

picture was much fairer. But Amadeo's

mind was different.

"It is very like her," he whispered with a

sigh, " although less beautiful." And he

added to Giacomo, " Come, sir, the picture

shall stay in its place, at what price you will,

and, I pray you, come with me to the

Prince."

And he carried Giacomo to the Prince of

Mantivoglia, who sat in the gardens with his

Princess and all the Court, and there he

presented Giacomo to His Highness, com-

mending his skill and genius and praying

the Prince to show him some mark of favour.

" Right willingly," cried Prince Vittorio.

"But come, let me see for myself." And he

rose, and, followed by the Princess and all

the Court, took his way to the shrine where

the picture hung. And the Princess's ladies

were curious above all the rest to see the

picture that Giacomo had painted, for they

perceived a new and strange excitement in

the eyes of Count Amadeo.

Then, they all being come to the shrine,

Amadeo asked his Highness if he would

command that the curtain should be drawn

back, and his Highness gave command

accordingly. And at once a murmur of

admiration rose from all, and the Prince,

turning to Giacomo, who stood by, embraced

him and hailed him for a great painter and

a glory to Mantivoglia; while the Princess

gave him a gold chain from about her neck,

and, turning to her ladies, bade them see the

marvellous beauty of the picture. The ladies

answered nothing to the Princess, although

they curtseyed in respectful obedience;

but Beatrice nudged Lucrezia. Euphemia

whispered to Eugenia, "It is she!"' Constantia

murmured softly, "God save us!'" Jessica,

Margherita, Cecilia, Zarata, and Theodora laid

fingers on lips, saying, "For your life, not a

word of it! "

And they all turned red and appeared very

PEA RSON- S MA GA ZINE.

Thus evening came, and found them still

at their revels; but presently Amadeo, having

prayed leave of the Princess, rose and went

out from the hall, for he was minded to seek

the shrine, and there remain on his knees

before the altar and look again on the face of

Saint Emilia, for there was a moon that night

even as when he had kept Ms vigil in the

chapel of the Palace at Mantivoglia.

IV.

When evening began to fall, the door of

the lodging that Giacomo had taken was

opened softly and a slim figure stole forth

with cautious tread. Was it just that, while her

picture was seen and praised, she should sit

and mope alone ? Nay, at least she must see

the picture in its place; aye, and, perchance,

from afar off she might see Amadeo himself.

Come what might, the picture she would

see; and if that came for which she prayed,

Amadeo also she might see. Her eyes were

bright and her cheeks red beneath the shawl;

in truth, she had not wholly that rapt

expression of heavenly contemplation which

the art of Giacomo had imparted to his picture.

Safe and unperceived she stole from the

village up the hill, even to the summit, where

stood Amadeo's house, and by it now the

shrine, whose marbles, streaked in white

and black, showed cold and stately in the

rays of the risen moon. The windows of

the banqueting-hall were full of light, and

loud merry voices, mingled with sounds of

music, echoed from within. Thither Jacinta

looked wistfully, but dared not go. She

turned to the shrine ; there all was gloom

save for the dim light of candles, out-shone

and quenched by the moonlight's radiance.

Softly she stole up and passed through

the open door. She seemed still alone, save

for the picture, and that she saw but faintly,

for the moonbeams did not shine full on it;

nay, she found them full on her face as she

stood just beyond the arch on the left side of

the altar. Half in fright at her solitude, half in

admiration of the shrine's beauty, she cast

her eyes round it, and suddenly became

aware of the figure of a man, who knelt

before the altar, his face buried in his hands.

A tremor ran through her, and she leant

against the pillar of the arch; for she knew

that the man was Count Amadeo, and that

she was alone with him. It came into her

head to fly, but she could not leave him, for

she longed to be near him, and his presence

was very sweet to her. But as she stood

there, she heard him sigh deeply and moan

pitifully, for he was in great distress of soul,

and struggled sore with himself, calling him-

self a wretched sinner and all unworthy to

have been chosen to build this shrine to the

honour of St. Emilia. And at last he cried

softly :

" Behold, I am in as great peril as in the

robbers' hovel! Sweet Saint, grant me

another vision, that I may be strengthened

and confirmed in grace ! " And he let his

hands fall from before his face, and raised

his eyes to the picture above the altar.

Sir, with your leave, I would make this lady my wife."
PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

it stood, but cautiously, lest it should fly

from him. And he paused, asking himself

what many others had asked concerning him,

whether he were i-.1ad, and took for real the

figments of his own distempered imagination.

He dashed his hands across his eyes and

looked again, but still the vision was there,

and again the merry ashamed laugh struck

faintly on his ear. And he had never yet

heard nor read, nor had any told him, of a

vision from heaven that laughed and hid its

face, like a maiden who was coy and yet

would not willingly escape.

Then he sprang suddenly across the space

between them, crying, •' Who art thou ? " and

came to a stand before her; and she answered

him from between the fingers that were in

front of her face.

"I am the girl from whom Giacomo

painted."

" But I saw you in the robbers' hovel," he

cried.

"I was servant to the old crone," murmured

Jacinta.

" And in the chapel at Mantivoglia ? "

" I was waiting-maid to the Lady Beatrice,''

Jacinta whispered.

Then silence fell again between them for

awhile, until Amadeo said, in a voice that

trembled,

" I pray you take your hands from your

face, that I may see whether it be in very

truth the face that came to me in Mantivoglia

and in the hovel. I do not understand how

these things can be; for how came you to

Mantivoglia, and to the hovel, and here ? "

And he put out his hand and gently

grasped her hands and drew them away from

her face; but she was greatly confused, and

did not know whether she would laugh or

weep, nor what she had best say to Count

Amadeo. And when at last she spoke, her

voice was so low that Amadeo was con-

strained to draw nearer to her, that he might

hear her words ; but she in timidity shrank

back, and, since he pursued, they passed thus

together into the shadow of the arch.

"Now, on my faith," cried Vittorio of

Mantivoglia, " piety is good, and devotion is

good, but it is not good that a man should

forsake his guests, fair ladies and honest

gentlemen, and spend alone on his knees the

time that he should give to their society and

entertainment. This is not well in my lord

Amadeo."

" His heart is in Heaven and not with us,

sir," said the Princess.

" His heart may be where it please God,"

swore Vittorio who was merry with feasting,

"but he shall pledge me in a cup of wine

before I rest to-night. Come, let us after

him.'' And he rose and ran towards the

shrine, all following, lords and ladies, gentle-

men, squires, grooms, pantlers, and maids;

for all had feasted and were apt for any sport;

and the Princess came also, because her

husband would not be denied her company;

and they came with a merry din to the door

of the shrine. But there they paused, so pure

THE VIGIL OF COUNT AMADEO.

33

suddenly Giacomo, who had been en the

outskirts of the throng, sprang forward, crying

in great apparent anger :

" Jacinta, what do you there ?''

His voice brought a little fearful cry from the

shrine ; then came Amadeo's voice, saying,

" Fear not; for now neither ladies nor

robbers, no, nor this painter, can touch you,

for my arm is about you."

And, as he said this, Amadeo came forth

from the chapel with his arm about Jacinta's

waist. And he beheld with astonishment the

throng that stood there; but the Prince ran for-

ward and caught him by the arm, asking merrily,

" Are these your devotions, Amadeo ? Of

a truth, I perceive why you would not share

them with us."

But Amadeo took Jacinta by the hand and

drew her forward in a very courtly manner,

and, bowing low, said to the Prince :

" Sir, with your leave, I would make this

lady my wife. And if you desire to know

who she is, ask the Lady Beatrice, who is of

her Highness' train."

Then the Prince turned to Beatrice and

bade her speak, and in sore fear and terror she

told all that she knew of Jacinta, save that she

did not tell how she and her fellows had

beaten her. And Amadeo told how Jacinta

had preserved him from peril in the robbers'

hovel, and how he had conceived that her

face was the face of a Saint from Heaven.

"Of a truth, I do not marvel at

your error," said the Prince,

and he bent and kissed

Jacinta's hand, and led

her to the Princess, who

received her very graci-

ously and said to her :

'• Ask what favour you

will of me, and it is

yours."

Vol. I.-3.

Jacinta looked round on Beatrice and the

others of the Princess's ladies, and said :

" Madame, I pray you to forgive your

ladies the trick they played on my Lord

Amadeo in the chapel of Mantivoglia,' for

from it has come to me joy greater than any

suffering I had at their hands."

And when Beatrice and the rest heard her

they ran to her and embraced her, for they

had been very sore afraid what would befall

them when the truth became known to the

Princess.

" And what of the shrine, Amadeo ?"

asked the Prince, laughing.

" It will be the richer, Sir," the Count

answered, " by a jewel more precious than

any I had before,"

And all applauded him, and they returned

to the banqueting hall there to spend the

night in revel; and the next day Amadeo

was wedded to Jacinta in the shrine that he

had built to Saint Emilia. " For,'' said he,

'• since I have had this trouble to find her,

I will take good heed not to lose her

again.''
Abdul Hamid II.

If advice were of any market value the

Sultan of Turkey would to-day be the

richest man alive. He has certainly

been one of the best abused men of the last twelve

months, and if we may judge from the utterances

of . press and platform, he is about the only

living person who does not know how to rule

Turkey.

He has been trying his best for nearly

twenty years now, for he came to the throne in

1876, on the deposition of his elder brother

Murad. He is a shrewd, intelligent man, and

would be one of the ablest living rulers if his

powers were not paralysed by a highly nervous

disposition. As it is, in spite of his astuteness,

he is constantly victimised by the army of spies

who are the scourge of Constantinople.

Abdul Hamid is in every respect as unlike the

popular conception of him as a man well could be—

THE. SULTAN OF TURKEY.

temperate in his habits to the point

of asceticism, well informed on most

phases of contemporary thought,

gravely courteous in manner, and

extremely generous in disposition,

he impresses all who come in contact

with him as a kingly man. He is

passionately fond of his children,

and his little daughter is sometimes

brought in to play the piano to

a guest whom the Sultan has

honoured with admission to the

family circle.

The Padishah is fifty-three, but

he looks many years older, for his life

has been one of difficulty and danger.

THE AUDIENCE HALL IN THE SULTAN'S PALACE.

He feels that while England has protested friendship

she has taken Egypt and tried to humiliate him in Armenia; Russia involved him in a
JN THE PUBLIC EFE.

disastrous war; France has taken Algiers and

covets Tripoli; Austria thrust him out of

Bosnia and Herzegovina; Italy has

taken what he regards as Turkish

territory on the Red Sea, and

is more than suspected of a

•desire to acquire other

tempting morsels ; even

Bulgaria has been al-

lowed to pilfer Eastern

Roumelia from her

Suzerain. No wonder

the Sultan views with

obstinate suspicionthe

efforts of ambitious

ambassadors to

"reform" his

government.

» * »

Sir Ph1lip Currie.

The telegraph has de-

stroyed the romance of

diplomacy, and when,

two years ago, Sir

Philip Currie was appointed ambassador

at Constantinople, it was said that we

had only put him at the other end of

the wire. For four years he had been

Permanent Under Secretary of State at the

Foreign Office, and as such he was its

guiding spirit, the maintainer of its traditions,

the link between incoming and outgoing

Foreign Ministers. He was a first-rate

permanent secretary : we have

had many better ambas-

sadors.

Sir Philip's

father was a

member of the

great firm of

bankers of the

same name. He

himself went

from Eton to the

Foreign Office,

and spent forty

years there. He

is said to have

been one of the

most brilliant clerks ever known in Downing-

street, and when he quitted for the Bosphorus

he left behind him a reputation for pleasant

SIR PHILIP CURRIE.

Front a Photograph by Elltctt -snd Pry.

THE BRITISH EMBASSY AT THERAPIA, CONSTANTINOPLE.

manners and great ability. Sir Philip had

made acquaintance with Turkey nearly a score

of years ago, when he acted as

private secretary to Lord Salisbury

during the European Conference

that preceded the Russo-

Turkish war.

Arrived at Constr.n-

tinople he seems to

have conceived tlit

idea of emulating the

Great Elchi; but Lord

Stratford.de Redcliffe

lived in very different

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

fortune to-day must be gifted with extra-

ordinary ability. At the age of fifteen the

young Scotsman whose name Is now so often

in the public eye, sailed in the steerage of an

American liner with the main object of im-

proving the lot of his parents: to-day he

controls the largest business of its kind in

existence.

After some years of hard work, during

Vyhich he regularly sent remittances to his

folk at home, young Lipton returned to

Glasgow with rather less than .£100, with

which he opened a

small provision shop.

The dimensions of

the business may be

judged from the fact

that the proprietor

slept in his back shop,

and used to dress his

window after the shut-

ters were put up at

night.

This was twenty

years ago. At pre-

sent Mr. Lipton has

in London alone over

sixty stores, and his

operations extend

from the United

Kingdom to America,

and, farther, to

Ceylon.

In America he

possesses his own

railway cars, which

are continually run-

ning over the States

with his goods, and his head establishment

in Chicago covers nearly five acres of

ground. Here from two to four thousand

pigs are killed daily—practically a million

every year.

Mr. Lipton owns the largest and finest tea

estates in Ceylon, in spite of which, so

colossal is this department of his business,

he is compelled to purchase enormous quan-

tities on the London, Calcutta, and Ceylon

markets. The public take from his stores

nearly two hundred tons of tea a week.

There is, however, little chance of the supply

running short, for some 12,000 chests are

MR. w. j. LIPTON.

always kept at his London head-quarters,

while three or four times that quantity are

held in bond.

Ceaseless, untiring, personal work, is the

explanation Mr. Lipton gives of his success,

but there is nothing about him to suggest

the over-wrought business man. Strongly

built, he carries his tall figure like a guards-

man. A look at his face convinces one that

something more than plodding pertinacity is

there to command success. Those who

serve under him like and respect him most—

better proof of ability

and kindliness you

cannot have.

» * e
IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

37

the estate his wife took offence at the

result of a lawsuit which upheld the claim

of the dowager Mrs. Astor to receive

all letters bearing the ambiguous

inscription " Mrs. Astor,'' and

induced her husband to leave

the country and settle in

England. He had been

here about two years when

he startled the literary

world by purchasing the

fall Mall Gazette, the

staff of which, during

his proprietorship, has

been as expensive to

maintain as that of the

Times.

His next important

move was the purchase of

the Duke of Westminster's

country house at Cliveden-

on-the-Thames ; but he

almost lost this prize by laying claim to the

visitor's book—a magnificent collection of

valuable autographs—a claim that the Duke

hotly disputed. However, Mr. Astor had

legal right on his side, and finally permitted the

Duke to keep possession of the book on

payment of .£300.

Mr. Astor is over six feet in height, thin,

and muscular. In personal tastes he is simple,

and his manner is courteous without ostenta-

tion. He has written some capital stories,

and studied paint-

ing and modelling

in Rome. He

knows the points

of a bulldog, and

is popular with

those who serve

him.

» » »

The Dally Telegraph.

MR. WILLIAM WAL1ORF ASTOR.

In this era of keen

journa'is:ic rivalry,

when a paper that

•does not spring

into existence with CLIVEDEN HOUSE.

a dash which

forces it upon the attention of the public has

a poor chance of a long and successful life, it

were impossible to discover a precedent for

the career of the Daily Telegraph. To

glance through the pages of the present

ponderous and autocratic journal,

and run one's eye over the forty

columns or so of advertisements,

makes it well nigh impossible

to believe fhat on the first

day of its appearance only

seven - and - sixpence was

' taken for advertisements.

Were a daily paper,

whatever its political creed,

or however brilliant its

conduct, to start under

such circumstances to-

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

spent a great deal of time in his father's

composing-room, and added to considerable

literary talent a know-

ledge of the mechani-

cal branches of

journalism.

On the death of his

father, Sir Edward took over the management.

Although he has now practically abandoned

editorial work, he finds it impossible to

remain away from the office for any length

of time, and no change of any importance

in the paper is made without his con-

sent.

Mr. John M. Le Sage is the

managing editor of the Tele-

graph. He left the Western

Morning News thirty years

ago to fill the position of

Parliamentary reporter on the

former paper, but Mr. Levy

very soon discovered his

brilliant descriptive abilities,

and put him on the editorial

staff. It was he who went post

haste to Marseilles in order to

meet Mr. H. M. Stanley

on his return from his

search for Livingstone, and it was owing

to a chance conversation which he, together

with his chief, had with Mr. Stanley that the

second expedition

was arranged, in

conjunctionwith the

New York Herald.

The D.T.'s share

in this trip cost

/1 7,000.

Mr. Le Sage

also acted as

special corre-

spondent in

Paris during

the Franco-

German War,

and spent a

good deal of

his time in

hoodwi n k i n g

the special correspondents of rival papers.

At this sport he proved an adept, and by

his indomitable perseverance and ingratiating

manner while dealing with the French

officials he frequently managed to get the

news to London hours

ahead of hiscolleagues.

Talking of indomit-

SIR EDWARD LAWSON, BART.

From a Pholograph by Elliott and Fr

SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.

From a Photograph by Elliott and Fry.

able perseverance, it

would be practically

impossible to find a man with a larger share

of this quality than the editor himself. Sir

Edwin Arnold. In the matter of steady,

continual labour, this renowned poetical,

critical, and political writer almost rivals

Mr. Gladstone, for, in addition to

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

Slatin Pasha, not only by

Slat1n Pasha. virtue of his eleven years

captivity in the hands of the

Mahdi, or the romance of his perilous escape

across the desert, but as a man of bravery

and courage, a daunlless soldier and a clever

diplomat, forms a strikingly picturesque figure

in the narrative of recent events in Egypt.

An Austrian by birth, he displayed at an

early age an inherent love of travel and a

thirst for adventure, of which, in after life,

he was to have his full share. In 1876 he

spent about eighteen months in the Soudan,

but returned to his native country, where he

volunteered for the cam-

paign in Herzegovina.

Within two years he started

again for the Soudan, and

was appointed, by General

Gordon, Inspector-General

of the Eastern Soudan and

Sennar. Before General

Gordon went to Khartoum,

Slatin Pasha reigned as

satrap in the province of

Bahr-el-Gazelle. At this

time he was a man of

about thirty years of age.

Brave almost to reck-

lessness, resourceful, and

unscrupulous to a marked

degree, he was well fitted

for the task of overawing

the treacherous native

tribes under his juris-

diction.

Slatin showed himself

a ruler little troubled with conscientious

qualms. While in command of his province

he readily abjured Christianity and professed

Mohammedanism, hoping to gain increased

confidence on the part of his followers at

the cost of a creed lightly held. Slatin

himself says that he was in high favour

with the Khalifa, owing to his capacity for

praying. In this exercise he showed more

vigour and tenacity than any of the natives,

and thus gained a name for sanctity which

stood him in good stead.

Yet Slatin Pasha enjoyed considerable

popularity, even with those who were not to

be deceived-by such outward signs as these.

Stern when the moment for severity arrived,

he always proved himself a man of large

heart and of true refinement. To his family

and his native land Slatin is devoted, and if

he may not be a man to lightly forgive an

injury, neither is he one to forget a service.

Slatin Pasha is a brilliant fighter, and

during his reign was occupied with constant

warfare. He was a scourge to the Arabs,

whom he killed by thousands. His powers

of endurance are extraordinary, and he would

often be twenty-four hours in the saddle con-

stantly fighting without either food or drink.

He slept, in these times, on the hard ground

beside his soldiers,

sharing their simple fare.

He was just in his

PEA R SOX'S MAGAZINE.

Ian Maclaren is the pen-

Ian Maelarcn. name of the Rev. John

Maclaren Watson, minister

of Scfton Park Church, Liverpool, who was

born at Manningtree, in Essex, on Nov. 3rd,

1850, but, though an Englishman by birth, he

is of pure Scotch descent, and a Highlander

on his mother's sido.

It was natural that Mr. Watson should com-

mence his career in Scotland, and he chose

that one which has always had such an

attraction for Scotch students—the ministry.

He found his first pulpit in Logiealmond,

a parish on the borders of the Highlands.

Here it was that^he learnt the stories which

have been published in his first book

called " Beside the Bonnie Brier

Bush," a title based on a verse of

Scotch poetry, commencing :

There grows a bonnie brier bush

In our Kail-yard.

Ian Maclaren's stories all

circle round the people of

Drumtochly, the real name

of which is Logiealmond.

The local scenery is true,

but the stories are fiction;

that is to say, no living

person has been described

in the book. How they

came to be written the

author explains as follows :

"I had always been in-

terested in the study of

Scotch character, and used

to lecture on it. I did not write out my

sketches, however, until long afterwards, when

asked by the editor of a London weekly to do

so. The purpose of the book, which consists of

the collected stories, was to give an artistic

representation of a certain type of Scottish life,

including religion. There are no startling

incidents or distinguished people in the book ;

it is only the record of simple lives."

So great has been the success of this first

book, both here and in America—about

1zo,coo copies have been sold in little over

a year—that a second series has just appeared,

under the title " The Days of Auld Lang

Syne," which bids fair to outrun its pre-

decessor in popularity. A short time ago

Ian Maclaren told a literary friend that when

IAN MACLAREN " (REV. J. M. WATSON).

From a Photograph by Elliott and Fry.

this volume was finished he should finally

abandon Drumtochly because he would have

exhausted the available types.

He hopes in the future to write a story

dealing with the darker side of Scottish life.

But, before he undertakes that big and diffi-

cult task, he will try his hand at other stories,

presenting certain phases of English life,'

quite different from anything in his books.

Some of these we have secured for Pearson's

Magazine.

Of Mr. Watson's ministerial career it only

remains to state that from Logiealmond he

went to Glasgow, and thence to Liverpool,

where he ministers to a congregation second

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

He is, without' exception, the greatest

lawyer of modern times that ever faced a

jury, and this unique position has been

reached chiefly by reason of his love for

hard work. I say chiefly, because no amount

of hard work could have raised him to the

pinnacle of fame on which he now stands

had he not been possessed of that brilliancy of

speech and

that marvel-

lous power

of unravel-

ling the most

tangled web

of evidence

which have

made his

name fami-

liar in every

British

household.

He is al-

ways think-

ing, yet he is

a stranger to

a bad night's

rest, and for

this reason:

lie never per-

mits a case,

however in-

tricate, to

worry him.

Most of

his profes-

sional life

has been

spent at his

h o u s e s in

Ely-place,

Hoi b orn,

where he was

horn on the

21 st of April,

1833. His father, James Graham Lewis—

known amongst those who had dealings with

him as the " Poor Man's Lawyer," on account

of his generosity in defending impecunious

clients without expecting a fee in return for his

services—lived there before him, and all his

brothers and sisters were born at No. 10.

Scattered throughout the rooms of his town

SIR GEORGE H. LEWIS

residence at Portland-place are the gifts that

he has received from clients. He has also a

cellar packed with presents of the kind ; for

no lawyer—perhaps no professional man—

has ever received so many tokens of apprecia-

tion from those he has served as Sir

George.

His first important case was the prosecu-

tion of the

directors of

Overend and

Gu r ney ' s

Bank in

1869. He

subsequently

had the man-

T.TV VKe. gherr-i., fik . •*

' *'*

ITT. cTT-UTT-C: S,

, v\^

TJ'h.e. fc-e-l: of S-u.Tn-.m-<z.r FtnoL "^Kevr

^°KeT

gauw \

To <±ai-ic.e

L«i a\X wVio

"THe-i-T- Hc.a

e-Ver-y 'bc.e

an. En^,1i5°lT. "Lane:

/"or- "KeT- f z\c-e,

5hzC'°l°knoyv

Calf

fo-f..
FIRST ATTEMPTS AT PHOTOGRAPHY.*

No. I.

A PUZZLE PICTURE.

I HAD always avoided photography on the grounds

that the work afforded such small scope for

originality. It hardly seemed worth while to divide

one's time between periodical entombments in a dark-

room sepulchre and enshrouding one's head in the

miniature pall merely to be a sort of general bottle-washer

to the sun; besides one had heard so much about pencils

of light that it was a legitimate ambition to see what the

sun could do without extraneous assistance.

I found out afterwards, however, that my ideas of

the part played by the sun in photography were

exaggerated. Whatever praise or blame was due

be'cnged to the photographer. It was evident, too,

when equipped cap-a-pie that there was a marked

individuality about my style. In some way, to be

sure, it was not my doing. The camera arranged

matters, and I helped.

•The author has no wish to lay claim to any particular credit for

the illustrations wh'ch accompany his sketch ; in fact, l believe that

much worse specimens might be procured. To encourage this form

of art, I will gladly pay half-a-guinea for every similar photograph

deemed worthy of insertion.—C. A. P.

In the beginning there was

darkness. My photographs, like

the prehistoric world, were with-

out form and void. I am not

boasting about this. Other peoplo,

I believe, have succeeded in

obtaining the same effects. After

a time, however, I developed a

charming originality of style,

which has not yet deserted me.

Photography with a hand camera

is a good mental training. It is

so hard to remember what each

picture is meant to represent. I

rather think that some of these

are meant to represent three or

four different subjects.

The camera, in fact, is remark-

able for doing one thing when

appearing to do something else.

THINKING OUT A GRACEFUL POSE.

It has also no sense of its own

responsibility. Benefiting by ex-

perience, it has discovered that

44

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

A NEW VIEW OF THE NELSON COLUMN,

TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

the beginner is always ready to expose

the same plate twice. I was even inveigled

into doing this myself. The result is

a puzzle picture of which I am not un-

naturally proud. There is some uncertainty,

however, how the angelic smile with the face

attached became entangled with my impres-

sion of a ruin in the south of France. I

must also apologise for the size of the

gentleman's feet in another photograph. I

am rather hurt about them. It is no good

thinking out a graceful pose if the camera is

going to spoil the whole thing and make fun

of it. Besides, it leads to comulications. I

have reason to believe, moreover, that the

Nelson column was never in the state of

insobriety which my camera would lead one

to believe. The photograph, however, was

taken on the morning after the Trafalgar

celebrations, which may possibly account, too

UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT HE IS HAVING

HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN.

THE MARBLE ARCH, LONDON, AND A STREATHAM

DRAWING-ROOM TAKEN ON THE SAME PLATE.

for the hilarious attitude of the National

Gallery.

Any self-respecting camera would have

known better than to play practical jokes on

a national emblem in this manner. But the

camera is not tied down by ordinary re-

strictions. It sees things which to the

eyes of the ordinary mortal are invisible.

It has undoubtedly an intimate association

with the phenomena of the spiritualistic

world. A. W.
.

•'•

No. I.—A STOLEN KING.

|T is a pity," remarked the

Ambassador to me, as we sat

sipping his Excellency's very

choice cognac after dinner,

" that there is no one who can

write the secret history of Europe for the last

twenty or thirty years."

"Is there a secret history to write, then ? "

I asked, with an inflection which did not

escape the keen ears of my host.

He removed the stump of his Larranaga

from his lips, and laid his head back to let a

cloud of grey smoke escape towards the ceil-

ing, before he replied :—

" Without doubt. Only the other day, after

more than twenty years' silence, Prince von

Bismarck let the world into the secret of his

telegram which precipitated the Franco-

German war. Contemporary history is full

of similar episodes, which never find their

way to the ears of that good Baron Reuter.

Rest assured," concluded his Excellency with

severity, " that the blatant dogmatism of the

press on these subjects is only equalled by

its truly pathetic ignorance."

" But, M. l'Ambassadeur,"—we were in

Paris—" surely it is impossible for any event

of real importance to remain concealed ? A

mere telegram is different! "

" Not in the least, my dear sir. I will give

you an instance." The Ambassador gazed

thoughtfully for a few moments at the thin

blue smoke-line twisting and writhing itself

out of the burning heart of the cigar stump

between his fingers. " You remember that

alleged illness of the little King of Spain ? "

" Why, perfectly. But what do you mean

by alleged ?"

" Merely this, that his young Majesty was

no more ill at that time than you or I are at

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

this hour. The whole of the accounts which

appeared in the press were an elaborate fiction,

designed to cloak a state of things which,

had the truth become known, would have

shaken the kingdom to its centre. Alfonso

XIII. had been stolen ! "

And, lighting a fresh cigar at the dying

stump, the Ambassador proceeded to give

me the following astonishing narrative.

" The difficulty I have in telling you this

story arises from the

fact that I myself hap-

pened, by the force of

circumstances, to take a

prominent part in the

denouement. I fear that

this accident may im-

part to my account of

the episode a flavour of

egotism which is dis-

agreeable to me. You

shake your head, but I

assure you the danger

is a real one.

" It was about two

years ago, as

you will recol-

lect, that the

press of Europe

was filled i

with reportsf

of a mys-

terious ill-

ness from which

this young mon-

arch was said to

be suffering. This

malady was de-

scribed as being

of a highly infectious

character, though not

exactly dangerous.

" At the same time

the world was called

upon to admire the maternal solicitude of the

Queen-Regent, who, it was said, in order to

nurse her son, had shut herself up in his

apartments, with only two attendants, refrain-

ing from all intercourse with the rest of the

Palace while the critical period lasted. The

only other persons who were permitted to

have access to the sick room, besides the

Father Oliva took the King

physician in attendance, were Father Oliva,

the King's tutor, and Seiior Guastala, at that

time Prime Minister of Spain.

" In the meantime, what had really hap-

pened was this:

"On the day before these reports began

to appear—which was, I think, a Monday—a

grand review of the troops forming the

Madrid garrison was to come off in the city

park. The review was in honour of Saint

Jago, the patron saint of Spain,

and it had been publicly an-

nounced that the young King

would be present, together

with his mother, the

SECRETS OF THE CO CRTS OF EUROPE.

47

the party. It is well known that the hopes of

the Legitimists had greatly revived on the

death of Alfonso XII. without a male heir,

and, though their schemes received a check

by the posthumous birth of the present King,

the pretensions of Don Carlos to the throne

have remained a standing menace to the

modern dynasty. Nevertheless—but it is

best that I should relate the facts without

comment.

" Her Majesty showed this letter to Father

Oliva, in whom she reposed great confidence :

and, as was natural, they decided to keep the

King at home, giving out as a pretext that he

was unwell. The Regent accordingly set out

to the review without him, taking, instead, his

elder sister, the Princess of Asturias. Alfonso

was greatly disappointed, but they succeeded

in pacifying him by the promise of a huge

box of lead soldiers, a toy which has always

given him supreme delight.

" As soon as the Queen was gone, Father

Oliva took the King into his study, and

commenced to give him his lessons as usual.

An hour passed in this way.

" At the end of this time a closed carriage

drove up at a furious rate to the principal

entrance of the Palace, and there alighted a

person in the uniform of a general officer,

attended by an aide-de-camp. This person-

age, who appeared to labour under consider-

able excitement, announced himself to the

porters in waiting as General Espinosa. He

stated that he had been sent by the Queen-

Regent to fetch the King to the review, and

demanded to be taken immediately into his

Majesty's presence."

The Ambassador broke off his narrative

at this point, 10 fill himself another glass of

cognac. I took advantage of the opening to

put a question.

" Excuse me, but was there a General

Espinosa in the Spanish army?"

" There was; but he was at this time

stationed in Barcelona. Command your im-

patience till the end, and you shall hear

everything."

His Excellency uttered these words with

an air of rebuke, twisting the points of his

white moustache in his fingerr., as he spoke.

He took a sip at his cognac before proceeding:

" Thoroughly overwhelmed by the manner

of these officers, the lackeys hastened to

conduct them to the room where the tutor

and pupil were at work. Here, as soon as

the servants had withdrawn, the general

repeated his statements, adding to Father

Oliva that the troops had shown grave

symptoms of dissatisfaction at the King's

absence, and that serious consequences were

apprehended if he were not immediately

forthcoming.

" You can well understand that in Spain,

the land of pronunciamentos, where the army

has so long been accustomed to regard itself

as the master of the government, and' is

always seething with sedition, such intelli-

gence was not to be trifled with. The

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Hapsburg pride, conceals the most tender

affection for her children. I have had the

honour, sir, to be admitted into the circle of

the Royal nursery, and I have found it

difficult to believe that this charming and

caressing parent was the same woman who

had inspired the whole diplomatic body with

awe at the public levees. The distress of

the unfortunate tutor was not less pronounced.

But even in such moments, Royal personages

are not freed from considerations of State.

Before taking any steps, it was necessary to

consult the Prime Minister.

" A messenger was at once despatched to

fetch him to the Palace. Senor Guastala lost

no time in obeying the summons, and the

facts were laid before him.

" It was by his imperative advice, that it

was decided to keep the affair secret as long

as possible. In the unsettled state of the

Spanish kingdom, with a dynasty hardly yet

seated on the throne, and threatened by Re-

publicans on one side, and Legitimists on the

other, the news that the King had been spirited

away, might very well be the signal, as you

may imagine, for a revolution.

" It was therefore that this comedy of a

pretended illness was devised. With the

exception of two old, trusted servants, every-

one was strictly excluded from the King's

apartments, in which it was given out t^at he

was lying ill, and Queen Christina arranged

to take up her own quarters there, to escape

the prying eyes of her suite. On his part,

Senor Guastala undertook to bind one of the

Court physicians to secrecy, and induce him

to attend at regular intervals, and issue the

usual bulletins.

"At the same time the police were

warned that an abduction had taken

place, and furnished with a general de-

scription of the carriage, and of its three

occupants. The railways were watched, the

frontiers guarded, in short, the usual pre-

cautions were taken. Umortunately it was

considered unsafe to describe the missing

boy too plainly, for fear of his identity

becoming known.

" The porters who had seen the carriage

drive away were also questioned with caution,

but beyond the mere statement that they had

seen his Majesty enter the cairiage with the

officers, no information of any value was

elicited from them.

" The exertions of the police during four

days were entirely fruitless. The Spaniards

are a fine race, with many admirable traits,

but they lack the French quickness. But for

the accident of my presence in the capital, it

is difficult to say what would have become of

the Spanish monarchy. Luckily I chanced

to be in Madrid at this time."

" But, my dear Ambassador," I interposed,

thoughtlessly, "you were not then accredited

to the Court of Spain! "

His Excellency put on an air of reserve.

" My friend, you are indiscreet. My

presence in Madrid had no connection with

politics. When I mention that a lady was

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

49

upon I demanded an audience of the

Queen-Regent. Daunted by my firmness,

the attendants gave way, and consented to

take in my card to her Majesty. I ventured

to inscribe on it the word ' Pressing.'

" Doubtless, in her immense grief, the

Queen was ready to clutch at any straw

which might promise assistance. She agreed

to receive me in the room adjoining the

King's bedchamber.

" You know those Hapsburgs. In the

midst of her terrible sufferings Christina

preserved the haughtiness of her family. She

omitted to accord me the privilege of being

seated.

'"What is it that you desire to see me about,

M. le Baron ?' she demanded, addressing me

in the French language.

" ' Madame,' I replied in Spanish, of which

language I am a master, ' I have come to

crave permission to present myself to his

Majesty. I do not in the least fear infection;

and I am not without hope that my society

may cheer the tedium of a sick bed.'

" I saw an embarrassed look pass over the

Queen's face. She replied, however, without

unbending in the least:

" ' I regret that what you ask is impossible.

The King is too ill to receive even the most

intimate of his friends. On his recovery he

shall be informed of your kind attentions.'

" ' But, your Majesty,' I remonstrated,' see

what I have just procured from Paris !' And

I unfolded the wrappings, and produced my

chasseur on his adorable camel.

" ' Surely the King is not too ill to be

amused with this toy,' I ventured to add. ' I

implore you to let me offer it to my young

friend.'

"Queen Christina made no reply. I turned

towards her, trembling, and was astonished to

see tears in her fine eyes.

" ' Pardon, Madame, what have I done ?' I

exclaimed, in consternation.

" ' You have done nothing, M. le Baron

that is not worthy of your admirable heart,'

the Queen was good enough to answer. ' It

would be ungrateful to keep up this deception

with you any longer. Alfonso cannot receive

your touching gift, because he is not in the

Palace. My son was kidnapped four days

ago.'

Vol. I.—4.

" I was thunderstruck by this news. Her

Majesty then invited me to be seated, and

told me the whole of the circumstances,

exactly as I have related them to you. As

soon as the recital was finished I rose to my

feet.

" ' Madame,' I said, with impressiveness.

' leave this affair in my hands. Give me

five days, and I undertake to recover my

young playmate from the clutches of these

assassins.'

" The Queen gazed at me as if afraid to

hope.

" ' You say so, M. le Baron ? Why, have

you any means of influence over the Carlists?'

Wherj his mother was waiting." (See page 56.'
SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

of the affair, and, armed with this document,

I took my leave.

" My first step was to invent a disguise.

After much thought I decided to assume the

character of an English doctor. I procured

a card, and inscribed it with the name of

Doctor Harry Brown, of the Institute of

Doctors, London."

" It should have been College of

Physicians," I objected.

The Ambassador shrugged his shoulders,

and gave me a pitying glance.

" That is so like you English, with your

insular egotism," he observed sadly. "Do

you suppose that any one in Madrid knew or

cared whether your doctors called their

building a college or an institute ? "

I prudently refrained from replying to this

challenge; and the Ambassador presently

took another sip from his glass, and went on.

" You ask yourself why I chose to become

an English doctor. I will tell you. It is

well known that there is a streak of insanity

running through your nation, which renders

them the most eccentric people in the world.

As an Englishman, it would excite no remark

that I should take the extraordinary measures

which I proposed to myself. I had observed

this in connection with the extraordinary

affair of the Ruby of Burami, in which the

late King of Holland was concerned—I will

tell you about it another time. Moreover, as

a doctor, I had an excuse for my presence in

the Palace. I could announce that I was

investigating the cause of the King's attack.

"My next step was to interview Father

Oliva, the tutor, a dreary man, who concealed

the most intense stupidity under an appear-

ance of great craft. I found him in the

room from which Alfonso had been carried

off. He had known me formerly, and

•exhibited much surprise on learning of my

assumed character. I made him repeat to

me the details of the abduction, and then

asked to see the most recent photograph of

his pupil.

" The Father produced a handsome portrait,

taken within the last few weeks. The King's

face, as you are aware, is a very striking one.

The features are noble and defiant, the eyes

large and brilliant.

'"Has this portrait been widely circulated?'

I asked. ' Is the man in the street familiar

with it ?'

" 'Certainly,' the priest answered. 'It has

figured in all the shop windows. The King's

portraits are always very popular. There is

scarcely a cabin in Spain where you will not

see something, if it is only an almanac, with

the likeness of Alfonso XIII.'

"' So much the better, it makes it all the

more difficult for the conspirators to 'carry

out their plans. It is incredible that they

should have been able to carry him through

the streets of the capital in broad day light

without recognition. I must see the servants

who were present when the carriage drove off.'

" The Father hesitated.

" ' Are you not afraid of arousing' their

5.2

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

•where we found a number of lackeys. The

Father presented me to them.

" ' The Doctor is seeking for information

as to the source of the King's illness,' he

explained. ' Which of you saw his Majesty

get into the carriage to go to the review ?'

"Three of the men stepped forward,

evidently surprised. I gave them no time to

invent falsehoods.

" 'Did you notice how the King was look-

ing when he went out ?' I demanded.

" I saw them exchange questioning glances.

At length one ventured to respond.

"' I didn't see his Majesty's face, Senor.

But I fancy he had a chill, for he was well

wrapped up.'

" ' So ? And did none of you observe

anything else unusual ?'

" One of the other two looked as if he

were .hesitating whether to speak. I turned

a penetrating look on him.

"' Now you remind me, Senor,' he said,

respectfully. ' I think there was something

wrong with his Majesty. I don't think he

walked quite firmly, and he didn't hold him-

self up in the same way as usual.'

" I was satisfied, and led the way back into

the palace, followed by Father Oliva. He

was very curious to know what was in my

mind. I began to find the good Father

wearisome; however, I excused myself from

saying anything then, and promised to be

more explicit later on.

"As we were returning to his room an

awkward incident took place. A door

opened at a short distance in front of us, and

a man came out, who bowed to my com-

panion.

" ' That is Dr. Henarez, who is attending

the palace chef,' he whispered in my ear.

' Shall I present you to him ?'

"' The devil, no !' I replied in conster-

nation. ' He would inquire about the

faculty in London, and penetrate my disguise

directly.'

"'True; I had forgotten that you were

disguised,' muttered this simple creature.

And we allowed the physician to pass without

speaking, though I observed him casting

inquisitive looks at me.

" I asked if the cook were a fellow-

countryman of my own, and was amazed to

learn that this was not the case. It was

inconceivable to me that a Spaniard should

understand the culinary art, and I observed

as much to my companion.

"' Yet I can assure you that his cookery

is very much esteemed,' he answered, smiling,

' by no less a person than the King of Spain.

If my pupil had been really ill, I should have

put it down to Senor Gomez, his tarts are so

much in demand in the nursery.'

" ' He seems to have made himself iii in-

stead,' I retorted. ' Has he been laid up

long?'

" ' About a week, I believe. It is to be

hoped he will recover by the time his Majesty

comes back, or the King will be terribly

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

53

draw up a full report, showing all the persons

•who have entered or left the building within

the last ten days, with the times of their

coming and going. You will make this report

as accurate as possible. Secondly, you will at

once station a special agent at each of these

entrances, with instructions to allow no one,

whatever his position or business, to enter or

leave the Palace, without first communicating

with me, and obtaining my sanction.'

" The steward bowed.

" ' Do these orders apply to the kitchen

entrance, by which the supplies of the Palace

are received, Senor ?'

" ' They apply especially to that entrance.

There is no more fruitful source of contagion

than food, particularly milk.'

" The steward was evidently impressed by

this observation, which I flatter myself was

not without ingenuity.

"' And they apply equally to the servants

of the Palace, I suppose, Senor ?'

" ' To every man, woman, and child in

Spain, with the exception of the Queen-Regent

and the Prime Minister.'

'• The steward was a sensible man. He

asked no further questions, but departed to

carry out his instructions.

" During the next hour I sat in the tutor's

room, receiving continual messages with

respect to the various persons who sought

to come in or out. In each case I gave my

consent. Finally the steward returned, bring-

ing his report, a most admirable paper, which

would have done credit to any chancellory

in Europe. The name and, in most cases,

the business of every visitor had been noted

down with scrupulous care. I read the

report through, and a mist came over my

eyes.- .

"' You have done your work magnificently,

Senor,' I said to the steward. ' I am now

going to show this document to the Queen.

Should anyone want to enter the palace while

I am with her Majesty, be sure and let me

Know.'

" I dismissed him, and made my way with

'ill-suppressed agitation to the Royal apart-

ments, where I was instantly admitted. I

handed the report to her Majesty, and desired

her to look through it, and see if it contained

anything worthy of remark. She complied

with my request, but observed nothing. I

then ventured to put a question.

"' I should be grateful if your Majesty

could reeollect any incident, however trivial,

during the last few days before the King's

disappearance, which might throw light on

the means of persuasion employed by his

abductors.'

"Queen Christina appeared slightly puzzled.

"'Persuasion? I do not follow you, M.

le Baron. Surely that was not the method

employed ?'

" ' Think, Madame. The King must have

very speedily discovered that his companions

were not taking him to the review; he is a

boy of high spirit, it is incredible that he

PZARSOX'S MAGAZINE

.a..

" Sit down, Sefior Gomez if you please, or I will shoot you like a dog."

" ' What child ?' I asked as calmly as I

could.

"' Pedrillo Gomez, the cook's nephew, who

has come to visit his uncle.'

"' He cannot be admitted for the present,'

I said sternly. ' Detain him in your room till

you hear from me.'

" The steward was plainly confounded.

But he discreetly refrained from any reply,

and withdrew to fulfil my directions.

"' Surely that is a rather harsh step,'

remonstrated Queen Christina.

"' Madame,' I replied, with the utmost

good humour, ' the child who has just come

to the Palace is some impostor. He is not

Pedrillo Gomez at all."

" The Queen looked at me as if I had just

claimed omniscience.

" ' How can you say that, M. le Baron ?'

" ' Simply by referring to the report in your

Majesty's hand. You will see from it that

the cook's nephew entered the Palace last

Monday morning at eight o'clock, and that

he has never left it since. Consequently, the

child at the door must be some one else.'

" I could see her begin to tremble.

SECRETS OF THE COL'RTS OF EUROPE.

55

" ' Speak! What do you mean ?'

" ' I mean this, Madame, that whereas I

formerly asked for five days in which to

bring your son to you, I now ask for five

minutes. I am going to interview the true

Pedrillo, the Pedrillo who has been concealed

in the cook's apartment for the last four

days.'

" I darted from her presence, and made

my way straight through the building to the

door from which I had seen Dr. Henarez

emerge. I rapped, and a man's voice in-

quired :

" ' Is that you, Pedrillo ?'

" At the same time a bolt was withdrawn

from inside, and the door partly opened. I

slipped through, and walked into the middle

of the chamber. The cook, a huge man with

as villainous a face as I have ever seen, eyed

me like a tiger as I coolly took possession

of his sitting-room. No Pedrillo was any-

where to be seen.

"' Who are you, Senor ?' the man

stammered out.

" ' I am a doctor,' I responded, with the

most friendly air in the world, feeling at the

same time in the hip pocket, where doctors

usually carry their medicine cases. ' I have

been called in by another patient, and, hear-

ing that you were ill, the Queen-Regent

graciously desired me to place my skill at

your disposal.'

" • But, Senor Doctor, I do not need your

services,' he muttered, terribly embarrassed,

as he well might be, for the fellow was in

perfect health. ' I have my own doctor.'

" ' Nonsense.' I replied, ' an extra opinion

can do you no harm. Besides, her Majesty's

commands must be obeyed. Let me feel

your pulse.'

" I took it in my hand before he could

object. It was beating at a tremendous

rate.

"' I see clearly what is the matler with

you,' I said. ' You are suffering from want

of fresh air. Instead of being shut up in

these two rooms—I suppose that is the door

of your bedroom ?—you ought to be out in

the grounds. Let me advise you to put on

your hat at once, and come out. I will give

you my arm.'

" The wretch sank into a chair.

" ' Indeed, Senor, I am too ill to be moved.

To-morrow, perhaps '

" ' You make a mistake,' I retorted, inter-

rupting him. ' I assure you these rooms are

unhealthy. L-H me see your bedroom.'

" While I spoke I went up and turned the

handle of the dcor. As I had anticipated, it

was locked. Gomez sprang towards me with

flashing eyes. I did not hesitate a moment.

" ' Sit down, Senor Gomez, if you please,

or I will shoot you like a dog.' And I

snatched out my revolver, and levelled it at

his breast.

" He sank back, shuddering. I turned the

key, and opened the bedroom door.''

The Ambassador stopped deliberately,

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

him in the Palace on the way out, and carried

away another boy to create a false scent.'

"The scheme was clever enough. The

moment I had realised the character of the

plot, it only remained to discover whether the

King had been taken out of the building

since, and, if not, with whom he was likely

to be concealed. At the same time I took

precautions against his slipping through my

fingers while I was engaged in the search."

" The cook, I suppose, made a full con-

fession ? "

" I had left him very little to confess. It

appeared that he had been the chief contriver

of the plot, in revenge for his own dismissal.

He had got two accomplices from outside,

one of them that doctor, who was as great an

impostor as I was myself.

" They elaborated their plans with a good

deal of ingenuity. Gomez began feigning

illness several days before the review, and

made his nephew come to and fro continually,

so that his appearance ceased to excite remark.

Then they despatched the warning through

Pamplona, and laid in wait.

" The King was, of course, brought straight

from the tutor's presence into the cook's

apartment, and exchanged for Pedrillo, and

all that remained was for Gomez to keep the

child prisoner, by force or persuasion, till

they could contrive to smuggle him out of the

way unobserved. The idea of obtaining the

ransom while the captive was still in his own

Palace was a brilliant afterthought."

" They were not punished ?"

" No, it would have been unwise.

They were informed that if they ever

referred to- their exploit they

would be put on trial for high

treason, and they seem to have

held their tongues.

Of course, the fic-

tion of the illness *"-

was kept up to the

end, and the King's

convalescence duly

announced.

" What pleased

me most in the affair

was the vindication of

my friend, Don Carlos.

Queen Christina was good

enough to express regret to me for having

allowed her suspicions to rest on his followers.

She also expressed herself very handsomely

about the trifling part I had been able to

play in the affair—very handsomely indeed.

Queen Christina is a very fine woman."

The Ambassador paused, and appeared to

be hesitating whether to say anything more.

At last he added of his own accord :

" When I finally took my leave she drew a

magnificent ring from her own finger, and

presented it to me.

"' For the service you have rendered to

the Queen Regent of Spain my Prime Minister

will thank you,' she said. ' For that which

you have rendered to the mother of Alfonso,

she begs you to accept this souvenir.' "

WHAT IT COSTS.

No. I.—TO WORK A RAILWAY.

Some marvellous facts and figures regarding " The Greatest Corporation on Earth "—the

London and North-Western Line.

BY W. J. GORDON.

IN December, 1894, according to the Board

of Trade, the united capital of the rail-

ways of these islands actually issued, was

985 millions of pounds, and as it increases at

the rate of 15 millions per annum it will,

when the year 1896 opens, amount to

.£1.000,000,000, which is more than half as

much again as our National Debt. This vast

capital returns 377, say 3f, per cent.; but as

the rail stocks now at a premium are larinexcess

of those at a discount, the money invested is

very much more than the nominal capital, and

the dividend consequently less. These two

facts will be appreciated by those who would

nationalise our railways, and those who

delight in girding at the greedy shareholder.

It is not easy to realise what a thousand

millions means. Let a man start counting it,

sovereign by sovereign, at noon on the 1st of

January next, and if he were to count fifty a

minute, which he would find quite fast enough

after a time, and keep on at his task day and

night without a pause, it would be twenty

minutes past nine in the morning of the

nth January, 1934, before he would finish.

The fact of its being necessary to have a

capital which it would take nearly forty

years to count, seems to show that neither

-ailway-making nor railway-working is as

easy as it might be in the British Islands.

But then we are an old-established race,

not willing to budge without being paid for

it. Our immediate forefathers looked upon

railways as the " evil communications " of the

copy book, which " corrupt good manners,''

and there is much of the same spirit left

among us when compensation looms in view.

This thousand millions of money has been

spent on only 21,000 miles of lines, but on

these lines there are 666,000 vehicles, of

which over 18,000 are engines; and of these

18,000 engines each runs on an average a

little over 18,000 miles a year. Every year

the mileage run increases by three per cent.,

so that we are approaching the period when

it can be said that each engine runs as many

miles a year as there are miles of track in

these islands.

Every day our engines drag after them

more people than the whole population of

Paris, besides nine million tons of minerals

and merchandise ; and for every mile they

run they earn four-and-ninepence-halfpenny.

In other words, the passengers on our rail-

ways, without counting the season-ticket-

holders, number over 911 millions a year,

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

the goods traffic exceeds 324 million tons,

and the revenue is about £ 80,000,000.

This enormous business is shared

amongst some hundred and fifty

companies, of which the four

chief are the North-Western, the

Midland, the Great Western,

and the North-Eastern. The

Great Western, with 2,495

miles, has the longest road, the

North-Western coming second

with 1,896, the North-Eastern

third with 1,620; the Midland

has 1,432, and if sve add the

Great Eastern with 1,104, W'C

shall have named all the rail-

ways in the country which have

a track of over a thousand miles.

As far as the world's lines go, these are

but small in extent—the Canadian Pacific

has a mileage of 7,103,

the Grand Trunk of

^ Canada one of 3,512

'.:\ —but as far as capital

is concerned they

are the largest in-

dustrial enterprises

in the world.

The North-West-

ern has the largest

capital, the Midland

ranking second, the

Great Western third;

and the North-Western has the largest

revenue, it being about two millions more

than that of the Midland, which has a

few thousands more than the Great Western.

If, then, we want an example of a British rail-

way, we cannot do better than take that

which has its offices at Euston and its

head-quarters at Crewe.

The London and North - Western

Railway has a capital of £1 19,000,000

and a revenue of over £1,300 an

hour; its 2,770 engines travel over

41 million miles in the year ; it

employs over 60,000 men, and

carries over 156,000 passengers

a day.

It makes everything it can for its

own use, not only building its own bridges,

engines, and rolling its own rails, but making

LORD STALBRIDGE,

Chairman.

From a photograph by the London

Stereoscopic Co.

MR. T. HOUfiHTON,

Seeretary.

From a photograph by Barrauds.

MR, FREDERICK HARRISON,

General Manager.

From a photograph by Barrands.

the carriages, and waggons, coal scuttles for its

stations and the wooden limbs for the injured

of i.ts staff.

All this means money. What

does it cost, and how is the outlay

divided ?

First of all the line has to be

WHAT IT COSTS.

with a staff under them of 500 foremen,

chargemen, and artisans. The inspector has

his " district," the chargeman has his

" length,'' and in every signal box you will

find the name of the chargeman responsible

for it. The steel rodding these gangs deal

with would extend from the Land's End to

John O'Groats, and the wires would more

than span the Atlantic from Liverpool to

New York.

The cabins number over 1,500, and the

signalmen have to work some 18,000 signals,

senger coaches, besides 35 post-office tenders,

660 horse boxes, 886 carriage trucks, and

about 1040 breaks and pircel vans, including

a few dog saloons for dog shows and the

invasion of Scotland in August. To keep

all these up to the mark takes about

.£300,000 a year, of which £ 110,000 goes

in wages.

Railway carriages are not built for nothing,

a third class one—and the North-Westera

has over 2,800 of them—is worth £600, a"nd

a first-class composite is worth ^200 more,

LEEDS VALLEY VIADUCT.

and about twice as many levers. Signals are

constantly being replaced and increased ;

every week nine complete new ones are turned

out at Crewe, some of them with as many as

twenty-four arms. Besides the signals them-

selves, there are the sidings and junctions to

be seen to, with their innumerable points

and cross-over roads, including the roughly

treated sections by the side of docks and

canals.

The repairs to the rolling stock form

another serious item. The North-Western

owns considerably over five thousand pas-

of which half is spent below the floor. The

labour item in these days of machinery is

very small, for it averages barely £20 a-

vehicle, notwithstanding that a first-class car-

riage takes sixteen coats of paint before it is

fit for service.

At the carriage works at Wolverton there

are 3,500men; atEarlestown, between Liver-

pool and Manchester, where the goods trucks

are built, there are another 2,000. Earlestown

is responsible for 62,000 trucks, including

2,300 cattle waggons. To keep these in

running order costs over .£120,000 a year, of

6o

PEAR SON'S ^fA GA ZIXE.

which about .£50,000 goes in wages and the

rest in material.

This gives us over ,£420,000 a year for the

upkeep of rolling stock alone. And besides

the trucks there are the red-lined tarpaulin

sheets, over 41,000 of them, worth about £2

each, and needing repair after every other

journey.

If we add all the foregoing together we are

faced with a yearly expenditure of a million

and a third, or over £2 5,000 a week before

we have begun to move.

To keep the maintenance departments sup-

plied, immense quantities of material have to

be kept in store. The carriage department

stores value out at £138,000,

the waggon department ,.

requires

£1 14,000,

the perma-

nent way

^330,000;

and besides

these, there

are the gene-

ral stores,

the engi-

ne e r i n g

stores, the

steamboat

stores, the

telegraph

stores, and, largest

of all, the locomotive

department stores, which are of themselves

worth .£467,000.

Altogether, the stock in the stores is worth

.£1,172,000. This is not, of course, a

revenue item, but it is worth alluding to as

showing what a large amount of capital has

to be kept locked up behind the scenes.

But now we must get under way, and to

begin with we want over a million and a half

for " power." Power on the North-Western

comes from Crewe. There are the com-

pany's foundries and engineering works; the

centre of a town of some 30,000 people,

which, since 1843, it has made from one of

the smallest of villages.

Within the works there are five miles and

more of the pigmy track of 1Sin. gauge,

•which covers the floor of its shops like a

spider web, on which run the miniature

engines that once replaced the horses on the

Shropshire Union Canal.

Anything in the metal way used in railway

practice you can get at Crewe from start to

finish. You can see the steel made in the

converters with all their roaring pyrotechny,

and you can follow it from point to point

until it moves off by itself on the rails made

from the same converter, and flies north or

south on its trial trip at fifty, sixty, seventy,

aye, eighty miles an hour.

The North-Western has five millions'worth

of engines, all of them born at Crewe, and

most of them with expectation of a very

long life; one of them, the

WHAT IT COSTS.

61

sent from the various shops, and all they

have to do is to fit them together as if they

were dealing with a puzzle.

First the frame-plates are fixed in position

by temporary bars, then the cylinders and

foot-plate and other essential parts of the

skeleton are added; then the boiler, which

has already been tested, is lowered to its

bed: then the incomplete monster is lifted

by a crane, and the wheels, fitted with their

axles and axle-boxes, are run under it; next

the connecting rods and valve motion and

fewer than most, and was one of the first to

introduce the system of interchangeable parts,

by which the cost of repairs is reduced to a

minimum, but even it cannot get on without

some thirty patterns, if we include the

survivals.

Crewe prides itself on its compounds.

They may not be brilliant, but they are

certainly economical, and they are sure, for

it does not seem to matter what weight is

put behind them. To work these two thou-

sand odd engines, many of which are worth

••,

•

CONWAV CASTLE.

other minor details are put in, and the boiler

covered with its thick felt lagging and its out-

side casing; and then the engine, in all its

ugliness, a patchwork of bright and dull and

rusty metal, daubed and smeared with lead

and pink and white, is lifted high like a baby

and gently placed on the pair of rails on

which it is to begin its life, for not until its trials

are over is it properly painted.

Every big railway in this country has

several sorts of engines both for passenger

and goods traffic; the North-Western has

over £3,000 apiece, nearly ,£"50,000 a month

has to be spent on wages. The fuel, nearly

4,000 tons of which is used a day, costs

.£37,000 a month; the water, over 25,000

tons of which are evaporated by the North-

Western every day—for an engine will

evaporate eight million gallons in a year—

costs /"1,1oo a month, and is generally fairly

free from lime, for the North-Western, owing

to its Ramsbottom troughs, of which it has

eleven groups, can not only take its water where

it pleases,but feed its engines without stopping

62

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

between London and Holyhead, and London

and Carlisle. A great advantage this over

the old system. On the Great Northern there

are no troughs, and the tender of the East

Coast Scotsman has to carry 3,300 gallons ;

on the West Coast, owing to the troughs, the

tender has only to carry 1,800 gallons.

But besides the fuel and water, there are

the lubricants, oil and grease, and so on—an

engine will use up a gallon of oil a day—

and these amount to .£4,600 a month. These

three items make up more than a million,

and if we add the cost of superintendence

and odds and ends, we shall find that during

the twelve months the railway pays for its

power something like .£1,527,000.

Next we have the traffic expenses, which

form the largest item in the accounts. In

THE CORRIDOR TRAIN.

round figures they amount to .£200,000 a

month, of which nearly seventy-five per cent,

goes to station-masters, booking clerks, guards,

porters, and so on, in salaries and wages.

But let us be a little more detailed. The

wages bill of this department is .£1,691,000

a year. Over £200,000 goes in fuel for

the waiting-rooms, for lighting the carriages

and stations and for sundries. The uniforms

for the men cost .£30,000 a year, a nice

little tailor's bill. Printing, stationery, and

tickets cost over .£60,000 a year, but then

tickets must necessarily run to long num-

bers when every booking-clerk at Euston

takes over .£50,000 a year.

Horses (there are 3,900 of them, irrespec-

tive of those owned by the company's agents),

vans, carts, and lorries (there are 4,000 of

them, all built by the company), harness (all

made on the premises), provender, and, in

short, the whole of the horse department, will

take over £200,000 during the current year.

Then there are those useful but apparently

insignificant waggon covers and ropes costing

over ,£25,000 a year, and the hoists and

hydraulic cranes which cost double as much

to keep going. The miscellaneous—but we

can do without them ; we are near enough to

the traffic department's total of the£2,391,000

it spent in 1894.

We are mounting up; we are already over

five millions and a quarter. Let us, by way

of a rest, look round at the work that is done

at all this expense. In the course of a year

the passenger trains run over 21 million

miles, the goods trains not quite as many, so

that they make

up the 41 million

miles between

them, and this

mileage in-

creases at the

rate of about 3

per cent, a year.

Taking, our

railways together

this is about the

average, just as

passengers in-
WHAT IT COSTS.

for mails, making altogether .£4,837,000;

while goods realised .£3,926,000, live stock

.£235,000, and minerals £2,414,000, total-

ing up to over six millions and a half.

If we take the passengers as weighing

370,000 tons, and the goods and minerals

a hundred times as much, we have thirty-

eight million tons to move about in sixty-

eight thousand vehicles, over a network of

rails, the far ends of which reach Holyhead

and Swansea, London, Cambridge, and

Carlisle.

But there is a North-Western afloat as well

as a North-Western ashore; the company is

not only a railroad owner, but a canal owner

and a steamboat owner. It pays over

.,£11,500 a year 'in light and harbour dues,

its steamboat repairs cost over ,£15,000 a

year, its marine coal bill is over .£18,000 a

year, and the manning of its fleet costs

.£43,000 a year.

Altogether it spends a trifle under a hun-

dred thousand a year on its steamers, in

addition to .£35,000 a year for their insur-

ance and allowance for depreciation. And

its canals at Lancaster and Huddersfield cost

over .£7,000 a year. ;

We are now among the small items, com-

paratively small, that is. Its lawyer's bill is

.£33,000 a year, and the Parliamentary ex-

penses another .£6,000. Compensation rises

and falls according as accidents and

losses are many or few ; during

the last half-year the compen-

sation paid to passengers was

a little over .£5,000; that paid

for goods damaged and

gone astray wa

nearly ^27,000.

During the same period it paid the Govern-

ment .£15,000 as passenger duty, and its

rates and taxes reached the enormous total of

over £150,000, or more than .£820 everyday

of the week. Its telegraphing costs .£57,000

a year. Its fire insurance costs about £ 13,000

a year, its clearing-house expenses run to

nearly .£30,000, and to its superannuation

fund, insurance, provident and pension

societies and schools it gives ,£45,000 a year.

The yearly salaries and expenses of the

central office which controls this vast under-

taking, that costs £6,430,000 a year, amount

to about .£100,000, and the directors, who

are responsible for it all, share amongst

them £12,coo, or, say, a tenth per cent, of

its revenue.

Curiously enough, it has among its directors

one that is hereditary, as the Great Western

has one in Sir Watkin Wynn. This is the

Duke of Sutherland, whose father is still

known in railway circles as " the real live

duke," from an incident worth mentioning as

having occurred on a line contrasting very

decidedly with the North-Western, being that

in Sutherlandshire, in the Dunrobin and Helms-

dale country, which his Grace practically paid

for out of his own pocket.

One day he was driving the express on this

line as the train passed two navvies. " There,

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

BY BRET HARTE.

Illustrated by A. Forestier.

HE largest tent of

the Tasajasa Camp

meeting was

crowded to its ut-

most extent. The

excitement of that

dense mass was at

its highest pitch.

The Reverend

Stephen Mastcrton, the

single erect, passionate figure of that confused

medley of kneeling worshippers, had reached

the culminating pitch of his irresistible ex-

hortatory power. Sighs and groans were

beginning to respond to his appeals, when

the reverend brother was seen to lurch

heavily forward and fall to the ground.

At first the effect was that of a part of his

performance; the groans redoubled, and

twenty or thirty brethren threw themselves

prostrate in humble imitation of the preacher.

But Sister Deborah Stokes, perhaps through

some special revelation of feminine intuition,

grasped the fallen man, tore loose his black

silk necktie, and dragged him free of the

struggling, frantic crowd, whose paroxysms

he had just evoked. Howbeit he was pale

and unconscious and unable to continue

the service. Even the next day, when he

had slightly recovered, it was found that any

attempt to renew his fervid exhortations

produced the same disastrous result.

• A council was hurriedly held by the elders.

In spite of the energetic protests of Sister

Stokes, it was held; that the Lord "was

wrestlin'. with. his .sperrit," and he was sub-

jected to the same extraordinary treatment

from the whole!congregation that he himself

had applied to-them. Propped up pale and

trembling in the " Mourners' Bench" by two

Brethren, he was." striven with," exhorted,

prayed over, and admonished, until insensi-

bility mercifully succeeded convulsions.

Spiritual therapeutics having failed, he was

turned over to the weak and carnal nursing

of " women folk." But after a month of

incapacity he was obliged to yield to "the

flesh," and, in the local dialect, " to use a

doctor."

It so chanced that the medical practitioner

of the district was a man of large experience,

of military training, and plain speech. When,

therefore, he one day found in his surgery a

man of rude Western type, strong limbed

and sunburned, but trembling, hesitating and

neurotic in movement, after listening to his

Copyri9ht, 1895, in ;;.. (,•.,•:,.. Slata qf America by Bret Harte.

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

symptoms gravely, he asked, abruptly: "And

how much are you drinking now ? "

" I am a life-long abstainer," stammered

his patient in quivering indignation. But

this was followed by another question so

frankly appalling to the hearer that he

staggered to his feet.

" I'm Stephen Masterton—known of men as

a circuit preacher, of the Northern California

district,'' he thundered—" and an enemy of

the flesh in all its forms."

" I beg your pardon," responded Dr.

Duchesne, grimly, "but as you are suffering

from excessive and repeated excitation of

the nervous system, and the depression

following prolonged artificial exaltation—it

makes little difference whether the cause be

spiritual, as long as there is a certain physical

effect upon your body—which I believe you

have brought to me to cure. Now—as to

diet? you look all wrong there."

'•My food is of the simplest — I have no

hankering for flesh-pots," responded the

patient.

" I suppose you call Saleratus bread and

salt pork and flap jacks simple?" said the

doctor, coolly; '• they are common enough,

and if you were working with your muscles

instead of your nerves in that frame of

yours they might not hurt you; but you are

suffering as much from eating more than

you can digest as the veriest gourmand.

You must stop all that. Go down to a

quiet watering place for two months. . . ."

" / go to a watering place ? " interrupted

Masterton; " to the haunt of the idle, the

frivolous and wanton—never ! "

" Well, I'm not particular about a ' water-

ing place," said the doctor, with a shrug,

" although a little idleness and frivolity with

different food wouldn't hurt you—but you

must go somewhere and change your habits

and mode of life completely. I will find you

some sleepy old Spanish town in the Southern

county where you can rest and diet. If this

is distasteful to you," he continued, grimly,

" you can always call it ' a trial.' "

Stephen Masterton may have thought it so

when, a week later, he found himself issuing

from a rocky gorge into a rough, badly

paved, hilly street, which seemed to be only a

continuation of the mountain road itself. It

Vol. 1.—6.

broadened suddenly into a square or plaza,

flanked on each side by an irregular row of

yellowing adobe houses, with the inevitable

verandah-ed tienda in each corner, and the

solitary, galleried fonda, with a half Moorish

archway leading into an inner patio or court-

yard in the centre.

The whole street stopped as usual at the

very door of the Mission church, a few hun-

dred yards further on, and under the shadow

of the two belfry towers at each angle of

the facade, as if this were the ultima thule of

every traveller. But all that the eye rested on

was ruined, worn, and crumbling. The adobe

houses were cracked by the incessant sun-

shine of the half-year long summer, or the

66

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

gaudy yellow fan waved languidly in front of a

black rose-crested head atawhitecurtained win-

dow. He knew he was stifling with righteous

wrath, and clapped his spurs to his horse.

Nevertheless in a few days, by the aid of a

letter to the innkeeper, he was installed in a

dilapidated adobe house, not unlike those he

had seen, but situated in the outskirts, and

overlooking the garden and part of the refec-

tory of the old Mission. It had even a small

garden of its own—if a strip of hot wall, over-

burdened with

yellow and white

roses, a dozen

straggling callas,

a bank of helio-

trope, and an

almond tree,

could be called

a garden. It

had an open

doorway, but so

heavily recessed

in the thick walls

that it preserved

seclusion, a

sitting-room,and

an alcoved bed-

room with deep

embrasured win-

dows, that, how-

ever, excluded

the unwinking

sunlight and

kept an even

monotone of

shade.

Strange to say,

he found it cool,

restful, and, in

spite of the dust,

absolutely clean,

and but for the scent of heliotrope, entirely

inodorous. The dry air seemed to dissipate

all noxious emanations and decay—the very

dust itself in its fine impalpability was volatile

with a spice-like piquancy, and left no stain.

A wrinkled Indian woman, brown and

veined like a tobacco leaf, ministered to his

simple wants. But these wants had also

been regulated by Dr. Duchesne. He found

himself, with some grave doubts of his

effeminacy, breakfasting on a single cup of

chocolate instead of his usual bowl of

molasses sweetened coffee ; crumbling a

crisp tortilla instead of the heavy Saleratus

bread, greasy flap jack, or the lard fried

steak, and, more wonderful still, completing

his repast with purple grapes from the

Mission wall. He could not deny that it was

simple—that it was even refreshing and con-

sistent with the climate and his surroundings.

On the other hand, it was the frugal diet of

Completing his repast with purple grapes from the Mission wall."

the commonest peasant—and were not those

peons slothful idolators ?

At the end of the week—his correspond-

ence being also restricted by his doctor to a

A CONVERT OF THE JflSSION.

67

effect upon the weakness of our common sinful

nature. But I should not be truthful to you if I did

not warn you that I am viewing with the deepest

spiritual concern a decided tendency towards sloth,

and a folding of the hands over matters that often, I

fear, are spiritual as well as temporal. I would ask

yon to consider, in a spirit of love, if it be not wise

to rouse my apathetic flesh, so as to strive, even

with the feeblest exhortations—against this sloth in

others—if only to keep oneself from falling in the

pit of easy indulgence.

What answer he received is not known,

hut it is to be presumed that he kept loyal

faith with his physician, and gave himself up

to simple walks and rides and occasional

meditation. His solitude was not broken

upon; curiosity was too active a vice, and

induced too much exertion for his indolent

neighbours, and the Americano's basking

seclusion, though unlike the habits of his

countrymen, did not affect them. The shop-

keeper and innkeeper saluted him always

with a profound courtesy which awakened

his slight resentment, partly because he was

conscious that it was grateful to him, and

partly that he felt he ought to have provoked

in them a less satisfied condition.

Once, when he had unwittingly passed

the confines of his own garden, through a gap

in the Mission orchard, a lissome, black-

coated shadow slipped past him with an

obeisance so profound and gentle that he was

startled at first into an awkward imitation of

it himself, and then into an angry self-

examination. He knew that he loathed that

long-skirted, woman-like garment, that dang-

ling, ostentatious symbol, that air of secrecy

and mystery, and he inflated his chest above

his loosely tied cravat and unbuttoned waist-

coat with a contrasted sense of freedom.

Hut he was conscious the next day of weakly

avoiding a recurrence of this meeting, and in

his self-examination put it down to his self-

disciplined observance of his doctor's orders.

But when he was strong again and fitted for

his Master's work, how strenuously he should

improve the occasion this gave him of

attacking the Scarlet Woman among her

slaves and worshippers!

His afternoon meditations and the perusal

of his only book—the Bible—were regularly

broken in upon at about sunset by two or

three strokes from the cracked bell that hung

in the open belfry which reared itself beyond

the gnarled pear trees. He could not say

that it was aggressive or persistent like his

own church bells, nor that it even expressed

to him any religious sentiment. Moreover,

it was not a " Sabbath " bell but a daily one,

and even then seemed to be only a signal to

ears easily responsive, rather than a stern

reminder. And the hour was always a

singularly witching one.

It was when the sun had slipped from the

glaring red roofs, and the yellowing adobe of

the Mission walls and the tall ranks of wild

oats on the hillside were all of the one

colour of old gold. It was when the quivering

68

PEARSON'S MAGAZIXE.

Masterton's highly emotional nature, but

artistic inexperience, strangely enough, it was

profoundly impressive. The heavily timbered

roughly hewn roof, barred with alternate

bands of blue and Indian red, the crimson

hangings, the gold and black draperies,

affected this religious backwoodsman exactly

as they were designed to affect the heathen

and acolytes, for whose conversion the temple

had been reared. He could scarcely take his

eyes from the tinsel crowned Mother of

Heaven, resplendent in white and gold and

glittering with jewels; the radiant shield

before the Host, illuminated by tall spectral

candles in the mysterious obscurity of the

altar, dazzled him like the rayed disc of the

setting sun.

A gentle murmur as of the distant sea

came from the altar. In his naive bewilder-

ment he had not seen the few kneeling

figures in the shadow of column and aisle;

it was not until a man, whom he recognised

as a muleteer he had seen that afternoon

gambling and drinking in the fonda, slipped

by him like a shadow and sank upon his

knees in the centre of the aisle, that he

realised the overpowering truth.

He, Stephen Masterton, was looking upon

some rite of Popish idolatry! He was

turning quickly away when the keeper of the

Tienda—a man of sloth and sin—gently

approached him from the shadow of a

column, with a mute gesture, which he took

to be one of invitation. A fierce protest of

scorn and indignation swelled to his throat,

but died upon his lips. Yet he had strength

enough to erect his gaunt emaciated figure,

throwing out his long arms and extended

palms in the attitude of defiant exorcism and

then rush swiftly from the church. As he did

so he thought he saw a faint smile cross

the shopkeeper's face, and a whispered

exchange of words with a neighbouring

worshipper of more exalted appearance came

to his ears. But it was not intelligible to his

comprehension.

The next day he wrote to his doctor in

that quaint grandiloquence of written speech

with which the half-educated man balances

the slips of his colloquial phrasing:

Do not let the purgation of my flesh be unduly

protracted. What with the sloth and idolatries of

Baal and Ashteroth, which I see daily around me, I

feel that without a protest not only the flesh but the

spirit is mortified. But my bodily strength is

mercifully returning, and l found myself yesterday

able to take a long ride at that hour which they

here keep sacred for an idolatrous rite, under the

beautiful name of " The Angelus." Thus do they

bear false witness to Him! Can you tell me the

meaning of the Spanish words, " Don Keyhotter"?

I am ignorant of these sensuous Southern languages,

and am aware that this is not the correct spelling,

but l have striven to give the phonetic equivalent.

It was used, I am inclined to think, in reference to

myself, by an idolater.

P.S.—You need not trouble yourself. I have

just ascertained that the words in question were

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

69

The next evening he chanced upon a softer

hymn of the same simplicity, but with a vein

of human tenderness in its aspirations which

his more hopeful mood gently rendered. At

the conclusion of the first verse he was,

however, distinctly conscious of being

followed by the same twanging sound he had

heard on the previous night, and which even

his untutored ear could recognise as an

attempt to accompany him. But before he

had finished the second verse the unknown

player, after an ingenious but ineffectual essay

to grasp the right chord, abandoned it with

an impatient and almost pettish flourish, and

a loud bang upon the sounding board of the

unseen instrument. Masterton finished it

alone.

With his curiosity excited, however, he

tried to discover the locality of the hidden

player. The sound evidently came from the

Mission garden ; but in his ignorance of the

language he could not even interrogate his

Indian housekeeper. On the third night,

however, his hymn was uninterrupted by any

sound from the former musician. A sense

of disappointment, he knew not why, came

over him. The kindly overture of the unseen

player had been a relief to his loneliness.

Yet he had barely concluded the hymn when

the familiar sound again struck his ears. But

this time the musician played boldly,

confidently, and with a singular skill on the

nstrument.

The brilliant prelude over, to his entire

surprise and some confusion, a soprano \oice,

high, childish, but infinitely quaint and

fascinating, was mischievously uplifted. But

alas! even to his ears, ignorant of the

language, it was very clearly a song of levity

and wantonness, of freedom and license, of

coquetry and incitement! Yet such was its

' fascination that he fancied it was reclaimed

by the delightful childlike and innocent

expression of the singer.

Enough that this tali, gaunt, broad-

shouldered man arose, and overcome by a

curiosity almost as childlike, slipped into the

garden and glided with an Indian softness of

tread towards the voice. The moon shone

full upon the ruined Mission wall tipped with

clusters of dark foliage. Half hiding, half

mingling with one of them—an indistinct bulk

of light-coloured huddled fleeces like an

extravagant bird's nest—hung the unknown

musician. So intent was the performer's

preoccupation, that Masterton actually reached

the base of the wall immediately below the

figure, without attracting its attention. But

his foot slipped on the crumbling debris with

a snapping of dry twigs. There was a quick

little cry from above. He had barely time to

recover his position before the singer,

impulsively leaning over the parapet, had lost

hers, and fell outwards. But Masterton was

tall, alert, and self-possessed, and threw out

his long arms. The next moment they were

full of soft flounces, a struggling figure was

against his breast, and a woman's frightened

" The next moment they were full of soft flounces, a struggling figure was against his breast, and a woman's

frightened little hands around his neck."

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

it come. You creep so—in the dark and

shake my wall, and I fall. And she," point-

ing to the guitar, " it's a'most broke ! And

for all thees, I have only make to you a

serenade. Ingrate! "

" I beg your pardon," said Masterton

quickly, " but I was curious. I thought I

might help you, and "

" Make yourself another cat on the wall,

eh ? No ; one is enough, thank you ! "

A frown lowered on Masterton's brow.

" You don't understand me, ' he said, bluntly.

" I did not know who was here."

" Ah, bueno ! Then it is Pepita Ramirez,

you see," she said, tapping her bodice with

one little finger, " all the same ; the niece

from Manuel Garcia, who keeps the Mission

garden and lif there." And you ? "

" My name is Masterton."

" How mooch ? "

" Masterton," he repeated.

She tried to pronounce it once or twice

desperately, and then shook her little head so

violently that a yellow rose fastened over her

ear fell to the ground. But she did not heed

it, nor the fact that Masterton had picked it up.

"Ah, I cannot!" she said, poutingly.

" It is as deefeecult to make go as my guitar

with your serenade."

"Can you not say 'Stephen Masterton'?"

he asked, more gently, with a returning and

forgiving sense of her childishness.

" Es-stefen ? Ah, Esteban ! Yes; Don

Esteban! Bueno! Then, Don Esteban,

what for you sink so melank-olly one night,

and one night so fierce? The melank-olly,

he ees not so bad ; but the fierce—ah ! he is

weeked ! Ess it how the Americano make

always his serenade ? "

Maste/ton's brow again darkened. And

his hymn of exaltation had been mistaken by

these people—by this—this wanton child !

" It was no serenade," he replied, curtly;

"it was in praise of the Lord ! "

" Of how mooch ? "

" Of the Lord of Hosts—of the Almighty

in Heaven.'" He lifted his long arms

reverently on high.

" Oh! " she said, with a frightened look,

slightly edging away from the wall. At a

secure distance she stopped. " Then you are

a soldier, Don Esteban ?"

" No! "

" Then what for you sink ' I am a soldier

of the Lord, ' and you will make die ' in His

army.' Oh, yes; you have said." She

gathered up her guitar tightly under her arm,

shook her small finger at him gravely, and

said, " You are a hoombog, Don Esteban;

good a' night," and began to glide away.

" One moment, Miss—Miss Ramirez,"

called Masterton. " I—that is you—you

have—forgotten your rose," he added, feebly,

•holding up the flower. She halted.

" Ah, yes ; he have drop, you have pick

him up, he is yours. / have drop, you have

pick me up, but I am not yours Good a"

night, Comandante Don Esteban!"

With a light laugh she ran along beside the

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

eyes fell upon the yellow rose still lying in

the debris where he had thrown it—but still

pure, fresh and unfaded. He picked it up

again with a singular fancy that it was the girl

herself, and carried it into the house.

As he placed it half shyly in a glass

on his table, a wonderful thought occurred

to him. Was not the episode of

last night a special providence ? Was

not that young girl, wayward and

childlike, a mere neophyte in her

idolatrous religion, as yet unsteeped

in sloth and ignorance, presented to

him as a brand to be snatched

from the burning ? Was not

this the opportunity of conver-

sion he had longed for ? The

chance of exercising his gifts of

exhortation, that he had been

hiding in the napkin of solitude

and seclusion ? Nay, was not all

this predestined? His illness,

his consequent exile to this land

of false gods-—this contiguity to the

Mission—was not all this part of a

supremely ordered plan for the girl's

salvation—and was he not elected

and ordained for that service ? Nay,

more, was not the girl herself a

mere unconscious instrument in the

hands of a higher power; was not

her voluntary attempt to accompany

him in his devotional exercise a

vague stirring of that predestined

force within her ? Was not even

that wantonness and frivolity con-

trasted with her childishness—which

he had at first misunderstood—the

stirrings of the flesh and the spirit,

and was he to abandon her in that

struggle of good and evil ?

He lifted his bowed head that had

been resting on his arm before the

little flower on the table—as if it

were a shrine—with a flash of

resolve in his blue eyes. The

wrinkled Concepcion coining to her

duties in the morning scarcely recog-

nised her gloomily abstracted Master

in this transfigured man. He looked

years younger.

She met his greeting, and the few direct

inquiries that his new resolve enabled him to

make more freely, with some information—

which a later talk with the shopkeeper, who

She looked taller, older, and he fancied even prettier than before."

ten

had a fuller English vocabulary, confirmed in

detail.

" Yes ! trulv this was a niece of the

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

73

Mission gardener, who lived with her uncle

in the ruined wing of the old Presido. She

had taken her first communion four years

ago. Ah, yes, she was a great musician and

could play on the organ. And the guitar, ah,

yes—of a certainty. She was gay and flirted

with the Caballeros, young and old, but she

cared not for any."

Whatever satisfaction this latter statement

gave Masterton, he believed it was because the

absence of any disturbing worldly affection

would make her an easier convert.

But how continue this chance acquaintance

and effect her conversion ? For the first time

Masterton realised the value of expediency;

while his whole nature impelled him to

frankly and publicly seek her society and

openly exhort her, he knew that this was

impossible; still more he remembered her

unmistakable fright at his first expression of

faith; he must " be wise as the serpent and

harmless as the dove.'' He must work upon

her soul alone, and secretly. He. who

would have shrunk from any clandestine

association with a girl from mere human

affection, saw no wrong in a covert intimacy

for the purpose of religious salvation.

Ignorant as he was of the ways of the world,

and inexperienced in the usages of society, he

began to plan methods of secretly meeting

her with all the intrigue of a gallant. The

perspicacity, as well as the intuition of a true

lover, had descended upon him in this effort

of mere spiritual conquest.

Armed with his information and a few

Spanish words, he took the yellow Con-

cepcion aside and gravely suborned her to

carry a note to be delivered secretly to Miss

Ramirez. To his great relief and some

surprise the old woman grinned with intelli-

gence, and her withered hand closed with a

certain familiar dexterity over the epistle and

the accompanying gratuity. To a man, less

naively one-idead, it might have awakened

some suspicion; but to the more sanguine

hopefulness of Masterton it only suggested

the fancy that Concepcion herself might

prove to be open to conversion, and that

he should in due season attempt her salvation

also. But that would be later. For Concepcion

was always with him and accessible ; the girl

was not.

The note, which had cost him some labour

of composition, simple and almost business-

like as was the result, ran as follows :

I wish to see you upon some matter of grave

concern to yourself. Will you oblige me by coming

again to the wall of the Mission to-night, at early

candle light? It would avert worldly suspicion if

you brought also your guitar.

The afternoon dragged slowly on; Con-

cepcion returned; she had, with great difficulty,

managed to see the Senorita, but not alone;

she had, however, slipped the note into her

hand, not daring to wait for an answer.

In his first hopefulness Masterton did not

doubt what the answer would be, but as

evening approached he grew concerned as to

74

P2ARSO.VS MAGAZINE.

incongruity of the situation came over

him.

"I was looking for you on the wall," he

stammered.

" Madrc de Dios!" she retorted, wkh a

laugh and her old audacity, " you would that

I shall always hang there, and drop upon you

like a pear, when you shake the tree ? No!''

" You haven't brought your guitar," he

continued, still more awkwardly, as he

noticed that she held only a long black fan

in her hand.

" For why ? You would that I play it, and

when my uncle say ' Where go Pepita ? She

is loss, ' some one shall say, ' Oh ! I have

hear her tink-a-tink in the garden of the

Americano, who lif alone.' And then—it ess

finish ! "

Masterton began to feel exceedingly un-

comfortable. There was something in this

situation that he had not dreamed of. But

with the persistency of an awkward man he

went on :

'•But you played on the wall the other

night, and tried to accompany me."

" But that was lass night and on the wall.

I had not speak to you, you had not speak to

me. You had not sent me the leetle note

by your peon." She stopped, and suddenly

opening her fan before her face, so that only

her mischievous eyes were visible, added:

" You had not ask me then to come to hear

you make lof to me, Don Esteban. That is

the difference."

The Circuit Preacher felt the blood rush

to his face. Anger, shame, mortification,

remorse, and fear alternately strove with him,

but above all and through all he was con-

scious of a sharp exquisite pleasure—that

frightened him still more. Yet he managed

to exclaim:

" No! no ! You cannot think me capable

of such a cowardly trick ? "

The girl started, more at the unmistakable

sincerity of his utterance than at the words,

whose full meaning she may have only im-

perfectly caught.

"A treek ? A treek?" she slowly and

wonderingly repeated. Then suddenly, as

if comprehending him, she turned her round

black eyes full upon him and dropped her

fan from her face."

" And what for you ask me to come here

then ? "

"1 wanted to talk with you," he began,

"on far more serious matters. I wished

to " but he stopped. He could not

address this quaint child-woman, staring at

him in black-eyed wonder, in either the

measured or the impetuous terms with which

he would have exhorted a maturer respon-

sible being. He made a step towards her;

she drew back, striking at his extended hand

half impatiently, half mischievously with her

fan.

He flushed—and then burst out bluntly,

" I want to talk with you about your soul."

" My what ? "

A CONVERT OF THE MISSION.

75

affection he had so often preached to the

women of his flock ? He might have taken her

hand, and called her " Sister Pepita," even as

he had called Deborah " Sister." Me recalled

the fact that he had for an instant held her

strnggiing in his arms: he remembered the

thrill that the recollection had caused him,

and somehow it now sent a burning blush

across his face. He hurried back into the

house.

The next day a thousand wild ideas took

the place of his former settled resolution.

He would seek the Padre, this custodian of

the young girl's soul; he would convince him

of his error, or beseech him to give him

an equal access to her spirit! He would

seek the uncle of the girl, and work upon

his feelings.

Then for three or four days he resolved to

put the young girl from his mind, trusting

after the fashion of his kind for some special

revelation from a supreme source as an indica-

tion for his conduct. This revelation presently

occurred, as it is apt to occur when

wanted.

One evening his heart leaped at the familiar

sound of Pepita's guitar in the distance.

Whatever his ultimate intention now he

hurriedly ran into the garden. The sound

came from the former direction, but as he

unhesitatingly approached the Mission wall

he could see that she was not upon it, and

as the notes of her guitar were struck again,

he knew that they came from the other side.

But the chords were a prelude to one of his

own hymns, and he stood entranced as her

sweet child-like voice rose with the very

words that he had sung. The few defects

were those of purely oral imitation, the

accents, even the slight reiteration of the

•" s," were Pepita's own:

Cheeldren oof the Heavenly King,

As ye journey essweetly ssing;

Essing your great Redeemer's praise,

Glorioos is Hees works and ways.

He was astounded. Her recollection of

ihe air and words was the more wonderful,

for he remembered now that he had only

•sung that particular hymn once. But to

his still greater delight and surprise her

voice rose again in the second verse, with

a touch of plaintiveness that swelled his

throat:

We are travelling home to God,

In the way our farzers trod,

They are happy now, and we

Soon their happiness shall see.

The simple, almost childish words—so

childish that they might have been the fitting

creation of her own childish lips—here died

away with a sweep and crash of the whole

strings. Breathless silence followed in which

Stephen Masterton could feel the beatings of

his own heart.

" Miss Ramirez," he called, in a voice that

scarcely seemed his own. There was no reply.

" Pepita! " he repeated ; it was strangely

like the accent of a lover, but he no longer

76

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

swiftly skirting, and suddenly appeared

between her and her house.

Wiih her first cry, the young girl turned and

tried to bury herself in the hedge; but in

another stride the Circuit preacher was at her

side,and caught her panting figure in his arms.

While he had been running ha had swiftly

formulated what he should do and what he

should say to her. To his simple appeal for

her companionship and willing ear he would

add a brotherly tenderness, that should invite

her trustfulness in him; he would confess his

wrong, and ask her forgiveness of his abrupt

solicitations; he would propose to teach

her more hymns, they would practise psalmody

together; even this priest, the custodian of her

soul, could not ob-

ject to that; but

chiefly he would

thank her: he

would tell her how

she had pleased

him .and this would

lead to more

serious and

thoughtful con-

verse. All this

was in his mind

while he ran. wa.s

upon his lips as he

caught her, and

for an instant she

lapsed, exhausted,

in his arms. But,

alas ! even in that

moment he sud-

denly drew her to-

wards him, and

kissed her as only

a lover could.

* * »

The wire grass was already yellowing on

the Tasajasa plains with the dusty decay of

the long dry summer, when Dr. Duchesne

returned to Tasajasa. He came to see the

wife of Deacon Sanderson, who, having for

the twelfth time added to the population of

the settlement was not "doing as well" as

everybody—except, possibly, Dr. Duchesne

—expected. After he had made this hollow-

eyed, over-burdened, under-nourished woman

as comfortable as he could in her rude,

neglected surroundings, to change the dreary

chronicle of suffering, he turned to the hus-

band, and said, "And what has become of

Mr. Masterton, who used to be in your—voca-

tion?" A long groan came from the deacon.

" Hallo! I hope he has not had a relapse,"

said the Doctor, earnestly. '• I thought I'd

knocked all that nonsense out of him—I beg

yourpardon—I mean,"he added,hurriedly," he

wrote to me only a few weeks ago that he was

picking up his strength again and doing well!''

" In his weak, gross, sinful flesh—yes, no

doubt," returned the Deacon, scornfully,

" and, perhaps, even in a worldly sense, for

those who value the vanities of life; but he

is lost to us, for all time, and lost to eternal

A CONVERT OF THE .MISSION.

77

" He has entered the Church of Rome," said

the Deacon, indignantly, •' he has forsaken

the Gods of his fathers for the tents of the

" Didn't he find Stephen Masterton steeped in the iniquity of practising on an organ."

idolaters ; he is the consort of Papists and the

slave of the Pope !"

"But are you sure?" said Doctor Duchesne,

with perhaps less concern than before.

" Sure," returned the Deacon angrily,

" didn't Brother Bulkley, on account of

warning reports made by a God-fearing and

soul-seeking teamster, make a special pil-

grimage to this land of

Sodom to enquire and

spy out its wickedness.

Didn't he find Stephen

Masterton steeped in

the iniquity of prac-

tising on an organ—he

that scorned even a

violin or harmonium

in the tents of the Lord

— in an idolatrous

chapel, with a foreign

female Papist for a

teacher ? Didn't he

find him a guest at the

board of a Jesuit priest,

visiting the schools of

the Mission where this

young Jezebel of a

singer teaches the

children to chant in

unknown tongues?

Didn't he find him

living with a wrinkled

Indian witch whocalled

him " Padrone," and

speaking her gibberish.

Didn't they find him,

who left here a man

mortified in flesh and

spirit and pale with

striving with sinners,fat

and rosy from native

wines and flesh pots,

and even vain andgaudy

in coloured apparel ?

And last of all, didn't

Brother Bulkley hear

that a rumour was

spread farandwide that

this miserable back-

slider was to take to

himself a wife—in one

of these strange women

who seduced him?

—that very Jezebel

What do you call that ? "

" It looks a good deal like human nature,"'

said the Doctor, musingly, " but / call it a

cure!"
simple LONDON PUBLIC said, a longish time ago,

"I should so like a little drop, a drop of H2O;

I wouldn't waste the precious stuff, or treat it as a drug;

I only want a little drop to fill my little jug."

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

79

Two listeners of knowing mien thereat were seen to slink

Together round a corner, and to tip the artful wink;

And one was named the GOVERNMENT, PROTECTOR of the ClTS;

The other was a gentleman a-living by his wits.

"I fancy," said the GOVERNMENT, "the thing is rather snug—

You form a water company to fill his little jug:

/ shut my eye and gaily pass the bill that you prepare :

I hold my hand behind me thus: and in you pop a share.

PEA RSOX' S MA GA ZIXE.

To show the gentle PUBLIC that I've had a

stubborn fight

Defending of his interests and binding of you

tight,

And how I've lost a lot of blood and feel

exceeding faint,

} Be good enough to dabble me with vivid

crimson paint."

The COMPANY bedabbled him : there didn't seem to be

A single unassaulted spot on his anatomee :

The COMPANY was pinioned so with ligature and link

He couldn't even roll his eyes, or scratch himself, or wink.

A single little crumb of joy was all he had to cheer;

He kept it cuddled to his breast and wetted with a tear—

A tiny, microscopic thing, and difficult to see,

Yet very, very dear to him—his poor MONOPOLEE.

It was so singularly small, intangible, and shy,

And perfectly transparent to the ord1nary eye :

(And this is good for Enterprise, which never need despair—

The PUBLIC, seeing through a thing, believes it isn't there!)

"O, GOVERNMENT," the PUBI.IC said, "you are indeed a

friend

Devoid of all duplicity and mercenary end ! "

And then he shed a little tear, and gave

himself a hug

To think the kindly gentleman would fill

- his little jug.

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

And now the WATER COMPANY, arrange-

ments being ripe,

Scratched lightly with its finger-nail and laid a

little pipe;

I wonder how he'd possibly unearth it at a pinch—

It lay beneath the surface quite a quarter of

an inch ! i

"O, PUBLIC," said the COMPANY, "the time has come to pay;

I'll jot you down a little bill in quite a friendly way ;

You hand me firstly fifty pounds to pay tor your ' supply ' "—

But still the gentle PUBLIC found his little jug was dry.

" Supply," exclaimed the COMPANY, " is simply an

occult

And purely esoteric term involving no result.

It simply means 'domestic use'; and, if you come

to think,

It's not domestic use,'you know, to wash yourself

and drink."

vol. i.-e.
82-

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

That PUBLIC paid a-n extra rate—(he mas a simple chap!)—

For ev'ry cistern, gully, sink, and service-pipe, and tap :

And when he'd duly paid on them, the COMPANY arose

And counted all his pots and pails, and made him pay on those.

" O, PUBLIC," said the COMPANY, " I notice

you forgot

To say you had a buttercup a-grosving in a pot:

Your drawing-room, which harbours it, becomes

in point of fact

A rateable conservatory well within the Act."

He paid upon the garden which

rounded his abode ;

The COMPANY assessed him on the puddbs in the road ;

They made him pay an extra on the tear within his eye-

Yet, after all he'd gone and paid, his little jug was dry !

(To be continued.)
THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, OTTAWA.

A COLONIAL KING.

The Earl of Aberdeen, Governor-General of Canada : His Duties and: His Pleasures

at Ottawa,

HE passing of " the

British North

American Act,

1867," providing

for the voluntary

union of the whole

of British North

America into one

legislative con-

federation, made the Governor-Generalship

of the Dominion of Canada one of the most

important posts in the British Empire.

The conditions are unique in history.

This confederation of self-governing pro-

vinces which we call Canada, has a central

government, with its own cabinet, senate,

parliament, and supreme courts of law. Not

a shilling of British money finds its way to

Canada, and the home government does not

interfere in iis domestic affairs. Yet the

dominion is an integral part of the British

Empire, acknowledging the sovereignty of

the Queen, and nominally ruled by her

Majesty's Viceroy.

How much of the success of this novel

experiment in the history of colonization is

due to Lord Dufferin, the first Governor-

General, it would be difficult to say. A man

of such striking personality, such tact and

genius, while he overcomes the difficulties

inevitable in the experimental stages of such

an enterprise, raises a standard to which it is

difficult for all but the most brilliant of his

successors to conform.

Lord Dufferin's immediate successor was

the Marquis of Lome, who has been followed

by some of the ablest statesmen of the day.

Without reflecting on their ability it may be

said at once that Lord Aberdeen's regime at

Ottawa has already proved the most popular

since the Marquis of Dufferin quitted Rideau

Hall.

The Earl of Aberdeen began political life

a Conservative, but " the spirited foreign

pohcy " of Lord Beaconsfield's last adminis-

tration offended him, and he became a sup-

porter of Mr. Gladstone, with whom he has ever

since been on terms of intimate friendship.

I would not presume to guess how far this

conversion was due to the influence of his wife.

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

The Countess of Aberdeen may, however, rea-

sonably be suspected of a share in the work.

The daughter of the first Lord Tweed-

of Lord - Lieutenant of Ireland, and

showed, under circumstances of extreme

difficulty, an amount of tact and ability

•,"

THE EARL OF ABERDEEN.

From a Photograph by Bassano.

mouth, Lady Aberdeen can claim, through

her mother, to be of Irish as well as of Scotch

extraction. Herchildhood was spent

in a wild, lonely part of

Scotland, where she

lived a life that

was boyish

in its

heal thy

freedom.

At the age

of four-

teen she

first made

the a c -

quai nt-

ance of

her future

hero, Mr

Gladstone, and

she has remained

faithful to this hero-

worship ever since.

Under the short-lived Liberal Ministry

of 1886 Lord Aberdeen held the post

THE COUNTESS OF ABERDEEN.

Fitm a Photograph by Elliutl and Fry.

for which many had scarcely given him

credit. When Mr. Gladstone's Govern-

ment fell, Lord Aberdeen left

Ireland amid general regret,

A DISTANT VIEW OF OTTAWA

but he was from

that time

marked out

as a man to

be safely

trusted

with high

office, and

it excited

no sur-

prise when

he was chosen

to follow Lord

Stanley of Preston

in the vice-regal

duties at Ottawa.

It was not his first

connection with Canada.

He had been actively inte-

rested in the Colony since 1891, when he

bought a ranche of nearly seventeen thousand

M

Q
86

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

acres in British Columbia. Here he embarked

in farming and stock raising, exercising on a

very large scale the sound business principles

that have made his extensive estates at home

famous as the best managed lands in Scotland.

These things, added to his Scottish birth

—for Canada is almost more Scotch than

Scotland itself — prejudiced the Canadians

greatly in favour of

the new Governor-

General, and he and his

wife have done much

since to strengthen the

aitachment.

Ottawa is not the

town in Canada one

would naturally select

as the capital. True it

occupies a beautiful site

on a series of bluffs

overlooking the Ottawa

River, but until the mag-

nificent government

buildings were placed

there, the town con-

sisted of little more than

a collection of some-

what mean houses scat-

tered along the river.

The great cities were,

however, so jealous of

each other that it was

thought better to pass

them over, and the un-

pretentious citizens of

Oltawa were roused

from their semi-som-

nambulic existence to

sustain the dignity of

the seat of Govern-

ment. The benefits

that accrued to them

were neither tardy nor trivial. Men who had

been common labourers found themselves

rich men, as their rocky fields were trans-

formed into valuable plots by the building of

a capital.

The character of Ottawa society is what

one would expect it to be under the circum-

stances, and as it is by personal influence

and tact, rather than by assertion of authority,

that the Governor-General must attain his

ends—the ablest man will fail if he lacks

ready adaptability.

Lord Aberdeen has not failed. He has

learned the Canadians' love of flattery, and

they will be the last to find fault with him if

he uses it. The fact that he has thoroughly

identified himself with the Canadians as a

people, and that his large investments in the

LORD HADDO, LADY MARJORIE GORDON, AND HONS. DUDLEY AND

ARCHIBALD GORDON.

country give him and them a common interest

in its welfare, makes ihem trust him. But

the Canadians are fond of social festivity, and

the more entertaining there is at the Resi-

dence, the better the Canadians like the

Governor-General.
A COLONIAL KING.

Rideau Hall, the vice-regal residence, and

the hub of the Canadian social universe, is

about two miles from the city proper, an

unpretentious building straggling in a small

park. Here Lord and Lady Aberdeen dis-

pense their hospitalities with something of

the dignity of the Court at home.

At the beginning of the season an aide-de-

camp draws up a list of persons who are to be

honoured with season invitations to the

toboggan and skating parties. These are

given at stated intervals, and for the European

especially no more delightful entertainment

could be provided.

Innumerable torches and huge bonfires

line the toboggan slide and cast a weird light

over the lake : handsome sleighs drive up one

after the other bringing guests whose identity

is almost lost in the profusion of splendid

fur; servants in the gorgeous vice-regal liveries

are in attendance with coffee and bouillon,

and Nature provides the rest with splendid

ice for skating and curling, snow packed deep

and hard for the toboggan, and a clear, still

air that acts like champagne on the system.

The opening of Parliament is always a great

function in Ottawa, for it is performed with

much of the pomp and circumstance attending

the ceremony at home, when the Queen goes

in person to Westminster. Americans and

democratic Canadians are apt to sneer at

the "Gentleman Usher.of the Black Rod,"

and other emblems of Old World pageantry,

hut they are never tired of crowding to the

galleries to witness the sight.

On the floor of the house, immediately

facing the Governor-General's throne, the

ladies of the vice-regal court appear in full

dress, and hold a .sort of reception pending

the arrival of the Governor-General. The

hour having arrive:!, the great gates, which are

for the Queen's representative alone, swing

open to the Viceroy's state carriage, and with

his military staff in brilliant uniforms, his ser-

vants in liveries and powdered wigs, he drives

through amid the cheers of admiring crowds.

The speech from the throne is delivered

first in English and then in French, as many

representatives from Lower. Canada speak

only the latter language. This circumstance

may at first sight seem to indicate a sharp

division among Canadians : but as Lord

Aberdeen told the French people when

opening the Board of Trade offices at

Montreal, " what we need more than unity of

language is unity of purpose."

That there is any great divergence of aim

among Canadians I do not believe. They

are loyal to their own country and believe in

its future greatness, but they realise the

benefits that accrue to them from union with

the Empire, and are not inclined to throw

in their lot with the United States at the

bidding of a clique.

Lord Aberdeen is not the hero of popular

stories, as Lord Dufferin was, but there is one

characteristic anecdote that is not likely to be

forgotten. He was present at a Patti concert

given in Montreal, and at the close of th-:

He plunged forward on his face ar \

died without a struggle."

A DRAMATIC POINT.

BY ROBERT BARR.

IN the bad days of Balmeceda, when Chili

was rent in twain, and its capital was

practically a besieged city, two actors

walked together along the chief street of the

place towards the one theatre that was then

open. They belonged to a French dramatic

company that would gladly have left Chili if

it could, but, being compelled by stress of war

to remain, the company did the next best thing,

and gave performances at the principal theatre

on such nights as a paying audience came.

A stranger would hardly have suspected, by

the look of the streets, that a deadly war was

going on, and that the rebels—so called—

were almost at the city gates. Although

business was ruined, credit dead, and no

man's life or liberty safe, the streets were

filled with a crowd that seemed bent on

enjoyment and making the best of things.

As Jacques Dupre and Carlos Lemoine

walked together they conversed earnestly,

not of the real war so close'to their doors,

but of the mimic conflicts of the atage. M.

Dupre was the leading man of the company,

and he listened with the amused tolerance of

an elder man to the energetic vehemence of

the younger.

" You arc all wrong, Dupre," cried

Lemoine, " all wrong. I have studied the

subject. Remember I am saying nothing

against your acting in general. You know

you have no greater admirer than I am, and

that is something to say when the members

of a dramatic company are usually at logger-

heads through jealousy."

" Speak for yourself, Lemoine. You know

I am green with jealousy of you. You are

the rising star and I am setting. You can't

teach an old dog new tricks, Carl, my boy."

'• That's nonsense, Dupre. I wish you

would consider this seriously. It is because

you are so good on the stage that I can't

bear to see you false to your art, just to please

the gallery. You should be above all that."

" How can a man be above his gallery—

the highest spot in the house? Talk sense,

Carlos, and then I'll listen."

" Yes, you're flippant, simply because you

know you're wrong, and'dare not argue this

matter soberly. Now she stabs you through

the heart—

" No. False premises entirely. She says

something about my wicked heart, and

evidently intends to pierce that depraved

Copyright, 1895, in the United States of America by Roberk Barr.

A DRAMATIC POINT.

89

organ, but a woman never hits what she aims

at, and I deny that I'm ever stabbed through

the heart. Say in the region or the neigh-

bourhood of the heart, and go on with your

talk."

"Very well. She stabs you in a spot so

vital that you die in a few minutes. You

throw up your hands, you stagger against the

mantle-shelf, you tear open your collar and

then grope at nothing, you press your hands

on your wound and take two reeling steps

forward, you call feebly for help and stumble

against the sofa, which you fall upon, and,

finally, still groping wildly, you roll off on

the floor, where you kick out once or twice,

your clinched hand comes down with a thud

on the boards, and all is over."

il Admirably described, Carlos. Lord !

I wish my audience paid such attention to

my efforts as you do. Now you claim this

is all wrong, do you ? "

" All wrong." f

'• Suppose she stabbed you, what would

you do ?''

" I would plunge forward on my face—

dead."

" Great Heavens! What would become of

your curtain? "

" Oh, hang the curtain ! "

" It's all very well for you to maledict the

curtain, Carl, but you must work up to it.

Your curtain would come down, and your

friends in the gallery wouldn't know what

had happened. Now I go through the

evolutions you so graphically describe, and

the audience gets time to take in the

situation. They say, chuckling to them-

selves, ' that villain's got his dose at last, and

serve him right, too.' They want to enjoy

his struggles, while the heroine stands grimly

at the door taking care that he doesn't get

away. Then when my fist comes down

flop on the stage and they realize that I am

indeed done for, the yell of triumph that goes

up is something delicious to hear.''

" That's just the point, Dupre. I claim the

actor has no right to hear applause—that

he should not know there is such a thing as

an audience. His business is to portray life

exactly as it is."

" You can't portray life in a death scene,

Carl."

" Dupre", I lose all patience with you, or

rather I would did I not know that you are

much deeper than you would have us

suppose. You apparently won't see that I

am very much in earnest about this."

" Of course you are, my boy; and that is

one reason why you will become a very

great actor. I was ambitious myself once,

but as we grow older "—Dupre shrugged his

shoulders—" well, we begin to have an eye on

box office receipts. I think you sometimes

forget that I am a good deal older than you

are.''

" You mean that I am a fool, and that I

may learn wisdom with age. I quite admit

that you are a better actor than I am ; in fact

PEA RSOX' S MA GA ZINE.

" Very poor," replied the manager. " Not

half-a-dozen seats have been sold."

" Then it isn't worth while beginning ? "

" We must begin," said the manager,

lowering his voice, " the President has

ordered me not to close the theatre."

"Oh, hang the President!" cried Lemoine

impatiently. k Why doesn't he put a stop

to the war, and then the theatre would remain

open of its own accord."

" He is doing his best to put a stop to the

war, only his army does not carry out his

orders as implicitly as our manager does,"

said Dupre", smiling at the other's vehe-

mence.

" Balmeceda is a fool," retorted

the younger actor. " If he were

out of the way, the war would

not last another day. I believe

he is playing a losing game any- ' ^

how. It's a pity he hasn't to go ,

to the front himself, and then a

stray bullet might find him and

put an end to the war, which

would save the lives of many

better men."

" I say, Lemoine, I wish you

wouldn't talk like that," expostu-

lated the manager gently, "espe-

cially when there are so

many listeners."

"Oh! the larger my

audience, the better I like — ......

it," rejoined Lemoine.

" I have all an actor's vanity in

that respect. I say what I think,

and I don't c1re who hears me."

" Yes, but you forget that we

are, in a measure, guests of this

country, and we should not abuse

our hosts, or the man who repre-

sents them."

" Ah, does he represent them ?

It seems to me that begs the whole

question; that's just what the war is about.

The general opinion is that Balmeceda mis-

represents them, and that the country would

be glad to be rid of him."

" That may all be," said the manager

almost in a whisper, for he was a man

evidently inclined towards peace; " but it

does not rest with us to tay so. We are

French, and I think, therefore, it is better not

to express an opinion."

" I'm not French," cried Lemoine. " I'm

a native Chilian, and I have a right to abuse

my own country if I choose to do so."

" All the more reason, then," said the

manager, looking timorously over his shoulder

—"all the more reason that you should be

careful what you say."

" I suppose," said Dupre, by way of putting

an end to the discussion, " it

is time for us to get our war paint

on. Come along, Lemoine, and

lecture me on our common art,

and stop talking politics, if the

nonsense you utter about Chili

and its president is politics."

A DRAMATIC POINT.

fied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are

the only satisfied person in the house. I fell per-

fectly flat, as you suggested, and you must have

seen that the climax of the play fell flat also."

" Nevertheless,'" persisted Lemoine, stoutly,

" it was the true rendition of the part.''

As they were talking the manager came

into their dressing-room. " Good Heavens,

Dupre ! " he said, " why did you end the

piece in that idiotic way ? What on earth got

into you ?"

" The knife," said Dupre, flippantly. " It

went directly through the heart, and Lemoine

here, insists that when that happens a man

should fall dead instantly. I did it to please

Lemoine."

•'But you spoiled your curtain," protested

the manager.

" Yes, I knew that would happen, and I

told Lemoine so; but he insists on art for

art's sake. You must expostulate with

Lemoine, although I don't mind telling you

both frankly that I don't intend to die in that

way again."

" Well, I hope not," replied the manager.

" I don't want you to kill the play as well as

yourself, you know, DupreV"

Lemoine, whose face had by this time

become restored to its normal appearance,

retorted hotly:- —

" It all goes to show how we are sur-

rounded and hampered by the traditions of

the stage. The gallery wants to see a man

'lie all over the place, and so the victim has

to scatter the furniture about and make a fool

of himself generally, when he should quietly

succumb to a well deserved blow. You ask

any physician and he will tell you that a man

stabbed or shot through the heart collapses

at once. There is no jumping back business

in such a case. He doesn't play at leap-frog

with the chairs and sofas, but' sinks instantly

to the floor and is done for.'*

" Come along, Lemoine," cried Dupre,

putting on his coat, " and stop talking

nonsense. True art consists in a judicious

blending of the preconceived ideas of the

gallery with the actual facts of the case. An

instantaneous photograph of a trotting-horsc

is doubtless technically and absolutely

correct, yet it is not a true picture of the

animal in motion.''

'•' Then you anmit," said Lemoine, quickly,

" that I am technically correct in what I state

about the result of such a wound."

" I admit nothing." said Dupre. " I don't

believe you are correct in anything you say

about the matter. I suppose the truth is that

no two men die alike under the same circum-

stances."

" They do when the heart is touched."

" What absurd nonsense you talk. No two

men act alike when the heart is touched in

love, why then should they when it is touched

in death ? Come along to the hotel, and let

. us stop this idiotic discussion."

"Ah!" sighed Lemoine, " you will throw

your chances away. You are too careless,

Dupre", you do not study enough. This kind

92

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

disappearing down a back street. For a

moment he stood there as if dazed, then he

turned and ran as fast as he could, back to

the theatre again. hoping to meet a carriage

for hire on the

way. Arriving at

the theatre, he

found the lights

out, and the mana-

ger on the point

of leaving.

'" Lemoine has

been arrested,"

he cried; "arrested

by a squad of

soldiers whom we

met, and they

said they acted by

order of the Presi-

dent."

The manager

seemed thunder-

struck by the in-

telligence, and

gazed helplessly

at Dupre.

" What is the

charge ? " he said

at last.

" That I do not

know," answered

the actor. " They

simply said they

were acting under

the President's

orders."

"This is bad,

as bad as can be,"

said the manager,

looking over his

shoulder, and

speaking as if in

fear. " Lemoine

has been talking

recklessly. I never

could get him to

realise that he was

in Chili, and that

century had anything to do with a South

American Republic."

" You don't imagine," said Dupre", with a

touch of pallor coming into his cheeks,

" The scrjeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said : ' It is my duty to arrest you, Sir.' "

he must not be so

free in his speech. He always insisted that

this was the nineteenth century, and a man

could say what he liked; as if the nineteenth

" that this is anything serious. It will mean

nothing more than a day or two in prison

at the worst ? "

A DRAMATIC POINT.

93

The rtianager shook his head and said :—

" We had better get a carriage and see the

President as soon as possible. I'll undertake

to send Lemoine back to Paris, or to put him

on board one of the French ironclads. But

there is no time to be lost. We can

probably get a carriage in the square."

They found a carriage and drove as quickly

as they could to the residence of the

F'resident. At first they were refused

admittance, but, finally, they were allowed

to wait in a small room while their message

was taken to Balmeceda. An hour passed,

but still no invitation came to them from the

President. The manager sat silent in a

corner, while Dupre " paced up and down the

small room, torn with anxiety about his

friend. At last an officer entered, and

presented them with the compliments of

the President, who regretted that it was

impossible for him to see them that night.

The officer added, for their information, \)y

order of the President, that Lemoine was to

be shot at daybreak. He had been tried by

court-martial and condemned to death for

sedition. The President regretted having

kept them waiting so long, but the court-

martial had been sitting when they had

arrived, and the President thought that per-

haps they would be interested in knowing

the verdict. With that the officer escorted

the two dumb-founded men to the door>

where they got into their carriage without a

word. The moment they were out of ear-

shot the manager said to the coachman :—

" Drive as quickly as you can to the

residence of the French Minister/'

Everyone at the French Legation had re-

tired when these two panic-stricken men

reached there, but after a time the secretary

consented to see them, and, on learning the

seriousness of the case, he undertook to

arouse his Excellency, and learn if anything

could be done.

The Minister entered the room shortly

after, and listened with interest to what they

had to say.

"You have your carriage at the door?"

he asked, when they had finished their

recital.

" Yes."

" Then I will take it and see the President

at once. Perhaps you will wait here until I

return."

Another hour dragged its slow length

along, and they were well into the second

hour before the rattle of wheels was heard

in the silent street. The Minister came in,

and the two anxious men saw by his face

that he had failed in his mission.

" I am sorry to say," said his Excellency,

" that I have been unable even to get the

execution postponed. I did not understand

when I undertook the mission, that M.

Lemoine was a citizen of Chili. You see

that fact puts the matter entirely out of my

hands. I am powerless. I could only advise

the President not to carry out his intentions;

« /.T"i

• ?

7A

" My God !—You were right—after all."

A DRAMATIC POINT.

'95

" I knew you would come if that old

scoundrel of a President would allow you in,

of which I had mv doubts. How did you

manage it? "

"The French Minister got us a permit."

said Dupre.

'•Oh, you went to him, did you? Of

course he could do nothing, for, as I told

you, I have the misfortune to be a citizen

of this country. How comically life is made

up of trivialities. I remember once, in Paris,

going with a friend to take the oaih of

allegiance to the French Republic.''

" And did you take it ? " cried Dupre

eagerly.

" Alas, no ! We met two other friends

and we all adjourned to a cafe and had

something to drink. I little thought that

bottle of champagne was going to cost me

my life, for, of course, if I had taken the

oath of allegiance, my friend, the French

Minister, would have bombarded the city

before he would have allowed the execution

to go on."

" Then you know to what you are con-

demned,'' said the manager, with tears in his

eyes.

" Oh, I know that Balmeceda thinks he is

going to have me shot, but then he always

was a fool, and never knew what he was

talking about. I told him if he would

allow you two in at the execution, and instead

of having a whole squad to fire at me,

order one expert marksman, if he had such a

thing in his whole army, to shoot me through

the heart, that I would show you, Dupre, how

a man dies under such circumstances, but

the villain refused. The usurper has no soul

for art, or for anything else, for that matter.

I hope "ou two won't mind my death. I

assure you I don't mind it myself. I would

much rather be shot than live in this con-

founded country any longer. But I have

made up my mind to cheat old Balmeceda

if I can, and I want you, Dupre, to pay par-

ticular attention, and not to interfere."

As Lemoine said this he quickly snatched

from the sheath at the soldier's side the

bayonet which hung at his hip. The soldiers

were standing one to the right, and one to

the left of him, with their hands interlaced

over the muzzles of their guns, whose butts

rested on the stone floor. They apparently

paid no attention to the conversation that

was going on, if they understood it, which

was unlikely. Lemoine had the bayonet

in his hands before either of the four men

present knew what he was doing.

Grasping both hands over the butt of the

bayonet, with the point towards his breast, he

thrust the blade with desperate energy nearly

through his body. The whole action was

done so quickly that no one realised what had

happened until Lemoine threw his hands up

and they saw the bayonet sticking in his

breast. A look of agony came in the

wounded man's eyes, and his lips whitened.

He staggered against the soldier at his right,

>|«v 4 Jj4 love WITH A&TATIONC

-~>

\V £

WAS 5IUID

WITH A PASSION FOR

SOCKS

THFV'D <^OT HOLES

IN THE
f

THERE is no more deserving pole than

the South Pole, though it has been

treated with inexcusable neglect,

while gross favouritism has been shown to

the North Pole. Now that the British

Association has tardily recommended that

justice should be done to the South Pole

by means of an Antarctic expedition, there

is a possibility that it will be discovered

before any explorer succeeds in reaching its

northern rival.

Nobody seems to have thought of the

curious experiences which will happen to

the successful captain who reaches the pole.

Naturally he will be eager to stand on the

precise spot which his observations prove to

be the extremity of the earth's

axis, while his subordinates will,

of course, stand round him at

a respectful distance. The

moment the captain places

himself at the pole, his per-

sonal axis will coincide

with the axis of the

earth, and he will im-

mediately begin to re-

s. i,^ volve. His attendants will

i V VI circle around him like so

'" *V

*•- ' many satellites, and will have

their days and nights, their phases, and other

astronomical characteristics. The commander

will be liable at almost any moment to be

eclipsed by an ordinary seaman, or to be

forced into occultatiqn. with a midshipman.

Whether this sort of. thing will please a

captain who is a strict disciplinarian may be

doubted. At any rate, an irascible first

lieutenant, who finds himself only in his first

Vol. 1.—7.

quarter, while a junior lieutenant is far

advanced in his second quarter, and has

waxed nearly full, will be disposed to think

that the service is in a very bad way. But

what will especially trouble the navigating

officer will be the fact that he will find himself

in no longitude whatever, for at the pole all the

meridians coalesce, and, so to speak, vanish.

When he takes his observations he will be

compelled to report to the captain that the

expedition is in latitude 90°, but that he has

failed to find the smallest particle of longitude.

Perhaps he will be able to induce a modern,

scientifically educated officer to believe that

this is the correct position, but any captain

of fifty years ago to whom such a report had

been made, would at once have put the

navigating officer under arrest for want of

respect to his superior.

It is all very well for an ambitious naval

officer to desire to discover the pole, but

when he does discover it he will probably be

moved to speak of it in language such as the

boldest blasphemer has never yet ventured to

apply to the equator. Though, on the other

hand, if he is like the average officer of the

French navy, a learned mathematician and

mechanical engineer, sprinkled wiih a little

salt water, he may joyfully revel in the scientific

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Lombroso and Nordau. For example,

scientific people demonstrated that no man

can throw a ball so as to compel it to make

a horizontal curve; but in point of fact this

is done every day by the American baseball

pitcher.

Also it was proved scientifically that no

boat propelled by sails could possibly sail

faster than the wind, but every winter the

American ice-boats sail at the rate of, say,

thirty miles an hour, with a beam wind blow-

ing at the rate of twenty miles an hour.

Only a few years ago scientific theorists told

us that no man could ride ten miles on a

bicycle without expending as much force as

he would expend in walking the same dis-

tance, but millions of bicyclists have de-

molished this theory.

In the light of facts like these the wise

man cannot but distrust the theories of

science. Some of them may be true, but

who can say which are true and which are

destined to be overthrown. I have my

doubts as to the theory of gravitation. As

everyone has been told ad nauseam, it was

invented by Sir Isaac Newton, to account

for the fact that while he was lying on

the ground an apple fell and hit him on the

head.

Suppose that he had lived in the days

when crinoline was worn,

and that he had trodden

on p. discarded crinoline,

which had flown up and

hit him on the nose.

'I have little doubt that

he would at once have

invented a theory of the

existence of a force of

levitntion, in accordance with which things fly

up and hit scientific persons in the face.

I see from the cycling papers that some-

one has just invented a pair of braces by

which a cyclist can pull himself up hill. This

is the first step towards the demolition of the

theory that no man can lift himself by the

waistband of his trousers.

*««•*#

THEP.E are various theories to account

for the existence of crime. Accord-

ing to one of these, all crime is the

result of the consumption of beer, wine, and

spirits. According to another, it is the result

of reading " panny dreadfuls." The small

boy in a state of innocence reads a penny

dreadful, and instantly goes out and steals

something, or lies in wait for

his school-teacher and toma-

hawks him.

This theory will not bear

a moment's examination.

The penny dreadful does not

corrupt our boys, for the

reason that long before they

learn to read, they have been

hopelessly and utterly cor-

rupted by the atrocious literature

nursery.

Our infants are hardly out of their cradles

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

99

PROFESSOR LOMBROSO has appar-

ently never heard of the penny

dreadful. At any rate, he explains

the existence of criminals by asserting that

they are born, not made. He claims to have

discovered that there are two distinct species

of men, the virtuous and the vicious, and

these are distinguished one from the other

by certain physical characteristics. The two

species have intermingled, but there is a

constant tendency to revert to the original type.

According to this theory, education and

environment have nothing to do with the

making of criminals. If a child is born with

the physical characteristics

of the criminal species, a

criminal he will be, in spite

of Board Schools and birches.

If a man has a dishonest nose

he is irresistibly impelled to

steal. If he has homicidal

back teeth he- is certain to be

a murderer. If he has pre-

varicating hair he will tell lies, and if he has

the requisite sort and quantity of ears he will

doubtless become an eminent criminologist.

Professor Lombroso's theory is attracting

a good deal of attention, but in the opinion

of many sensible persons it deserves to rank

with palmistry and phrenology. Personally,

I should look with suspicion upon any

scientific theory propounded by Lombroso,

for the reason that he is a socialist of the

school which believes that, in all matters of

government and political economy, two and

two make three, and that it is the mission of

socialism to compel two and two to make

five. If a man can neither observe nor

interpret facts that are patent to every in-

telligent man, I doubt his capacity to observe

correctly, and interpret intelligently, the facts

of criminology, granting that such a science

exists.

There is really less to be said in support

of Lombroso's theory of the origin of crime

than there is in support of the theory that

crime is a matter of hair. Has Lombroso

never observed that the Whitechapel "rough"

invariably cuts his hair close to his head, and

that when a woman becomes a professional

reformer, she never fails to abandon long

hair? Do not these facts conclusively show

the close connection between short hair and

crime ?

And has not Lombroso noticed that long

hair is universal among his fellow socialists

and anarchists ? What better proof could he

wish to have that Socialism and Anarchism

are the result of wearing long hair. These

arguments are quite as powerful as many of

those brought forward by Lombroso in

support of his own theory that in addition to

minor poets, criminals of all sorts are born

and not made. Let him test my theory by

cutting his hair short, and I will undertake to

prophesy that he will find his socialistic

views rapidly slipping away from him.

* * « * *
100

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

compelled to buy it or borrow it. All he

had to do was to go to Heliopolis, and spend

a few hours each day reading the four sides

of the two obelisks. A score of readers could

enjoy the work at the same time without

interfering with one another, and there was

not ths least danger that the obelisk would

become dog-eared, or be soiled by the

thumbs of careless readers. However, I do

not recommend our publishers to issue

granite obelisks, for they would not be suited

to the climate. Neither can the time-

honoured Chinese custom, of publishing

novels in tea-chest form, be adopted by a

civilized nation. The distinguishing charac-

teristic of civilised man is his possession of

pockets, and he insists upon having his

literature in such a shape that he can carry it

in his pocket.

« * « » *

THERE is, however, no reason why we

should not return to the old Greek

and Roman custom of publishing

books in the shape of rolls. A roll would be

easier to hold than a book, the pages of which

must be held apart with both hands, unless one

wishes to break the binding by holding the

book with one hand. Then, too, the roll

would be smaller, and lighter than a book,

for it would have no cover, and very little

margin, and there would be no room for the

impertinent advertisements which the pub-

lisher usually adds as a rider to every book

published by him.

The roll would be admirably adapted for

the pocket, and by simply putting a little

paste on the end of it, and

making it temporarily into a

solid cylinder, it could be used

by the housewife for the pur-

pose of rolling pastry. Further-

more, if the roll were printed

ion only one side, it could be

converted into wall-paper, and

the enthusiastic admirer of Kipling or

Meredith could paper his library with the

works of his favourite author.

And then what a sense of the fitness of

things there would be in reading a classic

author in the shape of a roll! No man will

ever thoroughly appreciate Horace by reading

him in the anachronistic form of a bound

book; whereas, to read Horace in the shape

of a roll, especially if one should put on

sandals and a toga at the same time, would

be sure to reveal beauties which have hitherto

escaped our notice.

* * * • •

IT is all very well for the Advanced

Woman to write novels, the theme of

which is the infinite superiority of

woman to man. But why, if her creed is

true, does she not write novels from which

the masculine element is strictly excluded ?

Men have written novels in which there is

not the slightest rustle of a skirt, and have

made them absorbingly interesting, but man's

worst feminine foe cannot write a readable

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

101

" advise " " davise ; " " this " " tihs; " and

" that " " taht." Of course many operators

make mistakes in spelling, either through

ignorance or carelessness; but this tendency

of the machine to spell backwards is a

different matter, and one which the most

careful operator can never fully control.

A distinguished scientific person tells me

that nature intended that all men should

write from right to left after the manner of

Oriental nations, and that the type-writing

machine, not being subject to our inherited

prejudice for writing from left to right,

spells backward in the effort to write in the

natural way.

I doubt this explanation, and prefer to

believe that the peculiar spelling to which

the type writing machine is addicted is due

to a desire on its part to indulge in original

composition. I find that if I allow my

machine to write to please itself, while I act

simply as its amanuensis, it spells correctly,

though the writing which it produces is some-

what obscure. Recently I

allowed it to write a sentence,

and this is what it wrote:'

•' The intrinsic pig hastens

with yellow cries to the thick

inlet of the milky brick.''

I did not feel sure whether

the sentence was prose or

poetry, but I showed it to a

friend who is a leading

Theosophist, and he assured

me that it was evidently a

fragment of Sanskrit philosophy, and that

its esoteric meaning made it unspeakably

precious. I have since learned that an

eminent poet—that is to say, he is eminent

in his own family circle—does all his work

with a type-writing machine, and I feel

reasonably sure that it is the machine which

really writes his verses, while he merely assists

it by touching the keyboard.

'SHE IS AWAKENED."

THE VOICE OF LOVE.

A DRAWING-ROOM COMEDY, BY WALTER BESANT AND WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

PAUL PERIGAL.

CLAUDE FORRESTER.

LILIAN TRAVERS.

JANE [Servant).

Morning Room. Table with breakfast laid—newspapers—playbills—over a chair hangs a

great poster with red letters. LILIAN discovered with a book. While she speaks she walks

about the room—sits down—walks about again—-always studying the words of the book

between her own words.

LILIAN. I cannot get the words. They dance before my eyes. I ought to have been

word-perfect long ago, too. And if I do get them, some of them seem such

The six plays which are to be published month by month in these pages are designed especially for

private theatricals ; they will require no other scenery than can be arranged in a room ; in fact, the scene

will always be laid in a room. The authors are firmly persuaded that in a drama the situations—the story

and its development—should be the first and most important care ; the dialogue should come next. It

should be natural, simple for the most part, and strong. When that most prolific of dramatists, Alexander

Hardy, prepared a play, he arranged the situations, tableaux, scenes, and acts, and gave them to the

players, who filled in the dialogue for themselves. A play without action, which depends wholly on the

dialogue, is not a play: it is a written dialogue. The " words," subject to the necessary exaggeration of the

stage, must be such as suit at every stage the characters and the scenes. There must be no straining

after epigram; if there should be fun or humour, or a rippling vein of laughter, it must be such as to

seem suggested by the situation, and entirely suitable to the characters on the stage.

These plays, then, are offered as essentially comedies of the drawing-room; they may be studied by

an impromptu company, resolved upon and learned one day, rehearsed the next, and played the day after.

One or two are versions of stories already published, which may or not be known to the audience. It

is hardly necessary to explain their origin in the play bill; but it will be acknowledged when the play is

not original in these pages.—W. B.—W. H. P.

Copyright, 1895, in the Vnited States 'of America by II'. Besant and II'. H. Pollack.
THE VOICE OF LOVE.

103

dreadful nonsense. Why, oh why, did the Professor choose such a part as Juliet

for my first appearance : (Repeating woodenly.)

" Give me my Romeo, and when he shall die

Take him and cut him out in little stars.

(Repeats absurdly " Cut him out in little stars.")

And he shall make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun."

Now how is a poor girl to say those words seriously ? The Professor is

always telling me that it's the voice of love. If it is, the voice of love says

very odd things. " Remember, child," dear old Daddy continually tells me,

" remember, do remember, that you are Juliet, and that you love Romeo." Well,

what of that ? I love the dear old Daddy, but goodness knows I don't want to cut

him out in little stars! Oh, dear, what curious constellations he would make! He

ought to be down to his breakfast by now, dear old Daddy! I suppose he was

la-e last night. Now that he no longer acts himself there is nothing he loves so

much as seeing other people act, which is the more curious because he says that

nobody can act nowadays. I wish he had carried his theory into practice with

regard to Juliet and poor me. But he wouldn't—he was as determined as he could

be. His old friend Mr. Conyers, the manager of the Parnassus, wanted a Juliet,

and that Juliet I was to be. " My dear child," he said, " you have every

qualification for the part," and then he added rather in an Irish fashion, " and

those qualifications you have not got, my dear, I will give you." Well, if he can

make me speak those lines and not seem a fool he will do wonders. (Looking at

book again.) No, they puzzle me completely. Suppose I looked at the paper for

a change. (Looking IItrough paper.) Last Night in Parliament—The Jericho

Mission — Theatre Royal Parnassus. Oh, dear,

shall I never get away from that ? " On

Wednesday, the i6th of June, this theatre will

re-open with a performance of Romeo and

Juliet. The merits of Mr. Godfrey's

Romeo are already known and are sure

to command attraction. The interest

of the occasion will be enhanced by

the appearance of a new actress as

Juliet. Miss Lilian Travers is a pupil

of Mr. Paul Perigal, who has been her

guardian since the death of her parents

a few years ago. We hear great things

of the debutante's powers. Her master's

name alone will ensure for her an

indulgent audience." Indulgent! Yes,

I daresay—especially if I stumble over

my train in the ball-room scene. I

wish I could forget it. Let me look

at something else. This poster with

the red letters. (Holds it up.) JULIET.

Miss LILIAN TRAVERS. That's a cheer-

ful sort of thing to look at, isn't it?

Here's the morning paper. The War

in the Soudan. Why, that is where

" .My dcnr

child, you ha*e

every qual.fica-

tion for the

pa.t."
I- 4

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

" The apple blossoms were out."

dear old Claude has gone. When was it he came to say good-bye to me?

Four years ago in this very month of May—in the orchard at my dear father's

parsonage—the apple blossoms were out. Four years ago ! I was fourteen—the

very age of Juliet—he had just got his commis-

sion, and his regiment was going abroad. I

wonder if he has remembered me—I wonder.

Well, it is no use thinking or wondering about

the old days. (Throws down paper i:?ireai1.)

I have my way to make, and my part to learn.

Let me try if I cannot please Daddy this

morning. (Takes book and walks about, repeating

lines to herself.)

(PERIGAL, a retired actor, old-fashioned,

courtly; got up with wig and dressing-gown

and juvenile air—but evidently an old man, etc.,

enters as she recites.)

" Good father, I beseech you on my knees

Hear me with patience but to speak a woid!"

(Seeinff him.)

I needn't go on my knees to you, Daddy, need I,

to say Good morning?

PERIGAL (kissing her). No, no—my dear—no. Hard at work

already, I see—good child—good child. We'll have

our little rehearsal directly—if, my dear, you are equal

to the exertion. It is but three weeks now to the eventful night—and that is not a

bit too much.

LILIAN. No, dear, indeed. I only wish it was further off still—out of sight altogether.

PERIGAL. My child, my child! we must not lose courage. Remember we have our duties

to Art—yes, and to the British Public too. We must do our very best to fulfil them.

LILIAN. Yes, dear, and indeed I will do my best, though I feel my duty to you much

more than I do to Art and the British Public put together.

PERIGAL. There are some who will tell you that the two are not always allied ; but take an

old actor's word for it that the Public is the best critic when all's done.

LILIAN. Then I hope, Daddy, they'll be kind to me. What did you do with yourself

yesterday ?

PERIGAL. I attended two rehearsals in the morning; I assisted at a matinee, so called

because it was given in the afternoon; I had my modest little dinner at the club,

and then, of course, I went on to the new play at the Haymarket.

LILIAN. Was it good ?

PERIGAL. Good ? Yes; from some points of view. The new school of actors possess

purpose, ambition, youth, fire, talent—but

LILIAN. What does that ominous but mean. Daddy ?

PERIGAL. It means, my dear, that they are wanting in—that they have not precisely caught

—that they fail to acquire—that, in short, they are

LILIAN. Not of the old school, eh, Daddy ? Isn't that about it ?

PERIGAL. Well, well, my dear—I daresay you are right. A lttres temps, autres mccurs—I

cannot forget their predecessors. Ah—there are few of the vieille garde left now.

And if I were put up in Richard the Third to-morrow

LILIAN. All the town would flock to see you.

PERIGAL. No—child—no. (Sorrowfullv.) Once, perhaps, they might. Once—Icng

ago. But it's no use dwelling on old memories.

THE VOICE OF LOVE.

105

LILIAN {Half aside). No, Daddy, it's no use.

PERIGAL. We must deal with the present—we must welcome genius and talent, even if

they take a shape new and strange to us. And that, my child, is what I hope from

you.

LILIAN. Yes, I am to blend the old and the new, am I not ? To join your experience

to my inspiration. (PERIGAL nods.) Only in this part at least I don't see where

to find the inspiration.

PERIGAL. Perhaps that will come—meanwhile let us have breakfast. (Takesposter off the

chair and holds itup.) What do you think of it, fair Juliet ?

LILIAX. I hate it. Put it out of my sight.

(LILIAN rings—servant brings in dishes, etc.)

LILIAX. Oh, Daddy, I was nearly forgetting. What do you think Jane tells me ? A

young gentleman called this morning soon after nine, and asked to see me, and

when he was told I was engaged, said he would come back and it didn't matter

about his name.

My dear, when

have plenty of

who dare to call

PERIGAL. A young gentleman—

you have made your success

such impertinent calls from

themselves gentlemen, and

pared for that.

you have even

LILIAN. I suppose

graph I have

(Gives him news-

PERIGAL (Heads paragraph

pose it may be so

not forgotten yet!

to at once.

young gentleman

calls again, show

my study •— you

JANE (who has entered to

PERIGAL. I'll soon settle

I never heard. If

it shall be over

through oceans of

I'm not a bit.

What do you think of

it, fair Juliet?"

already ?

you will

people

you may as well be pre-

Eut, already ! Before

appeared !

it is that dreadful para-

just been reading.

paper^,

out with delight). I sup-

—Paul Perigal's name is

But this must be put a stop

(Ringing.) Jane ! If the

who was here this morning

him in to me in

understand.

bell). Yes, sir. (Exit]\m.)

him. Greater impudence

he gets to you, my dear,

my prostrate corpse,

LILIAN.

PERIGAL.

But who can it be ?

gore. Don't be alarmed.

I don't know any young gentlemen.

No, my dear; and when the time comes for more such young gentleman to
1o6

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

LILIAN.

PERIGAL

LILIAN.

PERIGAL

young officer wno performed the brilliant deed of rescuing, single-handed, a

wounded man from a party of five Arab assailants under a heavy fire from the Arab

lines. I now learn that it was Mr. Claude Forrester, of the Life Guards. It is a

marvel that Mr. Forrester was not killed instead of being, as I believe he is,

invalided home for the present. No doubt in such a matter as this valour will find

its just recompense."

Dear old Claude! Fancy his doing that! But, of course, can we fancy his

doing anything else ?

Yes—yes—a fine fellow—a very fine fellow-—I should like to know him. But

now, child, to business. Everything is arranged for a rehearsal for you two days

hence. And I have ordered this poster—that you don't like. It will be stuck up

all over London.

Oh, Daddy, don't!

My child, I don't like it any more than you do—in my days one line in the bills

was enough—Shylock, by Mr. Paul Perigal—but we must move with the times—we

must move with the times. And talking of moving, let us see how we are

getting on with our steps for the ball- ., | room scene. Now, then, I am Capulet--

You are welcome,

A hall! A hall!

(He takes a fiddle and

her. Shedancescor-

PERIGAL. Yes, child, that

very nicely.

moment, take

and we will

(As she sits

again PERI-

Poorchild,

we to do ! I

about her

so much to

bring her out

Juliet? Well

everything

except one

of which I

LILIAN.

PERIGAL.

LILIAN.

PERIGAL.

LILIAN.

PERIGAL.

LILIAN.

Come, musicians, play—

Give room and foot it, girls.

goes through a few steps with

redly but without animation.)

will do very nicely—

And now just a

a last look at the book,

go on to the words—

down and takes up book

GAL continues aside)

poor child—what are

am dreadfully afraid

success, and it means

her! Why didn't I

in comedy instead of

— because she has

that the part wants

little thing — the want

did not foresee—pas-

passionless Juliet !

One might as well have a benevolent Mcphistopheles—perhaps the new school will
THE VOICE OF LOVE.

107

PERIGAL. That's nothing. I'll tell you child, what an actress is. An actress is a woman

who knows all the wakings of the heart and can call them up at will to delight, to

dazzle, to enthral, to terrify the audience on whose inmost feelings she plays as a

violinist plays on his magic strings. She is a lovely picture, but a picture that is always

changing, because there is no pause in the tide of human passion. She is a mirror

in which her audience see their own images or the images of what they would like

to be. She inspires men to great deeds; she holds them back from what is mean

and vile. She makes them weep and laugh at will; she is greater than the greatest,

because, while others may command men's actions, she alone can sway their inmost

thoughts and emotions responsive to every tone of her voice. And do not you

believe them, child, when they tell you that the player's career is but a brilliant bubble,

forgotten as soon as its short time is done. No, child, the great player's memory is

imperishable—it is preserved in material areperennius—more lasting than any metal—

for it is written in the human heart. And that, Lilian, is what it is to be an actress.

LILIAN. Oh, Daddy, it frightens me—I shall never be able to do all that.

PERIGAL. Nonsense, child, you have it all in you, I know. The difficulty is to get at it,

and that is what I have got to do if I can. Now, let us take Act II., Scene V.

This chair is the window—I am Romeo—and remember what the situation is.

Juliet is in love—nay, more, she is loved, and she cannot bear to be parted from her

lover—there must be passion in every breath. Now try. Wilt thou be gone ?

LILIAN. Wilt thou be gone ? It is not yet near day

It was the nightingale and not the lark

That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.

Nightly she sings in the pomegranate tree—

Believe me, love, it was the nightingale—

PERIGAL (Starting with impatience]. No — no — no! That'll never do. It's not at all

like it. Juliet is in love ! Shall I never make

you understand what that means ? Try again,

see if you cannot get a little tremor of

emotion into your speech

(Lilian repeals first two lines again.)

PERIGAL (Jumps about). No — no — worse and

worse. There's no love in a wobbling

voice—

LILIAN (Sits down in despair). I wish there was

no such thing as the love you talk so

much about in the world !

PERIGAL. Poor child—poor child—forgive me

for being impatient. After all, hosv

should you know what the voice of Love

means ?

LILIAN. Well, Daddy, it's only too clear that

I don't. How am I to learn ?

PERIGAL. How, indeed ? — How can you bs

taught ? Love, my dear, is extravagant

in its words, just because words are too

poor to express it—a spendthrift of base

coinage. What can I tell you of love ?

Love turns a woman into a goddess—how

T . . ' " Oh, Daddy, it frightens me—I shall never be able

I remember thirty or, by r lady, thirty- to do ail that.'

1o8

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

"Pray forgive this intrusion, sir."

five years ago, when love turned a

woman into a goddess for me—and the

transportation had its ready reason.

Who would care for a mere woman

when he can worship a goddess ? What

a time it was—when one was young

enough for the divine exaltation of love !

That is it—only the young who still feel

it can explain it.—There must be plenty

of young fellows who would be glad to

expound the mystery to you ! If one

could but find one of the right stam])!

If a kindly chance would but drop one

from the clouds ! One from the clouds !

LILIAN. Dear old Daddy ! You are actually

crying for the moon !

QANE'S and FORRESTER'S voices heard outside.)

(FORRESTER'S voice outside.) Of course you are

quite right—always obey orders—rule of

the service; but there are exceptions—

this is one — Mr. Perigal will forgive

you

What is all this ?

LILIAN.

JANE (opening door). If you please, sir, the young gentleman—he would come in.

PERIGAL (running to dour). He shall come in through my body, then. My sword, Lilian—•

or the poker!

CLAUDE (entering). Pray forgive this intrusion, sir ; I am sure you will when Lilian !

LILIAN (seeing him). Claude! You dear old boy ! Daddy, it's Claude !

PERIGAL. So I gathered from your first remark. May I ask, sir

CLAUDE. Certainly, sir. I am Claude Forrester. I am—or rather was—Miss Travers'

kind of a cousin, and I am only just back from foreign service. I discovered from

a paragraph in a newspaper that Miss Travers was your ward and pupil. So I

ventured to come here.

LILIAN. Oh, Claude, of course you did !

PERIGAL. Yes, yes—of course he did. (Aside while L. and C. talk.) Of course he did.

Now let us see. What if this should be the answer to my wish ? The young

fellow dropped from the clouds! A cousin—and yet no cousin—the very thing.

He looks as if he wouldn't make a bad Romeo. The situation is desperate;

suppose I put it to the touch. (Aloud.) Mr. Forrester, I am delighted; I am

proud to make your acquaintance. I told Lily just now I should like to make it.

I have heard of your exploit. It made me proud of you and proud of my country.

CLAUDE. Oh ! Sir, that was nothing ; I just did my duty

PERIGAL. Oh ! Then I wish people as a rule did their duty one quarter as well. But

modesty is a virtue, and not too common a one. (Aside.) I like his looks more

and more. I will try it. I can see her eyes softening now just as some other eyes

once softened. Well—well—that's gone. (Aloud.) Lilian! (She starts and turns

round.) We must not neglect our little rehearsal too much—but I have no doubt

you and your cousin have much to say to each other ?

LILIAN. Oh. yes, Daddy!

PERIGAL. Yen' well. I will give some directions about the printing and rejoin you

shortly. Mr. Forrester, let me once again shake you by the hand. (Does so.)
THE VOICE OF LOVE.

109

an old actor for that,

wager it will succeed,

And

CLAUDE. Oh, Sir, you make too much of it.

PERIGAL No, no, I don't. I know what to make much of. Trust

(At door, as1de.) An experiment—an experiment. But I'll

and then so will my pupil! (Exit.)

CLAUDE. Lily ! Is it possible that four years should make such a difference ?

LILIAN. What difference, Claude ? You knew me directly ?

CLAUDE. Of course I did. But four years ago you were a little fairy of a child.

now what are you, Lily ?

LILIAN. Just what I was then, Claude.

CLAUDE. No. you are glorified—you have grown into a woman, and a beautiful one

LILIAN. Don't flatter, Claude, you never used to.

CLAUDE. There is no flattery in

LILIAN. Now, no nonsense, Claude. Were you badly wounded in that dreadful—that

splendid fight ?

CLAUDE. No, Lily, not badly—That is, the doctors wouldn't let me stay there, and

certainly the voyage has made a new man of me.

LILIAN. Poor Claude ! To be so brave and to suffer so much, for I know you did, I

can see the traces of it still. But you are well now?

CLAUDE. Yes, Lily, better than I have ever been before. But tell me about yourself ?

LILIAN. Well! you know Mr. Perigal, one of my father's oldest friends, is my

guardian and tutor. Poor papa could leave me but very little money, and Mr.

Perigal is not rich. So I had to decide on making my own way somehow, and

Mr. Perigal is teaching me to act.

CLAUDE. To act!

LILIAN. Why you must have know that from the paper!

CLAUDE. Yes, but it still seems so strange! My little cousin turning into a great actress!

LILIAN. No, Claude, I don't think I shall ever be that. I know I have some turn

for it, but—but I don't like the idea. The notion of that sea of faces looking

at me, criticising one's every word, one's every posture, one's face, one's voice

becoming public property—it frightens me and hurts me—but I don't like to

tell Daddy so. And, oh! Look at this horrid poster. (Holds it up.)

CLAUDE. Poor little Lily! Do you remember when we parted?

LILIAN. Yes, Claude—I remember.

CLAUDE. The apple blossoms were out. We stood beneath

the great tree in the orchard. Your hair was

flying in the breeze. Your eyes were soft—they

were always the softest, sweetest eyes in the world.

I kissed you good-bye, and you promised you would

not forget me. Lily, have you kept that promise ?

LILIAN. Yes, Claude, I have.

CLAUDE. And I vowed—do you remember, Lily, what I

vowed ?

LILIAN. I don't know, Claude.

CLAUDE. Lily, you must remember. I vowed—I vowed that

I should think of you ever and aye, whatever befell

me. I vowed that I would come back to you as soon

as fate would let me, and that when I came back,

I should ask you if you cared for me still.

LILIAN. Ah ! As if I had forgotten !

CLAUDE. Let me bring it back to your memory again. Lily,

since then I have been in many strange places of the world, seen many strango

and beautiful and dreadful sights—been many a time at close touch with death.

'Look at this horrid poster."

no

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

LILIAN.

CLAUDE.

LILIAN.

CLAUDE.

But in all that time, not a day has passed that I have not thought of you, thought

of our parting, looked forward to our meeting. See, here are the photograph and

the lock of hair you gave me. Every day in all that time I have kissed them both.

Lily, by the memory of the weary hours that have been solaced by the thought

of you, by the memory of the child I loved who has blossomed into a woman,

whom I love with a newer, deeper love, tell me if—if—

If what, Claude?

If you love me as I love you. No, you cannot do that. For to me, this

love is as a sudden brightness that lights up all the past, and may make the

future all splendour. Lily ! For four years I have dreamed of this meeting,

but only now do I know how much it seems to me, how much depends upon

your answer. Do you understand me, Lily ?

Yes—I understand—I see it all now !

LILIAN.

You see, then,

other woman in

that you are my

that ? (Kneels and

I see one thing

proached me of ten

heart. I have

me. It is because

had given it all to

knew it till

CLAUDE. My

LILIAN. My hero! •£

believe I {,•'

CLAUDE. Is there

(Takes up poster.)

LILIAN. No, no.

hurt his feel-

But you

To act

as a revela-

Claude! I

Daddy has

is, a great and

uses her

an actress

that

CLAUDE.

LILIAN.

love you, that there is no

: world for me but you —

heart—my life—do you see

kisses her hand.)

clearly. Daddy has re-

in his lessons with having no

none ! Do not shrink from

I have given it all to you—

you long ago, and never

; now.

darling !

\ my love ! Ah ! I

could act Juliet now.

•'.• .\ any need now?

Shall I tear it up ?

Fold it up. Don't

ings too much,

will not act now ?

what has come to me

tion ? Oh ! no, no,

should hate to do it.

told me what an actress

THE VOICE OF LOVE.

1n

PERIGAL. Well, talk is talk and business is business, we must get to business again

(Aside.) The experiment has succeeded, the girl looks transformed. (Aloud.)

Don't go, Mr. Forrester, you may help us with your advice (aside) and—ahem!

—example.

CLAUDE. Miss Travers was telling me, Sir, that she felt very nervous about the part—I

have ventured to give her some encouragement—I think you will find she is less

nervous now.

PERIGAL. Ah ! just as I hoped, just as I hoped ! Now, Lilian, we will take, if you please

the speech that always puzzled you so much, " Give me my Romeo,"—eh?

LILIAN (looking at Claude).

" Give me my Romeo : and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine,

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun."

PERIGAL. Brava—brava—the true touch at last. I always said the girl was an actress.

Mr. Forrester, I am greatly obliged to you.

Lilian, what a triumph your appearance will be

on the 16th !

LILIAN. Daddv—that triumph can never be—vou must

•* ' '

find another Juliet. There are plenty of them.

PERIGAL. Why—what ?

LILIAN. You see, Daddy, Claude taught me. And

now that I have learnt it, I have learnt something

else too

PERIGAL. What's that ? what's that ?

CLAUDE. I return you the poster, Sir. It will not be

wanted.

LILIAN (takes Claude's hand).

PERIGAL. And I've spoiled it all! Oh! Lilian—Juliet—

Juliet—Lilian ! She is awakened. She knows the

voice of love! and she is lost. (Sinks into a

chair, and buries his face in his hands.)

THE EDITORIAL MIND.

"P\O LARGE SUMS have been spent in heralding the advent of PEARSON'S MAGAZINE by

\~l advertisement. The money which might have been spent in this •may has gone into the Magazine

' itself.

At the same time, we have caused statements to be circulated to the effect that the Magazikie icas to be

of unusual excellence.

It is for you, who hold this copy in your hand, to decide whether in saying this we hace gone beyond

the mark, and to show your condemnatitn or appreciation by your future action, both as regards subscribing

to the Magazine and commending it to the attention of your friends.

IF IT IS NOT the best sixpennyworth that has been hitherto produced, it will be a failure, for unless it

immediately attains, and succeeds in keeping, a colossal Circulation, the enormous sum spent in

producing each issue cannot possibly be justified.

Writing this with the proofs of No. I before us, we have to confess that we are not, by any means,

satisfied that the highest point has been reached. There seem to us to be several ways in which future

issues can be made of considerably more literary and artistic merit, and these will no.' be neglected.

Succeeding numbers will, we can safely assert, surpass this first essay in both interest and appearance.

Below are given brief particulars regarding the literary and artistic contents of some of the early

succeeding issues.

~T\ WORD NOW as to the price of PEARSON'S MAGAZINE. It is sixpence, and the possession of

(g/J. a copy must imply the disbursement of the little silver coin with this name—not of four pennies

and a halfpenny. No penny paper can be obtained for three farthings. No sixpenny illustrated

weekly journal is sold to the public for 4jrf. Why, then, should a sixpenny publication be issued with this

disadvantage simply because it is published at intervals of a month ? And why should the reader in a

large town be able to buy for 4jrf. an article for which the reader in the country must pay sixpence ?

The discount system is bad for both publisher and newsvendor. It remains to be proved whether it

has taken so firm a hold that this attempt to combat it proves unsuccessful, We may say at once that if it

does, PEARSON'S MAGAZINE will cease to exist, for it cannot be produced to sell at 4jrf.

At the same time, the trader who disposes of a copy for 6d. is making more money (rut of it than he is

nhen he sells a copy of any other magazine for 4^d.

Our remarks upon this point may seem of undue prolixity, but the discount system has obtained so

general a vogue that it is thought advisable to dwell at some length upon it.

IN CONCLUSION, we beg all those who are in any way interested in the appearance of this Magazine

to let us hear from them as to the opinion they have formed of its merits. Suggestions will be most

carefully considered, for it is only by pleasing our supporters that we can hope to make PEARSON'S

MAGAZINE a permanent success.

" The Braves: D?ed I Ever Saw," in No. 2, will be Lieu.t.-Gcncral Sir Evelyn Woofs account of

Captain the Hon. Ranald Campbell's heroism in Africa.

To the same number Mr. S. R. Crockett will contribute a long stary, and there will be another very

strong story from the pen of Mr. Bloundelle-Burton.

The second siory, under the heading, " Secrets of the Courts of Europe," will attract a great deal of

attention, dealing as it does with the most mysterious occurrence of the century in Royal circles. Another

play from the pens of Sir Walter Besant and Mr. W. H. Pollock will be published, and there will be further

instalments of " Wisdom Let Loose" and Mr. J. F. Sullivan's " Great Water yoke."

The series, "Artists and their Work," will contain some strikingly beautiful pictures.

Another very attractive feature will be " Glimpses of Paradise," which we hoped to have published in

the first number, but which was unavoidably delayed. An article of rather unusual interest will be " Jforj

a B ittl.'ship Goes intn Action," and there will be some very interesting personal matter under the heading

" In The Public Eye."

These Articles and Stories by no means complete t'lc attractions ff No. 2, which tee have no hesitation

in saying will be in every respect an improvement upon this initial issue.

For future numbers of PEARSON'S MAGAZINE we have secured a long story from Miss Marie

Corelli, another from Mr. Stanley J. Weyman, and another from Mr. Rudyard Kipling, not to mention

" fan Maclaren," Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. Robert Barr, Mr. Cutliffe Hyne, Mr. George Griffith, and, in fact,

all the most prominent writers of fiction of the day. Next month we shall have a good deal more to say

about our arrangements for the future. C. A. P.

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

Brief notes on prominent painters, with repre-

sentative examples of their work—Pictures

and their prices—Some Royal Artists.

A Dutchman by birth and

education, and still speak-

ing English with a foreign

accent, Mr. Laurens Alma-Tadema settled

in this country many years ago, became a

naturalised Englishman , in 1873, and a

master in the English school of painting

soon after. He had studied in the Antwerp

Academy, and under the austere medievalist

Baron Leys, but his art belongs neither to

the country of his birth, the country of

his early training, nor to the land of his

adoption. When a boy he devoured the

classics, and the gay brilliance of classic

Rome lives again beneath his brush. We

poke of him as a master in the English

school, but he is so not by the adaptation of

his genius to English tastes and methods,

but by the conversion of those tastes to his

own peculiar manner. He cares nothing for the things of to-day—tragedy, comedy,

morals and religion, the pictorial story, the familiar historical incident, or the emotions

of domesticity—these subjects, that are supposed to be indispensable to the ordinary

type of Royal Academy visitors, have no place in his art. Yet. in spite of his refusal

to humour the public in his choice of theme, there is scarcely a painter to-day whose repu-

tation is more solidly established in the popular mind.

Young Tadema (the name Alma was added by the artist as a concession to musical ears)

had from his earliest years a perfect passion for art " As a child," he says, " my favourite

Vcl. l.—February, 1896.—No. 2.

116

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

toy was a pencil, and my mother used to be

very fond of relating a story about my having,

at the age of five, detected and corrected an

error of drawing in the work of a

master who was teaching a class

of elder boys." However, they

did not encourage him to take

up art. Owing to money

difficulties, it was thought

necessary that he should

embark upon a surei

bread - winning profes-

sion, and he was sent to

the parish school at

Leeuwarden. It was not

much good. While the

lessons were going on, he

was usually employed in

making drawings of the

classic gods, or of the

masters and boys around

him. The only lesson

that attracted him was the history of

Rome. That suggested subjects for artistic

work. He made serious efforts to give him-

self some sort of artistic education, and at

one time his mother used to wake him at

MR. L. ALMA-TADEMA, R.A..

the doctors said he had not many months to

live, it was decided to let him have his own.

way for the short time that remained to him.

Directly he was allowed to devote

himself to art, the cause of his

illness was removed, and he

rapidly recovered. His pic-

tures began to attract atten-

tion thirty years ago, and

he has been flattered and

petted, as he deserved to

be, ever since. He has

built for himself, probably

the most beautiful house

that even a painter ever

imagined, on the outskirts

of Regent's Park. Old

and new, the East and the

West, have been laid under

contribution.and theresult

is a dream of light and

colour and exquisite form.

To adequately describe it would require the

brush of the master himself.

Mr. Tadema is a man of remarkable

energy and industry. There is about him

none of the pride that apes humility. He

MR. ALMA-TADEMA'S SKETCH FOR AN ILLUSTRATION TO THE " EGYPTIAN PRINCESS."

From the original lent by Dr. 11'ashington Epps.

daybreak by means of a string tied to hi.s believes in himself and his pictures—it

foot, so that he might devote the early hours were difficult to remain sceptical in the

of the morning to sketching. face of an admiring world standing purse

At length his health broke down, and as in hand at his studio door. He holds strong
PEA RS0N'S MA GA ZINE.

opinions, and expresses them with blunt

emphasis; but his outspoken ways are

tempered by a generous disposition that

makes him many friends. He is an optimist

MISS L. ALMA-TADEMA. •

From an original sketch by L. Atma-Tailema, R.A.

still at the age of fifty-nine (he looks

much younger), and over the door of his

studio are written the words of his creed,

" As the sun colours flowers, so art colours

life."

Our portraits of Mr. Tadema's daughters

are from sketches made by the artist as a

souvenir of a fancy dress ball at a friend's

house, and were kindly lent by Dr. Washing-

ton Epps. Miss Tadema devotes herself to

literature, but Miss Anna Tadema has fol-

lowed her father's art, and with distinction.

We have heard a great deal

during the last few -vears of

the hard times that have

overtaken artists, and although no leading

painter, probably, has found his income

seriously reduced, financial depression has

certainly been felt in many quarters of the

artistic world. With a view to ascertain

what foundation there may be for the outcry,

we have been making inquiries among those

men whose business it is to know the picture

market, and watch the fluctuations of public

taste. One authority—the one perhaps best

qualified to speak on the subject—admits

the hard times, and attributes the troubles to

over-production. The number of pictures

painted increases every year, and although

the taste for art is also growing, it does noL

necessarily mean more buyers; the average

Englishman, with an income of two or three

thousand a year, does not buy pictures as he

used to do, and "the market is overstocked,""

to use our correspondent's commercial

phrase. He complains, moreover, that with

this plethora of pictures the really good ones

are few and far between.

The largest sum paid for a picture during

the past season is the 10,000 guineas given

for Gainsborough's " Lady Mulgrave,'' a small

canvas measuring only 29 inches by 24.

This is ' the largest sum ever given for a

picture of this class, and is especially high

when the condition of the picture is taken

into account, the colour of the lips, for

instance, being considerably faded. The

buyer was Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who-

has added this picture to the fine canvases of

the English school that hang in his New

York gallery.

The largest sum ever paid for a picture in

a London auction-room is the 11,000 guineas

paid in 1894 for Sir Joshua Reynolds'

portrait of Lady Betty Delme. Until that

time the record had been held by Gains-

borough's famous " Duchess of Devonshire,"

which was sold for 10,000 guineas just before

its mysterious disappearance in 1881.

MISS A. ALMA-TADEMA.

From an original sketch by L. Alma-fadrma, R.A.

Among American and South African

millionaires there is just now a great deal of

120

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

HERR LUDWIG K.NAUS.

Liverpool and Manchester merchants. Mr.

J. B. Robinson is a large buyer, and his

collection now includes some of the most

valuable pictures in Europe. In the case of

modern artists, says our informant, wealthy

collectors reverse their system of collecting,

and are tempted more by a subject that

pleases them than by the fact that the picture

bears a particular name. One swallow does

not make summer, however, and the pur-

chases of a handful of millionaires do not

make prosperity for the hundreds of painters

who depend on their art.

Another prominent authority says : " In

spite of the prosperous times that have fallen

on many branches of commerce during the

past year, there has been little improvement

for artists over the poor season of 1894. The

rush is for the classics, and modern painters

are little sought after, probably because their

ultimate position is more or less doubtful.

London picture dealers can look for buyers

only among a few millionaire speculators,

some of whom have artistic taste and

judgment, while others have absolutely none.

In Paris, on the other hand, pictures are

bought by a large number of small

collectors, but here money seems to be

getting into the hands of a few men, and

the person of moderate means devotes

less and less to the purchase of pictures."

Herr Knaus, one of the

Ludwlg Knaus. most famous genre

painters of our time,

was born in 1829 at Wiesbaden, and

studied at the Royal Academy, Dussel-

dorf, from 1846 to 1852 as a pupil of

Karl Sohn and Schadow. In 1860 he

went to Paris, where he studied the

technique of the French painters. After

some years he returned to Dusseldorf,

and in 1874 he took up his abode in

Berlin. He is a professor at the Royal

Academy of that city, and the only

German artist who is an honorary mem-

ber of our own Royal Academy. His

pictures generally represent a humorous

scene from peasant life, and excel in fine

schemes of colour and correct drawing.

"In Great Distress," which we reproduce

in this number of the Magazine, is a

characteristic example of his work; " The

Gipsy Team " is characteristic in technique

but the subject is a novel one for Herr

Knaus. He has a wide reputation, many of

his paintings having been purchased by

picture lovers in England and America,

while some of his best work is to be found

in the public galleries of Germany.

Almost all the English

Royal Artists, princesses can draw and

paint a little, and some of

them are tolerable musicians, though not so

gifted as their brother the Duke of Coburg.

The most serious attainments of any of the

family are those of the Princess Louise, the

Queen's fourth daughter, in the rarer art of

-0"c

/ '.. ,-''.

t'opyriKht, by Phokozraphlsche Oesellechafl.

SERAPHINE.

From the Painting by Edonjrd Bisson. By permimon of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, ll'.
122

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

1!R. FEED ROE.

Vienna of Hungarian parents. He came

to London in search of fortune, and the

patronage he received from royalty insured

him plenty of commissions from else-

where.

Mr. Rudolf Leh-

mann tells an

amusing anecdote

of the Empress

Frederick as an

artist. Mr. Leh-

mann was painiing

a portrait of the

Prince of Wales,

who lent his

features very

kindly and

patiently — smok-

ing." Presently his

sister, the Crown

Princess of Prussia,

walked in with a

portfolio. " You

don't object to my

drawing together

with you ?'' she

asked, and of course Mr. Lehmann was

highly flattered. She knelt on an arm-chair,

making the back a support, and in five minutes

had finished her portrait of the Prince. " Will

you correct my drawing?" she asked. Mr.

Lehmann ventured to suggest that a little

more time might with advantage have

been bestowed on the work, when she

replied that she had been trained to do every-

thing as quickly as possible on account of

her multifarious duties. Her son, Emperor

William, also dabbles in art. We have seen

two water-colour drawings of ships by him,

and he has lately given to the world a very

ambitious allegorical picture. There is,

however, some doubt as to how far he is

responsible for the execution of his

cryptic conception. A loyal world

received it, of course, with reverential

admiration, and wondered, under its breath,

what the imperial artist could possibly

mean.

The Princess of Wales is an enthusiastic

amateur photographer, but photography is

not yet recognised as an art—except by

photographers.

The author of " The

Mr. Fred Roe. Traitor's Wife," which we

reproduce on page 124, is

one of the cleverest of the young painters

whose work we now expect to find annually

at Burlington House, almost as a matter of

course. He was an old ''Heatherley"

student, and afterwards became a pupil of

Mr. Seymour Lucas, A.R.A., to whom he

was articled for two years, following in this

respect the Continental system rather than

the English. It may be interesting to point

out that the great difference between our

method and that followed abroad lies in the

fact that with us a

A TIGHT FIT.

From tlu Palming by Arthur J. Elsley. Reproduad by permimon of Main. Thomas Forman Sf Sons, Xottingr.am.
124

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

THE TRAITOR'S WIFE.

From the Painting by Fred Rce.

Inn," " Consulting the Witch," " The Trial

of Joan of Arc," and the two subjects in last

year's Academy, "The Traitor's Wife " and

"Nelson Leaving Portsmouth for the

Victory," are perhaps his best known

works. He is punctilious over his details,

and as his favourite subjects are those

of mediaeval times, they generally involve

careful research. For " The Trial of Joan

of Arc," which attracted so much notice both

here and in France, he made two journeys

to Rouen for materials. He is an ardent

and expert collector of old oak of the Gothic

period, and an active member of a select

club of collectors, who call themselves " The

Kernoozers." His fine, stalwart figure would

make an admirable model for one of the

brave armoured knights that he likes to

paint.

The military painter whose

M. E. Detallle. picture, " Le Reve," is re-

produced on the opposite

page, is almost as well-known in England as he

is in France. He was a pupil of Meissonier,

and the first picture he exhibited (in 1867)

was an interior of that master's studio. He

had just returned from a tour in Snain and

Algeria when the war broke out. and as a

simple private he took part in the struggle for

the defence of Paris. The events of the

war created a profound impression on the

young artist, and the effect was at once

apparent in his pictures. His handling had

gained breadth and feeling, and he and his

friend de Neuville have since done much to

raise the spirits of their countrymen by the

splendid series of patriotic pictures they have

given to France.
GLIMPSES OF PARADISE—THE OUTER GATES.
GLIMPSES OF PARADISE—THE INNER COURTS.
GLIMPSES OF PARADISE—THE CHILDREN'S GARDEN.
THOIW/EST 'DEEDS

- I EVER. SAW.

CAPTAIN RONALD CAMPBELL'S HEROISM

IN THE TRANSVAAL.

BY LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR EVELYN WOOD, V.C.

having been decided to invade

Zululand, three main columns,

right, centre, and left, moved

across the border; but the incident

with which I am now concerned took

place in the operations of the left or

northern column, which was under

my command.

On the 22nd of January, 1879, the centre

column was overwhelmed at a place called

Isandlwhana, i.e., the Little Hand, nearly every

man, in all some 1,500, being destroyed.

The news of the disaster, carried by a

mounted native, reached us on the 24th

January, just as we were driving before us

the Amaqulisi tribe, which we had surprised

between the Zungi range an*! the northern

side of the Inhlobane mountain. We pur-

sued the enemy for a mile or two, and I then

moved the column back over the Umvelosi

river, and proceeded to one of the lower

features of the Nagaba-ka-Hawane mountains,

Vet. 1.-9.

where water, and firewood which covered the

southern slopes of that range of hills, were

plentiful. The infantry remained in this posi-

tion, called Kambula, till the final advance

on Ulundi, the mounted men, under Colonel

Redvers Buller, C.B., being constantly em-

ployed in making raids, which were carried

far into the enemy's country.

Ronald Campbell, second son of Lord

Cawdor, born at Stackpool Court, Pem-

broke, in December, 1848, was educated at

Eton, and joined the Coldstream Guards in

1866. He was adjutant of the 1st battalion

from 1872 to 1878, when, having been nomi-

nated as a " Special Service Officer" for

duty in South Africa, he reported himself to

me, as the officer commanding the troops at

Utrecht in the Transvaal, shortly before

Christmas.

I gave Captain Campbell charge of the

Adjutant-General's duties, and as he messed

with me, I saw a great deal of him and be-

came greatly attached to him. A tall, powerful,

130

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

well-made man, with strikingly handsome

features, he showed towards me, his com-

manding officer, the greatest consideration

and devotion in small matters of every-day

life, while on the 28th of March he mani-

fested them in their highest aspects.

About twelve miles from the ridge on

which Kambula camp was pitched, the

elevated table-land comes to an end with

a steep fall to the southward. Three miles

further south, a hill, named the Inhlobane,

stands up 1,200 feet above the adjoining

country. It is about four miles in length

and one and a half miles in breadth. It is

absolutely precipitous on the northern side,

and also on the upper part of its southern

and hearing that his force was to be strongly

opposed, he suggested to me that I should

make some movement to attract the attention

of the Zulus from the southern side of

Zululand. We believed it would be possible

to take the Inhlobane, and my only anxiety

was lest while engaged thereon, the Zulus

on it might be strongly reinforced from

the southward. This indeed actually

occurred.

Early on the 2;th of March, Colonel

Buller left Kambula with a force of 400

mounted men and 30 natives, and after

marching some thirty miles, bivouacked at

dusk about five miles south-east of the moun-

tain, changing his position, however, twice

SKETCH MAP OF THE INHLOBANE.

face, and can be climbed only with great

difficulty at the eastern and western ends,

the former end being the easier of

approach.

Colonel Buller and I had often discussed

the practicability of taking this stronghold

of the Amdqulisi tribe. Early in the month

of March he had been up on a ridge which lies

150(t. under the western crest of the moun-

tain, from which he had carried off a great

many of the enemy's cattle. It was im-

possible to tell the exact number of the

fighting men on the mountains, but we

estimated them at from 800 to 1,000.

About this time the Commander-in-Chief

was preparing to advance to relieve Ekowe,

during the night in order to guard against

being surprised while dismounted.

I had no intention of taking part in the

attack, but with an escort of eight men of the

9oth Light Infantry and seven natives, one

being Umtonga, a half-brother of Cetewayo's,

I left Kambula late in the afternoon, and

bivouacked under the western end of the

mountain. The party, besides the escort,

consisted of Captain the Honourable Ronald

Campbell. Mr. Lloyd, political agent, who had

shown marked courage in leading friendly

natives in an expedition against Sekukuni,

and Lieutenant Lysons (9oth Light Infantry),

aide-de-camp.

Starting at 3.30 a.m. on the 28th, we rode

" He . . . shouted, ' Then I will do it myself,' and, jumping over a low wall, he ran up the entrance of the cave.'
I32

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE

under the southern face of the mountain,

hoping to arrive in time to see Colonel Buller

ascend its eastern point.

We failed to overtake him, .'or he had left his

bivouac, ten miles further to the eastward, at

3.30 a.m., and ascending a steep path, hardly

passable for single men when mounted, he led

his force up a gulley at the break of day, under

cover of the morning mist, surprising the

Zulus, a few of whom only could fire before

he, at the head of his men, gained the summit.

When we came in sight of the eastern

a'ngle of the mountain, the rear of Buller's

cjblumn was just gaining the summit, and

at this time we met a party of mounted

Irregulars who had got off the track, and were

marching westward.

Hearing the firing, I directed them to turn

round and follow Colonel Buller, and, moving

faster myself, passed on to the front with my

escort, accompanied by half a dozen of the

Irregulars: we soon came under a shower of

bullets from the front and both flanks,

poured in by men behind huge rocks. Turn-

ing towards the foe, we wandered still

further from Colonel Buller's track, which we

had in the first instance followed, but which

we had lost on getting to a place where there

was only bare rock, without even enough soil

to take the imprint of horses' feet. We

continued to advance towards the fire directed

on us, and presently arrived at a part of the

mountain where further progress on horse-

back was impossible.

Dismounting the men, we left the horses in

the charge of two or three soldiers and the

natives, and proceeded to climb the steep

face of the mountain. I had retained my

horse, endeavouring to make it follow me,

while Captain Campbell, walking behind,

drove it on. While thus engaged, Mr. Lloyd,

who was climbing alongside on my left,

touched me with his elbow% saying, " That

man won't hit us in the face, anyhow,"

and raising my eyes I saw, about thirty

yards above us, a Zulu who was looking

down the sights of his gun, which was

apparently directed at the lower part of

my body. While Lloyd and I were getting

out our revolvers the man fired, and pulling

the muzzle of his gun off to the right, shot

my friend thr " --mach and backbone.

He fell, saying, " I'm hit,'' and to my inquiry,

" Badly? " replied, " Yes, I fear very badly."

Letting go my horse I lifted him from the

ground, when Captain Campbell, a much

stronger man, relieved me and carried him

down the hill to where we had left the horses,

while I ascended to the rock whence the

Zulu had fired. He had, however, dis-

appeared, and almost immediately afterwards

another Zulu fired from underneath some

large boulders^ of granite, killing my horse

stone dead, ihe animal's head striking me as

he fell and knocking me down.

Captain Campbell now rejoined me, still

some seventy feet from the summit, and

agreeing that it was impossible to get much

ONE OF THE BRAVEST DEEDS I EVER SAW.

which were about 8ft. or roft. high, and

moving over great boulders of rock. No

one was seen in the passage, but the north side

of the mountain above them was lined with

Zulus with firearms. Their bullets, however,

all passed over the little band, which was pro-

tected by the walls of the passage, and Captain

Campbell, climbing over the rocks in the

most determined manner, led it on for thirty

yards to where the passage came to an end.

He and those following him all knew that

though no Zulus were in sight, yet their

guns were covering the party, and, as all

officers of experience are aware, the unseen

is the most appalling form of danger. Cap-

tain Campbell, determined to secure the safe

removal of the wounded, never hesitated a

moment, and, while peering down into a

cave at his feet, he was shot in the head.

Lieutenant Lysons and Private Fowler passed

his body, and firing into the cave killed one

of its occupants, the others creeping away

by a subterranean passage, to reappear higher

up the mountain. The resistance, however,

at this point terminated, and the Irregular

Horse, regaining Colonel Buller's track,

reached the top of the mountain without

further casualty.

Ronald Campbell gave his life indeed, but

attained the object, for he cleared the cave

of some good Zulu marksmen who, secure

under cover in their apparently impregnable

position, made advance or retreat or the

removal of the wounded almost impossible.

How Colonel Redvers Buller cleared the

summit of the mountain, seizing all the

Amdqulisi cattle, and eventually, on the main

Zulu army coming into sight, had to retire

down the nearly precipitous face of the moun-

tain, belongs to another story. He covered

the retreat, and after bringing three men out

of a crowd of Zulus, returned again into the

fight to keep back the oncoming wave of black

men, and thus allow the footmen to escape.

Buller, in holding the ridge, the only avenue

of escape, indeed emulated " Horatius who

kept the bridge in the brave days of old."

While the cave was being cleared by

Captain Campbell's party, seeing that Mr.

Lloyd was dying, I remembered that I had a

prayer-book in the wallet of the saddle on

my horse lying dead some sixty or seventy

feet above me, and, calling Bugler Walkin-

shaw, desired him to climb up the mountain,

and at any risk to bring back the prayer-

book, which had been lent to me by Captain

Campbell, it being the property of his wife.

I told Walkinshaw that if he was not fired

on heavily he might also bring the saddle,

which was underneath the horse as it lay

dead with all four feet in the air. The bugler,

although he was under heavy fire, succeeded

in bringing away the saddle without being

touched.

I now attempted to put the dead bodies

of our friends on one of the ponies, but the

Zulu bullets striking around on the rocks,

made the animal so unsteady that it was

impossible for me to arrange the bodies on

' O, father," said Billiam, with

decision; I am not half good

enough to make a parson of.

You must give the living to Harry. He

will make a first-rater. He is all the time

mousing about among books ! "

Billiam and his father were standing

together in the rectory garden, which

looked over the beautiful vale of St. John.

Helvellyn slept above them, stretched

out like a lion with his head low between

his paws. The lake glimmered beneath all, dreamy in the light midsummer haze. Bees

hummed in th'e old garden, and the flowers on which they made themselves drunken reeled

and shook with the press of the revellers.

The old rector of Applethwaite was dead. This day of midsummer had been his

funeral day. An old man full to the brim of years and dignities, he had lived all his life

under the wing of his brother the squire, rooted safely in the family living, dining every

Sunday and Thursday at the Hall, and reading his hundred sermons in a rotation as

settled and regular as that of the crops. But now the old order was changed, and,

according to the squire's providential arrangement, the new order was to be—Billiam.

His real name was William, with something very distinguished after it. Yet nobody

thought of calling him anything but Billiam—except only the squire when, as at present,

Billiam and he differed in opinion. Then he said, "William Reginald Setoun Ormithwaite,

will you dare to disobey your father?" And Billiam hung his head, for he knew that a

day was coming when he would.

At school he had been called Billiam, for the reason that a " Yorker " is called a

" Yorker," because it was obvious that he could be called nothing else. The boy

whose Latin verses he did said to him, "Now go on, old Billiam, hurry up! I want to

go out to the playing fields to smite that young toad, Scott minor, for making faces at

me and making me laugh in chapel! " So to save time, Billiam gave him his own copy of

verses, and saw the plagiarist pass to the head of the form next day, on the strength of

Billiam's iambics. Yet that boy never even thought of thanking the author and origin of his

distinction. Why should he ? It was "only old Billiam."

Billiam failed also in gaining the love and respect of his masters, to the extent which,

Copyri*'st, 189 , in 11.e United States of America, by S. R. Crukett.

BILLIAM.

135

upon his merits, was his due. For one thing,

he was for ever bringing all manner of

broken-down sparrows, maimed rabl its, and

three-legged dogs into the school—and, if

possible, even into the donriitory. Then

smells of diverse kinds arose, and bred

quarrelsome dissension of a very positive

kind. The house-master came up one night

to find Billiam with an open knife in his

hand, driving fiercely into a throng of boys

armed with cricket bats and wickets. Where-

upon he promptly dashed at the young des-

perado, and wrested the knife out of h is hands.

" Do you wish to murder somebody ? "

cried the house master, shaking him.

" Yes," said Billiam, stoutly, " if Lowther

throws my white mice out of the window."

No further proceedings were taken, because,

upon examination, Billiam proved to be scored

black and blue with the wickets of his adver-

saries. He was, however, from this time

forth given a bedroom upon the ground

floor, with a little court in front which

looked upon the laundry. And here Billiam,

still unrepentant, was allowed to tend his

menagerie in peace, provided always that it

did not entirely destroy the sanitation of the

school. But when the governing committee

came to inspect the premises, the head master

carefully piloted them past the entrance of

the court wherein dwelt Billiam, keeping well

to windward of it.

Anybody else would have been promptly

expelled, but Billiam's father was a very im-

portant person indeed, and the head-master

had known him intimately.,atvcollege. Besides,

no one could possibly have expelled Billiam.

The very ruffians who whacked him with cricket

bats would straightway have risen in mutiny.

By-and-bye Billiam's father tried him at

Oxford, but, though Billiam stayed his terms,

he would have none of it. So when the

Rectory fell vacant, it seemed all that could

be done to make arrangements by which

BilHam would succeed his uncle. The Right

Honourable Reginald Setoun Ormithwaite,

Billiam's " pater," saw no difficulty in the

matter. He had been at Eton and Christ-

church with the Bishop of Lakeland, and

the matter lent itself naturally to this arrange-

ment. Everyone felt this to be the final

solution of a most difficult problem. Every-

body even remotely connected with the family

was consulted, and all expressed their several

delights with relief and alacrity. But in the

meantime nothing was said to Billiam, who

had a setter with a broken leg upon his mind,

and so lived mostly about the kennels, and

smelled of liniment.

But when his father told the proximate

rector that he must begin to prepare for the

Bishop's examination, and go into residence

for some months at St. Abbs' famous theo-

logical college (called in clerical circles

"The Back Door"), Billiam most un-

expectedly refused point blank to have any-

thing to do with the plan. He would be no

parson; he was not good enough, he asserted.

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

silent. Have I brought a son into the world

for this—kept you, given you an expensive

eelueation only for this ? "

So Billiam kept silence and thought hard

of the setter down at the kennels. Those

bandages ought to be wet again. It was an

hour past the time. He kept changing from

one foot to the other upon the gravel walk.

"Don't insult me by jumping about like a

hen on a hot girdle," cried his father, "tell

me what you think of doing with yourself, for

I will no longer support you in idleness and

debauchery."

"I should like to be a veterinary surgeon,

sir," said Billiam, scraping with his toe.

" Let that gravel alone, will you — a

veterinary devil—an Ormithwaite a damned

cow doctor. Get out of my sight, sir, before

I strike you."

And accordingly Billiam went—down to

the kennels to visit the setter, wondering all

the way whether, as the skin was not broken,

he ought to use an embrocation or stick to

the cold water bandages.

»*«***

And this is briefly why Billiam found him-

self in Edinburgh, and established in a nest

of unfurnished garret rooms which he had

discovered by chance at the end of Mont-

gomery-street in the Latin quarter of the city.

Billiam had a hundred and thirty pounds—

a hundred of which had been given him by

his father with the information that it must

see him through a year, and thirty which

his elder brother Herbert (captain in the

i 10th Hussars) had sent him.

" Young fool, Billiam—always was ! " said

Captain Herbert, " guess he's pretty tightly

off." And with that he stuffed into the

envelope the thirty pounds which he had set

apart as a sedative for his tailor.

" The young blackguard will need the

money more than old Moses!" said the

Hussar.

Billiam had, to save appearances, com-

promised on the question of the veterinary

surgeon. He was to study hard in order to

become an ordinary surgeon and physician

of humans. He was only to be allowed to

come home once a year. He had agreed not

to pester his father with requests for more

money. In every way Billiam was made to

feel, that he was the prodigal son and a dis-

grace to the stock of the Ormithwaites of

Ormithwaite. " One of the families, sir,"

said his father, " which have constituted for

three hundred years the governing classes of

these islands."

So it was in this manner that Billiam took

the very modest portion of goods which

pertained to him, and departed to the far

country of Montgomery-street, South Side,

just where that notable thoroughfare gives

upon the greasy gloom of the Pleasance.

How Billiam spent his living and upon

whom, this history is intended to tell.

Day by day the student of medicine scorned

delights. Day and night were to him alike

laborious. For Billiam, all unknown to his

BILLIAM.

137

tail of his dress coat, which he had torn off

for the purpose. "I don't think I shall need

it any more," he said, "so I.may as well

use it."

So he used it. It did very well, being lined

with silk.

Then Billiam double-bolted the plate to

the door, for he understood the ways of

Montgomery-street, and sat down to study

the monograph of Herr Doctor Pumpen-

stock of Vienna, upon headaches.

Billiam had three chairs to start with

—two stiff-backed chairs for clients and

an easy chair, which cost zs. n^d. at

a cheap sale of furniture in Nicholson-

street.

Billiam felt that he might go that length

in luxury.

Billiam had once possessed more furniture

than this. He had a wooden bed which

he had bought in the Cowgate for 4*.

and carried up the Pleasance himself,

post by post and plank by plank. He

only slept upon it one night. The next

day he began to cut it up for firewood.

It was a good bed though, he said, but

not for sleeping on. After the first

five minutes it began to bite you all

over.

So Billiam burned the 4*. bed, and

it turned out all right that way. It

crackled like green wood as it burned.

Presently the fame of Billiam's brass

plate waxed great in the land. Dr.

Macfarlane, a short-winded and

short-tempered man, came upon the

announcement quite unexpectedly as

he was puffing his way up the weary,

grimy, stone-stairs, to visit the sister

of the seamstress who lived upon the

other side of the landing from Billiam.

To say simply that Dr. Macfarlane

was astonished, does considerable

injustice to his state of mind. He

stood regarding the brightly polished, clearly

lettered announcement for fully ten minutes.

Then he rang the bell, and an answering peal

came from just the other side of the panel.

But no one arrived to open, for it was the

middle of the day and Billiam was at his

classes. Dr. Macfarlane could learn little

from the seamstress or her sister, beyond the

general suspicion that their neighbour upon

the other side of the landing was " maybes

no verra richt in his mind."

It was not the seamstress, but the seam-

stress's sister who volunteered this informa-

tion.

" But he sent us in these," added the seam-

stress, who was a pale and exceedingly

He stood regarding the brightly polished, clearly-lettered

announcement for fully ten minutes.

pretty girl, pointing to some nobly plumped

purple grapes which lay on a plate on the

little cracked table by the bedside.

" He'll be a kind o' young doctor seekin' a

job, nae doot! " said the seamstress's sister,

sinking back on her pillows. For gratitude

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PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

he was a man who had worked hard at his

most uncertain and unremunerative practice.

Besides which, he had a young family grow-

ing up about him. If therefore he was to

have a young interloper settling in the centre

of his sphere of influence, it was as well to

know with whom he had to contend.

So he called upon Billiam.

It was six o'clock in the evening when Dr.

Macfarlane came stumbling up Billiam's

stairs. The door stood slightly ajar, and there

came from the other side a confused murmur

of voices, a yelping of dogs, with sundry other

sounds which even the doctor's trained ear

could not distinguish. But, above all, there

rose fitfully the shrill cry of an infant. Upon

hearing this last the doctor pushed the door

with the brass plate open, and entered un-

ceremoniously. He found himself in a large

unfurnished room, which, when he stepped

within, seemed at first nearly full of people.

It was brightly enough lighted, for the broad

flame of a No. 6 gas-burner hissed with

excess of pressure above the bare mantel-

piece. A fire burned in the grate, which

shone cheerfully enough, being heaped high

with small lumps of coal.

Most of the people were ranged along the

walls of the room, sitting with their backs

against the wall-paper, upon which their

shoulders had made a glossy brown stripe all

round—young lads with dogs between their

knees, girls holding cats in baskets, middle-

aged women nursing birds in cages.

They talked to each other in subdued

tones, or to their pets in whispers. Sometimes

a dog would become excited by the voice of a

cat complaining of bonds and imprisonments

near him, but he would be promptly cuffed

into submission by his master; or a canary

would suddenly flutter against the bars,

warned by instinct of the proximity of so

many enemies.

The doctor stood awhile rooted in amaze-

ment, and did not even take any notice when

several of his former patients nodded affably

across to him.

Presently, from an inner room, there came

forth a hard-featured man, carrying a large

book under his arm. Billiam followed behind

him, his shock of dark hair tossed and

rumpled. He was stooping forward, and

eagerly explaining something to the man.

So intent was he upon the matter in hand,

that he passed the doctor without so much as

noticing him.

," And I'll look in and see how the pair of

you have got on to-morrow,'" Billiam said,

shaking the hard-featured man warmly by

the hand at the door.

Billiam turned, and, for the first time,

looked the doctor fairly in the face.

" My name is Dr. Macfarlane. I have a

practice in this neighbourhood," said the

physician, " and I should like the favour of a

few words with you."

"Certainly. By all means—with pleasure,"

replied Billiam. " Come this way."

BILLIAM.

130

He took animal after

animal into his hands, set

it upon the table ....

strange to you, but the fact is that man came

to consult me about a separation from his

wife. And he brought his family Bible out

of the pawnshop to show me the dates of his

marriage and birth of his children. I gave

him something when he went away, so that he

would not need to take the Bible back

into pawn, at least not immediately. Do

you think I need any qualification for

that?"

•' And those people outside ? " said the

doctor, not yet entirely convinced.

" Will you go round the wards with me ? "

said Billiam, smiling brightly and irre-

sistibly.

Without another word he led the way to

the door of the next room. It seemed to the

doctor fuller than ever.

" Lame dogs this way ! " said Billiam, in a

matter-of-fact manner, and half-a-dozen men

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

slouched after him. Very deftly Billiam laid

out a row of small shining instruments upon

the table, with salve, lint, and bandages

arranged behind them.

Then he took animal after animal into his

hands, set it upon the table, passed his

fingers lightly to .and fro over its head and

ears a time or two, listened to the owner's

voluble explanations without appearing to

notice them, and forthwith proceeded to

deliver a little clinical lecture. His deft

fingers snipped away the matted hair from a

neglected and festering sore. He cleaned the

wound tenderly, the dog often instinctively

turning to snap. Yet all the time Billiam

never once flinched, but talked steadily,

impartially, and sympathetically to the animal

and his master till the sore was dressed and

the patient, redelivered, with all due directions,

to his owner.

Before long Dr. Macfarlane became so

interested that he waited while case after

case was disposed of with the unerring

accuracy of an hospital expert. Sometimes

he would instinctively have the lint or the

bandage ready in his hand, just as if he had

still been dresser at the old infirmary and

waiting for Lister to work off his batch.

At the end of half an hour he had no

more remembrance of Billiam's want of

qualifications. He asked him to come round

to supper and smoke a pipe. But Billiam

only smiled and said, " Thank you a hundred

times, doctor, but I have some private cases

in the back room to attend to yet, and then I

must read up my stuff for to-morrow."

After a while there came to visit Billiam a

minister or two

familiar with the

district, the young

re sident

mission-

ary from

the Stu-

dents

Hall, aj

stray law-

yer's clerk or

two—and the

superintendent of police. They all came to

cavil, but, one and all, they remained to hold

bandages and be handy with the vaseline.

On one occasion the minister of St.

Margaret's offered Billiam the use of a pew

in his church. But Billiam said, " Sunday is

my day for out-patients, or I should be glad."

For Billiam was a gentleman, and always

answered even a dissenting clergyman politely.

" You should think of your immortal

soul! " said the minister.

" Who knoweth," said Billiam, " the spirit

of the beast, that goeth downward into the

earth ?"

And Billiam could never find out why the

minister went away so suddenly, or why he

shook his head ever afterwards when they

met in the street. It never crossed his mind

that Mr. Gregson of St. Margaret's, had

taken him for an infidel and a dangerous

BILLIAM.

141

a real mattress with a clean sheet and folding

his overcoat for a pillow. But even that

came to an end.

The circumstances were these:

Billiam had been down at Ormithwaite

seeing his father, and his brother (of the 1 1oth

Hussars) insisted upon returning to Edin-

burgh with him.

" You'll have to rough it, mind you," said

Billiam, warning him.

" I'm a soldier," said his brother stoutly,

" and I guess your hole can't be worse than

some places I've put up in."

"All right," said Billiam, "mind, I've

warned you. Don't grumble

when you get there."

So at their journey's end,

Billiam opened the door

of the garret and invited

his brother to step in.

A curious damp

smell met them

on the thres-

hold. i

" That's all .

right," said

Billiam, reas-

suringly. " I

washed

ou t the ...,,-.'

L 1 i.. -

whole '^"-

bloom- '.

ing shop , 1

with chlo- .^

rate of

lime the

night be-

fore I came

away. It's heal-

thy no end, if it

does stink a bit."

" Maybe," said his brother the- Captain,

"but it certainly does smell like stables."

" Well, I'll have the fire lighted, and we'll

have some supper before the people begin

to come," said Billiam, calmly, " you'll be

picking these old rags for lint, and laying out

the bandages."

The Captain and Billiam dined upon a

rasher of bacon and eggs which Billiam fried

in the pan, along with sliced potatoes and

butter. The Hussar, being exceedingly

• Vigy^TiT 60*1.1

A rasher of bacon and eggs, which

Billiam fried in the pan.

hungry, thought he had never tasted anything

more delicious.

" They don't do anything like this at the

club. It is such a jolly flavour too, quite

unique," he said with enthusiasm; " seems

as if it were seasoned with anchovy or some

French sauce—quite Parisian, in fact! "

'"Yes," Billiam answered simply, "that

is the red herrings I had in the pan last

week. With us coming in so quick, I

hadn't time to clean him out properly."

The outer
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PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" I forgot, old chap; on my life and

honour, I quite forgot. I lent my bed to

Peter Wilkins, the water-colour man. He

had pawned his to pay his rent, but he

thought he could get it out again before I

came back."

" You bet he.- couldnV said the Hussar,

twirling his handsome moustache; " I've

seen that kind of man; there are several in

my regiment."

" Let's go and look Peter up, anyway,"

said Billiam; "perhaps we can get the bed

after all.

So the Hussaraccompanied Billiam through

the dimly lighted streets, under gloomy arch-

ways, past great black chasms yawning

between lofty houses, till they arrived at the

dwelling of Wilkins, "the water-colour

man," as Billiam said. It was a room

upon the ground floor with a sunk area in front.

" It does not look promising," said Billiam ;

" the beast isn't lighted up. I guess old

Wilkins is either drunk or has gone to the

country."

" Perhaps he has pawned your bed, too,"

said the Hussar bitterly.

Billiam was hurt at the suggestion.

" Wilkins is a gentleman," he said, " and

it was only last week he sent me his Skye

terrier, for me to doctor up and have all right

for him when he came back. Peter isn't

the chap to sell my bed and then bilk."

They tried Wilkins' door in vain, and rang

the bell repeatedly without producing the

least effect. Apparently others had done the

same, for at the first tug the bell-pull slid

out about six inches in a silent, uncanny,

unattached manner.

" That's no use," said Billiam, " let's climb

up on the railings."

" Ah!" he cried, as soon as he had

mounted himself upon the area railings,

whence he could look into the room of

Wilkins, " there is my bed standing against

the wall, and the mattress beside it. You

see, good old Wilkins is all right. It is a

first-rate bed; better take a look at it, for it is

all you will see of it this night."

" Come doon oot o' that! " commanded a

stern voice. " What for are ye loitering wi'

intent there for. I'll hae to tak' ye up."

A portly policeman was standing behind

them with much suspicion on his face.

Billiam turned himself about quietly.

" John," he said, " I wish you could get

me my bed. I lent it to Peter Wilkins, and

his door is locked."

" Guid save us! " cried the policeman,

" it's the Dog Missionary. Is that your bed ? "

he added, climbing up beside Billiam and

looking critically at the object. The rays of

a gas lamp upon the pavement shone upon it

so that it glowed with a kind of radiance not

its own.

" It looks a guid bed eneuch ! " the police-

man said as he climbed down.

" Can you not get it for us, John ?" re-

peated Billiam.
BILLIAM.

143

crazy stairs. The fire had died down, and

when Captain Ormithwaite went to the coal

box, it was empty.

" Hello, Billiam," he said, " how do you

propose to keep us warm all night. Has

somebody taken out your coals on loan as

well as your bed ? "

Billiam threw up his hands again with the

same pathetic little gesture of despair.

" I don't know what you'll think of me,

Herbert," he said, " but when I went away, I

gave all I had to the seamstress

next door."

" Well," said the Captain, " go

and see if she can give you any

back." But at the suggestion,

Billiam's pale cheek flushed.

" I can't quite do that," he

said, " but I think I can

get some. You wait a

minute and I'll run

down and see."

"Pick them and steal them," said

Captain Ormithwaite. " You young

beggar, what would the governor say if he

knew ?"

Billiam looked up a little wearily, as if the

subject had suddenly grown too large for

discussion.

" I shan't be very long," he said, and went

on buttoning the ulster about his slim young

body.

" In for a penny, in for a pound," said the

Then Billiam proceeded to array himself in

an old ulster, remarkably wide and baggy

about the skirts. He opened it and showed

the Hussar how ingeniously he had sewn two

large pockets of strong canvas to each side.

" I bring home the coals in these," he said,

" isn't it a prime idea ? "

" Where do you buy them ?" asked the

Captain.

" I don't usually buy them," answered

Billiam, simply, " I pick them! "

The rain of coal cobs which fell about Billiam

was astonishing and deadly.

soldier. " I'll come and help you to steal

coals, if I'm cashiered for it."

Billiam pointed to an old overcoat which

hung upon a nail behind the door.

" That's got pockets for coals and things,

too. If you really want to come along," he

said, not very hopefully. " but I think you

had better look to the collie till I come

back."

" I'm on it," said the Hussar; " it's my

night out. Come on! " he cried, pulling at the

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PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

coat, which threatened to turn out too small

across the shoulders for him. " What a rum

smell it has, though," he added, lifting up

one of the lapels and sniffing at it.

" Oh! " said Billiam, " that's only the dogs.

Sometimes I wrap the worst cases up in it.

But its all right, old chap," he added hastily,

" I always disinfect it carefully."

They went down the dimly lighted, greasy

stairs without meeting a soul. When they

arrived at the foot, Billiam turned sharp to

the left, and the Hussar found himself in a

darkish wide lane, in which were no gas

lamps. At the end of the lane was a great

coal station, full of wagons and stacks of

coal, black and shining, dimly seen between

two tall gate posts. The latest delivery

wagons of the day were just leaving the yard

on the way to the city coal stores, there to

be ready for the morning demand. They

rumbled out in a long procession, manned

by men as rough and grim and black as the

coal they worked among.

The coal carters kept up a brisk inter-

change of compliments with one another,

varying this by an occasional lump of coal.

Great wedges and nuts of it were also being

jolted continually off the carts as they jostled

and lurched through the dark and deeply

rutted lane.

" Come on," said Billiam.

And he ran off among the grinding wheels,

nipping up every piece of coal which lay on

the road, and pushing it into his ulster

pockets with trained alacrity. His brother

endeavoured to imitate him, but he was un-

accustomed and clumsy, and got but few

pieces, and those small. It was interesting

work, however, for the wagons surged and

roared like a maelstrom between the high

walls and the tall houses. The Hussar found

that it needed much quickness to seize the

prey and bag it, evading, meanwhile, the

succeeding carts, which came on at a pace

which was almost a brisk trot.

Presently a huge coal carter, standing up

on his wagon, caught sight of the Captain

lifting a piece of coal from the side of the

road. He sent a missile after him, which

took effect just between his shoulder blades.

" Get oot o' that, ye skulker ye! "

he shouted.

Captain Ormithwaite of the 11oth Hussars

sprang towards his assailant to take him by

the throat; but the watchful Billiam had his

brother promptly by the arm.

" Mind what you are about l" he said.

" See; stand in there, and we'll soon get

enough to last us three or four days."

The brothers took shelter in a cellar door-

way, both of them grimed to the eyes.

Billiam produced a hideous mask out of his

side pocket, and put it on. Then he slid off

the doorstep and took up his position on a

little mound of hard trodden earth and

engine ash.

" Ho! Ha ! "he cried. •' Ye are a set o"

dirty, lazy Gilmerton cairters ! "

BILLIAM.

warm water. This he set out in the corner,

behind a screen made of a grey sheet which

hung upon a cord.

" Go in there,'' he said, " and get yourself

clean, you horrible Sybarite! '•'

When he came back to take his turn at the

bath, a fresh pot full of water was ready, and

the room was bright and warm. The Hussar

had attended to the fire and had swept the

floor. The brothers were in the inner room

in which Billiam usually camped. There was

a sofa in it now.

"I'll toss you for the sofa,young 'un," said

the Captain.

" Right," said Billiam, promptly. " Tails l"

" Heads it is ! " cried the Hussar with

some relief.

"Glad of that," quoth cheerful Billiam,

•' I prefer the floor anyway. You can make

quite a decent thing out of rugs and over-

coats. And besides, sleeping on the floor

makes you so jolly glad to get up in the

morning."

So they turned in and slept the sleep of

the just. Billiam was up by daylight and

had a cheerful fire burning when his brother

awoke. He brought him a cup of tea and

told him to roll over again. But the

captain was now wide awake and eager for

talk.

"Why do you keep on at this kind of

thing?" he said, "and why don't you buy

your coals like an ordinary being ?"

"Well," said Billiam, "this is the sort of

thing I take to, you see. It's interesting all

the time. I suck in oceans of learning all

day till I'm tight, and then I practise it all

the evening. And as for coals—well, some-

times I do buy them. But £150 a year

doesn't spread far in rent, classes, and

victuals — not to speak of dressings and

lint."

" See here," said the captain, " I think I

could get over the governor to double your

allowance. I've been pretty light on him

lately and he thinks me a good little man. If

I do, will you leave off pigging up here and

live decent ?"

Billiam seized his hand.

"You are a good chap, sure," he said.

" Try it on the dad, Heb! I could get

proper cubicles for the beasts then, an

Vol. 1,-lQ.

operating table, and perhaps I might even

afford to hire a yard."

The Captain leaped from his sofa and

began to pace up and down in his pyjamas.

" Of all the fools God ever made, Billiam,

you are the most confounded! Why in

creation didn't you settle down and be a

proper parson, if you wanted to do all this

kind of thing. It makes me sick !"

Billiam looked at him a while as if for

once he would try to explain. But the hope-

lessness of the task made him turn away

sadly. Nobody ever would understand. He

must just go on and on, till they'put him in

a lunatic asylum.

" See here," he said, " better put on your

THE MAIN ENTRANCE TO THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

ARTHUR WOODWARD.

IT was upon the distinct understanding

that I did so at my own risk that my

visit to the Stock Exchange was under-

taken. To provide me with book and

pencil; to post me until I was not to be

outdone in superciliousness; to pilot

me through the labyrinths of the ram-

bling building, were promised by a

friendly member on the stipulation that

the moment my intrusion was suspected

his connection with me ended. Where my dissimulation broke down, there his friendship

was to finish.

To suppose that there is any particular difficulty connected with an illicit visit to the Stock

Exchange is to put far too much faith in the exaggerated stories of the summary eviction of

strangers that are occasionally related. It is, in fact, singularly difficult to understand why

the place should be enshrouded with so much mystery, since the Paris Bourse, the New

York Stock Exchange, and I believe every other money market, is accessible to the general

public.

Yet, as if to symbolise the mythical arcana of Capel Court, the house itself occupies by no

means a prominent position, and although covering practically the whole of the triangular

block of buildings to the east of the Bank of England, it is protected from the vulgar gaze

by a series of unpretentious edifices that roughly encompass the pile of white brick and

stone within. Nothing except the electric life of Throgmorton-street, the ceaseless ebb and

flow of the financial tide, money expressed in people, the leisurely activity which charac-

terises nearly all Stock Exchange men, reveals to the passer-by the exact location of the

heart of what Rothschild, in epigrammatic phrase, called the bank for the whole world.

Even the main entrance at the end of the narrow alley known as Capel Court is not of

sufficient significance to attract attention, and whichever of the seven doorways into the

building the visitor may select it is equally unassuming, equally gloomy, and equally unsug-

gestive of the crater of human emotions that is smouldering within.

Through the outer swing doors a stone-paved lobby, unprepossessing!y bare, gives
A MORNING ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

access to the House itself. In these lobbies

strangers who have any business to conduct

with members are compelled to wait. They

are in keeping with the inhospitable spirit of

the Stock Exchange.

Entering from the north, a short chain of

passages couple the diminutive halls and

lead to the various offices of the building,

which now appears more imposing and far

larger than glimpses of the exterior had in

any way suggested. Staircases descend to

the basement and mount to the spacious

rooms above. It is here that the managing

committee of the Stock Exchange conducts

its business.

Inside the building is a private telegraph

office, which is believed to be the busiest in

London—and no small share of the daily

business is conducted over the wires.

Each entrance to the House itself is

zealously guarded by porters in uniforms of

dark blue with brass buttons and scarlet

collars and gold braided hats. Although

there are some 4,000 brokers and jobbers,

and thousands more of authorised and un-

authorised clerks who have the entree to the

building, these lynx-eyed officials appear to

know them each by sight; they seem, in fact,

to recognise a subscriber, or divine the

presence of a stranger by instinct.

Once past these officials and the visitor

may breathe in safety for a short space of

time. To evade their vigilance, however, is

no easy task; nor does the prospect of being

discovered and ignominiously expelled amidst

the jeers of the small knots of clerks con-

gregated on the steps serve in any way to

enliven the situation. If the man who

hesitates is ever lost, however, he is in this

case. I therefore tilted my hat a little on

one side, wedged a pencil knowingly between

my teeth, and, pocket-book in hand, ran

up the steps, and rather to my surprise

found myself entering the sacred portals

unchallenged.

The Stock Exchange itself is an enormous

oblong hall, which, but for the disillusion of

the surging crowd and deafening clamour,

reminded me of the gaming rooms at Monte

Carlo. The vicissitudes of the Stock Ex-

change are, in fact, like those of the roulette

or trente et quarante table.

In shape the Stock Exchange is too

irregular to convey an accurate impression

of its appearance. It is a vast, lofty chamber,

16,000 square feet, or more, in area, and

SHORTER'S COURT (ONE OF THE ENTRANCES).

narrower in the centre than at the ends,

where it widens out into large rounded tran-

septs. The gilt dome and vaulted roof of

glass is supported by huge columns of red-

brown granite, while the bare marble walls,

which gave rise to the slang term of Gor-

gonzola Hall, glimmer like polished mirrors

under the rays of the electric arc lights

suspended from the dome.

Partly round the building runs a fragile

gallery so high up that it almost escapes

observation. This gallery is ignored by

148

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

does by fits and starts, in the relaxation of

twenty minutes' horseplay.

I took a dislike to those seats. I fancy I

must have regarded them with much the

same feeling of hostility as a bull would

regard the auditorium when turned into the

arena of the Plaza de Tares. For sooner or

THE INTERIOR OF THE STOCK EXCHANGE

later, I did not doubt, I should be affording

sport for the gentlemen with whom I had

presumed to mix.

There are other seats, too, round the

central pillars of the buildings, while a

sort of rostrum occupies the middle of the

floor.

It was eleven o'clock when I first entered

the precincts of the House, apparently as fully

prepared as anyone else to deal in stocks and

shares. A moment before, the head waiter had

sprunga rattle in notification of thefactthat the

regular business of the Stock Exchange had

commenced. For an hour or more, however,

men had been coming and. going and post-

ing themselves in the closing prices of the

previous afternoon.

Outside the swing

doors which give en-

trance to the various

markets, the porters

in their leathern chairs

were shouting through

the tangled skein of

speaking-tubes which

hung beside them the

names of various mem-

bers of the Stock Ex-

change who had been

called for by friends

unable to obtain ad-

mission to the House.

As I crossed the

rubicon I heard the

names taken up by

corresponding porters

seated on correspond-

ing perches within.

Above this rose a dull

monotonous roar of

voices, which filled the

huge hall and echoed

down the corridors as

the glass doors swung

backwards and for-

wards on their hinges.

Having effected an

entrance and mingled

with some trepidation

among the jostling

close - packed crowd

within, I found myself

at once faced with a new difficulty. To observe

without the appearance of observing; to

walk into an absolutely new world without

betraying surprise or expressing a certain

feeling of unrestfulness; to be asked ques-

tions that you cannot answer, and accosted

in language which defies intelligible con-

struction, is a bewildering task.

A MORNING ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

149

MR. BARNEY BARNATO YESTERDAY.

and the indescribable babel of voices grew

louder.

It was an orderly, good-natured, devil-

may-care sort of crowd after

all, in spite of the continual

jostling and the constant

fight for exit and entrance ;

a cosmopolite assem-

blage in the

midst of which

Jews and Gen-

tiles waived dif-

ferences of creed in unanimity of religion,

where Hebrew millionaires and ghosts of

Capel Court haunting the scenes of their

departed triumphs stood arm in arm, and

grey-haired speculators, with humped backs

and wrinkled brows, rubbed shoulders with

beardless boys.

Standing there in the

busiest hour of the day, the

absolute solidity and out-

ward levity of the members

fills one with natural won-

der. In spite of everything,

in the face of panics, in the

hour of momentous crises, there is

no appearance of haste nor even

excitement. Nothing, indeed, is

more surprising than the calm demeanour of

the individual members, their sangfroid and

apparent unconcern in the midst of the fever

and ferment of the House.

The continual roar of voices, the shouts of

buyers and sellers, the occasional rattle of

the waiters preceding some official announce-

ment, afford just those circumstances under

which a man might be expected to lose his

head. Millions of pounds are changing

hands hour by hour, fortunes are being made

and fortunes lost, but everyone is calm and

alert, and, to outward seeming, unconscious

that anything untoward is afoot. The com-

plaisancy of the individual, in fact, appears

to increase in inverse ratio to the extent of

his dealing, and the critical nature of the

transactions in which he is concerned.

Although there are more than a dozen

markets carried on simultaneously upon the

Stock Exchange, access to each of the prin-

cipal of which is obtained through a special

entrance, they are all conducted beneath the

A DROP IN ALLSOPPS.

same roof, and are only to be distinguished

by the members who form the various groups

making denser corners in an already densely

crowded room.

Every member of the Stock Exchange is

either a broker or a jobber, the latter occupy-

ing the exact position of a middleman, and

whereas the broker has the general public for

a client, the jobber acts as a go-between in

the transactions of one broker with another.

The jobber is, in fact, a convenient and almost

indispensable functionary, as he supplies at

all times and under every circumstance a

ready market. He is always ready to buy or

15o

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

contracts or notes pass between broker and

jobber. Each makes a hasty pencil entry in

his pocket-book, and there the matter ends

until settling day, except for the formality of

calling the bargains over the following morn-

ing, which is done by clerks representing the

firms upon the Stock Exchange. Notwith-

standing the stupendous amounts at stake,

however, it is the boast of Capel Court that

in all its chequered career there is hardly a

single case of repudiation on record.

In a few hours property to the amount of

j£ 15,000,000 has been known to change

hands, and Rothschild himself has made in

one day purchases to the extent of .£4,000,000.

Yet the whole transactions were

done verbally, and without a

single line of writing.

There are many curious

characters upon the Stock

Exchange; but although

the names of a large num-

ber of the members are

tolerably well known, it is

in connection with some

sphere outside Throgmor-

ton-street. Neither the

Rothschilds, nor Mr.

Barnato—erstwhile acrobat

and still juggler— nor any

of the famous bankers and

large speculators whose

names are most familiar

with the public, are actual

members of the House, and,

enormous as their influence

is upon the money market, their entire trans-

actions are conducted through the medium

of the firms who represent them upon the

Stock Exchange.

In Capel Court the prophet has more

honour in his own country than anywhere

else. There are poets and M.P.'s, and famous

athletes, and well-known sportsmen on the

Stock Exchange, but many of them receive

less respect than Hebrew millionaires and

plodding Germans who are the incarnation

of the art of making money.

There are half a dozen men or more who

are looked upon as pillars of the House, and

whose figures are, as it were, distinctive land-

marks in Capel Court. Each of them has

WAITING FOR THE RISE.

his special following, who swear by him

and take his tips, although tips are things

generally avoided in Throgmorton-street.

Modesty is a virtue that appears ill-assorted

on the Stock Exchange, where Self, Selfish-

ness, and Self-importance are cynically

accepted as the three senses. Yet if you

buttonhole one of these leviathans of the

money market, he immediately grows restless

and attempts to wriggle off.

Mr. Yellowly Watson for one, however,

cannot escape observation. For is he not

known as the Gulliver of the Kerbstone, and

do not men meet under him when they have

an appointment to keep in the House ?

A MORNING ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

in spite of the high pressure at which business

is conducted, nothing is more striking than the

youthful appearance and buoyant spirits of the

members.

AMERICAN RAILS.

There is Mr. Richard Pfungst, for instance,

with the cheery " First of all, how are you ?"

with which he always accosts a friend—in

spite of the chaff which this little peculiarity

brings down. No one would suppose that he,

with his youthful figure and beaming face, has

been for twenty-three years a member of the

House. He is a man on whom the cares and

worries of life rest lightly, and who lives down

all trouble with a smile. Yet his appetite

for business is voracious, and he is usually

the last member of the Stock Exchange to

leave Throgmorton-street.

Then there is " Our Tommy "—five feet

or less in height, and every inch one of the

biggest men in the market. For Mr. Tommy

Marks has made and lost more than one

large fortune in his time. He is the most

energetic and one of the most popular members

of the House, where his kindness of heart

and unselfish disposition earn for him well-

deserved admiration and respect.

And just as each market has its master, each

market has its butt. In every lull of business

the unfortunate man is called upon to enliven

the house, as I was unpleasantly conscious I

should be myself the moment my dissimulation

fell through, or my intrusion was resented. To

be sung to, to be danced round, to be bonneted

and hustled until such time that he does not

know whether he is standing upon his head or

his heels—this, and a great deal more besides,

is the fate of any man who has made himself

unpopular within the Stock Exchange.

The fun of the House as I found it was

more boisterous than humorous. A great

deal that went on was simply that form of

practical joking which is known in school-

boy parlance as bullyragging. But even this

relieves the tension of continual gambling,

and it may be that its very boisterousness is

the safest and best form of relaxation from

the harassing strain of business in the money

markets. To roughness, it must be admitted,

the members of the Stock Exchange have

little scruple about adding cruelty—and such

wanton cruelty that has been known to drive

an unfortunate boy to suicide.

It was an old trick that was replayed—

perhaps with unusual design and forethought.

The name of a bogus stock was invented on

the spur of the moment, and whispered round

the market. The new comer, totally un-

suspicious of the trap that had been laid, was

soon buying and selling it again at an ever

enlarging profit. As the news spread through

the building the demand increased by leaps

and bounds; the price rose steadily, until

every minute added to the fabulous sums

that the dealer had already gained.

By the end of the afternoon his book

showed a profit of several thousand pounds.

For three or four days the delusion was kept

up with admirable gravity. The boy found

I52

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

RIK. "GULLIVER" WATSON.

to those through whose hands the

shares pass.

Some time before the Derby of

1895 was run, a sporting dealer in

African Mines used to spend the

best part of his day in buying

Potchefstroom shares, technically

known as " Potts," and his spare

time in backing the famous

Raconteur for the Derby. Why

he was investing so largely in

these shares nobody knew, until

a broker who shrewdly guessed

that the jobber was investing

in shares about which he knew

nothing, put the question to him

point blank.

" Well," drawled the dealer, " I'm told

that they find gold, silver, copper, coal, and

various other minerals in the

mine, and besides t-hat," he added

confidentially,"I hearonthe best

authority that Raconteur is being

trained there for the Derby."

It was the same jobber who was

afterwards the hero of an amus-

ing incident in the House. In

an idle moment an argument had

arisen on the distance which it

was possible for a man to cover

at one hop, and the assertion

was made that no one could

cross the Stock Exchange in less

than forty—a declaration which

was immediately disputed by the

backer of Raconteur. At this,

someone offered to bet five pounds that he

would fail to cover the distance in thirty hops.

And long odds were offered against twenty-five,

twenty, and all the way down to fifteen.

The j obber accepted them all—and when

at four o'clock a line was formed, he

to the amazement of everyone, won

the day in eleven gigantic leaps—

a feat which made him the richer

by nearly .£50. No one quite knows

how much money is lost and won

upon the Stock Exchange in this

irresponsible kind of betting —but

many thousands thus change hands

every year. It is part of the life.

They COuld not exist without it. MR. "TOMMY" MAKXS.

MR. R. FrtJNOST.

As I moved about the Stock Exchange I

presently observed a waiter mount the

steps of the rostrum that I have already

mentioned as occupying the centre of

the floor. Above the perpetual din to

which I was by this time accustomed,

the rap of a hammer was distinctly

audible in every part of the building.

In a moment the crowd, palpitating,

was petrified. A second and a

third time the hammer dropped,

and that moment a pin falling

on the floor could have been

heard, where a moment before

A MORNING ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE.

'53

days, closes punctually at four o'clock

from one year's end to the other,

a great deal of business is trans-

acted in the street. The prin-

cipal entrance to the Ameri-

can, market is through

Shorter's Court, a small

cobble-paved court-yard,

that seems to have been

overlooked by the architect

of the Stock Exchange, and

here almost every evening

a .scene of the liveliest ex-

citement ensues.

From the intense heat of the House it is a

trying change to emerge into the outer air

and to stand about very often bareheaded

for the best part of an hour. There are

many men who might boast better health

to-day if they had not taken part in these

overflow meetings, which, however, are too

important to be neglected. Here, between

four and five, one may see many of the most

prominent members of the Stock Exchange.

Every few minutes the cable prices from

New York, which have arrived too late for

admission to the Stock Exchange, are called

out, and an eager crowd awaits any

bids or offers that may fall from the

lips of Mr. Pail-

thorpe, who, as the

representative of

the firm who are

the biggest

" shunters " with

New York, re-

ceives cablegrams

at the rate of one

eveiy few minutes.

In the African

ring, struggling

and surging in the

street, the enor-

mous figure of Mr.

Harry Paxton

looms aggres-

sively. He is

MR. HARRY WEBER.

almost a giant, this popular member

of the House, and can afford to

dress untidily, thereby mak-

ing himself conspicuous

among the well-groomed

men who are elbowing each

other on the pavement.

Mr. Paxton's secession,

from the American market

is a matter of recent his-

tory. He was followed

almost immediately by,Mr.

Tom Nickalls—the father

of Guy and Vivian, the

oarsmen—whose broad shoulders and flowing

beard were at one time a conspicuous feature

of the crowd in Shorter's Court.

The boom in the Kaffir market, which

played so conspicuous a part in the last finan-

cial year, was, undoubtedly, the most un-

'B1SHKA "

Written and Illustrated from Photographs by

GAMBIER BOLTON, F.Z.S.

[MONGST the thousands of British

and foreign visitors each year to

Windsor Castle, comparatively few

ever wend their way across the park

to Frogmore, where the Queen's

private kennels, the poultry yards,

dairy, and farm are situated. True,

a special permit has to be obtained before these

places can be inspected, but the sights to be

seen there, especially to any lover of animals,

will well repaythe little extra trouble necessary

before permission to view them is obtained,

and once there we can fully realise the devoted

attachment of their Royal mistress to every

one of her pets, an attachment that in many

cases survives the death of the favoured

creature.

Just opposite the front gate of the kennel-

man's house, is a plot of smooth green turf,

which is kept neat and trim throughout the

year. Its surface is dotted with stone slabs

of different sizes, and underneath each one

reposes some dead and gone canine favourite,

the name, age, and sometimes the name of

the donor being graven on the stone.

Although a large number of dogs are born in

the kennels annually, the Queen is constantly

receiving presents of rare and valuable

dogs from those at home and abroad who

know her fondness for them. The shivering

little Italian greyhound, " Bishka." whose

portrait we give, is an illustration of this, for

he was at one time the pet of that great and

beloved monarch the late Emperor Frederick

of Germany, and after his death his little

favourite was sent to Windsor by the widowed

Empress, so that he may end his days in

peace; and rarely does the Queen pass his

kennel without stopping to inquire after him,

and speak a kindly word in answer to his

demonstrations of affection.

The beautiful Scotch collie, "Darnley,"

was presented to her Majesty by the Rev.

Hans Hamilton, one of our greatest collie

breeders and President of the Collie Club;

whilst the parents of the very rare and

valuable white Scotch collie, " Squire," were

presented by the Messrs. Charles, of Welles-

bourne, some years ago, and the breed is

being preserved with most excellent results,

" Squire " being a very typical specimen of

the Windsor white collies.

The Norwegian sledge-dog " Rolfe " was

presented to the Queen by the late Colonel

Maude, Crown Equerry. Rolfe's great

strength and massive shoulders doubtless

proved of the greatest use to him in the days

when he was compelled to assist in dragging

heavy sledges across the snows and ice of

Norway, but he has grown stout and some-

what indolent since his arrival at Windsor.

The little white Spitz or toy Pomeranian

" Gina," who weighs seven pounds only, was

brought from abroad by the Queen herself,

and is consequently among the most favoured

of the pets in the Castle. But of all the

THE QUEEN'S PETS.

155

dogs, either at the Castle or in the kennels,

the handsome brown Spitz or Pomeranian.

" Marco " is the special favourite. He

travels with the Queen in all her journeys,

and a Scotch " gillie" or manservant is in

close attendance

upon him when-

ever he takes his

walks abroad.

He is a deep

rich chesnut

brown, a beauti-

ful shape, and as

good and even tem-

pered as any dog in

the world, so that we

need not be surprised

at special honours

being thickly

showered on him as

the Queen's " favou-

rite of favouiites."

In the kennel-

man's house is a com-

fortable room hung with

red curtains and having a

carpet to match, and this

reserved for the use of the Queen,

vrho will often rest here when

visiting her pets. The fact that the

walls are covered with paint-

ings of past favourites, each

bearing the dog's name and

that of the artist who painted

the portrait, makes it a most

interesting room to anyone for-

tunate enough to obtain admission

so many really beautiful paintings by cele-

brated artists, and in more than one instance

a lock of hair from some special favourite

is let into the frame itself.

Another very interesting sight is to see the

dogs at exercise in the home park. Every

one of them is taken out twice a day, the big

dogs taking their constitutional only when the

little ones are safely in their kennels. It is a

pleasant sight to meet Mr. Hill with about

thirty Pomeranians, dachshunds, pugs, and

other small dogs, who race about under the

trees on a bright

afternoon, per-

fectly happy and

contented, as roll-

ing over each other

in play or chasing

each other in a

mad gallop, they

spend a good hour

in healthy exercise.

The Frogmore

kennels, by the way,

must not be con-

founded with the

there,

through the kindness of Mr. Joseph Hill, the

kennel-man. Nothing in the whole of the

Frogmore establishments more plainly shows

the Queen's genuine affection for her pets

T56

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

breeds, many of them not only good enough

to show, but actually prize winners at the

larger British exhibitions.

The kennels are well built, and not only

White Scotch CotUc

• 'SQUIRE*

do the fortunate inmates

enjoy their liberty in large grass

runs, each containing a spacious

swimming tank, but the sleep-

ing compartments are fitted with

hot water pipes and plenty of

clean straw on their wooden

benches, and mothers and pup-

pies are accommodated in a

roomy hospital apart from the

main building. The visitor is at once

amongst cattle breeders in all parts of the

world.

At one time, strolling leisurely up and

down the cow-houses, amongst the Jersey

and other dairy cows, one was every now

and then startled by hearing a vicious

snort or roar from a pen in the far corner,

with an occasional crash against the

wooden partitions. Expecting to see some

unusually savage specimen of the domes-

ticated cow, it was a considerable surprise

to find oneself within a few inches of a

huge American bison bull, who prodded

viciously with his short but business-

like horns whenever a visitor approached

his loose box. He was a present to the

Queen from the Marquis of Lome at the

time that he was Governor-General of

Canada, but as we were in sore need of

a bison bull in our

collection in Regent's

Park, and this fact

having become known

to the Queen, through

Sir Henry Ponsonby,

the huge bull was

shortly afterwards

transported in a strong

struck by the entire absence of what can

best be described as " fashionable bar-

barities," none of the dogs having their

ears cropped or tails cut, anything like

unnecessary cruelty being absolutely

forbidden.

And what is true of the kennels is true

also of the poultry yards and dairy

farm, perfect cleanliness, order and

comfort are everywhere; whilst the needs

of each individual animal are carefully

looked after by some responsible person.

The natural result is that such mag-

nificent specimens of the bovine race as

the champion " New Year's Gift" and

" Empress " have been born and reared on

the farm, doing the greatest possible credit

to the Queen and her indefatigable manager,

Mr. Tail, whose name is a household word

cage by road from Windsor to the Zoo,

where he still lives, and affords the greatest

pleasure and interest to many thousands of

visitors.
THE QUEEN'S PETS.

Soon after his arrival the Zoo received

another gift from her Majesty in the shape of

the handsome lion cub, " Victor," who was

sent as a present to the Queen by the Sultan

of Sokoto, a territory on the north-west coast

of Africa, and his thickly

spotted coat proved to be

a continual source of

wonder to the visitors,

many of whom never

before realised

that all lions when

young are more or

less spotted, the

spots fading away

at each change of

coat until full age,

when they disap-

pear altogether.

'• Victor," now a

full grown lion,

has unfortunately

not fulfilled the

promise of his

youth, as, although

a good bodied lion, he has a light eye and

mane, and his head has thickened out to such

an extent that he has lost that beautiful leonine

expression for which, as a cub, he was so

celebrated.

We cannot conclude these notes on her

^Majesty's pets without a word of reference

to the white Egyptian donkey "Jack," who

was presented to the Queen by Lord Wolseley

after one of his successful campaigns in

Egypt. He is an unusually fine specimen,

standing about thirteen hands high, and when

he arrived at Wind-

sor he was covered

with most intricate

designs, clipped

out on his white

coat by some

clever native of

Egypt. His hard-

working days are

over now, and here

he will end his life

in peace and com-

fort, carefully

tended, and with

all his wants

ministered to,

until the last.

No one can

leave the Frogmore

kennels, poultry

yards, or dairy farm, without feeling that the

animals are fortunate indeed whose lines

have fallen in such pleasant places. Every-

thing possible is done to make them happy,

and all is carried out under the watchful super-

vision of their Royal mistress and her devoted

servants.

FLEETING.

Fleeting on, for ever fleeting,

Like the Spirit of the wind;

Still the years roll on repeating

Echoes of the year behind—

Lieut.-General Sir

Evelyn Wood, V.C.

When we wish to be com-

plimentary to our country

we describe Sir Evelyn

Wood as " a typical British soldier." When

we wished to learn something of his career

we went and asked him. That was a mis-

the 1 yth Lancers. He served

through the Indian campaign

of 1858 as a brigade-major; while, a year

later he took command of Beatson's Irregular

Horse, distinguishing himself in his pursuit

of the rebels in the Seronge jungle, and

take. The Quartermaster-General told us receiving the Victoria Cross for valour.

many thrilling stories of other soldiers, but if When the Ashanti War broke out in 1873

one might judge from his own account he has Lieutenant-Colonel Wood, then of the

never done anything remarkable himself.

Yet the stories of his pluck and

daring would nearly fill this

magazine.

If, in the course of a fight or a

dangerous manoeuvre, you wanted

Evelyn Wood,you might be certain

of finding him in the tightest

place; when, in the last Ashanti

War, our men had to advance

through forests, unable to

see ten yards ahead, while

they were shot down by

blacks hidden in the thick

underwood, Sir Evelyn

himself led the column,

and was among the first

wounded.

Sir Evelyn was schooled

in the art of war in the

Infantry, assisted Sir Garnet Wolseley by

organising a native force, and follow-

ing the retreat of the Ashanti army

from the coast.

During the Zulu war of five

years later he gave further evi-

dence of his dash and brilliancy

in the field.,

Subsequently he served in

the Transvaal and the Egyptian

wars; was appointed

Commander-in-Chief of

the Egyptian Army in

1882; commanded the

Eastern District of

England for three years,

and the Western District

for nearly five. He is now

Quartermaster -General,

and not even his habit

T. . .- . . LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR EVEL^I WOOD, G.C.B., V.C. , . . ,

Royal Navy, which he Pholo bjEUiu, & Frj. of plain speaking has

entered in 1852, at the

age of fourteen, taking action for the first

time as a member of the Naval Brigade,

under the command of Captain Sir William

Peel, during the Crimean War. At the

unsuccessful assault on the Redan he was

severely wounded while carrying a scaling

ladder; for his gallantry he was mentioned

in Lord Raglan's despatches.

He next entered the army as cornet in the

13th Light Dragoons, and left this regiment

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

159

perils of the most

monarch, while her

beneath the lustre of the title which

she, with unassuming dignity,

wears; to influence the destiny

of Europe while still on the

very verge of woman-

hood—all this is the

fate, or the good

fortune perhaps, of

the present Empress

of Russia.

It is with difficulty

that we can grasp

the change which

a few months have

wrought in this gentle

woman's life. Before

she was called to

her new and fateful

task, Princess Alix

of Hesse-Darmstadt

had led only the

quiet and uneventful

existence of many

other German girls

of her age. The

comely girl of Royal lineage, however, who

has now shared for a whole year the cares

To occupy one of

the most conspicuous

positions in the world, and

yet to be unknown ; to share

the cares of a colossal

empire, the joys and the

powerful European and dangers which form the conspicuous

individuality is lost heritage of the young Czar, has shown herself

well fitted for the dazzling rdle

which, so unexpectedly, she was

called upon to assume. The

tact, the courage, the power

of sympathetic intuition

which she inherited

from her mother,

our beloved Princess.

Alice, have equipped

her well for the

anxious responsi-

bilities of her exalted

station. Yet her

nature is, withal, so

gentle that it disarms

criticism; her views

are liberal, her

opinions well

balanced, and

amidst the semi-

barbaric splendour

of her position,

simplicity, piety, and

conscienti ousness

much the

characteristics

they were of

EMPRESS ALIX OF RUSSIA.

Photo by.Hughes & Mullins, Rydi, I. of IV.

are as

of the Russian Empress as

i6o

PEA RSOJV S MA GA ZINE.

Czarina is deeply studious in her habits,

an omnivorous reader, and a clever linguist.

Yet she is fond of out-door life, and

enjoys nothing more than a long country

ramble, accompanied by no one but her

husband. Devoted to England herself, she

has always been a special favourite with our

own Royal family, and is the pet grand-

daughter of the Queen, who has not failed to

notice the striking resemblance which she

bears to the late Prince Consort.

So great is the Empress's natural fondness

for the country of her mother's birth, that

THE

WESTMINSTER

GAZETTE

she has often declared that she never enjoys

herself more than when on a visit to " Grand-

mamma." Speaking English with scarcely a

foreign accent, she has insisted on making

this in some measure the language of the

Court at St. Petersburg. The Empress has

struggled valiantly to master the tongue of

her adopted country ; but the task is one over

which even an accomplished linguist may

well grow disheartened.

Day by day the Empress exercises an

unostentatious influence in favour of peace;

and the very fact of her birth has served to

allay, as it was hoped it might, the envious

and distrustful

feeling which

Russia some-

times displayed

under the late

Czar towards

both Germany

and England.

* » *

Sir George Newnes.

It seems fit-

ting that the

youngest of

British maga-

zines should pay

tribute to the

ability of the maker of the magazine which has

for some five years held the first place in the

affections of the public. Sir George Newnes

has often been described as the luckiest of

publishers of popular literature. But more

than luck is needed to make two such

colossal successes as Tit-Bits and the Strand

Magazine.

Aside from newspapers, Tit-Bits has un-

SIR GEORGE NEWNES, BART.

Photo by Rnssell Of Suns.

deniably proved more successful in a

pecuniary sense than any other publication in

this country, and it is, I know, a source of

supreme satisfaction to the guiding spirit of

the popular little green paper, to feel that the

huge circulation has been gained, and the

colossal fortune made, without the publication

of a single line that could have a bad

influence upon the purest-minded.

The most curious thing about Tit-Bits is

that in its very earliest days no one believed

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

16r

Tit-Bits, after the lapse of fourteen years, is

more firmly established than ever it was.

The Strand Magazine has been in its way

quite as colossal a success as Tit-Bits, and

the striking ability with which it has been

conducted has conclusively proved that Sir

George Newnes is second to none as a

judge of what the reading public really want.

Sir George's baronetcy was the well-

deserved reward of his pluck in starting the

Westminster Gazette when the Pall Mall

changed its politics. Though the Westminster

does not rival Tit-Bits or the Strand in

success, it has always been a most admirably

conducted evening paper, and its

influence upon the political feeling

of the time is unquestionably

very marked.

Sir George has the repu-

tation of being the best

chess player in the

House of Commons,

and is president of the

British Chess Club, to

which he has been a

very munificent donor.

He is a keen golfer,

and is, indeed, fond of

most out-door sports.

For cycling he con-

ceived a distaste as the

result of a tricycle

accident some years

ago. Sir George is a

married man with one son, who promises to

prove himself no unworthy follower in his

father's footsteps.

******

AMONG the young poets

Mr. Norman Gale, who have obtained a hear-

ing of late, Norman Gale,

the author of " Waiting for Summer," in our

last issue, " A Country Muse," " Orchard

Songs," and several other books, one or two

of which will be referred to before this brief

notice comes to a conclusion, has a recog-

nised position.

Let who will indulge in verbal contortions,

or Latinisms in abundance, or fluent violence,

or courtly gravity, Mr. Gale keeps to the text

of simplicity with determination. A love of

nature is the mainspring of his songs, and to

Vol. I.—11.

MR. NORMAN GALE.

him sunshine serves as an unfailing stimulant:

In this connection it should be remarked that

Mr. Gale occasionally misuses his facility, a

fact which has got him into trouble with such

critics as find more pleasure in hunting for

blemishes than for beauties.

According to Mr. Grant Allen, " this is an

urban age," and it is remarkable, therefore,

that a poet who sings of birds and woodlands,

of the loves of country folk, and of such

pleasures as are called Arcadian, should have

established himself in the poetic ranks, and

once more brought rustic themes to the front

amid applause. Mr. Gale would not desert

162

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

AS CAPTAIN SWIFT.

Photo by Stereoscopic Co.

Mr. Beerbohm

Tree.

Watson in his love for cats. The former

have inspired him to write a book of songs,

which have yet

to appear, and

the latter have

not been alto-

gether ne-

glected by his

pen. Mr.

Andrew Lang,

that inventor

of felicitous

phrases, in

calling Mr.

Gale "a kind

of Theocritus

in flannels,"

described him

to a nicety.

***

A tall, clever - looking,

clean-shaven man.with

light hair, blue eyes,

and clear-cut features, Mr. Tree

gives one the impression of being

younger than he really is. He is

the most versatile of actors, and

whether as Macari, the Italian

adventurer, or Hamlet, the

sorrow-stricken Prince of Den-

mark, the pessimistic Duke of

Guisebury, in "The Dancing Girl,"

the harassed cleric of comedy — the Rev.

Robert Spalding — as Captain Swift, or

the repulsive Svengali of Du Maurier's

creation, he is

always at home,

always worth

seeing, and

never himself.

Few great

actors are so

little guilty of

introducing

particular tricks

or personal

peculiarities

into the parts

they play.

He takes his

art seriously, and talks well on that or

any other subject that interests him

keenly. He thinks " it would be a pity if the

generations to come are to be weaned upon

the mental

pabu

known

um

as the

' variety enter-

tainment;' "

but the lean-

ing towards the

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

163

MR. HIRAM S. MAXIM, MRS. MAXIM, AND THE INFANT MAXIM.

It was a bad day for the

Mr. H. S. Maxim, untutored savage when Mr.

Hiram S. Maxim first saw

the light. No single weapon has contributed

in a given space of time towards their de-

struction more than the fearful, death-dealing

machine which bears his name.

Judging from external appearances one

would never associate the grey-haired, genial,

cheery-voiced Mr. Maxim with the invention

of such a fearful engine of destruction; but

he can easily convince you that, after a

fashion, it is certain to prove the most effec-

tive of peacemakers.

The idea of the gun suggested itself to

him in a curious way. Shortly after the

American civil war he had a shot with a

musket belonging to a soldier. The shock

nearly knocked him down. This at once

brought forcibly to his mind the question:

Why should the recoil not be utilised to fire

the next shot ?

The outcome of this initial thought is the

present gun, with its capacity for firing 670

shots a minute. If the spring is pressed for

one-tenth of a second, one shot is fired ; if

the pressure is continued, the force of the

recoil throws out the empty cartridge and

puts another in its place, and continues to do

this until the spring is released.

The next most important invention for

which Mr. Maxim is responsible is " an

apparatus for making experiments in aerial

flight."

Quite recently he has devised an entirely

new method of gun-casting, which may ere

long revolutionise the whole of our ordnance

manufacture.

In directions other than those in which v/ar

machines are concerned, Mr. Maxim lias

been equally prolific as an inventor. One of

the chief results is an automatic regulator

for controlling the intensity of the current by

electro-motive power. In appreciation of

this invention, President Grevy bestowed upon

him the decoration of Chevalier of the Legion

of Honour.

The deposit of carbon on the filament of

incandescent light was originally an idea of

his conception ; he did not protect it, however,

and someone else reaped the credit and the

profit.

Mr. Maxim's machine-shop at Erith

contains the largest collection of high-class

164

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

tools in the world, some of the lathes in use

being valued at £2,000 each. Besides the

guns, explosive shells are turned out to the

number of 4,000 a week, and fuses at the

rate of several millions a year. Fearless and

outspoken himself, Mr. Maxim abominates

fraud of any description; and of this trait in

his character he gave emphatic demonstration

during the visit to England of Herr Dowe

and his so-called bullet-proof cuirass some

time ago, when Mr. Maxim offered, through

the Press, to produce a steel breast-plate

of equal weight and equal bullet-resisting

power for the modest sum of seven-and-

sixpence. The offer, needless to say, was

not accepted, and the German retired.

Mr. Maxim is married, and his

wife, a Boston lady, lends him

invaluable assistance in his

correspondence, and also

does a considerable

amount of reading for

him.

* » *

Baron Hirsch.

No one man has

done more towards bet-

tering the condition of

the Hebrew throughout

the world than Baron

Hirsch. As many as

four hundred begging

letters a day are fre-

quently received by him,

and every letter is

carefully considered.

Those which are pen-

ned by obvious frauds—and there are no

small number of these—are thrown aside;

the remainder are thoroughly investigated,

and Jews and Gentiles alike impartially

dealt with.

In all the capitals of Europe are found

establishments known as Hirsch Committees,

for relieving the poor in an unostentatious

yet thoroughly efficient manner. A year or

two ago the Baron spent the colossal sum of

.£3,000,000 in twelve months on charity.

The most important philanthropic affair

in which he has been concerned is the

emigration scheme for transplanting his un-

fortunate Russian co-religionists to a tract of

BARON

Photo by Dickinson

country which he has purchased in the

Argentine Republic. When the colony was

in course of formation the Baron, realising

that it could not become self-supporting for

some time, resolved to devote the sum of two

millions sterling towards its maintenance until

it was in a position to stand alone.

The powerful machine with which he has

been enabled to carry cut his noble work has

been built up solely by his own extraordinary

financial acumen, although he will tell you

that his present position is due chiefly to the

gentle and high-minded woman who is his

wife.
IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

165

Keen business instinct and

Mr. J. B. Robinson, hard common-sense are the

predominant characteristics

of Mr. Joseph Benjamin Robinson, and they

have raised him from modest origin to the

giddy heights of financial greatness that he

occupies at the present moment.

Fifty years ago Mr. Robinson was born at

Cradock, in the Eastern province, and was

educated in South Africa until the age of

fifteen, when he started on his own account,

a wool-buying concern, and embarked in

farming on an extensive scale.

In 1867 the whole of South Africa

was thrown into a state of excite-

ment by the discover}" of the

enormous diamond, the '• Star

of South Africa," which the

Countess of Dudley bought for

.£30,000. Young Robinson

immediately threw up wool-

farming, and hurried to the Vaal

River, taking 1,500 head of

cattle with him, and procuring

afterwards a number of waggons.

The natives refused to work

but they agreed to search the

stones for payment in the shape of an ox or

a cow or a waggon, according to the size of

the diamond found. In about six weeks

they had found thirty diamonds worth

£ 10,000. Mr. Robinson was by a long time

the first white man on these particular mines,

which are considerably older than the Kim-

berley diggings.

After the lapse of some years Mr. Robinson

heard that at a place near Pretoria there

MR. J

for money,

surface for

existed a peculiar kind of conglomerate—a

mixture of earth, stone, and gold dust—

which was shedding gold freely. He

immediately hurried up-country, examined

the reef, began bargaining at once, and pur-

chased Langlaagte for .£7,000. It is now

worth .£3,000,000.

Shortly afterwards he bought the Robinson

Mines for £2,500. To-day they are worth

.£S, 000,000.

He also bought the Randfontein Estate of

about 40,000 acres for £20,000. This

estate is worth to-day about £8,000,000.

And so he has gone on operating

all along the line, buying all the

properties he could get, al-

though quidnuncs laughed at

his apparent madness in wast-

ing money on diggings that

were believed to be at the best

only surface. But he had his

own ideas on the subject, and,

luckily for himself, they turned

3BINSON. out correct.

He is to-day in a position to

advance the Transvaal Government any sum

up to several millions sterling; he is the

moving spirit of eight large mining and

OF

ELICITED BY

LLEN UPW/^

No. II.—THE HONOUR OF AN EMPRESS

" THIS is a trivial

affair," commented

the Ambassador, as he

laid down

the news-

paper in

which he

• had been

read ing

an account

of one of M.

de Rochefort's

numerous

duels. " I do not

wonder that you

English amuse your-

selves with these

comedies, which reflect

little honour on France.

Nevertheless, let me tell

you that, when we please, we

can make of the duel something

very different; that is to say, an

affair of life and death."

" Without doubt," I answered, tossing aside

my own copy of the Matin—we were in the

smoking-room of the "Cercle des Etrangers"

—"but your press should not give such

importance to these farces."

The Ambassador brushed this observation

aside with a wave of his hand.

" It is the too great facility with which

these affairs are arranged that has involved

them in ridicule," he said, pursuing his own

line of thought. "It is when a crime has been

committed which is truly worthy of death, and

yet which, from its nature, is beyond the reach

of laws, that the duel becomes a sacred resource,

indispensable in the interests of mankind."

" And are there such occasions, then ? " I

responded, in order to see what was in his

Excellency's mind.

" I have, at all events, known of one," he

returned gravely, as he began to roll a

cigarette. " It was the case of an infernal

plot directed against one of the most illus-

trious personages in Europe, a plot to which

innocent lives were sacrificed, and yet one

which could never be dealt with by the coarse

machinery of jurisprudence."

" You arouse my interest, my dear Ambas-

sador. Is it forbidden to ask for the history

of this strange case ? "

" I will tell it to you, my friend. But since

the personage I have referred to is still alive,

and is a woman for whom I have the most

distinguished respect, we will, if you please,

allude to her simply as the Empress. You

will, of course, have no difficulty in recog-

nising this lady before I have gone very far."

I hastened to accept this condition; and

the Ambassador, having lit his cigarette with

a match which I handed to him, leant back

in his chair and began.

" I cannot recall the exact date at which I

was accredited to the Court of St. James's,

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

167

your country even politics receive less con-

sideration than what you call " sport," I

resolved to prove myself a huntsman.

Accordingly I bought myself horses, and

•went out to hunt the fox.

" The hunt of which I became a member

was at that time the most aristocratic in the

world. It was rendered so by the patronage

of the illustrious personage I have mentioned.

Her Imperial Majesty had formed the habit

of coming over to England during the season

of the chase, under a strict incognito, and

attended by only a small suite, in order to

take part in this sport. It was in this way

that I obtained the privilege of an acquaint-

ance which I shall always look back upon as

my most cherished remembrance.

"Among the members of her Majesty's

suite at this time was a certain Baron Magratz,

who filled the post of private secretary and

comptroller of the household. You will

understand, of course, that my intercourse

with the Empress was on the most respectful

footing; but it was not long before I dis-

covered that this Baron, of whom I saw a

good deal, was a dangerous, insolent man,

quite unworthy of the confidence reposed in

him by his august mistress.

" So acutely did I realise this that it became

a question with me whether the favour

extended to me by that noble and unsuspicious

lady did not cast upon me the obligation of

warning her against this man's presumption.

While I was stiii in doubt, an incident

occurred which rendered it unnecessary for

me to speak.

" One morning, when we were engaged in

waiting outside a small covert for the fox to

appear, I observed Magratz ride up to the

Empress and point with his hand, as if

persuading her that the beast was about to

emerge from a point further on. She

turned her horse, and they rode off together

round a corner of the wood. Troubled

by some vague presentiment of mischief,

I at once gave rein to my horse and

followed.

" I got round the corner just in time to

perceive what took place. The Baron had

stooped forward, with an air of undue confi-

dence, and was apparently addressing some

jemark to the Empress, when all at once I

saw her Majesty rein in her horse, lift up the

riding whip she held in her band, and draw it

swiftly across his face.

" Magratz started with a violence which

caused his horse to rear. What he would

have done next I cannot say, but luckily at

that moment he caught sight of me. The

Empress had already turned, and she rode

back past me, the angry gleam in her eyes

relaxing into a gracious smile as she acknow-

ledged my respectful salute.

" The Baron followed at a walk, and as he

came up to me I observed on his face a

narrow streak of red, crossing from the right

ear to the mouth.

" Stung, doubtless, by my indignant look,

168

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Crown Prince's birthday that I recognised

Magratz again.

" He was moving about among the guests

with the assured manner of one who held a

recognised position at Court. He wore on

his breast the cross of the Order of Saint

Luke, the second order in the Empire, and

everyone appeared to treat him with marked

distinction. But what attracted my notice

particularly was a young girl of extraordinary

beauty, whom he was escorting through the

ballroom, and who clung to his arm with a

delicious shyness. You know that I am not

easily moved by the sex; picture the fascina-

tion of this damsel, therefore, when I tell you

that I had hard work to refrain from going up

to the Baron and soliciting an introduction.

" While I was wondering who she could be,

and how Magratz had contrived to regain the

Imperial favour, I observed a movement in

the crowd through which the pair were stray-

ing. The bystanders fell back, and a young

man suddenly came through, a young man

with heavy features and hectic, rolling eyes,

who was dressed in a rich uniform blazing

with the stars of a dozen royal orders. It

was the Crown Prince.

" The Prince, whose leaden face flushed

with pleasure on catching sight of the couple,

greeted Magratz in a style of much intimacy,

and eagerly took possession of his exquisite

partner, whom he led off through the apart-

ments out of my sight.

" Magratz stood looking after them with an

expression of dark and furtive satisfaction.

Then he turned round, and, for the first time,

caught my eye. He bowed with a polite,

almost cordial, air, and advanced towards me

through the throng.

"' Permit me to welcome you to my

country, M. I'Ambassadeur,' he said, extend-

ing his hand, which I accepted with reluctance.

' What little influence I may possess here, and

especially with his Imperial Highness, is

entirely at your service. I trust you will

allow me, within the next few days, the

pleasure of paying my respects to you at the

Embassy.'

" While I murmured my formal acknow-

ledgments, I could not take my e}es off his

face. It was, doubtless, an illusion, but I

thought I could distinctly perceive a faint

purple mark where I had seen the whip of

the Empress descend.

" M. de Magratz no doubt divined my

thoughts, or rather they were conveyed to

him without words, by that subtle process for

which science has not yet invented a suitable

name. He bit his lip, and permitted himself

an ill-bred remark :—

" ' To a man of your Excellency's well-

known discretion it would be an impertinence

to recommend silence with regard to certain

incidents in the past.'

" I bowed, but with coldness, and changed

the subject by complimenting him on the

beauty of the young girl whose arm he had

just relinquished.
:

" I caw her Majesty rein in her horse, lift up the riding whip she heW in her hand, and draw it swiftly across his face."
170

PEARSC\V'S MAGAZINE.

••

" A >oung girl of extra-

ordinaiybeauty . . . ciung

to his arm with a delicious

shyn-'ss.

" From Messana I

gathered enough to

confirm my uneasi-

ness. It appeared

that Magratz, after

being in disgrace for

some years, had re-

cently been allowed

to present himself

again at Court. Fatal

magnanimity! Un-

pardonable forgive-

ness ! He had come

up from his estates,

bringing with him

this niece, who had

immediately cast a

spell over the

Crown Prince, a

young man unfor-

tunately not without

a reputation of a

certain kind. Her

uncle conducted

himself in this affair

with great prudence,

so managing matters

that his niece's reputa-

tion -was not compro-

mised, while the Prince

became every day more

desperately enamoured;

and all kinds of con-

jectures were afloat as to

what would be the ulti-

mate issue of this

strange situation.

" Although I was still

far from suspecting the

real object which

Magratz had in view, I

could not help seeing in

all this some machination

which boded no good

to the peace of the

Imperial House. I was

hardly surprised, there-

fore, to receive on the

following day a summons

to a private conference

with the Empress herself,

and at once divined the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

171

subject on which she desired to consult

me.

" Her Majesty received me in her own

apartments, without anyone else being present,

a mark of confidence which touched me pro-

foundly. We had not met for six years, and

I was distressed to perceive the change which

had taken place in this exalted lady. Her

finely-cut features bore the marks of suffering,

and the exquisite gaiety which had formerly

distinguished her had become overcast.

Doubtless the sad fate of her relative, the

King of Bavaria, had done something to

effect this alteration, but the chief cause, I

more than suspected, was the anxiety given to

her by the conduct of her son.

" It is needless for me to repeat to you the

kind expressions which the

Empress was pleased to

make use of on thus meet-

ing me again. It was her

first words on the subject

of the Crown Prince

which roused my alarm.

'"I have hoped, M.

l'Ambassadeur, that an

old friend like yourself

mig'at be able to advise

me with regard to my

son,' she said, ' And I

look especially to you,

because you alone are

in the secret of the

past history of M. de

Magratz.'

" ' Madam,' I replied

with fervour, ' the only

thing that can prevent my

advising you is the con-

fusion with which your condescension over-

whelms me.'

" Her Majesty heard me with a mournful

smile.

"' You have heard, no doubt, of the Prince's

infatuation for this man's niece ?' she pro-

ceeded.

" ' I have, Madam. I have even seen the

young girl herself, who appeared to me to be

quite incapable of knowingly taking part in

any treacherous design.'

" You may be right, but unfortunately she

is under the control of a man who has no

Her Majesty received me in her own apartments

such scruples. To come to what I was about

to say, this entanglement is by far the most

serious of any in which my son has been

involved. So serious is it that the Emperor

and myself live in actual dread of hearing

that the Prince has privately married this

young woman.

" I started, realising at once the full con-

sequences of such a situation. The Crown

Prince was the only child of the Imperial

couple. By the well known family statutes

of his house, his marriage with a lady not of

Royal blood would be legitimate only in a

social sense. Politically it would be treated as

a nullity, and the offspring of the union would

1/2

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

violence. The cigarette smoke seemed to

have got into his Excellency's throat.

" But I weary you with this long conversa-

tion," he observed, as soon as the coughing

had subsided. "Enough that this venerated

personage placed entire confidence in me.

" Within a week of our conversation the

Crown Prince had set out for the capital

of a small kingdom in

the west of Europe

under stringent in-

structions to offer

his hand, to the

monarch's

daughter.

" He bluntly approached this young princess in a ballroom, and

her if she would become bis wife."

" The manner in which he did so is well

known. Harshly ignoring the conventions

of love-making, he bluntly approached this

young princess in a ballroom, and, in bare

words, asked her if she would become his

wife. The girl, no doubt under equally strict

compulsion, gave her assent, adding a pro-

fession of fidelity and submission. The

Crown Prince instantly turned away, and that

was all that ever passed between them in the

nature of courtship.

" The next day the betrothal was officially

announced to me by the Imperial Chancellor,

and the news speedily spread through the

capital, where it created an immense sensa-

tion. It was immediately after this that I

received the promised visit of Baron Magratz.

" I had given orders that he was to be

admitted ; for though I am, as you are aware,

the least curious person in the world, my high

regard for the Empress made me anxious to

fathom the intentions of this villain.

"He appeared to take his defeat with

philosophy.

'' I sincerely trust this marriage may end

happily,' he said, when I imro-

duced the topic. ' It is, of course,

absurd to suppose that there

is any attachment, at all

events on the side of the

Crown Prince. Un-

happily, the preference

His Highness has shown

for my niece has turned

out to be more serious

than I believed, and I am

afraid the poor child has

allowed herself to cherish

unreasonable ideas. I shall

make it my business to

obtain a husband for her, if

possible, before the Prince

returns.'

"I saw nothing to take

hold of in this announce-

ment. If true, it seemed

that the Baron was taking

the most prudent course,

both in the interests of the

Imperial dynasty and of his

niece. I did not yet appre-

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

«73

For a moment I thought of immolating

myself on the altar of the Imperial House by

offering myself as a match for the charming

Baroness. But a secret attachment—of which

I am forbidden to speak—restrained me. I

allowed Magratz to depart; and before many

days had passed I learnt that he had found a

husband for his unfortunate niece in the person

of Count Schwartzenfeldt, an immensely

wealthy nobleman of fifty, but possessing no

single attraction which could recommend him

to the eyes of a young girl.

" The ceremony was hurried on, and Paula

von Magratz became the bride of this ogre on

the very day on which the Crown Prince

returned to the capital.

" I happened to meet the Prince next day,

and for the first time I was seized with a

presentiment of the coming tragedy. If ever

I read anguish and despair on a human face,

I read it on that of this miserable young man.

So violent was his grief that he openly

threatened to put an end to his life, and his

unhappy parents were reduced to the extremity

of distress.

" It was, of course, impossible that a scandal

of such a kind should be long in reaching the

ears of the bridegroom. Naturally alarmed

and annoyed, Count Schwartzenfeldt left the

capital with his wife. He carried her away

to his estates, some hundreds of miles off,

and buried her in one of those frightful

feudal castles which this nobility continue to

inhabit.

" In the meantime the only resource which

occurred to the troubled Emperor and

Empress was to press forward the marriage

already arranged for their son, in the hope

that he might thus be distracted from dwelling

on his fatal passion for the young Countess

Schwartzenfeldt.

" I was present in the Diplomatic Gallery

when the Royal nuptials were celebrated in

the national cathedral, before an immense

concourse of the nobility and citizens. It

was the most melancholy pageant at which I

have ever assisted. The demeanour of the

wretched bridegroom created universal dis-

may. It was impossible to escape noticing

the reluctance with which he uttered the

responses, and the sullen coldness with which

l1e gave his arm to the trembling bride.

" Among the most interested spectators of

it all, I caught sight of Magratz. I had but to

glance from him to the pale face and droop-

ing eye-lids of the illustrious object of his

hatred to see how far his scheme of

vengeance had already succeeded.

" Some months passed before he made his

next open move. He waited with prudent

calculation, for the Crown Prince to begin

to feel the chafing of his new fetters. It was

with alarm that I discovered he was begin-

ning to renew his intimacy with the Prince.

" I had the opportunity once or twice of

observing them together, and I noticed that

his Imperial Highness, when with this man,

shook off the listless apathy which had become

174

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

which followed has become the property of

the world."

His Excellency turned his eyes upon me

as if to ascertain whether I desired to hear

more. I entreated him to complete the

narrative.

'He ... buried her in one of those frightful feudal castles."

"The public press," he observed, "always

misinformed in these matters, put forth a

thousand different explanations of what had

taken place, all of them sufficiently incorrect.

I will tell you the actual sequence of events,

as I learnt it soon afterwards from the con-

fession of Magratz himself.

" It appears, then, that this monster com-

menced by insinuating his sympathy with the

poor young Prince in his unhappy union.

From that he passed to lamenting his own

action in having given his niece's hand to

Count Schwartzenfeldt.

" Having excited the Prince's mind

sufficiently by hints of this sort,

he at length went on, with

pretended reluctance, to

depict the young Countess

as a victim of intolerable

persecutions on the part of

a jealous and tyrannical

husband, and to bitterly

accuse himself for being

unable to devise a means

for her deliverance.

" It is needless to say

how the agitated lover

received these tidings.

His own sufferings he

might have schooled

himself to bear, but

as soon as it became

a question of the

life-long wretchedness

of the woman he

loved more than life

itself, all thoughts of

submission were

thrown to the winds.

In a frenzy of passion

he swore to put an

end to this state of

things, and implored

Magratz to assist

him.

"After some well-

acted hesitation the

tempter professed

himself won over. He

furnished the Prince

with the direction of a

certain hunting lodge

out-of-the-way corner of his own

in an

estates.

" The Prince was to travel secretly to the

spot at a certain date, by which time the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

succeeded in pacifying the outraged husband,

and bringing about an accommodation with

the Emperor's sanction.

" This understanding arrived at, the worthy

"They found the two

young people lying dead in

each other's arms."

uncle departed to the Schwartzenfeldt castle.

The first part of the arrangement he carried

out in the manner agreed upon. The love

of the poor young Countess for the Prince

was no less intense than his for her, her

married life had not been happy, and, in fine,

she was persuaded to accept the part assigned

to her. She fled from her home with the

Baron's secret assistance, and the lovers were

speedily united.

" Now Magratz proceeded to execute his real

design. He had stayed on at the castle after

his niece's flight, pacifying the furious Count,

not in the way he had pretended, but by

undertaking to discover the fugitive's retreat.

As soon as he knew that the pair had met, he

boldly announced to Count Schwartzenfeldt

that he had received private intelligence of

his niece's whereabouts, and offered to

conduct the other to the spot. They set

out together.

" But it would not have suited the

Baron's purpose to bring the rivals

face to face. The Crown

Prince's high rank might have

overawed the husband, and

the whole affair have

been hushed up. He

therefore sent on a

secret warning

to his victim,

managing so that

it should reach

him too late to

afford any chance

of escape. In

this warning he

pretended to the

Prince that the

elopement was

known publicly,

and that the

Count was com-

ing to take signal

vengeance on

both.

" The resolu-

tion thereupon

taken by the

unhappy lovers

is a matter of

history. When

the deceived

-^ " Count and his

conductor entered the lodge, they found

the two young people lying dead in each

other's arms."

The Ambassador again interrupted him-

self, under the pretence of loosening his

cravat. He went on presently, in a firm voice,

176

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" When all was over the author of this

dreadful catastrophe had the assurance to

return to the capital, and to pose as the dis-

consolate uncle whose efforts to save his

niece from the consequences of a fatal passion

had unhappily miscarried.

" Two persons knew or suspected some-

thing of the truth. One was the stricken

Empress, who sat in her palace, tearless,

beside the corpse of her only son. The

other was myself.

" I do not doubt that this man had been

tortured in his wicked heart all these years

by the recollection that I had been a witness of

his well-merited chastisement. The moment

he had, as he conceived, wiped out the stain

in blood, he came to me to boast openly of

what he had done.

" It may be that long brooding on his

vengeance had so warped his mind that he

could not realise in what light his conduct

would present itself to another.

" When I sat and heard this terrible creature

unrolling the awful story of his crimes, in the

perfect confidence that he was beyond the

reach of human justice, and then thought of

that Imperial mother whose life had been

rendered desolate for ever, I realised that

there are occasions when the duel becomes

the most holy of sacraments."

The Ambassador closed his lips, and

leant back in his seat with the air of

one who had no more to say.

I waited a few moments to

see whether he was going to

resume of his own accord.

Then I inquired :

" And what did you do.

then ?"

His Excellency trans-

fixed me with a gaze of

fine scorn.

" Ask yourself, as a

man of honour, what I

could do. I waited

merely till that carrion

was gone, to telegraph

to Paris for a week's

leave of absence. It

Tyas granted. I crossed

the frontier as his Excellency the French

Ambassador, and returned the next morning as

plain M. le Baron. Then I sought out Magratz.

" I found him in a club to which we both

belonged. I offered him a game of piquet,

and he accepted with a smile, and at the first

card he played I said :

'•' Monsieur, you cheated. I saw you mark

that queen.'

" That was all. You see there was no

scandal. There could be no suspicion of

any other cause for our quarrel.

" And the result ? "

A faint flush came on his Excellency's

face.

" Our encounter was not prolonged.

Within ten seconds after our swords had

crossed I had passed my blade through his

1T IS time that the British public

should abandon its absurd pre-

judice against the wearing of

skirts by the male cyclist.

Because it is unusual for a

man to wear a skirt in public,

the British public has de-

cided that it is improper, and the British

'' rough'' indulges himself in hooting the

male wearer of " rational dress." But it

seems clear to me that if I have a right to

ride a bicycle, I have a right to ride it in the

dress best suited to the exigencies of cycling.

Now it is undeniable that knickerbockers

and stockings are not comfortable on cold and

wet days. The thickness of the stocking does

not make up for the absence of the accustomed

trousers'-leg, and the consequence is that the

wearer of knickerbockers takes cold, and falls

ill of pneumonia, bronchitis, or rheumatism.

Then again, in case of rairi knickerbockers

and stockings cannot possibly be kept dry,

and the cyclist must ride home, perhaps in a

piercing wind, with wet legs.

On the other hand the wearer of a skirt has

his legs warmly clothed, and when he is

caught in a shower his skirt keeps his legs

perfectly dry. Moreover the skirt is far safer

than knickerbockers. The latter expose the

calves of the legs as a target for small boys

who throw stones at cyclists, and for strange

dogs with a passion for tasting new legs.

The man who wears skirts is exposed to none

of these dangers, and it is nothing less than

brutal to demand that a man should subject

l.is defenceless legs to juvenile stones and

Vil. I.—12.

hydrophobic teeth, when by simply covering

them with a skirt he could ride in safety.

In opposition to this weight of argument in

favour of •' rational dress " for men, what can

those who condemn it urge ? They tell us

that it is indecent for any man to wear a dress

that conceals the shape of his legs; and that

the skirt is a distinctly feminine garment, and

for that reason must not be worn by men.

The truth happens to be that taking the

world all over, the great majority of men

wear petticoats of one sort or another, just

as the great majority of women wear trousers.

Granted that in England the skirt has hitherto

been worn only by women ;

that is no reason why men

should not wear it now

that the introduction of the

bicycle has made it a neces-

sity for all careful riders.

The conviction that morality is inseparably

wrapped up in clothes is terribly strong among

Anglo-Saxons,and our missionaries invariably

assure the heathen that no converted cannibal

woman can possibly go to heaven except in a

sort of black bombazine bathing gown. Still,

if all advanced men stand firmly by their right

to wear skirts when riding the bicycle, nothing

is more certain than that in the end the cause

of truth and justice will prevail.

» » » o *

IT IS all very well to ridicule the

New Woman, but at Christmas

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

is nothing more difficult than to select a pre-

sent for the usual kind of woman. Jewellery,

and perhaps gloves are the only things that

a man can safely give to his

wife or his. feminine friends.

If he launches upon the un-

known sea of feminine clothing

he is lost, and if he ventures

upon work-baskets or dressing

cases, his efforts awaken pity

rather than gratitude.

But in the case of a New Woman the whole

matter becomes delightfully simplified.

Cigarettes, cigarette holders, and cigarette

lighters cannot fail to please her, and they

are just the sort of things that a man can

wisely select. Then there are bootjacks and

walking sticks, and brandy flasks, and pocket

revolvers, all of which can appropriately be

given to the New Woman. She would also

receive with gratitude the same sort of neck-

ties that a man would wear, and the present

of a man's scarf pin would kindle warm

gratitude in her manly breast. As to books,

a man could give her any book that he might

happen to like, instead of being, as at present,

restricted to the works of Miss Edna Lyall

and Miss Yonge.

We may cheerfully admit that during the

greater part of the year the final cause, as

philosophers would say, of the New Woman

is not apparent, but during the week preced-

ing Christmas and birthday festivities, when

men are scowlingly grappling with the

problem what shall they give to their woman-

kind, the ease with which the New Woman

can be satisfied will go far to reconcile us to

her existence.

PROFESSOR in an American

university has recently tried to

imitate the experiment of King

Psammetichus, who caused two

children to be brought up by

a deaf and dumb man, in order

to learn what language they

would speak if left to the unassisted in-

struction of Nature. It is to be hoped

that the Professor is a better compara-

tive philologist than the King, for the

latter, when his two experimental children

,**.""

loudly called for "beccos," decided that

Persian was the original language of man-

kind, for the reason that " beccos " in Persian

meant bread.

Now, in point of fact, " beccos " is early—

that is to say, infantile—English for "break-

fast," and is commonly used in that sense by

all our most learned infants. What the

Egyptian children wanted was not bread, but

breakfast, with all that the name implied at

that period.

Probably the American Professor was

actuated by a patriotic desire to prove that

the American language, rather than the

English language, is what an intelligent and

patriotic American infant would naturally

speak. Doubtless he hoped that the first

remark made by his carefully isolated infant

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

179

brought up in the society of the Professor,

and compelled to listen to his lectures on the

beauties of the American language ?

N view of the extreme difficulty which

two successive governments have

' found in selecting a Poet Laureate,

it is rather strange that no ardent

democratic reformer has proposed

that the Poet Laureate shall be

elected instead of appointed. Why should a

man, merely because he happens to be Prime

Minister, know who, among all the verse-

makers of England, is most fit to succeed Lord

Tennyson ? And why should the sovereign

people of England be allowed no voice in the

selection of their representative national poet ?

It may be said that the majority of voters

know nothing of poetry, but it may be said

with equal truth that they know nothing of

the science of government. If they are com-

petent to select the statesmen who are to

govern the British Empire, they ought to be

equally competent to select the poet who is to

wear the laurel.

If Tom, Dick, and Harry, who are indi-

vidually ignorant, become suddenly enlight-

ened the moment they are given the right to

vote for members of Parliament, we have

every reason to believe that they will in-

stantaneously become profound and com-

petent critics of poetry the moment we ask

them to select a Poet Laureate.

A poetical campaign for the election of a

Laureate would be very interesting. The

partisans of

every rhymer

in the United

Kingdom

would form

committees

and solicit

votes. Poet

Smith

would pro-

mise, if elected, to write an ode in favour

of total abstinence ; Poet Brown would

endeavour to capture the votes of the

brewing interest by pledging himself to

sing the praises of beer ; and Poet Robinson

would point to his verses in condem-

nation of vivisection as affording sufficient

reason why he should triumph over all his

competitors. We should have Home Rule

poets, Disestablishment poets, anti-Vaccina-

tion poets, and Unification of London poets.

The whole country would for weeks give

itself up to the study of contemporaneous

verse, and the rival versifiers would flood every

constituency with free copies of their poems.

If the Poet Laureate, like the American

President, were to be elected every four years,

we should soon develop a class of pro-

fessional poets, who would copy the methods

of professional politicians. Doubtless in

time the elective Laureateship would become

the reward, not of the foremost poet, but of

the versifier who had made the fewest enemies.

At first, however, the electors would be

18o

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

rotten and crumbling to the touch, and if

railways had been invented a hundred years

ago I should feel

sure that these

wretched car-

riages were at

leasta centur} old.

This is not sim-

ply my own ex-

perience, for if it were I should not mention it.

It is apparently the experience of all dreamers.

I do not know a single person to whom I have

mentioned the subject who has ever met in

his dreams a new and comfortable railway

carriage. Furthermore, I do not believe

there is a decent cab in all Dreamland. The

cabs are all of the " growler " pattern, and

they are so dilapidated that my feet frequently

go through the bottom unless I enter my cab

with the greatest care.

There must be some reason for this dis-

graceful state of things. Some time ago a

well-known essayist pointed out that in his

dreams he seemed to be absolutely without

any moral sense, and committed all sorts of

crimes without the slightest remorse. This,

which has since been shown to be a frequent

feature of dreams, is explained by the hypo-

thesis that a man unconsciously loosens his

moral brake, just as he loosens his necktie,

when he lies down to sleep. But no hypo-

thesis that I can invent will explain why

public conveyances in Dreamland are so

frightfully old and dilapidated.

Can it be that Dreamland is peopled ex-

clusively by ghosts, and that its railway

carriages are, let us say, the ghosts of

dead and gone L. B. S. C. carriages ? This

does not seem probable, but then an im-

possible explanation is sometimes more

satisfactory than no explanation at all, as we

may learn by reading the newspapers of the

defeated party just after a general election.

PEAKING of supernatural things re-

minds one of Professor Lombroso.

Not that he is supernatural, but be-

cause he has lately expressed his

belief in the supernatural character

of the table-tipping tricks of Eusapia

Palladino. Professor Lombroso has in-

vented the term " mattoid," meaning a per-

son who has some of the characteristics

of madness, without being positively mad.

" Mattoid" is quite an imposing word

when one sees it in print, and the Pro-

fessor's theory that every man or woman

who is not utterly commonplace is a

" mattoid," has been found interesting by the

sort of people who are addicted to very

popular science.

I beg to suggest that the word " donkoid "

would admirably indicate certain tendencies

that exist in many of us. It would be as

absurd as it would be impolite to call Professor

Lombroso a donkey, for in many respects he

is a very able man. Still, when we remember

that after sitting in a dark room with Eusapia,

and having his hair rumpled by invisible

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

181

will return, and we shall be told that her

alleged exposure was unworthy of attention.

If Professor Lombroso would set himself

to inquire why a " donkoid " may be sensible

in all things except in regard to the upsetting

of tables in the dark, he would confer at

least as great a service on mankind as he has

conferred by his discovery that all men of

genius are " mattoids."

e life of a conductor of fifty or

sixty personally conducted tourists

is not an easy one. The tendency

of the personally conducted tourist

to straggle is ineradicable, and it

tries the patience of the conductor

beyond all words. When he is

taking his flock through the Roman

Forum, or the Palace of the Caesars,

he cannot explain the objects of

interest unless the members of the

flock are within hearing, and if he

be a faithful and conscientious man, half his

time is spent in hunting up the laggards.

A Swiss firm has hit upon a new method

of keeping tourist flocks in order. A con-

ductor who has a large party in charge is

supplied with two carefully trained shepherd

dogs. These intelligent animals display the

same skill in the management of flocks of

tourists that they have displayed from time

immemorial in the management of flocks of

sheep.

When the conductor marches his tourists

through the boulevards of Paris, or along the

Roman Corso, the dogs trot in the rear of

the column, and when a tourist stops to look

in a shop window the dogs sharply remind

him that he must move on. While the con-

ductor lectures in the Forum his flock forms

a compact ring about him, and if an insubor-

dinate man or a reckless woman attempts to

"cut" the lecture, and to pursue independent

archaelogicai investigations, the dogs dancing

around him or her, and with violent barking

and frequent feints of snapping at ankles,

soon convince that tourist that the lecture is

worthy of respectful attention.

Now and then timid women and nervous

men feebly protest against being harried and

hurried hv doss, but thev are reminded that

by the conditions of their contract they are to

obey the rules of the Tourist Agency, and

among these rules is one which prescribes

that the advice of the conductor and his

assistants is to be carefully followed. The

use of.tourist dogs promises to be a substan-

tial benefit to the tourist as well as to the

conductor. There is even a possibility that

the dog will in time oust the conductor, and

take his place.

• * « • •

FTER reading seven and a half cubic

feet by actual measurement, of

stories, written in the alleged

Scottish dialect, I utterly refuse

to believe that any such dialect

exists. I find that the people

who are represented as speaking

THE first-class carriage we were in was

heated by steam, we had each abundance

of coats and rugs, our feet were on a

fresh foot-warmer, but the draught of the hurricane

crept in by a score of chinks, and the

vehemence of the cold made us ache. At

Doncaster we moved across to the Pullman

car, and found that a trifle more endurable; but

still I noted that Gerard's moustache continued to

glisten with icicles.

At Grantham we had still further evidence (if

such a thing were needed) of the lowness of the

temperature. The express, which is timed to stop

there only three minutes at the outside, made a

wait that seemed interminable. The conductor, I

saw, was getting uneasy. At length he buttoned

his coat and went out into the freezing gale on

the platform. In a minute he returned, purple-

cheeked and blowing his fingers. He came to us

with the tidings. Both driver and stoker of our

engine were, it seemed, half perished with the

exposure to that bitter cold; it was with difficulty

they had brought the express to a standstill in the

station: and they were utterly unfit to proceed further.

It was doubtful, the conductor said, whether one of

them, but I forgot which it was, would recover ; and meanwhile the railway authorities were

seeking substitutes to take us on to London. He said, too, that news had been brought

down of a colossal fire in Hammersmith, but could add no details.

" Nice weather this for getting married in," said I; "if we'd had warning of this blizzard

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America, by Cutclifft Hyno.

LONDON'S DANGER.

183

beforehand, I should either have shirked

being your best man, or suggested having the

affair postponed."

" If to-morrow's like this," said Gerard,

•" the wedding can't take place till the weather

changes. It would be brutal to drag any

woman out into such a nipping cold."

We saw men filling the engine with buckets

from a well outside the station, because the

ordinary water supply was frozen solid; and

then the train began to move again, and slid

out of Grantham into the open country. The

south-westerly hurricane beat upon it till the

flanges of the lee wheels grated upon the

rails with a roar of sound; and in some of

the heavier squalls I thought we should have

been upset. A queer, lurid light hung in the

sky. But with dogged slowness we crawled

on, and drew up under the shelter of King's

Cross station.

It was four o'clock, and we were • three

hours late. There was a bellow of life from

the departure side of the station. I don't

think I ever heard such a noise of trains and

passengers; but where we were, the place

seemed deserted. Half the roof was off,

and there was not a porter to be seen. The

platform was littered with dirty, trodden snow.

We got out, and I noticed that there were

only two other passengers in the train. The

conductor of the Pullman put out our luggage,

and Gerard told him to order a hansom.

There was only one on the rank—a thing

that had never been known before since

King's .Cross station was built.

We got into that lonely cab, and told the

muffled driver to take us to Queen's Gate,

in Kensington. As the glass door was

clattering down, a boy came out of some

sheltered corner, and thrust in a paper.

"Evening paper, sir ?" he cried. "There's

half Chelsea on fire."

" Give him a penny, Methuen," said Gerard.

" No, sir," said the boy. " Five bob or

nothing. I've only two papers left, and

there's ten firemen killed. They say half

London will be burnt."

I fumbled out two half-crowns, and the

window closed down with a clash, and the cab

drove off. Then I bent my head over the

fluttering sheet and scanned the headlines :

" Disastrous fire." " Fanned by the furious

gale." " All hydrants frozen." " Every drop

of water in London solid ice." " Nothing to

check the flames" " Metropolis in terrible

danger." " Suicide of the Chief of the Fire

Brigade"

The sky above us was full of driving black-

ness, but a strange yellow glare hung beneath

it, and the print stood out clearly :

" The fire in Hammersmith, which we re-

ported in our last edition," I read, " has since

assumed gigantic proportions. The united fire

brigades of London are helpless to cope with it.

The unprecedented severity of the frost, and

the fury of the hurricane, which is now upon us,

have set at derision all our vaunted precautions.

" It is with water alone that our fire-extinguish-

184

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

one and all brim-filled by the traffic, or blocked by broken-

down vehicles.

Gerard's impatience grew too great to be held in check

any longer. He sprang from the cab, gave the man a

ten-pound note, with orders to follow as best he could, and

started off through the hurrying crowds on foot.

Then for the first time we began fully to realise the

fright which had bitten into five millions of people. The

most orderly city on earth had turned into a seething nest

of anarchy. Even the police made no effort to quell the

.-

—

' He sprang from the cab, gave the man a ten-pound note,

with orders to follow as best he could."

terror or curb its lashings: they had their own houses and their own lives to think about.

And as we went on, with the gale beating in our faces, we ourselves became smitten with

the prevailing spirit.

LONDON'S DANGER.

.85

We jostled and thrust at everyone that

came in our way; we climbed over broken-

down loads of rarities which lay in the

roadways as though they had been so much

coal. Three times I saw bodies lying

motionless in my path, and the passers-by

cursed as they stumbled against them, but

no one stopped to help.

And once I saw a woman of elegant dress,

who was driving a landau filled with trunks

and boxes, drop the reins when a heavy dray

cut off one of her wheels, and pull out a pistol

and kill herself before a thousand lookers-on.

But no one gave her more than a cursory

glance. Each one looked ahead on his own

path, and hurried away about his business,

wrestling and thrusting amongst the others.

And every minute the crush thickened, and

every by-street vomited people.

The air grew warmer as we pressed on

westwards. There was no glimpse of flame

apparent yet; nothing but fat, black rolls of

smoke could be seen overhead, with an

underlining of yellow reflested from the

distant blaze. And everywhere hung icicles,

and the lines of the bursted water-mains

glistened in the roadways. We were in an

Arctic city more like St. Petersburg than the

London we had known before.

There was the taint of burning in every

breath we drew, and from the inky sky above

fell a constant patter of charred embers. As

we drew on, these embers grew bright, and

by the time we were through Brompton (and

seven had clanged out from some clock in

the neighbourhood), live sparks were falling

on the seething mobs in the streets, and the

air grew sour with the smell of singeing cloth.

But by the time we got abreast of the South

Kensington Museum, the glow of the flames

was beginning to smear more lurid yellows

against the amorphous black of the driving

smoke clouds; and soon the thunder of the

blaze and the crash of the trundling masonry

came to us in a dim roar above the booming

and swishing of the gale. The great warren

of dwelling-houses to westward of us yielded

up its thousand emigrants every minute. The

fugitives had started out of home hugging

their dearest possessions ; but the din of that

awful enemy which was sacking the city at

their heels thrust terror into their hearts; and

they had it taught them that to each one

naked life is dearer than all else the world

contains. So the streets were paved with

the cream ot the household goods, and we

smashed with our feet a Jew's ransom with

every mile we went.

The fire was advancing whole streets by

the hour. Earl's Court was already half

burnt out; the houses in a line with Corn-

wall Gardens and Emperor's Gate were

beginning to yield up trickles of fire through

their windows. The bright scoriae from the

volcano of fire fell around and on us more

thickly as we pressed on. The mob thinned

as we drew towards the seat of the blaze, and

when we turned up Queen's Gate, the street,

186

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

morocco box from Miss Vivian's hands. " I must have

something," he cried. "I refuse to starve." And

he ran off howling.

A van stood in the roadway, with

horses trembling and snorting. " The

law is dead," I said. "Every man

takes what he wants now. Jump in."

My friend and his promised wife got

under the tilt of the van, away from

the fiery shower which was raining

on us, and I mounted the box.

The horses sprang away at a

gallop. At the end of the road

was a tangled block. The

furniture of two houses had

been pitched out helter-

skelter, and lay there in

wild confusion. A

hansom had tried to

cross it, and the

horse had broken

a leg, and lay de-

serted, and moving

feebly. But it

was no time for

Whilst I stood and watched, I saw flames bepinninp to spout from

the upper windows of a house near the Cromwell Road."

hesitation. I

charged my

team at the

barrier, and with a crash and

a bang and a rattle we were

over.

We crossed the Knights-

bridge-road, and entered Ken-

sington Gardens by the Queen's

Gate. A water main had burst in

the middle of the roadway, and thrust

up an ice-fountain twenty feet in

height. I headed across for the

Marble Arch, intending to get to one

of the railway stations, where we could

run away north out of this horrible

citv of fire and terror.

But before we were half-way across

LONDON'S DANGER.

187

the parks the scent of fire came to us anew,

and the horses began to snort with fresh terror.

Bayswater was blazing, Paddington was on

fire, and soon the fingers of the flames would

be seizing Oxford Street in their awful grip.

There seemed no chance of a respite. The

gale raged more furiously than ever. I

turned and made for Hyde Park Corner,

and as we drove I saw no fewer than ten

huge trees crash down before the straining of

the wind.

But past Hyde Park Corner I could get

the van no farther. The roadways were piled

up to the doors of the houses on either side

with a mass of vehicles, and alive with madly

plunging horses. Never was known such a

scene since the world began. And there

they were doomed to wait, in that inextricable

tangle, till the flames swept up and ground

them into smoke.

We deserted our van, and hand-in-hand

we skirted that awful block. We rounded

Buckingham Palace Gardens, and got down

to Victoria Street; but that was impassable,

and we were forced to make our way through

unconsidered bye-paths where the crowds

were less densely wedged.

Only once was our slow struggle onward

interrupted. Of a sudden the air was split by

a terrific roar; another followed ; and another.

The pavement beneath us shook, and the tall

houses on either side shed dust. The gale

for a moment stopped; then hit us with a

fresh blast which there was no standing

against; and then a tornado of dust and

fragments swept down so thick that we could

barely catch a breath. They were blowing

up a line of houses along the forefront of

the fire, in the desperate hope that the flames

would not leap the gap.

The crowd realised what had happened,

and began to surge onward again. We

fought our way along in its eddies. The

exertion was something tearful, and for long

enough I struggled on like a man in a dream,

with one hand dragging at Miss Vivian, and

the other wrestling with the people who

thronged us. By a sort of dull instinct I

was heading for the eastward. Hours must

have passed—though they seemed like years

—and when my weariness had grown so great

that it seemed I could not drag myself a yard

further, I became dimly conscious that we

were in Northumberland Avenue.

By a sort of natural impulse, and without

a word being said, we turned into the

Metropole. The hall of the hotel was filled

with a rabble which would >--,ve done credit

to the Ratcliffe Highway, and I duly

wondered what they were doing there. But

then I caught a glimpse of my own self in a

mirror. My clothes were burnt full of holes;

with the smoke and the falling soot I was

black as a man who had worked ?, week in

coal; I looked a greater outcast than any of

them.

It seemed useless to ask for a room; in

fact, there were no officials visible; each bed-

183

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

Villiers-street, and feeling the breath of the advancing flames

hot upon our faces. We went down the steps by Cleopatra's

Needle, and got on the frozen surface without so much

as a shoe wet. Under that intense frost even the tide of .

the Thames could not keep a patch of open water.

There were thousands of other people with us on the ice,

and with them we made our way across to the southern

bank. The buildings there had escaped the conflagration,

and stood out in cold black silhouette against the windy

sky. Men were standing on the white roots to

keep any flying embers from finding a

lodgment. But of the

other side,

which we

had left, who could put in

mere words the grandeur and

awfulness of the sight which

it presented then ? It seemed

as though the great city had

been'first gripped by a polar

winter, and was now being

snatched back again by the

powers of hell. And against

that raid, human resistance ™

was a puny derision.

Chelsea yielded now only a

thin smoke; the Houses of

Parliament and Westminster

were skeletons outlined in flame.

The Clock Tower was a great

torch, lighting heaven. Whitehall

was a furnace, where yellows and

reds struggled for the mastery, and

no trace of building could be seen.

The great hotels of Northumber-

land Avenue, and the National

Gallery beyond, were oozing reek an

fire. And the drift of burning fragments

drove over the icy roofs in front of the fire,

and lit two score new streets every hour.

We watched on as the blaze drove eastwards, and saw it bite the end of the Strand,

and then from the great shelter of Charing Cross Station there came a stream of shrieks

which made us shudder. That, too, had been ravished by the flames, and of the

thousands within it, all who could not escape were being baked alive, or crushed by the

falling roof.

But meanwhile the freezing gale sweeping down the reaches of the river was nipping

us with a more real kind of chill, and I saw that Miss Vivian was almost fainting with the

" We made our way across to the

southern shore."
LONDON'S DANGER.

189

exposure. Gerard said we must try and find

some shelter, so we got ashore through a

merchant's yard, and made our way to the

Waterloo-road. This, too, was crammed

with fugitives, but the terrifying scent of the

fire was farther away, and the retreat was

more orderly. We found a cab, and had

nearly chartered it when two other men came

up and bid against us. But we had the more

gold, and the ride was ours. We were

driven away to Dulwich, where Gerard had

friends.

And that is the last I saw of the actual

burning of London. We were bruised, all

three of us, from face to foot; we were

badly scorched in many places; we were

bone-weary; and once a hospitable door

closed behind us, our limbs stiffened, and we

were incapable of further struggle. For five

awful days the fire strode on and gutted the

whole of the City and almost all North

London; and the glare of it was seen on the

Cheviot Hills.

It turned into crumbling ruins the Bank of

England and the Tower; it blasted out of

existence the slums which lie between

Wapping High Street and the Mile End

Road. It burnt the shipping and the ware-

houses, the shops, and the offices, the private

dwellings, and the wooden pavement of the

streets; and by one means and another it had

caused the death of five hundred thousand

of the population.

Yes; half a million human beings perished

in that awful tornado of flame, or died of the

subsequent exposure and want; three thou-

sand thousand were changed from house-

holders into home1ess outcasts; but figures

will give no idea of the vast amount of

property that was blotted out of existence.

Not only was solid, visible wealth wafted

away in smoke, but that mysterious asset,

paper money, shrank from milliards into

nothingness. The national credit was

blasted, and the bourses of the outside world

were smitten to their foundations. Civilisa-

tion has received no such shock since old

Atlantis sank beneath the ocean waves.

* » » * *

And now we are face to face with the

result. The awe-struck outer world had

recovered its self-possession; we are still

paralysed. The starving hordes of London

have spread over the whole face of the fair

land, and our towns bristle with riot. The

other nations, forgetting their momentary

pity, remember only their old hate. Shameful

treaties are thrust upon us. Our colonies

are being invaded. Trade has been reft from

us. We are a nation with a glorious history,

but no future.

New Chicago arose like a phoenix from the

ashes of the old. But our London was no

flimsy place of wooden joists and weather-

boarding. It was a monument of centuries,

and the nation is too heart-sick to begin again

to build it on the old scale. The Govern-

ment sits at Manchester, and the world mocks

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'
An Attempt to Portray the Incidents of an Engagement between

Two Great Fleets of Ironclads.

O BEGIN with, and in

order to make certain

necessary matters quite

plain to the reader, it

must first be said that all

which follows here is, in

the nature of the case,

little more than pure con-

jecture. Almost, as well might

a mail-clad knight of the sixteenth century,

who had learnt the then unknightly art of

usingv a pen, have sat down to write an essay

on the effects of firearms in warfare, as

may ;a man of to-day attempt to make an

accurate forecast of the behaviour, offensiye

and defensive, of a modern battleship, either

in a fleet action or a duel with an opponent

of similar construction and fairly equal

strength.

It has been well said by one who himself

commands one of those almost miraculous

combinations of destructive forces which we

call battleships, that "the change from battle-

axes and bows and arrows to firearms was

not of a more revolutionary character as

regards land warfare than is the change of

the last fifty years from wooden sailing three-

deckers, with their 32-pounder smooth-bore

guns, to modern ironclads, as regards sea

warfare."

Marvellous, mighty, almost miraculous, as

the modern battleship is, she is neither more

nor less than the realisation in steel and iron,

of an almost infinite number of experiments.

Naval manoeuvres are all very well in their

way, but only as a full-dress rehearsal of the

grim tragedy of war, for there is not even so

much likeness between the doings of the

Red and Blue Squadrons and those of two

hostile fleets meeting with the deadly intent

to " burn, sink, and destroy," as there is

between stage fencing with buttoned foils

and a rapier duel to the death.

Then, again, the circumstances under which

our hypothetical battleship is to go into action

are, in the nature of the case, so varied that

anything like a detailed consideration of all

of them, would form matter for a volume

rather than a magazine article. There is the

general fleet action—the Trafalgar or the

Nile of to-morrow—the fight of the battle-

ship supported by her attendant cruisers and

torpedo boats against an enemy of similar

force; the duel of battleship with battleship ;

tke pitched battle by day ; the stealthy night

attack, and so on through all the hundred-

WAR ON THE WATER.

197

and one combinations that the chances of

war might bring about, and of these only one

can be chosen here, and that, as I have said,

a purely imaginary one.

Let us, then, suppose that we are standing

in the spirit—and may the kindly Fates fore-

fend that either you or I should ever stand

there in the flesh—on the navigating bridge

of H.M.S. Hypothesis, a first-class battleship

of the newest, and therefore, let us hope, the

most formidable type, at the moment of the

flying of the momentous signal,

" Enemy in sight; prepare

to engage."

We are steaming at

ten knots in column

of line ahead, that is

to say, the ships are

drawn out in a long

line, each following

the other, stem on, at

a distance of two cables,

or four hundred yards,

from each other. The sea

is smooth, and the sun is rising clearly

on our port beam. The enemy has been

sighted on the starboard bow, but all we can

see of him from the bridge is a long, hazy-

looking cloud of smoke, but our cruisers,

the eyes and ears of our fleet, have been

scouting all night, and the number and

formation of the enemy are already pretty

accurately known to the Admiral.

A new signal flies from the flag-ship, and

the long line swings round in a vast curve

until our bows point to the enemy and our

sterns to the sun. This is the first point in

our favour, not quite as great an one as the

" weather gauge " was in the old sailing-ship

days, but still one well worth having, for the

enemy's marksmen will have the bright glare

full in their eyes during the first of the firing,

while ours will aim undazzled at brightly-

lighted marks.

There is no clearing for action nowadays.

Many hours ago the great fighting machine

has been stripped of every superfluity that

could interfere with the working of the guns,

which now, as before, will begin and perhaps

decide the fight.

Soon we hear the engines throbbing harder

and the beat of the screws increasing in speed

The flagship opens the ball.

and power. The curling swirl of the water

against the stem and over the deep-buried

ram rises and broadens, and every moment

the great ship forges faster and faster ahead,

until, impelled by force equivalent to nearly

14,000 horse-power, she is rushing through

the calm before the battle-storm at a speed

of seventeen miles an hour.

Ere long, masts and funnels rise out of the

water ahead of us, and we see that the enemy

is disposed in columns of divisions in line

abreast, that is to say, his ships

are arranged in line along-

side each other, and of

these lines there are

198

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

smashing its way through and bursting some-

where with devastating effect.

Now comes our own turn. With a roar and

a concussion which convulses the atmosphere

about us and sends a shudder through the

frame of the steel

leviathan, two of our

great guns speak at

once. Aninstantafter

comes a sharp, short,

screaming whistle, a

shock and a crash,

and a swift blindirig

blaze of flame. A

shell has struck us

almost squarely

amidships, but the

tough nine-inch

plate has held good,

and the shell has

burst without pene-

trating. A few feet

higher it would have

pierced the thinner

armour of the twelve-

pounder battery with

results that we

scarcely care even to

guess at.

This is the first

exchange of com-

pliments, and now.

ship after ship, we

steam across the

hostile front amidst

vast drifting clouds

of white smoke, the

almost incessant

ihunder of the great

guns, and the crash,

and shock, and shud-

der that tell when a

shell has found its

mark.

But all the while

the two fleets are

nearing each other, and soon through the

deeper thunder of the turret and barbette guns

ring out the sharper and more swiftly succeed-

ing reports of the quick-firers from the batteries.

This means that a storm of hundred-pound

projectiles, a very tempest of death and

destruction, is being hurled amongst the

enemy at ever-decreasing range, and so fast

and fiercely is that storm raging that three

projectiles from each gun will be continually

in the air for several minutes to come.

' A shell has struck us almost squarely amidships."

But the enemy is as well armed as we are,

and out of the dense smoke bank which shows

our gunners where he is, comes another

storm as fierce, though not as deadly, since

much of it passes through the gaps between

the links of our long-drawn chain, and through

WAR ON THE WATER.

199

" Her stern poes down

and, with a swift, sliding plunge, she vanishes into the depths below."

this we steam on, battering and battered as

ships have never been before since the first

gun was mounted on shipboard.

All save ourselves have vanished from the

deck. The Captain, with a Commander and

two signalmen, is in the conning-tower, the

little steel skull which holds the brain and

directing will of the vast fighting organism.

The gunners are in the turrets and in the

batteries behind their walls and shields of

armour. As for us, being where we are only

in the spirit, it matters not where solid shot

may strike or shell may burst, otherwise our

condition would be parlous indeed.

As the range gets shorter, the awful din of

the battle-storm grows louder and louder,

and the hits come ever faster and more

deadly, and at last the light armaments come

into play. The harsh, sharp, grinding crashes

and the thudding roar of the machine-guns

swell the infernal chorus, and an incessant

hail of lead and steel sweeps the ship from

end to end, reducing to battered and shape-

less ruin everything that is not protected by

the solid armour of the sides and turrets and

batteries. The funnels are riddled like

sieves, boats are torn into splinters and swept

in mere shreds of wood and rags of

canvas out of the davits, and all on board

now must sink or swim with the ship as a

whole.

Suddenly a huge white form looms up

through the drifting smoke only a few yards

away on our bow. Happily for us, our two

sixty-seven tonners are intact and freshly

loaded. The turret swings round, and the

muzzles of the guns sink down. The mingled

blast of fire and smoke leaps from them, and

sixteen hundred pounds weight of metal

plunges at almost pistol range into the foe-

man's side on the fore-quarter, where the

armour is weakest.

But no armour ever forged could have

withstood the irresistible impact of that point-

blank discharge. A great ragged hole gapes

where a second before was the smooth white

side; then, with a smothered roar, the great

shells burst, the gash gapes wider, and a gush

of flame and smoke pours out of it.

But almost at the same instant the guiding

hand in the conning-tower has pressed an

electric button. A long shining shape leaps

from our side, then comes a dull roar, and a

mountain of white foam and water leaps up

under the side of the stricken ship. She stops

and shudders, and then her proud bulk leans

slowly over towards us.

One last crash of artillery thunders from

2OO

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

her batteries, and just as our reversed engines

drag us back, she rolls rail under, struggling

for a few moments dumbly in the clutch of

the waters that have claimed her for their

own; and then her stern

goes down, her bows flash

in the sunlight, which

gleams through a

rift in the smoke,

and, with a swift

sliding plunge, she

vanishes into the

depths below.

Then over her

grave we forge

ahead again, but

now with dimin-

ished speed and

feebler fire, for in

the game of

modern naval war,

he who wins pays

only a little less

dearly than he who

loses. To the landsman's

eye the great ship which, but a few minutes

ago, was so trim and strong and perfect, is

now little better than a shot-shattered wreck,

albeit, thanks to our good armour, and

maybe to our better luck, her vitals are yet

untouched.

The mighty engines are still smoothly

exerting their colossal power, though our

riddled funnels have somewhat reduced our

effective steaming, but the sides and turrets

and batteries, though gashed and scored and

torn by the storm of shot that has rained

upon them, are unpierced, and the guns

behind them, with but few exceptions, are still

workable.

So with every available gun loaded, and

torpedoes ready to leap from the tubes on

their errand of death, we sweep on to find a

fresh antagonist. We have not long to wait.

for the action has now become general, and it

is a case of ship to ship till the last of the

loser's craft has struck or sunk. The wind has

freshened with the rising sun, and the smoke

curtain rolls aside from such a scene of ruin

as was never yet beheld upon the sea.

So far as we can see not a ship of either

of the great fleets has passed unscathed into

the zone of fire ; not one but is battered ana

smashed almost beyond recognition; and,

but for the flags still flying, some from the

flag-staffs astern, some from signal yardarms,

" A great gash is torn almost from our bows to the forward casemate."

and some from stumps of masts and rims of

fighting tops, it were hard to tell friend from

foe. Yet the great guns are thundering on,

the lighter artillery is roaring and flashing in

incessant discharges, and still ship is seeking

ship that she may destroy or be destroyed.

Right ahead of us a white leviathan is lying

crippled. Perhaps a torpedo has struck her

stern posts and wrecked her rudder and

screws, for she is very much down by the

stern, but the brave fellows on board her

WAR ON THE WATER.

2OI

flutters up. For all answer Leviathan's after-

turret swings round, and the guns belch out

their flame and smoke and shot together.

The next instant a great gash is torn almost

from our bows to the forward casemate, and

the long, projecting chase of one of our fore-

turret guns seems to melt away. Then from

the inside of the turret comes a half-smothered

sound; a rush of flaming smoke bursts

through the grating, and the other gun re-

mains dumb, though the spark has been

flashed that should have fired it.

There is nothing for it now but the ram.

along the water towards us. Under each a

torpedo loaded with 500 pounds of gun cotton

is rushing towards us at thirty knots an hour.

If they converge upon us our ram will never

touch Leviathan's side, but the chance of war

is with us. We shoot in between the two

streams, and the torpedoes speed harmlessly

away astern. But Leviathan's decks are still

a volcano, vomiting a storm of shot, great and

small, and into this, with battered top-works

and torn decks, we rush to strike the final blow.

Soon comes a dull, smothered crash and a

mighty shock, and the huge bulk of the

' For a moment the two are locked in the death-grip."

The bells ckng in the engine-room, the

engines throb harder, the propellers whirl

more and more swiftly, and the ship forges

forward. Every gun that can be trained

ahead pours its continuous stream of shot

and shell on to the devoted but unyielding

foe. Her guns, too, reply, but not for long.

We are making nearly fifteen knots, and at

that speed a few hundred yards are soon

covered. So through the storm the great

ship ploughs her way, terrible and resistless

as Fate itself.

We see two bubbling streams converging

charging ship stops and shudders. Then

she forges slowly ahead till her stem bores

and grinds its way through the bulwarks and

deep into the deck of Leviathan, now stricken

to death. For a moment the two are locked

in the death-grip ; then the reversed engines

drag us, jolting and trembling, out of the

huge gap that our ram and stem have made.

Leviathan's stern goes down ; her bows, with

the great, dripping, gleaming, cruel-looking

ram projecting from them, heave up out of

the water till she seems to stand almost on

end, and then in the midst of a cloud of

2O2

PEARSOATS MAGAZINE.

" A long, low, narrow black craft, with red decks and flaming funnels

'"

steam and smoke she makes her last plunge,

and goes down to her death in the depths.

But before the engines

can be reversed again

we hear a fierce,

breathless, panting

soun.l onourquar-

ter. A long, low,

narrow black craft,

with red decks and

flaming funnels,

dashes out of a

dense cloud of

smoke at a speed

compared with

which our best is

a snail's pace. She

rushes up to within

two hundred yards

of us. Two silvery

shapes leap from

her decks into the

shot - churned

water. It is a gal-

lant deed, gallantly

dared and done in

the face of certain

destruction.

Hardly have the

torpedoes dived

beneath the waves

than a hurricane

•r

A fierce fire from the tops.

vanishes in a cloud of steam and smoke.

Then a volcano seems to open under

us. Two moun-

tains of foam-

crowned water

tower over us for

an instant, and

then burst with a

thunderous crash

over our decks

and top - works.

Stricken to death,

the great ship stops

and shudders like

a living thing in

her last agony.

Then, with a sick-

ening reel and

swing, she lurches

slowly sidewards

and sternwards.

A chorus of horri-

bly confused

sounds comes

from the strong-

holds which are

now to be the iron

tombs of brave

men, and just as

the last enemy

afloat strikes her

of flame and smoke and shot and shell and

'TJjfaS-

J^EBAN

\' \ A w —

At that moment there were four persons—shag-

eared, military, hirsute ruffians, each unknown to

the others, and of different nations—in the city,

seeking to compass the death of William the Silent.

—MOTLEY.

As THE Englishman strode into the little

inn, the " Orange Flower," he seemed to

take up all the room or space in it, while

the end of the scabbard of his great cup-

hilted sword clanked on the tiles, and

the brass spurs of his brown and dusty

boots made similar clatter. Then, throw-

ing the cloak he carried over his arm—

and for which he had no need this warm

July day—on the wooden table, and

pitching his hat, with one red feather, on

the top of it, he scowled round at the

others in the living, or public, room, ran his

hands through his crisp, coal-black hair, and

bawled to the waitress to bring him some

schnaps.

" Quick I " he said, to the trembling girl,

" quick, I am athirst. Curse me \ there is

more dust on your Dutch roads than to be

found elsewhere. And for warmth, by my

father's bones \ not even the Americas or

the Main can equal it."

" Mynheer has been on the Main ?"

queried another person sitting there, a bilious,

oily-looking man, whose accent proclaimed

him a Lorrainer, while the scar across his face

told that broils, if not wars, were known to him.

" Ay I Mynheer has been on the Main," the Englishman replied. " And elsewhere,

too. To wit, at Zutphen, with Leicester. Not far from here, eh ? "

'• Not far from here,'' replied another, whose accent and appearance in their turn

Copyright, 1896, in the United Statu cf America by J. BIuundelle-Burton.

204

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

proclaimed him a Scotchman. " Not far ; a

•dozen leagues. Was Mynheer on the winning

side ? "

" Which -ride was Leicester on, Sandy, eh ? "

*' He scowled round at the others."

"Hech! varv true. Yet I'll have ye to

know, Mister Englishman, that ' Sandy' is no

vary respectful form of address to a Scotch

gentleman of the Heriot family."

" If the Scotch gentleman of the Heriot

family objects to my form of address—why "

—and he touched his long rapier with the

tip of his toe as it stood in the corner by

him—" let him argue with that. Outside, on

the canal bank. Eh, Sandy ? "

But now a fourth man, a Spaniard this—

dark and swarthy and repellantly ugly,

looking, indeed, more like a little Castile

or Seville Jew than aught else, leant forward

and whispered two words to the Englishman

in his, the Spaniard's, own tongue. Those

words being:

" El Crucifijo ! "

" Ha ! " exclaimed the blustering English-

man. " So ! so ! El Crucifijo. All upon

the same quarry! Hey ? So be it. Produce.

Give a sign. Temoignez I Bezcugen! Capar-

biamente! In whatever accursed tongue you

speak. Tis all one to honest John Wilson.

Produce ! "

For answer, each of the others fumbled a

little at his breast, most of them opening their

•dirty linen to do so; then, a second later,

each was dangling a little silver cross in his

fingers; a Cross with, on it, The Figure.

" Blessed," murmured the Spaniard who

looked like a Jew, "by the Cardinal Arch-

bishop of Toledo." " Mine by the Bishop

of Metz," said the Lorrainer ; " And mine by

the Pope himself," exclaimed the member of

the Heriot family. Then, while honest John

Wilson's fierce eye roved over each symbol,

they hastily shoved them back amidst their

frowsy linen.

" So ! " he exclaimed. " Honour amongst

—gentlemen! Here's mine." And from

his far cleaner shirt he produced a similar

Cross. "Blessed by no one whom I know

of," he said, " yet all the same 'twill serve.

Sent me straight by Parma through Granvelle.

Now," and he finished his drink at a gulp,

" which of us is to get the twenty-five thousand

golden crowns ? I trow I shall !" and he

laughed a cruel, fierce laugh.

" I think not," said the member of the

Heriot family. " I shall have admission to

his house to-morrow—then we shall see. I

have a plan."

" And I, too," exclaimed the Lorrainer.

"Let me alone. When I dp it no one will

know the hand—yet it will be done in the

open street."

" All the same," said the Spaniard, " when

he is gone—no one can tell the manner how,

but gone he will be—it will be found that the

" ' Mynheer has been on the Main ?'

G . T.ICKT,

'Defiance to you, and all', and to the devil, your master.'"

206

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

crowns are mine. And the nobility ! I am

of Philip's subjects. The ennoblement can

come to me. You know what the Ban says,

' If he be not already noble, we will ennoble

him for his valour.' Ho! 'tis a good Ban

—ordered by the King !"

" 'Fore God, you'll want it," exclaimed

honest John Wilson, with a sneer and a

hoarse, raucous laugh; "you will, by St.

Paul and all the Saints. If he be not

already noble ! Ha ! well! when Philip sets

eyes on you he will know very well you are

not already noble!" and again he laughed.

" 'Tis vary apparent," said the Scotchman,

leaning across the table, " that you have

come here, Mister Englishman, to pick a

quarrel with all engaged in the same noble

cause as ye'self. Nay! I care not a fico for

your long sword, nor your great brawny

limbs, nor yet your black scowl—fearsome as

ye seem to think it. Moreover, so to spek

as t'were, if ye want to fight and brawl, come

out and brawl noo. Wilson is it ye call

ye'sel ? Well! Archie Heriot ne'er feared a

Southron yet, so if it's brawling, here's

to you. Is't fighting and defiance ye mean ?

Spek to it!"

" Defiance to you, and all, and to the devil,

your master," cried the bully, snatching up

his sword. " Come out on to the banks of

the canal, that I may pink you. Come out, I

say, Sandy! Come out! I'll make one

beggarly Scotchman less to do in the world,

one locust less to prey on his betters. Come

out, I say!"

Up jumped the Heriot, incensed at the

reference to the national poverty—already the

insults and flaunts that the next reign was to

witness hurled against his countrymen had

begun amongst Elizabeth's subjects !•—and,

seizing his brand in his hairy red hand, was

making his way to the door, when, suddenly,

a voice was heard speaking between the two

brawny antagonists ; the voice of a new comer.

He had shuffled into the room at the com-

mencement of the squabble, and had been

unnoticed by any of the company, so engrossed

had all been in watching, or forming part of,

the melee.

•' For shame ! For shame ! " he said.

- What are you at ? You—with that hanging

on your breast," and he pointed to the little

crucifix dangling from the Englishman's

open shirt, it having fallen out as he leaped

up; " and you," pointing to another which

had also become visible on the Scotchman's

bosom.

" What ! you peewit," exclaimed the

stalwart Englishman, seizing him by the few

sparse hairs in his head; " you muddy-

complexioned ragamuffin ! you dare to come

between a gentleman and his lawful satis-

faction. Who are you ? Answer, ere I wring

your neck."

" An appointed minister of God. Blessed

by the Church. Sent into this world to be

the benefactor of mankind. Beware lest you

attempt harm to me. See, here are the seals

THE BAN; A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY.

207

I seek no golden crowns from Philip, but

rather a crown of glory," and he squinted up

at the ceiling as though the crown he spoke

of was there. " And for proof," he went on,

"behold. A Cross like yours given me by

the blessed and comforting Franciscan,

Father Ge"ry. 'Twill be my hand that

will do the deed."

" Will it so ! " sneered the others,

while the Lorrainer muttered a German

oath, and the greasy Spaniard grinned,

and the Scotchman continued to ejacu-

late words that none, not even the

Englishman, understood the meaning

of. Then Wilson, with his usual rough

brutality, exclaimed :

" And how to do it, figure of fun!

Think you the

prince will let

you get near

him in that

garb, those

burst a.n d

broken shoes,

that gallows'

face? By'r

Lady, more like

to fling you a

coin, or, instead,

have you flung

out into the

street."

" Yet," said

the creature

before him, "he

received me in

his bedchamber

to-day, bade me

money."

"What! You!" and Wilson's

roved over him, noting again

poverty-struck appearance, his squalor,

and his insignificance. " Heavens !

who are you ? "

" Francis Guion. I tell no lies " (he

was telling one then, though!). "Chosen

by God !"

" Ha! The priests say He chooses ever

humble instruments. I see they can—like

another — speak truth. That is, if you

yourself do so. And you have seen Orange,

been by his bedside, spoken with him, andIie

still lives ! You are, in very truth, a power-

ful instrument! "

" Mock not! He would have died to-day,

had I known we should have met. Listen.

By my tears, ay, supplications, prayers, the

Seigneur de Schoneval — in

whose suite I was—bade

me bear to Orange the

papers informing him

of Anjou's death.

Post-haste I came,

anticipating only

that they would

pass from

my hands

' You dare to come between a gentleman and his

208

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" And, miserable rat! you slew him not

then! " exclaimed Wilson.

" Alas ! Alas ! I was unarmed, expected

not this interview. I could do nought. So,

perforce, I had to wait my time. But he gave

me money—ha, ha!—money and—stoop your

great head, listen : he gave me money, I say,

and with it I bought this and another pistol,

and a bag of bullets—poisoned—some nearly

went into your carcase a moment ago! I

seek now my chance. Oh, Holy Virgin!

what a chance! What a chance ! That his

money should buy the wherewithal with which

to take his life. His money! his money!

Surely the Pope will bless me; surely my

name shall ring down the ages, and men

unborn shall call me blessed!" and he

clasped his hands and tore forth his crucifix,

and kissed it with ecstasy inexpressible as he

gloated in his frenzy.

Of those in that room who heard him, all

had come to Delft with one foul purpose.

To slay William the Silent! to hack or hew

him to death, to poison him—in his favourite

dish of eels if possible—to blow him up in the

old cloister of St. Agatha, now his house; to

burn him in his bed. For all of them,

Wilson the Englishman, the Spaniard, the

Scotchman, and the Lorrainer were Catholics

in the pay of the bloodthirsty Philip—the

thousand-fold murderer!—all panted for the

twenty-five thousand gold crowns, the en-

noblement, the pardon for any crimes com-

mitted within Philip's vast dominions !

But, murderers by trade as they were,

swashbucklers, assassins, buccaneers, broken

soldiers; men who had taken part in the

" Spanish Fury," in sacks, murders and

countless horrors, they shrank away from

this foul creature who called himself Francis

Guion, as he gloated now over the infamy of

taking Orange's money as a means whereby

to take also his life. 'Twas too much even

for their murderous minds.

"' Fore God," said Wilson, " 'tis best left

to you. The executioner's trade is yours by

right supreme, yet "—and, as he spoke, his

good resolutions vanished—" if I find the

chance to slay Orange I shall do it openly—

not take his money with one hand, his blood

with the other."

"Vary weel spoken," said Heriot. "By

St. Mungo, Southron, you and I are jeest a

little too good to play this game wi' sich as

these. Gi' me your hand, mon; I'll no

fight wi' 'ee!''

* * » . » *

Meanwhile, to go back a few moments,

when the brawl had seemed about to assume

serious results, the waiting woman—who,

though she understood neither English nor

English-Scotch, rightly apprehended that

their loud words and sword clutchings

meant bloodshed—ran to the landlord of

the " Orange Flower," and besought him to

interpose. " For," said she, " I fear that

these great hectoring men—especially the

biggest one with the fierce eyes—mean to

THE BAN; A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY.

209

" The Herren are strangers to our old city,

I think," he continued, setting down the cup.

"On business, doubtless? Perhaps of the

State. I am the Syndic's lieutenant, and so

that the Herren shall not be subjected to

unseemly interruption in their vocations, will

they produce their papers ? Tis but a form,

a trifle.''

" Very willingly," exclaimed honest John

\Vilson, bringing forth a paper from his

pouch. " Here's mine. A fair record,

.Master Lieutenant!"

"Ay, ay," nodded the official, glancing

over the document. "Ay. John Wilson,"

he read, muttering, "of Her Majesty Queen

Elizabeth's body-guard, also officer of Her

Majesty's train-bands; of service at Dor-

mans'—so—so—the Herr fought under

Guise; also of Moncontour—ha! ihe

Herr is no Protestant. What! of

Zutphen also. Ha ! the Herr

varies his espousals. Well!

'iis a. great record.

And the Herr's busi-

ness here is—humph?"

" To offer a brave

sword to whomsoever

will have it. BesogneI kti^u-—

I am a soldier of for-

tune ! I sell my service to the highest

bidder. Bess wants me not in England.

We are too much at peace."

" So be it, sir. Good soldiers are

welcome everywhere. Now, Herr, yours,"

and he turned to the gentleman belonging

to the Heriot family.

Since each of the vagabonds was provided

with forged papers—made out for them by the

orders of Parma, or the late Duke d'Anjou,

or Granvelle—it was not difficult for them to

pass the inspection. Even Francis Guion—

whose seals of Mansfeld had been fabricated

by his own hands, and the fabrication after-

wards blessed by a Jesuit!—passed, too,

especially when he truthfully declared—as

the Lieutenant very well knew without any

declaration—that he had but recently been

received into the presence of Orange.

" Herren ! I thank you. All is satisfactory.

Herren, I bid you good-day," and with a

bow, a little ponderous and Dutch even

for so shrewd an official as this, the

Vol. I.-14.

Lieutenant passed out into the quiet sunny

street.

But when he was there he sent his halber-

diers off, and, proceeding down an alley,

turned in at a small postern at the back of the

"Orange Flower," and so made his way to the

kitchen in the rear of the premises, where

the landlord was himself, Dutch landlord-

like, plucking a fowl for the evening meal.

" Hist! " said the Lieutenant. " Come

out here into your herb-garden, Uyten-

wael; I have something to say to you.

Leave the fowl, and come."

" The Landlord was . . . plucking a fowl for

the evening meal."

2IO

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

blank and expressionless as the red brick

wall near them. " Nay ; two only. The

great Englander and the Schottlander. We

have but one room, as you know, and there-

fore they sleep together. Yet, 'tis sweet and

clean, and to each his own bed."

" So, so. I know the chamber. Entered,

too, by the ladder from below—being in the

roof and having no door."

" Ja Wohl I "

"Good. Now, listen. There is some

plot brewing against the Prince—Jaureguy,

he who was run through and through in

thirty-two vital places by the attendants, nearly

succeeded; others may not fail as he did!

—these fellows are in it alone, or together.

One only is not of them, the miserable-

looking youth who is a messenger to the

Prince, and received by him. But for the

rest, we must trap them. Their papers are

mostly false. I know it. Now, listen again,

Uytenwael."

" Ja-Ja. I listen."

" My men will take the Spaniard and the

Lorrainer; I with some more, and you,

Uytenwael, assisting, will secure the others

above in the garret. This way it shall be

done. When they are asleep we will mount

the ladder, I going first; then the rest shall

enter, and so the birds will be taken. You

understand ?"

" I understand. And after ? "

" After, we will see. If they are innocent

people, why they will be let go about their

business ; or, at worst, put outside Holland.

If we discover anything against them, why,

then, Uytenwael, there are gibbets and wheels

and dungeons for such as they."

"And my reckoning?" the other asked,

with Dutch foresight.

"Oh, as for your reckoning, never fear!

The Prince will doubtless pay that."

*****

The old city of Delft never kept late hours,

no more in the Middle Ages than now. By

the time the clock struck eleven from its

steeples most of the inhabitants were in bed—

or were supposed to be.

Yet ere some sought their couches,

especially those men who had foregathered

earlier in the day in the " Orange Flower,"

there were certain things to be done. To

wit, there was silent inspection to be made

of the house in which the Prince of Orange

now dwelt since he quitted Brussels, glances

to be cast up at the two stories, lights to be

observed in the windows, care taken to make

sure the Prince was there; also the need to

creep up the dark lane by the side, take

general observation—who knew how at any

moment an opportunity might arrive for doing

the deed and gaining the twenty-five thousand

crowns! Once in the house, William might

be stabbed, even in the arms of his wife,

Louisa de Coligny, and escape made down

some dark passage or exit. Once in the

house, a way might be found to pantry or to

larder, and poison dropped into food pre-

THE BAN; A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY.

211

themselves and walked erect like honest men,

and let fall their cloaks from their evil faces.

And so they sought their resting places.

Naturally, these birds of darkness worked

alone; they wanted neither partners in the

deed nor in the reward ! The greasy Jew-

like Spaniard went off first to his haunt;

next the Lorrainer, half-drunk, reeled to his;

the Scotchman and the

Englishman arrived at the

door of the "Orange

Flower" together. Of

Francis Guion, the dust-

grimed, insignificant

creature from Franche-

Comte", nothing had been

seen further and nothing

more thought. He was

beneath consideration!

" We sleep together, side

by side, Mister Heriot,"

said honest John Wilson,

who, since they had shaken

hands that morning, treated

the Scotchman with more

respect. " Come, let us up

to our beds and take our

rest. To-morrow may

bring the chance. We

need sleep. I for one am

weary."

"A sup before we

mount! " exclaimed the

other. " Landlord, a pint,

quick! "

The draught swallowed,

they followed Uytenwael

to the floor above them

and up the ladder through

the trap-door into the

garret where they were to

lie? a pallet for each on

either side of it.

" Who sleeps below in

the room we came through ? " asked Wilson,

peering down through the trap-door.

" I do," replied the landlord. " So have

no fear! None can pass to you except by

me."

"Fear!" exclaimed Wilson, "fear! I fear

none. Neither man nor devil. This absolves

me from fear," and he flung his long rapier

"The Scotchman and the Englishman

arrived at the door of the 'Orange Flower '

together."

on one of the beds, "and this," stretching

out a brawny arm, " and this!" And following

his last words he threw down by the side of

his sword a great glittering dagger.

" Also," he added, " a clear conscience

and an easy bosom," and he slapped Uyten-

wael hilariously on the back.

" Those are the best of all," said the

Walloon, quietly. " The

best of all. A clear con-

science and an easy mind.

The best of all."

Yet, in spite of Wilson's

212

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

later an' we should have had no light

at all."

Neither of the would-be assassins un-

dressed totally, but each, taking off his

jerkin and his shoes, threw himself on the

truckle bed wrapped in his cloak, the

Englishman in a long riding one bravely

guarded with crimson, and the Scotchman

in a brown one with a great hood to it.

And each placed his weapons near to him,

Heriot having his dagger under the pillow,

Wilson the hilt of his in his hand and folded

within his cloak. And by the head of each

bed reposed a sword.

One thing both forgot, to say a prayer,

though neither had ever needed one so much

as on that night!

Soon they were fast asleep—as peacefully

as in their mother's arms in childhood. Their

evil deeds of the past, the evils they meditated

in the future, troubled them not at all.

Suddenly, three hours later, Wilson roused

himself, raised his body on one elbow, peered

over to the bed where the Scotchman lay—

then glared into the darkness.

His senses,always keen, had been awakened

by something, he knew not what—but some-

thing near his face. Something that had

breathed upon that face—a breath, too,

tainted with alcohol l—and had suddenly been

withdrawn; had seemed to descend towards

the floor, to where the trap was between the

two beds.

Someone had been in the room—was in it

now ! He knew it, felt sure of it!

He was no coward, would-be murderer

though he also was, and as he intended to be

again if the chance came his way : yet he felt

the sweat oozing out upon him, damping his

shirt and making his forehead wet as he

realized, or thought he realized, that there,

alone in the dark—towards the Scotchman's

bed—was a third presence waiting to spring

on him or them.

And at that moment there was a creak

made by some slight movement—a breath

was drawn in to some throat—a stealthy

movement reached his ear.

Slowly he disengaged his long dagger from

the folds of the cloak, withdrew the cloak

from his form, then sprang off the bed to the

ground—and found his throat grasped by two

brawny hairy hands that pressed like vices on

his windpipe ; that were throttling him. Then

one hand was released from that throat—he

felt—he knew that there was a swift movement

upwards of the arm to which that hand

belonged—a swish downwards, and, " Ah,

God ! " he exclaimed, " Murdered ! Done to

death! Struck to the heart!"

Yet, as he screamed, and ere sense was

gone from him, he with his own strong,

muscular arm buried his own dagger—once,

twice, thrice—though the third time feebly

only, in the form that grappled with him.

Then both fell together in the dark and lay

there—dead.

The Syndic's lieutenant and his men, with

THE BAN; A FRAGMENT OF HISTORY.

213

Ere sense was gone from him, he with his own strong, muscular arm buried his own dagger

in the form that grappled with him."

Guion, but whose name was Balthazar

Ge"rard, gained the presence of Orange once

more, and with the pistol—bought from that

Prince's charity !—fired the three poisoned

balls into his body, they passing through it

and burying themselves in the wall beyond.

And he, too, most righteously was done to

death, though in a manner hideous and

awful. And in place of the twenty-five thou-

sand golden crowns—which, in truth, he had

never sought, but, instead, an immortal fame

and glory—poor fool!—the seignories of

Dampmartin, Hostal, and Lievremont were

given to his relatives for many years.

So Philip, the bloodthirsty wolf of Spain,

accomplished his desire, carried out his Ban,

and, for once kept his word, though to a

murderer !
PART

I told you how the Government, unsparing with its rope,

Had left the Water Company a single crumb of hope ;

A solitary orphan joy, as tiny as could be,

Infinitesimally small—its sweet MONOPOLY?

Exactly. Well, the Company constructed it a nest,

And cherished it extremely in the bosom of his vest;

And presently, in gratitude—but ever lying low—

In silence—but perceptibly—the mite began to GROW.

" How sweet ! " the Gentle

Public said, " I'll nurse the

little chap ; "

And fondled it, and dandled it,

and fattened it with pap:

The Government and Company

appeared about to split,

And dug each other in the ribs

until thev had a fit.

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

215

And still the little treasure grew ; it burst its little gown;

The Public couldn't carry it, and had to put it down :

It didn't do the putting down effectively, it's plain;

Because the operation must be shortly done again.

" I'm sorry ! " said the Company ; " I'm

perfectly distraught

To think you haven't water, but it hap-

pens there's a drought."

******

" I'm sorry I ,: said the Company; " my

grief is very great:

The Winter's frozen up

the mains; but kindly

pay the rate."

2l6

PL'ARSON'S MAGAZINE.

For fifty years the Public longed to

wash himself and drink :

His face was grey with grubbiness, his

nails as black as ink;

And ev'ry time the Company observed

his woeful state

It sent him in a little bill increasing

of the rate.

At length the Public shook itself, and,

goaded into fits,

Besought the British Government

(Defender of the Cits).

" Eh ? Bless us ! " said the Govern-

ment ; "is somebody to blame?

What is a Water Company ? I never

heard the name ! "

All vainly did the Public make an effort to explain

The nature of a water-tap—the meaning of a " main; "

When suddenly the Government—its honest eye afire

With luminous perception—cried, " / see what you require !

" You want a public body, sir, enthroned upon the heights

Of absolute devotion to your interest and rights—

Incapable of jobbery, or bribery, or hire—

And wholly incorruptible—that's all that you require ! "

" Pray tell me," said the Public, " where the article's obtained."

" Oh, bless you ; nothing easier ! " the Government explained :

"For honesty's as plentiful as bristles on a pig;

And incorruptibility—it grows on ev'ry twig!"

" I'll help you," says the Government ; and fortunately hits

Upon another gentleman a-living by his wits ;

And then the Water Company, the Government, and he

Retired around the corner, just as friendly as could be.

The newly-chosen gentleman—elected as a Board—

Apologised for trenching on the Public's little hoard.

" I grieve to say you'll have to pay a little rate," says he,

" Before I can defend you from the Wrater Companee."

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

217

The Public sadly paid the rate (increasing with the years),

Still empty was the little jug, except for bitter tears ;

Its owner, yearning for a drink, had dried to half his size;

So awful was his grubbiness, you couldn't see his eyes.

He tried to dig himself a well: " / notice what you're at ! ",

Observed the Water Company ; and put a stop to that.

He got himself a water-butt; but down it came again,

And quickly took his roof away to stop his getting rain.

" To lift away a roof! " you say, " a

pretty heavy weight ! "

I answer pat, " Conceding that, I

only have to state

That little pet Monopoly was getting

so immense,

It lifted it as easily as falling off a

fence! "
2l8

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" Pay up," remarked the Company, good humouredly, "or I

Shall have the pain of cutting off your much-esteemed supply ! "

" Supply ? You can't. I haven't one! " the Public said, said he.

"Be off!" replied the Company; "Don't argyfy with me!"

" My faithful BOARD," the Public said, " will help me! If I die,

I'll up and thresh the matter out, and know the reason why!"

******

He found his own devoted BOARD as happy as could be,

And comfortably dining with the WATER COMPANEE.

(To be continued.)
By WALTER BESANT and W. H. POLLOCK.

GASTON Marquis de Monlserrat.

BERNARD Chevalier de Saint A ignan.

RAOUL Vidame de Chatillon- Cur say.

THE BARON ALDEBORAN.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

COLIN.

ISABELLE Princesse de Chalons.

H£L£NE Duchesse de Perigord.

JEANNETTE.

PLACE Paris.

TIME Eighteenth Century.

ACT I.

SCENE—The Salon of the DUCHESSE DE PERIGORD. Decoration, Louis Quinze style. Portraits

on walls. A card-table at back. A piano, chairs, etc.

COLIN, in livery, and JEANNETTE, with a duster, discovered.

COLIN (sighs). How are we this morning, Jeannette ?

JEAN, (sighs). Pretty well. We rang our bell at ten. We called for our tisane at a quarter

past. We are now dressing for the evening. And you, Colin ?

COLIN. We rose at noon, after a cup of chocolate. We were completely dressed by two.

We have made a tolerable dinner, and we are now on our way, in a chair, to the

salon of our beloved Duchess.

JEAN. What life-long devotion, Colin ! What a lesson of constancy to young men—

like yourself!

COLIN. What rigour, Jeannette ! What a warning to young women—like yourself !

JEAN. Yet every woman would like sixty years' devotion.

COLIN. Sixty-five, in fact. Yet what man, at the beginning, would dare to go on if he

knew that there were sixty years of patience before him ?

JEAN. You young men are so impatient.

COLIN. You are distractingly pretty this morning. Do you know (edges closer).

JEAN. Fie, Colin l

Copyright, 1896, in the United Statcs aj America, by W. Besanl and W. H. Pollock.

2l8

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" Pay up," remarked the Company, good humouredly, " or I

Shall have the pain of cutting off your much-esteemed supply ! "

"Supply? You can't. I haven't one!" the Public said, said he.

"Be off!" replied the Company; "Don't argyfy with me!"

" My faithful BOARD," the Public said, " will help me! If I die,

I'll up and thresh the matter out, and know the reason why!"

******

He found his own devoted BOARD as happy as could be,

And comfortably dining with the WATER COMPANEE.

(To be continued.)
By WALTER BESANT and W. H. POLLOCK.

GASTON Marquis de Montserrat.

BERNARD Chevalier de Saint Aignan.

RAOUL Vidame de Chatillon-Cursay.

THE BARON ALDEBORAN.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

COLIN.

ISABELLE Princesse de Chalons.

H feLENE Duchesse de Perigord.

JEANNETTE.

PLACE Paris.

TIME Eighteenth Century.

ACT I.

SCENE—The Salon of the DUCHESSE DE PERIGORD. Decoration, Louis Quinse style. Portraits

on walls. A card-table at back. A piano, chairs, etc.

COLIN, in livery, and JEANNETTE, with a duster, discovered.

COLIN (sighs). How are we this morning, Jeannette ?

JEAN, (sighs). Pretty well. We rang our bell at ten. We called for our tisane at a quarter

past. We are now dressing for the evening. And you, Colin?

COLIN. We rose at noon, after a cup of chocolate. We were completely dressed by two.

We have made a tolerable dinner, and we are now on our way, in a chair, to the

salon of our beloved Duchess.

JEAN. What life-long devotion, Colin ! What a lesson of constancy to young men—

like yourself!

COLIN. What rigour, Jeannette ! What a warning to young women—like yourself!

JEAN. Yet every woman would like sixty years' devotion.

COLIN. Sixty-five, in fact. Yet what man, at the beginning, would dare to go on if he

knev.r that there were sixty years of patience before him ?

JEAN. You young men are so impatient.

COLIN. You are distractingly pretty this morning. Do you know (edges closer).

JEAN. Fie, Colin!

Copyright, 1896, in the United States oj America, by W. Baant and W. H. Pallock.

220 PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

COLIN. Youth, Jeannette, youth I say (puts his arm round her waist) is the time for

(Trses to kiss her. Slse pushes him from her. Door opens. COLIN runs away.)

JEAN, (hurriedly). Yes, M. Raoul, Madame will be here immediately. I will tell her that

you are here.

RAOUL. Do not hurry her, child. So (chucks her under the chin) Colin was imitating the

manners of his masters, was he ?

JEAN. To be sure, M. Raoul; we cannot always be with our betters without learning

something. (Exit.)

RAOUL. (Goes round, looking at the portraits.) Here is a portrait of the Duchess herself.

A beautiful woman in those days; not quite in modern taste. Yet this is the

woman who made a slave of my grandfather. The young fellows of the time had

their consolations. (Still goes round.) Here is the Princess in her young days;

one might look farther and fare worse. And to think that in this very salon the old,

old people meet every night to talk over the past and forget the present. Poor old

folk ! They say age comes to all. Perhaps. Meantime, one is young.

(Enter the DUCHESS on JEANNETTE'S arm.)

(Hastening to offer his own.) Madame, permit me.

DUCHESS. Thanks, Raoul—my son Raoul—since we have agreed that I may call you by

that name.

RAOUL. Madame, your kindness overpowers me.

DUCHESS. My own son is—-long since—Jeannette, my snuffbox—(takes snuff)—long since

dead. I was vexed, I remember, at the time. You are singularly like your grand-

father, Raoul.

RAOUL. You knew him when he was young; but of course that was long before your

time.

DTCHESS. No, boy; that was in my time. Women have but one time. When that is

over, they have no other; and when one is eighty, one may surely cease pretending

to be—alas !—beautiful.

RAOUL. Madame can never cease to be both beautiful and charming.

DUCHESS. Your manners, Raoul, resemble your grandfather's. You have something of his

finished style.

RAOUL. I am honoured, Madame, with this approbation.

DTCHESS. Enjoy your youth, my son. Lay to heart the admonition of an old woman.

RAOUL. Ah ! never, never old—to her friends.

DUCHESS. Yes—(resolutely)—eighty-two—do you hear?—eighty-two years old. Jeannette,

my snuff-box. (Takes snuff.) I was saying . . . Yes, Raoul, enjoy your

youth.

RAOUL. I do. What else is there to enjoy ?

DUCHESS. Do not waste it. Make love always, and to the most beautiful women only, and

to women of rank only; frequent none but the best society; avoid gambling.

orgies, coarse pleasures. Remember that a beautiful old age—a time of serene

satisfaction—can only be obtained by the most careful conduct of youth. Ah!

what pleasures we have lost! What possibilities the young idly throw away ! Be

wise in time, my Raoul!

RAOUL. I will, dear Madame. Meantime, I am in love with half the ladies of fashion,

and only just out of love with the other half. I have as yet only fought six duels,

and I gamble no more than a gentleman should.

DUCHESS. And do not drink too much wine, dear child. Why, but for his champagne at

supper, the Regent, the best and most generous of men, might have been living

until now.
THE CHARM.

221

RAOUL (aside). When he would be about a hundred and ten. We might have been a

little tired of Philippe—what a delightful invention is champagne!

DTCHESS. Your grandfather, Raoul, of sainted—I mean—of course, not sainted—saintli-

ness is only expected of common persons—but of delightful memory—was like the

Regent, inordinately addicted to late suppers and champagne.

RAOUL. And to making love, Madame, I have heard, to the most beautiful woman of his

time.

DUCHESS (in confusion). It was true, my child. She used him barbarously. She can never

forgive herself.

RAOUL. She accepts, at least (kneels on one knee) the devotion of the grandson for the love

of the grandfather.

DUCHESS. Rise, Raoul. Yes, I accept the service of the boy—for the—ardour—(sighs)—of

the grandsire. Alas! at that happy time he was your age, Raoul, and

had your face. What a time! f- •v', ~i, What men ! What manners 1

COLIN. M. le Marquis de Mont- [ .WaJ»4 serrat.

(Enter MARQUIS. He is an

cane and leans upon the

salutations. MARQUIS kisses

MARQUIS. Young man, you are

been as kind to me

to you—I—but (takes

(The CHEVALIER and

separately. They

ments. They sit.

DUCHESS. Raoul will tell us

RAOUL. The people are

MARQUIS (takes snuff). The

Auvergne are always

RAOUL. The rustics in

CHEVALIER. Shoot them down.

in my time, we

It is the only remedy

PRINCESS. And you have no

RAOUL.

Knter MARQUIS.

old man, who walks with a

arm of COLIN. Ceremonious

DUCHESS'S hands. RAOUL iozw).

fortunate. Had the Duchess

some time ago as she now is

snuff) let us be philosophers.

the PRINCESS are announced

are also very old. Compli-

RAOUL stands.)

the news.

starving in Auvergne.

ill-conditioned people of

starving.

Picardy are in revolt.

( Takes snuff.) That is how,

treated revolt. Shoot and hang,

for the common people,

scandal to tell us.

An ambassador is expected

King's cooks are busy

nests, in order that his

the national dish.

None this evening.

from China. The

collecting birds'

Excellency may be entertained wiih

MARQUIS. China is a long way off.

DUCHESS. I prefer to hear of Paris.

RAOUL. It is reported that our fleet has been destroyed by the English off the port of

Brest.

CHEVALIER. In my time we destroyed the English fleets. Ventre St. Gris ! Where are our

captains ?

DUCHESS. And nothing of Paris ?

'222

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

told me a great many anecdotes—for instance, about my great-great-grandfather.

He also says he knows how to bring back youth.

DUCHKSS. This becomes interesting. Pray go on, Raoul.

RAOUL. Of course I do not believe a word he says. Still, I have seen him cure a cripple

who carried away his crutches, and he makes people fall asleep by merely waving

his hand; that I have myself witnessed.

DTCHESS. The Baron has bewitched you, dear son. We are, however, too old for these

fancies.

MARQUIS.

DUCHESS.

PRINCESS.

RAOUL.

DUCHESS.

The Duchess can never be too old.

Oh! Marquis-

And that is all you have to tell us, M. Raoul ?

That is my budget, Madame la Princesse.

Then, dear son, we will keep you no longer from your own world,

the time for enjoyment.

PRINCESS. Alas ! Yes. There is no other time for happiness.

DUCHESS. Adieu, Raoul! Make love, laugh, sing. Leave us to our cards.

(Exit Raoul).

PRINCESS (absently). Restore our youth? If that were possible !

(Meantime COLIN arranges card X-j^X tables and cards; places chairs.)

CHEVALIER. And such a youth JPk'.'^Sc as yours, dear Princess !

with you beauty is

COLIN. The cards

Youth is

DUCHESS. Let us _

(They rise. Gentle-

down. MARQUIS

Yet

Sit

DUCHESS : " Bring back our beauty!'

yours, dea

immortal.

await Madame.

play.

men lead ladies,

deals. They play.)

have made a

pardon me.

revoked-,

shamefully.

cards so that everybody

Restore our youth!

could, after all, be done.

fall upon the table). Bri ng

dear, if that were possible!

mis-

Partner,

PRINCESS. Ah! I

take. Chevalier,

DUCHESS. I have

I am playing

PRTXCESS (holding her

can see them).

Strange if it

DUCHESS (letting her cards

back our beauty! My

MARQUIS. Dear Duchess, may I bring you a glass of wine?

(DUCHESS shakes her head.)

PRINCESS. We can play no more. Let us sit and talk of old days—the days when we were

young—all young together.

DUCHESS. When we loved and were loved.

CHEVALIER (standing). When we made love and danced and fought.

MARQUIS (springing to his feet). The days of suppers and gallantry, when—when—

Duchess—you remember that evening ?

THE CHARM.

223

DUCHESS. Our youth ? Oh, dear Marquis, the young men are not what they were!

Where could we find so brave and handsome a man as you were then ?

MARQUIS. Where could we find so lovely, so brilliant a creature as you were then,

HeMene ?

DUCHESS. You called me—Helene—on that night—before the supper. Gaston, you made

me the happiest of women.

MARQUIS. And you, lovely He"lene, made me the happiest of men.

(The PRINCESS sits before the spinnet and plays.)

DUCHESS. We danced—in those days, Gaston—no one so well as you.

MARQUIS. Could any nymph move more divinely than you ?

(PRINCESS plays. The MARQUIS and DUCHESS dance part of a minuet, then sit

down exhausted.)

MARQUIS. Come, come, let us be philosophers. (Takes snuff and shrugs shoulders.) What

has been, has been ; it cannot come again—we live in the present. Let us enjoy

the moment.

(PRINCESS plays, and sings in weak, tremulous voice.)

PRINCESS. When autumn leaves about the lawns

And round the trees are drifting high—

When frosty nights bring misty dawns,

Back to past days, back to past days, our memories fly.

When April suns light up the hills,

And young men woo and maidens wait—

When children wreathe young daffodils,

Our hopes of spring, of bygone spring, we tell too late.

When to and fro the lovers go,

When damsels hear with blushing cheek,

When tabors play at close of day,

Ah ! then of love, of perished love, we sadly speak.

( While PRINCESS finishes singing, ALDEBORAN enters, unseen by any of them. He

stands in the middle of the room ; his dress is black.)

ALDEBORAN. Thank you, Princess.

(PRINCESS shrieks ; they all turn round.)

MARQUIS. Who is it that we have the honour of receiving ?

ALDEBORAN. I am called Aldeboran.

PRINCESS. You are the man who—(gasps)—restores youth to the old ?

ALDEBORAN. I am a man who knows the secrets of science.

CHEVALIER. Bah ! Your science—what does it do ? You sit in your laboratory and make

discoveries; meantime we get old, and in time

MARQUIS. Let us be philosophers. (Takessnuff.) We exist—we cease to exist; that is all.

DUCHESS. Ah! Yet if science could

ALDEBORAN. Madame, there are no limits to the power of science, believe me—none. Think

as much as you please, you can think of nothing that science cannot do.

MARQUIS. These are the usual boasts of the charlatan. Perhaps, M. Aldeboran, you will

be so good as to let the Duchess know what is your business—if you have any ?

ALDEBORAN. I come here uninvited. I have nothing to gain—nothing to sell. M. le Marquis,

you are, in mind at least, unchanged since the year 1720, when I last had the

pleasure of meeting you. The same incredulity—the same

224

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

ALDEBORAN : " Let me, Madame la Duchesse, recall one incident of that year."

MARQUIS. You may add the same unbelief in

persons who call themselves five hundred

years old.

DUCHESS. But, Marquis, if this gentleman

can do what he promises

PRINCESS. If he can, by

his science, per-

form these

miracles

ALDEBORAN. Ladies, you

do not remember

me. Yet when I

saw you last you

were young, you

were gay, you

were worshipped.

It was in the year

1720, in the same

year that I had a certain altercation with the Marquis, then a fiery young man of

five-and-twenty.

(The MARQUIS looks closely at him.)

MARQUIS. I seem to recollect you. You are surely the same man who then called himself

the Count de Niirnberg.

ALDEBORAN. I did. I was then the Count de Niirnberg, as I am now the Baron

Aldeboran.

MARQUIS. And you were then as you seem to be now—a man of forty or fifty. Yet it is

sixty years ago. Strange ! Well, it matters nothing. Let us be philosophers.

(Takes snuff and shrugs shoulders.)

ALDEBORAN. Let me, Madame la Duchesse, recall one incident of that year. It is known

only, I believe, to yourself and to one other person, who has, in fact, ceased

to speak. I will, with your permission, whisper it in your ear. ( Whsspers.)

DUCHESS (shrieks). Is this man a wizard ?

ALDEBORAN. There was also, Madame la Princesse, an event which took place in that same

year connected with your own history

PRINCESS. If it is known only to myself and—and a man who is no more, I would rather

not hear it.

ALDEBORAN. Perhaps he is still living. Listen. ( Whispers.)

PRINCESS. Ah! He is a wizard !

ALDEBORAN. You see, then, that nothing is impossible. If I, who sixty years ago was forty

years of age, now am still forty and no more, why should not things still stranger

happen ?

DUCHESS. Baron, do not raise false hopes.

PRINCESS. But—if he can

DUCHESS. Ah ! if he can

ALDEBORAN. Ladies, I divine your thought. I know your wishes. You would be once

more young and—permit me the word—once more you would be beautiful, and

once more see the train of lovers following at your steps.

PRINCESS. Duchess—He"lene—friend of my youth!

ALDEBORAN. I can make you young. In five minutes, by the waving of my hand, I can

make the years run backwards—I can restore to you your twenty summers.

PRINCESS and DUCHESS (catching each other by the hand). Oh!

THE CHARM.

225

AI.DEBORAN. The bloom shall return to your cheeks, the lustre to your eyes, the grace

to your shape, the smile to your lips, the young strength and spring to your

limbs.

DUCHESS and PRINCKSS. Oh ! Oh ! Oh !

ALDEBORAN. You shall again have gallant gentlemen—young, handsome, noble—kneeling

before you.

CHEVALIER. Princess, if this is true what am I to do ?

"MARQUIS. Duchess, after sixty-five years of devotion am I to see you the prize of another

man ?

PRINCESS. Ah, Bernard ! Could I be so ungrateful ?

DUCHESS. Gaston, can I ever forget the past ?

.\LDEBORAN. Be tranquil, gentlemen. These ladies will have the honour themselves of com-

municating to you the same wonder. They can make you young again, if they

please. That is their gift—

CHEVALIER. How — how can they

MARQUIS. Calm yourself, my

(Takes snuff.) Nothing

ALDEBORAN. Yes; these

long — to whom

service of a life—

ALL. How ? (They

ALDEBORAN. By returning

ing their affec-

your love, they

DUCHESS. Gaston, I love

sence of my dear

before this illus-

generous stranger,

MARQUIS. He"lene, you

Your kindness

Yet—so far—I

(Takes

PRINCESS. Bernard,

Marquis, I swear

man in the world

CHEVALIER (kisses her

and kindest of

MARQUIS : " Let us be philosophe-s.

not mine,

do that ?

friend. Let us be philosophers,

can make us young again.

ladies whom you have loved so

you have devoted the suit and

they can now repay your affection.

look at ALDEBORAN.)

your passion. Yes, by bestow-

tions upon you, by returning

will restore your youth.

you already! Yes, in the pre-

Isabelle—before the Chevalier—

trious-—this distinguished—this

I declare that I love you dearly,

are, as usual, most amiable,

gratifies and flatters me.

feel no younger.

"7.: snuff.)

before Hdlene and the

that there is no other

whom I love.

hands). Isabelle, best

hearts. But I feel—alas!—

yet no younger.

They spoke before the

quick.

no younger—as

ALDEBORAN. Patience! These generous ladies were too

time in the noble eagerness of their gratitude and love. They must first be young
226

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

ACT II.

(Five minutes later.)

SCENE—All as before.

(ALDEBORAN retreating as he completes the passes. He disappears behind portiere,

and all recover life. The ladies are young again. They look about them. They

rise. They rush into each other's arms.^

DUCHESS. Isabelle!

PRINCESS. Helene !

DUCHESS. I so hoped you would come. It seems an age since we met.

PRINCESS. Does it not ? But it makes the meeting all the pleasanter. What a pretty dress,

and how well you look !

DUCHESS. Thank you, dear !

PRINCESS. Do tell me who is coming! Will your special adorer be here

DUCHESS. I do not know. A cer-

tain Vicomte is to come,

and will, of course, devote

himself to you all the

evening.

PRINCESS. If I allow him.

(MARQUIS and CHEVA-

LIER are gazing in

wonder and admira-

tion.)

:k ! quick !

I want to feel

once more the

DUCHESS and PRINCESS leave the MARQUIS and CHEVALIER kneeling. bounding pulse

of youth.

MARQUIS (more slowly). He said—come, let us be philosophers—(takes snuff)—he said—

that a word from them—they are young again—they are as I remember them

CHEVALIER (falling on his knees). Isabelle! divine Isabelle! you are indeed once more

what you were sixty years ago.

MARQUIS (falling slowly on his knees). HeUene, lovely He"lene. Oh, He"lene, tell me once

again that you love me !

(The girls look in amazement. Then they look at each other. Then they laugh, but

gently, their faces behind their fans.)

DUCHESS. Love you, dear sir? Here is some strange delusion. Love you? Have you

mistaken the house ? Tell me once again. Isabelle, my dear, do you know this

old gentleman, who asks me, leaning on his crutch, to love him ? Sir, why should

I love you ?

PRINCESS. Love you, sir ? What answer can you expect ?

(DUCHESS and PRINCESS leave the MARQUIS and CHEVALIER kneeling, and go up

stage, laughing. The gentlemen rise slowly.)

CHEVALIER. They have thrown us over! Ventre Saint Gris ! Could we believe it possible ?

'Why, five minutes ago—Marquis, are we mad ? Are we dreaming ?

THE CHARM. 227

MARQUIS. At my time of life I should not be surprised at anything. (Takes snuff.)

Kneeling tries a man with sciatica. Chevalier, be a philosopher. (Offers

snuff-box.)

CHEVALIER. I will not endure it. ( Walks about.)

MARQUIS. Then, my dear friend, let me ask what you propose to do ?

CHEVALIER. I will—I will—yet what can I do ?

MARQUIS. Nothing. You see, Chevalier, we have forgotten, most unfortunately, an

important, an essential fact.

CHEVALIER. That is ? Oh ! who could believe it ? What fact ?

MARQUIS. How should they remember us ? The young have no memory.

(MARQUIS and CHEVALIER walk about in agitatioi.)

(Repeats.) The young have no memory !

CHEVALIER. I will remind her of my long devotion. I will move her heart by the tale of a

life-long love.

MARQUIS. Consult the glass, Chevalier. Come (snuff-box), let us be philosophers.

(The ladies come down.)

CHEVALIER (to PRINCESS). Pardon, madame.

PRINCESS. Mademoiselle, if you please, monsieur.

CHEVALIER (disconcerted). I beg pardon, Madame—I mean Mademoiselle—will you permit

me to relate to you a little story—a little story ?

PRINCESS. A fairy story ?

CHEVALIER. A story (tragically). It is of two most faithful and most unfortunate lovers.

PRINCESS. Pray proceed—if it is a short story.

CHEVALIER. No; it is a long one. It is sixty-five years long.

DUCHESS. Sixty-five years long ? Then let us wait till we have had our ball.

MARQUIS. It will take less time to tell, I think. But, ladies, you do not know my

friend. Permit me to introduce to you, M. Bernard de Saint Aignan, Chevalier of

Malta.

DUCHESS. I have heard my grandmother speak of you, sir; I am honoured in making

your acquaintance.

CHEVALIER. Permit me, ladies, in my turn, to present my friend, the Marquis de Montserrat.

PRINCESS. M. le Marquis was, I believe, a friend of my grandmother's.

CHEVALIER. Sixty-five years ago, two young gentlemen fell in love with two ladies also

young.

PRINCESS. This is a most original beginning. Young men fall in love with young

ladies.

CHEVALIER. Their love was continued—for sixty-five years. (Ladies laugh.)

DUCHESS. Absurd ! If that is all your story, M. le Chevalier.

CHEVALIER (disconcerted). Well—that is all the story.

MARQUIS. There is an end, however. The ladies were as much attached to them as they

were to their mistresses. Long companionship endeared them to one another.

DUCHESS. Pardon me, M. le Marquis, but our guests will be arriving.

MARQUIS. One moment more. By some sorcery, the ladies at eighty recovered their

youth; they became twenty; they scorned the love of their old suitors. Yes,

Madame (fiercely).

CHEVALIER. Yes, Madame (to the PRINCESS, fiercely).

PRINCESS and DUCHESS. Oh, what terrible old men !

MARQUIS. They scorned their love.

CHEVALIER. They laughed at their age.

228

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

PRINCESS. I do not understand this story at all.

Two old ladies to become young

again ! Two old lovers of sixty-five

years' standing ! Why

DUCHESS. Isabelle — Gentlemen, you must

allow us to leave you.

(Exit PRINCESS and DUCHESS.)

CHEVALIER. Good heavens, Marquis ! Were

two men ever so abused ? If it were

not for my gout, I would

MARQUIS. And I, were it not for my sciatica.

I would——- Come, Chevalier, let us

be philosophers. (Snuffs.) What

could we expect ?

CHEVALIER. By Heavens, if the princess gives

the least encouragement to any other

man I will—I will

MARQUIS. Bah ! the thing is absurd. Come,

let us have a game of piquet.

(COLIN lays the table ; they sit

down to play.)

CHEVALIER (angrily throwing down cards and rising). Did ever man hear the like ?

My friend, patience. The young have no memory.

CHEVALIER- "Good heavens, Marquis ! Were two men

ever so abused ?"

To see her in the arms of another-

MARQVIS.

CHEVALIER.

MARQUIS. How should the young love the old ?

CHEVALIER. I have lost my Isabelle. The image of that divine woman is shattered.

MARQUIS. Let us find out this devil of an Aldeboran and bribe him—if we can—with

all our fortune, if need be

CHEVALIER (eagerly). To give us back our youth.

MARQUIS. No, Chevalier, that is impossible. Why, after all, age is the best time.

(CHEVALIER shakes his head.)

MARQUIS. Can youth talk of the past ?

CHEVALIER. Youth can enjoy the present.

MARQUIS. What is the present to the past ? What could youth give us to compare with

such talk as we have had—we four—within these walls ?

CHEVALIER. Yes, this room is full of ghosts—the ghosts of our perished years.

MARQUIS. There is no present for us. As for the future—(shrugs his shoulders often and*

takes snuff—looks round and shakes his head.) But there is the past

(Enter RAOUL.)

CHEVALIER (roughly). Sir, we are obliged to you—we are certainly very much obliged to you.

RAOUL (bows). May I ask, M. le Chevalier, in what way?

MARQUIS. It is to you, M. le Vidame, that we owe the appearance of the Baron Aldeboran

We are so much obliged to you that

CHEVALIER. That, upon my word, if I were sixty instead of eighty, I would call you out.

RAOUL. Then, sir, I am heartily glad that you are not sixty.

MARQUIS. Your friend, sir, the Baron Aldeboran, has been here, and has accomplished his

work—his infernal work.

CHEVALIER. He will cool his heels before many days, if I have any influence, in the Bastille.

RAOUL. But what has the Baron done ?

MARQUIS. To you it will doubtless seem a trifle. He has restored their youth to the ladies,

that is all—that is all! Our old friends have left us. They are young, but we remain old-
THE CHARM.

22I

RAOUL. Their youth—to the Duchess and the Princess ? You call that a trifle ? Whr.c

is the meaning of this ?

MARQUIS. You shall see. Here they come.

(Enter DUCHESS and PRINCESS, bearing dominoes in thei'- hands, with some additions to dress

—hoods, etc).

MARQUIS. Permit me, ladies, to present to you my young friend, Raoul, Vidame de

Chatillon-Cursay.

DUCHESS. I have heard my grandmother speak of yp"r ancestors, sir.

PRINCESS. And mine. A friend of

CHEVALIER. Their grandmothers ! They are ashamed of their names now !

MARQUIS. They have forgotten. How can girls of twenty be grandmothers ?

RAOUL (aside to the MARQUIS). I do not understand what you mean about youth. These

young ladies have been often mentioned to me by the Duchess. (Aloud.) And

the Duchess, Mademoiselle ?

DUCHESS. My dear grandmother is as well as her infirmities and great age will allow.

CHEVALIER (to MARQUIS). You hear. She will brazen out anything.

RAOUL (to the PRINCESS). I last had the pleasure of seeing the Princess here, Mademoiselle.

PRINCESS. I left her at home over the fire, dear grandmamma! She feels the weight o£

years.

MARQUIS (to CHEVALIER). You hear. They are both in a tale.

DUCHESS. M. le Vidame, I hope that we shall be able *o persuade you to stay this evening.

Our friends will arrive immediately.

(RAOUL bows).

PRINCESS. If that could be considered an inducement, M. le Vidame, I would—(shyly)—

offer you my hand for the first dance.

RAOUL. Oh, Mademoiselle ! I am too much honoured.

DUCHESS (aside). She actually throws herself at his head ! (Aloud.)

M. le Vidame, one must not neglect the friends of one's

grandmother! I promise you the next dance; and you may—

yes, you may sit beside me at supper.

PRINCESS (aside). Oh! this is too bad ! (Aloud.) He"lene, you must

not keep your friends waiting.

(DucHESs and PRINCESS approach RAOUL as if to take his hand

to go off. The PRINCESS reaches him first. RAOUL and

PRINCESS exeunt. DUCHESS follows angrily.)

MARQUIS. So they are their own granddaughters.

CHEVALIER. And they are in love with their old lover's grandson.

MARQUIS. Philosophy brings consolation. (Takessnuff.) Other-

wise one might lament the degeneracy of the age.

(Enter ALDEBORAN.)

CHEVALIER (violently). You, sir, you are the cause of all this

trouble!

ALDEBORAN. What trouble ? I converted two old ladies into two

young ladies. Are they not beautiful enough ?

MARQUIS. They are what they were sixty-five years before.

ALDEBORAN. They declared their love for you before their

transformation—why, then, do you still await your own

change ?

CHEVALIER. Because—it is embarrassing and—humiliating— DUCHESSfoiiiwe

230

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

RAOUL : " What ha-ui I done ?'

because, in fact, they forgot

the existence of that passion

directly they recovered

their youth.

ALDEBORAN. Ah, that was bad ! but

yet, was it unexpected ? 'Did

you, gentlemen, think to

preserve, or to win, the love

of young and beautiful

women ?

MARQUIS. Ta-ta—we waste our time

in regrets. Can nothing be

done, Baron ?

-,^f ALDEBORAN. You, too, would

renew your youth, M.

le Marquis ? You ?—a

man of the world—a

man of experience!

Cure my sciatica and—and one or two other

Age brings experience ; but youth—ah!

MARQUIS. Not I, indeed. I have lived.

little things, and I envy no man.

CHEVALIER. I would have my time over again.

youth.

ALDEBORAN. What do you ask me? These ladies are young again : they enjoy the delirium

of youth and beauty.

CHEVALIER. But they ought not to enjoy them—without us.

ALDEBORAN. Yet you would take from them this enjoyment.

MARQUIS (slowly). Youth is made up of anticipations never realised (takes snuff) : of

ambitions which never satisfy: of rivalries, especially among women, which

embitter: of disappointments which sadden. Would it not be well to spare them

these ?

CHEVALIER. Yes : let us spare the ladies what we can.

MARQUIS. Later on—we have memories — (takes snuff")—all the disappointments are

forgotten : we remember only the happiness.

ALDEBORAN. You think so ? Very well.

MARQUIS. Therefore let us not be selfish : let us, for these dear ladies' sake, provide them

with the rr.eans of being happy.

CHEVALIER. We will not be selfish.

MARQUIS. Since we, their truest friends, cannot be young again, let them, so that we may

continue to watch over them, become old once more.

CHEVALIER. That will certainly be best for them.

MARQUIS. You will remark, Baron, that we seek nothing but the happiness of our mistresses.

ALDEBORAN. Gentlemen, your motives do you the greatest credit. An unselfish wish such as

yours, M. le Marquis, is rare in this selfish world. It shall be as you desire.

Enter DUCHESS and PRINCESS (masked) and RACUL.

RAOUL (to Duchess). I assure you, Mademoiselle

DUCHESS. Oh, Monsieur, there is no need! Besides, it is not to you that I need look for

assurance.

RAOUL (to Princess). Pray, Mademoiselle, take no heed.

PRINCESS. Believe me, Monsieur, I shall not; neither of you nor of others unworthy my

regard.
THE CHARM. 231

DUCHESS. If you mean that graceful speech for me, Mademoiselle

RAOUL. Ladies, I entreat!

PRINCESS. I mean what I say—no more.

DUCHESS. As for you, Monsieur

PRINCESS. Yes, Monsieur, as for you

RAOVL. What have I done ?

DUCHESS. Done ! My iiear, he asks what he has done !

RAOUL. Cornelius Agrippa or Aldeboran must have bewitched them.

(DUCHESS and PRINCESS turn from each other.

ALDEBORAN (stepsforward). Permit me, ladies

DUCHESS. Pardon me, sir

AI.DEBORAN. Ah! you do not remember—how should you ? May I ask, however, that you

will listen to me for a moment—one moment only ? Allow me ! (He places them

at the card-table and spinnet.)

DUCHESS. I feel as if my head were turning round.

PRINCESS. The room swims before my eyes.

(They are placed exactly as at end of Act I. ALDEBORAN focusses their eyesr

makes passes, same movement as before of mesmeric influence. ALDEBORAN steps

behind curtain. A few moments elapse. They start, the dom1noes have fallen off.

They are old again. PRINCESS sings.)

PRINCESS. When April suns light up the hills,

And young men woo and maidens wait—

When children wreathe fresh daffodils,

Our hopes of spring, of bygone spring, we tell too late.

When lovers whisper as they pass,

When damsels hear with blushing cheek,

When tabors play for lad and lass,

Ah! then of love, of perished love, we sadly speak.

CURTAIN.

fhey an old again.

LOVE AND AGE.

Love, so the tale goes, through a wood was

roaming,

Roaming through a wood in Arcady,

Flung himself wearied by a streamlet

foaming—

Merry ran the streams in Arcady.

Love marked the blossoms, countless in their

number,

Bending o'er the stream in Arcady,

Striving to tell them, sank into a slumber,

Slumbsred by the stream in Arcady.

Age, so the tale goes, through the wood came

creeping, .,

Creeping through the wood in Arcady,

Marked where the love-god quietly lay

sleeping—

Happy are the dreams in Arcady.

Age, full of envy, woke Love from his

dreaming,

Woke him from his sleep in Arcady,

Spoke to him rough words, set his tears

a-streaming,

Drove him from the wood in Arcady.

Love, so the tale goes, fled into the city,

Fled to the city from Arcady,

Age followed close, already full of pity—

Sorry for his words in Arcady.

Vain, all in vain, is Age his humble pleading—

No one pled in vain in Arcady;

Now when the twain meet, Love goes by

unheeding—

Love is done with Age since Arcady.

CRANSTOUN METCALFE.

IDOLATRY.

High o'er the meaner dust around it lying,

A wondrous statue stood ;

A dream in stone of Genius deifying

The grace of womanhood.

And low before it, bent in adoration,

A pale youth knelt alone,

And stretched his hands in yearning supplica-

tion

Towards the unheeding stone.

•t*

Then came another, and, with rude strength

taking

The statue from its place,

Left the youth kneeling still, his fond heart

breaking,

Before the empty base.

Night fell, and, as the shadows closed arouno.

him,

He laid his weary head

Where it had stood : the sunbeams came and

found him

Smiling at Fate — and dead.

LEVIN CARNAC.

WRITTEN IN SNOW.

Yes, here is the snow as it was last year,

And there is the moon above,

And the bells are singing far over the mere

Their story of hope and love.

But ah, their music mocks me now,

For they chant the dirge of a broken vow

Made but a year ago,

When May stood here with me that night,

And wrote by some stray moonbeam's light

My name upon the snow.

Ah, May, was that promise so little worth

RTISTS J•

the1r

Notes on Prominent Painters, with Portraits

and Examples of their Work—The Bicycle

in Art—Antiques and " Snorkers"—Aime

j\forot—Glass Studios.

The Hon.

John Collier.

There is a. fitness in Mr.

Collier's appearance in suc-

cession to his master in

England, M1vAlma-Tadema, for Mr. Collier

acknowledges a greater debt to that master

than his own pictures would suggest.

Mr. Collier is the second son of the late

Lord Monkswell, whose efforts as an amateur

artist showed that, had he adopted art instead

of advocacy, he would have been at least as

successful as a painter as he was at the Bar.

In his Eton days John Collier gave proof of

remarkable talent for drawing, and on leaving

school he inevitably abandoned the mercantile

career, for which he had been destined, and

devoted himself with incessant ardour and

study to draughtsmanship and painting. As

a student he enjoyed unusual privileges. He

left the Slade School to study under J. P.

Laurens, in Paris, and when he returned to

England, Mr. Alma-Tadema painted his

picture " The Sculptor's Model " as a lesson

to him. All these advantages, however,

would have failed to gain for him the position he holds had he lacked the one thing

that study and training can never give—genius. Critics may, and do, find fault with

his scheme of colour in individual pictures, but the severest of them will find it difficult

to quarrel with his drawing. Some of his portraits are beyond praise, for he gives

7W. 1.—March, lS96.—Xo. 3.

236

PEARSOX'S MAGAZINE.

THE HON. JOHN COLLIER.

Photo by Maull and Fox.

you not only the features and colouring of

the sitter, but he conveys the more subtle,

elusive characteristics which go to build up

the personality of the subject. His

success in this regard is due, no

doubt, very largely to his power

of winning the sympathy of his

sitters. Unlike many portrait

painters, he allows his sitters to

walk and talk, and never bullies

them, while he watches for every

mood and expression that will

help him to the complete portrait.

No wonder that he enjoys an

extensive practice which is not

confined to ladies of fashion,

Masters of Hunts, and other sitters

of the fashionable portrait painter.

Mr. Collier's portrait of John

Burns, the swarthy hero of Trade

Unionism, is one of his most suc-

cessful efforts.

Mr. Collier is fond of subjects

from the drama, as in the " Forest

of Arden" (a charming piece

of work), where Audrey and

Touchstone sit on a log in the

foreground of a perfectly delight-

ful landscape. In the scene at

Caesar Borgia's table, and "The

Decoy," the dramatic is combined

with the pictorial with fine effect.

Mr. Collier may not yet add A.R.A.

to his signature, but, if report

speaks truly, he was once very

near achieving that honour, and

there are many who would welcome

him to the sacred circle.

Ever since trousers became

The B1cycle in Art. universal as articles of

clothing they have been a

source of grief and perplexity to the artist.

He is now confronted with something still

less susceptible of artistic treatment—the

bicycle, and it can be ignored now no more

than the garments with which a prosaic

generation of men has decided to clothe its

nether limbs. The bicycle has made its way

to the front as a factor in contemporary life,

and art, the mirror of life, must begin to

reflect the iron steed's flashing spokes. The

illustrator has already had to tackle the

problem of its treatment, but he is generally

a hardened individual, who, having got over

his early enthusiasm, has grumblingly settled

THE DECOY.

From the Painting by the Hon. John Collier.

BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK.

Prom the Picture by Laura Alma-Tadema. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W.
PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

A PROPOSAL.

From the Painting by Sydney Muschamp.

down to the inevitable, and plays second

fiddle to the author with as much good grace

as his temper will allow.

Especially in its higher branches, art is

slow to assimilate new material, and painters

have hitherto avoided the flying wheel; but

we must expect to see it in future exhibitions.

A bicycle by itself would not be so deterrent;

it is light and not ungraceful, but the moment

you perch men and women atop, with their

knees going up and down in a graceless

mechanical movement, the bicycle becomes a

desperate thing for a painter to have to

introduce in his composition, and he will be

a clever man who succeeds in the attempt.

We have called the cycle " new " material,

but a correspondent recalls the fact that in the

little church at Stoke Poges there is a stained

glass window, said to date about a century

back, in which is represented a man riding a

bicycle while a crowd of spectators look on

with awesome interest.

Born in London some

Robert Morley. thirty-eight years ago, Mr.

Robert Morley studied first

at the Slade School under Professors E. J.

Poynter, R.A., and A. Legros. He won the

Slade Scholarship and medals for painting

from the life and antique, and afterwards hied

him to Munich and Rome to continue his

studies.

Mr. Morley then began his career as a figure

painter, chief among his works at this period

being the " Scene before the Execution of

Bernardo del Nero" (from George Eliot's

" Romola "), which we reproduce in these

pages. The original picture was presented

to the Jaffray Hospital in Birmingham by

Mr. Lovekin in 1885. Another important

picture was the " Storming of the Convent

of St. Mark's," which attracted some atten-

tion in the Royal Academy exhibition of

1886.

Two years later Mr. Morley began to turn

his attention to animal painting, and birds

and beasts have ever since formed his chief

subjects. In 1889 his "Henpecked," which

was exhibited in the Royal Academy, was

engraved by the Fine Art Society, and in the

same year he was elected a member of the

Royal Society of British Artists. He became

honorary secretary of that Society, and subse-

quently honorary treasurer.

24O

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

He quotes Leonardo da Vinci'a precept for

a painter: " It reflects no great honour on a

painter to be able to execute only one thing

well, such as a head, an academy figure, or

draperies, animals, landscapes, or the like,

confining himself to some particular

object of study ; because there is

scarcely a person so void of genius

as to fail of success if he apply

earnestly to one branch of study

and practise it continually.''

Impressed with this, Mr. Morley

has avoided over-specialising,

and most branches of the

painter's art have in turn en-

gaged his attention. This

catholicity has dangers which

Mr. Morley has not always

succeeded in avoiding; for a man of less

ability it would probably have been fatal.

MR. ROBERT MORLEY.

Photo by Alfred Ellis.

Ant1ques and

"Snorkers."

We may explain for the

benefit of the uninitiated,

that " snorker " is the term

applied by the connoisseur to a sham

antique. It is a word that is pretty fre-

quently on his lips, for forgery is fairly easy,

and has notoriously flourished for generations.

In Rome, Florence, Paris, and even nearer

home, the manufacture of copies to be sold

as original pictures has long been an

established industry. The temptations that

it offers to the unscrupulous increase rather

than otherwise, for the number of

genuine old masters is limited, and

the opportunities for their purchase

naturally become fewer and fewer

as the pictures get absorbed in

the public galleries.

Nor is it only the old masters

that attract the attention of the

clever copyist. Demand creates

supply in art as in everything

else, and there are wielders of

the brush ready and eager to

oblige the picture buyer with

representative examples of the work of any

school, contemporary or mediaeval, that may

happen to be in fashion.

At times a painter has been more or less

an accomplice in the production of fraudu-

lent canvases bearing his own name, and

strange stories are told in France to account

for the marvellous number of Corots and

Courbets that one sees about. We are told

that Corot used to sign pictures brought to

him by poor struggling artists to enable them

SCENE BEFORE THE EXECUTION OF BERNARDO DEL NERO.

From the Painting by Robert Morley.

Copyright, IT., by Photographfeclie Ge'ellschaft.

ELAINE GUARDING LANCELOT'S SHIELD.

From Hse Painting by J. M. Strudivick. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, IV.
242

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

to find buyers. It is a form of benevolence

not to be encouraged, since it not only

demoralises the unfortunate painter who

profits by it, but shows a reckless disregard

for the master's own reputation and a criminal

indifference to the rights of the public.

Courbet, the communist painter, founded

a sort of picture factory when he was in exile

in Geneva. The French courts had con-

demned him to pay the cost of restoring the

Vendome Column, which was thrown down

by his orders during the terrible days of 1871.

To collect enough money to pay this huge

fine and earn his return to Paris became his

sole object. He engaged

the services of four or five

clever, industrious assist-

ants, and he and they

together produced pic-

tures on the system said

to have been followed

by the elder Dumas in

the production of his

stories, the master's con-

tribution to the work con-

sisting of little more

than the signature. But

Courbet died with his

task still unaccomplished.

Some of his assistants,

however, had caught his

style so well that they

decided to continue a

business so profitable

They are said to have

been painting admirable

Courbets ever since.

Americans travelling

abroad are, through their enthusiasm for

antiquities, very often victimised by the

" faker," and when that is the case they

suffer a double injury on their return to

the States. Antiques are allowed to enter

America duty free, but this exemption can-

not be claimed for a work of art less than

a hundred years old. The rules lead to

constant disputes between collectors and the

Custom House authorities. Not long ago

an American collector paid ,£"3,000 for a

painting on a European dealer's guarantee

that it was by the old master whose name it

bore. The Government experts, however,

UNDER A CLOUD.

From the Pointing by Robert Morley.

decided that it was a forgery, and the un-

fortunate collector was mulcted in close upon

,£"1,000 duty.

Those acquainted with the picture trade

tell us that tens of thousands of pounds have

been paid for bogus paintings during the last

few years. Persons with more money than

artistic knowledge are. of course, the victims,

and the swindler, as a rule, finds America

a more profitable field than England. Not

long ago a lady, whose enthusiasm for art

outran her discretion, paid over a thousand

pounds for an alleged Corot, which proved

to be a production of a New York " faker,"

ARTISTS AND THEIR WORK.

243

Alme Morot.

Monsieur Morot, the

painter of the military

picture which we re-

produce herewith, was

born in Nancy in 1850.

His parents were up-

holsterers. Young Morot

showed remarkable

talent for drawing at

a very early age, and,

after passing through

the school of his native

town, he was sent to the

school of Fine Arts in

Paris and entered

Cabanel's studio. In

1873 he gained

the "prix de

; Rome," having

previously re-

ceived a medal for

a picture in the

Salon of 1870. He

received a similar

distinction for his

•S picture Medle in

-», the following year,

S? and in 1880 he

.E received the medal

•

* of honour for his

* " Good Samari-

| tan." M. Morot

has gained dis-

tinction alike in

the field of portraiture,

historical, military, and

decorative painting. His

military pictures are, per-

haps, the most striking,

and the canvas in the

Luxembourg, from which

our reproduction is

taken, is a characteristic

example of the dash and

brilliance that he has

brought to bear in his

treatment of these sub-

jects. A ceiling in the

Hotel de Ville, Paris,

attests his power as a

decorative artist.

=9
244

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

A remarkable feature of

Glass Studios. Sir Frederic Leighton's

house is a large exten-

sion. with glazed sides and roof, where

the painter works when he needs a strong

light, or when his picture requires an open

air effect.

This glass studio was, we believe, modelled

upon one built by Mr. Luke Fildes, but the

idea probably came in the first place from

Paris.

The great French painter, Mons. William

Rouguereau. whose work is familiar to English

people through the numerous reproduc-

tions that have been published in our

illustrated journals, built one many years

ago.

It projects over the garden of his

house in the Rue Notre Dame des Pe1its

Champs, and the master declares that it has

been of great value to him at different times.

It was in this room that he painted his

" Awakening of Spring," the picture through

which an irate American, who disapproved of

its nude figures, flung a chair, " by way of

protest that God's creatures were created

without draperies."

This idea of glass studios has since been

adopted by several other Parisian artists, but

not many London painters can afford the

money and space necessary for its adoption.

An American artist, Mr. Ridgway Knight,

who some time ago took up his quarters at

Poissy, a place just outside Paris, built himself

a glass studio in his little garden, and, with the

readiness of invention of the true Yankee,

developed its possibilities in a most amusing

way.

One autumn unseasonably cold weather

suddenly cut short his open air studies, and

prevented him from finishing a picture begun

out of doors, in which a figure was lying on

a mossy bank.

Thereupon he raised a bank of earth at

one end of his glass studio, turfed it, and

planted it with a careful selection of weeds

in imitation of his original wild bank. On

this he posed his model, but the plan was

only partially successful. He found that the

weeds, encouraged by the warmth and shelter

of the house, grew so fast that what he began

to paint each morning had to be finished

before sunset, as the next morning they had

outgrown his picture.

THE SILENT WATCH.

From the Painting by Robert Mo1ley.

SUSPENSE.

From the Painting by L. C. Henley. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, 11'.
. ..

Henry Somerset.

THE spring sunshine was lighting up the

broad boulevard, and the trees were already

beginning to be tipped with green, tiny

sprouts shooting up from the black twigs.

The blue sky was overhead, and the very

paving-stones seemed to rejoice that the

winter was well nigh past.

Against the grey wall of the quai were

lines of potted flowers, before which stood

white-aproned women, pointing to the more

brilliant blossoms, and endeavouring to lure

customers to extra extravagance in order to

assure themselves that the fine weather had

really come to stay. Little palm trees were

already rustling in their places among the

hyacinths, and tulips, and early marguerites.

"Everything that is most beautiful," called

the women. " Ah, the sweet spring ! Smell

the blossoms; they scent the very air."

The passers-by loitered for awhile, for even

they could spare a moment in their busy

lives to reassure themselves that springtime

had really begun. White-capped women

paused with long loaves under their arms,

and men with blue blouses exchanged words

with the flower merchants, as if they could

not resist the temptation of remaining in the

midst of so much perfume and brightness.

Occasionally, however, little gusts of wind

drove the dust along the street, and betrayed

the fact that winter had not yet altogether

abdicated her sway, but still feebly held

earth's destinies in her cold clutches.

Presently the sound of clattering footsteps

on the pavement, and the hum of many voices

caused the flower-women to look smilingly

across the street.

" Tiens! the little children from the

Convent of the Rue St. Martin. How good

for them to be ' en promenade' this lovely

day. Flowers for the altar, my good Sister ? "

said one, holding up a bunch of early nar-

cissus. " White flowers for the good Virgin ;

only ten sous; it is given, for they are every-

thing that is most fine and perfumed."

The children clattered on, while the little

Sister brought up the rear—a sturdy practical

figure with her large white cap flapping in the

spring breeze, and her small plump hands

clasped under her wide sleeves.

" Come, my children," she said, as the pro-

cession paused before the array of blossoms,

" come, they are of a beauty unsurpassed, and

I wish that some rich patron would lay them

at the feet of the Holy Virgin. But we must

on, for it is already the breakfast hour, and

our walk has been prolonged."

The children were about to resume their

march, when the passers-by turned on a

sudden to listen to a cry that ran down the

quai and passed from mouth to mouth, while

men and women huddled together on the

pavement or hurried towards the bridge.

" What did they say ? " said the children.

" Ma sccur, what did they say ? "

The little Sister listened for a moment, and

then, turning to the flower-woman, she said :

" Of what are they frightened ? Is it a

Down bent the grey figure as she knelt upon the flagstones.
248

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" He comes," they cried, " the police have

been unable to cope with him. He is biting

right and left; ' Nom de Dieu,' we shall none

of us escape !''

" What imbeciles women are," shouted a

burly man, as he hastened his footsteps and

made for the nearest bridge.

The crowd had almost dispersed; it took

but a moment to drive them panic-stricken

from the street.

The Sister hesitated. Around her clung

the tiny children, too young to be able to

run with any speed, and too numerous for her

to be able to disperse them quickly. And

then a little cloud of dust and a speck on

the horizon of the long boulevard—a speck

that grew and grew, until in an instant a dog

came towards them, his tail between his legs,

and white froth hanging from his mouth. It

seemed as if the animal was more frightened

than the human beings who had fled before it.

Almost before it reached the place where

the children stood, it began to snap right and

left, and then dashed towards the pavement.

The little Sister stood for a moment, and

then, as though a sudden inspiration came to

her, without an instant's hesitation, she went

straight to meet the dog as it approached.

The animal ran towards her, yapping and

snapping and snarling as it came. Down

bent the grey figure and the wide white cap

as she knelt upon the flagstones, and, after a

short, fierce struggle, her two plump little

hands were forced down the animal's

throat.

- Two gendarmes, puffing and heated from

a long pursuit, came where she was, and

when they saw her action the men turned

pale and murmured under their breath:

" Elle est perdue !"

The Sister looked up into their faces; the

colour had gone out of her round cheeks;

she was almost as white as her cap.

" Save the children," she said, " save the

children."

But their answer was a heavy blow from

the back of a sword on the head of the

animal, which fell dead at their feet.

The crowd gathered round with that won-

derful celerity with which men and women

will collect when danger is over.

" What heroism ! " said the men.

" What courage ! " said the women. "Ah,

for that the little Sisters are unsurpassed."

But the sturdy form swayed a moment, and

then the little bleeding hands were clasped

together as she leant upon the parapet for

support.

" Take the children home," she said to the

gendarmes, " take them home, while I go to

the hospital to have my hands dressed."

" A Christianity worth something is here,"

said one of the men on the pavement.

"You're right," answered the flower-

woman ; " she's one of the good God's elect."

The little Sister's head was bent, her face

was hidden; only now and then, as she

waited, leaning on the low stone wall, a little

NELL GWYN.

BY F. FRANKFORT MOORE.

Author of "Phyllis of Pkilistia," &c., &c.

" NELLY—Nelly—Nell! Now, where's the towards the stairs to meet and greet their

wench ?" cried Mrs. Gwyn before she had

more than passed the threshold of her

daughter's house in St. James's Park—the

house with the terrace garden where, as the

sedate Evelyn records, the charming Nelly

had stood exchanging some very lively

phrases with her royal lover on the green

walk below, giving the grave gentleman

cause to grieve greatly. But, alas !• the record

of his sorrow has only made his untold readers

mad that they had not been present to grieve

also over that entrancing tableau. " Nelly—

Nell ! Where's your mistress, sirrah ? "

continued the somewhat portly and un-

doubtedly over-dressed mother of the

" impudent comedian " referred to by Evelyn,

turning to a manservant who wore the scarlet

livery of the king.

" Where should she be. madam, at this

hour, unless in the hands of her tire-women ?

It is but an hour past noon."

" You lie, knave! She is at hand," cried

the lady as the musical lilt of a song sounded

on the landing above the dozen shallow oak

stairs leading out of the square hall, and a

couple of fat spaniels at the sound lazily

left their place on a cushion and waddled

mistress.

She appeared on the lobby and stood for a

moment or two looking out of a window that

commanded a fine view of the trees outside—

they were in blossom right down to the wall.

She made a lovely picture with one hand

shading her eyes from the sunlight that

entered through the small square panes,

singing all the time in pure lightness of heart.

She wore her brown hair in the short ringlets

of the period, and they danced on each side

of her face as if they were knowing little

sprites for whose ears her singing was meant.

" Wench ! " shouted her mother from

below. (The sprites that danced to the

music of the mother's voice were of a heavier

order altogether.)

"What, mother? I scarce knew that you

were journeying hither to-day," cried Nelly,

coming down the stairs. " Tis an honour

and a surprise as well; and, i' faith, now

that I come to think on't, the surprise is a

deal greater than the honour. If you say

you haven't come hither for more money my

surprise will be unbounded."

It was nothing to Nelly that she spoke

loud enough to be heard by the footmen in

Vol. I.—17.

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America,

250

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

the hall as well as by the servants in the

kitchen. She knew that they knew all about

her, and all about her mother as well.

Perhaps some of them had bought oranges

from her or her mother in the old days at

Drury Lane, before she had become distin-

guished as an actress, and in other ways.

" I'm not come for money, though a trifle

would be welcome," said the mother when

Nelly had shown her the way into one of the

rooms opening off a corridor at one side of

the hall—a large apartment, furnished with

ludicrous incongruity. A lovely settee made

by the greatest artist in France, and up-

holstered in bright tapestry, was flanked by a

couple of hideous chairs put together by the

stage carpenter of Drury Lane,

and by him presented to

Nelly. A pair of Sevres vases,

which had for some years

been in St. James's Palace,

stood on a sideboard among

some rubbish of porcelain

that Nelly had picked up in the

purlieus of Westminster

The mother was about to

seat herself heavily on the

gilded settee, when Nelly

gave a little scream, startling

the elder lady so that she, too,

screamed, a little hoarsely,

sympathy.

" What's the matter, girl—

what's the matter ? " she cried. Mn

" Nothing is the matter so far, mother,

but a mighty deal would have been the matter

if you had seated yourself otherwhere than

in that chair. 'Snails, madam, who are you

that you should plump your person down on

a seat that was made for a legitimate

monarch ? "

" I'm a legitimate wife, hear you that, you

perky wench ? " cried the mother, craning

her neck forward after the most approved

fashion of pending belligerents at Lewkinor

Street, Drury Lane.

" The greater reason you should avoid that

settee, dear mother; it has never been other

than the chattel of a prince," laughed Nelly.

" And now, prithee, why the honour of this

visit while the month is not yet near its

close ? "

" I have met with an old friend of yours

this day, Nell," said the mother, " and he is

coming hither—'tis that hath brought me."

" An old friend ! I' faith, good mother,

'tis the young friends are more to my taste.

The savour of Lewkinor Street does not smell

sweet, and it clings most foully to all our old

friends."

" Oh, ay, but you once wasn't so dainty a

madam."

" 'Twere vain to deny it, mother, since it

can be urged against me that I became youi

daughter. No, no, good mother, friend me

no old friends—I like them new—the newer

the better—plenty of gilding—none of it

rubbed off—gingerbread and courtiers—

NELL GWYN.

251

Nell had sprung to her feet, and had grasped

her mother by the shoulder, eagerly peering

into her face. After a moment of silence

following her exclamation, she gave her

mother a little push in the act of taking her

hand off her shoulder, and threw herself back

in her own chair again with a laugh—a laugh

that surrounded a sigh as a bright nimbus

surrounds the sad face of a saint in a picture.

" What should I say, do you ask me ?''

she cried. " Well, I should say that you

were a liar, good mother," she cried. Nell

was never particular in her language. As

an exponent of the reaction against the

Puritanism of the previous generation, she

was admitted by very competent judges to

have scarcely an equal.

" I'm no liar," said the mother. " 'Twas

Dick himself I met face to face."

" It puzzles me to see wherein lies your

hope of getting mones from me by telling me

such a tale," said Nell.

" I want not your money—at least, not till

the end of the month or thereabouts. I tell

you I saw Dick within the hour."

" 'Twas his ghost. You know that when

he threw away his link he took to the sea and

was drowned in a storm off the Grand Canary.

What did the seafaring man tell us when I

asked him if he had seen Dick ? "

" A maudlin knave who offered you a

guinea for a kiss at the pit door at Drury

Lane, and then bought a basket of oranges

and gave them away singly to all comers."

" But he said he had sailed in the same

ship as Dick, and that it had gone down with

all aboard save only himself."

" Oh, ay; and he wept plentifully when he

saw how you wept—ay, and offered to be

your sweetheart in the stead of poor Dick,

the knave ! For I saw Dick with these eyes

within the hour."

" Oh, mother—and you told him—no, you

dursn't tell him "

" He had just this morning come to

London from the Indies, and it was luck—

ill-luck maybe—that made him run against

me. He plied me with question after

question — all about Nell—his Nell, he

called you, if you please."

" His Nell—ah, mother, his Nell ! Well,

you told him ''

" I told him that you would never more

need his aid to buy foot-gear. Lord! Nell,

do you mind how he bought you the worsted

stockings when you were nigh mad with the

chilblains."

" And you told him For God's sake

say what you told him."

" I didn't mention the king's name—no,

I'm loyal to his Majesty, God save him ! I

only told him that you had given up selling

oranges in the pit of Drury Lane, and had

taken to the less reputable part of the house,

to wit, the stage."

" Poor Dick ! he didn't like to hear that.

Oh, if he had stayed at home and had carried

his link as before, all would have been well."

252

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Nell, now that he has prospered. If he

hadn't prospered it would be different."

" Only an orange seller, and yet with the

precepts of a lady of quality. I'll not see

him. Did he say he'd come soon ? "

" Within the hour, he said."

Instinctively Nell looked at her reflection

in a mirror.

" I'll not see him," she repeated.

" That gown will do well enough for one

just returned from the Indies," said the

mother, with a leer.

" Oh, go away, go away!" cried her

daughter. " You have done enough mischief

for one morning. Why could not you have

let things be ? Why should you put this

man on my track ? "

" Tis a fool that the wench is for all her

smartness," said the mother. " She was

picked out of the gutter and set down among

the noblest in the land, and all that held on

to her gown were landed in pleasant places;

and yet she talks like a kitchen jade with no

sense. If you will not see the lad, hussy,

lock your door and close your shutters, after

giving orders to your lacqueys to admit him

not. If needful the king can be petitioned

to send a guard to line the park with their

pikes to keep out poor Dick, as though he

was the devil and the park the Garden of

Eden."

" Oh, go away—go away! "

" Oh yes; I'll go—and you'll see him, too

—no fear about that. A girl, however well

provided for—and you're well provided for

—wouldn't refuse to see an old sweetheart

if he was the old serpent himself; nay, she'd

see him on that account alone. And so good-

day to you, good mistress Eve."

She made a mock courtesy, the irony of

which was quite as broad as that of her

speech, and marched out of the room, hold-

ing her narrow skirts sufficiently high to

display a shocking pair of flat-footed boots

beneath.

Her daughter watched her departure, and

only when she had disappeared, burst into a

laugh. In a moment she was grave once

again. She remained seated without chang-

ing her attitude or expression for a long time.

At last she sprang to her feet, saying out loud

as though someone were present to hear her :

" What a fool thou art, friend Nell, to

become glum over a boy sweetheart—and a

link boy of all boys ! Were I to tell Mr.

Dryden of my fancy he would write one of

his verses about it, making out that poor Dick

was the little god Cupid in disguise, and that

his link was the torch of love. But I'll not

see him. 'Twere best not. He'll hear all

soon enough, and loathe me as at times I

loathe myself—no, no; not so much as that,

not so much as that; Dick had always a kind

heart. No; I'll not see him."

She went resolutely to the bell-pull, but

when there, stood irresolute. with the orna-

mental ring of brass in her hand for some

moments before pulling it. She gave it a

.

She looked with eyes full of mischief and mirth at the courtier standing on the mat.
254

PEARSONS MA GAZINE.

had given to the servant in the parlour ; but

in the hall she found herself face to face with

her old friend, Sir Charles Sedley. He had

brought her a bunch of violets.

"The satyr offers flowers to Aurora," said

the courtier to the courtesan, bowing as grace-

fully as a touch of rheumatism permitted.

" And Aurora was so fond of flowers that

she accepted them, even from the most satiric

of satyrs," said Nell, sinking into a courtesy.

" I plucked these flowers for the fairest

flower that "

"Ah, that is one of Mr. Dryden's images

in the reverse," laughed Nell. "What was

the name of t'other young thing? Proser-

pine, that's it—who was plucking flowers, and

was herself plucked—'snails !—that's not the

word—she wasn't a fowl."

" Tore Gad, Nell, I never heard that

story; it sounds scandalous, so tell 't us,"

said Sir Charles. "What was the name of

the wench, did you say? "

" Her name was Nell Gwyn, and she was

gathering oranges to sell in the pit of Drury

Lane when, some say Satan and some say

Sedley—the incongruity between the two

accounts is too trifling to call for notice—

captivated her, and she had nothing more to

do with oranges or orange blossoms."

" And her life was all the merrier, as I

doubt not Madame Proserpine's was when

she left the vale of Enna for—well, the Pit—

not at Drury Lane."

" That were a deeper depth still. You've

heard the story then. Mr. Dryden says the

moral of it is that the devil has got all the

pretty wenches for himself."

" Not so; he left a few for the king."

" Nay, the two are partners in the game ;

but the king, like t'other monarch, is not so

black as he's painted."

" Nor so absolutely white as to be tasteless

as the white of an egg, Nell."

" His Majesty is certainly not tasteless."

" On the contrary, he is in love with you

still, Nell."

They were standing apart from the group

of servants in the hall. Nell Gwyn had pre-

tended that she was about to ascend the

stairs, but loitered on the second step with

her right elbow resting on the oak banister,

while s^ ' the violets with her head

poised daintily as she looked with eyes full

of mischief and mirth at the courtier standing

on the mat, the feathers of his broad-leafed

hat sweeping the ground as he swung it in

making his bows.

Suddenly Nell straightened herself as she

looked down the hall towards the door; she

started and dropped her violets. All the

mischief and mirth fled from her eyes as a

man was admitted, with some measure of

protestation, by the porter. He was a young

man with a very brown face, and he carried

no sword, only the hanger of a sailor; his

dress was of the plainest—neither silk nor

lace entered into its manufacture.

Before Sir Charles had time to turn to

NELL GWYN.

255

to a servant as he walked towards a door on

the left.

He paused for a space with his hand on

the handle of the door, for there came from

the room into which Nell Gwyn and Dick

Harraden had gone, a loud peal of laughter—

not a solo, but a duet.

He turned the handle.

So soon as he had disappeared there came

another ripple of laughter from the other

room, and the lacqueys lounging in

the hall laughed too. Within ths

room Nell was seated on the

settee and Dick Harraden by

her side. She had just re-

minded him of the gift of the

worsted stockings which he had

made to her when he was a

link boy and she an orange

girl in Drury-lane. They had

both laughed when she had

pushed out a little dainty shoe

from beneath her gown, dis-

playing at the same time a

tolerably liberal amount of

silk stocking, as she

said :

" Ah, Dick, it's not in

worsted my toes are clad

now. I have outgrown

your stockings."

" Not you, Nell! " he

cried. " By the Lord

Harry! your feet have

got smaller instead of

larger during these years

—I swear to you that is

so."

" Ah, the chilblains do

make a difference, Dick,"

said she, " and you never

saw my feet unless they

were swollen with chil-

blains. Lord! how you

cried when you saw my feet well covered for

the first time."

" Not I—I didn't cry. What was there to

cry about, Nell ? " he said.

She felt very much inclined to ask him the

same question at that moment, for his face

was averted from her, and he had uttered his

words spasmodically.

" Poor Dick ! You wept because you had

eaten nothing for three days in order to save

enough to buy my stockings,'' she said.

" How know you that ? " he cried, turning

to her suddenly.

" I knew it not at the time," she replied,

" but I have thought it over since."

She led him past Sir Charles

Sedley without so much as

glancing at the courtier.

" Think no more of it, Nell. O

Lord, to think that I should live

to see Nell again ! No, no ; I'll not believe

it. That fine lady that I see in the big glass

yonder cannot be Nell Gwyn."

" Oh, Dick, would anyone but Nell Gwyn

PEARSON'S MA GA ZINE.

well that there was no one could match me

in swearing. Let me but begin."

" O, Lord ! not for the world. You always

knew when to begin, Nell, but you ne'er

knew when to stop. And how doth it come

that you haven't forgot the brimstone of the

Lane, Nelly, though you have become so

mighty fine a lady? "

" 'Snails, Dick, the best way to remember

a language is to keep constantly talking it! "

" But in silks and satins ? "

" Oh, I soon found that I only needed to

double the in-

tensity of my

l.mguage in the

J .ane in order to

talk the mother

tongue of

fashion."

" If swearing

make the fine

lady you'll be

the leader of the

town, Nell, I'll

warrant. But

don't say that

you doubled

your language—

that would be

impossible."

" Oh, would it

indeed ! "

" Not so ?

Then for God's

sake don't give

me a sample of

what you reached

in that way, for

I've only lived among the pirates and buc-

caneers of the Indies since."

" Then I'll e'en spare thee, Dick. But

take warning; don't provoke me. You

wouldn't provoke a pirate whose guns you

knew to be double-shotted. Don't say that

I'm not Nell Gwyn for all my silks and lace.

Why, man, doth oatmeal porridge cease to

be porridge because it's served in a silver

platter ? Did your salt pork turn to venison

when you ate it off the gold plate that you

stole from the chapels ?"

" Lord, Nell, I wasn't a pirate."

" What! Didn't you say just now that you

" Ah, Dick, it's not in worsted

my toes are clad novc."

had been among pirates and buccaneers in

the Indies ? "

" I was among them, but not of them."

" You mean to say that you were neither a

pirate nor a buccaneer ? "

" Neither! "

" Then all I can say is that I'm mightily

ashamed of you, Dick. I counted on you

being at least a pirate. Don't say that you

became a merchant; I never could abide

dishonesty, Dick."

" Well, no; I never became just a mer-

chant, Nell—at

least not the sort

of merchant that
NELL GWYN.

257

what gave me the strength of ten men—

working for those shoes, Nell."

" Poor Dick! and now when you come

home you find that I am already provided

for."

Again she showed him the dainty tips of

her shoes.

" Those are fair weather shoes, Nell," he

cried.

"Ay, that they are, Dick," she assented

with a note of sadness in her voice.

" But what I would offer you would stand

the stress of all weather—fair or foul, Nell."

" I believe you, Dick, with all my heart.

I know what you had to offer me; but 'tis

too late now ; too late, Dick."

" Too late ? What do you mean, girl ? "

The look that came into his face frightened

her. She threw herself back on the settee

and laughed loudly for a minute or two.

" That's what I mean," she cried, tilting up

her toes until they were on a level with his

knees. " What else could I mean than that

I'm already sufficiently shod ? Even Nell

Gwyn can't wear more than one pair of shoes

at a time, Dick. It's rather a pity, but 'tis an

ill that must be borne. Now tell us all about

yourself, Dick. Tell us how you fought with

pirates and buccaneers—never mind telling

how you made a fortune in pieces of eight.

There's no romance about making a fortune

—tell us about the pirates, and above all, tell

us what the Spanish Main is."

" The Spanish Main—why it's the Spanish

Main to be sure—south of the Indies—a good

place for trade, and a good place for pirates.

But you, Nell; I wonder if you meant any-

thing by saying that I had come back too

late ? I thought, you know, when I met your

mother "

" Oh, I want to hear about the fighting—

the buccaneers! I don't want to hear about

my mother ; I hear enough about her. You

fought the pirates? Well, next to being a

pirate yourself, that's the best thing."

" Well, if you must know, I got about me

a few score of lads—most of them were stout

Irish lads, who were sold to the plantations

by Cromwell."

" The monster ! "

" Ay, we made up a brave crew, I can tell

you. Our plan was to do no pirating on our

own behalf, but only to attack the pirates

when they had a deck-load of spoil. Taking

from thieves isn't stealing is it, Nell ? "

" No ; that's business."

" A bit irregular it may be, as I said just

now; but bless you, Nelly, it was like sermon-

preaching compared to some sorts of business

that thrive mightily at the Indies. Anyhow,

here I am to-day, sound and hearty, Nell,

with a pretty nice fortune made already, and

more to come—here I am, ready and willing

to buy you the best pair of shoes in London

town, and every other article of attire you

may need for the next dozen—ay, the next

fifty—years."

" Dick—Dick ! "

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" No, no. Oh, go away—go away, and

never return to make me feel how miserable

I am! "

" I'll not go away. There's some mystery

about you and this house, and I'll not go

before I fathom it.''

She looked up and saw him standing there

with his arms folded.

She leapt up so quickly that she almost

seemed to spring into his arms. He thought

so at any rate, and was about to clasp her

when she caught both of his hands in her

own, gazing tearfully, eagerly, wistfully into

his face.

" Dick—dear Dick," she said, " if you

love me still—and I know you do—you will

leave me now. Oh, you should never have

come here—I did not mean you to come;

but if you love me, Dick, you will leave me

now—leave me and go into the nearest coffee

house, and ask of the first man you see there

who is Nell Gwyn ? What is Nell Gwyn ?

If you return to me after that, then—then,

Dick, I swear to you that I'll marry you;

there will be none to stay us then, none to

come between—the king himself shall not

come between us."

He gripped her hands fiercely with his face

close down to hers.

"By God, I'll do it! " he said through his

set teeth. " I'll do it. You have put it upon

me. I know that I shall hear nothing but

what is good of you, and I'll return to claim

you as sure as there's a sun in heaven."

He dropped her hands, snatched up his

hat, and walked firmly to the door. When

there, he turned slowly and looked back at

her. She was standing pale and lovely where

he had left her. Her eyes were upon his

face'.

He flung himself through the door, and

she fell on her knees beside the settee, bury-

ing her face in one of its cushions.

For some minutes nothing was heard in

the room but the sound of her sobs; but

then the silence was broken by a shout out-

side—a shout and the noise of a scuffle.

Cries of " Hold him back ! Hold him back! "

came from the servants, and mixed with some

full-bodied imprecations in other voices.

Nell started to her feet as the door of the

room was all but crashed in, and she was

standing with a startled look on her face as

the door was flung wide open, and Dick

Harraden hurled a limp antagonist into the

room.

" He shall eat his words—every foul word

he uttered he shall swallow in the presence

of Nell herself," cried Dick, and then Nell

recognised Sir Charles Sedley as the man

who was standing panting, with a broken

sword in hii, hand, by her side, facing Dick.

" For God's sake, Dick!—Sir Charles—

what has happened ? "

The courtier was too breathless to speak—

he signified so much very pleasingly to Nell.

"The cowardly knave!" panted Dick.

" But I swore that I'd make him eat his words,

and by the Lord Harry I'll keep my oath."

NELL GWYN.

259

"I see it all. This house—the lacqueys in

scarlet—the king's servants—they are the

king's servants, and you—you, Nell, are the

king's Oh, God, let me die—let me

die ! This is what I came home for! You

told me to go to the first coffee house ; I

didn't need to go so far. Oh, Nelly, if I

ppen just now to

be the king."

had come home to stand beside the green

hillock of your grave I could have borne it,

but this—this ! "

He dropped into a chair and covered his

face with his hands. His sobbing was the

only sound in the room.

After a long pause he got slowly upon

his feet.

" I'm going away," he said. " My heart

is broken, Nell—my heart is broken. Good-

bye, Nell."

" Good-bye, Dick."

She had not moved from the middle of

the room. She did not hold out a hand to

him. He walked slowly to the door. Then

he turned round.

" I humbly ask your

pardon, sir," he said

to Sir Charles.

" Sir," said the cour-

tier, " I honour you

more than any living

man."

" Nell, Nell, come

to me; come away

with me, come to my

arms, Nell," cried the

man, holding out his

hands to her from

where she stood.

Sir Charles watched

her face. He saw it

light up for a moment.

Her hands moved;

she was. going to him.

No, she only looked

at the man who loved

her and was ready to

offer her everything,

and said :

" Dick, I have a boy

in a cradle upstairs."

There was another

long pause before

Dick whispered the

words, " God bless

thee, Nell."

Then the door was" flung

wide in his face by a lacquey, who bowed

to the ground as he ushered in a rather

plain-faced man wearing a diamond star and

a broad blue sash, as well as a diamond

garter.

Nell sank in a courtesy, and Sir Charles

Sedley made an obeisance ; Dick remained

unmoved.

" Ha ! what have we here ? " said the

stranger. " 'Odsfish! a pretty family picture.

Who may you be, good sir?" he asked of

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" Who may you be ? " asked Dick.

" Well, who I may be in a year or two the

Lord and Nelly only knows—she says, a merry

pauper. But who I am is easier said; I

happen just now to be the king.''

Dick stood unmoved.

" Then I could tell you what you are, sir,"

said Dick.

" Not half as well as I

could tell you, my friend,"

said the king.

" I wonder if your Majesty

ever hears the truth," said

Dick.

" Seldom; any time I do,

it comes from the lips of

Nelly yonder," replied the

king. " And by my soul,

sir, I would rather hear the

truth from Nelly than a lie

from the most honourable of

my subjects."

" Profligate! " cried Dick.

" I answer to that name,

sir; what then ? " said the

king.

" What then ? God only

can reply to your ' what

then ?' The answer rests

with Him. He will not for-

get to answer you when His

time comes."

" Even so," said the king,

in a low tone, bending his head.

Sir Charles had moved round the settee

and had opened the door. He touched Dick

on the elbow. Dick started for a moment,

and then stalked through the door. Sir

Charles went out with his face turned towards

the king.

"A straightforward fellow, but as conceited

His Majesty.

as a Puritan, Nell," cried the king, with a

laugh. " What brought him here ? "

But Nell had sunk once more on her

knees beside the settee, and her face was, as

before, buried in the cushion.

" Ha, what's this, Nelly ? What's amiss ? "

said the king, bending over her.

" Oh, go away, go away ; I

never want to see you again.

You heard the word, profli-

gate ! profligate! "

" I'll go away, Nell, so

soon as I pass to you the

two papers which I hold in

my hand."

" I want no papers. I want

to be alone."

" Come, dear child ; see

if you will like your new

plaything."

He pushed before her one

of the two papers which he

held.

She glanced at it without

rising, and without taking it

from him. Suddenly she put

out a hand to it.

DE LESSEPS: Hot'SE.AT SAN CRISTOBAL.

THE GRAVE OF A NATION'S HONOUR.

Bv GEORGE GRIFFITH.

HERE is perhaps

no other word in

any language which

calls up such bitter

memories of high

hopes blasted and of

ruin ruthlessly inflicted as does the word

" Panama." On that little strip of verdure-

covered swamp, rolling hills, and lovely

wooded uplands which divides the Atlantic

from the Pacific, lies buried, with the hard-

won hoardings of thousands of thrifty folk,

the commercial honour of a great and noble

people, for as long as France endures this

ill-omened name will stand, stamped in

letters black and indelible, as a bar-sinister

of shame across her escutcheon.

And yet it is but just to say that this shame

might, and no doubt would, have been wiped

away, even as the stigma of the South Sea

Swindle was wiped off our own shield, had it

not been for the jealous trickery which the

politicians of the United States seek to cloak

under the specious sophisms of the Monroe

Doctrine.

There were times when nations, like men,

preferred the risk of destruction to dishonour,

and in such times France would have said'

to the half-bred Hibernian adventurers who.

"boss" American politics: "Gentlemen, the

honour of the French nation is pledged to

the completion of this enterprise. France

has said that she will wed the two oceans,

and, God helping her, she will do it. You

have taken more than two millions and a half

of your dollars in French gold as the price

of your favour and consent,* and now, with

the bribe in your pockets and your tongues

in your cheeks, you say that the French

Republic may not finish what the French

people has begun. Now stand aside, and

let us redeem our obligations to ourselves

and the world, for we will do it even if the

work has to be completed under cover of the

guns of our war-ships and the rifles of our

troops.''

If France had said this, I, for one, believe

that every American who had not dipped

his personal honour into the cesspool of

* The actual amount of de Lesseps' " American

Corruption Fund," confessed to in the report of the

First Finance Committee of the Canal Company, was

.^480,000. The whole *' Preliminary Expenses " came

to ;£i,800,000 before a spade was bought.

262

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

American politics would have said to the

sister republic: " Go ahead ! We've been

good friends since Lafayette's time, and

we're not going to fight now about the

digging of a big ditch. You've paid these

people, and we'll see they keep their con-

tract. Tell us the canal shall be neutral, and

we'll take your word for it."

But nations don't talk like this to each

other nowadays, and so France backed down

to the threat of a mob of politicians only a

little more disreputable than the crowd to

which she intrusts the management of her

own destinies, with the result that the colossal

fraud of Panama has fastened itself like a

cancer on to the political organism of the

Third Republic, and has eaten, no one even

yet knows how far, into its vitals.

Upon the easterly extremity of the artificial

peninsula, which was constructed to guard

the entrance to the canal from the storms of

the Caribbean Sea, and to furnish the ephe-

meral aristocrats of the great enterprise with

a select and salubrious dwelling place, stands

on a high pedestal a splendid bronze statue

of Columbus. Under his right arm is the

half-crouching figure of an Indian girl, who

is supposed to be peering out of savagery

into civilisation, and looking over what

SEA FRONT AND PALM GROVES OF SAN CRISTOBAL.

was to have been the mouth of the Panama

Canal!

Behind the statue stands what was once the

great pleasure house which Ferdinand de

Lesseps built for himself, and behind it is

another, once of equal splendour, built by

his son, one palace not being deemed enough

for both while the golden stream was flowing

in all its fulness. They are built, of course,

of wood, and there they stand, rotting away in

the hot, damp climate, a quarter of a million's

worth of material, labour, and imported

ostentation — monuments to the folly, and

worse than folly, that began to build before it

had counted the cost.

Nearly the whole of this little peninsula,

which lies between the town of Aspinwall

(or Colon) and the canal, is covered by the

settlement of San Cristobal, which was once

like a strip of the Boulevards transported to

the tropics, with its streets of broad-roofed,

verandahed chalets shaded by double rows of

emerald-leaved, far-branching palms, glitter-

ing all night with hundreds of electric lamps,

and gay with the sounds of revelry which

were echoes of the far-away voices of the

Place de l'Opera, the Folies Bergeres, and

the Moulin Rouge, only a little more so.

Now it is a collection of mouldering wooden

houses, ghastly in their

sun-bleached and rain-

sodden shabbiness, with

cracked doors and

broken windows, for the

most part tenantless, or

housing only a few

negroes or Chinamen,

and the meanest of mean

THE GRAVE OF A NATION'S HONOUR.

263

imported equipages of contractors, financiers,

and "engineers," is faced with thousands of

blocks of concrete piled pell-mell together,

every one of which cost from a pound to

twenty-five shillings to throw into its place.

To walk through the streets of San

Cristobal to-day ought to be enough to

bring a blush to the face of any Frenchman

who is not either a journalist or a politician,

and yet San Cristobal is but a very small part

of the wilderness of waste and ruin which

stretches for forty-six miles across the Isthmus

from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

The train starts from the docks at Colon,

and runs with great deliberation and ringing

of bells up the main street, which looks, as it

If you haven't a through ticket, the fare seems

to be just anything that the officials like to

charge you.

At any rate, a fellow traveller of mine, who

was only booked to Colon, had to pay

twenty-five shillings for himself and a

sovereign for a small portmanteau, and then

had to ride, like the rest of us who had paid

first-class fare, in a second-class carriage well

filled with negroes, Chinamen, and, still more

objectionable Colombians, at the rear end of

a baggage train, which took nearly five hours

to crawl over the forty-six miles of level

track.

Of course we might have stood on our

rights and travelled first class if we had

A PIECE OF THE AMERICAN CUTTING.

is, the product of the most bizarre taste and the

flimsiest construction. The shops are nearly

all liquor shops, in whole or in part, and are

filled with perhaps the very worst wet and dry

goods that are sold on the face of the earth.

In the wild and golden days of the Canal

Colon might have been likened to a Western

city that had strayed into the tropics and gone

on a perpetual spree; but it has had a

revolution and a fire since then, and now it

looks as though the spree were over, as it

assuredly is, and it were suffering from the

inevitable and legitimate results of a prolonged

and persistent debauch.

The railway, being an absolute and im-

pregnable monopoly, may perhaps be excused

for being the very worst on earth. The

distance is forty-six miles, and the "reduced"

fare for first - class passengers holding

through tickets to the Pacific ports is £2.

chosen to sleep the night in Colon and go

on by the real passenger train the next day,

but someone had told us that the Colon

mosquitoes were so strong that five of them

could lift a full-grown man out of his bath,

so we went on in spite of the train, only to

find that the Panama mosquitoes didn't

trouble to lift you out of the bath. As they

didn't like the water they just bit you through

the bottom of it.

Despite its inconveniences, however, the

run from Colon to Panama is one of the

most interesting railway journeys in the

world, albeit its interest is of a kind that

both saddens and exasperates, for from ocean

PE'ARSON'S MAGAZINE.

For the first few miles after leaving Colon,

the line lies on an artificially made bed,

through a jungle-sivamp of such

impenetrable thickness that a strong

man would be unable to push his

way through it, even if there were

firm ground for him to stand upon.

Here is the only piece of the

Canal that was actually made, and

it is the work, not of French.

but of American ingenuity.

Naturally it is the easiest piece, for

it is very little above sea-level,

and there is no rock to contend

with. The strip is about eight miles

long, and the contract for exca-

vating it was given by the Canal

Company to a corporation known

as the American Dredging Syndi-

cate.

While the Frenchmen were

amusing themselves in laying out their

towns, and building their villas on all the

prettiest and healthiest situations they

could find on the hills across the

Isthmus, the Americans got to work.

Allowing only sufficient time for oiling and

the necessary inspection of the machinery,

they kept their excavators and dredgers going

night and day—trusting nothing to the climate

million sterling, and leaving the strip of canal

they had excavated to the incapacity of the

THE GREAT CULEBRA CUTTING.

or French finance—until they had completed

their contract. Then they retired, taking

with them a profit of nearly a quarter of a

EMPERADOR CUTTING WITH TIP-WAGGONS AND EXCAVATORS.

French engineers and the tender mercies of

the Chagres river in flood time.

To-day this piece of canal is a mere stag-

nant ditch, with banks overgrown and utterly

hidden by a weed-growth, of whose rank

luxuriance no dweller in temperate zones

can form the remotest idea, and, lying in

the stagnant water, or grounded on

the ever-growing silt which is fast

filling the ditch up again, are

dredgers and caissons and exca-

vators brought out from far-distant

France at a cost of hundreds of

thousands of pounds to rot and rust

away until they crumble to pieces,

and sink into the all-devouring mud

to make puzzles for the geologists

of a future epoch.

In consequence of the incon-

ceivably rapid growth of the vegeta-

tion, it is difficult, and to some

extent impossible, for the uninitiated

eye to make more than a rough

guess at the locality or extent of the

work done on the more low-lying

portions of the Isthmus. Here you

may see a bit of hill-side chopped

away, and there above it a cluster of

miserably dilapidated wooden structures which

were once engineers' quarters, store-houses,

and workmen's barracks; and in other places

THE GRAVE OF A NATION'S HONOUR.

265

are shallow excavations, too straight to be

natural valleys, with iron smoke-stacks rising

gaunt and forlorn out of tangled masses of

vegetation.

At some ot the stations the train pulls up

in the midst of a wilderness of mechanical

ruin, silent, desolate, and decaying, which

looks as though it had once been a settlement

of a people who had done everything by

machinery, and had suddenly vanished, to be

succeeded by another race, who never knew

the uses of the strange relics which they had

found in the land.

Later on the train will run past miles of

double and treble rows of black tip-waggons,

rusting into immobility on other miles of

railway track, so rotten that the metals and

sleepers would probably fall to pieces if they

were taken up, and beside them you may see

huge stacks of new metals and sleepers that

have never been laid down. Then again

you will pass vast sheds packed with long

rows of locomotives that have never run a

mile since they were landed, and other store-

houses full of costly machinery that never

has done, and never will do, an hour's work;

and iron bridges thrown across waterways at

vast expense of money and labour, which have

never served any purpose save that of putting

profit into the pockets of contractors and

dishonest commission agents. Thus, for

instance, the one in the illustration below is

a bridge over the Chagres river, which cost

over eighty thousand pounds to construct,

export, and set up, and it has never yet been

crossed by a waggon or a locomotive.

There are dredgers and excavators which

were brought out from France in sections,

and put together in pools and backwaters of

the Chagres, and left there to rot and rust

without ever excavating a cubic yard of earth.

Sometimes the machinery ordered from one

firm would not go into the hull supplied by

another, and sometimes the hull would be

some sizes too large for the machinery, and

there they lie to this day, having fulfilled the

only purpose they were ever intended to

serve—that of swelling the bank accounts of

insatiable swindlers who, like flies on decaying

carrion, fattened on their country's shame.

In proof of this, a story that I heard at first

hand may not come amiss. A British

steamer was chartered to bring a cargo of

railway iron and machinery out to Colon.

She got there just as the mighty bubble was

on the point of bursting. The cargo and

freight were paid for, and the captain natu-

rally wanted to clear his ship. He could find

no one to act as consignee for the Canal

Company, and so, after waiting two days, he

gave notice to the engineer in charge at Colon

that if the cargo was not taken out the next

day he would heave the whole lot overboard.

The reply was: "Do so, and get rid of it."

What is left of that cargo is now lying at the

bottom of Colon Bay.

But this is only an incident. From ocean

to ocean the story of fraud, incapacity, and

From a Photograph by F. Frith Sf Co.

BY MRS. F. H. WILLIAMSON.

THE term " leader of society" has lost its

literal meaning under new conditions. Society

is now a huge Republic, and the Republican

motto, " Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," has

levelled if not altogether destroyed the old

distinctions. In the old days when the

" salon " was still in existence, the great ladies

who led society were really powerful for good

or evil; but it is many years now since Lady

Palmerston, as patroness of Almack's. held so

high and responsible a position, that merely

to be seen at one of her gatherings was a

hall-mark which made the least important

of her guests the fashion. When Lord

Palmerston became Premier of England,

his wife voluntarily relinquished the exclusive

attitude she had adopted, and from that time

forth her parties became merely political

machines.

Then the stars of Frances Lady Waldegrave

and Lady Molesworth arose on the social

horizon. Neither of these ladies were "to

the manner born," but both had the true

social instincts, and the knack of most

successful entertaining. Lady Molesworth

had a special talent for hospitality, and had

so high an opinion of her own importance,

that she soon won others to believe in it too;

while the parties at Eaton Place were second

to none in their grandeur. She and Maria

Lady Ailesbury vied with each other in the

matter of magnificent footmen, and to the

very last " Lady A." (although anything but

rich, and living very frugally while alone),

always did her entertaining in great state.

It was Frances Lady Waldegrave and Lady

Holland who first took the bold departure of

patronising not only literature and art, but the

stage. Since their day, others following in

their footsteps, but going far beyond them in

enterprise (perhaps good taste), have so

revolutionised the order of things that those

who are merely notorious, not famous, have

invaded circles which have ceased to be

select; and, since there are limits to the

elasticity of even modern society, the

millionaires of trade and finance, American

nobodies, and the very outsiders of literature

and dramatic art, have managed to elbow out

the lesser nobility and some of the county

families of England.

Yet if society has never been so mixed

before, it has never been so amusing. Dull-

ness is the only unpardonable sin, and the

fact that even on Sunday nights the highest in

the land may be seen dining in public

LEADERS OF LONDON SOCIETY.

267

restaurants in the same room -with undistin-

guished foreigners, unknown Jews, and

pretty, much-bejewelled women—recruited

from all the ballets and

choruses in London, but

coming under the generic title

of " Gaiety girls " — speaks

eloquently of the changes time

has brought.

Great ladies there are still

in London, and some who still

are exclusive in spite of the

general tendency towards

merely vulgar smartness ; but

very noticeable is the fact that,

while so few are fitted to lead,

fewer still seem desirous to do

so. By general consent they

move always in the same

direction — and abreast. So

conventional is Society to-day that those who

are in it will, rather than be singular, do the

most unconventional things ; and, while all are

so bent on following each other, it is impos-

sible to discover if anyone in particular is

leading.

If the term Leaders of Society has any

meaning left, it can only refer to those who

entertain most frequently and with most

brilliance. Of these, Lady Londonderry arid

Lady Cadogan have for some time headed

the list. For many

years their purely

private parties

have been met

with keen appre-

ciation ; while

their political

receptions have

also had some

influence on

political opinions.

Lady London-

derry might easily

have taken a more

prominent place

in contemporary

history, as she

possesses very remarkable qualities and

talents, and has all the pride, all the energy,

and -all the initiative, which is needed

to make a great leader. It is only of

LADY CADOGAN.

From a Photograph by Elliott and Fry.

THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.

from a Photograph by Van der Veyde.

late years that she has taken any decided

interest in politics, but her memorable drive

to Westminster, with the appeal of the women

of Ireland against Home Rule,

will be remembered in all

records of our times.

No one can surpass her in

hospitable charm ; and she

knows as much about the

management of an estate and

about farm-produce as most

men. She is well-read, accom-

268

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

'Devonshire House, dressed in black satin,

with an all-round crown of brilliants on her

head, and with ropes of pearls and diamonds

around her neck, she was

from the first a very notice-

able figure, and, moreover,

she has the happy knack of

giving not only very mag-

nificent, but really pleasant

parties.

When Lady Ilchester first

came to Holland House, she

had a difficult part to play

as the successor of perhaps

the most popular hostess

that London society has ever

known. There was naturally

some chagrin when it was

found that she did not intend

to use Lady Holland's old

" list," but preferred to start

fresh by inviting all her own

friends. Whatever disappointment there was,

however, in the beginning has long been

forgotten in appreciative praises.

The garden parties at Holland House,

although purely smart, instead of representa-

tive, as they used to be, are still counted

among the events of the season, and the big

balls which annually take place are always

beautifully done, although

none perhaps have excited

so much comment as the

first festivity, which took the

form of a masked ball.

The very idea of the bal

masqul seemed to belong

so entirely to Paris that

people were half afraid it

might not succeed any

better than the one given

by Lady Marian Alford

years ago. But society

women in England are

marching with the times,

and becoming more con-

tinental in their notions

every year; so that, al-

though some mothers

refused to allow their daughters to be present,

the smart young married women entered into

the spirit of the thing with glee.

LADY 1LOHESTER.

From a Photograph by Alice Hughes

THE MARCHIONESS OF GRANBY.

From a Photograph by Bauano.

All sorts of devices were resorted to in the

cause of bewilderment and fun. A number

of young married women wore reversible

coats which they changed in

the course of the evening,

and even the unmarried

girls who were present

were sufficiently alive to the

circumstances of the enter-

tainment to sew different

materials to the front and

hem of their frocks, to be

LEADERS OF LONDON SOCIETY.

269

Princess Adolphus of Teck (once Lady

" Meg " Grosvenor) was a very bright feature

in all the Grosvenor House parties. Who

danced so untiringly as she ? who so lightly ?

and when the exigencies of the cotillon

required it, it was found that she could jump as

well. There was a memorable cotillon at a

Grosvenor House ball, which she helped

successfully to lead, when the " presents "

included silk stockings, parasols, and

umbrellas, and when

one of the figures

took the form of

Circus hoops, filled

in with tissue paper.

The Duchess of

St. Albans prefers a

very quiet and un-

public life, and those

who respect her

prejudices, further

her endeavours to

keep her movements

out of all the papers.

She is unambitious,

almost homely; she

has also the name

of being a very true

friend, and, although

she is losing her

pretty daughters one

after another by

marriage, it is

generally hoped that

there may be cheery

parties still in

Grosvenor Crescent.

The Duchess of

Portland cannot, by ' .

any stretch of imagination, be considered a

leader of Society, for she is very seldom in

London, and does very little entertaining; but,

although comparatively a new comer, she

stands firm by old traditions, and has the

courage of her opinions, which are some-

times conventional but never undignified in

their expressions.

Two or three years ago she gave a magnifi-

cent ball in Grosvenor Square, which, although

slightly formal, was brilliant, and the young

Duchess herself in white against a background

of white marble wall, was as delightful to

LADY NAYLOR LEYLAND.

look at as any guest she welcomed. But the

majority know the Duchess best as .-she

appears driving or walking out of doors,

generally in black, but always wearing her

favourite Malmaisons; and she is so tall and

also so picturesque in appearance, that the.

Medici collar which generally frames her

face in evening dress seems appropriate

wear.

The young Duchess of Sutherland, although

lacking the stronger

qualities which go to

make a leader of

fashion, is a pretty,

pleasant hostess,
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PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

vaguely known as artistic) Lady Granby is

the moving spirit. A charming artist herself,

she is a patroness of art, and wherever

honour is done to literature or to the

stage, her graceful figure is sure to be seen

among the throng. She is also very well

known as one of the mysterious Society of

Souls.

Lady Wimborne is one of the successful

hostesses, and Lady Sefton gave a ball some

two seasons ago, which

was not only very

beautifully done and

brilliant, but further

noticeable for the fact

that no Jews were pre-

sent, very few Americans,

and only one or two

people that had made

their money in trade.

At one time Americans

were under an out-of-

date taboo, but now they

hold a very strong posi-

tion. The new Duchess

of Maryborough, with

charming looks to help

her natural advantages

of rank and .wealth, will

take a very foremost

place. The-Duchess of

Manchester has a lovely

young daughter to bring

out; and Lady Essex is

amongst the smartest of young married women.

Then Lady Naylor Leyland is one of the

beauties, and has more than once had the

honour of entertaining the Prince of Wales at

Hyde Park House. This is one of the finest

mansions in London, indeed of almost

unmanageable dimensions, and the whole

extent of the first floor is given up to beauti-

ful reception rooms, each leading into

another, and all beautifully decorated in

white and gold, with different coloured silk

hangings. The latest portrait of Lady Naylor

MRS. RONALDS.

From a Photograph by P. O. Devereux, Brighton

Leyland is painted by Schmiechen, and a

reproduction appears in these pages.

Mrs. Arthur Paget, who has just inherited a

large fortune and some of the most beautiful

jewels in the world, is also a well-known

beauty, and, although she has not done much

entertaining, her informal parties (and she

keeps open house in Belgrave Square) are

always very gay.

If Mr. Alfred Rothschild is one of the most

prominent patrons of

music in London (and

his is one of only two

favoured private houses

where Patti ever sings),

Mrs. Adairhasgiven suc-

cessful musical parties as

well as some balls in her

Curzon Street house,

which is well-planned for

m

THE IVORY KING.

Some Observations on the Latent Possibilities of the Elephant,

and his Use as a Domestic Pet.

BY T. B. FIELDERS.

T is only owing to his size that

the elephant has not become,

long ere this, a domestic pet.

No four-legged animal has

more intelligence. Not in a

single one of the many ages

in which he has lived is there

an instance on record where

he has either bitten or

scratched a child.

Of how many dogs or cats can this be

said ? Yet these animals have always been

lauded for their intelligence, their attachment

to man or woman, and for numerous other

qualities which are supposed to make them

valuable household adjuncts. If the dwellings

of the present day were constructed of the

proper proportions and materials, no animal

would be handier about a house than an

elephant.

Supposing, for instance, that de Jones was

deposited by some friends in front of his own

door at an early hour in the morning, and that

de Jones was unable, on account of its erratic

movements, to find the keyhole. Under

ordinary circumstances he would alarm the

neighbourhood, as well as his own household,

before he obtained admittance, and on the

following day most of her visitors would make

Mrs. de Jones very angry by expressing the

hope that the accident to her husband had

not been very serious. The slightest effort

will enable you to picture the sufferings of

de Jones, not from " head," of course, but

from the attitude of his own family.

There would have been no such deplorable

results had de Jones possessed an elephant

instead of a dog or a cat. The lattei would

have been of no possible use had it been on

the spot and ready to render assistance, but it

would not have been upon the spot. It would

have been on some adjoining premises

indulging in a low flirtation.

A dog would have been anxious to do its

master a good turn, but if inside it could not

have got out of the house, and if outside it

could not have got in, as dogs seldom, if

ever, carry latch-keys. Besides, it would

probably have barked to show its pleasure,

and thereby attracted the attention of the

people across the way to de Jones's condition,

for a dog, being a teetotaller, seems unable

to grasp the difference between plain water

and water that is not plain.

Had there been an elephant upon the

premises, the intelligent animal, upon hearing

the riot, would have opened the front door,

picked de Jones up with his trunk, and,

without moving from the ground floor, and

carefully avoiding the balusters, have placed

him in front of his bedroom door on the

first storey. Of course, if de Jones was in

such a state of collapse as to be unable to

go to bed with his boots on, no blame could

be attached to the elephant.

272

PEAASON'S MAGAZINE.

cellar, would change its position and

perhaps its tone just as easily as he would

eat a ton of hay.

Where there was an elephant neither a

roller nor a sprinkler would be required for

the lawn. If the lawn needed rolling

quickly, a few rolls on the part of

the elephant would teach it a

salutary lesson. It is not neces- n

sary to more than allude to the

animal's fame as a sprinkler.

You have doubtless heard

the story of the tailor

who thought to

play a joke on

the animal by

jabbing a

needle into its

sprinkler. Every elephant is, without any

training whatever, a born sprinkler. Of

course if there is no water he cannot

sprinkle. To many of the luxuries of life

he has no objection, but among the

,-\

trunk, and how the elephant, on the following

day, to show his appreciation of the joke,

filled his trunk with muddy water and nearly

drowned the tailor. The story is perhaps

true; nevertheless it gives but a poor

idea of the elephant's capacity as a

The elephant is filled with emotion.

necessaries there is none that he is so fond

of as water.

In a state of captivity there is nothing ot

the alabaster-bust order about him, but, pro-

perly speaking, the elephant has no bust, and

if he looks as if a hot bath and a cold shower

THE IVORY KING.

273

would do him good it is not his fault. He

would bathe every day if he had the oppor-

tunity, and he would not be satisfied with five

or ten minutes' tubbing.

If the water were deep enough, he would

stand in it up to his neck and soak until

every living thing attached to him, except

himself, was drowned. Then, after walking

in his usual dignified way into shallow water,

he would squirt gallons over himself, and the

water would fly out of his trunk with a velocity

never attained by a two-inch nozzle. When

a family of elephants enter a lake to perform

their ablutions, or merely to gambol, the

inhabitants of the surrounding country fly to

the high ground, if there is any within reach,

or take to their boats if there is not.

Though not constructed upon what are

generally considered graceful lines, the

elephant is an expert long-distance swimmer.

While swimming he believes in presenting as

small a surface above water as he can

manage, and breasts the billows with nothing

in sight but the tip of his trunk. This pecu-

liarity may not be widely known, and is by

many supposed to account for the origin, if

not of the sea-serpent, of the stories relating

to that reptile.

It is said that elephants have been known

to swim for six hours without touching

bottom. There is really nothing strange

about this. That they did not touch bottom

is accounted for by the fact that it was not

within touching distance, and everybody

knows that an elephant cannot live under

water. That they are able to swim six hours

on end is easy enough of belief, otherwise

how could they have reached Ceylon ? That

island, though naturally of far less importance

than Great Britain, is, like it, surrounded by

water, and just as much water for that matter.

It is all very well to say that Ceylon was not

always surrounded by water, and that the

elephants found there may have been sur-

rounded at the same time as the island, but

where is the proof that will defy argument ?

It is just as easy to say that the elephant was

at one time the size of a pig, but there is

not a ten-year-old boy alive who will believe

it. And small blame to the boy!

It should be remembered that the elephant

was a first cousin of the mastodon and the

deinotherium.and through them was related to

the deinocerata and other distinguished mem-

bers of an ancient and defunct aristocracy.

Even to this day the elephant is filled with

emotion at the appearance of a skull or a leg

bone of one of the giants with which his

ancestors roved over mountains and through

valleys, swam rivers great as seas, crashed

through forests that had never had even a

cutting acquaintance with the axe, made love

to the whales that disported in the icy seas

that guard the poles, and that were the wonder

and the terror of all that beheld them.

In those days the elephant wore wool that

would throw a Hottentot into envious spasms.

Now he does not wear enough hair to make

274

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

dignity of his movements; the feeling with

which he impresses the beholder that his

strength is almost incalculable ; the calm,

methodical way in which he performs any

task thut is set him, be it great or small; the

air of unconscious grandeur with which he

submits to the will of pigmy man—all these

characteristics tend to belittle the rest of the

In the cartilaginous stage oi infancy, the elephant,

for weight, is yvithout a rival.

animal kingdom, and to place upon a pedestal

this marvellous product of the mysterious

land of the Pharaohs.

Much as man is to woman in size so is the

African to the Indian elephant. The ear of

a full-grown African elephant is large enough

to make an awning for a houseboat, if too

many people did not want to sit under it at

one time. If such an elephant could be

induced to promise that he would not flap his

ears, they would afford standing room for

four millions of flies. At first thought this

may seem like exaggeration, but it must be

understood that both sides of both ears and

their respective bevelled edges have been

considered in the calculation. Where millions

of flies are concerned, one does not always

arrive at the result of such a calculation

without having taken considerable trouble.

I mention this circumstance merely

|^ as a warning to such as have a

V passion for figures, because

there is nothing to be

f' " gained by starting an

argument upon

such a point in the

winter season. In

the first place, it is

impossible to get

four millions of

home-bred flies at

this time of year,

and my calcula-

tion was made

with natives; be-

sides, there is not

a full-grown Afri-

can elephant in

Great Britain at

the present

moment.

It might also be

as well to mention

that the flies used

were trained—that

is, trained to stand not

only in close order with-

out the aid of treacle, or

jam, or tar, or tacks — simply

by mere will power—but to stand in this

way upon an elephant's ear, and all this

requires an amount of training that only

those who really love flies can appreciate.

And if the elephant had not stood as

motionless as an iron dog during the opera-

tion the problem would be still unsolved.

In the cartilaginous stage of infancy, the

elephant, for weight, is without a rival. A

THE IVORY KING.

275

cumstances, is regarded with distrust by its

parents unless it weighs from seventeen to

eighteen stones. If the infant should tip the

beam at 275lb.,the mother sometimes observes

complacently to the father : " It does us both

credit." The father seldom does more than

grin or chuckle.

The mother

elephant is just

as good a mother

as she ever was,

but, like her lord,

she is more sus-

picious, and is"

more given to

standing at atten-

tion than in the

days when Sir

Thomas Browne

wrote that "the

elephant hath no

joynts, and being

unable to lye

downe it lieth against a tree, which the

hunters observing do saw almost asunder,

whereon the beast relying by the fall of the

tree falls also down itself, and is able to rise

no more."

The English employed by Sir Thomas is a

trifle involved, but it is perfection itself in

Which the hunters observing do saw almost asunder."

comparison with the statement which he

makes with it. At this late day, and in the

light of information which Sir Thomas does

not seem to have possessed, his assertion is

apt to give one the impression that he had

something to learn regarding the habits of

the elephant. It

requires a variety

of imagination

that is lamen-

tably scarce to-

day to picture an

elephant that has

never known cap-

tivity calmly lean-

ing against a tree,

oblivious to the

fact that the hun-

ters were sawing

it asunder in the

expectation that

when it fell he

would fall, too,

and, like the tree, never to rise again without

assistance. It is difficult to compete against

some of these old writers, and if the reader

thinks that the present article on " The Ivory

King" contains too many hard, dry facts, the

reader has only to say so, and my next

contribution shall be less weighty.

A MOMENT AFTER.

(Suggested by a picture in the Musfa Wierte, Brussels.)

FREED from the weary strife,

Dead to the earthly life,

Up through the ether-realm winging.

Mounting on pinions strong,

Swift through the starry throng,

SECRETS OF

THE

COURTS OF EUROPE

THE CONFIDENCES

ELICITED

" IT is a remarkable thing, this persistence

of some hereditary feature in the members of

a reigning House. The Hapsburg lip is by

no means the only instance, though it is, per-

haps, the best known."

We had been discussing the subject of

heredity, and I had alluded to the prominent

under-lip which characterises the members of

the Austrian Imperial family. The Ambas-

sador absently rolled up his table-napkin in

No. III.—THE SULTAN'S FOOT.

his hand, and laid it down on the table, as he

continued :

" The Bourbon chin is a trait with which

every one is familiar. But there is another

case of a transmitted peculiarity in a royal

race, which is even more remarkable, though

from its nature it has remained a profound

secret from the public."

" You arouse my curiosity," I observed.

" I feel certain that you will be indulgent

Copyright, 1806, in the United States of America by Allen Upward.

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

277

enough to explain what it.is that you refer

to."

The Ambassador frowned with seriousness

before replying :

" The matter is one of some delicacy, and

my knowledge on the point was acquired

under circumstances of a very distressing, and

even horrible nature. Still, if you really

wish to hear this story, I do not know that

there now exists any reason why I should

not confide it to your discretion."

" My dear Ambassador! Before I thought

you were going to be mer.ely interesting; now

you are becoming positively fascinating. Let

me intreat you to go on."

" But this place is too warm," he objected

—-we had been dining together in the Caf6

Bruhl. " I propose that we take our coffee

on the Boulevard. It amuses me to sit

among these Parisians, and to imagine that I

am a young man."

" In fact, your Excellency is one," I re-

plied, rising to accompany him—" a little

disguised, perhaps."

." I am very sure of that," retorted the

Ambassador, who, however, did not appear

to be displeased.

We came out into the open air and seated

ourselves in front of a small table with a

marble surface, which a waiter diligently

wiped with his napkin, before proceeding to

bring us our refreshments. The night was

mild, and the numerous lights of the boulevard

were muffled by a faint mist, which softened

the voices of the passers-by. The Ambassador

leant forward with one arm resting on the

table, and his hat set back from his forehead.

"It was on a night like this," he began,

" only more close and sultry, that I had what is

perhaps the most bizarre experience of my life.

It was when I was attached, in the capacity of

secretary, to our embassy in Constantinople."

" In Constantinople ! " I exclaimed. "But

that must have been many years ago ? "

" In fact, it was twenty years ago. Abdul

Aziz was still on the throne. But permit me

to remark that these details will admit of

discussion when I have finished."

I acknowledged the justice of his Excel-

lency's rebuke with a bend of my head.

" It was at a time when the affairs of

Turkey were about to attract the attention of

the civilised world. Russia was already pre-

paring to draw the sword, and it was believed

in some quarters that England would not

consent to remain a passive spectator of the

struggle. The entire weight of France was

being thrown into the scale i0 avert this con-

tingency, and I have reason to believe that it

was the services which I was able to render

to the Republic during this crisis, which led

to my being intrusted with my first embassy.

"Our desire, of course, was to keep Russia

strong, to act as a restraint on Prussia; and in

this task I found myself pitted against your

celebrated Minister, Lord Beaconsfield. He

was a great man, let mevtell you, who succeeded

in obtaining for himself a European vogue

278

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

belief that it was not merely to indulge in

poetical meditations that I made these excur-

sions. Ah, well.! You will permit me to say

that some of those Circassians are charming

women, and less cruelly disposed towards

the Feringhee than their brutal and suspicious

husbands.

" The fact is that the scenes which I am

about to describe present a contrast so com-

plete to this in which we find ourselves, that

I begin to fear that my story will have an

improbable air."

"Not in the least," I answered reassuringly.

" I am myself a man of strong imagination.

Besides, your Excellency's reputation for

exactness is so well known."

The Ambassador bowed with complacence.

" You wish me to proceed ? It is well.

" I made my way, as I have told you, into

the Turkish quarter. Avoiding the region of

the bazaars, which at this hour were closed,

I turned my steps into that in which the

Pashas have their superb residences, a region

intersected at long intervals by narrow and

solitary lanes, running between blank walls,

with here and there a little postern gate

artfully introduced beneath the ivy. I was

sauntering slowly down one of these lanes

when I perceived in front of me, at a point

where the shadow of a tall ilex fell across

the white surface of the road, a group of

those dogs which infest Constantinople. They

were quarrelling over some object which lay

on the roadway in the centre of the black

patch of shadow. Save for the presence of

the dogs, the whole neighbourhood appeared

to be absolutely deserted.

" I advanced towards the spot, endeavour-

ing to make out the nature of the object

which had attracted these carnivorous brutes.

As I got nearer, I made it out to be a slipper

of the pattern usually worn in Turkey. My

curiosity was now strongly roused. I stepped

into the midst of the growling curs, and

drove them off with a few blows of a stick

which I carried. Then I stooped down to

pick up this mysterious object.

" No sooner had my hand touched it than

I started back with a veritable thrill of horror.

The slipper contained a human foot!

" My first impulse on making this terrible

•discovery was to turn and fly from the place.

But a dreadful fascination, which I could not

overcome, rooted me to the spot, and even

compelled me to make a closer examination.

I stooped down, peering in the dim light,

and asking myself with a beating heart how

this severed foot had come to be exposed

there on that lonely path, as if it were the

damning evidence of some strange crime.

"As I gazed at it thus, I became aware

that the foot had for some time ceased to

bleed. It had been cut off at the ankle, and

the dry blood was beginning to congeal over

the severed veins and arteries. I looked on

the ground beside it for stains of blood, but

not one was visible. I extended my circle,

and scrutinised all round it wjth care, but the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE..

279

beneath the surface, of men, some of them upon it with hideous sounds. I averted my

foreigners of high rank, who had ventured eyes, and fled from the accursed place."

into forbidden precincts, and suffered the At this point the Ambassador interrupted

most horrible retaliation at the hands of himself to order the waiter, who had already

eunuchs in the service of a revengeful Moslem. served our coffee, to bring cognac as well.

" But it seemed to me that there

was something more in this affair,

on the traces of which I had fallen,

something peculiar, around which I

was, as it were, groping without a

clue. Why, why had the author

of this vengeance hastened to bear

his horrid trophy to this lonely spot ?

What was the something about this

foot, the something which distin-

guished it in an unusual manner

from any other foot, which had

made those who found it in their

hands anxious, with no common

anxiety, to rid themselves of it in

such guilty haste ?

" I could picture the avenger—

perhaps some highly-placed Pasha

—who had found a masked intruder

in his harem at midnight, and had

left this terrible mark upon him,

stricken with dismay by the dis-

covery that his victim had been

no ordinary being, and bidding his

slaves hurry forth with the thing

whose presence had all at once

become a mortal peril, and cast it

away in some lonely spot to be

devoured by dogs.

" Strangely agitated, almost before

I realised what I was doing, I bent

down, and picking up the slipper,

carried it out of the shadow of the

ilex tree, into the full moonlight, and

drew forth the piece of human car-

rion it contained.

" Do not ask me to describe

the sight which met my eyes, and

u-hich completed the horror of the

entire incident. The foot which I

held in my hand was unlike any

other foot which I had ever seen—unlike

any human foot. One glance at it was

Then I stooped down to pick up this mysterious object."

sufficient to overcome me with a feeling of

the most deadly nausea. I dropped the

frightful thing on to the ground, and the

brutes I had driven away flung themselves

" I had retraced my steps almost as far as

the ' Golden Horn,' " he proceeded, " when

I discovered that I vyas still carrying the slipper

in my hand. Thinking that it might yet

prove to be of importance, I thrust it hastily

inside the folds of my Turkish robe before

z8o

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

proceeding. At the same time I began to

observe that there was a certain movement in

the streets, which was not common at that hour

of the night. I saw soldiers about, and, unless

my eyes deceived me, there were more

lights than usual on board the Turkish war-

'* The Prince was smuggled out

in safety."

ships anchored opposite the Dolmabacheh

Palace.

" I might have stopped to investigate these

symptoms of disturbance, but for a sudden

change which now took place in the at-

mosphere. The great black clouds which

had been gathering from one corner of the

sky. massed themselves over head, and then

suddenly split in a blinding fissure of forked

lightning, while a crash of thunder shook the

towers and roofs of Stamboul like an earth-

quake. Immediately the rain began to

descend with the weight of an avalanche, and

huge pools instantly formed themselves along

the roads. I rushed through the storm as best

I could, and reached the Embassy in safety.

"Even then, however, the alarms of that

fearful night were not at an end.

I had been lying in bed, unable

to sleep, for an hour or two,

when all at once I heard the

well - known boom of cannon

answering the thunder overhead.

I listened, and again and again

the sound was repeated, till a

hundred cannon had gone off in

the darkness; and, finally, the

storm passed away like a routed

army, and the grey dawn came

stealing over the Black Sea.

" That night has since become

historical. It was the night of

the 29th of May."

The Ambassador broke off,

and leant back in his chair, as if

he had explained evervthing. At

this moment the waiter returned

with the cognac.

" That is the worst of these

northern climates," remarked

his Excellency, as he lifted the

glass between his finger and

thumb, and scrutinised the

liqueur; " it is necessary to take

these things to keep up the tem-

perature of the blood. Nowinthe

south the sun does all that for one,

and consequently Mohammed was

quite right to forbid wine to his followers."

"Pardon me, my dear Ambassador," I

said," but my knowledge of the almanac is

less profound than you imagine. The only

event connected in my mind with the date

you have named is the concealment of King

Charles II. in an oak from the pursuit of

Cromwell's soldier}", an event which it was

my custom to commemorate as a boy by

wearing a sprig of oak leaves in my cap. Be

good enough to tell me more."

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

281

His Excellency regarded me with a look

of pity for my shortcomings, as he replied :

" The night I have described was that on

which Abdul Aziz Khan, the Refuge of the

World and the Shadow of God, was forcibly

deposed from the Sultanate, and made a

captive in his own palace.

" As soon as morning had come, the news

of what had taken place was all over

Constantinople. It did not take the diplo-

matists in Pera wholly by surprise. For

some time past Abdul Aziz had been

unpopular with his subjects. To him had

been attributed the misfortunes which were

gathering round Turkey, and which seemed

to threaten the dissolution of the Empire.

There had been more than one armed out-

break in the capital, Ministry after Ministry

had been set up only to be thrown down, and

a feeling of unrest was in all men's minds.

" It appeared that this state of things had

culminated in the meeting of a secret council

of the great Pashas at the Seraskierate, which is,

as you are aware, the headquarters of the army.

"The council had been called suddenly, in

the dead of night, by Mehemed Rushdi Pasha,

the Grand Vizier, but for whom, it was said,

the revolution would have taken place before.

" At this council the principal ulemas of

the Moslem faith attended, and the head of

their body, the Sheik-ul-Islam, officially pro-

nounced that a Commander of the Faithful

might be lawfully deposed. Thereupon, the

agents of the conspiracy received their

orders, the Palace was surrounded with

troops, and the men-of-war, which I had

seen illuminated, prepared to cut off all

egress on the water side.

" These arrangements completed, mes-

sengers were sent secretly into the quarter of

the Palace in which Mehemed Murad Effendi,

the Sultan's nephew, was kept a prisoner by

his suspicious uncle. The Prince was

smuggled out in safety, escorted to the

Seraskierate, and there proclaimed as Sultan

to the sound of a hundred guns.

" In this way was the monarch of a great

empire dethroned, and his crown given to

another, without the loss of a single life, and

with hardly a commotion in the street.

Believe me, my friend, we have yet much to

learn from these Oriental peoples.

Vol. 1—19.

" Constantinople was settling down again

after its excitement, and I was beginning to

believe that nothing more would happen,

when the news of the catastrophe arrived.

About midday a steam launch left the

Dolmabacheh Palace, and came down the

Bosphorus, stopping at the residences of the

ambassadors, and bearing Suleiman Bey, the

secretary of the Grand Vizier, who com-

municated to each of the foreign representa-

tives in turn the tragic tidings that Abdul

Aziz had refused to survive his deposition,

and had died by his own hand.

" I was with my chief when Suleiman Bey

reached the French Embassy, and as the

282

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Powers should satisfy themselves as to what

has taken place,' he replied. ' He has desired

me to invite you to send a representative at

once to the Palace, who will be admitted

to a sight of the dead body, and given every

facility for satisfying himself as to the

facts.'

" This sounded sufficiently correct. My

chief turned to me with a look of inquiry,

and I at once volunteered to accompany

Suleiman Bey to the Dolmabacheh Palace

and make the inquiries which the Grand

Vizier invited.

" Accordingly, after going to my own room

for a moment, with a purpose which you will

readily understand, I left with the Bey, and

quickly arrived at the scene of the Imperial

tragedy.

" The streets, it is needless to say, were

lined with people, all' of them wearing

exultant and fierce looks, which were not

rendered more amiable by the sight of a

Giaour being admitted through the Palace

gates. However, a very strong force of

troops had been brought together by the

Vizier with a promptness which in itself was

capable of an evil interpretation, and there

was no open disorder.

" In the Palace I found members of the

staff of all the principal foreign embassies,

prominent among them being, of course, the

representatives of Russia and England. As

soon as we were all gathered, we were taken

into the presence of Mehemed Rushdi, who

received us with a great display of sincerity,

and who appeared, moreover, to be really

affected by this sad event.

" After making a little statement to us,

which was practically a repetition of what he

had said already through his messenger, he

handed us over to Said Pasha, the Imperial

Chamberlain, who conducted us to the apart-

ment in which, so he assured us, the Sultan's

body had been discovered.

" It was a small and meanly furnished

chamber, immediately adjoining the women's

apartments, and looking out on a deserted

courtyard. On a divan against the wall lay

the body, covered as far up as the chest with

a cloth or pall of black silk embroidered

with gold. The left arm was bare, and hung

down by the side, showing a deep wound

above the elbow, evidently made by some

pointed instrument. The scissors with which,

according to Said Pasha, the unfortunate

monarch had taken his life lay, still caked

with blood, upon a small table by the head of

the corpse.

" 'His Majesty,' explained the Pasha,'sent

across to his mother early this morning—as

soon as he had risen, in fact—for these

scissors, on the pretext that he wished to

trim his beard. No sooner had he received

them than he appears to have retired into

this room, where he was not likely to be

disturbed by his attendants for some time.

It was two hours before his strange absence

excited attention. A- search was instituted,

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

283

"On a divan against the wall lay the body."

requested the favour of a few minutes' private

conversation with the Vizier.

" Mehemed readily yielded to my request,

thinking no doubt that I desired to urge upon

him some point in connection with the

interest of France, and little suspecting of

what secret knowledge I had become

possessed.

" As soon as we were alone, I fixed my

eyes upon his, and said:

"' Before I make my report to my am-

bassador, there is a question which I am

compelled to ask your Excellency to clear

up. Can you explain to me how, if Abdul

Aziz voluntarily took his own life, he came to

lose his left foot ?'

" Not all the skill which Orientals possess

in concealing their emotions enabled him to

disguise from me the terror with which I

inspired him by this question. He turned

pale, and his eyes literally protruded from

their sockets.

" Nevertheless he began by attempting to

deny everything.

" ' You have made an assertion which takes

me by surprise,' he said, speaking with an

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

effort. ' On what grounds do you state that

so horrible a thing has happened ?'

" ' Pasha,' I replied sternly, ' this is not

the tone to adopt towards one who approaches

you as a friend. Had I wished to do you

injury I should have blurted out my discovery

in the presence of the gentlemen who have

just left; they would have verified the fact for

themselves, and the scandal would have

looking at me all the while as if to ascertain

how much I really knew or suspected. When

I had finished he observed :

"' But suppose I tell you that I am in

reality as ignorant as yourself of the cause of

this strange mutilation?'

" I returned a sarcastic smile.

"' I should answer that I myself am

not altogether ignorant on the point, as

"Can you explain to me how he came to lose his left foot?"

become public property. As it is, provided

that you take me fully into your confidence,

I may be able to propose a bargain to you.

I will engage to keep the affair a secret

from every living soul, merely asking in

return that you will use your influence on

behalf of French interests in the questions

which are now under discussion between the

Powers.'

" He heard me out with great attention,

you will perhaps believe when I show to

you this object, which I discovered under

circumstances you will hardly ask me to

explain.'

" And I produced the slipper, which I had

brought with me from the Embassy.

"' When I found this slipper,' I added, ' it

contained a human foot.'

" ' A foot!' he ejaculated.

" 'And this foot,' I continued with a stern

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

285

glance,' was rendered remarkable by a certain

deformity '

"'Ah!'

" He sprang to his feet and clutched at

his beard, while he paced the room with

irregular strides. I watched him keenly.

Presently he turned to me with a searching

gaze.

"' Feringhee, can I trust you ?' he

demanded firmly. ' If I tell you everything,

what security do you offer me for my life?'

" ' The honour of a Frenchman!' I replied

with a superb gesture.

" ' It is enough !'

" And with those words he sank down

upon a couch, exhausted by his agitation.

Finally he recovered himself sufficiently to

relate the circumstances."

At this point the Ambassador drained the

remaining drops of his cognac, and

remarked :

" It is dull sitting here. What do you

say, my friend, shall we walk along the

Boulevard ?"

" Not at all," I answered with firmness.

" I do not find it in the least dull; on the

contrary. Do not let us speak about moving

until you have concluded your story."

His Excellency shrugged his shoulders

with well-acted regret at my decision.

" Very well. It is sufficient if I do not bore

you," he observed with resignation. " But

I am afraid that you find my reminiscences

more tedious than you are willing to confess."

I merely shook my head by way of answer,

and he presently resumed:

" Mehemed Rushdi gave me the story, as

nearly as I can recollect it, in these words:

" ' You cannot be ignorant of the intense

feeling which prevailed against Abdul Aziz in

this capital, a feeling which is sufficiently

shown in the demeanour of the mob since

his death has been announced. But like most

foreigners you have perhaps attributed this

feeling to political motives. The truth of

the matter is, however, different.

"' During the last year of his reign, the

Sultan was guilty of outraging his subjects

in the Mussulman's most sacred feelings. He

had acquired the custom of going out from

his palace at night, dressed in some mean

disguise, and wandering through the streets

in search of adventures. In so far he may

have proposed to himself the model of the

Caliph of Baghdad, but unlike Haroun the

Just, his adventures were all of a certain kind.

" ' Although this was known to me, and I

had frequently tendered to him my respectful

warnings on the subject, I had, neverthe-

less, done my best to repress the seditions

which his conduct continually provoked. My

colleagues in the Ministry will bear witness

that I have on all occasions stood between

Abdul Aziz and the consequences of his

folly. Had I listened to the solicitations

which were addressed to me, he would have

been long ago dethroned. But I was loyal

to my master, and up to last night I had

286

PEA RSOX' S MA GA ZINE.

those: cruel measures which are usual in such

crises, I resolved to employ strategy. I

affected to have become tired of the

Georgian's society, and even dropped a hint

that I thought of bestowing her on a friend.

At the same time I loaded the chief eunuch

with favours, and pretended to let him into '

my inmost thoughts.

"' Meanwhile, I was engaged in secretly

collecting through various sources a body of

fresh slaves, who could have had no com-

munication with the old ones, and on whom,

therefore, I felt I might rely. As soon as I

had obtained the number I thought sufficient,

I armed them, and introduced them secretly

into the garden at night. There I posted

them behind some shrubs, with instructions

to watch for the entrance of any stranger,

and if any such appeared, to instantly seize

him and detain him till I arrived.

" ' These arrangements completed, I gave

out to my regular household that I was going

to sup with a friend, and should not return

for some hours. I took my departure, spent

an hour away, and then returned by way of

the garden.

"'As I approached the postern I heard

loud cries, and a group of men came rushing

away down the road. I noticed that they were

supporting one in the centre, who was closely

wrapped up, and who appeared to be unable

to walk by himself. I also observed that

the gate from which they were hastening was

standing an inch or two ajar. The next

moment it was flung wide open, and my men

streamed out in pursuit of the fugitives.

" ' A secret intuition warned me to restrain

them, and to let that veiled figure go in safety.

Filled with vague forebodings, I led the way

inside, and as soon as the door was closed

and locked, I made them tell me what had

taken place.

" ' It appears that immediately after my own

departure the head eunuch, on whom I had

so blindly relied, had gone out by the postern

gate alone. At the end of an hour he

returned, letting himself in with the key

with which he was intrusted. Behind him

entered a muffled-up stranger, who paused

to give some directions to a body of men

outside.

" ' Hardly was he well within the door when

the slaves whom I had posted, carried away

by their zeal, rushed forward to take him.

He turned to flee, and would have escaped

entirely had not some one in the confusion

pushed the door to in time to catch him by

the left foot.

" ' His friends outside began frantically

attacking the door to release him, and then it

was that one of the slaves, fearing tha1 the

intruder would get clear away, gave a sudden

blow with his sword, and cut clean through

the ankle with one stroke. Thereupon the

wounded man had been dragged off in the

manner I had witnessed.

" ' In proof of their story the men held up

the still bleeding foot. Impelled by the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

287

we entered. I snatched it up,

and read. It was my death-

warrant.'

" The Vizier trembled as he

came to this point. It was an

experience to unnerve even a

brave man.

"' I then informed Abdul

Aziz that he had ceased to reign.

He received the news in perfect

stupor. I pointed to the sol-

diers and invited him to escape

the degradation of death at their

hands. He understood the

situation, and cowered down

on his couch, shrinking from

us in a peculiar and dreadful

way. Then the Sultana spoke

to him.

" ' She had long intrigued for

his downfall, and knew that

her son would not be safe while

Abdul Aziz lived. She urged

him to preserve his honour.

"'Still he hesitated, and

finally muttered something

about not having a weapon.

Instantly the Sultana snatched

a sharp pair of scissors from

her waist, and thrust them into

his unwilling hands. Still he

hung back. It was becoming

shocking.

" ' Finally I was compelled to

order one of the soldiers to

advance with his sword drawn.

Then at last, with a sob, the

Sultan thrust the steel points

into his arm at the place you

saw — and the soldier was

allowed to finish the work.'

"This was the Vizier's ac-

count. In a country like Turkey

such things are done every day.

Nevertheless the affair im-

pressed me unpleasantly. I

parted from Mehemed Rushdi

with perfect courtesy, but I did

not take his hand.

" However, as I have said,

I was able, in consequence of

the secret which I possessed, to

The Georgian.
288

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

exert a powerful influence over the course of

events, and on the occasion of my meeting Lord

Beaconsfield at the conclusion of the Berlin

Treaty, he even went so far as to say to me:

"' If it had not been for you, Baron, the

Russians would not have had Batoum.' "

I regarded the Ambassador in silence for

a few minutes. Then I observed :

" I suppose you yourself do not entertain

any doubt as to the truth of the Grand Vizier's

account ? "

His Excellency drew himself up, and

looked at me with a pained expression.

" But, what is this! Surely you do not

suppose that such a man would attempt to

impose on me at a time when his life was

in my hands ? Without doubt, the story told

to me by Mehemed Rushdi was true in every

particular."

And he rose from his seat with some

abruptness, and led the way out on to the

crowded Boulevard.

" Ah, my friend, it is this atmosphere of

Paris which is fatal to romance. By the

way, did I tell you that I afterwards paw that

admirable Georgian? She was, indeed, all

that the Vizier painted her."

had to order one of the soldiers to advance with his sword drawn.*"
Illustrated by CHAS. MAY.

THE QUEST OF THE KEYHOLE BEHIND THE SCENES—A CHRISTMAS CARD CLEARING

HOUSE IMPROVING GOLF—MAGAZINE MORALITY—INVOLUNTARY PLAGIARISM.

IVING in a flat has cer-

tain advantages. For

example, there are flats

in which the use of the

piano is strictly forbidden

by the terms of the lease.

But, on the other hand,

the flat has its peculiar

disadvantages. I lived for some years in a

Parisian flat. It was on the third floor, and

the concierge had a pleasing way of turning

off the gas in the halls and on the stairways

at precisely half-past eleven every night.

Now there were times when I was unable

to return home until after half-past eleven.

It was sufficiently easy to grope my way up

to my front door, but then I was confronted

with the task of finding the key-

hole. It was not a wandering

keyhole, such as a young man

occasionally meets after undue in-

dulgence in salad. It always

remained in the same locality, but

it was a small keyhole, and the

difficulty of finding it in the dark

was extremely exasperating.

You will ask why I did not strike

a match. So I did, when I happened

to have one, but it frequently

happened that my match-box was empty,

or was in some discarded coat pocket, just

when a match might have helped me in my

quest for the keyhole.

One day I mentioned the matter to a retired

sea captain, who happened to be in Paris,

and he at once showed me how it would be

possible for me to find my keyhole on the

darkest night.

Said he: " All you want

to do is to take an observa-

tion with your umbrella,

and fix the position of that

keyhole. After that you

can always find it, no mat-

ter where you have been

dining. Just you take

your umbrella while it is

daylight, and measure the height of the key-

hole from the floor. Say you make

it one umbrella length, and two finger

lengths in addition. Then measure

the distance of the keyhole from the

opposite door jamb, making it, say,

one umbrella length, lacking an inch.

This will give you the latitude and

longitude, so to speak, of that key-

hole, and with the help of the umbrella

you can always find it even if you are

stone blind, and the night is foggy as

well as regularly dark."

The captain assured me that he had tried

this system for years, and had never known it

290

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

to fail but once, and that was due to the fact

that he had accidentally returned home with

the wrong umbrella. I followed his advice,

and never afterwards had the slightest diffi-

culty in finding my keyhole. I mention the

matter, partly in the interests of such of my

fellow men as live in flats, and partly because

it shows that the usefulness of the science of

navigation is not limited to marine affairs.

* * * * »

LTHOUGH Switzerland closes

on the thirty-first of October, it

is not a very difficult matter to

obtain admission behind the

scenes at any time during

the winter, and the experience

is rather an interesting one.

The employes are busily

engaged in renovating the place with a view

to the Spring season. The glaciers are care-

fully sand-papered ; the snow mountains are

scraped, and fresh snow is strewn where it has

been worn away by summer patrons. In every

back garden edelweiss is growing under

glass, which uninteresting vegetable will be

sold next season with the legend that it grows

only above the snow line, and can be gathered

only with the greatest risk. In the chamois

nurseries the animals are being fattened and

trained to skip from rock to rock, and in the

villages the Protestant pastors are rehearsing

with their flocks the sermons that they will

preach next summer in picturesque places to

crowds of devoutly kneeling supernumeraries.

The lake steamers

are being strength-

ened with fresh

paint, and their

boilers are being

repaired with bits

of tin. In the public

schools children

are practising the

art of jodelling, and

the classes in hotel

keeping are learning how to draw up those

ingenious bills that are the wonder and the

despair of tourists.

There is no doubt that the management of

Switzerland is enterprising and liberal, but

there are one or two matters to which it does

not pa1 Mtention.

First, there is the great danger that the place

will be set on fire by the thunderstorms which

are so frequent a feature

of the summer perform-

ances. As everyone

knows, most of the Swiss

scenery, including every

hotel and chalet, is made

of wood which is exceed-

ingly dry, and is more-

over oiled and varnished.

These wooden erections

are frequently set on fire by the careless use

of lightning, and some day a more than

usually extensive fire will cause a panic, and

a serious loss of life. Either the Swiss

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

291

cards, and of the hundreds which we receive,

at least eighty per cent are defaced with

ink or pencil inscriptions, and are thus made

worthless so far as further circulation is

concerned.

Now the Christmas Card Clearing House

proposes to enable every man to pay, not for

every card that he sends out, but only for the

balance that may be found against him.

The proposed method of operation is this.

Instead of sending out

cards you send out

cheques, or orders, on

the clearing house, each

one of which is good for

a Christmas card of the

value of one shilling.

You send, say, a hun-

dred of these orders

to a hundred different

persons, ninety-five of

whom send you similar orders. Neither the

senders nor the receivers actually cash these

orders, for there probably does not exist a

man or woman who really hankers after a

Christmas card. Each person, after the

Christmas season is over, sends the orders

that he has on hand to the Clearing House,

where a balance is struck between the orders

which he has sent out and those which he

has received, and he is credited or charged

with the difference.

In the case supposed, you, having sent out

a hundred orders, and received ninety-five,

would be charged by the Clearing House with

five orders, the value of which you would pay

to the Clearing House in cash, and the net

result would be that your entire outlay in

Christmas cards would be only five shillings.

If, on the other hand, you had sent out

ninety-five orders and received a hundred,

the Clearing House would pay you five shil-

lings, and you would actually make a profit

out of the Christmas card business. I believe

that the Clearing House is to charge a small

commission for its trouble, but I do not know

precisely how much it will be.

Of course the same system will be appli-

cable to New Year's and Easter cards, and

there is little doubt that it will prove to be a

brilliant success, and an inestimable blessing

to us all.

CANNOT quite understand the popu-

larity of golf as it is now played,

for it is certainly a game which

greatly needs to be altered and

improved. When two persons play

golf under the existing rules, each

one has a ball, which he drives

with a club into the nearest clump

of bushes. He then, with the

help of a caddie, searches for it, and if he

cannot find it in five minutes he takes a

fresh ball, and his opponent scores one.

This is the whole of the game, and the

man who loses the fewest balls, is of course

the winner. I ought to say that I do not

play golf, for the reason that I am a little

292

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

the improved game would be much more

popular. After all there is a sameness in

perpetually knocking balls into bushes, and

losing them. I am confident that I should

never grow to like the present game, no matter

how often I might play it.

3 * » »

[HE Women's Christian Temper-

ance Union is not merely a

total abstinence society, but it is

an organisation for the reforma-

tion of everything. The American

branch of this well - meaning

society adopted a resolution at

its last convention, calling upon

the editors of all magazines to

refrain from publishing stories in

which men were depicted in the act of drink-

ing wine or smoking tobacco; or any pictures

of women clad in insufficient clothing.

As the W. C. T. U. numbers its members

by thousands, here is a manifest opening for

a new magazine to be conducted strictly upon

W.C.T.U. lines. All portraits of real or

imaginary women published in such a maga-

zine would be provided with long waterproof

cloaks, and with heavy veils, and in case the

editor should see fit to publish photographs

of celebrated statues, he would cover his

Venus or his Diana with drapery that would

conceal her from intemperate gaze, except

as to her face and hands.

There is room for doubt, however, in

regard to the wisdom ot avoiding all mention

of wine and cigars. Of course the hero and

the heroine of all stories appealing in the

reformed magazine would

have been pledged to total

abstinence from wine and

tobacco from their earliest

years: but would it not be

well to impress upon the

reader the fact that the

wickedness of the villain

was the inevitable result of

drinking wine and smoking

tobacco ?

Surely it would be judi-

cious, as well as realistic, to

show the villain nerving him-

self to the commission of murder by smoking

a cigarette, or preparing himself for burglary

by drinking a small glass of claret. The

awful example has always been one of the

most effective weapons of the total abstinence

crusader, and it is difficult to see why the

cause of temperance should be promoted by

the exhibition of a champion drunkard on

the platform if the same cause is injured by

the introduction of a drinking and smoking

villain in a magazine story.

However, I know that I have no right to

have an opinion on these questions, for my

judgment is clouded by the smoke of my

morning cigarette, and my knowledge of the

evils of tobacco and claret cannot for a

moment be compared with the knowledge

which comes to a reforming woman. who has

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

293

if I may be allowed to call my own verses a

poem—differed, but the idea, and the treat-

ment, were identical in both cases.

The explanation was simply this. I had

read Meredith's poem, and the subject had

struck me as being dramatic and interesting.

Long afterwards, when I had totally for-

gotten that I had ever read it, the poem

recurred dimly to my memory, and I thought

that the idea of it was my own. Never-

theless, my poem was a slavish plagiarism,

and had it been published, I should at once

have been called a plagiarist.

Once again I committed plagiarism.

While I was a leader writer on the New York

Hustler, some incident—I forget what it was—

occurred, and I wrote an article about it, to

which I gave what I thought was a happy,

though rather fantastic title. Afterwards, I

left the Hustler, and went on the staff of a

rival paper, the Daily Screecher.

In the course of time the same incident,

concerning which I had written while on the

Hustler, recurred, and again I wrote on it,

and gave to the article a title which I fancied

had never been used

before. I was at that

time in the habit of

preserving my news-

paper articles in scrap

books. It is a plan

which I can recom-

mend to any writer

who is addicted to fits

of depression. In

such states of mind

I had only to take

down a scrap book,

the contents of which I had written, say

four years previously, and to read one or

two articles, and my depression would

vanish, for I would say to myself: "It is

absolutely impossible for you to write worse

rubbish than you wrote four years ago, so

you see, that if your mmd is failing, your

work will not suffer."

I had taken up a scrap book for this

medicinal purpose, and had happened to find

the article written for the Hustler. To my

horror it resembled the article in the Screecher

so closely that the two were essentially the

same. The two titles, which on each

occasion I had imagined to be quaint and

original, were identical, and there were several

sentences in each article which were almost

word for word the same.

When I wrote the second of the two articles

I had absolutely forgotten that I had ever

written the first. The same incident had

occurred twice, and had twice started in my

brain the same train of thought, but the

average reader would not have credited such

an explanation for a moment, and would

have been sure that I was a plagiarist so

impudent that I had not even taken the

trouble to change ihe title of the article which

I had stolen from the Hustler.

These two experiences have made me very

294

Fads and Figures

regarding the

Gigantic Business

of the

P. and O. Company.

GREAT BRITAIN owns thirteen millions out

of the twenty-four and a half million tons

that the merchant vessels of the world

measure up to. Of the 30,000 ships afloat

she has 11,660, so that her ships are not

only far more numerous than those of any

other nation, but of larger average size.

There are only 138 of these 30,000 vessels

that can steam at 17 knots and more an

hour, and Great Britain owns ninety of them,

France having fifteen, Germany fourteen,

Holland and Belgium seven each, and the

United States five.

Forty-three of these ocean expresses do

their 19 knots, thirty-six do from 18 to 18J.

and twenty-eight do 17^, one of the few

companies represented in each group being

the Peninsular and Oriental.

The P. and O. is the oldest, largest, and

best known shipping company in the world.

It is to London wnat the Cunard Company

is to Liverpool, an institution of almost

national importance, old enough to have had

a jubilee; safe and sound, and with a grand

record for excellence and good management.

If the P. and O. ships were placed end to

end in single file along the Thames, they

would reach from London Bridge to Batter-

sea, ami among them would be many of the

best afloat.

The Company has a revenue of over two

and a third millions, and its fleet is worth

some two and three-quarter millions. It has

fifty-six large steamships and twenty-four

steam tugs and steam launches; its tqtal

register tonnage is 266,000, and its total

horse-power 255,000. It is as old as the

Queen's reign, and during its existence it has

owned nearly half-a-million tons of shipping,

representing close on seven millions of

money.

Its largest vessel is the Caledonia, of 7,558

tons and 11,000 horse-power; its smallest is

the little 8-ton launch at Aden, named the

William Fawcell after the ship with which

the company began business fifty-eight years

ago.

Through the long period of development

the ships have been so kept up to their work

that the line has been as noted for its

punctuality as now, when out of a series of

five hundred voyages it has only been seven

times late—a record all the more noteworthy

WHAT IT COSTS.

295

when it is remembered that the Company's

ships travel 2,600,000 miles a year.

To run these ships, the wages bill alone,

for all grades, amounts to .£332,000 a year.

The officers and crews number rather over

12,000, and the passengers average 5,000 a

month. For these 72,000 people afloat for

various periods of the year, the provision

.account amounts to .£261,000, and if we add

to it the wages of the catering staff, we can

put down the hotel department as costing

annually in round figures .£"300,000.

The victualling of a passenger ship is a

much easier affair now than it was before the

introduction of cold air machines. They, at

least, solved much of the meat difficulty, and

the increase of speed has also facilitated

matters by making the intervals shorter

between port and port, when the stoppages

are taken advantage of to replenish the

larders. But passengers on large ships

appear to have increasingly large appetites,

eating in comfort being by no means an

unpleasant pastime where there is so little

else to do.

The meat consumed on a P. and O. boat

during an average voyage amounts to

16 tons, the poultry and game

number 15,000 head, the fish

runs to half a ton, the

potatoes mount up

to 18 tons,, ^^^R. J^\

and the

vegetables and fruit to close on a thousand

pads and baskets.

The bread is made every morning, the

earliest of the kitchen brigade to get about

on shipboard being the bakers, the stewards

appearing next with the early tea and

coffee, that admirable device for keeping

the passengers quiet until the decks are

washed.

The tea consumed amounts to 1,ooolbs.,

the coffee to 50olbs., the cocoa does not bulk

very largely ; with these hot drinks we may

fittingly group the 3.500^s. of white sugar,

and 4,5Oolbs. of moist. The butter used is

about 3,coolbs., the cheese half as much, the

jam and marmalade total up to a ton of

each.

Add to this 200 hams, 1,4Oo!bs. of bacon,

50,000 eggs, and a thousand pounds' worth

of condiments and preserves and other odds

and ends, and we have a good idea of what it

costs to provision a long-distance ocean liner,

without including the share of the 780,000

bottles of wines and spirits and beer, and half-

a million bottles of aerated waters, consumed

annually in the fleet, and for which the pas-

sengers have to pay as extras. The ice

stores alone, in keeping the drink-

ables pleasant and the eatables

cool, cost the Company

about £10 per week

for each vessel

afloat.

From Photographs by Bedford Lrmere &* Co.

296

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

The plant used in the passenger department

of one of these big vessels is worth some

£10,000, of which a quarter goes in bedding,

the silver plate, large and small, being worth

about ,£1,200, the linen nearly .£4,000.

The breakages and damages are enormous,

particularly on the winter passages. The

breakage bill for glass and crockery on a

voyage will include as many as forty dozen

plates, fourteen dozen cups, and twenty-four

dozen saucers, sixty dozen tumblers, and ten

dozen wine-glasses; and the amount of bed-

linen, table-linen, glass-cloths, towels, and so

on, that have to be washed and put right, and

the kitchen utensils that have to be repaired

and renewed, are enough to turn a house-

holder's hair grey.

Every time a vessel comes home she has to

have her plant-list completed, and frequently

she has to be touched up here and there, in

addition to the general overhauling to which

she is subjected by law at the annual Board

of Trade inspection.

A more serious item of expenditure than

the victualling is the coal bill, which last year

amounted to .£520,000.

On the Atlantic road the big boats use

300 tons of coal a day, so that it takes 200

railway truck-loads for the round trip, and

these 300 tons have to evaporate 650,000

gallons of water every day, while to condense

this again another 90,000 are pumped along

the twenty miles of tubes.

The P. and O. ships have no such power

as this; it would, indeed, be wasted in their

trade. It has one boat of 11,000 horse-

power, two of 10,000. four of 7,oi.)O, the rest

ranging down to 3,000; and their coal con-

sumption is, consequently, comparatively

small, but any of the first half-dozen will use

up four tons an hour.

Some of the large boats start with 1,700

tons in their bunkers, and this is replenished

at the bye ports on the road.

One of the vessels of the fleet, the Mazagon,

is entirely used as a collier taking Welsh

steam from Cardiff, down the Mediterranean,

the Far Eastern service being worked with

Japanese coal, and the Australian with the

much better steam raiser from the New South

Wales Newcastle.

Adding the wages and the provisioning and

the coal bills together, we have .£1,152,000;

but it costs more than that to keep the ships

moving. There are the port and light dues,

the pilotage fees, the cost of towage, and

other expenses—the oil and water alone cost

,£30,000 a year—and these together bring up

the amount to over .£1,300,000, to which we

may add the Suez Canal dues on ships and

passengers, and arrive at the total navigating

expenses of .£1,549,000, or .£176 15$. for

every hour of the year.

A ship is supposed to last nine years, so

that every year a quarter of a million has to

be written off as depreciation on the fleet, and

in addition to this the repairs and renewals

amount to .£243,600. With them we may

WHAT IT COSTS.

297

Freights nowadays are to what they were

twenty-five years ago much as a shilling is to

a sovereign. Think, then, of the enormous

quantity of goods that this one company

carries when its freight account for a year

exceeds a million and a quarter.

From these amounts, however, no less

than .£227,000 has to be deducted, owing

chiefly to the descent of the rupee. One can

hardly wonder at the P. and O. people being

bimetallists when their loss on exchange is

greater than the amount they distribute in

dividends.

Their Government mail contracts bring in

.£358,000 a year, of which ,£262,000 comes

from the Indian and China service, and

^85,000 from the Australian; the Australian

mails service, the contract for which they

share equally with the Orient Company, is

subject to a penalty of .£ioo for every

twenty-four hours they are behind time; the

India and China mails, of which they have

the monopoly, being subject to the same

amount for half the time.

These penalty clauses, as we have seen

above, have rarely to be enforced, but then

there are two sides to a mail contract, the

Government wanting the greatest speed for

the smallest price; the company offering the

best speed it can for the price it believes

to be obtainable and keeping well within the

mark so as to be safe from penalty. Twenty

years ago the Indian time was twenty-three

days, the Chinese time forty-five and a half

days, the Australian time forty-eight days.

The times now are sixteen and a half, thirty-

seven and a half, and thirty-five and a half

respectively, and, as a matter of fact, the

Indian mails have been brought right home in

thirteen days, while the Himalaya has taken

the Australian mail from Brindisi to Adelaide

in twenty-four days two hours.

A year or so ago the outward bound

mail bags, passing through Calais to Europe,

Asia, and Australia, numbered over 103,000,

and every year they increase.

So much has the P. and O. mail grown

that it now goes by a train all to itself from

Calais to Brindisi, while the overland

passengers are sent on ahead in a specially

built saloon train, restaurant and sleeping

cars complete, that crosses the Continent to

the north of Italy in a few minutes under a

couple of days.

Adding together the passage money, the

freights, the mail revenue, and sundries, we

arrive at the total income of .£2,400,000.

The Company's assets are altogether about

four millions, for, in addition to the value of

the fleet, there are the coal stocks, which are

worth j£"23;ooo, the stores that run to about

.£14,500, and the graving docks, wharves,

workshops, and machinery, which are worth

over a quarter of a million ; and then there is

close upon a million in cash and securities.

Truly a large business, much at the mercy

of the wind and waves, and even more fickle

conditions in many lands and on many seas!

PART III

"O, BOARD!" the GENTLE PUBLIC cried; "O worthiest and best,

Exclusively devoted to the public interest:

Arise in all your majesty—arise and make a fuss,

And massacre the COMPANY who puts upon me thus.

THE GREAT WATER JOKE. 299

" Hi! Wickedness and Treachery ! You're helping him instead !

He's jeering me, and kicking me, and sitting on my head ! "

"/ helping him?" replied the BOARD; "I solemnly protest

My absolute devotion to the public interest!

" It horrifies me dreadfully ; it gives me mortal pain

To hear he turns your pockets out and takes your watch and chain.

I cannot bear to think of it; it makes me very sad—

Eh? No—/ can't perceive it all: my sight is very bad."

His vision was so very bad he couldn't even see

A-trampling on the PUBLIC'S chest the GREAT MONOPOLEE;

Though this, from microscopic size, had grown so very vast

That London was enveloped by the shadow that it cast.

"I have it!" said the PUBLIC BOARD. "You only have to trace

The ins and outs of all his tricks, and then prepare a case:

Discover how his rating's done ; and how he lays his mains;

And all about his charters, and his charges, and his gains."

" I thought," the simple PUBLIC said, " (I having put you there

To represent my interests) that this was your affair :

I'd fancied you'd prepare the case, and compass his defeat?"

" O, did you? "said the PUBLIC BOARD. " A very quaint conceit!"
300

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" I have it !

said the PUB-

LIC BOARD;

" We'll fill the

fellow's cup

With penitential

bitterness —

we'll simply

buy him up.

You trust your own devoted BOARD to settle on the price :

It's possible a hundred thousand millions will suffice."

They reckoned up the profits of the COMPANY;'and then

They added t\yice the capital, and multiplied by ten : -

And figured out the square of it; and added to the sum

The possible increment for a century to come ;

They multiplied the area the COMPANY supplied;

By all the land from John o'..Groats to Scilly's further side;

And, throwing in the Colonies, they very quickly got

The estimated equitable rental of the lot.

By adding up the two results, and throwing in a grant

Of fifty-seven millions for depreciated plant,

And multiplying finally by ten and thirty-three,

They found the sum for buying up the WATER COMPANEE.

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

301

Indignantly the COMPANY pronounced it very rough,

Declaring it was robbery and wasn't half enough :

And then the BOARD agreed to add another million pounds;

" But not another sou," it said, " on purely public grounds."

The PUBLIC paid the little sum : then, waterless, in grief

Proceeded to exist upon parochial relief:

And, chatting very pleasantly, the COMPANY and BOARD

Proceeded on their joyful way, with each a little hoard.

302

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

But soon returned the faithful BOARD, observing, " you may bet,

He's sure to get some further cash : I won't desert him yet " .

" I'll fill your little jug myself," he said, "you merely spring

A hundred thousand million more—/'// engineer the thing."

The PUBLIC yelled a frightful yell, and jumped upon his feet;

And screamed a lot of dreadful words we never could repeat,

And said: "I'll never touch a drop of water from to-day:

I'm seized with hydrophobia! You'd better keep away!"

(To te concluded in next number.)

IT was about a month after my marriage,

and, third clerk to the most noble the Bishop

of Beauvais, and even admitted on occasions

to write in his presence and prepare his

minutes, who should marry if I might not ?

It was about a month after my marriage, I

say, Monsieur, that the thunderbolt, to which

I have referred, fell and shattered my fortunes.

I rose one morning—they were firing guns

for the victory of Rocroy I remember, so that

it must have been eight weeks or more after

the death of the late king, and the glorious

rising of the sun of France—and who so

happy as I. A summer morning, Monsieur,

and bright, and I had all I wished. The

river as it sparkled and rippled against the

piers of the Pont Neuf far below, the wet

roofs that twinkled under our garret window,

were not more brilliant than my lord's

fortunes, and as is the squirrel so is the tail.

Of a certainty, I was happy that morning.

I thought of the little hut under the pinewood

at Gabas, and my father cobbling by the

unglazed window, his nightcap on his bald

head, and his face plastered where the shred

had slipped, and I puffed out my cheeks to

think that I had climbed so high. High !

how high might not a man climb who had

married the daughter of the Queen's under-

porter, and had sometimes the ear of my lord,

the Queen's Minister—my lord of Beauvais,

in whom all men saw the coming Master of

France—my lord, ^ whose stately presence

beamed on a world still chilled by the dead

hand of Richelieu. »,.

But that morning, that very morning, I was

to learn that who climbs may fall. I went

below at the usual hour. At the usual hour

Monseigneur left, attended, for the Council;

presently all the house was in an uproar. My

lord had returned, and called for Prosper. I

fancied that I caught even then something

ominous in the sound of my name as it

passed from lip to lip, and I hastened, scared,

to the chamber. But fast as I went I did not

go fast enough ; one thrust me on this side,

another on that. The steward cursed me,

the head clerk stormed at me, the secretary

waited for me at the door, and seizing me by

the neck ran me into the room. " In, rascal,

in," he growled in my ear, " and I hope your

skin may pay for it."

Naturally, by this time I was quaking.

Monseigneur's looks finished me. He stood

in the middle of the chamber, gnawing the

nails of his left hand; and scowled at me,

his handsome face pale and sullen. " Yes!"

he said curtly, " that is the fellow ! "

" Wretch ! " the head clerk cried, seizing

me by the ear and twisting it until I fell on

my knees. " Imbecile! Or more likely he

did it on purpose."

•' Bribed! " said the secretary.

•' He should be hung up ! " the steward

cried truculently, "before he does further

mischief. And if my lord will give the word

• " Silence ! " the Bishop said, with a dark

glance at me. " What does he plead ? "

The head clerk twisted my ear until I

' Copyright, 1896, by Stanley J. IVeyman in thi Unsted States of America.

304

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

screamed. " Ingrate ! " he cried. " Do you

hear His Grace speak to you ? Answer ? "

" My Lord," I cried piteously. " I have

done nothing! Nothing! "

•' Nothing ? " half a dozen echoed.

"Nothing! " the head clerk added brutally.

" Nothing, and you added a cipher to the

census of Paris! Nothing, and your lying

pen led my lord to state the population to be

five millions instead of five hundred thou-

sand ! Nothing, and you sent His

Grace's Highness to the Council

to be corrected by low clerks

and people, and made a

laughing stock for the

Cardinal, and "

" Silence ! " said the

Bishop fiercely. " Enough !

Take him away, and "

" Hang him ! " cried the

steward.

" No, rascal, but have

him to the courtyard,

and let the grooms

flog him through

the gates. And have

a care, you," he con-

tinued, addressing

me, " that I do not

see your face again,

or it will be worse for

you."

I flung myself

down, and would

have appealed against

the sentence, but the

Bishop, between rage

and discomfiture Was The secretary, seizing me by

pitiless, and before

I could utter three words, a dozen officious

hands plucked me up and were thrusting

me to the door. Outside worse things

awaited me. A shower of kicks and cuffs

and blows rained upon me ; vainly struggling

and shrieking, and seeking still to gain

his ear, I was hustled along the passage

to the courtyard, and there dragged amid

brutal jeers and laughter to the fountain, and

flung in. When I scrambled out, they thrust

me back again and again : until trembling

with cold and rage I at last evaded them,

only to be hunted round the yard with leathers

1,

and bridles that cut like knives, and drew a

scream at every stroke. I doubled like a

hare; more than once I knocked half a dozen

men down ; but I was fast growing exhausted,

when some one more prudent or less cruel

than his fellows, opened the gates and I

darted into the street.

I was sobbing with rage and pain, dripping,

ragged, and barefoot — some rogue had

prudently drawn off my

shoes in the scuffle. It

was a wonder that I was

not attacked and chased

FLO RE

3o5

comes of raking and night work. Go home,

my lad,"' she repeated, and went on her way.

Home! The word raised new thoughts

I scrambled to my feet. I had a home ; the

Bishop might deprive me of it; but I had also

a wife, from whom God only could separate

me. I felt a sudden fire run through me at

thought of her, and of all I had suffered since

I left her arms; and with new boldness I

turned, and, sore and aching as I was,

stumbled back to the place of my shame.

The steward and two or three of his under-

lings were standing in the gateway, and saw

me come up, and began to jeer. The high

grey front of Monseigneurs hotel, three sides

of a square, towered up behind them ; the

steward sprawled his feet apart, and set his

hand to his stout side, and jeered at me.

" Here is the lame leper from the Cour des

Miracles! " he cried. " Have a care, or he

will give you the evil! "

" Good sir, the swill-tub is open," cried

another. " Help yourself! ''

A third spat at me, and bade me begone

for a pig. The passers—there were always a

knot of gazers opposite my lord of Beauvais'

palace in those days, when he had the Queen's

ear and bade fair to succeed R.chelieu—

stayed to stare.

" I want my goods ! " I said, trembling.

" Your goods ! " the steward answered,

swelling out his brawny chest, and smiling at

me over it. " Your goods, indeed. Begone,

and be thankful you have escaped so well.''

" Give me my things from my room,'; I

said stubbornly; and I tried to enter.

He moved sideways so as to block the

passage. " Your goods ? They are Mon-

seigneur's," he said.

" My wife, then ! "

He winked. " Your wife ? " he said.

" Well, true, 'she is not Monseigneur's. But

she will do for me." And with a coarse

laugh he winked again at the crowd.

At that the pent-up rage I had stemmed so

long broke out. He stood a head taller than

I, but with a scream I sprang at his throat,

and by the very surprise of the attack got

him down and beat his face with my fists.

His fellows, as soon as they recovered from

their astonishment, tore me off; but by that

time I had so marked him that the blood

poured down his face. He scrambled to his

feet, panting and furious, his oaths tripping

over one another.

" To the Chatelet with him! " he cried,

spitting out a tooth and glaring at me through

The steward jeered at me.

the mud on his face. " He shall swing for

this ! He tried to break in ! I call you to

witness he tried to break in! "

" Ay, to the Chatelet! To the Chatelet! "

cried the crowd, siding with the stronger

party. He was my lord of Beauvais' steward;

I was a gutter-snipe and dangerous. A dozen

hands held me tightly, yet not so tightly but

that a coach passing at that moment and

driving us all to the wall. I managed by a

306

PEA RSUX'S MA GA ZIXE.

molten lead into the quivering back; I forgot

all but the danger, I lived only on my feet,

and with them made superhuman efforts.

Fortunately the light was failing, and in the

first dash I distanced the pack by a dozen

yards ; passing the front of the Palais.Royal

so swiftly that the Queen's Guards, though

they ran out at the alarm, were too late to

intercept me. Thence I strained instinctively,

and with the cry of pursuit in my ears,

towards the old bridge, intending to cross to

the Cite", where I knew all the lanes; but the

bridge was alarmed, the Chatelet seemed to

yawn for me—they were just lighting the

brazier in front of the gloomy pile; and

doubling back—while the air roared with

shouts of warning—I shot by my pursuers,

and sped down the narrow Rue de la

Chaussee, with the hue and cry hard on my

heels.

I had no plan now—only terror added

wings to my feet, and the end of that street

gained I darted blindly down another, and

yet another, with straining chest, and legs

that began tofail, and always in my ears the

yells that rose round me as fresh pursuers

joined in the chase. Still I kept ahead, I was

even gaining; another turn, and with night

thickening, I might hope to escape, if I

could baffle those who from time to time—

but in a half-hearted way, not knowing if I

were armed—tried to stop me or trip me up.

Suddenly turning a corner—I had gained

a quiet part where blind walls lined the

alleys—I found a man running before me.

At the same instant the posse in pursuit

quickened their pace in a last effort; I, in

answer, put forth all my strength, and in a

dozen paces I came up with the man. He

turned to me, our eyes met; desperate

myself, I read equal terror in his, but before

I could reason on the fact, he bent himself

forward as he ran, and with a singular move-

ment flung a parcel he carried into my arms,

and wheeling abruptly, plunged into an alley

on his left.

It was done in a moment. Instinctively

I caught the burden and held it; but the

impetus with which he had thrown it sent me

reeling to the right, and, the lane being narrow,

I fell against the wall before I could steady

myself. As luck would have it, however,

that which should have destroyed me was my

salvation; I happened to hit the wall where a

doorway broke it, the door, lightly latched,

flew open under the impact, and I fell

inwards. I alighted, in darkness, on my

hands and knees, heard a stifled yelp as of a

dog, and in a second, though I could see

nothing, was up and had the door closed

behind me.

Then, and not till then, I listened, panting

and breathless, and heard the hunt go raving

through the lane, and the noise die in the

distance, until only the beating of my heart

broke the close silence of the room in which

I stood. When this had lasted a minute or

two, I began to peer about and wonder where

FLURE.

3°7

alarm me; darkness had completely fallen,

no one was moving, the neighbourhood

seemed to be of the quietest. I made up my

mind to take the bold course: to return at

all hazards to St. Antoine, seek my father-in-

law at the gate of the Palais Royal—where

he had the night turn—and throw the

child and myself on his protection.

Without doubt it was the wisest

course I could choose; and

as in those days the streets

of Paris, even in the dis-

trict of the Louvre and

Palais Royal, were ill-

lighted, and a network

of lanes and dark courts

encroached on the most

fashionable parts, and

favoured secret access to

them, I foresaw no great

difficulty short of the

moment when I must

stand out in the lighted

lodge and exhibit my

rags. But my evil star

was still above the

horizon. I had scarcely

reached the end of the

lane, and was still hesita-

ting there, uncertain which

way to turn for the

shortest course, when a

babel of voices broke

on my ear, lights swept

round a distant corner,

and I found myself

threatened with a new

danger. I did not wait

to consider whether

this band, with their

torches and weapons,

had aught to do with

roe—my nerves were shaken, the streets of

Paris were full of terrors, every corner had a

gallows for me—but I turned and, fleeing

back the way I' had come, made a hurried

effort to find the house which had sheltered

me. Failing, in one or two trials, and seeing

that the lights were really coming that way,

and that in a moment I must be discovered,

I sprang across the lane, and dived into the

alley by which the child-stealcr had vanished.

He flung a parcel into my arms.

I had not taken ten steps before something

unseen in the darkness, tripped me up, arid I

fell sprawling in the mud. In the fall, my

burden rolled from my arms, and was

instantly snatched up by a dark figure, which,

rising as by magic beside me, was gone into the

gloom almost as quickly. I got

up, limping, and flung a

curse after both ; but the

lights already shone on

the mouth of the alley,

and I had no time to lose

if I would not be

detected. I set off run-

ning down the passage,

3o8

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

that it was a shed, and, entering with my

hands extended, felt the hay under my feet.

With a sob of thankfulness I sank down

upon it, but, instead of the soft couch I

expected, fell on the angular body of a man,

who, with a savage curse, flung me off.

This at another time would have scared

me to death, but I was so far gone in

wretchedness that I felt no fear and little

surprise. I rolled away without a word, and,

curling myself up at a distance of a few feet

from my fellow lodger, fell in a minute fast

asleep.

When I awoke, daylight, though the sun

At length I knew him, and almost at the

same moment he recognised me, and, uttering

an oath of rage, rose up as if to spring at my

throat. But either because I did not recoil—-

being too deep set in the hay to move—or

for some other reason, he only shook his

claw-like fingers at me, and held off. " Where

is it, you dog ?" he cried, finding his voice

with an effort. " Speak, or I will have your

throat slit. Speak, do you hear ? What have

you done with it? "

He was the man who had passed the

child to me ! I watched him heedfully, and

after a moment's hesitation I told him that

" Where is it, you dog ? '' he crsed.

was not up, was beginning to creep into the

shed. I turned ; every bone I had ached. I

remembered yesterday's doings, and groaned.

Presently the hay beside me rustled, and over

the shoulder of the mass against which I lay,

I made out the face of a man, peering at me.

I felt a thrill of fear, and stared back, spell-

bound. I had not yet broken with every

habit of suspicion, nor could I in a moment

recollect that I had nothing but rags to lose.

In silence, which neither again broke by so

much as a movement, we waited gazing, while

the light in the mean hovel grew and grew,

and minute by minute brought out more

closely the other's features.

it had been taken from me, and when and

where.

" And you don't know the man who took

it ?" he screamed.

" Not from Adam. It was dark," I said.

In his disappointment and rage, at

receiving this answer, I thought that he

would fairly fall upon me: but he only

choked and swore, and then stood scowling,

the picture of despair; until, some new

thought pricking him, he threw up his arms

again, and cried out afresh : " Oh, man Dieu,

what a fool I was!" he screamed. " What a

craven I was ! I had a fortune in my hands—

in my hands, fool—and I threw it away ! "

FLO RE.

309

I thought bitterly of my own case—I was

not much afraid of him now; I began to

think that I understood him. " So had I,

yesterday morning," I said. " You are in no

worse case than others."

" Yesterday morning ? " he exclaimed.

" No, last night. Then, if you like, you had.

But yesterday morning ? Fortune and you,

scarecrow ! Go hang yourself! "

He looked gloomily at me for a moment

with his arms crossed on his chest, and his

face darkly set. Then: " Who are you ? " he

asked curtly.

I told him. When he learnt that the

rabble that had alarmed him, had in fact been

pursuing me, so that his fright had been

groundless, he broke into fresh execrations,

and those so violent that I began to feel a

sort of contempt for him, and even plucked

up spirit to say that he seemed to be in as

evil case as I was.

He looked at me askance. " Ay, as it

turns out," he said grimly. " But see the

difference, idiot. You are a poor fool beaten

from pillar to post; I played for a great stake.

I have lost! I have lost!" he continued, his

voice rising almost to a yell, "and we are

both in the gutter. But if I had won—if I

had won, man "

He did not finish the sentence, but flung

himself down on his face in the hay, and bit

and tore it in his passion. A moment I

viewed him with contempt», and thought him

a poor creature for a villain. Then the skirt

of his coat, curling over as he grovelled and

writhed, disclosed something that turned my

thoughts into another channel. Crushed

under his leather girdle was a little cape, or

a garment of that kind, of'velvet so lustrous

that it shone where I saw it, as the eyes shine

in a toad. Nor it only. Before he rolled over

and hid it, I spied embroidered on one corner

of the velvet a stiff gold crown !

I barely repressed a cry. Cold, damp,

aching, I felt the heat run through me like

wine. A crown ! A little purple cape !

Then last night—last night, I had carried

the King ! the King of France in my

arms.

I no longer found it hard to understand

the man's terror of yesterday, or his grief

and despair this morning. He had indeed

played for a great stake, and risked torture

and the wheel, and lost! and lost!

I looked at him with new eyes and a sort

of wonder, and had scarcely time to compose

my face when, the paroxysm of his fury past,

he rose, and, looking at me askance, to see

how I took his grovellings, asked me sullenly

whither I was going.

" To Monseigneur's," I said cunningly.

Had I answered ",To the Palais Royal," he

would have suspected me. . •

" To be beaten again ? " he sneered..

I said nothing to that, but asked1'him

whither he was going.

" God knows," he said.

When I went out, however, he accompanied

310

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Dieu ! " I said. " Yes, I had forgotten that.

He was. I remember I heard his feet go

cluck-clack, cluck-clack, as he ran."

His face became burning red, and he stag-

gered. If ever man was near dying from

'

"Poor devil! They have driven him mad."

blood in the head, it was that man ! But in

a moment he drew a long breath, and got

the better of it, nodded to me, and turned

away. I marked, however—for I stood a

moment watching—that he did not go back

to the door at which I had left him, but, after

looking round once and espying me, took a

lane on the right and disappeared.

But I knew, or thought that I knew, all

now, and the moment he was out of sight I

set off towards the Palais Royal like a hound

let loose, heeding neither those against whom

I bumped in the straiter ways, nor the danger

I ran of recognition, nor the

miserable aspect I wore. I for-

got all save my news, even my

own wretchedness, and never

halted or stayed to take breath

until I stood panting in the

doorway of the lodge at the

Palais, and met my father-in-

law's gaze of disgust and aston-

ishment.

He was just off the night turn,

and met me on the threshold.

I saw beyond him the grinning

faces of the under-porters. But

I had that to tell which still

upheld me. I threw up my hands.

" I know where they are ! " I cried,

breathless. " I can take you to

them ! "

He gazed at me dumb with sur-

prise and rage; and doubtless a less

reputable son-in-law than I appeared

would have been hard to find. Then

his passion found vent. " Pig!

jackal! gutter-bird ! " he cried.

" Begone ! Begone ! or I will have

you flayed ! "

" But I know where they are!

I know where they have him ! " I

protested.

His face underwent a startling

change. He darted forward with a

nimbleness wonderful in one of his

bulk, and caught me by the collar.

'•What," he said, "have you seen

the dog ? "

" The dog ? " I cried. " No, but

I have seen the King! I have he!4

him in my arms ! He is "

He released me suddenly, and fell back a

pace, looking at me so oddly that I paused.

" Say it again," he said slowly. " You have

held the "

" The King! The King," I cried im-

patiently—" in these arms. I know where

they have him, or at least where the robbers

are."
FLO RE.

His double-chin fell, and his red face lost

colour. " Poor devil ! " he said, still staring

at me. " They have driven him mad ! "

" But," I cried, advancing, " are you not

going to "

He waved me off and retreated a step

liastily, and crossed himself. "Jacques!"

lse exclaimed. "Move him off! Move him

off, do you hear, man ? "

"But I tell you," I cried fiercely, "they

have stolen the King! They have stolen his

Majesty, and I "

" There, there, be calm," he answered.

" They have stolen the Queen's dog, that is

true. But have it your own way if you like,

only go. Go from here, and quickly, or it

will be the worse for you, for here comes

Monseigneur the Bishop to wait on her

Majesty, and if he sees you, you will-—.

There, make way, make way ! " he continued,

addressing the little crowd that had assembled.

'• Way, way, for Monseigneur the Bishop of

Beauvais !"

As he spoke, the Bishop and his train

turned out of St. Antoine, and the crowd

attending him eddied about the Palais

entrance. I was hustled and swept out of the

way, and, luckily escaping notice, found

myself a few minutes later crouching in a

blind alley that runs beside the church of St.

Jacques, crouching and wolfing a crust of

bread, which one of the men with whom I

had often talked in the lodge had thrust into

my hand. I ate it with tears; in all Paris,

that day, was no more miserable outcast.

What had become of my wife I -knew not, and

I dared not show myself at the Bishop's to

ask; my father-in-law was hardened against

me, and at the best thought me mad. I had

no longer home or friend, and—this at the

moment cut most sharply—the gorgeous hopes

in which I had indulged a few moments

before were as last year's snow.

I crouched and shivered. In St. Antoine,

at the mouth of the alley, a man was publish-

ing a notice, and presently his voice caught

my attentionin the middle of my lamentations.

I listened, at first idly, then with my mind.

" Oyez ! Oyez ! " he cried. " Whereas some

evil person, having no fear of God or of the

law before his eyes, has impudently,

feloniously, and treasonably stolen from the

Palais Royal a spaniel, the property of the

Queen Regent's most excellent Majesty, this

is to say, that anyone—rumble—rumble—

rumble—" here a passing coach drowned

some sentences, and then I caught, " five

hundred crowns, the same to be paid by

Monseigneur the Bishop of Beauvais,

President of the Council."

" And glad to pay it," snarled a voice quite

close to me. I started and looked up. Two

men were talking at a window above my head.

" Yet it is a high price for a dog," the

other sneered.

" But low for a Queen. Still it buys her.

And this is Richelieu's France."

" Was 1" the other said pithily. " Well,

you know the proverb, ' a living dog is better

3I2

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

and, hardening my heart, I went on, until I

reached the alley between the blind walls.

It was noon, the alley was empty, the neigh-

bouring lane empty. I looked this way and

that, and then went slowly down to the door,

at which the man had halted, but to which as

soon as he knew that the game was not lost,

he had been heedful not to return.

There, seeing all so quiet, with the green of

a tree showing here and there above the wall,

I began to blench and wonder how I was to

take the next step, and for half an hour I dare-

say I sneaked to and fro, now in sight of the

door, and now with my back to it, afraid to

advance and ashamed to retreat. At length

I went through the alley, and, seeing how

quiet and respectable it lay, with the upper

part of a house visible at intervals above the

wall, I took at last heart of grace, and tried

the door.

It stood so firm that I despaired, and, after

listening, and looking to assure myself that

the attempt had not been observed, I was

about to move away, when I espied the edge

.of the ring of a key projecting from under the

door. Still all was quiet; a stealthy look

round, and I had the key out. To draw back

now was to write myself craven all my life,

and with a shaking hand I thrust the wards

into the lock, turned them, and in another

moment stood on the other side of the door

in a neat garden, speckled with sunshine and

shade, and all silent.

I remained a full minute, flattened against

the door, staring fearfully at the high-fronted

mansion that beyond the garden looked

down on me with twelve great eyes. But all

remained silent, and, observing presently that

the windows were shuttered, I took courage

to move, and slid aside under a tree and

breathed again.

Still I looked and listened, fearfully, for

the silence seemed to watch me; but nothing

happened, and everything I saw tending to

prove the house empty, I grew bolder, and,

sneaking from bush to bush, reached the

door at last, and, with a backward glance

between courage and desperation, tried it.

It was locked, but that I hardly noticed,

for, as my hand left the latch, from some

remote part of the house came the long-

drawn whine of a dog!

I stood, listening and turning hot and cold

in the sunshine, and dared not touch the

latch again lest others should hear the noise.

Instead, I stole out of the doorway, and

crept round the house and round the house

again, hunting for a back entrance. I found

none; but at last, goaded by the reflection

that fortune would never again be so nearly

within my grasp, I marked a window on the

first floor, and in the side of the house, by

which it seemed to me I might enter. A

mulberry tree stood by it and it lacked a

shutter, and other trees veiled the spot. To

be brief, in two minutes I had my knee on

the sill, and, sweating with terror, forced the

casement in and dropped on the floor.

FLO RE.

3'3

than the other, yet a face bold and even

handsome. Of the nearer pair, who had

their backs to me, the shorter, dressed in

black, wore an ordinary aspect; when, how-

ever, my eyes travelled to his companion

they paused. He, it was plain, was the chief of

the party, for he alone was covered; and,

though I could not see his face nor

more of his figure than that he was

tall and of handsome presence, it

chanced that as I looked he raised

his hand to his chin, and I caught

the sparkle of a superb jewel.

That dazzled me, and the presence

of the dog perplexed me, and I

continued to watch. Presently the

great man again raised his hand, and

this time it seemed to me that an

order was given, for the lame man

started into action, and moved

briskly towards the

wall which bordered

the alley—and con-

sequently towards the

house in which I

stood. My com-

panion of the night

interposed, how-

ever, and appa-

rently would have

done the errand

himself; but at

a w ord he stood

sulkily and let

the other pro-

ceed ; who

when he had

all but disap-

peared—on so

little a thing is

turned — below

the level of the intervening walls, looked up

and caught sight of me at the window.

Apparently he gave the alarm, for in an

instant the eyes of all four were on me. I

hung a moment in sheer surprise ; then, as

the lame man and his comrade sprang to the

door in the wall, with the evident intention of

engaging me, I flung the shutter close, and,

cursing my curiosity, fled down the stairs.

I had done better had I gone back to the

window by which I had entered; for all

Vol. I.—21.

below was dark, and at the foot of the stair-

case I stood unable in my panic to remember

the position of the door. A key grating in

the lock told me that, but told it me too late.

Almost on the instant the door flew open, a

flood of light entered, a cry warned me that I

w.1, detected. I turned to go back, but

stumbled before

I had mounted

six steps, and as

I staggered up

again, felt a

weight fall on

my back, and

the clutch of long

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

Prosper, I am afraid that we put you to some

inconvenience."

I looked dizzily at the speaker, and recog-

nised him for one of those I had seen in the

garden. He had the air of a secretary or—as

he stood rubbing his chin and looking down

at me with a saturnine smile—of a phy-

sician. I read in his eyes

something cold and not

too human, yet it

went no farther.

His manner

" Be easy, M. Prosper."

was

he

•reassure

spoke

as his

suave, and his voice, when

again, as well calculated to

words were to surprise me.

" You are better now ?" he said. " Yes.

Then I have to congratulate you. Few men,

M. Prosper, few men believe me were ever

so lucky. You were lately I think in the

service of Monseigneur the Bishop of

Beauvais, President of her Majesty's

Council ?"

I fancied that a faint note of irony lurked

in his words. I kept silence.

" And yesterday were dismissed," he

continued easily, disregarding my astonish-

ment. " Well, to-day you shall be reinstated

—and rewarded. Your business here, I

believe, was to recover her Majesty's dog ?"

I remembered that the wretch whose finger-

marks were still on my throat mighi be within

hearing, and I tried to utter a denial.

He waved it aside politely. " Just

said. " Well, the dog is in that closet

two conditions it is at your service."

Amazed before, I stared at him now in a

stupor of astonishment.

so," he

and on

" You are surprised ?" he said. " Yet the

case is of the simplest. We stole the dog.

and therefore we cannot restore it without

incurring suspicion. You, on the other hand,

who are known to the Bishop, and did not

steal it, may safely restore it. I need not say

that we divide the reward ; that is one of the

two conditions."

" And the other ?" I stammered.

" That you refresh your memory as to the

past," he answered lightly. '• If I have the

tale rightly, you saw a man convey a dog to

this house, an empty house in a lonely suburb.

You watched, and saw the man leave, and

followed him ; he took the alarm, fled, and

dropped in his flight the dog's coat—I think

I see it there. On that you hurried with the

coat to Monseigneur, and gave him the

address of the house, and "

" And the dog!" I exclaimed.

"No. Let Monseigneur come and find

the dog for himself," he answered, smiling,

" in the closet."

I felt the blood tingle through all my limbs.

FLO RE.

3'5

the faint whine of the dog, as it moved in

its prison.

Was I alone ? I waited awhile before I

dared to move; and even when I found

courage to rise, stood listening with a beating

heart, expecting a footfall on the stairs, or

that something—I knew not what—would

rush on me from the closed doors of this

mysterious house. But the silence endured ;

the sparrows outside twittered, the cricket

renewed its chirp, and at length, drawing

courage from the sunlight, I moved forward

and lifted the dog's coat from the floor. Five

minutes later I was in the streets on my way

to the Bishop's hotel, the morsel

of velvet tucked under my girdle.

I have since thought

that I did not fully

appreciate the

marvel that

had hap-

pened to

The secretary whispered

in my ear.

me. But by this time I was light-headed. I

went my way as a man moves in a dream,

and even when I came to the door of the

hotel, suffered none of those qualms which

must have shaken me had I been sensible. I

did not even question how I should reach

Monseigneur, which proves that we often

delude ourselves with vain fears, and climb

obstacles where none exist. For, as it hap-

pened, he was descending from his coach

when I entered the yard, and, though he

raised his gold-headed staff at sight of me,

and in a fury bade the servants oust me, I

had the passion, if not the wit, to wave the

velvet coat in his face, and cry my errand

before them all.

Heaven knows at that there was such a

sudden pause and about-face as must have

made the stolen dog laugh had it been there.

Monseigneur, in high excitement, bade them

bring me in to him, the secretary whispered

in my ear that he had a cloak that would re-

place the one I had lost, a valet told me that

my wife had gone to her father's,

a second brought me food, and

nudged me to remember him,

others ran and fetched me shoes

and a cap, and all, all from the

head clerk, who was most

insistent, downwards, would

know where the dog was.

But I had even then the sense

to keep my secret, and would

tell my story only to the Bishop.

He heard it. In ten minutes he

was in his coach on his way to

the house, taking me with him.

His.presence and the food they

had given me had sobered me

somewhat, and I trembled as

we went along lest the villains

had some disappointment yet in store for me

—lest the closet be found empty. But a

whine, growing into a howl, greeted us on

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

you ask rewards besides? Go and hang

yourself! Or rather," he continued grimly,

" stir at your peril. Look to him, Bonnivet,

he is a rogue in grain, and bring him with

me to the antechamber. Her Majesty may

desire to ask him questions, and if he answer

them, well! He shall still have the fifty

crowns I promised him. If not, I shall know

how to deal with him."

At that, and the reversal of all my hopes,

I fell into my old rage again, and even his

servants looked oddly at him, until a sharp

word recalled them to their duty ; on which

they hustled me off with little ceremony, and

the less for that which they had before showed

me. While the Bishop, carrying the dog in

his arms, mounted his coach and went by the

Rue St. Martin and St. Antoine, they hurried

me by short cuts and by-ways to the Palais

Royal, which we reached as his running foot-

men came in sight. The approach to the

gate was blocked by a great crowd of people,

and for a moment I was fond enough to

imagine that they had to do with my affair,

and I shrank back. But the steward, with a

thrust of his knee against my hip, which

showed me that he had not forgiven my blow,

urged me forward, and, from what passed

round me as we pushed through the

press, I gathered that a score of captured

colours had arrived within the hour from

Flanders, and were being presented to the

Queen.

The courtyard confirmed this, for in the

open part of it, and much pressed on by the

curious who thronged the arcades, we found

a troop of horse, plumed and mud-stained,

fresh from the Flanders road. The officers

who bore the trophies we overtook on the

stairs near the door of the antechamber.

Burning with rage as I was, and strung to

the last pitch of excitement, I yet remember

that I thought it an odd time to push in with

a dog. But Monseigneur did not seem to

see this. Whether he took a certain pleasure

in belittling the war party to whom he was

opposed, or merely knew his ground well,

he went on, thrusting the miliiaires aside

with little ceremony, and as everyone was

as quick to give place to him as he was

to advance, in a moment we were in the

antechamber.

I had never been admitted before, and, from

the doorway, within which I paused in

Bonnivet's keeping, I viewed the scene with

an interest that for the time overcame my

sense of injustice. The long room hummed

with talk ; a crowd of churchmen and pages,

with a sprinkling of the lesser nobility, many

lawyers, and some soldiers, filled it from end

to end. In one corner was a group of trades-

men bearing plate for the queen's inspection ;

in another stood a knot of suitors with

petitions; while everywhere, men whose

eager faces and expectant eyes were their best

petitions, watched the farther door with

quivering lips, and sighed whenever it opened

and emitted merely a councillor or a marquis.

From time to time a masked lady flitted

FLO RE.

" I came to receive the colours/' she re-

torted, still frowning.

" I bring your Majesty something equally

to your liking ! " he replied.

Then I think she caught his meaning,

for her proud handsome face cleared

wonderfully, and she clapped her hands

together with a gesture of pleasure almost

childish. " What ? " she exclaimed. " Have

you "

" Yes, Madame," he said, smiling gallantly.

" Bonnivet! "

But Bonnivet had watched his moment.

and, before the name fell

clear of his master's lips,

was beside him, and with

bent knee laid the dog

tenderly at her Majesty's

feet. She uttered a cry of joy,

and stooped to caress it, her

fair ringlets falling and

hiding her face. On that I

did not see exactly what

happened, for her ladies

flocked round her, with cries

that echoed hers, the courtiers

pressed round them, and all

that reached me, where I

stood by the door, took the

form of excited cries of

"Flore! Flore! Oh, the

darling! " and the like ! A

few old men who stood

nearest the wall and farthest

from the Queen raised their

eyebrows, and the officers

standing with the colours by the door,

wore fallen faces: but nine-tenths of the

crowd seemed to be fairly carried away by

the Queen's delight, and congratulated one

another as if ten Rocroys had been won.

Suddenly, while I hung in suspense, expect-

ing each moment to be called forward, I

heard a little stir at my elbow, and, looking to

the side, saw the knot on the threshold break

inward to give place, while several voices

whispered " Mazarin ! " As I looked, he

came in, and pausing to speak to the fore-

most of the officers, gave me the opportunity

—which I had never enjoyed before—of

viewing him near at hand ; and in a moment

it flashed upon me—though now he wore his

Cardinal's robes and then had been very

simply dressed—that it was he whose back

I had seen, and whose dazzling ring had

blinded me in the garden !

The thought had scarcely grown to a con-

viction before he passed on, apologising

almost humbly to those whom he displaced,

and courteously to all; and this, and perhaps

also the fact that the mass of those present

belonged to my patron's party, and were not

quick to see him, rendered his progress so

slow that, my name being called and everybody

hustling me forward, I came face to face with

the Queen at the moment that

he did, and saw, though fora

moment I was too much

excited to understand, what

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

him one of the ladies came forward, nursing

the dog in her arms.

The Cardinal looked. "Umph!" he said.

And he looked again, frowning.

I did not know then why the Queen took

heed even of his looks : and I started when

she cried pettishly : " Well, sir, what now ? "

The Cardinal pursed up his lips.

The Bishop could bear it no longer. " He

wjll say presently," he cried, snorting with

indignation, " that it is not the dog! "

His Eminence shrugged his shoulders

very slightly, and turned the palm of his

hands outwards. " Oh," he said, " if her

Majesty is satisfied."

" M'dieu!" the Queen cried angrily,

" what do you mean ? " But she turned to

the lady who held the dog, and took it from

her. " It is the dog! " she said. " Do you

think that I do not know my own ? Flore!

Flore !" And she set the dog on its feet.

It turned to her and wagged its tail eagerly.

" Poor Flore ! " said the Cardinal.

" Flore ! " It went to him.

" Certainly its name is Flore," he con-

tinued silkily. " But it used to die at the

word of command, I think ? "

" What it did, it will do!" Monseigneur de

Beauvais cried scornfully. " But I see that

your Eminence was right in one thing you

said."

The Cardinal bowed.

"That I should be envied!" the Bishop

continued, with a sneer. And he glanced

round the circle. There was a general titter:

a great lady at the Queen's elbow laughed out.

'' Flore," said the Queen, " die, die, good

dog. Do you hear, m'dieu, die ! "

But the dog only gazed into her face and

wagged its tail; and though she cried to it

again and angrily, it made no attempt to

obey. On which a deep-drawn breath ran

round the circle; one looked at another; a

score of heads were thrust forward, and some

who had seemed merry enough the moment

before looked grave as mutes now.

" It used to bark for France and growl for

Spain," the Cardinal continued in his softest

voice. " Perhaps "

" France ! " the Queen cried harshly, and

she stamped on the floor. " France!

France!"

But the dog only retreated, cowering and

dismayed, and at a distance wagged its tail

pitifully.

" France! " cried the Queen desperately.

The dog cowered.

" I am afraid, my lord, that it has lost its

accomplishments in your company," the

Cardinal said, a faint smile curling his lips.

The Bishop let drop a smothered oath.

" It -is the dog 1 " he cried passionately.

But the Queen turned to him sharply, her

face crimson. " I do not agree with you,"

she replied. " And more, my lord," she

continued with vehemence, " I should be glad

if you would explain how you came into

possession of this dog. A dog so nearly

resembling my dog—and yet not my dog—

FLO RE.

319

The Bishop, too wise after the event to

persist longer in the dog's identity, still

tried desperately to utter a word of excuse ;

but the Queen, whose vanity had received a

serious wound, cut him short with a curt and

freezing dismissal, and, immediately turning

to the Cardinal, requested him to introduce

to her the officers who had the colours in

charge.

It may be imagined how I felt, and what

terrors I experienced during this struggle,

since it required no great wit to infer that the

Bishop, if defeated, would wreak his ven-

geance on me. Already a dozen who had

attended his levee were fawning on the

Cardinal; the Queen had turned her shoulder

to him; a great lady, over whom he bent

himself to hide his chagrin, talked to him

indeed, but flippantly, and with eyes half

closed. For all these slights, and the more

real defeat which they indicated, I

foresaw that I should pay ; and

in a panic, I slid back and

strove to steal away through

the crowd.

I reached the door in

safety, and even the

head of the stairs, but

there a hand gripped

my shoulder, and the

steward thrust his face,

white with rage, into

mine. " Not so fast,

Master Plotter," he hissed

In my ear. " If your hide

does not pay for this—if you

are not lashed liked a dog

until life is out of your body;

if for this I do not '

" By the Queen's command,"

said a quiet voice in my other

ear, and a hand fell also on that

shoulder.

The steward glanced at his rival.

" He is the Bishop's man ! " he cried,

throwing out his chest, and he

gripped me again.

•

' Flore," said the Queen, "die, die, good dog."

320

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE,

" And the Bishop is the Queen's !" was

the curt reply; and the stranger, in whom I

recognised the man who had delivered the

dog to me, quietly put him by. " Her

Majesty has committed this person to the

Cardinal's custody until inquiry be made into

the truth of his story. In the meantime, if

you have any complaint to make you can

make it to his Eminence."

After that there was no more to be said.

The steward, baffled and bursting with rage,

fell back, and the stranger, directing me by a

gesture to attend him. descended the stairs,

and, crossing the courtyard, entered St.

Antoine. I knew not now what to expect

from him, nor whether, overjoyed as I was at

such a deliverance, I might not be courting a

worse fate in this inquiry; so grim and

secretive was my guide's face, and so much

did that sombre dress, which gave him some-

what of the character of an inquisitor, add to

the mystery of his silence. However, when

we had crossed St. Antoine, and entered a

lane leading to the river, he halted, and turned

to me.

" There are twenty crowns," he said,

abruptly, and he placed a purse in my hand.

" Take them, and do exactly as I bid you, and

all will be well. At the Quai de Notre Dame

you will find a market boat starting for Rouen.

Go by it, and at the ' Ecce Homo' in

that city you will find your wife and a hundred

crowns. Live there quietly, and in a month

apply for work at the Chancery; it will be

given you. The rest lies with you. I have

known men," he continued, with a puzzling

smile, " who started at a desk in that Chancery,

and lived to rent one of the great farms."

I tried to find words to thank him.

" There is no need," he said. " For what

you have done, it is not too much."

And now I agree with him. Now—though

his words came true to the letter, and to-day

I hold one of the great farms on a second

term—I too think that it was not too much,

for, if M. de Conde " won Rocroy for his party

in the field, the Cardinal on that day won a

victory no less eminent at Court: of which

the check administered to M. de Beauvais—•

who had nothing but a good presence, and

collapsed like a pricked bladder, becoming

within a month the most discredited of men

—was the first movement. Within a month

the heads of the Importans—as- the Bishop's

party were christened—were in prison or

exiled, and all France recognised that it was

in a master's hand, and that the mantle of

Richelieu, with a double portion of the Royal

favour, had fallen on Mazarin's shoulders.

I need scarcely add that long before, he had

been happy enough to recover and restore

the true Flore to his mistress's arms.

'.Not so fast. Master Plotter."

THE CHAPEL OF BONES.

No period in the his-

tory of Malta is more

interesting to the

historian and antiquary

than the time lasting from

the early part of the sixteenth

century to the beginning of the

nineteenth century, during which epoch the

island was occupied and governed by the

Knights of St. John of Jerusalem.

The knights of the Order who comprised

the garrison of St. Elmo, one of the principal

fortresses commanding the Grand Harbour,

were renowned for their heroism during the

struggle with their hereditary foes, the Turks,

at the great siege of 1565.

The Moslems were enraged at the seizure

of a gallion belonging to the chief eunuch

of Solyman's seraglio, and vowed the de-

struction of Malta.

The Turkish artillery, under Dragut, the

admiral of the Algerine fleet, effected a

breach in the walls of the fortress of St. Elmo,

and a terrible contest ensued. The ravelin

was stormed by the besiegers, and fell into

their hands after a loss of about 3,000 men.

The courage of the little garrison was

unabated, and it is recorded that when it

became evident to the few gallant defenders,

who were left after the prolonged siege, that

the fortress must capitulate, the knights

received the Viaticum in their little chapel,

embraced one another, and then sallied forth

again to the ramparts to die.

ALTAR IN THE CHAPEL OF BONES.

322

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

The Janissaries, on making themselves

masters of the garrison, entered the place,

and massacred the surviving knights.

The enemy are credited with having lost

8,000 soldiers, whilst the Order of St. John

lost 300 knights and about 1,300 Spanish

infantrymen.

The inhuman Turks, to revenge the death

of their warriors, ordered a search to be

THE REMAINS OF A DEPARTED CAPUCHIN.

made among the dead and wounded for the

bodies of the valorous knights, whose hearts

they tore out, and after cutting their breasts

in the shape of a cross, set the bodies afloat on

boards for the tide to carry them across the

harbour towards Fort St. Angelo.

Grand-master La Valletta, by way of a

reprisal, ordered all the prisoners to be put

to death, and, loading his cannon with their

still bleeding heads, fired them into the

Turkish camp and on board Dragut's vessels.

The burial ground of the Knights of St.

John once recorded the many glorious deeds

performed by the heroes of the siege of St.

Elmo, and beneath the slabs of marble, and

in sarcophagi of Malta stone in the old

cemetery, the remains were deposited until a

few years ago when they were exhumed and

placed in a specially constructed crypt

erected near the old

Hospital for Incur-

ables, now used as

a soldier's garrison

library.

The building is

called the Ossuario,

but islocally known

as the " Chapel of

Bones."

The silent hall of dead

men's graves,

How voiceless and

how mute !

A first sight of

the interior of this

death chamber pre-

sents a terrible as-

pect, and the visitor

who has not antici-

pated the grim

character of the

picture experiences

an unpleasant

shivering sensation

as he descends from

the warm air into

the cold, clammy

crypt. His horror

does not subside on

a closer acquaint-

ance with the skele-

ton decorations.

The bones of the departed knights are

elaborately festooned, with almost mathe-

matical exactness, around the walls, many

thousands of skulls and human bones being

used in the series of lines and devices varying

in form to accord with the actual outlines

THE CHAPEL OF BONES.

323

VIEW OF THE CHAPEL OF BONES, LOOKING EAST.

followed in its semi-circular sweep by rows

of various bones inclosing, as in a frame.

the skulls which figure so prominently in the

weird decorations.

The altar with its crucifix is framed with

a border of femorals, scapulae, and vertebral

bones, with skulls and crossbones occupying,

in various devices, the intervening spaces.

On either side of the altar are to be seen

complete skeletons standing erect in the two

recesses, and surrounded by further devices

in bones. When illuminated from the altar

by the light of the candles, they present a

most horrifying and uncanny spectacle.

Those bones which have not been used

to decorate the walls of the building are

piled against the walls in heaps, in perfect

order from the floor, where the continuity

of the strange designs is least interfered

with.

A tombstone erected in the quiet little

Protestant burial ground towards the shore of

the Quarantine Harbour contains a very

simple stanza, which it is, perhaps, well not

to remember, however appropriate, until the

visitor has withdrawn from the charnel cham-

ber, and that is:

" Stop, traveller, stop, ere you go by,

As you are now, so once was I ;

As I am now, so you must be;

Prepare yourself to follow me."

There are many interesting catacombs to

inspect in the island of Malta, some of which

possess great architectural beauty, and there

are other vaults which follow to some extent

the character of the Ossuario, such as the

chamber or Carneria below the Capuchin

Convent, where the monks who die in the

convent are dressed in their clericals and

fixed up against the walls until they fall to

decay.
To COMMENCE photO-

graphy and then

desist would be, I felt,

the acme of bad taste. After a time,

however, it seemed that the only alternative

to this course was to make a sort of

general apology for my camera. To look

at the light side of things was all very well.

This is essential in photography. Yet a limit

ought to be set and respected.

Everything, however, depends upon the

point of view. It

occurred to me that the

camera in its grotesque

evolutions might be work-

ing towards some great

end. That what were

apparently imperfections

were in reality something

widely different. After

a time I became certain

of the fact. The camera,

in a word, has set itself,

with praiseworthy stead-

fastness, the difficult task

to disillusionise the world.

Nothing, as science, with

direct brutality, insists, is

really what it appears to

be. But the camera

refuses to be a party to

this universal deceit; it

abolishes the shambling

nonsense which comes of optimistic imagin-

ings, and reveals with infinite precision the

unexpected.

AFTER THE (FOOT) BALL.

I,ike every other beginner, my ambition lay

in the direction of successful portraiture.

With the ultimate object of hastening the

settlement of a much debated point, I sought

out a football player as a model. I am con-

vinced that few people know the real dangers

of this vicious game. They have no idea of

the effect of football on a man.

This portrait is exactly as I took it.

I confess that the player did not look like

this in the little peephole through which

I surveyed him as a pre-

paratory step. I place,

however, the most implicit

faith in my camera. Its

vision is more accurate

than that of the prejudiced

human eye. When the

photograph was devel-

oped, one saw at once

what the man had suf-

fered. Most clearly had he

been in the midst of a

scrimmage, and the pres-

sure on either side had

squeezed him up until the

calves of his legs were about

the only part of a once fine

frame that retained its

original shape and size.

Encouraged by my first

attempt at regular por-

traiture, I turned to the

FIRST ATTEMPTS AT PHOTOGRAPHY.

325

why the task was so troublesome. It was not one, but three dogs. This is not including

a fourth tail, which was thrown in promiscuously,

background were invisible. When the photograph

was developed, however, the truth was revealed.

I am not a little proud of that developing. I

see in it the nucleus of an important scientific

discovery. For my own part, I had long sus-

pected the existence of this fact. The three sides

of the creature's character, its fawning affection, its

ferocity with creatures of its own kind, the intervals

To the average person the two in the

of selfish indifference and lethargy

were more • than changeful traits of

disposition ; they were represented by

a corporeal trinity. Clearly there are

the Dr. Jekylls and Mr. Hydes of the

animal world.

I showed this portrait and that of the foot-

ball player to a friend. He declared that the

man's posiiionwas strained. To have added'

that the staircase was strained, too, would

have been more to the point, but this he dis-

creetly evaded. He said he had never seen another

photograph just like that, but it was a common,

fault of all photographs to be unnatural.

He wanted to be taken leaning back in his chair,,

with his arms folded and his legs crossed, and

to look comfortable. I let him have his own

way. Afterwards he became angry and unreason-

able. He made the per-

fectly unnecessary statement

that my portrait conveyed no

idea at all of the sitter. He

urged that it was absurd to-

suppose he could have been

wearing boots big enough to-

fill thewhole picture. But this

is the worst of people who

have their brains in their

feet.

The camera is, in a word,

an exquisite judge of human

character and human fail-

ings. The range of its

vision is unlimited — a

fact admirably demonstrated

in the accompanying
326

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

illustration. The self-importance of the

civilian thanking Providence that he is not as

these army men are is well brought out. In

spite of what my critics say, there is no

doubt that the camera has a very just sense

of proportion.

Every man and woman at some time in

their life falls a victim to the photographic

craze. They are also liable to exaggerate

their own importance. They almost per-

suade themselves, in fact, that in taking oft

the cap they are performing the principal

share of the work. On this point my

else did the rest — someone with whom

have nothing to do whatever.

In my last illustration the puzzle—it is not

a very difficult one—is to find the face. How

the face came there I do not profess to know

The same effect may be obtained by writing

your signature on a piece of paper and

folding the autograph exactly in half while

the ink is still wet.

Even this photographic freak, however,

will not discourage me; the perfection

of imperfection is still to be

attained. A. \V.

camera, very rightly, enlightened me. After

one lesson I discreetly kept myself so

far as possible in the background.

Later on I made another attempt

.at portraiture. I promised to gratify

the vanity of a young lady whose

pride was in her hands. She

pleaded to be allowed to have

her hands well to the fore,

where, in short, they would be

•conspicuous. The camera has

made them so. Personally, I

hasten to publicly disclaim all

responsibility. I pressed the

button, and presumably someone

jEHjadow of

NOTIWSTj

HERE

? Cireepbaclc

BY ROBERT BARR.

HICKORY SAM needed but one quality to be

perfect. He should have been an arrant

coward. He was a blustering braggart,

always boasting of the men he had slain,

and the odds he had contended against;

filled with stories of his own valour, but alas !

he shot straight, and rarely missed his mark,

unless he was drunker than usual. It would

have been delightful to tell how this un-

mitigated ruffian had been " held up'' by

some innocent tenderfoot from the east, and

made to dance at the muzzle of a quite new

and daintily ornamented revolver, for the loud-

mouthed blowhard seemed just the man to flinch

when real danger confronted him; but, sad to say,

there was nothing of the white feather about

Hickory Sam, for he feared neither man, nor gun,

nor any combination of them. He was as ready to

! fight a dozen as one, and once had actually " held

up " the United States army at Fort Concho, beating

a masterly retreat backwards with his face to the foe,

, holding a troop in check with his two seven-shooters

that seemed to point in every direction at once,

making every man in the company feel, with a shiver

up his back, that he individually was " covered,'' and

would be the first to drop if firing actually began.

Hickory Sam appeared suddenly in Salt Lick, and

speedily made good his claim to be the bad man of the

district. Some old-timers disputed Sam's arrogant contention, but they

»i did not live long enough to maintain their own well-earned reputations

• as objectionable citizens. Thus Hickory Sam reigned supreme in Salt

Lick, and everyone in the place was willing and eager to standx treat

to Sam, or to drink with him when invited.

Sam's chief place of resort in Salt Lick was the Hades Saloon, kept by Mike Davlin.

Mike had not originally intended this to be the title of his bar, having at first named it

after a little liquor cellar he kept in his early days in Philadelphia, called "The Shades,''

but some cowboy humourist, particular about the eternal fitness of things, had scraped out

the letter " S," and so the sign over the door had been allowed to remain. Mike did not

grumble. He had taken a keen interest in politics in Philadelphia, but an unexpected

spasm of civic virtue having overtaken the city some years before, Davlin had been made a

victim, and he was forced to leave suddenly for the West, where there were no politics, and

where a man handy at mixing drinks was looked upon as a boon by the rest of the

community. Mike did not grumble when even the name " Hades " failed to satisfy the

boys in their thirst for appropriate nomenclature, and when they took to calling the place

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America by Robert Barr.

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

by a shorter and terser synonym beginning

with the same letter, he made no objection.

Mike was an adaptive man, who mixed

drinks, but did not mix in rows. He pro-

tected himself by not keeping a revolver, and

by admitting that he could not hit his own

saloon at twenty yards distance. A residence

in the quiet city of Philadelphia is not con-

ducive to the nimbling of the trigger finger.

When the boys in the exuberance of theirspirits

began to shoot, Mike promptly ducked under

his counter and waited till the clouds of

smoke rolled by. He sent in a bill for

broken glass, bottles, and the damage gener-

ally, when his guests were sober again, and

his accounts were always paid. Mike was a

deservedly popular citizen in Salt Lick, and

might easily have been elected to the United

States Congress, if he had dared go east

again. But, as he himself said, he was out

of politics.

It was the pleasant custom of the cowboys

at Buller's ranch to come into Salt Lick on

pay days and close up the town. These

periodical visits did little harm to any one,

and seemed to be productive of much amuse-

ment for the boys. They rode at full gallop

through the one street of the place like a

troop of cavalry, yelling at the top of their

voices and brandishing their weapons.

The first raid through Salt Lick was merely

a warning, and all peaceably inclined in-

habitants took it as such, retiring forthwith

to the seclusion of their houses. On their

return trip the boys winged or lamed, with

unerring aim, anyone found in the street.

They seldom killed a wayfarer; if a fatality

ensued it was usually the result of accident,

and much to the regret of the boys, who

always apologised handsomely to the sur-

viving relatives, which expression of regret

was generally received in the amicable spirit

with which it was tendered. There was none

of the rancour of the vendetta in these little

encounters; if a man happened to be blotted

out, it was his ill luck, that was all, and there

was rarely any thought of reprisal.

This perhaps was largely due to the fact

that the community was a shifting one, and

few had any near relatives about them, for,

although the victim might have friends, they

seldom held him in such esteem as to be

willing to take up his quarrel when there was

a bullet hole through him. Relatives, how-

ever, are often more difficult to deal with

than are friends, in cases of sudden death,

and this fact was recognised by Hickory Sam,

who, when he was compelled to shoot the

younger Holt brother in Mike's saloon,

promptly went, at some personal inconveni-

ence, and assassinated the elder, before John

Holt heard the news. As Sam explained to

Mike when he returned, he had no quarrel

with John Holt, but merely killed him in the

interests of peace, for he would have been

certain to dra,w and probably shoot several

citizens when he heard of his brother's death,

because, for some unexplained reason, the

brothers were fond of each other.

THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK.

329

door, threw it open and walked out to the

middle of the deserted thoroughfare.

" I'm a bad man from Way Back," he

yelled at the top of his voice. " I'm the

toughest cuss in Coyote county, and no

darned greasers from Buller's can close up

this town when I'm in it. You hear me !

Salt Lick's wide open, and I'm standing in

the street to prove it."

It was bad enough to have the town

declared open when fifteen of them in a body

Sam made good his contention by nipping

the heart of the champion when opposite the

bank, who plunged forward on his face and

threw the cavalcade into confusion. Then

Sam stood up, and regardless of the scattering

shots, fired with both revolvers, killing the

foremost man of the troop and slaughtering

three horses, which instantly changed the

charge into a rout. He then retired to Hades

and barricaded the door. Mike was nowhere

to be seen.

They went down the street like a tornado.

had proclaimed it closed, but in addition to

this to be called " greasers " was an insult not

to be borne. A cowboy despises a Mexican

almost as much as he does an Indian. With

a soul-terrifying yell the fifteen were out of the

saloon and on their horses like a cyclone.

They went down the street like a tornado,

wheeling about some distance below the

temporarily closed bank, and, charging up

again at full gallop, fired repeatedly in the

direction of Hickory Sam, who was crouching

behind an empty whiskey barrel in front of

the saloon with a " gun " in either hand.

Voi. I.—22.

But the boys knew when they had enough.

They made no attack on the saloon, but

picked up their dead, and, thoroughly sobered,

made their way, much more slowly than they

came, back to Buller's ranch.

When it was evident that they had gone,

Mike cautiously emerged from his place of

retirement, as Sam was vigorously pounding

on the bar threatening that if a drink were

not forthcoming he would go round behind

the bar and help himself.

" I'm a law and order man," he explained

to Davlin, " and I won't have no toughs

33°

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Then Sam stood up regardless of the scattering shots.

from Buller's ranch close up this town, and

interfere with commerce. Every man has

got to respect the Constitution of the United

States as long as my gun can bark, you bet

your life !"

Mike hurriedly admitted that he was per-

fectly right, and asked him what he would

have, forgetting in his agitation that Sam

took one thing only, and that one thing

straight.

Next day old Buller himself came in from

his ranch to see if anything could be done

about this latest affray. It was bad enough

to lose two of his best herdsmen in a foolish

contest of this kind, but to have three trained

horses killed as well, was disgusting. Buller

had been one of the boys himself in his

young days, but now, having grown wealthy

in the cattle business, he was anxious to see

civilisation move westward with strides a

little more rapid than it was taking. He

made the mistake of appealing to the Sheriff,

as if that worthy man could be expected, for

the small salary he received, to attempt the

arrest of so dead a shot as Hickory Sam.

Besides, as the Sheriff quite correctly

pointed out, the boys themselves had been

the aggressors in the first place, and if

fifteen of them could not take care of one

man behind an empty whiskey barrel, they

had better remain peaceably at home in the

future, and do their pistol practice in the

quiet, innocuous retirement of a shooting

gallery. They surely could not expect the

strong arm of the law in the person of a

peaceably-minded Sheriff to reach out and

pull their chestnuts from the fire when

several of them had already burned their

fingers, and when the chestnuts shot and

drank as straight as Hickory Sam.

Buller, finding the executive portion of the

law slow and reluctant to move, sought

advice from his own lawyer, the one disciple

of Coke-upon-Littleton in the place. The

lawyer doubted if there was any legal remedy

in the then condition of society around Salt

Lick. The safest plan perhaps would be—

mind, be did not advise, but merely suggested

—to surround Hickory Sam and wipe

him off the face of the earth. This might

THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK.

331

not be strictly according to law, but it

would be effective, if carried out without an

error.

The particulars of Buller's interview wjth

the Sheriff spread rapidly in Salt Lick, and

caused great indignation among the residents

thereof, especially those who frequented

Hades. It was a reproach to the place that

the law should be invoked, all on account of

a trivial incident like that of the day before.

Sam, who had been celebrating his victory at

Mike's, heard the news with bitter, if some-

what silent resentment, for he had advanced

so far in his cups that he was all but speech-

less. Being a magnanimous man, he would

have been quite content to let bygones be

bygones, but this unjustifiable action of

Buller's required prompt and effectual chas-

tisement. He would send the wealthy ranch-

man to keep company with his slaughtered

herdsmen.

Thus it was that when Buller mounted his

horse after his futile visit to the lawyer, he

found Hickory Sam holding the street with

his guns. The fusillade that followed was

without result, which disappointing termina-

tion is accounted for by the fact that Sam

was exceedingly drunk at the time, and the

ranchman was out of practice. Seldom had

Salt Lick seen so much powder burnt with no

damage except to the window-glass in the

vicinity. Buller went back to the lawyer's

office, and afterwards had an interview with

the bank manager. Then he got quietly out

of town unmolested, for Sam, weeping over

the inaccuracy of his aim on Mike's shoulder,

gradually sank to sleep in a corner of the

saloon.

Next morning, when Sam woke to tem-

porary sobriety, he sent word to the ranch

that he would shoot old Buller on sight, and,

at the same time, he apologised for the

previous eccentricities of his fire, promising

that such an annoying exhibition should not

occur again. He signed himself " The

•Terror of Salt Lick, and the Champion of

Law and Order."

It was rumoured that old Buller, when he

returned to the lawyer's office, had made his

will, and that the bank manager had witnessed

it. This supposed action of Buller was taken

as a most delicate compliment to Hickory

Sam's determination and marksmanship, and

he was justly proud of the work he had

thrown into the lawyer's hands.

A week passed before old Buller came to

Salt Lick, but when he came, Hickory Sam

was waiting for him, and this time the

desperado was not drunk, that is to say, he

had not had more than half a dozen glasses

of forty rod that morning.

When the rumour came to Hades that old

Buller was approaching the town on horse-

- back and alone, Sam at once bet the drinks

that he would fire but one shot, and so, in a'

measure, atone for the ineffectual racket he

had made on the occasion of the previous

encounter. The crowd stood by, in safe

332

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

who voluntarily held up his hands and kept

them up, was murder, even on the plains.

Sam looked savagely around him, glaring

at the crowd that shrank away from him, the

smoking pistol hanging muzzle downward

from his hand.

" It's all a trick. He had a shooting-iron

in his boot. I see the butt of it sticking out.

That's why I fired."

" I'm not saying nothin'," said Mike, as

the fierce glance of Hickory rested on him,

" 'tain't any affair of mine."

" Yes, it is," cried Hickory.

" Why, I didn't have nothin' to do with

it," protested the saloon keeper.

" No. But you've got somethin' to do

with it now. What did we elect you coroner

fur, I'd like to know ? You've got to hustle

around and panel your jury an' bring in a

verdict of accidental death or something of

that sort. Bring any sort or kind of verdict

that'll save trouble in future. I believe in law

and order, I do, an' I like to see things done

regular."

" But we didn't have no jury for them cow-

boys," said Mike.

" Well, cowboys is different. It didn't so

much matter about them. Still, it oughter

been done, even with cowboys, if we were

more'n half civilised. Nothin' like havin'

things down on the record straight and ship-

shape. Now some o' you fellows help me in

with the body, and Mike 'll panel his jury in

three shakes."

There is nothing like an energetic public-

spirited man for reducing chaos to order.

Things began to assume their normal attitude,

and the crowd began to look to Sam for in-

struction. He seemed to understand the

etiquette of these occasions, and those present

felt that they were ignorant and inexperienced

compared with him.

The body was laid out on a bench in the

room at the back of the saloon, while the jury

and the spectators were accommodated with

such seats as the place afforded, Hickory Sam

himself taking an elevated position on the top

of a barrel, where he could, as it were, pre-

side over the arrangements. It was vaguely

felt by those present that Sam bore no malice

towards the deceased, and this was put down

rather to his credit.

" I think," said the coroner, looking

hesitatingly up at Sam, with an expression

which showed he was quite prepared to

withdraw his proposal if it should prove

inappropriate, " I think we might have the

lawyer over here. He knows how these

things should be done, and he's the only

man in Salt Lick that's got a Bible to swear

the jury on. I think they ought to be

sworn."

" That's a good idea," concurred Sam.

" One of you run across for him, and tell

him to bring the Book. Nothing like havin'

these things regular and proper and accordin'

to law."

The lawyer had heard of the catastrophe,

THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK.

333

fifty thousand dollars in greenbacks, then

deposited in the Coyote County Bank at Salt

Lick. The testator had reason to suspect

that a desperado named Hickory Sam (real

name or designation unknown) had designs

on the testator's life. In case these designs

were successful, the whole of this money was

to go to the person or persons who succeeded

in removing this scoundrel from the face

of the earth. In case the Sheriff

arrested the said Hickory Sam and he

was tried and executed, the money was

to be divided between the Sheriff

and those who assisted in the

capture. If any man on his own

responsibility shot and killed

the said Hickory Sam,

the fifty thousand

dollars became

his sole

property, and

died down, becoming in a measure forced

and mechanical. The lawyer methodically

folded up his papers. As some of the jury

glanced down at the face of the dead man

who had originated this financial scheme of

would be handed

over to him by

the bank mana-

ger, in whom Mr.

Buller expressed

every confidence, as

soon as the slayer of

Hickory Sam proved

the deed to the

satisfaction of the mana-

ger. In every case the

bank manager had full

control of the disposal of

the fund, and could pay it in

bulk, or divide it among those

who had succeeded in eliminating from a

contentious world one of its most contentious

members.

The amazed silence which followed the

reading of this document was broken by a

loud j°ering and defiant laugh from the man

on the barrel. He laughed long, but no one

joined him, and, as he noticed this, his hilarity

'

Sam looked savagely around him. . . .

the smoking pistol hanging muzzle

downward from his hand.

post mortem vengeance, they almost fancied

thes- saw a malicious leer about the half open

eyes and lips. An awed whisper ran round

the assemblage. Each man said to the other

under his breath : " Fif—ty—thous—and—

334

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

dollars," as if the dwelling on each syllable

made the total seem larger. The same

thought was in every man's mind ; a clean,

cool little fortune merely for the crooking of

a fore-finger and the correct levelling of a

pistol barrel.

The lawyer had silently taken his departure.

Sam, soberer than he had been for many

days, slid down from the barrel, and, with his

hand on the butt of his gun, sidled, his back

against the wall, towards the door. No one

raised a finger to stop him; all sat there

watching him as if they were hypnotised.

He was no longer a man in their eyes, but

the embodiment of a sum to be earned in a

moment, for which thousands worked hard

all their lives, often in vain, to accumulate.

Sam's brair. on a problem was not so

quick as his finger on a trigger, but it began

to filter slowly into his mind that he was now

face to face with a danger against which his

pistol was powerless. Heretofore, roughly

speaking, nearly everybody had been his

friend; now the hand of the world was

against him, with a most powerful motive

for being against him; a motive which he

himself could understand. For a mere

fraction of fifty thousand dollars he would

kill anybody, so long as the deed could be

done with reasonable safety to himself. Why

then should any man stay his hand against

him with such a reward hanging over his

head ? As Sam retreated backwards from

among his former friends they saw in his

eyes what they had never seen there before,

something that was not exactly fear, but a

look of furtive suspicion against the whole

human race.

Out in the open air once again Sam

breathed more freely. He must get away

from Salt Lick, and that quickly. Once on

the prairie he could make up his mind what

the next move was to be. He kept his re-

volver in his hand, not daring to put it into

its holster. Every sound made him jump,

and he was afraid to stand in the open, yet

he could not remain constantly with his back

to the wall. Poor Buller's horse, fully

accoutred, cropped the grass by the side of

the road. To be a horse-thief was, of course,

worse than to be a murderer, but there was no

help for it; without the horse escape was

impossible. He secured the animal with but

little trouble, and sprang upon its back.

As he mounted, a shot rang out from the

saloon. Sam whirled around in the saddle,

but no one was to be seen; nothing but a

thin film of pistol smoke melting in the air

above the open door. The rider fired twice

into the empty doorway, then with a threat,

turned towards the open country and galloped

away, and Salt Lick was far behind him when

night fell. He tethered his horse and threw

himself down on the grass, but dared not

sleep. For all he knew, his pursuers might

be within a few rods of where he lay, for he

was certain they would be on his trail as soon

as they knew he had left Salt Lick. The

THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK.

335

first night was due to the fact that his pur-

suers would naturally have looked for him

near some water-course, and not on the open

prairie.

Ten days later, Mike Davlin was awakened

at three in the morning, to find standing by

his bed a gaunt, haggard living skeleton,

holding a candle in one

hand, and pointing a

cocked revolver at Mike's

head with the other.

" Get up," said the

apparition hoarsely, " and

get me something to eat

and drink. Drink first,

and be quick about it.

Make no noise. Is there

anybody else in the

house ?"

" No," said Mike,

shivering. " You wait

here, Sam, and I'll bring

you something. I thought

you were among the

Indians, or in Mexico, or

in the Bad Lands long

ago."

" I'm in bad lands enough here. I'll go

with you. I'm not going to let you out of my

sight, and no tricks, mind, or you know what

will happen."

" Surely you trust me, Sam," whined Mike,

getting up.

" I don't trust any living man. Who fired

that shot at me when I was leaving ?"

" So help me," protested Mike, " I dunno.

I wasn't in the bar at the time. I can prove

I wasn't. Yer not looking well, Sam."

" Blister you for a slow dawdler, you'd not

look well either, if you had no sleep for a

week and was starved into the bargain. Get

a move on you."

Sam ate like a wild beast what was set

before him, and although he took a stiff glass

of whiskey and water at the beginning, he

now drank sparingly. He laid the revolver

on the table at his elbow, and made Mike sit

opposite him. When the ravenous meal was

finished, he pushed the plate from him and

looked across at Davlin.

" When I said I didn't trust you, Mike, I

was a liar. I do, an' I'll prove it. When it's

your interest to befriend a man, you'll do it

every time."

" I will that," said Mike, not quite com-

prehending what the other

had said.

" Now listen to me,

Mike, and be sure you

He's done for," said the foreman.

do exactly as I tell you. Go to where the

bank manager lives and rouse him up as I

roused you. He'll not be afraid when he

sees it's you. Tell him you've got me over

in the saloon, and that I've come to rob

the bank of that fifty thousand dollars.

Say that I'm desperate and can't be taken

short of a dozen lives, and there is no lie in

336

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

think of that before ? The Bank Manager is

in Austin."

. " What the blazes is he doing there ? "

" He took the money with him to put it in

the Austin Bank. He left the day after you

did, for he said the only chance you had was

to get that money. You might have done

this the night you left, but not since."

" That's straight, is it ? " said Sam sus-

piciously.

"It's God's truth I'm speaking," asserted

Mike earnestly. " You can find that out for

yourself in the morning. Nobody'll molest

ye. Yer jus' dead beat for want o' sleep, I

can see that. Go up stairs and go to bed.

I'll keep watch and not a soul 'll know you're

here."

Hickory Sam's shoulders sank when he

heard the money was gone, and a look of

despair came into his half closed eyes. He

sat thus for a few moments unheeding the

other's advice, then with an effort shook off

his lethargy.

" No," he said at last, " I won't go to bed.

I'd like to enrich you, Mike, but that would

be too easy. Cut me off some slices of this

cold meat and put them between chunks of

bread. I want a three days' supply, and a

bottle of whiskey."

Mike did as requested, and at Sam's orders

attended to his horse. It was still dark,

but there was a suggestion of the coming day

in the eastern sky. Buller's horse was as

jaded and as fagged out as its rider. As

Sam, stooping like an old man, rode away,

Mike hurried to his bedroom, noiselessly

opened the window, and pointed at the back

of the dim retreating man a shot-gun, loaded

with slugs. He could hardly have missed'

killing both horse and man if he had had the

courage to fire, but his hand trembled, and

the drops of perspiration stood on his brow.

He knew that if he missed this time, there

would be no question in Sam's mind about

who fired the shot. Resting the gun on the

ledge and keeping his eye along the barrel,

he had not the nerve to pull the trigger. At

last the retreating figure disappeared, and

with it Mike's chance of a fortune. He drew

in the gun, and softly closed the window,

with a long o of regret.

Sidney F :rom Detroit when

he received the telegram that announced his

uncle's death and told him he was heir to the

ranch. He was thirty years younger than his

uncle had been at the time of his tragic death,

and he bore a remarkable likeness to the old

man; that is, a likeness more than striking,

when it was remembered that one had lived

all his life in a city, while the other had spent

most of his days on the plains. The young

man had seen the Sheriff on his arrival,

expecting to find that active steps had been

taken towards the arrest of the murderer.

The Sheriff assured him that nothing more

effective could be done than what had been

done by the dead man himself in leaving

fifty thousand dollars to the killer of Hickory

THE SHADOW OF ThE GREENBACK.

337

walked on; the man's head rested on the

horse's mane. The horse came up to Sidney,

thrusting its nose out to him, whinnying

gently, as if it knew him.

" Hallo! " cried Sidney, shaking the man

by the shoulder, " what's the matter ? Are

you hurt ?"

Instantly the desperado was wide awake,

sitting bolt upright, and staring at Sidney

with terrified recognition in his eyes. He

raised his right hand, but the pistol had

evidently dropped from it when he, overcome

by fatigue, and drowsy after his enormous

meal, had fallen asleep. He flung himself

off, keeping the animal between himself and

his supposed enemy, pulled the other

revolver and fired at Sidney across the

plunging horse. Before he could fire again,

Sidney, who was an athlete, brought down

the loaded head of his cane on the pistol

wrist of the ruffian, crying:

"Don't fire, you fool, I'm not going to

hurt you!"

As the revolver fell to the ground Sam

sprang savagely at the throat of the young

man, who, stepping back, struck his assailant

a much heavier blow than he intended. The

leaden knob of the stick fell on Sam's

temple, and he dropped as if shot. Alarmed

at the effect of his blow, Sidney tore open

the unconscious man's shirt, and tried to get

him to swallow some of the whiskey from

the bottle he found in his pocket. Appalled

to find all his efforts unavailing, he sprang

on the horse and rode to the stables for help.

The foreman coming out, cried: " Good

heavens, Mr. Buller, that's the old man's

horse. Where did you get him ? Well,

Jerry, old fellow," he continued, patting

the horse, who whinnied affectionately,

" they've been using you badly, and you've

come home to be taken care of. Where

did you find him, Mr. Buller?"

" Out on the prairie, and I'm afraid I've

killed the man who was riding him. God

knows, I didn't intend to; but he fired at me,

and I hit harder than I thought."

Sidney and the foreman ran out together

to where Jerry's late rider lay on the

grass.

" He's done for," said the foreman, bend-

ing over the prostrate figure, but taking the

precaution to have a revolver in his hand.

" He's got his dose, thank God. This is the

man who murdered your uncle. Think of

him being knocked over with a city cane, and

think of the old man's revenge money coming

back to the family again ! "

BETWEEN THE LIGHTS.

VESTURED and veiled with twilight,

Lulled in the winter's ease;

Dim, and happy, and.,silent,

My garden dreams by its trees.

Urn of the sprayless fountain,

Glimmering Nymph and Faun,

Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar,

Fade on the dusky lawn.

BY

NORMAN GALE.

„<

THE CLERK'S CHILD.

AT the mother's heart the new-born guest

Found milk for his faring, milk and rest;

The mother cooed to her sleeping joy,

The heir of the house, the longed-for boy.

But Death at the afternoon came in,

Sof1-footed, sudden, as dark as sin.

While the father bent at the desk for bread,

A pang and a crs—and his son was dead.

Copyright, 1896, in the United Slain oj America, by Xorman Gale.

O pains of a mother, borne so long.

Borne with a smile and borne with a song,

Willingly suffered if she could give

Life to a baby that might not live !

Only the half of a week to rest

The goldening head! With peace in his

breast

The father thinks, as he toils for bread,

Of wife and son. But his son is dead.

However he works he thinks of this—

The morn brings worry, the night brings bliss,

Because he shall travel home to them

Who are making for him his Bethlehem.

Over and over the inky sheet

He hears the gossip of learning feet;

And this of his thoughts the kingly one—•

The wife is a mother, the child is a son.

Him will I love with a love as near

To God's for me as a man may bear;

Evermore reading upon his face

Heavenly characters, tokens of grace.

Full soon as a minstrel on my knee

Shall he set the tune of the house's glee ;

Soon in the pink and the pansy bed

Pluck at his whim. But the boy is dead.

Who shall reveal, when he comes at night,

His deep eyes full of that loving light ?

But, as the womenfolk wailed and wept,

The news from God to the husband leapt.

Homeward he went, and he saw his child,

The innocent face so still and mild;

" I had a message from God," he said,

" Uncover yeur eyes. Our son is dead."

The wife lay mute. 'Twas the need of lips

Ached from her neck to her finger-tips,

So willing the cheated breast to greet

The pinch of the mouth had found it sweet.

Never a moan for herself she made,

And never a tear her woe betrayed;

This of her grief was the utterest pain,

That her husband had no son again.

The father bent to his son so cold,

And the look of the man was grey and old;

The husband turned to the mother's place,

And kissed his courage upon her face.

" Wife of mine, we have lived with bliss,

Loving and company, song and kiss ;

Still is joy left though a joy be lost,

For Time takes much, but never the most..

" Greybeard Time, that is mute as a ghost,

Takes from us much, but never the most;

And some of the better always clings

Close to the worst that misfortune brings.

So, cheer up. Love ! There's a golden view

Opening still for me and for you,

If in His mercy the Comforter rouse

Good in our bosoms, and dwell in the house."

By WALTER BESANT and W. H. POLLOCK.

PHILIP AINSLIE, Fellow and Lecturer, Christ's

College, Cambridge.

JAMES SEVENOKE, Country Gentleman.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

ELEANOR INGRESS

American School

HT -c-

MAMIE ELGOOD )

Teachers.

ACT I.

Evening. Drawing-room of Deru1entwater Hotel. French windows to the ground. Viav of

lake through the windows, which open on a lawn. Door on R.

ELEANOR and MAMIE discovered. ELEANOR sitting with her hands crossed, looking at the lake.

MAMIE at window.

MAMIE. Our last evening, dear. To-morrow that hateful Liverpool. Then the transit,

and then

ELEANOR. Then to work again—the schoolroom and the children. Well, Mamie, we've

had a lovely holiday; there can never, never, never happen such another.

MAMIE. London is a kind of mirage. We saw many people—interesting and otherwise—

but we never got to know them. Chester—ah! that was splendid as a historical

place. And the cathedrals! Oh! And the castles. Oh ! They were delightful.

And the Lakes—Oh ! the last fortnight at the Lakes! Oh! shall we ever, ever,

ever forget Grasmere, and Llewellyn, and Rydal Water ? (Clasps her hands.)

ELEANOR (sighs). Impossible.

.MAMIE. And (stealing across the room, and bending over ELEANOR) shall we ever, ever,

ever forget what made that fortnight so delightful ? (ELEANOR is silent.) Did ever

two simple American girls have such an adventure before ? To make the acquaint-

ance of two young men—and such young men—and to go about with them

.ELEANOR. Mamie, dear, don't say "go about" with them. It so happened that their route

fell in with ours.

MAMIE. Yes, dear, that is exactly what I meant. Their route fell in with ours. Very

strange it was. Mr. Sevenoke often remarked upon the curious coincidence. Come

now, Eleanor, shall we readily forget these^strangers ?

Copyri9ht, 1896, in the United States of America by IV. Besant and W. H. Foilock.
PEER AND HEIRESS.

345

ELEANOR (rises and walks to the piano). I don't want to forget them. (Sits down and plays.

Mamie goes to window and looks out. Eleanor drops her face in her hands.

Springs to her feet; brushes away the tears.) Why should we ? I don't want

ever to forget them, Mamie. How should we forget them ? We are simple, casual

acquaintances. Only it has been a great happiness to learn what a pleasant creature

an English gentleman may be.

MAMIE. Yes, a great happiness. And now it is all over.

ELEANOR. Yes, it is all over.

MAMIE. They won't desert us on our very last evening, will they ? Oh ! it would be too

unkind.

(Enter WAITER with tray.) The gentlemen ordered coffee in here.

MAMIE (with dignity). Thank you. (Exit WAITER.) What did I tell you ?

(Enter, by the window, PHILIP AINSLIE and JAMES SEVENOKE in morning dress.)

MAMIE (offers coffee). Will you have coffee, Nelly ? Mr. Sevenoke, coffee ? Mr. Ainslie ?

(Ainslie declines. Waits on Eleanor. Takes her cup and puts it back in tray. He stands beiide

her in the window, and they talk earnestly. James Sevenoke and Mamie go down stage.)

JAMES. Is it possible, Miss Elgood, that you are really going to leave us to-morrow ?

MAMIE. It is not only possible, Mr. Sevenoke, it is quite certain. We have secured our

cabin and we have to start at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon. This day week we

shall be back again in New York. (Sighs.)

JAMES. You take back with you, Miss Mamie, I hope,

some pleasant remembrances. You will take with you,

too, a broken heart. Oh! don't look surprised. Mine

has gone into little bits. I wish you'd stick them

together again.

MAMIE. Shall I thank you, Mr. Sevenoke, for the present

of a worthless article ? I believe you once told me thai

you were engaged to—what was her name ? Hadn t

you better ask her about the sticking together ?

JAMES. Ah ! but if I were not engaged.

MAMIE. If I such virtue—or is it the other

thing?—in that if. But as things are we wi l

just go on being friends, and I shall carry

away not the snippets of a heart, but the

recollection of a time that has been very

pleasant—I suppose because the Lake country

is so lovely.

JAMES. I have felt myself the strange

beauty of the country. That alone,

of course, has made the last fortnight

the most delightful to me I have ever

known.

MAMIE. Shall you tell your fiancee how

much you enjoyed the—beauty of

the country ?

JAMES. My fiancee! I had to get en-

gaged to her—my father was her

guardian, and—well—I don't know

if

.,„. »,«u «*-«;, pM«j.-««»fc«-3to~.sn»«»..)- MAMIE. Yes-I quite understand. And

vol. 1.-ae.
34"

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

PHILIP.

ELEANOR

PHILIP.

ELEANOR

PHILIP.

ELEANOR

PHILIP.

ELEANOR

now no more nonsense. Shall we go out on the lawn and see the sun set in the

water ? It's better than talking about hearts and snippets—isn't it ?

(They go up stage and leave the room by the window. By this time ELEANOR

iZW/PHILIP, who have been talking earnestly, have left the window and she is sitting at

the piano. He stands over her.)

The days have gone like a dream. It seems impossible that I have been n lal e- •

land—with you-—a whole fortnight.

It is a charming country, Mr. Ainslie. I shall never forget the lakes and the

mountains. There are lakes and mountains in our own country much bigger, but

scarce so lovely.

Will you remember sometimes, Miss Ingress, your companions in this place ?

I shall always remember—both of you, Mr. Ainslie.

I wish I could have shown you Cambridge and—if you would care to see them

—my rooms. You know that I am a lecturer in my college. It is not a way of

life that brings riches—but it brings a sufficiency—if I could only show you Cam-

bridge—and my place in it.

Alas ! Mr. Ainslie, it is impossible. I do not suppose that I shall ever again

get over here.

Never again ? Oh ! But the journey is so very short—it is nothing.

If it is nothing, Mr. Ainslie, why do you not cross the ocean to see the States ?

PHILIP (eagerly). Yes, yes. Tell me where I

can find you—give me an address.

Let me write to you, Miss Ingress-—

let me— (he sees Mamie and yames

outside, and stands up). You will give

me your address, Miss Ingress ?

ELEANOR. I will write it for you. (They cross

the room to the table where there are

writing materials. She sits down and

takes pen and paper.) There, Mr.

Ainslie, a letter to this address will

always be forwarded to me. And now,

if you please, I will, get my hat and we

will go out into the garden with the

others. (Exit.)

PHILIP (left alone). I must speak to her this

very night. I will not wait to write—I

will make her mine before she leaves

the country. (Kisses the paper.) She

is a queen! She is a goddess! (Goes

to window, meets y ames and Mamie

coming back.)

Where is Eleanor, Mr. Ainslie ?

She has gone for her hat, I believe.

MAMIE.

PHILIP.

[She is tisting at the piano. He stands o-rcr her.)

(Exit PHILIP into the garden.)

MAMIE. I will go for mine too. It is getting chilly outside.

JAMES. Miss Elgood.

MAMIE. Mr. Sevenoke.

JAMES. Don't you think, Miss Elgood, that it would be a kindness to let these two
PEER AND HEIRESS

347

go out in the boat by themselves ? We can watch the sunset effect from the shore,

you know. With a cigarette, perhaps.

MAMIE. If you promise to talk no more nonsense about broken hearts. Because you

see, Mr. Sevenoke, if you were serious I should be a very wicked person to listen

to a man already engaged. And, honestly, hearts are not things to chaff about.

JAMES. I obey, because I must. I will do it with a good grace, and only ask if there is

anything I could do for you to make these too fleeting hours flit pleasantly ?

MAMIE. Thank you very much, Mr. Sevenoke. If you could give us your

society and Mr. Ainslie's for another week or two it would be pleasant.

But you can't. We like you both very much. (Offershim her hand.)

Now, in good camaraderie, no more about hearts. (They shake

hands.) We are brother and sister.

JAMES. Ah ! no ! I'm hanged if we are.

MAMIE. Well—cousins?

JAMES. Very distant ones. But look here, Miss Elgood, I do so

want to do something for you before we—-part. Oh! it's an

absurd thing for a poor English country squire to say to an

American millionaire—but you know what I mean.

MAMIE. We are not all millionaires in America, Mr. Sevenoke—

at least, I am not. (Aside.) Now Til just try him. (Aloud.)

Of course, poor Eleanor is, but she can't help it. You

wouldn't think so to look at her, a millionaire.

JAMES. On the contrary, I suspected it from the beginning,

because she's such good form. What is it? Silver

mines ? Corners in cotton ?

MAMIE. Nitrate of petroleum, or something. The dollars

come rolling in faster than anybody can count them—a

thousand a minute, I believe.

JAMES. Oh! (Aside.) What will Ainslie say ?

MAMIE. Yes. No end to the dollars. Don't tell Mr. Ainslie.

(Aside.) But he is sure to tell him!

JA.MES. I won't. A millionaire! Well, I'm sorry. I hoped for

better things. Yet it is something to have spent a fortnight in

company with a millionaire.

MAMIE. Oh! that's nothing. We think very little of millionaires.

Now, Mr. Sevenoke, if you could only show me a real live lord !

JAMES. A real live lord ? Why ?

MAMIE. Well, you see, we expected to see them standing about at railway stations, and

the people going on their knees to them, and we haven't seen one, except now and

again afar off.

JAMES (aside). I will just try her. (Aloud.) Not seen one close ? Oh! but (mysteriously whispers)

don't you know ? (Points to Ainslie, who is outside the window.) Of course, I was not

to tell you—but—well—Philip Ainslie, you know. You are going away to-morrow

MAMIE. Mr. Ainslie ? What about him ?

SEVEXOKE. Why, he is a real live lord. He travels incog. He is the Right Honourable

Philip, Earl of Carleon, Viscount Cader Idris, and Baron Barmouth. Ainslie is

only his family name-

MAMIE. A real—live—lord! Oh! Is he really? A prodigal, profligate, abandoned.

steeped-in-wickedness lord ?

SEVEXOKE. All noble lords are profligates except Philip. He isn't. He is the one

excep'.ion. Hush ! Don't tell anyone. Here is Miss Ingress.

(He goes up stage and stands at the icindou: looking out.)

{KUUI iiu
34«

PEARSON'S MAGAZINK

" Eleanor Ingress ! we have been

deceived."

Is the other man a noble lord, too ?

MAMIE (catches Eleanor by the arm, and drags her

to the front). "Well! Well! Eleanor

Ingress ! we have been deceived.

ELEANOR. How, dear ? Who has deceived us ?

MAMIE. We must never—never—never trust

an Englishman again—Mr. Ainslie has

deceived us!

ELEANOR. What of Mr. Ainslie ?

MAMIE. He isn't Mister at all. He is the

Right Honourable Philip, Earl of

Carleon, Viscount Cader Idris, and

Baron Barmouth ! There ! !

ELEANOR. Nonsense ! Who told you i"

MAMIE. Mr. Sevenoke. I wasn't to tell anybody.

Don't let it go any further, Eleanor.

ELEANOR. Oh! Mamie! And I thought—

Mamie! he does not know who and

what we are. We have perhaps deceived

him. He must be told that we are two

school teachers taking a holiday for

health. Fortunately, we go away to-

morrow. Oh! Mamie, dear, I'm so sorry.

MAMIE. No, he's only a gentleman.

ELEANOR. Mamie! It must be the most miserable thing—the most soul-destroying thing—

to be- a noble lord, to have all this respect paid to you for nothing—for nothing at

all. Oh! I am so sorry—I am so sorry for Mr. Ainslie. Let us go to our own

room, Mamie. I cannot go out with him any

more. It was a pleasant dream—while it was a

dream.

An Earl and a Viscount and a Baron!

Oh, Nell! the double—triple—the sextuple

duplicity of the man ! (Exeunt girls.)

(SEVENOKE looks in.) Where are they ? Gone out by the

other door. (Comes down the stage.) I suppose

Mamie has told her. I wonder how she'll take it.

(Enter PHILIP.) Where are the girls, Jem ?

SEVENOKE. I don't know. Thought they were

in the garden with you. Come here,

old man, I've got something to tell you.

(Philip comes down stage.) Look here,

Miss Ingress-—you rather like Miss

Ingress, don't you ?

AINSLIE. Rather! Well, yes—yes—I do, as

you say—I do—I rather like her. Yes.

SEVENOKE. What do you think she is ? Mamie

has just told me.

AINSLIE. A gentlewoman of the United States.

What better could she be ?

SEVENOKE. That, of course. She is also, old

chap, a mllionaire—as much as they

make 'em—rolling and swimming in

Eleanor millionaire?" dollars.

MAMIE.
PEER AND HEIRESS.

349

AINSLIE. A millionaire ? Eleanor a millionaire?

SEVENOKE (nods his head). Million—millionnaire—millionissima—three degrees of com-

parison in millions.

AINSLIE. A millionaire! She must think that I wanted her money. What a horrible

thing—what a miserable thing—it must be to be so rich as to receive all this respect

for nothing—just nothing at all of one's own doing ! I am very sorry. (Takes the

address she had given him.) I am very sorry indeed—for Miss Ingress. (Tears up

the paper.) There's an end, Jem. It was a pleasant dream—while it was a dream.

(Enter the two girls—without their hats. MAMIE remains near the door. SEVENOKE

walks up stage as if to join her. She puts up her hand—he remains standing still.

ELEANOR walks over to PHILIP, who gloomily keeps his eyes fixed on the floor?)

ELEANOR. We have come to say good-bye, Mr. Ainslie—I suppose I may continue to call

you by that name. There can be no question of any letters to me, if you please.

It is always best, don't you think, to let the whole truth appear at once ? However,

perhaps you meant kindly—so—good-bye, Mr. Ainslie.

" I must shake hands, Mr. Scvenoke."

AINSLIE (g1ves her his hand). Good-bye, Miss Ingress. Had I known earlier—had things

been explained

ELEANOR. And had I known earlier. But, thank you for your kindness to two insignificant

American girls—and again—farewell! (Bows and retires. ) Come, Mamie.

MAMIE. I must shake hands, Mr. Sevenoke. And oh, I am so sorry ! Oh, why did you

tell me ? Why ? Why ? (Bursts into tears and ex1t.)

AINSLIE. Jem—why did you tell me ? Why ?

SEVENOKE. Look here, old chap ! I've never been in an earthquake—but

(Curtain as they look blanklv at each other.)

ACT II.

The hall of the Cliftonville Hotel fac1ng the Falls of Niagara. Visitors at hotel sit and pass

to and fro. Hotel clerk is writing a letter.

(If there be no scenery obtainable the scene can be the hall of a hotel in America in

summer.)

MAMIE comes on (sketch book in hand). So I have done a good afternoon's work sitting on that
350

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

stand and painting. Oh! how the water raced at my feet, tearing along for the

grand leap of two hundred feet. (Black waiter brings her a letter.) • Thank you. (Sits

down on chair in front, opens letter.) That's right, Nell will come for tea at five,

after school. Poor dear Nell! (Opens sketch book.) This was my English sketch

book last year. Here they are—the drawings I made in Lakeland. This is Jem

Sevenoke. Poor old Jem—they called him Jem—with his heart in tatters and

engaged all the time to another girl. Wicked, inconstant Jem ! I am ashamed of

Jem. They called him Jem. He'd got such an honest face. Yet it wasn't

unpleasant. Heigho! I sometimes wish—heigho!—and here is the Right

Honourable the Earl, and the Most Honourable the Viscount and the Great

Honourable the Baron, all three rolled in one. x- *•

Wretch ! You spoilt it all. As if a girl with

Eleanor's spirit could bear to think of aiming

at a coronet. Not but what a coronet would suit

her. And such a proper young man too —

a lecturer in Greek he said he was—

in Greek ! As if any noble lord ever

knew Greek ! Oh ! but it was a lovely

time. (Turns over the leaves and sighs.)

Here's Derwentwater ! Here's the hotel

where we said good-bye—a very sad

and stupid good-bye it was. Those

poor boys—they had been deceivers—•

yes, one could not forgive that—but

they looked just too wretched and

miserable for words. I sometimes wish

—(sighs again). I've looked in the

papers, but I have never found any

mention of the noble lord. I suppose

he is pursuing his profligate career in

obscurity. Yet he did not look it. I

declare he looked just what an honest,

hardworking, truthful young man should

look—that and nothing more. And

there's Jem—they called him Jem—Oh

well! it's no use. We shall never set eyes upon either of

them any more. Yet—as to Nell—it's my belief she

thinks about him still.

VOICE (outside). Here we are ! What a splendid view! Take the

things in, will you ? You go on to look at the Falls, old man, I'll join you .directly.

MAMIE (jumps). Why—why—why—that's his voice- that's Jem Sevenoke's voice. I should

know that voice anywhere. Oh ! Heavens ! Jem Sevenoke I We shall see him

again ! Jem ! Oh! But I suppose he's got his wife with him—the girl he didn'C

care about. He must be taking his honeymoon in the States.

(Sevenoke enters carry1ng a handbag, negro comes after with portmanteaux, &c.

He goes to hotel clerk and converses about rooms.)

MAMIE. Good Gracious! He seems alone. Yet he was talking to some one. He said

" Old man." I wonder if an Englishman on his honeymoon generally calls

his bride " Old man" ? They're very unlike us. It's quite possible. Nobody

shall ever call me " Old man."

(Sevenoke concludes his business, and turning meets Mamie.)

' Mamie ! If it isn't Mamie 1'

PEER AND HEIRESS.

MAMTE. Mr. Sevenoke!

SEVENOKE. Mamie ! If it isn't Mamie ! I mean Miss Elgood. Who on earth would have

expected——

MAMIE. Who would have expected to meet Mr. Sevenoke ? You are on your honey-

moon, Mr. Sevenoke ? Is it your wife you have left behind in the carriage ?

SEVENOKE. My wife ! What do you mean ? I haven't got one.

MAMIE. But—you told me—you said—that you were engaged.

SEVENOKE. So I was. But you see in this case the expected—at least I expected it—

happened ; the young lady discovered that she wanted somebody else—that's all.

MAMIE. Oh yes. Of course, that's all.

SEVENOKE. That is—it's all of that—all of that. Why, is there, if one may ask, any—has

there—Has there—arrived any—is there anything ?

MAMIE. I don't know in the least what you mean, Mr. Sevenoke, but—I should say—I

believe—I rather imagine—that there is nothing.

SEVENOKE (takes her hand and presses it). Then this is, I do hope, the most providential,

accidental, coincidental meeting that ever was known.

MAMIE (shows him sketch book). There—you see—is my old sketch book. There is the

hotel where we had to say good-bye—such a dismal good-bye—all through your

wicked deception. As soon as we found out, of course, there was an end. Did you

suppose that Eleanor was the girl to go angling for a coronet ?

SEVENOKE. Well, if that was all

MAMIE. Well, but it wasn't all. If he really cares about her he would have come after

her, lord or no lord.

SEVENOKE. He couldn't. She gave him her address, but he tore it up when he learnt the

news. You don't suppose that Ainslie was the kind of man to run after a

millionairess.

MAMIE. Millionairess ? Nell Ingress a millionairess ?

SEVENOKE. You told me so yourself.

MAMIE (seriously). Oh ! so I did. I quite forgot it—so I

did. But were you so stupid as to believe me ?

SEVENOKE. I don't believe everything, but I believed you,

MAMIE. Nelly a millionairess ! Why, she teaches school

—she's got a school here. She is coming to have

tea with me directly. Oh, I was only joking! But,

of course, a noble lord would not stoop to an

American schoolmarm.

SEVENOKE. Well, if you come to that, Ainslie is not a

noble lord.

MAMIE. Not a lord ? But you said he was.

SEVENOKE. So I did. I quite forgot it. So I did. But I didn't

think you'd believe it. Of course, he isn't anything

so disgraceful. I believe you think it disgraceful

MAMIE. Mr. Sevenoke, there's been a very serious mis-

understanding, and it's our faults—our two faults,

mind. Only you and me to blame. How shall

I ever forgive myself ?

SEVENOKE. Well, Mamie, just to punish me, you shall devote

the short remainder of your days to making me

understand the full heinousness of that fault.

Lifelong repentance will be a lively thing to con-

template. (Takes her hand.)

^ ' " Not in the open hall, Mr. Sevenoke

MASIIE. Not m the open hall, Mr. Sevenoke, if you if you please."
352

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

MAMIE.

please. But let me see—Nelly is coming here—why, here she is! (Runs to meet

her.) Nell, Nell, guess who is here ! Mr. Sevenoke—you remember Mr. Sevenoke,

dear ? Here he is ! Why, we never thought to set eyes upon him again ! Nelly,

say you're glad to see him.

ELEANOR. How do you do, Mr. Sevenoke ? I am very glad to meet you again. Is your

friend, Mr.—I mean Lord Carleon—quite well?

SEVENOKE. Miss Ingress, there has been a great mistake—a very foolish thing it was—we

have only just found it out. You thought Philip Ainslie was a peer. He isn't. He

is plain Philip Ainslie, the son of a country clergyman—nothing more, believe me,

except Fellow and Lecturer at Christ's, Cambridge. 1

told Miss Elgood so, just to mystify her a little. I

never dreamed of the mischief it would cause.

MAMIE. Yes, dear, and Mr. Ainslie thought

you were a millionairess. It was my

doing, dear, and I never thought of

the mischief it would cause.

ELEANOR. Thought me an heiress— a

millionairess ? Oh! but how

could he ?

I told Mr. Sevenoke so. Oh !

I never thought he would take it

so seriously.

SEVENOKE. Fortunately, here comes

Philip himself. Say you for-

give us, Miss Ingress.

(Philip sees group, hesitates.

Then Mamie runs to meet

him. Mr. Ainslie! This

is just lovely! Come and

make it up with Nelly.

She leads him down ls.e

stage. He takes his hat

of, and offers his hand

coldly.)

ELEANOR. It seems, Mr. Ainslie,

that we parted with some

misunderstanding. I thought

you were a peer.

MAMIE. Misunderstanding on both

sides,Mr. Ainslie. Youthought

Eleanor was a millionaire.

AINSLIE. I—I was certainly told so.

MAMIE. Well—she isn't then. She's just a plain school teacher. Mr. Sevenoke—Jei:i

—they call you Jem, you know—will you take some tea with me ?

(They go up stage.)

AINSLIE (after a pause, moves a step nearer. ELEANOR stands with folded hands and bowe I

head. AINSLIE holds out his hand). Miss Ingress—Eleanor—shall we take up

our conversation where we broke it off—heiress and millionairess of every best gift

that the world has to offer ?

ELEANOR. If it pleases my lord.

(CURTAIN.)

For "THE EDITORIAL MIND " see overleaf, p. 3520.

If it pleases my lord."
II

<=

*I

bl -*

*I

25

Zi

,=
No. I.

LIVERPOOL ILLUSTRATED.

BY ROBERT MACHRAY.

THE general impression of Liverpool is that

it is a very important seaport, and not much

else; a place of comings and goings without

end—where, at the most, a halt is called for

a brief breathing spell in the interminable

processions of travellers that converge upon

it, and then scatter in all directions; or, as a

traffic along the quays under the imposing

rows of sheds and streets of warehouses ; the

tumult on the huge landing stage ; indeed,

the whole mass of the city, resting, as upon a

base, upon the sea wall which stretches vast

and symmetrical for seven miles up the chan-

nel of the Mersey—all confirm the popular

From a Photo by F. Frith &? Co.

great entrepot, where goods of every descrip-

tion are received and then distributed over

the country.

The long line of docks and basins decorated

with the masts and spars and funnels of the

vessels of all nations ; the rush and roar of

Vol. I.- -April, iHyC.—yo. 4.

idea. -Yet, like a good many other ideas, it is

only partially true ; for Liverpool is not merely

a port—one of the Gates of the Empire—but

is in itself a great and interesting city.

It is the case, however, that the tendency

is to forget this. The very completeness of

356

PEA RSOX' S .IfA GA ZIXK.

the service with which the city waits upon

the passenger or the merchant, while it is

no doubt what is demanded in this Age of

Hurry, has the dis-

advantage of not sug-

gesting that it might

indeed be well to tarry

here awhile to see what

it has to show, and to

hear what it has to say

for itself. For Liver-

pool has plenty of local

colour and a character

of its own which should

make it generally attrac-

tive.

The study of the most

prominent feature — its

noble river, with the

docks and the shipping

—not considered from

the material point of

view, though that is re-

markable enough, but

seen in all its ever-

changing aspects with

the eye and brain of a sympathetic onlooker,

is in itself a perpetual delight. Then its

commingling of peoples, English. Scotch,

Irish, Welsh, of which its essentially British

population is

composed, pre-

sents subjects of

constant interest.

But in a neces-

sarily brief maga-

zine article it is

not possible to

do more than

indicate in a

general way the

chief elements

that go to the

making of Liver-

pool.

The city is

very modern; of

old Liverpool

there is scarcely

a trace, and yet its history reaches back for

seven or eight centuries at least. It is said

to have received its first charter from King

THE OLD DOORWAY IX WOLSTEX HOLME SQUARE

From a Phota by Priestlcy, EgTemvnt.

THE "CLOTH HALL."

From a Photo by Priestley, Egrcmont.

John, and it was made a free borough by

Henry III. in 1225. Three centuries later it

describes itself in a petition addressed to

Queen Elizabeth as

'•Her Majesty's decayed

town of Liverpool."

Its importance dates

from the beginning of

the eighteenth century,

when its first wet-dock

was constructed; but

even of a time as near

I

in *

I1

!!

> £

fi

D^
353

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

patriotic appears from the fact that some-

where about 1778 the merchants of Liverpool

equipped 1 80 privateers, carrying 2000 guns,

sides rise the dark time-stained walls, broken

here and there by terraces and trees, of the

quarry; while the tomb of Huskisson, a.

for "his MajcsU's service " at the beginning cylinder of pillared and windowed stone,

of the war

with France.

In Wol-

stenholme

Square there

still stands

the doorway

of the house

which a tra-

dition as-

serts was the

residence of

the fi'rst

mayor of the

town. The

little known

"Cloth Hall," or "Fair," of Richmond Row,

in another part of the city, has an ancient and

even semi-oriental look, but it was built only

a few years after the fleet of privateers

wenl out to sea, and is now squalid and

wretched. The original home of the far-

famed Everton toffee,

which has gladdened the

hearts of many genera-

tions of boys and girls

all over the English

world, has been torn

down ; the sketch of it

presented here belongs

to a time when Everton

was a village in the

fields, and not a mere

district of Liverpool.

In St. James's Ceme-

tery, not in itself so old,

but old for Liverpool,

the city has a very

striking, and in a solemn

and suggestive way

beautiful, graveyard.

The grey inscribed

slabs and monuments

stand close together in

what is veritably a Valley of the Shadow

of Death, for the graveyard occupies the bed

of a three-century old quarry; it is entered

by a tunnel hewn out of the rock; on all

THE ORIGINAL HOME OK EVFRfON TOFFEE.

ST. JAMES S CEMETERY.

From a Photo by Priestley, Egremont.

rears itself

above all the

rest.

Two things

chiefly cre-

ated Liver-

pool as we

now know

it; first, the

introduction
360

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

needs so many articles of all kinds for its own use

that this creates an enormous local and coasting

trade. Liverpool has comparatively little of this, its

business chiefly consisting in foreign exports and

imports.

If you were to place your closed hand on a table,

and then, without lifting the palm, open the fingers

and thumb, and spread them out so as to form a

sort of fan, you would get a very fair idea of how

Liverpool rises up from the Mersey, the tips of the

nails forming, as it were, the sea wall, and the

fingers the principal streets, all of which, with the

exception of those running parallel to the docks,

lead to the water's edge, and, indeed, chiefly to that

part where floats the great landing-stage—in itself a

notable feature—where the big ferries and steamers

of every kind receive or discharge their passengers.

On the opposite, or Cheshire side of the river,

Birkenhead and

other places

stretch along

The Residence of the Earl and Countess of Derb.

towns of Birkenhead, Seacombc, Egremont, and New

Brighton on the Cheshire side of the Mersey, all

practically forming one closely-allied community, the

present population of Largest Liverpool cannot be far

short of the million, that is, one-fortieth part of the

total population of the United Kingdom.

Then, with regard to the growth of the shipping

interest, 23,943 vessels paid harbour dues for the year

ending July, 1895, and their aggregate tonnage was

nearly eleven millions. And here perhaps it may be

noted that Liverpool possesses the largest individual

ships sailing from any port in the world.

As compared with London, Liverpool has fewer

vessels than the metropolis, but the ships belonging

to the latter, though more numerous, fall far short of the

tonnage of those which sail from the Mersey. London From photos by Brown, Barnes sf Beit, ant From.
I

I
362

PEA RSON- S MA GA ZIXK.

the bank : and there is no more vivid

picture than that of the rush, morning and

evening, of thousands of people whose

business lies in Liverpool, to and from the

city, as they concentrate themselves for a

moment on the stage—hurrying, struggling,

pushing—and then pass on to or off the ferries.

You will notice how cheerful, how alert is

their air: and, certainly, no people more

completely give the lie to the saying that the

English take their pleasures sadly than those

of this district, for Liverpool loves a holiday,

and knows how to enjoy it thoroughly,

was designed by Henry Lonsdale Elmes, an

architect of brilliant promise who did not

live to see the completion of his work.

The square in which it stands is a

handsome one; on one side are three

important buildings devoted to the purposes

of a public lending and reference library, a

natural history and antiquarian museum, and

an art gallery—the last known as the Walker

Art Gallery, from the name of its founder,

Sir Andrew Walker, a citizen of Liverpool.

The gallery, which is reputed to be second

only to the National Gallery for modern

ST. GEORGE'S HALL.

From a Photo by Priestley, Egremont.

whether it be on its own Mersey sands or

over in the Isle of Man, which, of late years,

has become the playground of all Lancashire.

The business portion of the city is pretty

well confined to the area lying between the

river and Lime Street. To say nothing of

its churches, Liverpool possesses many

splendid buildings, but the finest is, un-

doubtedly, St. George's Hall, the magnificent

centre of the city. This imposing structure

is said to be one of the best specimens of the

classic revival executed in modern times, and

works, contains many beautiful and celebrated

paintings, a few of which are reproduced in

this article.

The Town Hall in Castle Street, and the

Municipal Offices in Dale Street, are striking

edifices, while the Exchange, whose buildings

along with the Town Hall form a quadrangle,

is extremely interesting, as in the inclosed

uncovered space of the '• quad," known as

'• The Flags," have hitherto been transacted

tiie operations of the greatest cotton market

of the world.
"DON'T 'EE TIPTY TOE."

By y-',hn Morgan. Reproduced, by permission, from the Original Painting in the possession of the Liverpool Corporation*
364

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZIXE.

A new Cotton Exchange has been recently

opened, a gorgeous affair, extremely modern,

and done up vith Doulton tiles in artistic

fashion; and, while many of the older

members still are to be seen on " The

Flags," the tendency will naturally be for

business to be restricted, except perhaps in

summer, to the new hall of 'Change, and the

many stirring and exciting scenes witnessed

on " The Flags " in the past will appearno more.

The " Man in the Street" had a chance to

see them, as " The Flags " were open to the

public, and to share in the storm and stress

place is to be found in its docks. Space

will not permit of giving any adequate de-

scription of them, but a few points may be

touched upon briefly.

The docks, locks, and basins, of which there

are nearly a hundred, stretch along the deep

water of the channel of the Mersey on the

Lancashire side for nearly seven miles, and for

a width ranging from 700 to 2200 feet. The

first dock constructed was only four acres in

extent; the present area of the docks is over

380 acres with a lineal quayage of more than

twenty-five miles. The docks on the Birken-

THE COTTON EXCHANGE.

From a Photo by Priestley, E^rcmont.

of a crisis in cotton; now " members only "

are admitted to the floor of the new Exchange,

and the "bulls'' and "bears" have all the

fun, or the other thing, to themselves.

The buildings mentioned are some of the

landmarks of Liverpool, but the true Liver-

pudleian counts many others, such, for

instance, as the " Vauxhall Chimney," said

to be one of the tallest in existence, the

" North Shore Mills," and the fort at New

Brighton, at the entrance of the Mersey.

Liverpool is not a great manufacturing

centre ; its chief commercial interest is its

shipping, and the principal feature of the

head side, which form an integral part of the

Mersey harbour system, bring the acreage up

to 546, and the quay space to thirty-five miles.

Some of the older docks are not suitable

for berthing large vessels, but those most

recently constructed—such, for example, as

the Alexandra Dock, can easily accommodate

several of the biggest Atlantic liners.

Vast granaries, warehouses, and sheds are

provided for the storage of the multitudinous

cargoes that come to the port; and a con-

spicuous improvement, only consummated

last year, by which the landing stage is

brought into close connection with a railway

BALLAGLASS GLEN—A BIT FROM THE "PLAYGROUND OF LANCASHIRE.1

From a Photograph by G. B. Co\cen, Ramsey, Itle of Man.

366

PEARSON'S MA GAZIXE.

station, open to all lines running into Liver-

pool, deserves special notice.

The Board which has the management of

the dock system is a somewhat conservative

ON THE MERSEY SANDS.

From a Photo by PriestUy, Egrcmont.

corporation, and the ocean traveller has

probably to thank the competition of South-

ampton for this highly desirable change.

The total cost of the docks has been some

£4.0,000,000 ; financially, as well as in every

other way, they are in a flourishing condition ;

the debt upon them to the public is being

steadily reduced; and it does not seem im-

possible that some day Liverpool may become

a " free port."

The problem which the Dock Board are at

present trying to solve is a difficult one, and,

at the same time, one of very general interest.

Simply stated, it is not much less than the

removal of the bar at the mouth of the

Mersey. There is a magnificent channel

from the docks to the bar, but, as lately as

1890, there were only ten feet of "water at the

times of low water of the lowest tides on the

bar, and for several hours, twice in each

twenty-four, large vessels could not get

across it.

It was thus easily possible that during

stormy weather several big ships might have

to dodge about outside in dangerous proximity

to each other for a considerable time, waiting

for the tide to rise sufficiently to enable them

to get into port. Various suggestions were

made with a view to obviating this, and,

finally, dredging operations were begun on a

large scale, and special machinery was devised

for the attack on-the bar.

As the two shore lines which converge at

the mouth of the river are almost at right

angles, and the intervening space, known as

Liverpool Bay, is pretty well filled up with

shifting sands, it is not absolutely certain that

the bar has been beaten, but, at present, after

great expense and unremitting effort, the

result of the dredging is that there is now

some twenty-five feet of water at the lowest

tides instead of ten, and the sand which has

been removed, if piled up in one locality,

would make quite a tolerable mountain. Just

at the moment, as it were, the Board has

beaten the Bar, but the battle is one that

never ends, and finality is far away.

Before passing on from the docks, it may

be noted that the Overhead Electric Railway,

which parallels their entire length, besides

being interesting in itself, affords a splendid

view of the river and its sights, and on a clear

day there is no finer spectacle in England.

Now if we try to talk of the different kinds

of goods or commodities that are "handled "

by Liverpool, we should find it impossible ;

they are literally too numerous to mention,

but the principal are cotton, of which nearly

the whole import into Britain comes to

Liverpool, which has also the lion's share

as regards the export of cotton manufactured

ON THE MERSEY SANDS.

LI VERPO OL ILL [ 'STJ?A TED.

367

provided on the Cheshire side; petroleum from

the United States and Asiatic Russia, for the

storage of which chambers have been hewn

out of the solid rock and large tanks built at

the south end of the docks ; tobacco, which is

made up into cigars, cigarettes, etc., in the city

in several factories, besides large quantities

held in bond for the whole of England; and

timber, most of which comes from Quebec.

In this list it is very noticeable that the

"American trade '

plays a leading

part, and one of

the main reasons

for the growth of

Liverpool is, of

course, the fact

that from its posi-

tion and other

advantages it has

•long been the

" Gateway of the

West."

At one time, the

city had a con-

siderable ship-

building industry,

but that has al-

most entirely dis-

appeared—drifted

off to Belfast and

the Clyde.

Besides sugar-

refining, the one

industry of the

place is the

tobacco manufac-

ture. One does

not need to be a

lover of the frag-

rant weed to enjoy

a visit to anv of

the tobacco factories in the city. The whole

business, from the sorting of the leaves to the

finished article—whatever form it takes, cake

or flake, Cavendish or bird's eye, snuff, cigar

or cigarette—is quite interesting. Nor is

there any more cheerful sight than, say, the

cigarette-makers' rooms, with the hundreds

of bright girls busily at work, each putting

up from 800 to 1.ooo cigarettes a day—

the deft, swift-handed labour broken by

the gay snatch of song or the lively bit of

chaff.

The pictures on this page show a girl (in

Messrs. Cope's factory) sorting the leaves

taken from a hogshead of tobacco, and men

(in Messrs. Hignett's factory) making hand-

spun twist, preferred by many to the machine-

made, for the living hand is more cunning in

its skill than the dead machine.

Liverpool, like every other large city,

presents the usual

sharp contrasts

between its rich

and its poor. At

the top of the scale

are the members

368

PEARSOA"S MAGAZINE.

A striking instance of this is seen in the

management of the harbour, which is in the

hands of a committee of representa-

tive men, who give their best

services to the public gratuitously

and ungrudgingly.

Among these families may be

mentioned the Rathbones, of

whom there has already

been a dynasty of six suc-

cessive William Rathbones,

and whose name is another

way of spelling philan-

thropist ; the Holts, identi-

fied with the cotton industry

since its beginning, and

whose present head, Mr.

R. D. Holt, was first Lord Mayor of Liverpool;

the Earles, who gave a soldier to the Empire

in General Earle, who was killed in the

Soudan, and whose statue stands in front of

St. George's Hall ; the Langtons; the Gil-

mours; the Hornbys;

the Branckers—Mr. John

lirancker is the chairman

of the Dock Board, and

has just been re-

elected to that posi-

tion, probably the

most responsible

in the City; the

Brocklebanks; the

MR. JOH* BRA.NCKER. Horsfalls; the

Chairman of the Mersey Dock Board. Qladstones _ Mr.

Gladstone (there is but the one " Mr. Glad-

stone" of the universe) was born in Rodney

Street; the Stewart and Egerton

Browns ; the Forwoods—Sir Arthur

and Sir William, the latter a

" Cunarder," are its present

heads ; the Tates ; the Ismays

—Mr. T. H. Ismay is the chief

of the "White Star;" etc.

The ladies of these fami-

lies are conspicuous in all

charitable works, and nearly

every one of them has some

benevolent speciality; thus,

Mrs. H. B. Gilmour is

interested in district nurs-

ing, Mrs. Horsfall in the Royal

SIR W. B. FORWOOD.

" Cunard."

From a Photo by Elliott fr* Fry.

MR. T. H. ISMAY.

"White Star."

From a Photo by Walery.

Southern circle.

Hill Workhouse, Lady A. B. Forwood in the

Myrtle Street Orphanage, and so on.

Xor would any reference to higher

Liverpool be complete without

naming its first bishop, the well-

known Dr. Ryle. Liverpool

" Society" is very extensive; it

is said that there are at least

7000 people who have the

right to be asked to the

LIVERPOOL ILLUSTRATED.

369

Sst JOHN CLAaSTflNE. lAOV CLAQSTUNE

The above design, by Barrauds, Liverpool, shows Mr. Gladstone, his birthplace, his residence, and

portraits of his father and mother.

It seems natural to pass from its splendid

college to say something of what Liverpool

has contributed to literature, and here, it

must be confessed, that, with the exception of

Mr. Gladstone, we are confronted with no

great name. Mr. Gladstone was born in

Rodney Street, and the present occupant of

the house says that, being desirous of placing

the matter beyond doubt, and for the satisfac-

tion of future generations, Mr. Gladstone was

asked by him if this were indeed where he

was born, and replied—characteristically on

a post-card—that it was.

Liverpool, politically, is an intensely Con-

servative city, and it is rather striking that the

Vol. I.- -25.

foremost Liberal of the age should have come

out of it. Its Irish quarter, however, returns

a Nationalist, the well-known " Tay Pay."

Among the literary and other prominent

people associated by birth or residence with

Liverpool are Roscoe, Mrs. Hemans the

poetess, Dr. Martineau the preacher, Bishop

Lightfoot, Mr. Hall Caine the novelist, who

was for some years in early life connected

with the Liverpool Mercury, •' Ian Maclaren "

—of whom a notice appeared in the January

Pearson's. Hawthorne, the author of " The

Scarlet Letter," was for some time stationed

at Liverpool as American Consul.

Sir Edward Russell, the editor of the

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

37°

Liverpool Post, is the

most prominent jour-

nalist ; he was for

some time M.P. for a

Glasgow division, but

having to make a

choice between

journalism and

politics, preferred

the former. Mr.

Willox, M.P. for

the Everton dis-

trict of the city,

and editor of the

Liverpool Courier,

manages to successfully combine the two. Mr.

Wynne, the able editor of the Mercury, has pub-

lished an excellent monograph on Liverpool.

Among the members who represent the

city and neighbourhood in Parliament are

the Right Hon. W. H. Long, President

of the Board of Agriculture, and Sir

George Baden-Powell, who is an

authority on colonial ques-

tions.

PROF. RENDALL,

Principal of University College.

From a Photo by Barraudt.

No artist of world-

wide fame as yet

calls Liverpool his

birthplace, and

the painter, ,

who, when he „

comes, can do

justice to the

river and its

shipping, will

be great indeed, for the sun shines upon no

more beautiful or wonderful scene.

In taking leave of this flourishing city, it

may not, perhaps, be considered a matter

of high treason tc suggest that its tram-car

service might be greatly improved by the

substitution of the cable system, or electricity,

for horses, and that electric lighting might

with advantage replace gas in the streets.

Birkenhead, the chief town on the Cheshire

side opposite Liverpool, is something more

than a suburb. Its population is now over

100,000, and it may be noted, as a sign of

its progressive spirit, that the " tram " was

first used here in England. It is sometimes

spoken of as the city of the future, and is

already the seat of several considerable

manufactures. Its most prominent industry

is shipbuilding, and the Messrs. Laird, from

whose yards came the famous " Alabama,"

are celebrated for the number and speed of

the war vessels of different kinds they con-

struct both for the Imperial and foreign

Governments.

In April, 1891, during the war in Chili,

two of their torpedo gunboats, the "Almir-

ante Condell '' and the " Almirante Lynch,''

attacked and sank the armour-clad '• Blanco

Encalada " in Caldera Harbour.

The largest war vessel they have on hand

LIVERPOOL ILL USTRA TED.

371

pay expenses. The two largest

docks, the " West Float," of fifty-

two acres, and the " East Float," of

sixty acres, are the biggest on the

Mersey.

Seacombe, Egremont, and New

Brighton, which join on to Birken-

head, are places of some import-

ance, the last being one of the

resorts where Liverpool people dis-

port themselves on the sands, and

where all the curious and picturesque

sights of the seaside are to be seen

all the summer long.

Bootle, at the extreme northern

end of Liverpool, is a town of

over 60,000 population, and rejoices

in a mayor and corporation of its

own.

In conclusion, it may be observed

that if a rumour, which has gained

some currency lately—that Messrs.

Harland and Wolff of Belfast, the

builders for the " White Star"

Company, are about to establish a

ship-building yard on the Mersey,

be correct, Liverpool, aided by the mineral resources of Lancashire, may yet become a

formidable competitor in this direction with the Clyde.

The next article of this series will be " GLASGOW ILLUSTRATED."

JO-KNOT TORPEDO BOAT DtSTROVER QyAU

A RETROSPECT.

Far out at sea the clouds are slowly breaking,

The red sun through them gleams ;

A weird, wild scene, some memories vague

awaking

From the dark land of dreams.

A far-off vessel sails amidst the glory

That lies athwart the wave;

And, as I gaze, a half-forgotten story

Comes from the past's dim grave.

O'er other seas a stately ship is speeding

Beneath a twilight sky;

I stand and watch the well-loved shore

receding,

And catch a last " Good-bye ! "

Once more the scented haze is round me

falling.

At anchor in the bay :

Again I pace the lonely deck, recalling

The words she said that day.

Once more I climb the mast and catch a

glimmer,

Where the great city's lights

Amidst the deepening shades are growing

dimmer,

And fading up the heights.

But one, methinks, when all the rest are dying,

Still shines the shadows through ;

And 'midst the murmuring wind a voice is

sighing:

"Adieu! adieu! adieu!"

The ship sails on, the cloud-land, fields

elysian,

Grow grey above the sea,

While to the past returns once more my vision,

A dream that might not be.

GEORGE CHETWYND.
THE MOUNTAIN OF VALOUR.

BY SIR EVELYN WOOD.

IN this magazine for the month of

February, I described how, during a

successful attack at the eastern end

of the Inhlobane mountain in North-

ern Zululand, Captain the Hon.

Ronald Campbell gave up his life to

save others, two of those following

him earning the Victoria Cross. I

propose in this paper to describe

briefly how two more of the coveted

decorations were gained in the retreat

from the western summit of the moun-

tain. No other battle-field has ever

been marked by the grant of the reward " For Valour " to four persons out of a force

numbering only 400 men.

The chief actor in my story, Redvers, son of Wentworth Buller, of Dowries, Crediton,—

who represented his fellow-countymen for many years in the House of Commons.—was born in

December, 1839. After leaving Eton, he entered the army just too late for the Indian Mutiny

campaigns, but he served in the China War of 1860, and ten years later, during the Red

River expedition, made a reputation which has steadily grown in the last quarter of the century.

Having taken an important part in the Ashanti Expedition of 1873-4, he commanded a

corps of Irregulars during the Kafir War of 1878, being actively engaged in the suppression

of the Gaika outbreak. He harassed the insurgent natives continuously until, on the death

of Sandilli, the Gaika Chief, the rebellion collapsed.

In Zululand he had been employed on many raids and expeditions at a distance from

Colonel Evelyn Wood's camp, and, acting as that officer's right hand, came out "one of the

bright spots "* in the war. In an unsuccessful skirmish on the 2Oih January, 1879, a trooper

having fallen from his horse, it escaped and galloped off towards the enemy, but Buller

followed, and while under close, though badly aimed fire, turned and caught the horse, and

helped the disabled man to remount and escape.

On the 27th of March, 1879, Lieutenant-Colonel Redvers Buller left Kambula camp

' Letter from Sir Garnet Wolseley, dated gth July, 1879.
THE MOUNTAIN OF VALOUR.

373

with a force of 400 mounted men and 150

friendly Zulus of Uhamu's tribe; that chief

having abandoned the cause of his brother

Cetewayo and taken refuge with the " flying

column." Afteramarchof thirtymiles,Colonel

Buller led his force, in the grey dawn of the

2 8th of March, up the north-eastern face of

the Inhlobane mountain, which is an elevated

table land of about 300x3 acres. It stands

12doft. above the surrounding country, being

absolutely precipitous on the northern, and

the upper part of the southern sides, and can

be ascended only on its north-eastern and

western extremities.

Colonel Buller cleared the top of the

mountain with a loss of two officers and one

man killed, and several minor casualties, and

the warriors of the Amaqulisi tribe, who had

held the mountain, were driven into their

fastnesses amongst the bush-covered rocks,

abandoning 2000 head of cattle. These were

collected and driven down the western end of

the mountain, on to a ridge I50ft. lower than

the summit. There were goat paths at the

north-western point of the mountain, nearly

at the apex of the salient angle of the two

long faces, and these Colonel Buller deter-

mined to use for his return to camp, thus

avoiding the long round by the eastern ex-

tremity up which he had ascended.

While giving orders on the summit, he

perceived a Zulu army approaching from the

southward, estimated then at 20,000, but

which in reality numbered 23,000. This

army was still six miles off, and it was

calculated that the British force on the

Inhlobane would have an hour's start ere it

could be seriously harassed by the oncoming

Zulu columns. However, the Amaqulisi

tribe, encouraged by the approach of the

main Zulu army, now came forth from their

hiding places to attack Buller's men as they

descended the rugged paths. These paths

passed over a series of ledges of rock from

zft. to 10ft, wide, separated by vertical

distances of from 3 to 6 feet.

Colonel Buller sent down first of all the

native portion of his force, keeping his own

personal command, the Frontier Light Horse,

on the summit to form a rear-guard. The

steepness of the tracks caused considerable

delay, and the Amaqulisis, advancing on

either face of the mountain, occupied the

rocks above and below the line of the paths,

and fired at short range into the stream of

straggling dismounted horsemen.

The difficulties of the descent may be

partly realised from the fact that in May, 1880,

when on the mountain with the then friendly

Amaqulisis, I turned ten ponies loose, and

drove them down, allowing them time to pick

their way. Nevertheless, one only got down

without a fall, and though none were hurt,

some rolled for thirty or forty yards on losing

their foothold, as, after jumping from the

higher crags, they landed on the narrow

ledges of rock.

The scene on the 28th of March, 1879,

374

PEAR SON'S MA GAZINE.

troops, being checked by the fire of Buller s

covering parly standing on the plateau,

swarmed down the sides of the cliffs, and

some of them came across Major Leet and

his two comrades, who were slowly and with

great difficulty descending the steep mountain

side. The trooper was stabbed when about half

way down, and Lieutenant Smith's horse was

shot. In a shower of assegais Smith turned

round, and shot the foremost Zulu with his

revolver, but others pressing on were nearly

up to him when Major Leet, stopping his

pony, called Smith and made him catch

hold of the saddle. The Lieutenant begged the

Major to go on and not imperil his own life,

but Leet insisted, and taking Smith up

behind him, both eventually escaped.

This officer was

rescued by Colonel

Buller, who took him

up on his horse.

When the last of the troops had left the

plateau, Buller was heard to say to Com-

mandant Piet Uys, who was in command of

thirty Dutchmen : " You go down, Piet; I'll

stop up here ! And when you get to the

bottom halt some men to cover us as we

come down." Turning then to Lieutenant

THE MOUNTAIN OF VALOUR.

375

Everitt, of the Frontier Light Horse, he

ordered him to halt ten men, who, as a

covering party, were to descend last of all.

Mr. Everitt could only collect seven men,

but these kept the Zulus back for some time,

descending later with the enemy close upon

them; four of the little party were almost

immediately killed, and Lieutenant Everitt's

horse was assegaied.

Buller, a tall and powerful man, now

seizing Mr. Everitt, who was exhausted, by

the collar of the coat, pulled him out of the

way of the pursuing Zulus, who were them-

selves greatly impeded by the rugged nature

of the cliffs, and standing over his breathless

Lieutenant, received from him a carbine and

ammunition, saying: " Get on down as quick

as you can! " and with the three men

remaining alive out of the rear-guard of

seven, Buller covered the retreat of the last

of those descending the cliff.

As Everitt reached the lower ridge, 1soft.

from the summit, he passed Commandant

Uys and saw him shoot one Zulu, and then,

stabbed by another with an assegai, fall dead

in sight of his two sons. Uys had previously

reached the lower ridge in safety, but seeing

that his youngest son, sixteen years old, could

not get his horse down, the Commandant had

re-climbed, for a short distance, the path on

which he was killed.

Buller's command was now demoralised;

and one very brave officer of an Irregular

corps, who had often shown great personal

courage, burst into tears when his men

refused to obey his order to form up to

cover the retreat of the Frontier Light Horse-

men, who were still descending the mountain.

He himself remained, and assisted Colonel

Buller in rallying the men, and had not this

been effected, none of the wounded, nor those

who had lost their horses, could have escaped

Buller himself was ubiquitous, and to my

knowledge rescued four men that day, three

of whom lived for years afterwards; the

fourth man, whom he pulled out of the

middle of a struggling crowd of Zulus and

carried, holding on to his stirrup, down the

hill, was eventually wounded much lower

down, and lost his life.

Trooper Randal, Frontier Light Horse,

told me five days later, that in the retreat, his

horse was completely exhausted, when he was

overtaken by Colonel Buller, who was falling

back with the rearmost men, and that the

Colonel put him up on his own horse and

carried him for some distance ; then dropping

him, returned again to the fight, this time

picking up Captain C. D'Arcy also of the

Frontier Light Horse. This officer had lost

both his horses, and when panting along on

foot with the Zulus less than a hundred yards

behind him, was rescued by Colonel Buller,

who took him up on his horse.

The first man to ascend the eastern end of

the mountain in the grey dawn, Buller acted

throughout the retreat as the rearmost man of

the rearguard, although he knew from

BY GEORGE GRIFFITH.

" WHY, what is this, Denton, my friend ? "

said the Professor. " Your holiday doesn't

seem to have done you much good. Have

you had a fever or anything of that sort ?

You were tooking a little worn out and run

down when you went away, but, God bless

me, you look more as if you had got up

from a bed of sickness, than come back

from a three month's yachting cruise in the

Mediterranean."

" I dare say I do," said his visitor, taking

his hand out of the Professor's and pulling

from his pocket a little gilt-edged sheet of

note paper. The Professor saw that it had

been crushed up and smoothed out again.

There was a pretty monogram in the top

left-hand corner, and a faint sweet scent as of

dried rose-leaves and violets rose from it as

the pale, haggard, bright-eyed young fellow

before him put it into his hands, and said :

"Read that, and tell me if you don't think

it's about enough to knock a man over. May

God—"

" Hush, my friend, hush! " said the Pro-

fessor, laying his left hand on the other's

shoulder, and holding the little letter in his

right about six inches from his spectacles.

"It is bad, but not bad enough for that, and

gentlemen and men of science don't do that

sort of thing, you know. So she has sold you,

as the man in the street would say. Ah,

well "

" Sold me, sold herself you mean ! Sold

herself body and soul to that German Jew

brute and his millions. Sold herself more

vilely and basely than the most wretched

outcast of the streets., for she has cold and

hunger as her excuses, and Edith had a good

home, an ample income, and a man who has

loved her all his life to come to whenever

she would, and she had promised to come,

too. Is there any forgiveness for a sin like

that, do you think ? "

"That is not our business, my friend,"

said the Professor quietly; "and then you

know I am enough of a pagan not to believe

in the forgiveness of sins. Not here at least;

the hereafter is another matter which is beyond

our discussion. But in this world I have

never seen sin and punishment as anything

else than cause and effect, the one following

the other as logically and as inevitably as a

shock follows a blow."

" Good logic," said Denton with a short,

savage laugh. " Capital logic from the

physical point of view, but a trifle cold for

my present frame of mind. Is that all the

consolation you can give me ? "

" I cannot give you any consolation, my

friend ; nothing but time and hard work can

give that to a man in your state, but I might

give you something else that would be more

to your mind just now."

"What is that?"

" Your revenge. An idea that is some-

thing like an inspiration has just come to me.

I can give you a revenge that shall be

purely scientific, beyond the reach of all

human law, and, I think I may say, absolutely

A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE INVISIBLE.

377

" Light a cigar and help yourself to whiskey

and soda, and let me prescribe for once in a

way to my own doctor. A combination of

sedative and tonic is just what your present

state of mind indicates," said the Professor,

still in his dry, quiet voice, and pointing to a

wide, deep arm chair on the other side of the

library fire. It is not a thing that I can make

you understand in a minute, and, besides, a

little enforced quiet, and a turn of your

attention to something else, .would do you

all the good in the world."

" Very well. I'll be patient and you

into it when I got home, and when I did I got

this."

"Ah, well, that's no matter. I can soon

make you understand all you need to know

about it. It has been discovered, to put it

shortly, that there are rays other than what

we call light rays, to which some transparent

substances are opaque, and some opaque

substances transparent, and it has also been

found that the photographic plate is sensitive

to these rays. Ergo, by proper management it

is possible to obtain a photograph of things in-

visible either to the eye ortothe microscope."

'Read that, and tell me if you don't think it's about enough to knock a man over."

doctor for a bit, go ahead ! Something new

to think about would be a Godsend to me

just now."

When they were settled in their chairs, and

the smoke of their cigars was mingling about

the mantelpiece, the Professor began :

" Of course you've heard something about

this new photography of the invisible, as they

call it, Rontgen's discovery, you know, with

Cnoke's vacuum tubes ? "

"No, I can't say that I hcve, at least,

nothing beyond mere rumours and news-

paper paragraphs. I think it's all happened

while I've been away. I did mean to look

" Wonderful, but hardly relevant, as far as

I can see. What has the photography of the

invisible got to do with my case and Edith's

—Mrs. Goldsberg's, I mean ? Oh, look here,

Grantham, I can't stand science now, I want

revenge, and if you can give it me, just tell

me what to do straight out."

" Very well, my friend, very well. I can

see you are impatient, and no doubt naturally.

We'll let the explanation go for the present.

After all, it's no good trying to explain a

thing like this to a man who can't sit still for

a minute in his chair, and lets his cigar out

before he's taken half a dozen whiffs. Come

378

PEAR SON'S MA GAZINE.

into the studio and I'll give you an object-

lesson."

This will be a convenient place to say that

Professor Grantham, though a chemist and

physical investigator by profession, was a

photographer by hobby. Not a photographer

in the ordinary sense of the word, but rather

an excursionist in the outer and least known

realms of the science.

He had practically solved the fascinating

problem of chromatic photography, and as

soon as he had perfected a few details of his

invention he was going to astonish the world

and make his fortune with it. He could

photograph people with a ghostly double of

themselves looking over their shoulder,

and by means of photographs of a man,

and his parents, and his grandparents,

he had produced a composite picture

that was an excellent likeness of a

remote ancestor, as proved by an ivory

miniature that he had never seen.

Of course he never did this

kind of thing for money, but as a

matter of favour; and, for

the sake of his pet art, he

had now and then taken the

photographs of some of the

most noted beauties of

Society by his unknown

process, and the results, , .

with theirexquisite blend-

ing of light and shade

and tinting, were the pride

and glorv of their origi-

nals and the envy and

despair of every profes-

sional in the world. It was a natural con-

sequence that these favours should be most

eagerly sought after, all the more eagerly

because they were so few and far between.

When they got into the studio, the Professor

turned a switch just inside the door, and lit

a single electric light. In the middle of the

room there was a camera, and in front of it,

on another tripod just level with the lens,

was a little black wooden box standing on its

end. The camera had a cap of ebonite, and

two curly electric wires ran up to each side

of it from a battery on the floor. The Pro-

fessor went to the box, and drew a sliding lid

off the top. Then he said to Denton :

He only rtrode up and down the room

" Come and put your hand inside here, and

keep it there until I tell you to move.''

" What are you going to do ? "

" Take a photograph of your hand, that's

all, but such a photograph ! Ah, wait till

you see it! "

The young doctor did as he was told, and

the Professor took out his watch and turned

a switch in the side of the camera.

" Now mind you don't move your hand ;

ten minutes will do it."

" Rather a long exposure, isn't it? "

" Yes, but necessary."

When the Professor's watch had ticked off

the tenth minute, he said :

A PHOTOGRAPH OF THE INVISIBLE.

379

true womanhood, and to punish her you shall

wound her in the tenderest spot in such a

woman's being, her vanity and the vainglory

which she takes in the beauty she has sold.

You shall teach her, in a word—yes, and that

millionaire purchaser of hers too, that that

beauty is but skin deep."

" What in heaven's name do you mean,

man ? I've scarcely understood a word

you've said to-night. For goodness sake

speak a little more plainly and let me see

what you are driving at."

" This ! " said the Professor, holding up the

glass plate between Denton and the light of

the electric chandelier that hung over the

table. " There is your hand ! Now, how do

you think Mr. Joel Goldsberg would like a

photograph of his wife done in that style,

and how would she like it? "

Denton craned his neck upward for a

moment, to look more closely at the object

on the plate. Then he started back, and

stared at the Professor with a look of wonder

that was near akin to horror in his eyes.

" Is that a fact, Grantham ?'' he almost

whispered. " Is that really the photograph

of rr.y hand, and could you Oh, my

God, no! It would be too horrible. She

has done enough to make me hate her, and

I do hate and despise her as much as I loved

her a couple of days ago; but if I saw that

thing I believe I should go mad."

" There will be no need for you to see it,

and on the presumably coarser natures of

Mr. and Mrs. Goldsberg the effect would

probably be nothing like so serious. She

will be one of the beauties of England now

that she is a millionairess. She will be only

too glad of a suggestion, which can easily be

managed, that I am willing to photograph

her by a novel process. I will make a

vignette of her—just the head and shoulders

and bust, you know."

" Stop, man, for God's sake, stop ! That's

enough. If you tell me any more I shall

relent and forbid you to do it—and yet she

deserves it. After all. it will only be a sort

of scientific practical joke, I suppose."

" Yes, and I can easily say that some

unforeseen accident that happened in the

process has resulted in a scientific curiosity,

and send it to her husband with my apologies

and an offer to take her in colours, as com-

pensation for the disappointment," said the

Professor.

As Professor Grantham had shrewdly

anticipated, Mrs. Joel Goldsberg, who had so

unexpectedly scandalised her most intimate

friends, and astonished the London world at

large by developing, after an exceedingly

brief courtship, into the mistress of many

millions and the wife of an almost phenome-

nally homely and vulgar financier, jumped

at the chance of having her undeniable and

now universally lauded beauty portrayed in

that wonderful guise which only he could

give to it.

It is true that when the time for the s/'ance

380

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

rushed to his face till it was almost purple,

and died out of hers till it was grey and white

and ghastly—the face of a corpse, but for the

two bright, glaring eyes that stared out of it,

and this is what those eyes saw.

The photograph seemed, as it were, to be

in three layers—all transparent save the third.

It was a vignette, just showing the head and

neck and shoulders. The dress, a most

dainty morning costume, in which she had

The hbsod died out of hrr face till it was grey and white and ghastly

elected to be taken, was perfect in paitern,

but diaphanous and transparent. Under this

were the skin and flesh, transparent also.

Above were her features, perfect in their

likeness, and thes wreathed crown of golden

brown hair of which she was so proud, but

they were the face and hair not of a living

woman, but of a ghost, and, beneath all. sharp

in outline and perfect in every hideous detail,

a fleshless skull—her own skull—poised on

the jagged vertebrae of her neck, and sup-

ported on the bare bones of her chest and

shoulders, grinned at her through the trans-

parent veil of flesh, and seemed to stare at

her out of the sockets in which two ghostly

eyes appeared to float.

A day or two afterwards Society was startled

by an amazing piece of news concerning the

golden idols which it had most recently set

up. Mr. Joel Goldsberg had been suddenly

struck down by some mysteri-

ous malady of a nervous cha-

racter, and his newly-wedded

bride had vanished utterly

from the gaze of her wor-

shippers. Later still it trans-

pired, through the agency

of an indefatigable society

journalist, that her reason

had suddenly given way

from some unknown cause,

and that she was now an

inmate of a private lunatic

asylum.

" I have it on the best

authority," concluded the

paragraph in which the

Gutter Gazette gave this

piquant detail to the world,

" that the unhappy lady's

malady is of a most singular

description. She imagines

that she is a skeleton, and

that her clothing and skin

and flesh are nothing more

than transparent shadows

which everybody can see

through. As a consequence

her physicians are obliged at

present to allow her to live

day and night in a dark room,

since the presence of the

faintest light drives her instantly into a con-

dition of the most violent hysterics."

[NoTE.—Although this is of course a purely

imaginative story, it may he as 1vell to say that

such photographs as that of Mrs. Goldsberg

WHAT A BANK HOLIDAY COSTS.

BY JOSEPH MASON.

WHEN, through the exertions chiefly of Sir

John Lubbock, the Bank Holidays Act be-

came law in May, 1871, the effect was mainly

to give one additional day's holiday to

the great mass of workers in this country.

Nominally, the Act gave the sanction of law,

as Bank Holidays, to several days which from

time immemorial had been in a substantial

degree public festivals.

Christmas Day, Boxing Day, Good Friday,

Easter Monday, and Whit Monday, had

always been regarded as public holidays, andf

though, no doubt, the passing of the Act gave

emphasis and authority to what was already a

practically understood thing, the real public

concession was the August Bank Holiday.

And this was no small boon ; coming as it

does in the very prime and fulness of the

year. Hitherto the toilers, unless they were

in positions to take holidays on their own

account, had a dreary expanse from Whit

Monday till Christmas Day or a good seven

months without a break, in which the routine

of work must go on ; and it came as a distinct

advantage to the masses when one more day, at

the best time of all, could be legitimately taken

for recreation and rest.

This one day in the year, to which the

title of " St. Lubbock " is essentially appro-

priate, has acquired a hold on the affections

of the people which will carry the name of

its originator for a longer course through the

aeons of time, than far more imposing services

by others, in less attractive forms, will serve

to keep their memories green.

But perhaps, St. Lubbock himself, when

he carried his scheme, had little idea of the

cost. Long before the era of bank holidays,

people were accustomed to hold high jinks

on all the other days included in the list, and

therefore, in forming an estimate of what a

bank holiday costs, it is fairest to take that

one day of early August, on which the great

mass of the British public sing and laugh, and

feast, and make merry to their heart's content.

Of course, everybody cannot enjoy even a

Bank Holiday. First of all, there is the con-

siderable army of those who have to work

hard in catering for the enjoyment of others.

Railway, tram, and steamboat employe"s,

restaurant - keepers, publicans, and others,

never work so hard as they do on a Bank

Holiday. Judges on assize circuits also

insist on sitting, and keeping at their beck

and call many courts full of people who

would fain be elsewhere.

Then there are the very aristocratic and

the very rich people who would consider it

quite beneath their dignity to indulge in the

frivolities of such an occasion; there are the

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZIXE.

very poor who have really no means with

which to enjoy themselves ; and jhere are the

very young and the very old who either have

not reached, or have passed by, the time of

life when the participation in such enjoyments

as involve the free spending of money is a

possibility.

Taking the whole population of these

Islands at forty millions, and making liberal

deductions for old and young who can't, rich

who don't care to, and poor

who have not the means;

and the numerous

class who must

work in order that

others may enjoy

themselves, it is

probably well with-

in the mark to say

that when day

breaks on the Au-

gust Bank Holi-

day fully twenty

millions of people

scattered over the

British Isles

awaken with the

desire and inten-

tion to enjoy them-

selves to the

utmost of their

bent and of their

means.

To the great

majority it is, of

course, a one-day

ness; but to many—in tlu

aggregate a multitude—

it is made the occasion

or the excuse for a

somewhat longer break in

the cares of life. Those

who can will get afield from Friday

night or Saturday till Monday night or

Tuesday morning, and their expenses,

though they cannot be strictly allocated

to the Bank Holiday, are clearly attributable

to it.

Then, of course, the scale of expenses

must vary greatly: your prosperous shop-

keeper' or well-to-do clerk can, and

will, spend as much again, or thrice as

btisi-

much as the junior clerk or simple working

man.

The great idea of people, at this time

especially, is to get away from home, to the

seaside, or into the country; or if it won't

quite run to that, then to some place of

popular amusement, such as the Crystal

Palace, or Belle Vue at Manchester.

Excursion trains at cheap rates are run,

of course, and the vast majority of the

passengers go

third class ; but

allowing for all

that, the takings

of the railway

companies on
WHAT A BANK HOLIDAY COSTS.

383

at 1s. each is £250,000. Deducting one-fifth

as representing an ordinary day's traffic, we

have a net excess expenditure on railway

travelling of £200,000.

One source of

enjoyment.

Next comes steamboat traffic. The

Thames steamboats last Rank Holiday carried

60,000 persons; the Mersey ferries at least

double the number; 25,000 went to the Isle

of Man ; and if we add the many other coast-

wise and river traffics, on the Clyde, and in

fact all round the coast, we must add at least

another million. It is difficult again to fix an

average, ranging as the fares do from zd. to

5^. or more ; but here again, a fair average

will probably be about 1s., which adds

another .£50,000 gross, or, allowing

for an ordinary day's traffic, at least

£40,000 net, to our total.

Tram and omnibus traffic in London

alone on a Bank holiday is a formid-

able figure ; and, counting in the great

provincial towns, another figure of five

millions at an average of 3^. a head—

i.e., .£62,500 gross, or deducting an

ordinary day's traffic, say .£50,000 must

go to our totals.

In many towns, such as Sheffield, the

moderately well-to-do people delight in

forming parties, hiring brakes, and driving

to places of popular resort in their respec-

tive vicinities. These people will tot up to

the thousands in each of such places, and, on a

general average of the country, can scarcely

be estimated at less than half a million; and

as this is rather an expensive form of amuse-

ment, their expenditure, which it must be

borne in mind is almost wholly special to the

day, adds another £50,000. Cabs, gigs, dog-

carts, and other forms of conveyance through-

out the country may be debited with an equal

amount.

Bicyclists who ride their own machines are

a class to themselves, because, so far as

traffic expenses go, they can take their pleasure

very cheaply. If we put the total number out

on that day at half a million, and credit three-

fourths of them with riding their own

property, probably a penny a head will cover

wear and tear and occasional accident. The

other fourth, riding hired machines, must

spend at least 5J. a head; and thus we

have to add another ,£27,000 or so to our

figures.

Pedestrians who glory in a long walk or

mountain climb, cannot escape some amount

of traffic charges. Consumption of shoe-

leather and some extra wear and tear of

apparel generally (the best available being

worn as a rule) is the consequence of a full

enjoyment of a Bank Holiday, and it is a

traffic charge fairly distributable over the

whole crowd everywhere. .An average of

sixpence a head is surely not too much

for this item; and twenty millions of six-

pences amount to the formidable sum of

half a million sterling. Thus, under our

384

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

simple, we arrive at the following startling

figures :

Railway Fares ^200,000

Steamboats, etc 40, OCX)

Trams and Omnibuses ... 50,000

Private Conveyances ... 100,000

Bicyclists 27,000

Pedestrians, and general

wear and tear 500,000

Or a total of ... .£917,000

But people out for a Bank Holiday

are by no means content with tra-

velling only. They must eat

and drink, and smoke, and

enjoy themselves in divers

ways.

Two meals per head

at 6d. only above the

average cost of living

on an ordinary day,

three drinks extra,

averaging 2d. each,

and half an ounce of

tobacco extra, at 2i/.,

is the least that can

be allowed for an

average man or youth;

and assuming that

one fourth only of the

Bank Holidayites

come within this cate-

gory, we have five mil-

lions at is. 2d. each,

or ,£"300,000 in round

figures. The wives, and

sweethearts, and children,

etc., who make up the bal-

ance of fifteen millions, can

scarcely be put down at less than

9i/. per head for similar items of

expenditure, or, roughly, half a million more.

Thus we add to our grand total a sum of

/"8oo,ooo for sustenance.

Finally we come to the item of amuse-

ments, and it is by no means the least. On

Bank Holiday, if at any time, people will

enjoy themselves. When as many as 56,000

visit the Crystal Palace, 23,000 the Zoological

Gardens, 20,000 or 30,000 the cricket match

at the Oval, and when every place of public

resort, at the seaside and elsewhere, has its

hordes of purveyors of amusement in some

form or other; and when we know how

easily sixpences, and shillings even, slip

away in these various forms of amusement,

we shall not overshoot the mark if we assess

the average at sixpence a head for the whole

twenty millions who, in some form or other,

spend money in amusements pure and simple

on Bank Holiday. This makes another small

item of .£500,000, so that now we have

Traffic ^917,000

Sustenance (extra)... 800,000

Amusements ... 500,000

or .£2,217,000. We

have still to allow for

lodgings of those who

stay away from home

WHAT A BANK HOLIDAY COSTS.

385

millions; and surely a week's relaxation at a

cost, beyond the ordinary, of only 125.

per head is not excessive. Of course,

my figures may be an under-estimate; but

I was anxious not to err on the side of excess

The return home.

in my computations. That our six Bank Holi-

days, and their equivalent days in Scotland,

cost the people at least twelve millions sterling

is beyond doubt or question.

But it by no means follows that, because a

pound is spent in festivity and enjoyment

which could have been avoided, it is there-

fore money wasted. Looked at from the

standpoint of the individual, much of the

money might, perhaps, be ill-spared ; but we

cannot afford to take these narrow views, and

certainly the community, as a whole, cannot

be said to suffer through any amount of Bank

Holiday expenditure.

There are thousands upon thousands of

people to whom these great public holidays

bring welcome and profitable employment;

and anything which puts money into free

circulation cannot be a serious evil, regarded

from the popular standpoint. Even from

the position of the man of limited means,

who. perhaps in the height of his enjoyment

Vol. I.- -26.

rather impoverishes the family exchequer,

there is something to be said. "All work

and no play makes Jack a dull boy" is a

very truthful old saying; and after his day's

" spree," in most cases with his sweetheart,

or with his wife and little ones, he returns to

his toil a happier and, except for the

temporary leanness of his pocket, in every

sense a better man; whilst, as for the family,

whose only chance it is perhaps to get a

sight of things so new and strange, it is a

red-letter day from the time that one has

passed till another comes round.

The preparations which many people make

for a good holiday time, show how keenly

they appreciate the boon. In the manufac-

turing districts especially, the saving up of

holi.lay money has developed into quite a fine

art. Originally instilled into the people no

doubt by the weekly demands of the friendly

societies, and the occasional substan-

tial benefits which they derive from

these accumulations of weekly pence,

this principle of systematic saving up

has been largely carried into the

domain of pleasure, and holiday socie-

ties and holiday clubs have become quite a

feature of the humble life of many of our

large towns.

It is, in fact, no unusual thing for the

holiday clubs of Oldham alone to have in the

spring, and up to shortly before Whitsuntide,

more than .£20,000 banked to their credit.

This represents about 4^. per head of the

entire population, and therefore, of course,

very much more per head of the actual

subscribers.

Of course, as the summer advances, these

balances rapidly deplete until after Oldham

rt fUXclx. aboard o

on a maix-o'-Wea'

^ot -up in tHe.T^e $ 10^5'

'E Wdj jcrevpra'

of- e-ppl«xle5 aTv'

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ATX

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nor1 V i 5nt one o F 17\e crev?

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IMYARDJM FLING

Copyright, 1896, in the L'nited Stata of America by Rudyard Kipling.

i

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THE MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR COMES.

BY ARCHIBALD FORBES.

= O-DAY the dullest ear

cannot but hear the

brooding muttering of the im-

pending rupture of the world's

peace. Everywhere the earth

sullenly echoes to the tramp of

armed men. Three millions

of soldiers belonging to the five great Powers

of Continental Europe are standing at atten-

tion, while the inevitable stroke of war lowers

nearer and more near.

And this vast mass of men, with weapons

in their hands, is but what, surely in grim

mockery, is termed the " peace strength " of

the armies of the five great Powers. In less

than a month devoted to mobilisation, those

three millions constituting the so-called

" peace strength '' of the armament of the

Powers, can swell into a " war strength"

amounting to the stupendous total of ten

and a half millions of armed men, with

the terrible complement of nearly 18,000

guns.

And those all but incalculable figures apply

only to the armaments of the five great

Powers. Few civilian readers take any

serious account of the military potentialities

of the minor States of Eastern Europe. Yet

the armed strengths of Bulgaria, Roumania,

Servia, Greece, and Montenegro collectively

furnish a total of nearly 900,000 fighting men,

with 1,200 guns.

Try to think of it! The " war strength "

of mobilised Europe would consist of close

on eleven and a half millions of soldiers,

Copyright, 1896, in the United States

and those exclusively field troops, with an

artillery complement of 19,zoo field guns.

In round numbers,

the GERMAN EMPIRE on

mobilisation can bring

into service a strength

of two and a half mil-

lions of men. There

are in all twenty Army

Corps, of which nineteen are territorial, while

the Guard Corps recruits picked men through-

out the Empire, and has its headquarters in

and about the Capital. Each Army Corps,

with a war strength of about 33,000 men, is

a small but complete army, sufficient unto

itself in so far as its numerical strength allows,

and the Corps Commander is always a full

General.

The German army has not seen a shot

fired in anger since the great war of 1870-71,

but probably all the Corps Commanders of

to-day took part in that war, although in

comparatively subordinate positions. Since,

however, his accession in 1888, the present

Emperor has been gradually sending into

retirement the old warriors whom he con-

siders past work, or behind the times. But

a Corps Commander must be a man of great

experience, and promotion is slow in the

German army, so that for the most part the

Army Corps are commanded by veterans,

who, however, are still hale, active in body

THE MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR COMES.

393

has seen no real war, but he has been a close

student of war from his youth, and in peace

manoeuvres he has proved over and over

again his practical skill and knowledge of

warfare as regards both strategy and tactics.

In the event of actual war, it is certain that,

as the phrase goes, he will be " his own

Commander-in-Chief."

Under him the Chief-of-Staff of the Ger-

man army, whether that position be held, as

now, by Lieutenant-General Schlieffen, or by

any other officer, will have to take his orders

from his Imperial—and imperious—master,

and have no such relations with Wilhelm II.

as Moltke had with Wilhelm I.

In the event of war. the Emperor would

certainly take command of the principal

German army, and it is not less certain that

the command of the army of the next

importance would be intrusted to that grand

old warrior, Albert, King of Saxony. He is

the only chief now in activity who commanded

an army in the Franco-German war. He it

was who, being then Crown Prince of

Saxony, with his own, the Saxon Corps, on

the bloody day of Gravelotte-St. Privat,

turned Bazaine's right flank, and at the head

of his gallant troops, stormed in upon Can-

robert's stronghold in the fortress-like village

of St. Privat.

He it was who, having succeeded to the

command of the army of the Meuse, on the

._, ,.

the jMeuse held the northern and eastern

sections of environment; and, then honoured

by being attached to his staff, I had daily

opportunities of noting the Crown Prince's

quiet, steadfast alertness, not to speak

of his skilled valour in thwarting Ducrot's

great sortie on the east of Paris. King

Albert is now in his sixty-eighth year, but he

is full of vigour and activity, and he is not

the man to shun a campaign.

It is highly probable that, in the event of

war, Count Waldersee would obtain high

command. Indeed, it has been stated, and

no contradiction has ever been made, that the

Emperor has definitely promised him the

command of an army should war occur.

His tact and suavity made Waldersee very

useful in difficult conjunctures in the course of

the war of 1870-71 : and both King Wilhelm

and Moltke gave him awkward missions

in which he acquitted himself to their high

satisfaction. He was recently made a field-

marshal, and at present commands the

Sleswig-Holstein Army Corps. His age is

fifty-six, although he looks younger; he is

handsome, active, ambitious, and married to

a lady who was originally an American.

Field-Marshal Prince Albert of Prussia

was the brilliant commander of a crack

cavalry brigade in the Franco-German war,

during the advance on Paris, in the Orleans

region, and, later, in the bitter winter, on

THE KING OF SAXONY.

From a Photo by Stereoscopic Co.

COUNT WALDERSEE.
394

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

working soldier, for he is on duty in the

Hanover army inspection, commands the

Westphalian Army Corps, and has been

Besides commanding the Saxon Corps,

Prince George is in charge of the Dresden

Army Inspection. In case of war he would

Regent of the Duchy of Brunswick since probably have an important command, for,

1888.

In the latter capacity it must be confessed

although sixty-three, he is still vigorous, and

is a very keen soldier.

PRINCE FREDK. OF HOHENZOLLERN.

From a Photo by C. Grimm and Co.

PRINCE GEORGE OF SAXONY.

From a Photo by Otto Mayer.

FIELD-MARSHAL ELUMENTHAL.

From a Photo by Loescher and Petsch.

that he is cordially disliked by the people of

Brunswick, but that does not make him any

the worse soldier. In the event of war, he

would be certain of an important command.

Prince Frederick of Hohenzollern is at a

certain disadvantage, as being successor in

the command of the 3rd (Brandenburg) Army

Corps to that noble and brilliant soldier,

General Alvensleben II. But the Prince is

a very capable officer, and has a distinguished

record as a cavalryman.

He was for years in command of that fine

regiment the 2nd Dragoon Guards, which,

on the day of Mars-la-Tour, when Wedell's

infantry was sore pressed, supported the

heroic advance of iis sister regiment, and

covered the retreat of the latter by repeated

and brilliant charges. Prince Frederick is only

fifty-two, and in the event of war would pro-

bably receive an important cavalry command.

Although, like his father King Johann,

Field-Marshal Prince George of Saxony is

a man of letters, he is also an exemplary

soldier, and the Royal Saxon Army Corps,

which he commands, is equal in every respect

to any corps of the German Reich. He highly

distinguished himself in 1870 in the repulse

of Ducrot's famous sortie from Paris, but on

that night there were many empty chairs

round the dining table in the chateau of

Chelles. the Prince's temporary headquarters.

General Prince Arnulf of Bavaria, .who

commands the 1st Bavarian Army Corps, is,

at the age of forty-three, an exceptionally

young corps commander. He is an ardent

soldier, as behoves a son of gallant old Prince

Lukpold, Regent and virtual Sovereign ol

Bavaria since 1886.

In addition to the officers specified above

as likely to obtain high positions in the event

of war, three present corps commanders are

spoken of in the German Army as being of

exceptional capacity:—Generals von Schlicht-

ling, now commanding the I4th (Badeni

Army Corps ; von Haeseler, i6th (Lorraine);

and von Lentze, 17th (Prussia Proper).

Among comparatively junior officers,

Colonel Huningen von Huene, Chief of Staff of

the 16th Army Corps, is considered in German

military circles as an exceptionally capable

man for whom a brilliant future may be

THE MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR COMES.

395

German War, reply to a question as to

Garibaldi's immediate future, in the grim

words—yet words no grimmer than his face:

"If he is catchet, he will be shooted."

Again, when as he was riding about one

day on the " Hog's Back " during the

Aldershot autumn manoeuvres of 1871, a

busybody ventured to ask him what he

thought of our British performance.

I heard '.he old gentleman reply:

" It ees a very fine day, sir ! "

as he wheeled his horse with a

grunt in which was no amiability.

But he could be amiable when

he chose ; and a few minutes

later he was in friendly converse

with a dapper, young-looking

officer who is now Commander-

in-Chief of the British Army.

Rugged person as he wa?,

Blumenthal has been known to place a

knapsack under the head of a wounded

soldier on the battle-field.

In the course of the

last two or three years

the FRENCH ARMY has

suffered from the re-

tirement of several of

its most conspicuous

chiefs. Galliffet, the

chivalrous cavalryman who, on the after-

noon of Sedan, so heroically led the

French squadrons in their final

fierce charge down the slope

from the calvary of Illy, has

been retired from the service ;

and Davout, who confronted

him in command of an army

in the brilliant manoeuvres of

1891, has accompanied him

into retirement.

As well as those two distin-

guished soldiers, Generals

Bellot, Thomassin, and Carre*

de Bellemare, the last of whom

fought so brilliantly on Mac-

Mahon's right flank in the battle of Worth,

would have had high commands in the event

of war before their retirement occurred.

To fill their places adequately, has not in

every case been possible. In the manoeuvres

of last autumn, in the Charmes region,

GEN. SAUSSIER.

From Photo by Eug. Pirou.

GENERAL TROCHU.

Generals Duchamel and Du Benoist proved

themselves capable cavalry leaders, but neither

displayed the flashing coup d'ccil and brilliant

dash of the absent Galliffet.

The chief desideratum in the higher com-

mands of the French army, is, in a word,

younger men; but that is a desideratum

which seems strangely difficult of

attainment. The Commander-in'

Chief of the French army, or, as

he is termed for some occult

reason, " Commander-in-Chief

Designate," is General Saussier.

396

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

displayed exceptional ability, and more than

once had the better of Saussier.

In the event of early war, Saussier, in spite

of his disabilities, would probably still be

commander-in-chief en litre; De Negrier

would probably command the principal army;

and Jamont and Elli, in all likelihood, would

each have a separate army command.

Duchesne, now commanding the 5th corps

as a reward for his conduct in Madagascar,

although a very young general of division, is

highly thought of; and possibly would have

a separate command. If M. Cavaignac, the

present War Minister, should succeed in his

design of substituting a colonial army for the

Algerian Army Corps, Duchesne might have

the command of the former.

It may be interesting to mention that

the 6th French Army Corps, whose

headquarters are at Chalons, is at

least three times as strong as any

other corps. Its positions are

right on the frontier facing

Germany. Constantly on the

alert, its cavalry and infantry

are maintained at war strength ;

and its role at the beginning

of war would be that of a

" Covering Army," behind

which the concentration of the

armed strength of France

would be made. Its command is the most

responsible position of any in all France. At

present it is held by General Harve.

It is a curious feature of the French mili-

tary organisation, a phase, probably, of the

democratic character of the Republic, that in

the army there is no higher nominal rank

than that of General of Division. Thus

Saussier, although he is the Commander-

in-Chief of the whole French Army, holds no

higher titular grade than that possessed by,

for instance, a comparatively young officer

such as Duchesne. Saussier and Duchesne

are therefore of the same rank—surely

a strange and inconvenient anomaly. The

Commander-in-Chief is simply primus infer

pares, and thus must arise continual jealousies

and intrigues.

General Trochu, who is still alive, although

long past work, was the mock and gibe of

Paris during the great siege of 1870-71, when

GRAND DUKE

From a Photo

that capital was beleaguered by the German

hosts. He and his plan, of which he was

ever talking but never executing, have been

forgotten by swift-living Paris; yet Trochu

was the notable man of a notable period.

He was Governor of Paris and Commander-

in-Chief of its garrison during the long

memorable siege, and he deserved infinitely

better of his country than many men who

have occupied high places in its temple of

fame. Hurriedly summoned to his thank-

less duty, he found Paris alike bewildered

and defenceless. He restored calm, and

organised a defence so efficient that Paris

THE MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR COMES.

397

In the event of war, it is improbable that

the present Emperor will take the field ; the

warning experience of his grandfather alone

should deter him from that species of folly.

His eldest uncle, the Grand Duke Vladimir,

a wise man of high character, who served with

credit in command of an army corps in the

Russia-Turkish war of 1877, would probably

have the high position of Commander-in-

Chief.

The present chief of staff. General

Obrutcheff, probably the best strategist and

tactician in the Russian army, would retain his

position in war as in peace. Wise and cool-

headed Miliutin. for many years war minister,

is gone, and his place is now occupied by

General Vannovski, who fought on the Lom

in 1877.

For some years past the greater part of the

army of European Russia has been quartered

on the westward frontier from the Baltic to

the Black Sea. and the three most important

military districts, as being closest to the

German and Austrian border lines, are those

of Vilna in the north; Warsaw in the centre,

in the region where Russia projects a great

salient into Prussia and Gallicia; and Vilna in

the south-east.

The three best Generals the Empire

possesses command these three important

districts, and would no doubt do so in the

event of war. General Trotskii commands

the Vilna Province ; General

Paul Schuvaloff, Gourko's

second-in-command in

the Russo-Turkish war,

in the Warsaw Pro-

vince ; and in the

Kieff Province, brave

old Dragomiroff,

whom, when his

knee was shattered

in the Shipka Pass,

I helped to carry

into comparative

safety.

In the Asiatic

possessions of the Empire, General Prince

Kuropatkin, Skobeleff's comrade, and a man

of that great soldier's style of fighting, is now

Governor - General of Transcaspia, while

General Vreskii is Governor-General of

EMPEROR OF AUSTRIA.

GAZI OSMAN PASHA.

Turkestan. Glorious Skobeleff, alas! is in

his grave, and Gourko can never again ride

out on the war-path.

With the ITALIAN commanders of the

period I have but slight ac-

quaintance. King Humbert,

in the event of war, would

probably himself take the

field in the nominal cha-

racter of Commander-

in-Chief; but the prin-

cipal actual command

in the European cam-

paign would be vested,

398

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

has seen much war. He is esteemed a very

competent officer, but his age, sixty-eight,

tells against him.

Field-Marshal Anton Galotzy, who com-

mands the 10th Corps, is considered next to

Schonfeld, the most competent General, and,

being only fifty-seven, is regarded as com-

paratively a youth.

The Emperor's chief favourite is General

Baron von Appel, but he is now commanding

in Bosnia, whence it is improbable that he

would be removed. He is close to the

period named by the Psalmist.

General-of-Cavalry Prince Ludwig Win-

dischgratz has been famous as a cavalry

chief, and, although in his sixty-fifth year,

seems to have lost little of his pristine fire.

Field-Marshal Edler von Kreighammer is

also an old cavalry officer, who distinguished

.himself in the campaigns of 1859 and

1866; he is now War Minister, and would

take a leading part in case of war, although

probably in an administrative rather than

in a purely military position.

Tf TURKEY should be

involved in war, the

chief command would

doubtless be intrusted

to Gazi Osman Pasha,

the famous defender

of Plevna. His first

campaign was in the Crimea; he served

during the Syrian war of 1860, in the Cretan

Plevna position on July 2Oth, 1877, holding it

against vastly superior numbers in three

great battles and during five long months,

until the end came after a furious but unsuc-

cessful sortie, on the morning of December

loth.

Gazi Mukhtar Pasha, the hard-fighting com-

mander of the Turkish army in Asia Minor,

still survives. Osman is in his fifty-eighth

year; Mukhtar's age I do not know.

In the event of war,

GREAT BRITAIN might

be able in a month or

six weeks to prepare

for service • an army

corps of a strength of

about 35,000 men, with

about 4500 additional troops to protect the

line of communication. This body would

consist, to a great extent, of reservists, who

would no doubt readily return to the colours

in compliance with the mobilisation order,

but of whom a large proportion would be

more or less rusty.

A second army corps might be gradually

mobilised in the course of a couple of months

later, but :ts composition would be of a

somewhat miscellaneous character.

It would remain to be seen in whom

among the superior officers would be vested

the principal commands in the field. If

precedent were to be regarded, the present

Commander-in-Chief would remain at his

LORD WOLSELEY.

From Photo by the London Stereoscopic Co.

MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR COMES.

399

was an abler soldier than any of the sue- Redvers Buller, Sir R. Harrison, and Sir A. J.

•cessive commanders in that war is un-

questionable, yet he remained at home

in the capacity of Commander-in-Chief

of the Forces of the nation; and it may be

Lyon-Freemantie; Major-General G. Luck

commanding the Cavalry Division. The

command of the 2nd Army Corps, when

mobilised, would probably be assigned to

COL. E. MARKHAM.

From a Photo by Bassano.

COL. DAVIS, A.D.C.

From a Photo by Bassano.

MAJOR-GEN. GOODENOUGH.

From a Photo by Basiano.

assumed that Lord Wolseley would follow the

precedent.

In that event the ist Expeditionary Army

Corps would probably be commanded by

Lord Roberts, with Lieutenant-General E. F.

Chapman as his Chief of Staff, the divisional

commanders being Lieutenant-Generals Sir

General H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught, with

Lieutenant - General Sir Evelyn Wood as

Chief of Staff. Its Divisional Commanders

might be selected from a list comprising

Lieutenant - Generals Stevenson, Sir H.

Brackenbury, Col. Davis, Col. Markham,

Major-General Goodenough, and others.

A WAKING DREAM.

Beneath the moonbeams falling white around

me,

I stand with her again,

Striving to break the bonds that one time

bound me

Faster than forged chain.

Once more that sweet sad face in all its A moon-ray through my study window

beauty

Says mutely : " Dear one, stay! "

gleaming

Lies white across the walls,

And Love, in answer, cries out: " Yes ! " but Just o'er a girlish face ; and I've been

Duty,

With calmer voice, says : " Nay! "

dreaming

Of all that face recalls.

Farewell." Twas done ; the fatal word Of Love and Hope and Faith that trusted

madly

Fate's future path unseen ;

was spoken

That ended in a sigh.

The right was done ; but youth's first vow Of hours of pleasure now remembered sadly,

was broken And all—that might have been!

With that last long " Good-bye." CLARENCE HOPE.

THE RETIRING OF DOMSIE

BY IAN MACLAREN.

IT was an ancient custom that Domsie and

Drumsheugh should dine with Doctor David-

son in the Manse after the distribution of

prizes at the school, and his companions

both agreed afterwards that the Dominie was

never more cheerful than on those days.

There was always a review of stories when

the Doctor and Domsie brought out their

favourites, with Drumsheugh for an impartial

and appreciative audience, and every little

addition or improvement was noted in a

spirit of appreciative criiicism.

During the active operations of dinner, talk

was disjointed and educational, hinging on

the prospects of the calf crop in the school,

and the golden glories of the past, ever better

than the present, when the end of each

University session showered medals on

Drumtochty. When the Doctor had smacked

his first glass of port, having examined it

against the light, and the others had prepared

their toddy in a careful silence, broken only

by wise suggestions from the host, it was

understood that genuine conversation might

begin.

" Aye, aye," Domsie would remark, by

way of intimating that they, being now in an

open and genial mind, were ready to welcome

one of the Doctor's best stories, and Drums-

heugh became insistent.

" A'm no wantin' tae tribble ye, Docter,

but ave never got ower that sermon on the

Copyright, 1896, in tru L'nited Sla

turtle, Docter. Ye micht let's hear it again.

A'm no sure gin the Dominie ever herd it."

May Drumsheugh be forgiven !

Whereupon Domsie went on the back

trail, and affected to search his memory for

the traces of the turtle, with no satisfaction.

May he also be forgiven !

" Toots, Drumsheugh, you are trying to

draw my leg. I know you well, eh ? As for

you, Dominie, you've heard the story twenty

times. Weil, well, just to please you; but

mind you, this is the last time.

" It was the beginning of a sermon that

old MacFee, of Glenogie, used to preach on

the Monday after the Sacrament from the

text ' The voice of the turtle is heard in the

land,' and this was the introducticn.

" There will be many wonders in the latter

day, but this is the greatest of them all—the

voice of the turtle shall be heard in the land.

This marvel falls into two parts, which we

shall consider briefly and in order.

" I. A new posture evidently implied,

when an animal that has gone upon its belly

for ages shall arise on its hind legs and walk

majestically through the land, and

" II. A new voice distinctly promised, when

a creature that has kept silence from genera-

tion to generation will at last open its mouth

and sing melodiously among the people."

" It's michty,'' summed up Drumsheugh,

after the exposition had been fully relished.

tcs of America, by Ijn Mailaren.

THE RETIRING OF DOMSIE.

401

" Ye'll no hear the like o' that noo-a-days in a

coonty. It's weel telt also, and that's im-

portant, for the best story is no worth hearin'

frae a puir hand. The corn needs to be

cleaned afore ye tak it tae market.

" The story is not without merit," and the

Doctor's modesty was all the more striking

as he was supposed to have brought the turtle

into its present form out of the slenderest

materials, "but the Dominie has some far

neater things." Anything Domsie had was

from Aberdeen, and not to be compared, he

explained, with Perthshire work, being very

dry and wanting the fruity flavour of the

Midland County; but he could still recall

the divisions of the action sermon given

every year before the winter Sacrament in

Bourtrie-Lister:

I. " Let us remember that there is a moral

law in the universe."

II. " Let us be thankful there is a way of

essape from it."

And then Domsie would chuckle with a

keen sense of irony at the theology under-

neath. " For the summer Sacrament," he

would add after a pause, " we had a dis-

course on sin wi' twa heads, ' Original Sin '

and ' Actual Transgressions'; and after

Maister Deuchar finished wi' the first, he aye

snuffed, and said with great cheerfulness:

'Now let us proceed toactual transgressions.'"

Although Domsie's tales had never in them

the body of the Doctor's, yet he told them

with such a pawkie humour, that Drum-

sheugh was fain between the two to cry for

mercy, being often reduced to the humiliation

of open laughter, of which he was afterwards

much ashamed.

On the day Domsie made his lamentable

announcement, it was evident to his friends

that he was cast down, and ill at ease. He

only glanced at a Horace which the Doctor

had been fool enough to buy in Edinburgh,

and had treasured up for Domsie's delec-

tation at the close of the school year—the

kind of book he loved to handle, linger over,

" return to gaze at," for all the world like a

Catholic with a relic.

" Printed, do you see, by Henry Stephen.

of Paris, there's his trademark, a philosopher

gathering twigs from the tree cf knowledge—

and bound by Boyet—old French morocco.

Vol. I.—27.

There is a coat of arms—I take it of a peer

of France;" and the Doctor, a born book-

collector, showed all its points, as Drums-

heugh would have expatiated on a three-year-

old bullock.

Domsie could not quite resist the con-

tagious enthusiasm ; putting on his spectacles

to test the printing; running his hand over

the gold tooling as one strokes a horse's

glossy skin, and tasting afresh one or two

favourite verses from a Horace printed and

bound by the master craftsmen of their day.

But it was only a brief rally, and Domsie

sank again into silence, from which neither

kindly jest nor shrewd country talk could

402

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

ma last class, and ye will need to get another

Dominie," and Domsie, who was determined

to play the man, made a show of filling his glass.

" Ye're an Aiberdeenshire mon a ken,

though maist fouk hae forgotten that ye're

no ain' o' oorsels, but div ye tell me thatye're

gain' tae leave us after a thae years an' a' the

bairns ye've educat," and Drumsheugh grew

indignant.

" Dinna be feared, Drumsheugh, or think

me ungrateful. I may gang north tae see

ma birthplace aince mair, an' the graves o' ma

fouk, an' there's another hoose in Aberdeen

I would like tae see, and then I'm comin'

back to Drumtochty to live an' dee here

among the friends that hev been kind to me."

" This has come suddenly, Domsie, and

is a little upsetting," and Drumsheugh noticed

that the Doctor was shaken. "We have

worked side by side for a long time, church

and school, and I was hoping that there

would be no change till—till we both retired

altogether; we're about the same age. Can't

you—eh, Dominie?"

" God kens, Doctor, a dinna lik' the thotht

o't, but it's for the gude o' the schule. A'm

no hearing sae weel as aince a did, an' ma

hands are shakin' in the writin'. The scholars

are gettin' their due, for a'm no failin' in

humanity (Latin) but the bairns are losing,

and ma day's dune.

" Ye'ill say that a'm retirin' an' thank a

body for their consideration, and Doctor a've

juist a favour tae ask. Gin a new schule an'

maister's hoose be built wull ye lat me get

the auld ane; it 'ill no be worth much an'

. . . I wud like tae end ma days there."

" Whate'er you want, Domsie, and ye 'ill

come to the Manse till it be free and we 'ill

have many a night among the classics, but

this is bad news for the Glen come

who may in your place," and then, though each

man did his part, it was a cheerless evening.

Next day Domsie left to make his pious

pilgrimage, and on the Sabbath there was

only one subject in the kirkyard.

" Div ye no think, neebours," said Hillocks,

after a tribute had been paid to Domsie's

services, " that he oucht tae get some bit

testimonial. It wudna be wiselike tae let him

slip oot o' the schule wlthoot a word frae the

Glen.

Hillocks paused, but the fathers were so

much astonished at Hillocks taking the

initiative in expenditure that they waited for

further speech.

"Noo, Pitscoarie is no a pairish tae pit

beside Drumtochty for ae meenut, but when

their Dominie gied up his post, if the bodies

didna gather fifty pund for him ; they ca'd it

a purse o' sovereigns in the Advertiser, but

that was juist a genteel name for't."

"A'm no sayin'," continued Hillocks;

" that it wud be safe tae trust Domsie wi' as

mickle siller at a time; he wud be off tae

Edinburgh an' spend it on auld bukes, or

may be divide it up amang his students.

He's careless, is Domsie; but we micht gie

THE RETIRING OF D QMS IE.

403

" A legacy, div ye mean," inquired Jamie,

" or what are ye aifter ? "

" Weel, ye see," explained Hillocks with

much cunning, " there's a man in Kildrummie

got a box frae his customers, an' it's never

oot o' his hand. When he taps the lid ye

On the Sabbath there was only one subject in the kirkyard

can see him reading the inscription, and he's

a way o' passin' it tae ye on the slant that's

downricht clever. Ye canna help seein' the

words."

" Gin we were thinkin' aboot a present tae

a coal agent or a potatoe dealer," said Jamie,

" I wud hae the box wi' the words, but

Domsie's a queer body, an' a'm jalousin'

that he wud never use yir grand silver box

frae the day he got it, an' a'm dootin'

it micht be sold fer some laddie to get

him better keep at the college."

" Besides," con-

tinued Jamie, thought-

fully, " a'm no sure

that ony man can tak

up wi' a new box

after fifty. He's got

accustomed tae 'the

grip o' the auld box,

and he kens whar tae

pit in his thumb and

finger. A' coont that

it taks aboot fifteen

year tae grow into a

snuff box.

" There's juist ae

thing Domsie cares

aboot, an' it's naithcr

meat nor drink, nor

siller snuff boxes; it's

his college laddies,

gettin' them forrit and

payin' their fees, an'

haudin' them in life

till they're dune."

By this time the

kirkyard was listening

as one man and with

both ears, for it was

plain Jamie had an

idea.

" Ca' on, Jamie,"

encouraged Drums-

heugh, who had as yet

given no sign.

" He's hed his ain

time, hes Domsie,

gaein' roond Muir-

town market collectin'

the notes an' seein'

the scholars hed their

bukes. A'm no denyin' that Domsie was

greedy in his ain way, and gin the Glen cud

gither eneuch money tae foond a bit bursary

for puir scholars o' Drumtochty, a wudna say

but that he micht be pleased."

The matter was left in Drumsheugh's

404

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

hands, with Doctor Davidson as consulting

counsel, and he would tell nothing for a

fortnight. Then they saw in the Dunleith

train that he was charged with tidings, and

a meeting was held at the junction, Peter

being forbidden to mention time, and com-

manded to take the outcasts of Kildrummie

up by themselves if they couldn't wait.

" The first man a mentioned it tae was oor

Saunders, an' he said naethin' at

the time, but he cam up in

the forenicht.and slippit

a note in ma hand.

' He didna pit

mickle intae

me,' says he,

' but he's daejn'

fine wi' the

bairns.' Neebur

a kent that

meenut that the

Glen wud dae Hj^i!

something

handsome.

"Next morn-

ing a gied a

cry at the Free

Manse, and telt

Maister Car-

michael. If he

was na oot o'

the room like a

man possessed, and

he gied me every

penny he hed in the

hoose, ten pund five

shilling. And at the

gate he waved his hat in

the air, and cries ' The Jamieson

Bursary.'

" It was ae note from one man an'

three frae his neebur, an' twa shilling

frae the cottars. Abody has dune

his pairt, one hundred an' ninety-two pounds

frae the Glen.

" We sent a bit letter tae the Drumtochty

fouk in the Sooth, and they've sent fifty-eight

pounds, wi' mony good wishes, an' what na

think ye hev the auld scholars sent ? A

hundred and forty pounds. An' last nicht

we hed three hundred and ninety pounds."

" Ma word ! " was all Hillock found him-

self able to comment, " that wad get a richt

snuff-box."

" Ye hev mair tae tell, Drumsheugh," said

Jamie; " feenish the list."

" Yere a wratch, Jamie," responded the

treasurer of the Jamieson Bursary Fund.

" 'Hoo did ye ken aboot the Doctor,' says he

tae me laist nicht, 'here's a letter to Lord

Kilspindie. Give it to him at Muirtown, and

I would not say but he might

make the sum up to four hun-

dred.' So a' saw his lord-

ship in his room, and he

wrote a cheque and

pit in a letter, an'

says he, ' open

THE RETIRING OF DOMSIE.

405

Ross had come home from Australia, with his

F.R.S. and all his other honours, for he was

marked out to make the presentation; and

every Drumtochty scholar within reach was

enjoined to attend.

They came from Kildrummie at various

hours and in many conveyances, and Hillocks

checked the number at the bridge with

evident satisfaction.

" Atween yesterday and the day," he

reported to Jamie, in the afternoon, " aucht

and twenty scholars hae passed, no including

the Professor, and there's fower expected by

the next train ; they'll just be in time," which

they were to everybody's delight.

" It's a gude thing that bridge was mended ;

there's been fifty degrees gane over it the day,

Hillocks! to say naithin' o' a wecht o'

knowledge."

The Doctor had them all, thirty-three

University men, with Domsie and Carmichael

and Weelum MacLure, as good a graduate as

any man, to dinner, and for that end had his

barn wonderfully prepared. Some of the

guests have written famous books since then,

some are great preachers now, some are chief

authorities to science, some have never been

heard of beyond a little sphere, some are

living, and some are dead; but all have done

their part, and each man that night showed,

by the grip of his hand, and the look on

his face, that he knew where his debt was

due.

Domsie sat on the Doctor's right hand,

and the Professor on his left, and a great

effort was made at easy conversation, Domsie

asking the Professor three times whether he

had completely recovered from the fever

which had frightened them all so much -in

the Glen, and the Professor congratulating

the Doctor at intervals on the decorations of

the dinner hall. Domsie pretended to eat,

and declared he had never made so hearty a

dinner in his life, but his hands could

hardly hold the knife and fork, and he

was plainly going over the story of each

man at the table, while the place rang with

reminiscences of the old school among the

pines.

Before they left the barn, Doctor Davidson

proposed Domsie's health, and the laddies

—all laddies that day—drank it, some in

wine, some in water, every man from the

heart, and then one of them, they say it was a

quiet divine — started, in face of Doctor

Davidson, " For he's a jolly good fellow,"

and there are those who now dare to say

that the Doctor joined in with much gusto,

but in these days no man's reputation is

safe.

Domsie was not able to say much, but he

said more than could have been expected.

He called them his laddies for the last time,

and thanked them for the kindness they were

doing their old master. There was not an

honour any one of them had won, from a

prize in the junior humanity to the last

degree he could not mention.

406

PEA RSOW S MA GA ZINE.

accomplishment, describing ; the Jamieson

Bursary, and declaring that while the parish

lasted there would be a Jamieson scholar

to the honour of Domsie's work. For a

while Domsie's voice was very shaky

when he was speaking about himself,

but afterwards it grew strong and

began to vibrate, as he implored the

new generation to claim their birth-

right of learning and to remember

that "the poorest parish, though it

have but bare fields and humble

homes, can yet turn out scholars to

be a strength and credit to

the commonwealth."

The Professor saw

Domsie home, and noticed

that he was shaking and

did not wish to speak. He

said good-bye at the old

schoolhouse, and Ross

caught him repeating

to himself :

Eheu fugaces, Postume,

Postume,

Labuntur anni.

but he seemed very

content.

Ross rose at day-

break next morning

and wandered down

to the schoolhouse,

recalling at every

step his boy-

hood and early

struggles, the goodness of Domsie, and his

life of sacrifice. The clearing looked very

peaceful, and the sun touched with beauty the

old weatherbeaten building which had been

the nursery of so many scholars, but

which would soon be deserted for

ever. He pushed the door

open and started to see

Domsie seated at the well-

known desk, and in his

right hand firmly

clasped the ad-

dress which the

scholars had

presented to

him. His

spectacles

were on his

forehead, his

left elbow

was resting

on the arm of

the chair, and

Ross recog-

nised the old

look upon his

face. It came

like a flash

when a diffi-

cult passage had sud-

denly yielded up its

hidden treasure, and

Ross knew that Dom-

ANIMAL ACTORS.

BY H. J. MILTON.

IMPELLED, perhaps, primarily by the undesir-

able but unavoidable necessity of providing

himself with one or more meals a day, and

after that by a genuine

interest in a mostfasci ZZZ^ZZHZI

nating pursuit, man has

discovered that certain

members of that section

of animate society

which he is pleased to

call the lower animals

may be successfully

taught by his superior

intellect to emulate the

pursuits of his lighter —

fancy. And not only this—he

has found that some of them

actually take an interest, nay

more, a positive pleasure in

forsaking, under his tuition,

both the traditions and the

postures of their race, and

that, too, for the sake of

making, or at any rate enliven-

ing, a human holiday.

Thus, for instance, you

would hardly think on casually

looking over the illustrations

to which these printed

lines are but a sort of

verbal accompaniment—even as indifferent

music may be made an accompaniment to

good words—that any self-respecting monkey

would enjoy putting

himself into such an

absurdly human atti-

tude as this, that geese

would condescend to

be drilled to march like

German soldiers, to do

the goose-step, in fact,

or that a dog, usually

and justly considered

to be a most intelligent

animal, should experi-

ence the slightest satis-

faction in sitting in an

attitude of supplication

on the top of a long

stick poised on the

bridge of a human

nose, nor yet that it

should choose to for-

sake the firm ground

of quadrupedal stand-

ing and learn to balance

itself on its hind legs

on an inconveniently

mobile trapeze, just to

gain the applause of a

AN INVERTED POOR RELATION.

408

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

'

collection of bipeds, which indulges in

a, to it, unnatural appetite for whiskey

and cigars.

And yet this is literally the case,

as I was assured by Herr Karl Jigg,

the trainer of the monkey and the geese,

and Professor Ricardo, the owner of

the human nose aforesaid and

the possessor of both dog and

trapeze. But here I find that

I owe an apology, since I have

been guilty of a lapsus which

the language wherein my inter-

view with Professor Ricardo

was conducted ought by rights

to have prevented.

Place au.v dames 1—I ought

to have introduced the ladies

first. The

young lady

who poses on

the pole is

Mademoiselle

Marquise, a

most dainty

little French

poodle of the

purest breed

and an equa-

bility of tem-

per which is

only paral-

leled by the

perfection of

HERR JIGG AND HIS MARCHING GEESE.

physical equilibrium to which she has attained under

the Professor's tuition.

The damsel on the trapeze is Mademoiselle Blanche,

and she, by the way, if you take another look at her

portrait, appears also to have mastered the art of per-

forming the elevated kick with her tail in a style

worthy of exciting the envy even of a skirt dancer

without a tail.

It took her nearly a year to learn this, and a glance at

the illustration on page 410 will show you how, clothed

in her native charms, she began to acquire the really

difficult art of which she is now a past mistress.

MDLLE. MARQUISE ON THE PINNACLE OF

FAME.
ANIMAL ACTORS.

409

ABOUT TWENTY-FOUR INCHES.

First she sat up on a chair-back as though she

was expecting sugar, which was the invari-

able reward

of diligence,

then the

chair was

tilted very

slowly back-

wards and

forward s,

and when

she had

become suf-

ficiently ac-

customed to

this, she

stood up

and, sup-

ported by a cord passed under what, in this

connection, I must call her arms, the to and

fro motion was repeated. Then

she proceeded from the chair-

back to the trapeze, supported

by the cord as before till the

bar became to her as the chair-

rail.

Then came a little swing and

then a longer one, and so on,

first with the cord and then

without it, until now at last she

reaps the reward of her labours,

as she sails backwards and forwards under

the limelight in airy space, amidst the

plaudits of many bipeds who couldn't do

anything of the sort half so clever, and looks

forward to the piece of sugar which will

perhaps prove sweeter than more applause.

It is Mademoiselle Marquise, by the way,

who performs what I may perhaps call the

canine extension act, of which the representa-

tion is hereto annexed. It doesn't, perhaps,

look very much to do, but, if that happens to

be your opinion, reader, you might correct

your first impressions by trying to do

likewise, say,between two chairs placed

apart at a distance equivalent to the

excess of your own longitude over

that of Mademoiselle Marquise.

who, when extended, covers about ,

twenty-four inches.

There was a time, not very far

distant, when agile and ingenious

femininity gave the pleasure-seeking world a

new sensation that was called the serpentine

dance. Certain ladies, well known to fame,

made considerable reputations, and, I believe,

salaries to match, by the development of this

new management of diaphanous draperies.

Some of them still do so, but the field is

no longer theirs exclusively, for here you

have a portrait taken from the life of another

MULLE. BLANCHE BRINGING THE HOUSE DOWN.

410

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

HOW SHE LEARNT TO DO IT.

of Professor Ricardo's quadrupedal

young ladies, Mademoiselle Black,

skipping about over the stage and

whirling her multitudinous gauzes

under the limelight with the best of

her two-footed prototypes.

I asked the Professor why he

hadn't christened her LoTe Fuller, and

I understood him to reply that he

thought La Lofc might possibly have

objected—not perhaps on the score

of comparison, but on that of com-

plexion. Mademoiselle Black hasn't

a white hair on her from the tips of

her ears to the tuft on the end of her

tail. I ought to add that she is

frequently accompanied in her

nebulous gyrations by Mademoiselle

Blanche and another artiste not

represented here, Mademoiselle Venus

by name.

But I am not quite correct in saying

this ; although there is no actual

portrait of her hereto attached, she

does appear, and somewhat conspicu-

ously too, but in complete disguise.

She is the elephant that you may see

casting that fond upward glance at

the Professor's shapely person, and,

though you might not think it, she is

called upon to display considerable

intelligence in this turn of hers, for

she comes on in the Professor's

hands as an automaton—a clock-work

elephant, in fact, and, until her tutor

has audibly wound her up, the clever

little brute—I beg a thousand pardons,

the accomplished little artiste—never

moves a leg or wags a hair of her tail.

When she is wound up she stalks

across the stage with a ludicrously

mechanical gait which must have taken

a good deal of learning.

A man who could teach dogs to look

round serenely over a crowded music-

hall from the top of a balanced pole

or the bar of a swinging trapeze, might

also be expected to teach them to

throw back-somersaults, and this

Professor Ricardo, with the assistance

of the inverted young lady, whose name

MDLLE. BLACK AS LA LOIE.

ANIMAL ACTORS.

411

ON THEIR HOBBIES.

is Mademoiselle Vermouth,has accomplished.

It was done in the first place with the assist-

ance of two cords, one round her neck, and

the other—well, we will say round her waist.

It took seven months to do it, but Made-

moiselle Vermouth can now make the visible

universe circulate round her as neatly as any

one-forked acrobat on the stage.

After feats, like this, the comparatively

commonplace accomplishment of waltzing,

even in the most approved style and costume,

seems somewhat easy of achievement. But,

as I myself have utterly

failed to master the

gyratory athletics

of waltzing,

I am able

to speak

AS A CLOCKWORK ELEPHANT

A. QUATRE PATTES.

of the performance of

the dainty couple here

represented with con-

scientious respect.

From pole-balancing,

trapeze - bar - swinging,

somersault-turning, and

the other sort of turning

which is called waltzing,

to steeple-chasing and

hobby-horse riding, is

THE AWKWARD SQUAD.

412

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

but a few steps, technically speaking, for the

Professor's four-footed artistes, in witness of

which you may see them here hopping

imaginary fences in good cross-country style,

and drawn up in martial array, with a

wooden dignity and diversity of equipment

worthy of the most eccentric traditions of a

regiment of South American regulars.

From the glory of the footlights and the

dazzle of the limelight, the plaudits of the

admiring audience, and the dizzy fame of

acrobatic achievement to the peaceful retire-

ment of an underground chamber, is a change

which probably appeals more directly to the

animal senses—I use the term with all respect

—of the artistes, than to their ethical sensi-

bilities. Yet I doubt not that it is none the

less welcome on that account.

This is where they retire to, each to be

lodged warmly and cosily in a separate

chamber in many roomed mansions like exag-

gerated dolls'-houses, designed with a strict

attention to that personal exclusivcness which

is popularly, if not altogether correctly,

ascribed to the stars of that profession of

which Professor Ricardo's doggies are such

justly distinguished ornaments, and this is how

they go—doggies pure and simple notv, with

the glories of their stage triumphs

for a time behind them, and

the prospect of a good meal

sweetened with kind words

and sugar, a convivial

conversational bark, and a

good, long, cosy night's

rest before them.

A word or two with

regard to diet may

not be out of place

in conclusion. Plain

living and high art about sums up the matter.

Naturally such artistes as these are exempt

from one of the principal afflictions which

FURNISHED APARTMENTS.

beset certain of their bipedal fellow profes-

sionals. Alcohol has for them no charms,

and I doubt not that they would look with

profound contempt, not perhaps unmixed

with pity, on many a German student's dog

that I have seen stumbling and lurching about

a pavement in a condition mournfully resem-

bling human drunkenness. Their chief,

almost their only, drink is milk, and bread-

and-milk might almost be described as their

staple article of diet. Meat they eat of spar-

ingly once a day, and this after the perform-

ance, because it must not be forgotten that,

like anyone else in the same profession, they

can only attain to excellence and keep up

their reputation by strict attention to the

regime of training. Their one luxury, as I

have said before, is sugar. This is their

reward for doing well—their board and

lodging being, of course, willingly accepted

as salary.

GOOD-NIGHT !
How

the miracles of

Science, wrought

by the white

magic of genius

and patience,

have been de-

layed for cen-

turies or lost

altogether

through fear of

that armed ignor-

ance which once

blocked the path of

the seeker after

Nature's secrets with

the dungeon-door and

the martyr stake, the

world will never know.

And yet no one versed

in the history of scientific

discovery could doubt

that many a momentous

secret, whose telling

might have revolutionised

human affairs, has for this reason been

carried to the grave untold, as a fatal

possession whose revelation would have sent

its possessor to the rack and the flames.

How easily, for instance, could one

imagine the fate in such times as those of the

man who had made possible the making of

such a picture as the one on this page—the

picture of the bones of a living woman's

From a photo by Prof. Spies.

hand*—but to-day,

happily, not only

for him, but for

humanity, he is one

whom kings have

delighted to honour,

although three or

four months ago he

was only locally

known as a clever

physical investigator

and a professor of

physics in the University

of Wurtzburg, in Bavaria.

Here, in a little plainly,

almost meagrely, fur-

nished laboratory, whose

austere simplicity would

contrast strikingly with the

lavish magnificence of the

scientific departments of

the universities of France,

England^ or America, Dr.

William Konrad Rontgen made that dis-

covery about which all the civilised world has

*The photograph shows the hand of the wife of

Professor Spies, of the Urania Institute of Berlin, one

of the most successful exponents of the photography of

the invisible. He also took the photograph on page 414.

The small speck beside the bone in the latter, is a

piece of glass which had been in the flesh for years.

Its extraction was the first illustration of the practical

value of the new art as an aid to surgery.

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America by H, J. W. Dam.

414

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

lately been reading or writing or talking, and

whose results men of science are only just

dimly guessing at, but which, even in its

infancy, has already enlarged the borders of

human knowledge, and come to the relief of

human suffering. Dr. Rontgen has, in a

word, taught the world that it will have

to entirely revise its ideas with regard

to the most familiar phenomenon

within the scope of human con-

sciousness—light.

Not many months ago we were

wont to classify substances as

transparent and non-transparent,

or, to be more correct, translucent

and non-translucent ; that is to

say, those which light would pass

through, and those which were

impervious to it. This classifica-

tion still holds good as far as our unaided

vision is concerned, but Dr. Rontgen has

demonstrated that beyond this it is of no use

at all; that there are other rays—it may be of

light, or of electricity, or something else that

is only just coming within human ken—which,

as everyone knows by this time, produce no

effect on the human eye, will not pass through

glass and other transparent substances, and

yet slip through a deal board, a sheet of

leather, or a book of

some hundreds of

pages with as little

difficulty as a ray

of sunlight passes

through a sheet of

plate-glass.

But by far the most

interesting fact in

connection with these

unknown, or A'-rays,

as their discoverer

calls them, is their

property of passing

through flesh and be-

ing stopped by bones.

It is on this fact

that Mr. George Griffith has based the

story, " A Photograph of the Invisible,"

which appears in another part of this

issue. Not long ago this story would have

been read with utter incredulity, possibly

not unmixed with ridicule, but by the time

the reader has reached the end of this article

he will have learned that the story might, with-

out the alteration of a single detail, be

accepted as a narrative of actual fact. Nay

more, during the six weeks or so that must

elapse before this article sees the light, it

may well be that further developments

of the discovery, which are now daily

succeeding each other, will have

removed it from the region of

romance to that of the common-

place.

At the invitation of the Editor

of this magazine, I set out some

weeks ago for Wurtzburg, to see

the now famous discoverer and his

A WIZARD OF TO-DAY.

415

photographed—and to the right a Ruhmkorff

coil.

In the absolute plainness of the laboratory

and its furniture was an eloquent object-

lesson in which the seeing eye could scarcely

fail to read the oft-repeated truth that elaborate

apparatus is, after all, only an accessory to

the march of science; that it is the genius

of the investigator, and not the multiplicity

and complication of his tools that breaks new

ground in the vast territory

of the Unknown. In fact,

Dr. Rontgen's laboratory

contained but three really

necessary factors in one of

the greatest discoveries that

has ever increased the

knowledge and the

power of man—a

Ruhmkorff coil, a

Crooke's vacuum

tube, and the man

himself.

For the infor-

mation of the un-

scientific, I had

better say here that

Crooke's vacuum

tube is a glass

tube, from which

the air has been

so far withdrawn

that it contains

only one-millionth

of an atmosphere.

A platinum wire is

fused through the

glass at each end,

and when an elec-

trical discharge is

passed through

these into the tube,

the anode, or posi-

tive wire, emits bands of light varying in

colour with the colour of the glass.

But from the cathode, or negative wire,

there streams a brilliant glow which excites

a phosphorescent radiance in glass and other

substances. Now it is not these cathode

rays, as they are called, which pass through

ordinarily opaque materials and photograph

objects beyond them, but others very different

The white cross indicates the window o£ the room in which

Professor Rfintgen's experiments were conducted.

from them. These, in a word, are the ,v-rays,

the last new mystery that human genius has

summoned across the border which separates

the unknown from the known.

But now it is high time for me to step

aside, to make way for a far more interesting

personality.

I had only been waiting for a minute or

two when the Doctor entered the laboratory

hurriedly, something like an amiable gust of

wind. He is a tall,

slender, loose-

lira bed man,

whose whole ap-

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

his results in any degree, and laughed at the

idea of being famous. He is too deeply

interested in science to waste any time in

thinking about himself. His Emperor had

feted, flattered, and decorated him, and he

was loyally grateful. It was evident, however,

that fame and applause had small attractions

for him compared with the mysteries still

hidden in the vacuum tubes in the other

room.

" Now then," said he, smiling and with

some impatience, when the preliminary

questions at which he chafed, were over,

" you have come to see the invisible rays."

" Is the invisible visible ? "

" Not to the eye, but its results are. Come

in here."

He indicated the induction coil with which

his researches were made, an ordinary

Ruhmkorff coil with a spark of four

to six inches, charged by a

current of twenty amperes.

Two wires led from the coil

through an open door

into a smaller room on

the right, and these

we followed.

In this room

was a small

table carrying

a Crookes' tube

connected with

the coil. The

most striking

object in the room, however, was a great

tin box about seven feet high and four

feet square. It stood on end like a huge

packing case, its sides being perhaps five

inches from the Crookes' tube.

The Doctor explained the mystery of the

tin box, by saying that it was a device of his

own, for obtaining a portable dark-room.

When he began his investigations, he used

the whole room, as was shown by the heavy

blinds and curtains, so arranged as to exclude

the entrance of all interfering light from the

windows.

In the side of the tin box, at the point

immediately against the tube, was a circular

sheet of aluminium, one millimetre in thick-

ness, and perhaps eighteen inches in diameter,

soldered to the surrounding tin.

Design showing one method of photography.

To study his rays, the Professor had only to

turn on the current, enter the box, close the

door, and in perfect darkness inspect only

such light, or light effects, as he had a right

to consider his own; hiding his light in fact,

not under the Biblical bushel, but in a

more commodious box.

" Step inside," said he, opening the door,

which was on the side of the box farthest

from the tube. I immediately did so, not

altogether certain whether my skeleton was

to be photographed for general inspection, or

my secret thoughts held up to light on a

glass plate. " You will find a sheet of barium

paper on the shelf," he added, and then

went away to the coil. The door was closed,

A WIZARD OF TO-DAY.

began to glow. A yellowish green light

spread all over its surface in clouds, waves, and

flashes. The yellow-green luminescence—all

the stranger and stronger in the darkness—

trembled, wavered and floated over the paper

in rhythm with the snapping of the discharge.

Through the metal plate, the paper, myself,

and the tin box, the invisible rays were flying

with an effect, strange, interesting, and

uncanny. The metal plate seemed to offer

no appreciable resistance to the flying force,

and the light was as rich and full as if

nothing lay between the paper and the tube.

" Put the book up," said the Professor.

I felt upon the shelf, in the darkness, a

heavy book, two inches in thickness, and

placed this against the plate. It made no

difference. The rays flew through the metal

and 1he book, as well as if it had not been

there, and the waves of light, rolling cloud-

like oveV the paper, showed no change in

brightness. It was a clear, material illustra-

tion of the ease with which paper and wood

are penetrated, and then I put book and

paper down, and put my eyes against the rays.

All was blackness, and I neither saw nor felt

anything. The discharge was in full force,

and the rays were flying through my head,

and for all I knew, through the side of the

box behind me. But they were invisible and

Photograph of a letter taken through the envelope.

(Specially taken for PEARSON'S MAGAZINE by A. A. C. Sumton.)

impalpable. They gave no sensation whatever.

Whatever the mysterious rays may be they

Vol. I.-28.

Photograph of a lark.

(Specially taken lor PEARSON'S MAGAZINE by M.M. Bar an

are not to be seen, and are to be judged like

the truly good among men, only by their works.

I was loth to leave this historical tin box,

but time pressed. I thanked the Doctor,

who was happy in the reality

of his discovery and the

music of his sparks. Then

I said : " Where did you

•first photograph living

bones ? "

" Here," he said, leading

the way into the room where

the coil stood. He pointed

to a table on which was

another small and short-

legged wooden table, which

had more the shape and

size of a wooden seat. It

was 2ft. square, and painted

coal - black. I viewed it

with interest. I would have

bought it, for the little

table on which light was

first sent through the human

body will some day be a great historical

curiositv ; but it was " nicht zu verkaufen."

418

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

A photograph of it would have been a

consolation, but for several reasons one

was not to be had for the present. However,

the historical table was there, and was duly

inspected.

" How did you take the first hand-photo-

graph ?" I asked.

The professor went over to a shelf by the

window, where lay a number of prepared

glass plates closely wrapped in black paper.

He put a Crookes' tube underneath the table,

a few inches from the under side of its top.

Then he laid his hand flat on the top of the

studied by Hertz and Lenard. I had followed

theirs and other researches with great interest,

and determined, as soon as I had the time, to

make some researches of my own. This

time I found at the close of last October. I

had been at work for some days when I dis-

covered something new.''

" What was the date ? "

" The 8th of November."

" And what was the discovery ? "

'• I was working with a Crookes' tube

covered by a shield of black cardboard. A

piece of barium platino-cyanide paper lay on

the bench there. I had been

passing a current through

the tube, and I noticed a

peculiar black line across the

paper.''

" What of that ? "

'• The effect was one which

could only be produced in

Photograph of human forearm.

(Specially taken for PEARSOX'S

MAGAZINE by A. A. C. Su'i'iixm.)

table, and placed the glass

plate loosely on his hand.

" You ought to have your

portrait painted in that atti-

tude," I suggested.

"No, that is nonsense," said he smiling.

" Or be photographed." This suggestion

was made with a deeply hidden purpose.

The rays from the Rontgen eyes instantly

penetrated the deeply hidden purpose. " Oh,

no," said he, "I can't let you make pictures

of me, I am too busy." Clearly the

Professor was entirely too modest to gratify

the wishes of the curious world.

"Now, Herr Doctor," said I, "will you

tell me the history of the discovery ? "

" There is no history," he said, " I have

been for a long time interested in the problem

of the cathode ravs from a vacuum tube as

ordinary parlance by the passage of light.

No light could come from the tube, because

the shield which covered it was impervious to

any light known, even the electric arc."

" And what did you think? "

" I did not think, I investigated. I assumed

that the effect must come from the tube since

its character indicated that it could come

from nowhere else. I tested it. In a few

minutes tl«re was no doubt about it. Kays

were coming from the tube which had a

luminescent effect upon the paper. I tried it

A WIZARD OF TO-DAY.

419

kind of invisible light. It was clearly some-

thing new, something unrecorded."

" Is it light ? "

" No."

" Is it electricity ? "

" Not in any known form."

"What is it?"

" I don't know."

And the discoverer of the jr-rays thus

stated his ignorance of their essence, as

calmly as has everybody else who has written .

on the phenomena thus far.

"Having discovered the existence of a

new kind of rays, I of course began to in-

vestigate what they would do." He took up

a series of cabinet-sized photographs. " It

soon appeared from tests that the rays

had penetrative power to a degree hitherto

unknown. They penetrated paper, wood,

and cloth with ease, and the thickness of

the paper, and even printed books, made

no perceptible difference within reasonable

limits. \Vood they passed through with

facility," and he showed me photographs of

a box of laboratory weights of platinum,

aluminium, and brass, they and the brass

hinges all having been photographed from a

closed box, without any indication of the box.

Also a photograph of a coil of fine wire

wound on a wooden spool, the wire having

been photographed, and the wood omitted.

"The rays," he continued, "passed through

all the metals tested with a facility varying,

roughly speaking, with the density of the

metal. These phenomena I have discussed

carefully in my report to the Wurtzburg

Society, and you will find all the technical

results therein stated."

He showed me a photograph of a small

sheet of zinc. This was composed of smaller

plates soldered laterally with solders of dif-

ferent metallic proportions. The differing

lines of shadow caused by the difference

in the solders was visible evidence that a

new means of detecting flaws and chemical

variations in metals has been found. A

photograph of a compass showed the

needle and dial taken through the closed

brass cover. The markings of the dial

were in red metallic paint, and thus inter-

fered with the rays and were reproduced.

" Since the rays," he added, " had this great

penetrating power, it seemed natural that

they should penetrate flesh, and so it proved

in photographing the hand as I showed you."

All detailed discussion of the possible

characteristics of his rays the Doctor con-

sidered unprofitable and unnecessary. Nor

was he in the least disposed to exercise his

imagination upon the great future possi-

bilities of the discovery. Whatever he may

already see in the way of future developments

he declines to formulate until the develop-

ments are obtained. In answer to all ques-

tions on this branch of the subject, he said,

smilingly :

" When I have done it I will tell you," and

then at last his eyes began to wander lovingly

^

Illustrated by CHAS. MAY.

THE PERILS OF KISSING—THE PLEASURES OF FALSE TEETH THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MONROE

DOCTRINE—MUST WE GO BACK TO CAVE-DWELLING ? THE PARROT NUISANCE ABOUT

BOAT-RACING AND CUPS—THE DELIGHTS OF THE COUNTRY.

BOUT a year ago a scientific

person discovered that

kissing was one of the

most dangerous occupa-

tions in which a man or

woman could engage. The

danger lies in the fact that

the microbes of all sorts of

diseases heartlessly take

advantage of the facilities which a kiss offers

for their migration from one pair of lips to

another. The American inventor has already

grappled with this great danger, and now

offers to the cautious public, " Gomper's

Patent Safety Kisser."

This is an improved form of the respirator

which is commonly worn by Londoners

whose lungs will not tolerate the London

is, however, somewhat

ordinary respirator, and

is provided with a small

reservoir of diluted

carbolic acid, which on

the slightest pressure,

fills the interior of the

" Safety Kisser" with a

fine disinfecting spray.

The inventor proposes that

this useful contrivance

shall be worn on ordinary

occasions around the neck as if it were a neck-

lace. When the wearer meets some one whom

atmosphere,

thinner than

It

the

it is necessary to kiss, or by whom he or she

must be kissed, the "Safety Kisser" is quickly

adjusted over the mouth, and the subsequent

proceedings are unattended by the slightest

danger, for the reason that nothing dis-

courages a microbe so much as carbolic acid.

Doubtless this invention is ingenious and

practicable, but it is probable that most

people would prefer never to kiss at all,

rather than to kiss through a carbolised

respirator. The true remedy for the evils of

ordinary kissing would be the substitution of

the South Sea practice of rubbing noses for

the civilised but dangerous practice of

kissing. The human nose offers no tempta-

tions to the microbe, and to touch noses

would be perfectly safe.

Of course, it will be at once said that this

practice would have none of the charms

which are rumoured to be connected with

kissing, but a little reflection will show that

this is not true. There is no anatomical

reason why the contact of loving noses

should not be as pleasing as the contact of

loving lips. Doubtless the South Sea islander

burns to press his nose in one long passionate

rub against the nose of his beloved object,

quite as fervently as the European lover longs

to press his beloved's lips. Let the custom of

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

421

J HIRTY or forty years

ago, what were called

"Poems of the

Pleasures,'' constituted

a favourite Christmas

gift. " The Pleasures of

the Imagination," " The

Pleasures of Hope," "The

Pleasures of Memory," and

" The Pleasures of Sea-sickness,"

were, I think, the titles of these favourite

poems: though to tell the truth, I may have

made a mistake in the title of the last

mentioned one. Nobody reads these poems

nowadays, and it is probable that few of the

readers of Pearson's Magazine have heard of

their existence.

I have sometimes thought of adding a new

poem to the list, to be entitled " The Pleasures

of False Teeth." It is a subject which, if

properly handled, would make the reputation

of any new minor poet. I have a friend

whose teeth are all false though fair, and I

daily, and more frequently nightly, envy him.

When I eat an ice, it invariably awakens at

least two teeth to fiendish activity; but that

man can calmly fill his mouth with Neapo-

litan cream, and deliberately chew it. I have

seen him do this time and again, and thirsted

for his blood.

At frequent periods I am compelled to go

to the dentist, and undergo grinding and

filing, and artesian well-sinking torments;

whereas my friend, when there is anything

the matter with his teeth, sends them by

special messenger to the

dentist, with the request

that they be returned in

time for dinner.

There are occasions

when every man wants to

gnash his teeth, as, for

example, when he reads

the press-clippings concerning his last book.

I cannot gnash my private teeth without

running the risk of starting some sleeping

nerve into action; but my friend can

take his teeth out, and gnash them to-

gether for any length of time. He tells me

that he once knew a man who, being

absolutely penniless, pawned his teeth for

sufficient money to tide over his temporary

embarrassment. No such resource is open to

the man who has nothing better than natural

teeth.

Depend upon it, art is as much superior

to Nature in teeth as she is in almost

everything else, and I respectfully suggest to

any minor poet in search of a subject for a

poem, that he write " The Pleasures of False

Teeth," and make himself a name that will

shine by the side of Rogers and Akenside, and

pave the way for his elevation to the

Laureateship.

'HERE is no doubt that the

Americans are extremely

ingenious in the matter of in-

ventions. It sometimes hap-

422

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

was bidding for popularity with the Irish

setters of his acquaintance, who were the

avowed enemies of the horse, and were per-

petually barking at his heels ; or whether he

was honestly following the dictates of his

eccentric canine conscience, the fact remains

that he was the real and only original inventor

of the Monroe Doctrine.

Neither would I presume for a moment to

express any opinion as to the merits of the

doctrine itself. I understand that there are

Americans who consider it the only doctrine

that can sustain a man through life, and

smooth his pillow at death; and.that there

are other Americans who not only disbelieve

it, but openly deride it. I merely point out, in

the interests of historic truth, that President

Monroe was not the inventor of the doctrine

that bears his name.

IVILISATION is the relentless

foe of privacy. Man has never

enjoyed complete privacy ex-

cept when he was a cave

dweller, and lived in his

solitary cave. In those

happy days, if a prying

neighbour ventured to enter

the cave, the proprietor

knocked him on the head

and ate him, and thus kept his privacy un-

impaired. With the progress of civilisation,

privacy has become more and more difficult

of attainment, and now the last blow has been

struck at it by the invention of the new

method of photographing objects shut up in

boxes or behind stone walls.

We are told that by this new method a

man's bones can be photographed, no matter

how carefully he may conceal them under

successive layers of clothes and flesh. It

was sufficiently unpleasant to know that your

face might be photographed at any moment

by a wretch with a kodak ; but how infinitely

worse it will be when your entire skeleton

can be surreptitiously transferred to paper, and

any defects in your ribs or your vertebra?

exhibited to the general public.

Hitherto a man who shut himself up in his

room was reasonably safe so far as the hostile

kodak was concerned ; but hereafter he will

be liable to be photographed through the

front wall of his house, and probably through

half a dozen partitions.

Mr. Weller, when he explained to Sergeant

Buzfuz that, his eyes,

not being " a pair of

double million magni-

fying gas microscopes

of extra power," were

unable to see through

a flight of stairs and a

deal door, little knew

that in the near future

a German photographer would construct an

instrument which could photograph a land-

lady and a reluctant lover, no matter how

many deal doors and stairways might be in

the way. With the advent of this awful

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

423

men and women without encouraging a species

of bird that talks as incessantly and as idiotic-

ally as a professional female reformer ?

The parrot's conversation is not, however,

his worst offence. It is his fondness for

screeching in a tone that would loosen the

rivets of an ironclad battleship, that con-

stitutes his chief atrocity. The screech

of the parrot is even more abominable

than that of the milkman, and no one who

lives within range of it can either sleep or

think.

If the parrot were ever put to any use, there

might be something to be said in his defence.

If, for example, the French were to use the

parrot as a legislator, and convert their

Chamber of Deputies into an aviary, where,

representative parrots could discuss the

Panama scandal, and denounce the perfidy

of England, not only would a sphere of use-

fulness be found for the parrot, but the

affairs of the French nation would be managed

in a decidedly more quiet and respectable

manner than they are at the present time.

As for our

own parrots,

we could

encourage

them to

hold mass

meetings in

Hyde Park,

where they could make speeches pointing out

to Lord Salisbury his duty in regard to all

great political questions. They would make

almost as much noise as is made at the

average political mass meeting, and their

proceedings would be of very nearly as much

consequence. But the parrot fancier never

dreams of making any use of his wretched

pet, except in those occasional instances

where a wily speculator has used a parrot to

lower the value of the neighbouring property,

with a view to purchasing it, and holding it

for a rise.

It is therefore encouraging to find that the

fatal parrot disease has broken out in

Bordeaux. When once it becomes gener-

ally known that it is almost as dangerous to

keep a parrot as it is to keep a mad dog,

the days of the parrot as a pet will be

numbered.

AM glad to hear that Yale

f. -^ _ University intends to send a

I crew to Henley, for the Yale

men know how to row, and

are free from the delusion that the

main object of rowing a race is to

win the prize. Unfortunately that

delusion is rather common among American

sportsmen. The Cornell men were a prey

to it when they rowed over the course last

year without an opponent. From their point

of view they were quite right. They were

declared to be the winners, and that seemed

to them vastly preferable to being beaten in

a fair ra<!e.

. The New York Yacht Club was formerly

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

OW is the time when the

early Spring poet sings

of the superiority of

the country to the town,

and calmly assumes

that Nature is pure and

holy and beautiful, and

that the works of man

are more or less detestable.

I am not bigoted, and I do

not deny that the country

has its uses. We need it

for the purpose of raising

vegetables, and for furnishing roads over

which the bicyclist can ride without fear of

traffic.

But I fail to understand what other useful

purpose the country serves. It has no system

of sewage, and, consequently, the man who

drinks from the " sparkling spring," or from

the "cool, moss-grown well," simply invites

the typhoid fever to come and take up its

abode with him.

The country is not lighted at night, except

with such miserable makeshifts as the moon

and stars. Then, too, it is pervaded with the

raw scent of grass and flowers, which some

people affect to like, but which has none of the

homely and homelike suggestiyeness of the

perfume of the pavement and gutter. I

remember when I was serving out a medical

sentence of sixty days, with hard idleness, in

the country, that at times the longing for one

whiff of the Fleet Street sewers seemed to be

more than I could bear.

I need hardly say that cookery is an un-

known art in the country, and that

one is compelled to live upon

simple and wholesome dishes.

Now, the simple dish is invari-

ably uneatable, and as for

" wholesome diet," it is revolt-

ing in the last

cated stomach.

Then, again, there is the awful silence of the

country. After ten o'clock at night you listen

in vain for the rattle of the cab, the lumber-

ing thud of the omnibus, and the cheery and

consoling oaths of the exasperated drayman.

In the daytime a lot of maddening little birds

whistle perpetually, but the inspiring strain of

the milkman, and the dreamy crooning of

the chimney-sweep are wanting.

Of course the air of the country is pure,

but what man of taste wants pure air ? Give

me air that is scented with smoke, and has

been warmed by the breath of millions of

people and thousands of chimneys. Nature

may mean well, but she needs a great deal of

culture before she becomes presentable.

Raw natural scenery is not to be named in

the same day with good architecture, and

there isn't a mountain, or a valley, or a lake

that can compare in beauty with St. Mark's at

Venice, or Westminster Abbey — provided we

do not look at its towers. The country is for

Vegetables, and the town for Man, no matter

how absurdly poets may write to the contrary.

ECRET

OF THE

THE CONFIDENCE

OF AH

EX.AMBASSADO

. ELICITED

? *r

ALLEN

UPWARD

No. IV.—THE TRUE STORY OF PRINCE BISMARCK'S FALL.

"THEY call that situation improbable,"

observed the Ambassador, turning round in

his chair as the curtain fell on the first act of

Sardou's ' Cherchez laFemme '—we were in his

Excellency's box at the Comedie Fran9aise.

" Yet in what is it more extraordinary than

some of the scenes which I have myself

witnessed during my diplomatic career."

" For instance ? " I suggested, seeing that

he was in a communicative mood.

" For instance, in the affair which led to

the downfall of the Bismarck family, regard-

ing which so many absurd accounts have

appeared in the ill-informed press. Some of

those accounts," the Ambassador added,

taking up his opera glass, " have no doubt

been inspired by those who had their own

reasons for not desiring the truth to be

known; nevertheless, they ought not to have

imposed on persons of intelligence."

He directed his glass towards a box on the

opposite side of the theatre in which were

seated two ladies, apparently mother and

daughter, attired in the latest confections of

M. Worth.

" I gather that you are possessed of better

information,'' I murmured.

"That is a fine woman," remarked his

Copyright, l896, in the L'nited States of America, by Alien Upward.

426

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Excellency, laying down the glass. " The

daughter is pretty, but without style. Believe

me, my young friend, it is not till she is forty

that a woman becomes truly interesting."

" You were saying something about Prince

Bismarck," I ventured to remind him.

" Ah, yes ! Do you care to hear the story ?

There is, perhaps, time for it before the next

act."

" It would give me the greatest pleasure."

I settled myself comfortably to listen, and

the Ambassador, after tapping thoughtfully

with his fingers on the ledge of the box for a

few moments began.

" It is tolerably well known that ever since

the Prince von Bismarck perceived the

marvellous recovery of France from the

disasters of 1870, he has lived in perpetual

terror of the revenge we might be inspired to

take. It is this which has caused him to

cherish the idea of again attacking France at

a disadvantage, and finally crushing her by a

dismemberment, which would reduce her to

the rank of a second-class Power.

" M. de Blowitz, the correspondent of the

Times, and a man who must not be despised,

has already told the world of the scheme

which this Prussian conceived for falling

upon us in 1875, while we were still weak

from the effects of his former crime, a

calamity which was only averted by the

personal intervention in our favour of

Alexander II. of Russia.

" The relations between the two countries

were consequently still very strained when,

shortly after the accession of the present

Kaiser of Germany, our Foreign Office was

agreeably surprised to receive an intimation

that this policy of hatred inspired by fear was

to be abandoned, and that the Imperial

Government was now anxious to work

cordially with ours in the field of European

politics.

" The portfolio of Foreign Affairs was at

that time in the hands of M. Fleuriot, a

worthy and patriotic man, but liable to fits of

imprudence. He has not held a post in any

recent Cabinet.

" M. Fleuriot was charmed to receive the

assurances tendered to him by the German

Ambassador, assurances which were con-

firmed by Bismarck himself in a confidential

interview with our representative in Berlin.

The German Chancellor explained, with

characteristic bluntness, that this change of

front must not be attributed to him, but to

the personal initiative of Wilhelm II.

" These admissions of the Chancellor con-

vinced M. Fleuriot that Bismarck's influence

on the foreign policy of Germany was on

the decline. He therefore embraced, with

all the more confidence, the offers of friend-

ship and alliance which were made to him

by the Imperial ambassador. This personage

even went so far as to hint to our Minister

that it was not intended that Bismarck should

be privy to all the details of future nego-

tiations between the two Governments.

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

427

" The English Ambassador in Paris at

this time was a close personal friend of mine.

Being at the moment unattached to any

foreign mission, I was living here, and it was

my custom to dine every Sunday at the

English Embassy. To this circumstance is

owing the salvation of Europe from the most

desolating war in history.

" On a certain Sunday about the time I

have indicated,

I was dining

at the Embassy

as usual.

During the

meal I ob-

served that my

host was very

distracted;

and, as soon

as it was over

he rose up and,

taking me by

the arm, led

me into his

private study.

I at once

guessed what

was coming,

and, while ac-

cepting a cigar,

determ ined

that nothing

should be ex-

tracted from

me respecting

the negotiation

I have des-

cribed, and

of which M.

Fleuriot had

kept me partly

informed.

" Lord Soames

came to the point

with the directness of his countrymen.

'"My dear Baron,' he commenced, 'you

and I are old friends. We should both be

equally distressed if war were to break out

between our two countries.'

" ' Without doubt,' I replied, affecting to

consider the remark a mere chance observa-

tion. ' Let us be thankful that such an event

is not in the least likely to take place.' And

I added to myself: ' Unless you refuse to give

up Egypt.'

" He glanced at me with some sus-

picion.

" ' How far you are in the confidence of

your Foreign Office,' he said, ' I neither

know, nor do I ask you to tell me. I desire

to give you information, not to receive it.'

^^^ " ' You are

too good,' I

murmured,

more on my

guard than

ever.

"'I hope, at
428

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

some delusion ! ' I cried, affecting the utmost

incredulity. ' Such an idea is too extrava-

gant for a.feuilleton !'

" Lord Soames smiled coldly.

" ' I have already said that I do not ask you

to commit yourself, my dear Baron,' he

replied. ' I will assume, if you prefer it,

that all this is news to you. But you have

not yet heard what I wanted to tell you. As

you know, Great Britain has hitherto stead-

fastly refused to join the Triple Alliance for

fear of being dragged by Germany into a war

against France. It is to your interest, I

think you will admit,

that we should con-

tinue to hold aloof.'

" I shrugged my

shoulders without ex-

pressing any opinion

on this point.

" ' Now,' pursued

Lord Soames, ' we

suddenly find our-

selves placed in this

dilemma. Prince

Bismarck has in-

formed our ambas-

sador in Berlin that

he will accept your

proposal unless Eng-

land accedes to the

Triple Alliance

within a week from

to-day, and under-

takes to employ her

navy in a blockade

of the French coast

as soon as war is

declared.'

"I was o ve r -

whelmed. The revelation of this atrocious

duplicity on the part of Bismarck completely

stunned me. Knowing what I did of his

character, it was impossible to doubt the

truth of'Lord Soames's disclosure. It was

evident that the whole of the negotiations

with our Foreign Office had been a deliberate

ruse in order to obtain the means of dis-

crediting us in the eyes of Great Britain. It

was the Belgian trick of 1870 over again!

" I could have wept. It was with the

utmost difficulty that I concealed my con-

sternation from the keen eyes of the English-

man.

" ' You have been deceived, my friend,' I

answered, in a tone of great confidence.

' That Bismarck should make such assertions

does not surprise me in the least. But it is

a mere invention of his own, believe me. If

such a thing had been on the carpet, I am

the first person with whom M. Fleuriot would

have communicated.'

" Lord Soames listened to me with an air

of indulgence, as if I had been a child.

"' Again permit me to remind you that

I am simply giv-

ing you a warning

for your own benefit,'

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

429

street for a hundred yards, jumped into the

first empty one I met, and drove furiously to

the Quai d'Orsay.

" I was lucky enough to find M. Fleuriot

there, and at once communicated to him the

terrible news which I had just heard.

" The Minister was absolutely stupefied.

"'Did Lord Soames tell you this?' was

his first question.

"' Lord Soames ! No, I have not seen

him for days,' I answered, remembering the

caution I had received. ' The intelligence

reached me direct from Berlin, by a channel

which I am not permitted to disclose. But

you may rely upon its absolute truth.'

" M. Fleuriot tore his hair.

"' Beast that I am !' he cried despairingly,

' I ought to have suspected that this pretended

alliance was one of Bismarck's vile traps.

And I believed in the faith of that Prussian !'

"' Then there is such a document ?' I

exclaimed, little less dismayed than he was.

•'' Alas, yes! Their Ambassador insisted

that the first written proposal should come

from us. I placed it in his hands four days

ago, and doubtless it is by this time in Bis-

marck's possession. I have betrayed my

country to this wretch!'

" I exerted myself to soothe him. Finally

I said:

" ' Give me a letter to our Ambassador in

Berlin, and I will go there myself and regain

this paper from Bismarck's clutches.'

"' You will ? Baron, you are an angel!

Do this, and you shall have the Grand Cross

of the Legion, I swear it. Your Fleuriot will

regard you as his saviour! His children

shall be taught to introduce your name into

their prayers!'

" He embraced me with tears. Then he

wrote the letter at my dictation, and also

another document which I thought it well to

have in reserve. Armed with these letters, I

left him.

" On the second day I arrived in Berlin,

My first step was to see our ambassador there,

an upright and painstaking diplomatist, but a

man who was by no means a match for the

infernal craft of Bismarck. It was necessary

for me to obtain certain information from him

before proceeding to carry out the plan

which I had formed in my mind.

" My sudden appearance naturally caused

him the greatest astonishment, which was

changed into chagrin as I explained to him

how he, like M. Fleuriot, had been duped by

the perfidious Chancellor.

" ' But what you tell me is impossible,' he

exclaimed. ' I know the character of Wilhelm

II. too well. That he should conceive the

idea of transforming the foreign policy of

Germany does not surprise me, but that he

should have the cunning to contrive a plot of

this kind is incredible. He is a Charles XII.,

not a Machiavelli.'

"This was the very point on which I

desired to sound the Ambassador. I fixed on

him an ironical smile.

43°

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" Go on with your story, I beg of you," I

urged. " There is nothing of importance

occurring on the stage."

His Excellency appeared flattered by my

interest. He took another glance through

his lorgnette at the lady who had already

interested him, and then returned to his tale.

" I had not seen the young ruler of Ger-

many since he was a mere prince. At that

time he had honoured me with a slight

degree of his intimacy, and we had even

shared in certain adventures—but all this has

nothing to do with my narrative.

' " As soon as I had sent up my name, I was

ushered up the great main staircase of the

Palace to the first landing stage, and brought

into his Majesty's private cabinet. The

Kaiser, as I entered, started up from a table

on which lay the design of a battleship, and

welcomed me with effusion.

" ' I am charmed to see you once more," he

exclaimed. ' You behold me just putting

some final alterations to the plan for a new

cruiser, on some details of which I find

myself in disagreement with my naval con-

structor. Now,'—he consulted his watch—

' in fifteen minutes I am due at the theatre

to superintend the rehearsal of Goethe's

' Faust,' in which I am making certain im-

provements. Till then let us chat. Will you

sit down here or come out into the Park and

see my new petroleum carriage, which I

invented myself, with a little assistance from

Herr Maxim ?'

" ' I think, sire, I should prefer to remain

here,' I replied, as soon as he gave me an

opportunity to speak. ' The fact is I have

come on a rather delicate mission, not

exactly official in its character, but one to

which my Government attaches much im-

portance.'

" The Kaiser's manner changed at these

words. He threw at me a quick glance of

suspicion, and prepared to listen with an air

of reserve.

" I thought it well to commence by

administering a compliment.

"'My Government,' I observed, 'enter-

tains sentiments of the most profound respect

for your Majesty, and it believes that you

cherish no hostile feeling towards France.'

"' Your Government is right,' he inter-

jected. ' So long as France conducts her-

self with propriety, and refrains from indulging

in disturbing projects, she may assure herself

of my goodwill.'

" I affected to receive this condescension

with delight.

" ' Ah, sire,' I exclaimed, ' if my country-

men could only hear those gracious words!

Such kindness makes my present mission

easy. It is no doubt an irregular thing for

my Government to communicate with your

Majesty, except through the official channels.

Our excuse is the high regard in which

France holds your Majesty personally, and

the belief that, in matters of foreign policy, it

is no longer the Prince von Bismarck who

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

431

" I had now, of course, satisfied myself that

Bismarck was acting without his master's

knowledge. It remained for me to secure the

Emperor's confidence, and deprive the

Chancellor of any chance of winning his

approval for this audacious intrigue.

" I turned to Wilhelm II. with an ex-

pression of deep regret.

"' Sire, I am overwhelmed to think that

you, as well as my Government have been

deceived by this minister, who has acquired

the habit of overstepping his powers. But I

know my Govern-

ment too well to

believe it capable

of taking advan-

tage of this

situation. I

was sent here

to obtain your

" Go on with your story, I beg of you.

Majesty's personal confirmation of this

treaty. I learn that the entire negotiation

has been without your sanction, and, how-

ever disappointing for France this may

be, I have no hesitation in saying, on

behalf of my Government, that it will consent

to treat the affair as if it had not taken

place.'

"' You are very good, M. le Baron,' mur-

mured the Emperor, evidently relieved by this

declaration, but still embarrassed by the

consideration that I had penetrated the state

of his relations with the Chancellor.

" ' It only remains for me to satisfy you of

the truth of my words,' I resumed, 'and to

afford you an opportunity of terminating a

scandalous situation. Let me propose to

you, sire, a little conspiracy against this

gentleman who has so nearly made us dance

to his music.'

" The Kaiser smiled, and listened with

approval while I unfolded the plan which I

had formed, and which I think was not with-

out ingenuity. You will bear in mind that it

was of the last importance to prevent any

explanation between Wilhelm II. and Bis-

marck until I had reclaimed the document

fraught with so much danger to France.

''During the time of my connec-

tion with our Embassy in Berlin, I

had become well acquainted with

the Chancellor's habits. Among

other things, I was aware that

when he had any documents

to which he attached special

importance he did not leave

them in the safe at the

Chancellory, but carried them

about in a certain yellow

dispatch-box, which never left

him day or night. It was in

reliance on this fact that I

had proposed to myself the

little scheme to which I now

sought the Kaiser's assent.

" As soon as he understood

what I proposed, he requested

432

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

under his arm. He did not appear to have

changed in the least during the six years

since I had seen him; his figure was not less

burly, and his eyebrows not less bristly than

of old. He carefully deposited his yellow

box upon a table, before advancing to greet

his Majesty.

" ' Well, Prince, how is the rheumatism

to-day?' inquired the Kaiser.

" 'Bad, very bad, sire,' grumbled the old

Minister. 'But at my age what can I

expect ? I have served your House faith-

fully for forty years, but the time is coming

when you will have to look out for a

younger man.'

"' Do not let us speak of it, my dear

Bismarck,' returned the Kaiser, not very

heartily, I thought.

" He then, without inviting the Prince to

be seated, put a question to him about some

pending commercial treaty with Russia,

which necessitated a reference to the contents

of the yellow box. The Prince fumbled for

his keys, unlocked the box, and took out the

paper which his master had inquired for.

The Kaiser, after barely glancing at it,

suddenly took the old man by the arm, and

commenced to draw him out of the room.

" ' Come upstairs for a moment,' he cried,

' you must positively hear the Empress play

my last composition. The Court are en-

raptured with it, and the Royal organist tells

me it will replace the " Wacht am Rhein " as

the National Anthem of Germany.'

"The Prince hesitated, and glanced at his

dispatch-box, which still lay unlocked on the

table.

" ' That will be all right,' said the Kaiser,

impatiently. " See, I will lock the door of

the room from outside.'

"Too much accustomed, no doubt, to

these sudden freaks on the part of

Wilhelm II. to suspect anything, the old'

courtier yielded, and suffered himself to be

dragged away.

" The instant the door closed behind them,

I darted from my hiding-place and pounced

on the yellow box. There, lying close to the

top, was an envelope bearing the French

official seal, and torn open at the end. I

snatched it up, and the next moment the

fatal document was in my hands.

"While I was drawing it out of the

envelope, the key turned in the door, and the

Kaiser burst in. As had been arranged

between us, he had left the Chancellor half-

way up the stairs, in the confidence that the

old man's movements would not be quick

enough for him to interrupt us for a minute.

The Emperor's pretext for returning, was

that he had forgotten his musical manu-

script.

"I had just time to unfold the paper and

point to the words by which it was headed :

' Proposal for an Offensive Alliance between

France and Germany,' and to the signature,

' Jules Fleuriot,' at the foot, when we heard

the ponderous footsteps of Prince Bismarck

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

433

directed a stern look at me as I came out

into his presence.

"' Sir,' he began angrily, ' why did you

take that paper ?'

" I gazed at him as if in pained surprise.

"'But, sire,' I exclaimed, 'you have

just repudiated this treaty which Prince

von Bismarck proposed in your name,

and I have agreed that my Govern-

ment shall accept your decision.

Naturally it is my duty to reclaim

this document, obtained from

my Government by fraud, and

to which your Chancellor is no

longer entitled.'

" ' That is all very well, M. le

Baron, but this is not the way

to go to work,' returned the

Kaiser, still angry.

" ' Perhaps not, sire. But if

it comes to that neither of us

has much to gain by proclaim-

ing this morning's work,' I

replied boldly. And seeing that

this shaft had gone home, I

continued : ' The document

which I have substituted bears

a similar heading and is equally

in the writing of M. Fleuriot,

so that the exchange is not

likely to be detected just at

present. In the meantime if you,

sire, will overlook my having possessed my-

self of this paper, I will tell you beforehand

of another little measure on which, perhaps,

this faithful Bismarck has forgotten to consult

you.'

" The Kaiser's face flushed darkly.

"' I will say no more about that paper.

What else do you refer to ?'

"' Simply this, sire, that on Saturday next

the Prince expects to receive England's

adherence to the Triple Alliance. In that I

have reason to think he is deceived.'

" And before Wilhelm II. had time to take

in the bearing of this piece of news, I had

bowed myself out and left the Palace.

" I drove straight to the telegraph office,

whence I dispatched the following message

to Lord Soames:

" ' You have been misinformed. There is

no such Idler.'

Vol. I.—39.

" And I was right. For on the way from

the Palace I had torn up the paper into a

hundred fragments, and had swallowed them

every one."

The Ambassador stopped abruptly, and

., made as if he would

turn his attention

Jflfe M to the

stage.

There was just time for me to regain my hiding-place.

" Surely that is not all ?" I said. " Can

you not tell me what occurred on the Satur-

day ? "

His Excellency smiled pleasantly.

" I had the account some time after

434

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

knowledge. He relied, of course, on

England's accession to the Triple Alliance as

a triumph which would atone for evervthing.

His eyes

Starting from

his head and

his features

wrinkled up.

" Prince Bismarck

opened the interview,

therefore, by explaining to the Kaiser the

purpose for which he had summoned the

meeting. Then turning to the British envoy,

he added with confidence :

" ' Well, sir, what is your answer ? Will

England join us? "

" The Englishman kept perfectly cool. He

had of course been warned by Lord Soames

how matters stood.

" ' Before you have any right to demand

my answer,' he said, ' you must fulfil your

undertaking to produce some evidence that

, France contemplates an attack

on us.'

" Thereupon the Prince tap-

ped his famous yellow box.

" ' I have here,' he returned,

' a written proposal from the

French Government for an

offensive alliance against you.'

" This was the first hint

to the Kaiser of the real

significance of the mysterious

document he had allowed me

to recover. He drew back

in his chair and began to

gnaw his moustache.

" But the Englishman

merely smiled.

" ' Excuse me, Prince,

but I really think you have

been imposed upon,' he

replied quietly. ' I cannot

believe that the Govern-

ment of the Republic would

be guilty of such folly.'

" Bismarck now smiled in his

turn,and, with an air of triumph,

took out the paper from its

envelope, and passed it to the other.

The Kaiser looked on, helpless, and

divided, no doubt, between anger

at the manner in which I had out-

witted him, and pleasure at the morti-

fication in store for his overbearing

Minister.

" The Englishman unfolded the paper

and read aloud :—

" ' Proposal for an Offensive Alliance be-

tween France and Germany '

" ' Ha ! What did I say !' interrupted the

Chancellor.

" ' The French Government, after ac-

cording due consideration to the proposal laid

before it on behalf of the German Govern-

ment, has decided to absolutely decline

entering into any such alliance as '

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

435

head, and his features wrinkled up in a look

of positively ludicrous consternation.

" Then Wilhelm II. saw his chance.

" ' Herr Prince,' he said sternly, ' what is

the meaning of this comedy ? What are

these proposals which you have made without

my authority, for an alliance against the

Government of a country which I regard with

friendship ?'

" The Prince flung down the paper with a

growl like that of an infuriated mastiff.

"' For the first time in my life, sire, my

dispatch box has been tampered

with, ' he rapped out in surly tones.

' At this moment I can only assure

you and the Ambassador here that

the proposal came, not from me,

but from the French Government.'

" At this point the Kaiser turned

away and ceased to listen. The

Englishman shrugged his shoulders

with an incredulous air, and rose

logo.

" The audience broke up. England

remained outside the Triple Alliance,

and before a month was over all

Europe was astonished to hear that

Prince Bismarck was no longer

Chancellor of the German Empire.

" You understood," added my

friend, after a minute, " that it is

only because of the recent death of

poor Soames that I am able to tell

you all this."

" I understand perfectly."

As I was helping his Excellency

on with his overcoat at the con-

clusion of the performance, my eye

happened to fall upon the decorated

buttonhole.

" By-the-bye, M. l'Ambassadeur,

did M. Fleuriot fulfil his promise about the

Grand Cross ? "

The Ambassador turned round with a

momentary look of annoyance.

" My friend, you should restrain your

too great curiosity. Believe me, it is a

detestable vice. No, unfortunately, he did

not. But it was scarcely his fault. The

fact is that, during the few days I

was absent in Berlin, there occurred a

change of Government. Poor Fleuriot lost

his portfolio, and my services were for-

gotten.''

He sighed with a noble air of resignation.

Suddenly his glance "became fixed on a point

at the other side of the crowded corridor into

which we had just plunged.

" Ah ? " he exclaimed, beginning to detach

It was the lady opposite.

himself from my side and take an oblique

course through the moving throng. " Pardon

my leaving you so abruptly, but I see a friend

coming out to whom it is imperative that I

should speak."

It was the lady opposite.

iravest Deed

" WELL, sir, it's a common quality."

" Is it, indeed ? Then why do people

admire it so when it's shown ? "

" It is a quality possessed by many

brutes, human and other."

" Sir, I say it is the noblest quality

man has."

" Depends how shown, often only the

sign of ignorance and barbarism."

" No, sir; it's the conquest of the

brute in man."

This was part of a conversation that

grew rather warm in the captain's cabin

of the mail boat La Palma. The cap-

tain, indeed, had been betrayed, during

a game at whist, into speech, and had

praised courage as almost peculiar to

his own countrymen, and had been

told by an eminent man of science that

it was " universal among brutes when

their blood is up," and neither Captain

nor Professor would give in, to the disgust of the twro others who were playing, the one a

young man from an English University, and the other an agent going out to a sugar plantation

to look after the interests of his employers, before the days w^hen the growing of sugar

became hopeless in the British West Indies on account of the protection given by other

nations to their own planters.

The agent looked too much reduced by fevers to demonstrate courage except in the

passive continuance in his office, but he had no other chance of livelihood, and grumbled,

and went back gloomily to the place where he had often been ill before.

" In my opinion it shows great courage to talk when you're playing whist," said the young

man, who had been rather noted during the voyage as the teller of what most of us

regarded as " tall stories " of his own achievements as an athlete and sportsman. To hear

him talk, you would think that no one could swim, ride, or shoot so well as he did himself,

and though his companions smiled when he broke out with his last impatient remark, they

each thought that it would be a rare sight to see him show some of that quality which the

Professor declared so common, and which the youth, to judge by his talk, deemed a

thing he possessed to a much greater degree than did others. But the rubber went on

more smoothly after his reproof, and the Captain wished them good night as he
THE BRAVEST DEED I EVER SAW.

437

They saw a long, grey thing, like a modern

torpedo.

remarked that they would be in port

the next morning, and he feared they

would be glad to part company with

him.

There was the usual mixture of

people on board—Spaniards going to

Cuba, and suspecting an American or

two who were passengers having

sinister designs on the stability of the

Spanish Government in that island.

There was, of course, a Jew, and he

was also bound to Havana, and

seemed determined to exhibit a

diamond, offering it to all whom he

thought wealthy, asking each of them

not to mention the fact to any others,

but the ring was for sale. There

were a few emigrants, two mission-

aries, and some planters, one of whom

had with him a charming, bright-eyed

English boy, who was the cause of

the incident I will relate.

For twenty-one days after leaving South-

ampton, the paddles of the steam packet

had thrashed the waters and throbbed

amidships, before they turned slowly, and

finally remained motionless in the harbour of

St. Thomas in the West Indies. All on

board had delighted in the change from the

grey of the Channel, to the blue of the Carib-

bean Sea, and were thronging the deck, which,

sheltered by awnings, enabled them to enjoy

the intense sunlight that poured down on

the harbour and inclosing land.

The passengers were eager to disembark

to see the sights of the little white town, whose

houses were built in terraces on the slope of

the rocky hill before them. But immediate

landing was not allowed, except to a very

few, who, coming back, declared that it was too

hot for words, and that after a limp stroll in

the blaze, and a sight of a few humming birds

flitting about scarlet .cactus blossom, and a

PL'ARSONS MAGAZINE.

look at the market, where they had fallen in

love with the colour of the shoulders of the

negresses selling fruit, they had had enough,

and would wait on board until it got cooler.

" Take care you don't fall into the water

as you get into the boats, that's all," said one.

" For I am told there's lots of sharks in this

place." *

"I'll show you one now,'' said an officer of

the vessel, "if you will come aft with me; "and,

accompanied by a little group, among which

were the young English University man, and

the boy, he went to the stern and pointed at

the water just below.

Peering down, and shading their eyes from

the glare, there, just under them, they saw a

long, grey thing, like a modern torpedo,

motionless and apparently not far from the

surface. The young fellow became much

excited. The boy shouted out: " Oh, can't

we catch him. O do, Mr. Henry, try to catch

him ? Do ask the Captain's leave ! " Mr.

Henry said he thought he would like to

gaff him, as he had caught fish almost as big

in Norway! The Captain came and smiled,

and told him he must buy the meat if

he wished to hook the fish, as he did not

want his stores broken into ; and the crew

would have too much to do to attend to his

sport.

By this time Mr. Henry had conceived

such a dislike to the shark that he vowed to

do him some damage, and begged that he

might have a boathookand a cutlass. " Yes,''

said the Captain, " if you'll return them soon,"

and, eager as the boy, Henry went with the lad

below, got a cutlass, lashed it to a boathook,

and hauling up the rope of a little dinghy at

the side ladder, they pushed themselves slowly

over the monster, and there made utterly

futile attempts to reach him.

The clearness of the water had, of course,

deceived them, and they only got chaff from

the fellows who watched them from over the

vessel's side, and the grey torpedo moved

back so gently that it seemed as though a

current had made it drop more astern. " By

Jove I'll be even with him yet. We'll try the

bait," shouted Henry, and mounting the steps

was soon again on deck, undoing the lashings

of the cutlass.

While this was being done the boy had

jjone to get a hook and meat and a rope, but,

desiring to have another look at the enemy,

he ran down the ladder again, intending to

call his friend to have another survey to try

if they could not work the fishing gear from

the small boat. The idea was foolish, and

the excited lad jumped into the liule craft

and overbalancing himself fell into the water,

but soon rose and grasped the gunwale.

People who had seen this from the deck

raised warning cries, which grew loud when

they saw the shark move nearer, as though it

had seen the boy's accident. Henry, with the

cutlass in his hand, rushed down the steps,

and even as he went, saw from the height at

which he yet was above the sea, the ominous

shape moving, as it seemed, quickly to the

THE BRAVEST DEED I EVER SAW.

439

to exert its full effect only now when peril had

past; and the other laughing, chaffing, and

cheering, and vowing that he had put the

cutlass in up to the hilt, and that he must

have that shark!

" I told you I had always heard they are

easily scared—and I tell you it is so. Why,

I believe any good splashing is enough to

frighten any of them. Do you see that

buoy ?" and he pointed to one that served

for moorings to a ship not far off.

" Well, what of that ? Guess there's plenty

of those demons round that ship too."

" Never mind if there are. See if I don't

make a splash and frighten them off."

"Done with you; no splash will be enough,"

answered a voice.

" Bet you five to one it does," Henry calmly

sung out in reply ; " and I'll swim round that

buoy to prove it! " and, to our amazement,

he plunged in again, and, placing his cutlass

between his teeth, struck out for the buoy ! It

was too late to stop him, and the lad and those

still on the ladder, with all on deck watching

his progress, expected him to be taken down

every moment. As he swam, he splashed

vigorously, and the captain ordered a

man to push off to him with the dinghy at

once. He was close to the mark he had

pointed out and was round it in another

moment.

The dinghy met him after he had turned it,

and the man in the little boat stretched an

oar to him, but Henry would have none of it,

but, ever lashing the water as he went, a

proceeding the man in the boat now imitated,

to help him scare the fish, he swam on,

cursing the dinghy, and all con-

cerned in sending it to his aid.

He reached the ladder, and was

soon in safety, not a bit the

worse for his foolhardiness.

But here was a case of folly

joined to calculating bravery,

proved in saving the lad from

what was evidently an attempt

by the shark to take a prey.

"Not a bit of it," Henry

averred. " If the boy had

splashed as I did, nothing would

have come near him."

But none of us believed that

he was speaking except with that bravado

which we had falsely attributed to mere vain-

glory when he had bragged to us during the

voyage. Yet here was a braggart who could

perform a gallant deed—with " a gallery," to

be sure, to look on—but yet in a way that

proved a dare-devil or " dare-shark " reck-

lessness* which had the saving of life as

motive, although afterwards repeated merely

to back up random words.

This man did not weigh words or diffi-

culties, and accomplished things that a man

with perhaps more imagination and less

" brutality " would have hesitated in trying

to perform, and therefore would probably

have not dared at all. But as it was the

NO. I.—A NOVELTY IN MODELS.

THE FRONT PARLOUR WINDOW.

Written and Illustrated by JAMES SCOTT.

WHEN the editor asked me to prepare an

article dealing with parlour window attractions

and curiosities, I believed that there must be

some dozens of suitable objects shown

among the thousands of windows in our

country, and I still adhere to the belief. But

NO 2.—A SHELL AQUARIUM.

the difficulty is to encounter them. One

cannot walk through the whole network of

streets, even in the Metropolis, on the

chance of espying a curiosity, for such a

course would entail years of labour. I have

made extensive search and inquiries, how-

ever, and from among the novelties which

have come under my notice, I select the

following, which may be taken as charac-

teristic examples.

Some of the sketches have been drawn by

me from minute descriptions supplied by

friends ; others from window-adornments

which have come under my personal observa-

tion.

I have observed well-made models of

buildings and of various scenes standing in

parlour windows, but they hardly present

enough novelty to merit illustration here,

although interesting in themselves.

I remember seeing, some years ago, a

model of a railway engine, the representation

of which heads this article, encased in a glass

bottle, exhibited in a parlour window. It was

interesting, for

of course one

naturally

formed conjec-

tures as to the

way by which

it had been

introduced into

the bottle. Un-

doubtedly, the

bottom of the

receptacle had

first been

removed, and

sealed again

after the in- N0 3-_AN INGENIOUs

sertion of the COMBINATION.

THE FRONT PARLOUR WINDOW.

441

engine. No. i shows its appear-

ance as accurately as I can

remember it.

The second on my list is a

drawing of what I believe to be a

unique kind of aquarium, and

one which possesses a great

degree of attractiveness. It is a

large imitation scallop shell, from

the centre of which springs a

fountain-jet that falls over the gold

and silver fish swimming within it.

A really clever and extremely

peculiar idea is embodied in the

article portrayed in sketch No. 3.

It also possesses the merit of

being a pretty arrangement. As

will be seen by a reference to

the picture, it consists, broadly

speaking, of an oblong aquarium

surmounting one birdcage, and

capped by another. The birds

have a free passage through the

aquarium from the bottom to the

inclosure, and appear to be flying in the

water among the fish. •

This delusive arrangement, however, is

easily explained. Where the cage passes

through the aquarium, glass is substituted for

wire, with the result that the water is held

back, and a clear space maintained for the

birds to fly up and down the cage.

The object depicted in

No. 4 has some novel features

in its construction. In forma-

tion it is a marble pillar

supporting a lily-shaped dish,

from either side of which

issues a rose-capped pipe.

A large and brilliant butterfly

is suspended by a fine wire

over an artificial fish, and,

as the jets of water springing

from the pipes coalesce and fall

in a sheet over the fish, their

NO. 4.

A UNIQUE

ATTRACTION.

upper

NO. 6.—A RATHER FUNNY SHOW.

NO. 5.—A WARLIKE TROPHY.

impact causes the latter to oscillate and

sparkle in the light, whilst, simultaneously, the

delicately-balanced butterfly is jerked spas-

modically about.

As I anticipated when I set about the

preparation of this article, the majority of

parlour window attractions take the form of

vases for holding plants and grasses. Not

content, however, with a mere show of

growing or dried plants and flowers, many

people adopt the plan of exhibiting them in

very curious receptacles.

One of the most charming of these ideas,

according to my way of thinking, is shown

442

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

in drawing No. 5. The vase consists of a

mediaeval helmet, supported by portions of

three ancient patterns of weapons of warfare,

which serve as cross-legs. Of a similar

character to this ornament is a display embrac-

No. 7. A china clown, pantaloon, and fairy

support a huge plum-pudding, which serves

as a receptacle for a dwarf palm.

In the peculiarly gruesome " vase " shown

in No. 8, we have the two extremes of nature

ing a fireman's helmet

as a vase, and three

hatchets as supports,

but as there is not

enough diversity be-

tween this flower-

stand and the one

illustrated, I refrain

from giving a drawing;

of it.

It is a jump from

the sublime to the

ridiculous to gaze on

No. 6 after looking

»tNo. 5. The "vase"

in this case assumes

the character of a

clown's hat, upheld by

cords supported by

two exceedingly quaint

figures. The arms of the curious gentleman

who squats on his haunches extend to an

abnormal length, whilst a similarly character-

istic absurdity is noticeable in the case of the

legs of the fellow who lies on his back.

Of a more pleasing type, and rather pretty

in its design, is the article shown in drawing

NO. 8.

A GRUESOME GARNISHMENT.

—decay, as repre-

sented by the skull;

and life, as indicated

in the growing plants,

which flourish in the

embrasures of the

skull.

No. 9 claims atten-

tion by reason of its

quaintness. It illus-

trates a hanging vase

consisting of a grin-

ning head, the ears

and nose of which

extend upwards to

undue lengths and

act as supporting con-

nections. It is a

decidedly novel affair,

and is the sort of

thing which would cheer the spirits of a

crestfallen man who might chance to look

upon its bright smile !

Those whose occupation necessitates much

walking among the bye-streets of our towns

must be aware that a comparatively common

sight outside parlour and upper windows is a

THE FRONT PARLOUR WINDOW.

443

flower-box constructed to represent a minia-

ture garden gate and fence. There are

variations of this

pattern, but No. 10

will convey an idea

of its appearance.

There seems to

be no limit to the

number of strange

clocks. One which

my numerous in-

quiries have brought

me into contact with

is quite novel. It is,

moreover, very

simply constructed.

An illustration of it

appears as a tailpiece

to this series. The

dial, which is a clear

glass plate, revolves, whilst the one solitary

hand is a fixture. You are supposed to

base your opinion of the time of day upon

the proximity of the point of the hand to

the hour-figure slowly proceeding towards

it or slowly receding from it, as the case

may be.

To all appearances the clock is controlled

by a fine stream of water playing on the side

of the central rod, but in reality its mode of

NO. IO.—AN ORDINARY AFFAIR

working is far different. The friend who

supplied me with particulars stated that at

the back of the bot-

tom vase is a door

giving access to the

works of an ordinary

clock, from which

the minute-hand has

been removed.

Round the spindle

of the hour hand is

wound a strong, fine

thread, which pro-

ceeds up the neck

of the vase, and

through a thin glass

pipe (meant to repre-

sent a stream of

water), and then

round the central

spindle of the glass dial, in such a way as

not to reveal its purpose.

When the interior clock is wound up, its

hour spindle revolves and winds the thread

round it, with the natural result that the glass

dial revolves once in every twelve hours.

People unaware of these details, imagine

that water runs from the upper vase into the

lower one, until the latter is full, and that

then the whole apparatus is inverted.

NO. 11.—A CURIOUS CLOCK.

BY NELLIE K. BLISSETT.

THE blackness of night was wild with

driving rain, which lashed furiously at the

red windows of the " Stag," and lifted the

river tide higher among its osiers. Half

a mile away up the slope of the hill, the

lights of a shepherd's hut flickered through

the wet, with damp, uncertain fires. The

Inn was fast closed—door and window—for

no passenger would be abroad on such a

night. On one side of the hearth, the land-

lord dozed in his big chair; opposite him,

his wife slept openly in hers. The servants

had been sent to bed, for the old clock in

the corner ticked slowly towards midnight.

As they sat thus, the fire between them

glowing down to warm embers, the sound of

a horse's hoofs beat rapidly along the soaking

road. It splashed through shining puddles

beneath the elms in the lane, and grew louder

on the gravel near the house. Finally it

ceased under the great swinging sign by the

door,-and" then came a shaking of bridle-reins,

and a hammering upon the bolted oak.

The landlord, waking suddenly, sat up and

listened ; his wife fell out of her chair and

screamed. Then old Joe, the ostler, who

chanced to be in the bar, left his post of

vantage and unbarred the door. A gust of

rainy air came in as it opened, making the

kitchen lights swerve and flicker.

There was a confused sound of voices, one

masterful, the other asthmatic, and neither

too well pleased; and then Joe went off with

the stranger's horse, and its owner came

through the darkened passage into the

warmth and brightness of the kitchen.

He was a tall, powerful man, with hard

features, and eyes that would not look frankly

before him. He was muffled in a dripping

cloak, and his long riding boots were splashed

to the knees with mud. The landlord of the

" Stag " welcomed him with some astonish-

ment, and not a little fear, for his like had

not stopped at that inn before.

He flung himself into a chair, stretched his

feet to the fire, and so sat, wrapped in moody

silence, while his host and the plump and

placid landlady fried bacon, and spread the

table in curious haste. Not a word did he

speak until told that his supper was ready,

and then he drew his chair up and fell on the

steaming dish with a will. He ordered

spiced ale, and drank it hot, and the bacon

was fast dwindling, when the kitchen door

opened again and a second stranger entered,

this time silently, and almost sadly. The

new-comer was a boy of about eighteen, long

and thin, with a colourless face and pale blue

eyes. He was dressed all in black, and the

landlord noticed that here and there on his

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America, by Nellie K. Blittett.

STRANGERS AT THE '• STAG."

445

wet coat was a green stain as of water-weed.

He took off his three-cornered hat and hung

it behind the door, and they saw a dark patch

on his fair hair just above the ear, which

showed as he sat down in the light. He

looked at the stranger, who laid down his

knife and fork quickly, with a whiteness on

his dark face.

" How did you get here ?" he asked, and

the landlord thought his voice trembled.

The boy smiled, looking at him with wide,

vacant eyes.

" It is wet down there." he answered, with

a jerk of his head towards the valley where

the river ran black through the heart of the

marsh—" wet—and cold. I am very cold."

He stretched out his hand, and laid it

on the other's wrist for a second. His

companion drew away quickly, with a

shudder.

" Warm yourself, for Heaven's sake," he

said harshly.

The boy glanced at the hearth.

" That fire won't warm me, Everard," he

replied.

" Then drink this."

He pushed a steaming tankard across the

table, but the boy only shook his head. The

man he had called Everard was watching him

with furtive eyes.

" You'll have something to eat ? "

" No," and he waived the dish aside with

pale, bony fingers. " No. There's nothing

to eat down there, Everard."

Everard said nothing, but the landlord

interposed :

" There's plenty of fish in the river, sir, if

that's where you're from—fine fish, too."

The boy laughed ; his laughter sounded

curiously mirthless.

" You are right: there are plenty of fish—

strange fish too. Aren't there, Everard ?

Why don't you eat your supper ? You've

ordered a room ?"

"That he has," put in the landlord, cheer-

fully. " It'll be ready by now. You're tired,

sir ?"

The boy passed his hand across his fore-

head, and rose from the table.

" I'm very tired. Come, Everard."

He took the candlestick, and passed from

the kitchen, the elder man following him like

one in a dream. They went up the narrow

stairs to the best bedroom of the " Stag,"

where a fire, hastily lighted, was etching bars

of red and black upon the walls. The boy

put the candlestick upon the mantelpiece,

and, going back to the door, locked it, while

Everard watched him, with a growing horror

in his eyes.

Then the black figure came and stood

before him. The white face, with its blue,

staring eyes, confronted him coldly. The

firelight shone on the mark which barred the

fair head; the water—was it only rain ?—

dripped from the boy's clothes upon the floor,

and the marsh-weed upon them showed a

dreadful slimy green.

446

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

and averted his sullen eyes : and the voice

went on, pathetically sweet and clear.

" And it's ended now, Everard, and you've

murdered my body as well—drowned it in

the cold river down there, as you drowned

my soul in violence and crime—the dark

waters go over me, and the weeds wash to

and fro . It's very cold down there,

Everard—very cold ."

The man lifted his head with a great start,

and looked at him with dilated eyes. There

was an awful question in his face, and his

heart thumped and stood still.

" But you're here—" he gasped—" you're

alive—I didn't "

The boy moved towards him.

." Yes, I'm here. But you struck hard,

Everard, and the river is deep—very deep—

and swift—and cold."

Nearer and nearer came the thin, black

figure; Everard crouched against the wall,

staring at it with dazed, fascinated eyes. The

white face bent over him; the damp fingers

clutched his in a grasp of ice; the room

began to sway round in the firelight; and it

seemed to him that the river roared in his

ears and the green waters floated over him

and choked him, and drenched him with the

chill waters of death.

* * * • •

nine o'clock on the next

morning a farmer came

galloping up the hill,

and into the inn

yard. His round

face was white,

and he stumbled

as he sprang

from his horse,

and called for

the landlord of

' the " Stag."

That worthy

came out with

a cloth in his hand, and apprehension in his

mind.

" Any strangers at the inn?" the farmer

inquired.

.. "Two. They came last night."

" One a tall man with ? "

" With a face I don't like, to speak freely

to a friend, Farmer."

" Black hair, black eyes, and a white scar

on his chin ? "

"The same."

" That's right. Why, man, it's Dick

Everard, the highwayman. He's murdered

a boy down to the village ; my shepherd found

him washed up on the riverbank."

" There's a boy "

But the sturdy farmer had rushed upstairs,

and was already pounding at the bedroom

door.

There was no answer to his summons,

and he lifted his fists and sent the door flying

into the room in splinters.

At first it seemed to be empty, and then

they caught sight of a dark figure lying

JOKE.

THE LONDON PUBLIC mused awhile, and

shrugged a dismal shrug;

However should he get a drop to fill his

little jug?

Would Nansen kindly bring him home a

little frozen drip ?

Or could it be imported from America by

ship ?

"/'// solve it," said the faithful Board, "by getting it from Wales;

I might induce the Unemployed to carry it in pails; :•

They'd condescend to do it for a fiver each per day "

But when he met the Public eye he wisely crept away !

448

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

And then the cheerful German came, escorted by his band,

And kindly offered water from the teeming Fatherland;

He said he'd do it cheaper than the parties hereabout—

Which doesn't seem astounding, if you only think it out.

He sent it from the Fatherland—a sea of it, in fact—

All labelled " Made in London" (in compliance with the Act),

The PUBLIC tried to wash in it, but prudently forbore;

It made him twenty-seven times as dirty as before.

And then another Company—the pigeon-holey type—

Proposed to carry water from Sahara in a pipe;

But shortly its directorate, by meeting unawares,

"Were sadly forced to reconstruct"—and confiscate the shares.

1HE GREAT WATER JOKE.

449

'EN TTOAAOI5 "TYIT ft

lo1?»H '

IN

MANY

'TAPS-

(OR MELftMBGLOS ?)

The Public pondered for a time; and then a passer-by

Observed an inspiration-flash illume his haggard eye.

With all his visage lighted up by strange prophetic fire,

He murmured: " Why, confound the thing ! / see what I require !

"No end of Public Boards and things I've had from time to time;

They've represented Party Spite—and Jobbery—and Crime—

Adulteration—Tyranny of large or small degree ;

I've never yet elected one that represented ME !

Vol. I.--3O.
450

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

"I've had unnumbered Boards composed of Smith, and Jones, and Brown ,

(And zealous Boards they've ever been as any in the town)—

The work they gaily undertook was all connected with

The individual interests of Jones, and Brown, and Smith.

" It must have been an oversight; it wasn't by design ;

I never had a single Board that represented MINE!

I'll just proceed to go and hang the whole confounded hordes,

The L.C.C., the B. of T., the Commons, and the Lords.

THE GREAT WATER JOKE.

45'

"' I'll see about this Board at once. I fancy, on the whole,

I'd better take a patent out before I tell a soul.

Of all the plans I've ever had it surely is the best—

A Board that really represents the PUBLIC INTEREST!"

He's working out the novel Board—he only needs provide

The necessary members, and the thing is cut and dried.

Some absolutely honest souls required to fill the ranks.

Does anybody volunteer ? Eh—Ev'rybody ? Thanks !

THE EXD.
A HEROINE IN BIB AND TUCKER.

BY WINIFRED GRAHAM.

CHAPTER I.

' T'S somethink cruel to my mind," said

Sarah the housemaid, " the way Missus

uses that poor child—never noticing of

her except to find fault, and treating her more

like an idjit than a sane little body of nine!

But there ! you can't put the blessed love of

motherhood into a heart of stone."

She shook her head from side to side, till

nurse, who was warming her hands over the

fire, began to think she would shake it off.

" Your cap puts me all of a fidget, Mary,"

she declared, " when it waggles."

Mary glanced round the nursery, remark-

ing on the lack of toys.

" There ain't much for 'er to play with,

either," she continued, nodding towards the

dimly-lighted room in which the child was

sleeping. " The fact is, I've heard say that

Mrs. Stebbing was just mad at not having a

boy—she would hardly look at the girl."

" You'd think in nine years she ought to

he gettin' over the disappointment. Anyway,

we shall see."

" I don't know what will become of that

poor child when you goes," continued Sarah

dolefully. "I'll try and keep a heye on her;

but what with a new nurse and a new

Did any one call ? "

"No!"—rising, and listening at the door

of the night nursery—" she is fast asleep."

" Dear little lamb, it is 'ard for a child not

to be loved, very 'ard."

" There is more in 'er than what anyone

thinks for. You mark my words, she'll

make 'er way in the world as sure as my

name is Eliza Pocket. Yet really, nurse,

without joking, I do believe them 'eartless

parents think as she's a bit balmy on the

crumpet."

As they talked, the child in the next room

lay with her head over the edge of the bolster,

her ear straining to catch their murmured

conversation, and on the alert to feign sleep.

At last she sat upright, clasping her small

hands over her knees, with a strangely old

expression on her features. She stared at the

shadows blankly, and shivered — a frail

specimen of childhood, torn by the miseries

of life at the early age of nine.

" What did it mean—all they were saying

in the next room ? " Her red hair, curly and

thick, clustered round her face ; she pressed

her sharp little chin upon her knuckles,

doubling herself up in a sitting posture.

Nurse was going—nurse, the only person

who had ever been kind to little Beatrice—

A HEROINE IN BIB AND TUCKER.

453

and then she would be left to the tender

mercies of a stranger—and her mother!

The thought appalled her, for she was

terribly sensi-

tive over slights,

though in her

life they were

• ~s'-, many.

.:

A white clad figure stood between them.

" Yes," Sarah's voice continued, " this

ain't what I call a happy home, not for ser-

vants nor child, though I'm not one to

murmur. Oh !''-—springing to her feet—

•" I thought it was a ghost!''

A white clad figure stood between them, a

cold little hand was laid on the arm of Sarah's

chair.

" It's true," cried the child, in a voice that

no longer sounded young in tone, so

strangled was it with sharp pain.

" Oh ! Miss Bee, you naughty girl," said

nurse lovingly, gathering the small form in

her arms, and holding the pink toes to the

fire. " What are you doing out of bed ?"

Beatrice buried her face on the woman's

shoulder, and sobbed aloud.

" You're go-o-ing away ! "

" No, no," murmured nurse uneasily.

"No, no!" echoed Sarah, taking up the

cue, " nurse won't ever leave you, ducky."

" It is wicked to tell stories," Beatrice de-

clared, "you said it,—and—and "

She could not finish her sentence for

choking over the words.

" There, there; I'll come back anyway

soon," kissing away the child's tears.

She carried her back to bed, tucked her up,

and waited beside her till she fell asleep.

When Beatrice woke again it

was dark, the house still; she lay

for a while staring at a chink of

light by the window.

Suddenly the sound of running

feet on the passage below startled

the sleeping household, a pealing

of bells, and her father's voice

speaking to the servants.

Beatrice-sprang from her bed,

and running to the banisters

peeped over.

The lady in the

grey dress, with the

f white collars and

;j cuffs, that had lately

come to the house,

P^ looked out of her

mother's room and

whispered something.

" Mother is ill,"

thought Beatrice,

creeping back through

the dark. " I hope she will die ! "

*****

The following morning when nurse came

to call Bee, she told her she had a little brother.

*****

Beatrice gazed wonderingly on the queer

454

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" I don't like you nearly so much as Eliza,"

continued the child in the same grave tones.

" Her name was Miss Pocket, you know, and

she was not half as ugly as you."

" You're a very rude little girl ! " cried the

new nurse, " and you shan't speak

another word the whole after-

noon, to teach you manners. Now

mind, if I hear a sound I will

tell your mamma."

Thus relegated to

silence, little Beatrice

crept to the window, and

flattened her face against

the pane. It was rain-

ing outside, a steady, un-

interesting downpour.

How cold and bleak the

sky looked, grey, leaden,

cloud garbed.

A feeble bluebottle,

which had survived the

cold, crept like a rem-

nant of dead summer on

the glass.

" It must be very

hungry," thought Bea-

"trice, " to be so weak."

She saw a small piece of

bread lying on a side

table.

Noiselessly se-

curing a round

soft ball of dough,

she placed it by the

bluebottle. Yes,

surely the fly was

eating it, clinging

in starving an-

guish to the prof-

fered food.

Then, as though

too weak for the exertion, the dying fly fell

to the ground, struggling on its back at Bee's

feet.

" Poor thing," she whispered softly, bend-

ing down. " Do you want to be killed ? "

The fly struggled on to its feet and crawled

nearer the little outstretched hand.

Then Beatrice saw that one of its wings

was broken.

" You can't want to live," murmured the

Yes, surely the fly was eating it.

child, " in this nasty, cold, miserable world.

You have nothing to eat, and no one to care

for you. You are in pain. Shall I end your

suffering ?" It had reached the tip of her

nail,- and so intently was she watching its.

movements, she did not perceive

the new nurse turn and eye her

severely. " I don't like doing it—I

don't like killing

, you; but it would

be so kind ! "

For a moment

there was a strug-

gle in the child's.

breast, while
A HEROINE IN BIB AND TUCKER.

455

" Why not, indeed, Miss Impudence ?"

" I wouldn't go. I'd kill them, I'd kick

them, I'd pick out their eyes with brooches!"

Bee stamped her foot as she spoke, and

breathed hard. She looked a perfect little

fury standing in the firelight.

" Stay and mind baby, then, while I go

downstairs with his bottle, and if you move

away from him I will give you what for when

I come up. There ! stand at the foot of his

cradle—so, and don't take your eyes off him."

Beatrice never seemed to tire of watching

by her brother, and the nurse knew well it

was safe to leave them alone under those

conditions.

Baby opened his eyes wide and stared at

Bee. She made a little cooing sound in her

throat that brought a smile. She loved the

tiny human body, resting under the blue

curtains, and would hold his fingers for

hours, laughing to feel their pressure.

" Everybody loves you, baby," she said,

"even mamma!" her eyes expanding at this

wonderful intelligence. " Traps that's just

'cause you're little; 'praps she didn't mind

me when I was only so big. When you are

as old as I am, everybody scolds you, unless

there is a Sarah in the house—and some

little boys haven't any Sarah—and then it's

awful. I've only just thought of that, baby,

about its being so bad for you when you

grows."

A look of intense pity steals over Bee's face.

" They'll punish you a lot, and make you

do lessons with the governess. There are

those sums, too, that never come right; you

won't get any jam for tea on ' sum' days.

She will make you play scales on cold

mornings when your chilblains ache—well,

like teeth, when the chemist pulls them out.

Then when you're bigger still, they will send

you to school—I am going to school soon.

Schools are places where old women live,

and bother all the children just like if you

were at home, only sometimes it's worse.

There are never any Sarahs there to kiss you

good-bye; they don't have them, 'cause they

are kind to the children, and then it isn't a

school."

Baby puckered up his face and looked as

if he were going to cry.

" Yes, it is bad for those big children, isn't

it, baby ? Nurse says you grow so fast, just

twice the pace of most babies, so you will be

old quicker. Then mother won't love you

any more, and you'll be just as miserable as

I am! "

Beatrice stopped speaking as the rustle of

a silk gown sounded in the passage.

She recognised the tread instinctively; it

always made her heart beat a little faster with

fear.

She drew nearer to baby, as if to protect

him from something, she knew not what.

A moment later and Mrs. Stebbing, tall and

gaunt, swept towards the cot.

A look of pride softened her hard face as

she bent over her infant son, without glancing

456

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

The tears now coursed down her cheeks,

but she brushed them aside with her knuckles.

" You are a very untruthful child,'1 said

Mrs. Stebbing, " trying to make believe that

baby is your reason for shirking the studies

at school."

" But he is, he is ! " declared Beatrice,

passionately, clutching with sudden boldness

at her mother's dress, as she moved towards

the door. " I love baby, and baby loves me.

We want to be together, 'cause there's lots ot

things might happen if I left him. What's

the good of me if I go away and don't look

after him ? "

Mrs. Stebbing was amazed at the child's

persistency. She was not accustomed to be

argued with.

She pulled her dress aside from Bee's

detaining clasp, speechless with astonishment.

Then she answered acidly :

" It is very rude of little girls to dispute

with their elders. All arrangements have

been made for you to go to Miss Seager's

Boarding School at Streatham, and it is to

be hoped you will learn manners there, and

behave better than you do at home."

To her surprise, Beatrice did not take

these words as final, but, flinging herself on her

knees, continued to plead for a brief respite.

" Let me wait just a wee bit longer," she

cried, clasping her hands ; " only a little

while, till baby grows big enough to come

too. He'll be all right with me. I'll fight

for him ever so if the other children tease,

and keep him warm, and good, and comfy.''

Mrs. Stebbing laughed in the cold, freezing

manner that was worse to Beatrice's sensibili-

ties than a blow. It seemed to stun her.

" Don't make yourself so utterly ridiculous,

Beatrice. Get up off the floor at once ; you

are tumbling your clean frock, and behaving

very naughtily. If I hear any more of this

nonsense from you I shall send you straight

to bed."

The child rose slowly, stood in the centre

of the room, and stared at her mother silently

in a manner that made Mrs. Stebbing feel at a

disadvantage. Those green eyes of Beatrice

were strangely penetrating for one so young

" Now mind what I say—not another word,"

continued the gaunt woman, almost wishing

that Bee would speak in spite of the command.

She walked haughtily from the room, still

followed by the mute appeal of her child's

glance.

As the door closed, Beatrice beat her

clenched fists on her small forehead, and

rushed up and down the nursery like a

creature possessed.

" What will become of him, what will

happen to poor baby ? " she cried. " Oh, I

can't go, I can't, I can't! "

For the thought of the men that were to

come for her and Sarah, and which she had

feigned to disbelieve, crept back into her heart

with lurking terror.

What if nurse should be right, and while

she was safely in the school at Streatham,

A HEROINE IN BIB AND TUCKER.

457

"I did so want to see the dear baby," ex-

plained Edith, " and I was sure you wouldn't

mind my bringing Mr. Compton, too. May

I take him up to the nursery, Clara ? It

would be such fun. We'll go and astonish

'the treasure.' Don't you come, dear; you

must be so tired of showing it off—I beg its

pardon, I mean ' him.' "

" I never weary of worshipping the sweet

mite," murmured Mrs. Stebbing, " but

perhaps I had better stay here.

Nurse objects to a crowd in

the nursery ; it upsets

her equanimity."

" Come along, Mr.

Compton," said

Edith gaily, and the

young man followed

her upstairs.

Bee ran out to greet

them, and nurse, who

was in one of her sur-

liest moods, retired

to the night nursery.

"Come and see my

beauty," cried Bea-

trice, dragging Edith

by the hand. " Isn't

he fat and pink ? "

" Yes, just like

those little round

worms you use for

bait," said Mr. Comp-

ton.

"Don't be silly,"

answered Edith,

laughing.

She bent down

over Baby.

"Don't you love

him, Bee ? "

"Ever so much,"

replied the child.

"I always think it is a dreadful thing to

look at an infant," drawled Mr. Compton.

" Why ? "

" It makes me soliloquise ! Now only

think, Miss Bartlett, of all the horrors in

store for that poor little beggar. To begin

with, he has got to die—he was only born

for that—he has got to suffer, we know. Can

any man escape ? Some pretty woman will

......

There are never any Sarahs there to kiss you good-bye."

probably break his heart at one-and-twenty,

then he will go to the dogs for a bit, and enjoy

himself. When he has enjoyed himself he

will have run through his money. Then he

will begin to work. Imagine the struggles,

the disappointments, the heart burnings, the

strife. Think of the sleepless nights and

long, weary, unsuccessful

days. Hardly a soul living

would willingly go back one

year of his life to traverse

it again, yet that helpless

creature with a bottle, for

no fault of his own, must

458

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" Artists will go mad over that child when

she is a woman," said Mr. Compton. " The

hair and the eyes are superb."

" I wonder if she will have a happy life ? "

" No! That sort of mouth is born miser-

able. Its very smile is a tragedy. No one

could be really peaceful with those

lips and chin."

" Stay one moment," said Edith.

" I have heard you say you are a

phrenologist. Can you tell

the meaning of this extra

large bump at the back of

Baby's head ?"

"That," he replied, look-

ing very wise, " undoubtedly

means he is born to be

handed.'"

How little he knew of the thorny paths, the

rough ways. Why had he been born to

suffer? Why should he suffer if she could

prevent it ?

The thought paralysed her small bewildered

brain, while a hundred half-formed schemes

rushed through it.

Her ideas were like the flakes in a

snow storm, when you look upwards,

a whirling mass of mystery.

"I can't! I

can't! " she

moaned. "You

must bear it,

Baby ; the bad

times what's

coming, even

" I did so want to see the dear baby," explained Edith.

" Baby ! Baby ! " cried Beatrice, as their

light chatter sounded down the stairs, '' did

you hear them, Baby ? what they said."

She held her brother's tiny fingers in her

trembling hands.

Her face might have been carved in stone,

so strangely white was it.

Her eyes dilated as they rested on the

peaceful features of the unconscious infant.

the ha—ha—hanging. It will be awful hard

to die then, when you are a great big man.

Thomas always drowns our kittens when

they're small, 'cause they don't suffer—they

don't mind—they don't know ! But the old

cats can't die for ever so long, and then it

is cruel."

Nurse came rustling into the room, carry-

ing an armful of clean white pinafores.

A HEROINE IN BIB AND TUCKER.

459

The infant moved in its cot and wailed.

" Why is baby crying ? " asked Bee.

" He is cutting his first tooth, I reckon,"

replied nurse. " It is a bad time for babies;

they fret and scream, and keep you awake

most like all night. It goes hard with them

when they are teething."

The simple words decided Beatrice—her

own feelings should be laid low, sacrificed,

trampled under—Baby should be her first care.

" I'll do it," she whispered, through the

lace of his curtains, "before to-morrow,

darling, and the bright angels "

" Come and hold this box open," cried

nurse in the next room.

But as Beatrice slowly obeyed her, she

shook her head wisely, and a look of infinite

love passed over her face, as she repeated

slowly to herself:

" The bright angels ! "

» » * * *

It was night, and Beatrice lay awake, still

busily planning Baby's safety.

How should she do it ?—how rescue him

from the pain and sorrow, and give him up

to the fair home she had heard was called

" Heaven " ? The kittens had been drowned

in the tank in the yard. Thomas said they

felt nothing, and it was better than letting

them live to be starved.

Perhaps if she said a prayer it would come

quite easily. Bee folded her hands, and

whispered her evening hymn.

" I'll go now," she said.

But how could she get out of the house ?

All the shutters were bolted, and to-morrow

she would be sent to school. If only it were

possible to get into the garden, Baby should

rest in the peaceful river which flowed at the

end of the shrubbery. It was very deep. He

would sink directly if she dropped him from

the wall.

The slight figure, gowned in white, crept

like a silent moonbeam through the passage.

Her bare feet made no sound on the thick

stair-carpet as she slowly descended to the

hall.

" What was that light in the dining-room ? "

Beatrice stole behind a curtain and watched.

Three men with black masks over their

faces came out and passed through the hall,

one carrying a bag.

She watched them out of sight, marvelling

at their silent tread, then peeped into the

dining-room curiously.

Dinner knives were lying in confusion,

used to wrench open locks, and a perfect

show of rejected electro-plate.

But what was far more wonderful and for-

tunate, too, the shutter was torn open, and

the cold night air rushed in upon Bee's

quivering form. " How good the angels were

to Baby ; they had arranged it purposely so !'"

Swiftly she fled upstairs, and passed breath-

lessly into the nursery.

" Don't cry, little brother," she whispered

tenderly, " or we shall be lost."

The baby seemed to understand, or was it

BY LEVIN CARNAC.

JT is hardly necessary to say that the best

possible frontier a country can have is that

which forms the hitherto impregnable

bulwark of our own Isle Inviolate, for the

history of warfare has over and over again

conclusively proved that a properly guarded

sea-frontier is impassable to all enemies save

those whose relative strength is overwhelm-

inglv superior. Next to the sea, the best

frontier that a nation can possess is a river,

the bigger and broader the better, and

next to that a range of high moun-

tains with easily defended

passes, or a desert constructed

on a liberal scale.

Naturally the very worst is

an arbitrary line drawn with

either the pen of a treaty or

the sword of war. Such a

frontier as this is at once the

most expensive to guard and

the most liable to violation.

Thus, for instance, not the least

of the burdens imposed upon

France by her defeat in the

war of '71 was that laid on her

by the absolute necessity of

building,arming, and maintain-

ing the chain of huge fortresses

which guard the new frontier

of her diminished borders from

Belfort to Longwy. About a

third of this is formed by the

Vosges Mountains, but the rest

of the line is drawn through forests and

along roads, across which the Teuton and

the Gaul look at each other armed to the

teeth, the former doubtless with not a

little pride in the consciousness

that the ground on which he

does his sentry-go was once

French, and the latter with

looks of longing, probably not

I/

A French officer was shot

dead for refusing to

stand.
HOW THE FRONTIERS OF EUROPE ARE KEPT. 461

unmingled with thoughts of the ever hoped

for revanche.

Where the line runs through forests, a

broad belt is kept absolutely clear of trees

and undergrowth, and along the centre of

this a line of stones

something like mile-

stones is erected,

marking the actual

boundary. When the

frontier is a road,

sentries are stationed

at all the crossways,

and wooden posts,

painted on the one

side with the French

colours, and on the

other with the Ger-

man, mark the exact

touching-points of

the two countries,

and, in addition to

these stations, all the

main roads and lines

of traffic are further

guarded by the jeal-

ously-watched Cus-

tom Houses, one on

each side of the

frontier road.

This is perhaps

the most strictly-

guarded frontier in

the world, and next

to it would come the

lines along which

Russia adjoins Ger-

many and Austria.

These are kept in

practically the same

fashion, with the ex-

ception that for very

considerable dis-

tances they are

formed by rivers, as

for instance, the

Pruth, from Galatz to Tsernowitz; the

Vistula, from near Krasnik to Cracow; and

the Prosna, from Peisern nearly to Tsens-

tochowa.

It is, of course, such frontiers as these that

are the scenes of the ever-recurring " in-

They threw powerful search-lights on the fortifications

cidents," some of which are important enough

to make a breach of the Kuropean peace

almost inevitable, and others too trivial to find

their way into the newspapers. Thus, for

instance, everyone will remember the Schabele

affair, in which a

French chief of

police was literally

kidnapped and

dragged across the

frontier by German

spies dressed as pea-

sants, and then ar-

rested and carried

off to durance in the

fortress of Metz.
462

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

the frontier line between Russia and Ger-

many where it runs across the bleak plains

of Masuria and Lithuania. A good deal of

bad blood is aroused locally by the Russian

frontier - guards' efforts to improve their

miserable rations at the expense of the

Prussian farmers, and midnight raids on

farm-stock are of by no means infrequent

occurrence. Sometimes, too, a Prussian

.goose, or hen, or pig, ignorant of

international bickerings and jealousy,

strolls unsuspectingly across the

line, and in nine cases out of

ten pays the penalty of its

'

The snowballs were a mixture of snow and valuable Brussels lace.

violation of the frontier with its life, and ends

its days in the flesh-pots of the hungry

Cossacks or moujiks.

During the Russian manoeuvres of 1892,

the fact that frontiers do not extend up into

the air was rather unpleasantly brought home

to the Tsar and his generals by a very annoy-

ing way the Germans had of going up in

balloons and taking stock of everything that

the Russians did not want them to know.

At night they took up powerful searchlights,

which they threw on the fortifications, so that

they could sketch them at their leisure, and

over towns and into camps in a most exas-

perating fashion.

Whether this was a violation of frontier or

not, the Russians took it as such, and blazed

away at the balloons, without doing either

them or their occupants the slightest harm.

This is, perhaps, the only modern instance

on record of the soldiers of one nation

deliberately firing on those of another in a

time of perfect peace.

By far the most interesting frontier station

in Europe, and certainly the most rigidly

guarded, is that of Wirballen, on the line from

Konigsberg to St. Petersburg. The platform

is divided in the middle by a high, strong,

iron fence, and in this is a sliding gate which

is drawn back when a train comes in.

On one side of it stand two German

guards, and on the other two

Russian, all with loaded rifles

and fixed bayonets. On

the German side the

standard gauge for the

European railways ends

and on the other the

broad Russian gauge

begins.

Once through the gate

no passenger can return

on any pretence without

first having his passport

vised and obtaining offi-

cial permission to enter or

leave the Russian territory, and

every article of luggage has to be

passed through the grille from the

German porters to the Russian, or

vice vend, as the case may be, for none

are allowed to go and come through,

HOW THE FRONTIERS OF EUROPE ARE KEPT.

463

is perpetually shifting, and that is up in the

extreme north where Scandinavia and Russia

come together. In consequence of the

migratory habits of the Norwegian Lap-

landers, they are constantly giving Russia an

excuse for making complaint of violation of

territory against the Norwegian Government,

and these usually resulted in disputes and

commissions, out of which Russia generally

managed to filch a few versts of rock and ice

and snow by' shifting her neighbour's land-

mark until the matter was taken up by

England and one or two other Powers and

the encroachments put a stop to.

In some cases, though not in many, land

in Europe being too jealously sought after,

frontiers are marked by a strip of neutral

ground, or "no man's land." The two

most notable instances of this species of

demarcation are the low, sandy isthmus

which unites

Gibraltar with

Spain, and the

mountain tract

between France

and Italy, which

is pierced by the

Mont Cenis

tunnel.

There are, of

course, not a few

places on the

continent of

Europe where

several frontier

lines intercept.

Thus, for in-

stance, there is

a spot a few

miles from Bale,

in Switzerland,

where a person

may, by taking

as many strides,

step into and out

of three different

countries and states : Switzerland, the Duchy

of Baden, and the Province of Alsace. In

this connection it may not, perhaps, be amiss

to point out the fact that Mont Blanc, which

is nearly always spoken of as being in

Switzerland, is really on the frontier line

between France and Italy.

There is one spot on the frontiers of

Europe, without some mention of which no

article on the subject would be complete.

In a forest clearing on the way from

Ekaterinburg, in Russia, to Tiumen, in

Siberia, there stands an obelisk built of brick.

On the western face is carved the word

''Europe,''and on the eastern, "Asia." This

is the famous " Pillar of Farewell," standing

on the frontier, not of two countries, but of

two Continents.

Probably no other structure in the world

has been looked upon by so many tearful

eyes as this has

been, for it is
Bv WALTER BESANT AND WALTER MERRIES POLLOCK.

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

HAROLD ANQUETIL (Dramatist. Owner of a ruined sugar estate in the

island of Palmistd) Aged 25.

DR. WALFORD (General Practitioner). ...... Aged 45.

MR. THOMAS VIGORS (Financier) Aged 36.

EDITH ALGAR (Harold Anquetil's fiancee, a nurse) .... Aged 22.

BOY MESSENGER.

HAROLD is dressed in a brown velveteen jacket, zuithout waistcoat, silk scarf round waist,

slippers. He is pale and weak. EDITH is dressed as a nurse, with long white apron.

DR. WALFORD is in ordinary morning out-door dress. MR. THOMAS VIGORS wears a

profusion of jewelry and a fur overcoat.

Scene. A poorly furnished room in a lodging-house on the second floor. An easy chair with

pillow before the fire. A horse-hair sofa—a table with papers—a chiffonier with tea-pot

and tea-cups upon it. A kettle on fire—an empty book-case. Two doors—a bedroom door

and a door to the stairs. Time—Afternoon.

EDITH (tidying the room). My patient asleep at last, after his restless night. (Opens door

and looks in, leaving it open). Yes, sleeping like an infant. He is certain!y

better, and so I shall soon have to tell him what I have done. Every single thing

pawned : his clothes, his watch, his books—nothing left. What will he say when

I do tell him ? And—will it throw back his recovery ? Or—will he indeed

recover ? It is a terrible thing to nurse your own lover. I would not trust him to

strange hands—no—no—(rises and walks about); and yet—and yet—to sit by his

bedside night and day—to watch the light of life flickering: to feel that any

moment may extinguish it, and to keep all this pain and anxiety to oneself ! If

even now Harold should die ! Harold ! My Harold ! Oh! no—no—no !

And now there is no money, and I know not where to turn for more. Harold

has no friends that I know of. Nobody can be more friendless than a colonist

newly arrived in London. His estate produces nothing, I know. Not one single

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America, by IV. Besant and IV. H. Pollock.
LOVED I NOT HONOUR MORE.

465

friend has he in all London, except me. Well, he must go back to his native

island again. The Doctor says that his one chance is a return to the warm air of

the West Indies.

(Sound of steps outside, as on a carpetless stair. Knock at door. Enter DOCTOR

WALFORD.)

DOCTOR. What a day ! Snow and a black north-easter. How's your patient, nurse?

EDITH. He is asleep. He had a bad night. Now he has slept for five hours.

DOCTOR. Good. No return of fever ? Good. (Warms his hands at the fire.) But, no

doubt, still very weak ?

EDITH. Yes.

DOCTOR. Well, you know what may happen. This cold weather is most unfortunate for

him. Most unfortunate. With warm, dry weather he might

recover strength. As it is—(shrugs his shoulders—warms

his hands by the-fire)—as it is an interesting case.

EDIT .1. Yes : an interesting case.

DOCTOR. He is a man—to the medical student all men are

interesting—and he has got a disease which ought to be

driven out. Therefore he is doubly interesting.

EDITH. Ought to be driven out ?

DOCTOR. But there is only one way. He must be sent back

instantly to his native place, where there is no winter.

( Warming his hands—turns.) Why—what on earth

are you crying about ? Nurses don't cry over their

patients.

EDITH. No—no—but you don't know, Doctor Walford.

I have never told you. Harold is more than my

patient. He is—my—lover. I am engaged to

him.

DOCTOR. Oh! I see. Yes. Oh! Yes—Yes. Ah!

EDITH. When he fell ill I could not leave him in

strange hands. So I came and you know

the rest.

DOCTOR. You have nursed him night and day for six

weeks. But for that he would have died.

EDITH. Oh! Doctor Walford—if he is to die after all!

DOCTOR. There is one chance for him. Take him on

board ship and carry him back to the West

Indian sunshine.

EDITH. Ohi! If I could—if I could.

DOCTOR. May I, without impertinence, learn something of the position of affairs with our

patient ?

EDITH. His estates have become worthless. They produce nothing. He is a poet and

a dramatist—as yet—without success. When I came, there was some money—a

few pounds. That is all gone, and I do not know if he has any left.

DOCTOR. All gone ?

EDITH. And to-mofrow a week's rent due.

DOCTOR. I have observed (warms hands at fire)—-we" general practitioners do notice things

—a gradual disappearance of various objects—eh ? (Turns and waves hand

around.) There was a watch and chain on the dressing-table, a dressing case, a

portmanteau, great coats and things hanging behind the door, a case full of books.

Where have those things gone ?

Vol. I.J-81.

" Yes, steeping like an infant."

466

PAARSOJTS MAGAZINE.

EDITH.

EDITH. They are pawned. I had to find money for the daily necessaries.

DOCTOR. There was another gold watch and chain—and a ring or two.

EDITH. Mine are gone the same way. But that matters nothing—if only—(sighs).

DOCTOR. My dear young lady, all this is very serious. Is there no one who will lend you

—or him—the money ?

EDITH. No one. My own friends are in Australia. His are in his West Indian Island.

There is no one to whom I can turn.

DOCTOR. It is very—very serious. Let me look at you. What did you have for dinner

to-day!

(Harold opens bedroom door and stands listening.)

EDITH. Some bread and butter. There is no money.

DOCTOR. And yesterday ?

EDITH. Oh ! what does it matter ? Bread and butter.

DOCTOR. Good Heavens ! Wrhat are you going to do, then ?

KDITH. I don't know. Perhaps Harold can get at some money.

DOCTOR. You don't know—you don't know ! Are you going to starve then ? Pretty sort

of nurse you are. (Grumbles and warms his hands.) Well—about this rent. If

it is paid to-morrow you will be undisturbed for a week. That will allow time for

developments. (Aside. If he remains another week in this cold, with insufficient

nourishment, a week will settle him.) (Aloud.) Observe, Miss Algar, the G.P.—

the man with the Red Lamp—never has any money to spare. Else he wouldn't be

a G.P. But he can sometimes help. Just now, I remember, rather luckily, that the

landlady down below owes me a trifle for medical attendance. I will speak to her

as I go out. It will be all right about the rent.

Oh, Doctor Walford, but you cannot keep your patients as well as cure them.

DOCTOR. Well, well, we won't talk of that; but now I remember,

there was a little hamper came up from the country this

morning—birds, sausages, eggs — country produce in fact.

They will be just the thing to tempt your patient.

EDITH. But, Doctor Walford, this is too generous.

How can we take these things ?

DOCTOR. Yes, yes—quite so. ( Warms Ins hand and

talks into the fireplace.) Ah ! by the way, I've

got in my cellar some port—in pints—just the

thing for your patient. I'll send him some.

Oh, I've got a great cellar full. Well, that's

all—feed him up—feed him up. That's all.

But remember—(HAROLD is still listening at the

open bedroom door) — the only chance that

remains for him—a good chance it is ; I'm

sure it would give him a complete recovery—is

to put him on board at once, and pack him

off to his native island, where there is sunshine

all day long—the only chance, mind.

EDITH. Is there no hope—else ?

DOCTOR. None. He may die in a day or two—or in

a week—but in this cold air—die he must—

and die he will unless you take him to a warm climate. (HAROLD, unseen, listens

and nods his head.) Give me my gloves. So—now I go out again on my

tramp. Courage, Miss Algar, courage. He is young, and youth is life. Courage',

courage! (Exit.

HAROLD (At door.) Edith !

' It is very—very serious. Let me look at you."

LOVED I XOT HONOUR MORE.

467

(She stvps, confused, and turns her head.)

EDITH. (Jumps up with assumed cheerfulness^ Harold ! You are awake ? You are

out of bed ? Come. (She leads him to the easy chair.) Now sit down and keep

warm. (She arranges the pillow for him.) You are to take strengthening food

and—and—(HAROLD looks strangely at her. She stops, confused, and turns her head.)

HAROLD. Edith, I was not asleep. I heard all that Doctor Walford said.

EDITH. All? You—heard—all!

HAROLD. All. Your devotion—and my doom.

EDITH. Oh ! no—no—no—not your doom.

HAROLD. Yes—my doom. I am to go back to

the West Indies. It is my only chance.

Else I must die—in a week—in a month.

It is my only chance. My dear—I cannot

take that last and only chance. I 'must die.

Er.iTH. But it wants only a little money—just a

little money.

HAROLD. I have no money. When I fell ill there

were a few pounds. We have spent them.

You have pawned or sold the things. There

is now nothing. I have nothing in the

world but an estate that has gone to jungle,

on which no one would advance a shilling.

EDITH. Harold ! Nothing ? No help anywhere ?

HAROLD. No help anywhere. My poor Edith, it

is sad for you—but—perhaps—you will

forget me—after a while

EDITH. Oh, Harold, you break my heart. How

can I leave you ? Let me stay with you . . . till—till the end. I will try

to find some way to get money ; there must be some way. If I could die for

you, Harold! Oh, if I could die for you! Cannot Love help somehow ? Is

Love to be nothing but anguish ?

HAROLD. No, dear; Love is not all anguish. At such a time as this, it is Love the

Consoler. My dear, it makes me happy only to think that I shall live in your

heart. Perhaps—who knows ?—I shall take your love away with me. Let us think

so. Let us speak of love while an hour remains of life. Think only that you

have made me happy in these last days.

EDITH. Harold ! You must not—you cannot die !

HAROLD. We will not talk of that. Meantime I must make my will. What have I got to

give you? A bit of jungle land, where there were once flourishing canefields, and

a portfolio full of papers—the poems that nobody will publish, the play that nobody

will produce. I give these precious treasures all to you, dear. You are my only

• reader.

EDITH. Harold l

HAROT D. And there they are—for you. When you read of love in them, remember that

you were in my mind. When you read of fair women, remember that there was

only one woman in the world for me. If you find anything that is good and true in

them, remember that it was inspired by you. A poor gift, Edith, but it is—myself.

EDITH. Harold—you break my heart!

HAROLD (laying portfolio on his knees, and turning over leaves). They are all here—the " Song

of the Coral Reef," the " Song of the Flowering Cane," the " Song of the Trade

Wind." I thought to win fame and fortune by these songs. What fame! What fortune!

Well, everything is here except the play, and that is on its travels. You'll get it

back before long, however. Fame and fortune ! What a dream ! And now I
468

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

EDITH.

drop into the ocean of the past without a splash, without a ripple, unnoticed,

unknown, unremembered. (Closesportfolio.)

EDITH. Not unremembered, Harold. ,

HAROLD. Ah! (Pause.) Now we must be practical. I believe there is an institution

somewhere called the Workhouse Infirmary. You must go

there and arrange for my admission. I must not live out

the last few days on charity. Go, dear. There need be

no shame—I feel none. I have got to lie down and die

somewhere. Why not among the other wrecks and

failures of the world ? Go this very afternoon, Edith.

(Rises.) Yes, Harold, if it must be so. (Puts on her

bonnet and cloak.)

(Servant enters.)

SERVANT. Please, there's a gentleman down below—

name of Vigors—wants to see you.

EDITH. Vigors ? Who is he ?

HAROLD. Vigors ? There was a man of that name at

home. He kept a general store. Perhaps it is

his son, Tom Vigors.

(Enter Vigors, answering)—

VIGORS. Yes, Tom Vigors—Tom. Always Tom to

you, my dear fellow. Why—what is it ? (Looks

round.) (Aside.) Seems down in his luck.

(Aloud.) You don't look well. How are you? (Shakes hands with a great

affectation of friendliness.) Considering the news, I

expected to find you jumping and dancing. What is it?

Let us sit down and have a talk of old days. You don't

look as if the news had pulled you together. Ah! the old

days, when you used to gallop in on your pony to my

father's office. What wonderful news, isn't it ? Who

would have thought it in the old days ?

HAROLD. Yes, the old days. You at any rate seem pros-

perous. This looks like a change from the old days

—from the days when

VIGORS. (Quickly.) From the desk—yes.

HAROLD. (Aside.) And the white apron. (Aloud.) The desk—yes.

' Unknown, unremembered." (ClosesportfMo.)

As for myself, you see I am ill. And I am not—prosperous.

VIGORS. Not prosperous ? Why what would you have ? Well

—never mind old days. Let's begin with the new days. Of

course, you guess what I have come about ?

HAROLD. You will tell me. Sit down. Don't go, Edith.

VIGORS. Thankye, I'd rather stand. I mean business. Quite

simple business. Directly I saw it in the paper yesterday

(pulling out paper 'which he hands to HAROLD)—but of

course, you have seen it. (HAROLD opens paper, reads

without showing the least sign of astonishment, and lays

it on table.) Yes—you saw it yesterday, of course—and

you've had twenty-four hours to turn it over.

HAROLD. Go on!

VIGORS. Have you formed any plan of action ? If so, I'm your man to carry it out. No plan ?

HAROLD. No.

(Enter Vigon, ans-jjering.

LOVED I NOT HONOUR MORE.

469

VIGORS. Then listen to my plan. I got your address from your lawyers, who told me

that you were pretty low down. I said : " Now is the time for an old friend.

Strike while the iron's hot. Strike for your old friend, Tom. Strike at once, I said.

All the more if he is down on his luck." That's what I said.

HAROLD. Strike at once—if you please.

VIGORS. There's nothing sentimental about .Tom Vigors. But where an old friend is

concerned—why then you see

HAROLD. Then you have a plan.

EDITH. (Takes up paper and reads it.) Gold in Palmiste Island! Rich veins of gold—

great nuggets found. Why ! on your island, Harold ? Rush of people—formation

of companies. Enormous rise in the value of estates.

Harold ! Oh ! have you read it ? Have you seen it ?

HAROLD. (Quietly..) I have just read it, Edith. Mr.

Vigors comes to tell me about it.

VIGORS (aside). He knew nothing about it! Fool! Ass!

Thickhead ! I might have got the estate for a

song !

EDITH. Then you are rich, Harold, and we need

not Oh ! (Takes off her bonnet and

cloak, and lays them down.)

HAROLD. It appears, Edith, that there is gold on

the island.

VIGORS. Gold ! I should think so. They are

flocking to the place from every quarter.

Gold! There just is gold. Now don't inter-

rupt for ten minutes. This is my plan. You

can't work a gold mine. I can't work a gold

mine. You can't find those who will. I can

find those who will. So we shall all stand

in together, you and I, and the man who

will take it over. That's fair, isn't it ? Of

course it is. They've begun, already, to buy up the estates. Very good. Now I

shall give you .£40,000 do you hear ?—.£40,000 (brings out pocket-book and gold

pencil-case) for your estate. I have just come from the City, and I've seen my man.

.£40,000 down, as soon as the title deeds are in my hands.

EDITH (snatches HAROLD'S hand). Forty thousand pounds ! Oh ! It is a miracle !

HAROLD (quietly). Go on. Please go on.

VIGORS. I am quite fair and straight with you, honest Tom always. Honest Tom.

Everything is in your interest. (More play of pocket-book and gold pencil-case.) I

shall transfer the estate to my name for .£80,000. You can't do without me; I

can't do without you. So we share alike. That's fair, isn't it ?

HAROLD (coldly). Go on, if you please.

VIGORS. Then my man, who is behind me all the time, forms a company with a capital

of £*50,000, fully paid up—£1 shares—to catch the multitude. Now do you see?

HAROLD. Not quite. But pray go on.

VIGORS. Why, you get .£40,000 for an estate gone back to jungle, and I get ^40,000

for my share in the job, and my man gets .£70,000. So, you see, we can't do

without each other, and so we all share.

HAROLD. And the shareholders ?

VIGORS. Oh! the shareholders! Well, shareholders are generally people who think

they can get thirty per cent, instead of three—and there you are.

HAROLD. Yet there is a rush, you say.

' Forty thousand pounds !

Oh ! It is a miracle."
47o PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

VIGORS. At first. It's this way. When you've paid the directors and the secretary and

the office expenses at home, and the engineers out there, and the labour expenses,

it will turn out that the gold costs more to dig up than it can fetch to pay any

dividend. So—in fact—well, you see.

HAROLD. I do see—Honest Tom ! Always Honest Tom !

VIGORS. What do you mean ? If it wasn't for the blessed Juggins who lives in the

country, and believes everything that's printed in the prospectus, what would

become of the company promoters ?

HAROLD. What, indeed ? This, then, is what is called business in the city ?

VIGORS. Of course it is. And very good business too.

HAROLD. What do you think of it, Edith ?

EDITH. Oh! Harold, it's like a dream. All this money flowing in—just now. It's like

a dream.

HAROLD. A nightmare, rather. Come, Mr. Vigors, let me explain your scheme to you.

VIGORS. Well, show me that you quite understand it. We can't pay up, you know, till

the conveyance is effected. But something down—say a hundred or two—or—not

to haggle with an old friend

HAROLD. There will be no occasion for haggling. This is how the matter strikes me,

who am not a business man. You propose to me that for the consideration of

£40,000 I should join you in a conspiracy for the ruin of a great many ignorant

arid credulous persons, whom you will entice to their destruction by a flaring

prospectus. It is a conspiracy for wholesale robbery.

VIGORS. Robbery ? Robbery ?—really—Mr. Anquetil—we never use that word in the

city. We,offer shares—that is all. And this is plain biz. You are a poor man—

that is quite clear. You are weak and ill—you want things. I offer you ,£40,000.

You have got nothing in the world to do for it but sign a conveyance of your estate

as soon as it can be got ready. Meantime you shall have whatever you want in advance.

HAROLD. I am a very poor man. Mr. Vigors. I am on the verge of destitution. I am at

the very gate of death. Perhaps because these portals are opening for me I see

somewhat more clearly than you the nature of the transaction which you propose,

and I decline.

EDITH. Harold ! Your life depends upon it. Oh ! Harold—and mine.

VIGORS. Don't be a fool. But of course you won't be, when you reflect a little.

HAROLD. I have reflected.

VIGORS. Come, Mr. Anquetil, no one would believe such a thing of you. Come now,

your ancestors had no compunction in driving hundreds of slaves. They got rich

by their slaves' labour, why shouldn't you get rich by the ignorance and greed of

the world ? It serves these people right: they want to get money without working

for it: they want to get the niggers to work for them in the mines. Well, what do

we do ? We find 'em the niggers and we find 'em the mine, and if the mine don't

pay after all, why we've done our part and we've got our part.

HAROLD. Say our plunder. Your city view is not mine.

VIGORS. Well; but do you mean to throw away this chance ? Make me a proposal—

only a proposal. Find some other way, man. It is a fortune that we throw away.

HAROLD. Say no more. I will have no hand in this iniquity.

VIGORS. If you won't play, I can't. Mr. Anquetil (changing his tone), remember—we

belong to the same island. Oh! I know. Your father was a rich man and proud

of his descent, and mine kept the general store, and was a ship's steward to begin

with. But we do belong to the same place. Remember that—and I'm really a

very poor man. These fine furs and things—I put on to make people think I am

rich. It is my only chance. I shall never get another.

7j'iROLU. No.
LOVED I NOT HONOUR MORE.

VIGORS.

You must agree. Come, I will give you fifty thousand pounds — .sixty thousand

pounds — for your share. The estate is right in the midst of the gold ; we can get

the two estates on either side — but without yours the company

can't be floated. Oh ! You must consider me.

HAROLD. I am sorry for you. But — No.

VIGORS. Young lady — persuade him. It is for his advantage.

EDITH. Harold, it is for your life.

HAROLD. No, Mr. Vigors, I shall probably be finished

off in a week or two. You can then make the same

proposal to this young lady, who will be my heiress.

VIGORS. In a week? (Looks at him doubtfully •.

Aside.) Humph ! If one was sure we could

wait a week or a month before the run begins

to slacken. (Looks carefully at Edith.) Per-

haps the girl won't be such a fool. (Aloud.)

My dear friend, you must not talk that way.

Of course you will get well. Let me be your

banker meanwhile. And you will think over

the scheme — this brilliant scheme.

HAROLD. To ruin the widows and the helpless ? Oh !

yes. I will think it over.

Fifty thousand —

o rather than I would join

VIGORS.

HAROLD. Had I fifty thousand lives to lose, they should all |

you in this.

EDITH. Harold, perhaps this gentleman may be wrong.

HAROLD. Do not trouble me any longer, Mr. Vigors.

VIGORS. Well, I will call again in two or three days and see.

may come down from your heroics. For the

moment, good-bye—and I wish you a return to

common sense. (Exit.)

HAROLD. (Leans head on hand—silence for a minute.

Looks up.) Is he gone, Edith ?

EDITH. Oh, Harold ! Is it impossible ?

HAROLD. Quite impossible. Forget it, Edith. We

are just as we were—that is all. Forget that

man with his tricks and conspiracies.

EDITH. Oh! It is too cruel. Think again

Harold! It is your life, my dear—your

life—and mine. How can I live without

you ? And there is no other way.

HAROLD. No other way. Yet not this way. My

dear—my love—in the years to come,

when I have long been laid in an obscure

grave, remembered by none but you, it will

be a happiness for you to think that your

lover would not sell his honour even to

save his life. No, dear; not even to save

your dear self from grief.

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more.

EDITH. No, dear, you could not. Yet—yet—oh, it is so cruel—so cruel!

his shoulder.)

After a little reflection you

It is only a note." (Reats.)

(Sinks upon
472

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

HAROLD. Come, dear—what were we doing ? I remember. You were going off to the

infirmary. Well—we are just where we were. Put on your bonnet. It is not

quite the ideal end—a bed in a workhouse infirmary, but these things move me not.

Go, dear.

EDITH. {Rises and puts on her bonnet and cloak—hesitates. Then leans over his chair.)

Harold ! I am unworthy of you. I never knew till now how much unworthy.

Forgive me. Yes—I will go—I will go at once—to—to—the Workhouse

Infirmary.

{Xoise below—trampling of feet.)

BOY (Outside). No, I won't leave it, I've got to give it to the gentleman myself and to wait for

an answer. (Noise of steps on stairs. Boy

opens door.) Mr. Harold Anquetil ?

Yes. What is it ?

From the Prince Theatre Royal. Wait

for an answer. Immediate, please.

It is a letter, Harold, from the Prince

Theatre Royal.

I suppose they are sending back the play.

EDITH.

BOY.

EDITH.

* HAROLD.

Yes, read it, Edith.

EDITH. There is no parcel with it.

note. (Reads.)

It is only a

DEAR SIR,

I have read your play and am greatly

struck by the situations and the dialogue. I

propose, as soon as we have agreed upon terms,

to put it in rehearsal, and to announce it as

following the present piece —• perhaps in six

weeks. I should like to see you as soon as

possible. There are certain slight changes

which I would suggest. Can you come here

this afternoon ?—Very faithfully yours,

KEMBLE CARLYON.

• Loved we not honour more' " EDITH. Harold !

HAROLD. You can take off your bonnet and cloak, Edith. So, now sit down and write a

note. Tell Mr. Carlyon that I cannot get out of doors just now. He will come

here. (EDITH writes quickly. Gives note to the boy who runs off.)

(En1TH turns to HAROLD. He holds out his arms. She bends over and kisses him.)

HAROLD. Edith, the accursed gold shall lie under the jungle that hides it. As for me, my

life is saved. I know that my life is saved. It would have been lost—" Loved we

not honour more ! "

CURTAIN.

For "THE EDITORIAL MIND" see overleaf, p. 4720.

E^

tt. .2

O3
MHHBv^11 'ui 1

"N»nns

GLASGOW ILLUSTRATED.

BY ROBERT MACHRAY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT makes the action of the story of

" Rob Roy '' lie within the earlier years of the eighteenth

century; and. in the course of the narrative, Frank

Osbaldistone asks Andrew Fairservice "the nearest

way to a town in your country of Scotland called

Glasgow." To which Andrew replies : " A town ca'd Glasgow ! Glasgow's a ceety, man."

"Rob Roy" was published two or three years after the battle of Waterloo, when that

amazing development in these kingdoms, with which we are all familiar, had hardly begun;

but if Glasgow deserved to be called a " ceety " then, much more so now.

In the well-known romance, Chapter XIX., Scott, writing of Glasgow, speaks of the

" commercial eminence to which, I am informed, she seems now likely one day to attain."

As a matter of fact, just a year or two before " Rob Roy " was added to the Waverley

novels, an event, of which the Clyde was the scene, had transpired—the importance of

which not only to Glasgow, but to all the world, neither Scott nor any of the then on-lookers

at the passing show could appreciate. And small blame to them ; it is so easy to be wise—

afterwards.

That event was the appearance in 1812 of a wonderful, of an almost magical, craft on

the Clyde—the first of the kind launched in Great Britain propelled by steam, making

the astonishing speed of seven and a half knots an hour when tide and wind were

Vol. I.—Ma), i
476

PEA RSOX'S MA GAZIXE.

favourable—called the Comet. Certainly no more grimy than gay in its outward aspects,

other comet has ever had such a wonderful there is nothing grim about Glasgow. Its

tail, or tale, if you like. very history begins with mythological in-

cidents, which, however

beautiful and touching

they may have seemed

to a less sceptical age

than ours, can hardly

now be read without

a smile. One will

suffice:—

If you will look at

the city arms on the

front page of this article

you will see amongst

other things a fish with

a ring in its mouth ; and

this is the interpretation

thereof.

Hundreds of years

ago, St. Kentigern or St.

Mungo—and Glasgow is

frequently spoken of as

the city of St. Mungo —

THE "COMET," 1812. established himself in

(From a photo by Warneuke, Glasgow, from an old print.)

For that tail, or tale,

stretches over the last

eighty years, and in-

cludes in it the biggest

battleship of the line, as

well as such monster

passenger vessels as the

Campania ; and what

shall yet be no man

knows or even guesses,

any more than Sir Walter

did in his day. Our

illustrations at least in-

dicate the suggestive

contrast between the

Comel of 1812 and the

Campania of 1893, both

products of the Clyde

vards, the first word,

and, thus far, the last

word, in steamship con-

struction.

A recent writer characterises Glasgow as

" Glasgow the grimy," and, while a great

commercial manufacturing centre must be

THE "CAMPANIA," 1893.

(From a Photo by Priestley, Egremont.)

the valley of the Clyde. He soon obtained

a great reputation in his own particular

line of business, a good one in those days,

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

of saint and wonder-worker—and his ser-

vices appear to have been in much

request. Thus, when Queen Langueth had

incurred the jealous suspicions of her husband

on account of the disappearance of her

wedding ring, and was cast into prison, the

saint, interfering—which is not generally

supposed to be a wise thing even for a saint

to do—between husband and wife, sent a

man down to the river from which

he drew forth a salmon, and in-

side that highly intelligent fish was

found the missing ring. And if

you are not inclined to believe

this, you have only to glance

again at those city arms, and your

doubts will vanish when you

notice how the fish triumphantly

THE CATHEDRAL.

(From a photo by Morrison, Glasgow.)

holds the ring up in his mouth towards

you.

A local sceptic has thus satirised the arms

of Glasgow :

" Here's the fish that never swum,

And the bell that never rung.

Here's the tree that never grew,

And the bird that never flew."

Having been founded by a saint, away

back in these olden times, it is not surprising

to find the early history of the city dominated

by the Church, and two, at least, of the Scot-

tish kings, were lay canons of its Cathedral.

This fine building (shown upon this page),

almost the only surviving memorial of ancient

Glasgow, was begun six or seven centuries

ago, and was brought to completion, by the

erection of the spire and other parts, much as

they now stand, in 1446; and the bishop who

is credited with this rejoiced in the typically

Highland name of Cameron.

The Glaswegian of to-day takes a good

THE NECROPOLIS.

iFrom a photo by Armstrong, Shcttleston.)

deal of pardonable pride, not only

in the Cathedral itself, but also in

its many stained glass windows,

of which there must be several

acres. I visited the Cathedral in

company with an artist, who is

identified with the " Glasgow

School "—of which much has

lately been heard, and I shall have

something to say about it later

on—and, of course, I was prepared to admire

these stained glass windows as was meet and

right and my bounden duty.

But as my companion, with his highly

trained sense of art, pointed out to me as we

went along, how that on these windows the

leg of this saint, or the arm of that martyr, or

the great toe of some apostle, was out of

drawing, and in fact an impossibility, I felt,

perhaps, that the critical spirit of our time

might be, to say the least of it, now and again

an inconvenience.

A more reverent critic draws attention to

tj

3
48o

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

the beauty of the deep azure windows by

Benin! of Milan, placed in the crypt, a portion

of the Cathedral which is greatly and justly

admired, and states that on one of the windows

the face of John the

Baptist is copied from

the striking features of

Edward Irving, the

famous preacher.

The Necropolis,

Glasgow's City of the

Dead, just beyond the

Cathedral, is crowned

by a statue of John

Knox towering above all

the other monuments.

Sheridan Knowles, the

dramatist, and Michael

Scott, the author of

" Tom Cringle's Log,''

are amongst those buried

here. Sir Walter Scott

has this curious sentence

in his description of this

vast cemetery: " It is

small in proportion to

the number of respectable

inhabitants who are

interred within it." The italics are mine.

The two illustrations (after the paintings

in the Glasgow Corporation Art Galleries),

showing bits of

the Glasgow that

is gone — the

Fiddler's Close

and the Close at

the Saltmarket—

take us back fifty

years and more,

when the city was

not such a model

of sanitation and

modern-idea'd

architecture as it

is to-day, but

when it was

probably more

picture sque.

Glasgow is now said to be almost an ideal

municipality, and, certainly, in the provision

of many parks and open breathing spaces,

in the erection of model lodging-houses,

THE FIDDLER'S CLOSE, 1844.

THE CLOSE, SALTMARKET, 1849.

artisans' dwellings, baths and washhouses,

and in several other ways, it well merits this

description.

The visitor to Glasgow receives his first

impression—and it is

altogether a favourable

one—from the spacious-

ness and cleanliness of

its streets, as well as

from the massive char-

acter of the buildings

occupying the business

portion of the city. The

material used, being for

THE REAPER.

'Oft roaming highest hill-top I scan the ocean thy sail to see."

(From a Photograph by IVarneuke, Glasgow.)

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

regarded by the genuine Glasgow man as

-one of the wonders of the world. The total

•cost of the entire

<:ivic palace — it

deserves that name

—was consider-

ably over half a

million.

A tall Gothic

-column, sur-

m ounted by a

-colossal figure of

ihe author of " Rob

Roy," rises in the

•centre of the

square, and there

are also in it

statues to James

Watt, of tea-

kettle - and - the -

steam fame; Sir

John Moore—-

whose " Burial"

now desolates so

many a schoolboy; Lord Clyde, one of the

Empire builders; Thomas Campbell, the

poet; David Livingstone, and others associated

by birth or otherwise with the city.

The Lord Provost of Glasgow

at the present time is Sir James

Bell, whose family has long been

identified with the great shipping

interests of the place, and he is

now filling the civic chair for the

second time.

Lady Bell (the wife of the

gentleman who presides over a

•city or town in Scotland, has no

official title) has shared her hus-

band's duties, as well as his

honours, and though Sir James is

the most popular chief magistrate

Glasgow is said to have ever had.

his wife is still more popular with

every class of society. Indeed, it

is difficult to speak of Lady Beil

without a little bit of gush ; the

amount of public work she does

is remarkable, and she is actively

interested in many philanthropic schemes.

A Glasgow editor, who ought to know what

lie is talking about, wrote recently that it was

the dream of Sir James Bell's life to purify

the Clyde; and he adds that it is a great

ambition, for the task is Herculean,

as the river has come to be a sort

of common sewer. "Before it

became a sewer, the Clyde was

only a ditch, and how the citizens

of Glasgow cleft and dug their

way to the sea until the largest

vessels afloat could come and load

and discharge at their very doors

is one of the marvels of engi-

neering."

The supervision and maintenance

of the harbour, thus stoutly won

from Nature, are in the hands of

the Clyde Navigation Trustees, a

484

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZIXE.

more correctly, it may be said that for everv and now claims that it has the cheapest and

penny paid Glasgow gets delivery of 379

gallons of water.

Manchester's water supply costs it 2\d.,

Liverpool s $d., and Birmingham's 2 |i/. Of

the greatest cities in the United Kingdom,

Dublin has the cheapest water, being a little

more than fiA per gallon per day per annum.

best tramcar service in the kingdom. It still

uses horses, however, and should be able to

find something better than this primitive

means of locomotion for a great city.

The population of Glasgow proper is now

upwards of 850,000; the municipal area

covers 11,850 acres; and its rental is con-

The corporation of Glasgow, not content siderably more than four millions sterling.

with its achievement in regard to its water But

THE MUNICIPAL BUILDINGS.

(From a Photo by Armstrong, Shettleston.)

the whole Clyde Valley, and much

of the surrounding

country, are prac-

tically suburban to

Glasgow.

Besides being a

cathedral city,

Glasgow has long

enjoyed the advan-

tages that accrue

from its being a

university town and

a great educational

centre.

The present Uni-

versity Buildings on

Gilmorehill were

opened in 1870,

and were designed

by Sir Gilbert Scott,

in the Collegiate

Gothic style of the

Fourteenth Century,

and, in all, nearly

half-a-million ster-

ling was expended

upon them.

The old Univer-

sity, which was in a

different part of the

city, dated back to

the middle of the

fifteenth century,

supply, also undertakes the lighting of the

city both by gas and electricity, although in

regard to the latter, it has recently been con-

tent to take a lesson from Edinburgh—a

thing which Glasgow does not generally care'

to do, for while Edinburgh is the capital,

Glasgow prides itself on being much the

biggest city in Scotland. The corporation

has also recently acquired the street tramways.

and the scarlet

gowns, which the undergraduates of Glasgow

wear to this day, serve to mark the origin

and antiquity of their alma mater.

Dr. Caird, the principal, is said to be

the first of British preachers now that

Canon Liddon has gone; but perhaps the

486

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE,

professors, and that Lord Kelvin (Sir William Thompson),

president of the Royal Society, who is about to celebrate the

jubilee of his connection with the university, still occupies its

chair of Natural Philosophy. Lord Kelvin took his title from a

little river that flows past Gilmorehill. Of his eminence in

science everybody knows, but it is only his friends and students

who are aware that he is also the kindliest, gentlest, and least

assuming of men and professors. His study is one of

the most interesting rooms in the university.

In affiliation with the university is Queen Margaret's

College, which is devoted exclusively to the higher

education of women, who are there prepared for all the

degrees in arts and medicine. Matriculated students are

entitled to vote for the Lord Rector, and the graduates

I-ORD KELVIN.

From a Photo by T. and R. Annan and San:.

THE UNIVERSITY.

become members of the genera, council of the university.

The commercial importance of Glasgow dates from th&

union between England and Scotland. And yet " Nane were

keener against it than the Glasgow folk, wi' their rabblings

and their risings, and their mobs, as they ca' them nowadays.

I say let Glasgow flourish; whilk is judiciously and elegantly

putten round the town's arms, by way of by-word. Now,

since St. Mungo catched herrings in the Clyde, what was

ever like to gar us flourish like the sugar and tobacco trade? "

Much of the present wealth of the city was derived from

the great trade in tobacco which it possessed up to the

American " Rebellion ; '' later, when this branch failed, it

found a substitute for it in sugar. Towards the end of last

DR. CAIRO. .

byi and R.Annan and so*,, century cotton was introduced, and though this industry in
GLA SG O W ILL USTRA TED.

487

connection with Glasgow is not what it was,

it remains an important feature in its business

life, as there are still manufactured immense

quantities of cotton goods of all kinds,

amongst which maybe mentioned " Lappets,''

"Zephyrs,"and "Ginghams." The enormous

thread industries of Paisley, as well as the

large factories devoted to the

" Turkey red " dyeing in the

Vale of Leven, near Loch

Lomond, are in reality a portion

of the Glasgow cotton trade.

James Watt, who ought to be

regarded as the patron saint of

the whole Vale of Clyde—he

was rather more of a Greenock

than a Glasgow man, and still

more a Birmingham man—be-

sides discovering, or rather,

greatly improving the steam-

engine, suggested a trial of chlo-

rine for the bleaching of cotton,

and it was from his hint that

there sprung up the many-sided

chemical industries of the city;

the tall chimneys of whose works

are well-known landmarks.

The present prosperity of the

city—and no one can fail to be

struck with the air of hurry and

bustle and general well-to-

doness, notwithstanding the

recent strike, which at present

pervades it—is based upon iron

and coal, both of which are found

in great abundance at her very

gates, and to the proximity of

which she is largely indebted for

her splendid shipbuilding and

mechanical industries.

All down the river are to be

seen shipbuilding yards, great

and small, some thirty in num-

ber, for the construction of

vessels of every sort; and if you

take a trip down the Clyde, there is something

truly Titanic in the clatter and batter of the

ever-ringing hammers, wielded by thousands

of brawny shipwrights, that assail your ears

for mile after mile of your progress.

The Clyde continues to be far ahead of

other shipbuilding centres in its output. In

1895, a little over one and a quarter million

of tons were launched in the world, and of

this the Clyde produced 360,152 tons; the

Tyne, 174,319 tons; the Wear, 137,741 tons;

the Tees, 119,933 tons; Belfast, 101,816 tons;

Hartlepool, 90,869 tons; Barrow, 25,644

tons; while the dockyards had 70,350 tons.

f'rom a Painting by George Henry, A.R.S.A.

Portraits are given of Sir John Burns, Bart,

(page 488), Chairman of the Cunard Co.. and

of Sir Wm. Arrol, M.P. (page 490), who built

the Forth Bridge, the Tower Bridge, etc., as

leading men in the industries of the West of

Scotland, and of Mr. Laird, of the well-known

iron firm of the Bairds of Gartsherrie.

488

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZIXE.

Glasgow is the centre of the Scotch pig

iron trade, which started somewhere about

1832, owing to the discovery of black-band

containing iron at Coatbridge. The use of

machinery for sugar refining, iron tubing,

and so on.

At night the south-east of Glasgow is lit up

by the lurid glare of many iron works, and one

ERSKINE FERRY ON THE CLYDE.

(From the Painting by H. McCulloch. Reproduced by permission from the Glasgow Corporation Art Galleries.)

1ron in the making of railways gave the

Scotch iron trade its first lift, and soon there

was developed a world-wide demand for it.

Scotch ore still holds its own for manufac-

turing the best machinery, as it combines

both fluidity and strength ; this has made it

generally sought after for naval purposes.

The nearness of coal to the iron ore beds has

also given the Scotch manufacturer a great

advantage.

One of the most interesting features of

Glasgow is its Royal Exchange, and the most

interesting feature of that is the " Iron Ring,"

where may be seen on business days a small

circle of thirty or forty gentlemen interested

in iron, among whom the trading in

"Warrants'' is carried on. Occasionally

this is the scene of great excitement, owing

to the struggles of " Bulls " and '• Bears," or

when a "corner " in iron is being manipulated.

In engineering, the factories of Glasgow

and its neighbourhood turn out every class of

wrought iron or steel work needed for its

shipbuilding, or for the manufacture of

locomotives—Glasgow is, of course, a great

railway centre, being the headquarters of

the " Caledonian " and other systems; also

of these goes by the local name of " Dixon's'

Bleezes," and there is something weird and un-

canny about these tongues of red and orange

flame in contrast with the murky sky.

Within the past eight years there has sprung

up a new industry, if I may be permitted to

Flom the " Bailie."

GLASGOW ILLUSTRATED.

489

Prom the Painting by J. E. Chrittie, Artist of ihe " Glasgo\u School."

call it such, in Glasgow—the making of

pictures, or, perhaps, I should rather say, the

making of a new kind of pictures, for this

commercial city, its commerce notwithstand-

ing, has long been the home of many artists,

and in art and culture truly is metropolitan.

The Corporation Art Galleries contain

many magnificent examples of the Old

Masters, and are specially rich in specimens

of the Dutch School. A few of the paintings

from these galleries are reproduced in this

article.

The Institute of Fine Arts has an annual

exhibition, at which are to be seen paintings

by the leading artists of the world, including,

of course, the Glasgow men. Mr. Christie's

fine picture of " Bailie Shearer's Daughters "

shown above, occupies a prominent place in

this year's exhibition.

Glasgow considers itself truly metropolitan

in many ways—as a Glasgow man said to me,

" In population, I dare say, we come second

in the Empire; but in some things we lead.''

Vol. I.—33.

He referred particularly to that recent de-

velopment in painting which is sometimes

spoken of as the " Glasgow School," though

the gentlemen themselves who paint these

wonderful pictures prefer to speak of " The

Glasgow movement in art."

Mr. James Guthrie (page 490), a member of

the Scotch Royal Academy, and of the new

Paris salon, is one of the best known members

of the group, and in a conversation I had

with him the other day, he defined the posi-

tion of himself and his friends to be a desire

to do something more than merely to repro-

duce Nature. They wish to paint pictures.

They think a picture should be pictorial—not

necessarily a picture that tells a story, but

one that embodies ideas.

The work of the School, or Movement, is

closely allied to the " Barbizon School" of

French art, and Mr. Guthrie says that the fact

that many fine examples of the paintings of

Corot, Millet, and other members of the

Barbizon School are to be found in the

490

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

private galleries in the great houses

in the west of Scotland has

greatly influenced the new

departure in Scottish art.

Some of the artists have

studied in France, but two

or three have gone as far as

Japan (page 487) in their

desire for new motif and

ideas of colour.

The work of the school

is bold, confident, and

original, and even more

ambitious; and the paint-

ings which have been sent

to Munich and elsewhere

on the Continent have

attracted great attention.

They are distinguished by a

thorough knowledge of technique—that is,

mastery of brush work—and by a preference

for subjects that lend

themselves to a wealth

and a glory in their

colour scheme. At

the same time they

have been very

successful in por-

trait painting.

The "Art

Ckib" in Glas-

gow is their

headquarters,

and the club

house is one of

the finest in the

kingdom.

Some examples of their work are given on

pages 485, 486, 487, but the methods

of black-and-white are not very suit-

able for their reproduction.

To the domain of letters, Glas-

gow has given poets like Campbell

and Alexander Smith, novelists

like William Black, who in

early life was a member of the

Glasgow Press, and journalists

like Mr. Russell of the

" Herald," which newspaper

is said to be the most influential

out of London. The " Mail "

is also a well-known journal.

THE DUCHESS OF HONTROSE.

From a Pluto by Lafayette, Dublin

JAMES GUTHRIE, R.S.A.

Nor must mention be omitted of

"The Bailie," a weekly comic

paper conducted with much

. wit and spirit.

While Gaiety and Glas-

gow are not synonymous

terms, the city has long

enjoyed a high reputation

for its hospitality to the

stranger within its gates.

But there is always a good

deal going on in a quiet

way in its local society.

GLASGOW ILL USTRA TED.

491

and during last winter the beautiful duchess

came several times to the depot, where dirty,

ragged children of the streets are clothed

by the charity of the Needlework

Guild.

At a bazaar, where the Duchess

acted as saleswoman, one old

body was anxious to secure

Her Grace's photograph, but

the lowest was priced at 5*.

" You can have my hus-

band for 2*. 6d.,'" said the

Duchess pleasantly, as the

customer hesitated.

" I wouldn't gi'e that for

him," was the ambiguous

reply, " but I'm willing tae

spend hauf a croon on your bonnie self."

The city is so large that its society is very

much broken up into little sets ; but what

really tends to prevent the formation of a

WILLIAM LAIRD.

From a Photo by E. Beauchy, ScvHla.

Burns," or more especially of the beautiful

Firth of Clyde, where all sorts and conditions

of Glasgow people flock in the summer

^ time, the wealthy of the west end to

splendid mansions, the middle-class

of the south side to comfortable

villadom, and the working folks

of the east to insanitary rows

of inconvenient exorbitantly

rented cottages.

Among leaders of Glasgow

Society, are, of course, the

University people, and the town

owes some of its gaiety to the

officers stationed at the Mary-

hill Barracks.

In such a rapid review of

this truly Imperial city as this article has

been, much that is very interesting has, of

necessity, been either curtailed or left out

altogether; but enough, at least, has been

WHERE BURNS DWELT, ALLOWAY, AYR.

From a Photo by G. W. Wilson, Aberdeen.

clique, such as one finds in the Metropolis said to show that the city is fulfilling abund-

and calls " Society," to the exclusion of antly the legend written under its civic arms,

every other set, is the attractiveness of the No doubt it will continue to do so—" Let

country around, whether of the "Land o' Glasgow Flourish !"

The next article of this series will be " Birmingham Illustrated."

METHUEN wriggled himself into a

corner of the hut, rested his

shoulders against the adobe wall.

and made himself as comfortable

as the raw-hide thongs with which

he was tied up would permit.

" Well, Calvert," said he, " I hope

you quite realise what an ex-

tremely ugly hole we're in ? "

"Garcia will hang the pair of us

before sunset," I replied, " and that's

a certainty. My only wonder is we

haven't been strung up before this."

" You think a rope and a tree's a

sure thing, do you ? I wish I could comfort

myself with that idea. I wouldn't mind

a simple gentlemanly dose of hanging. But

there are more things in heaven and earth,

Calvert— He broke off and whistled

drearily.

I moistened my dry. cracked lips, and asked

him huskily what he meant.

"Torture, old man. That's what we're being

saved for, I'm very much afraid. A Peruvian

guerilla is never a gentle-minded animal at the best

of times, and Garcia is noted as being the most

vindictive fellow to be found between the Andes and the

Pacific. Then if you'll kindly remember how you and I

have harried him, and shot down his men, and cut off

his supplies, and made his life a torment and a thing of tremors for the last four weeks,

you'll see he had got a big bill against us. If he'd hated us less, he'd have had us shot

at sight when we were caught; as it is, I'm afraid he felt that a couple of bullets in hot

blood wouldn't pay off the score.''

" If he thinks the matter over calmly, he'll not very well avoid seeing that if he wipes us

out there'll be reprisals to be looked for.''

" And a fat lot," replied Methuen grimly, " he'll care for the chance of those. If we

are put out of the way, he knows quite well that there are no two other men in the Chilian

Service who can keep him on the trot as we have done. No, sir. We can't scare Garcia

Copyright, i8a6. in the United States of America, by C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne.

THE RANSOM.

493

with that yarn. You think that because we're

alive still, there's hope. Well, I've sufficient

faith in my own theory for this: If anyone

offered me a shot through the head now, I'd

accept it, and risk the chance."

" You take the gloomy view. Now the

man's face is not altogether cruel. There's

humour in it."

" Then probably he'll show his funniness

when he takes it out of us," Methuen retorted.

" Remember that punishment in the ' Mikado' ?

That had ' something humourous' in it.

Boiling oil, if I don't forget."

Involuntarily I shuddered, and the raw-hide

ropes cut deeper into my wrists and limbs.

I had no great dread of being killed in the

ordinary way, or I should not have entered

the Chilian Army in the middle of a hot war,

and I was prepared to risk the ordinary

woundings of action in return for the excite-

ments of the fight. But to be caught, and

held a helpless prisoner, and be deliberately

tortured to death by every cruelty this

malignant fiend, Garcia, could devise, was a

possibility I had not counted on before. In

fact, as the Peruvians had repeatedly given

out that they would offer no quarter to us

English in the Chilian Service, we had all of

us naturally resolved to die fighting rather

than be taken. And, indeed this desperate

feeling paid very well, since on two separate

occasions when Methuen and myself had

been cornered with small bodies of men, and

would have surrendered if we could have been

guaranteed our lives, as it was, we went at

them each time so furiously that on each

occasion we broke through and escaped.

But one thinks nothing of the chances of

death and maiming at those times. There is

a glow within one's ribs which scares away

all trace of fear.

" I suppose there's no chance of rescue ? "

I said.

" None whatever," said Methuen, with a

little sigh. " Think it over, Calvert. We

start out from the hacienda with an escort of

five men, sing out our adios, and ride away

to enjoy a ten days' leave in the mountains.

The troops are left to recruit; for ten days

they can drop us out of mind. Within twelve

hours of our leaving them, Garcia cleverly

ambushes us in a canon where not three

people pass in a year. The poor beggars

who form our escort are all gastados."

" Yes, but are you sure of that ?" I inter-

rupted. " I saw them all drop off their

horses when we were fired upon, but that

doesn't prove they were dead. Some might

have been merely wounded, and when the

coast cleared, it is just possible they crawled

back to our post with the news. Still, I own

it's a small chance."

" And you may divest yourself of even that

thin rag of hope. Whilst you were being

slung senseless across a horse, I saw tha1

man without the ears go round with a machete,

and—well, when the brute had done, there

was no doubt about the poor fellows being as

494

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

would have shot my comrade out of hand,

and by his look I could see that Methuen

expected it. Indeed, he had deliberately

invited the man to that end. But, either

because the nearness of Garcia and fear of

his discipline stayed him, or through thought

of a finer vengeance which

was to come, the earless

man contented himself by

dealing a battery of kicks

and oaths, and bidding our

guards to ward us

more carefully.

In this way then,

we walked along a

path between two

fields of vines,

and passed

down the

straggling

street of

require much imagination to frame it into an

omen. In the centre of the plaza was a vast

magnolia tree, filled with scented wax-like

I could sec that Methuen

expected it.

the village which the guerillas had

occupied, and brought up in a little

plaza which faced the white-walled

chapel. In the turret a bell was tolling dole-

fully in slow strokes, and, as the sound came

to me through the heated air, it did not

flowers, and splashed

with cones of coral-pink.

We drew up before

the piazza of the prin-

cipal house. Seated

under its shade in a

split-cane rocker, Garcia

awaited us, a small

meagre dark man, with

glittering teeth, and

fingers lemon-coloured

from cigarette juice.

He stared at us and

spat; and the trial, such

as it was, began.

I must confess that

the proceedings as-

tonished me. Animus

there certainly was ; the

guerillas as a whole were

disposed to give us shon

shrift; but their chief

insisted on at least some

parade of justice. The

• indictment was set

forward against us. We had shot, hanged,

and harried, and in fact used all the

harshness of war. Had we been Chilians in

the Chilian service, this might have been

pardonable ; but we were al1ens from across

THE RANSUM.

495

the sea ; mere freebooters, fighting, not for a

country, but each for his own hand; and as

such we were beyond the pale of military

courtesy. We had earned a punishment.

Had we any word to speak, why this should

not be given ?

Garcia looked towards us expectantly, and

then set himself to roll a fresh cigarette.

I shrug-

ge d my

shoulders.

It seemed

useless to

say any-

thing.

Methuen

said: "Look

here, sir!

You've got

us, there's

no mistake

about that.

It seems to

me you've

two courses before you, and they are

these: Either you can kill us, more or

less barbarously, in which case you will

raise a most pestilential hunt at your

heels; or, you can put us up to ransom.

Now neither Calvert here, nor myself, are

rich men ; but if you choose to let us go

with sound skins, we're prepared to pay

ten thousand Chilian dollars apiece, for our

passports. Now, does that strike you ?''

Garcia finished rolling his cigar-

ette, and lit it with care. He

inhaled a deep breath of smoke.

" Senor,"' he said (the words

coming out from between his white

teeth with little puffs of vapour),

" you do not appear to under-

stand. You fight as a soldier of

fortune, and I am merely in arms

as a patriot. I am no huckster to

traffic men's lives for money, nor am I a

timorous fool to be scared into robbing a

culprit of his just dues."

" Very well, then," said Methuen, " murder

the pair of us."

Garcia smiled unpleasantly. " You may

be a very brave man." said he, " but you are

not a judicious one. To a judge less just

than myself this insolence might have added

something to your punishment; but as it is

I shall overlook what you have said, and only

impose the penalty I had determined upon

before you spoke."

He lifted his thin yellow fingers, and drew

a fresh breath of smoke. Then he waved

the cigarette towards the magnolia tree in the

centre of

the plaza.

" You see

that bough

which juts

out towards

the chapel?"

"It's made
496

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

after you have had your sport out of

him ? "

Garcia sprang to his feet with a stamp of

passion, and the chair rolled over backwards.

" You foul adventurer!" he cried. " You paid

man-killer ! " and then he broke off with a

bitter " Pah ! " and folded his arms, and for

a minute held silence till he got his tongue

in hand again. " Senor," he said coldly,

" my country's wrongs may break my heart,

but they can never make me break my word.

I may be a hunted guerilla, but I still remain

a gentleman."

" I beg your pardon," said Methuen.

"We will now," continued Garcia icily,

" find out which of you two will play which

part. Afterwards I will add another condi-

tion which may lend more skill to what

follows. I will not coerce you. Kindly

choose between yourselves which of you will

hang, and which shoot."

My comrade shrugged his shoulders. " I

like you, Calvert, old man," said he, "but I'm

not prepared to dance on nothing for you."

'" It would be simplest to toss for exit," I

said.

" Precisely ; but, my dear fellow, I have

both hands trussed up, and no coin."

" Pray let me assist you," said Garcia.

" Senor Calvert, may I trouble you for an

expression of opinion ? "

He leant over the edge of the piazza, and

span a dollar into the air. I watched it with

a thumping heart, and when for an instant it

paused, a dazzling splash of brightness against

the red-tiled roof, I cried : " Heads ! "

The coin fell with a faint thud in the dust

a yard from my feet.

" Well ?'' said Methuen.

" I congratulate you, old fellow. I swing."

He frowned and made no reply. Garcia's

voice broke the silence. " Bueno, Senor

Methuen," he said. " I advise you to shoot

straight or you will not get home even now.

You remember I said there was still another

condition. Well, here you are: you must

cut your friend down with a-bullet before he

is quite dead, or Til string you up beside

him."

Methuen let up a short laugh. " Re-

member what I said about that fellow in

' the Mikado,' Calvert ? Yon see where the

' humour' comes in ? We've had that coin

spun for nothing. You and I must change

positions."

" Not at all. I take what I've earned."

" But I say yes. It works this way: I took

it that the man who was hanging stood a

delicate chance anyway, and I didn't feel

generous enough to risk it. But now that

the Senor here has put in the extra clause,

the situation is changed altogether. You

aren't a brilliant shot, old man, but you may

be able to cut me down with a bullet if you

remember what you're firing for, and shoot

extra straight. But it's a certain thing that I

couldn't do it if I blazed away till Doomsday.

The utmost I could manage would be to

THE RANSOM.

497

inside a couple of minutes. It's quite strong

enough to carry more fruit than it will bear

just now. But it's rather hard on your friend

not to try "

My wits came to me again. " You dolt! "

I cried ; " how can I shoot with my arms

trussed up like this ? If the whole thing is

not a mockery, cut me adrift and give me a

rifle."

He beckoned to one of his men, and the

fellow came up and cut off the lashings from

my wrists and elbows; and then, with a sour

smile, he motioned to some of the others,

who drew near and held their weapons at the

ready. " I dare wager, Senor Calvert." he

said, " that if you'd me for a mark you would

not score a miss. So I wish to insure that

you do not shoot in this direction." He raised

his voice, and shouted across the baking sun-

light. " Quite ready here, 'amigos. So up

with the target."

» » » * »

Now up to tliis point I am free to own that

since our capture I had cut a pretty poor

figure. I had not whined, but at the same

time I had not seen my way to put on

Methuen's outward show of careless brazen

courage. But when I watched the guerillas

tighten on the rope and sway him up till his

stretched-out feet swung a couple of hand-

spans above the ground, then my coolness

returned to me, and my nerves set like icicles

in their sockets. He was sixty yards away,

and at that distance the well-rope dwindled

to the bigness of a shoemaker's thread.

Moreover, the upper two-thirds of it was

almost invisible because it hung before a

background of shadows. But the eighteen

inches above my poor friend's head stood out

clear and distinct against the white walls of

the chapel beyond, and, as it swayed to the

pulsing of the body beneath, it burnt itself

upon my eyesight till all the rest of the world

was blotted out in a red haze. I never knew

before how thoroughly a man could concen-

trate himself.

They handed me the rifle, loaded and

cocked. It was a single-shot Winchester,

and I found out afterwards, though I did not

know it then, that either through fiendish

wish to further hamper my aim, or through

pure forgetfulness, they had left the sights

cocked up at three hundred yards. But that

did not matter ; the elevation was a detail of

minor import; and, besides, I was handling

the weapon as a game shot fires, with head

up, and eyes glued on the mark, and rifle-

barrel following the eyes by instinct alone.

You must remember that I had «o stationary

mark to aim at. My poor comrade was

writhing and swaying at the end of his tether,

and the well-rope swung hither and thither

like some contorted pendulum.

Once I fired, twice I fired, six times, ten

times, and still the rope remained uncut, and

the bullets rattled harmlessly against the

white walls of the chapel beyond. With the

eleventh shot came a tinkle of broken glass,

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

were comparatively rhythmical, and to be

counted upon. I snapped down the sights,

put the butt-plate to my shoulder, and cuddled

the stock with my cheek. Here for the first

time was a chance

of something

steadier than a

snap-shot.

time. Your friend seems to have quitted us

already."

Another cartridge. I sank to one knee

and rested my left elbow on the other.

The plaza was hung in breathless silence.

Every eye was strained to see the outcome of

the shot. The men might be inhuman in

their cruelty, but they were human enough in

their curiosity.

The body span to one end of its swing: I

held my fire. It swung back, and the rifle

The body, in a limp and

shapeless heap, fell to

the ground.

I pressed home the trigger as the

well-rope reached one extremity of

its swing. Again a few loose ends

sprang from the rope, and again the

body began slowly to gyrate. But was it

Methuen I was firing to save, or was I

merely wasting shot to cut down a mass

of cold dead clay ?

I think that more agony was com-

pressed for me into a few minutes then

than most men meet with in a life-time.

Even the onlooking guerillas were so

stirred that for the first time, their gibing

ceased, and two of them of their own

accord handed me cartridges. I slipped '"

one home and closed the breech-block.

The perspiration was running in a stream

from my chin. Again I fired. Again the

well-rope was snipped, and I could see the

loosened strands ripple out as a snake un-

wraps itself from a branch.

One more shot. God in heaven, I missed !

Why was I made to be a murderer like

this?

Garcia's voice came to me coldly. " Your

last chance, Senor. I can be kept waiting

* Ter. And I think you are wasting

muzzle followed. Like some mournful

pendulum it passed through the air, and then

a glow of certainty filled me like a drink. I

knew I could not miss that time; and I fired ;

and the body, in a limp and shapeless heap,

fell to the ground.

With a cry I threw the rifle from me, and

raced across the sunlit dust. Not an arm was

THE RANSOM.

499

stretched out to stop me. Only when I had

reached my friend and loosened that horrible

ligature from his neck, did I hear voices

clamouring over my fate.

" And now this other Inglese, your excel-

lency," the earless man said. •' Shall we

shoot him from here, or shall we string him

up in the other's place ? "

But the answer was not what the fellow

expected. Garcia replied to him in a shriek

of passion. " You foul slaughtering brute."

he cried, " another offer like that and I'll

pistol you where you stand. You heard me

pass my word : do you dream that I cojuld

break it ? They have had their punishment,

and if we see one another again, the meeting

will be none of my looking for. We leave

this puebla in five minutes. See to your

duties. Go."

The words came to me dully through the

heated air. I was almost mad with the

thought that my friend was dead, and that

the fault was mine, mine, mine alone!

I listened for his breaths; they did not

come. I felt for a heart-throb ; there was

not so much as a flutter. His neck was

seared by a ghastly ring. His face was livid.

And yet I would not admit even then that he

was dead. With a cry I seized his arms, and

moved them first above his head

till he looked like a man about

to dive, and then clapped

them against his sides,

repeating this an infinite / '.

number of times, praying that f

the airs I drew through his •' •

lung? might blow against

some smouldering spark of

. humanity, and kindle it once

more into life.

The perspiration rolled

from me ; my mouth was

as a sand-pit ; the

heavy scent of the

magnolia blossoms

above sickened me

with its strength ; the sight departed from my

eyes. I could see nothing beyond a small

circle of the hot dust around, which waved

and danced in the sunlight, and the "little

green lizards which came and looked at me

curiously, and forgot that I was human.

And then, of a sudden, my comrade gave

a sob, and his chest began to heave of itself

without my laborious aid. And after that for

a while I knew very little more. The sun-

baked dust danced more wildly in the sun-

shine, the lizards changed to darker colours,

the light went out, and when next I came to

my senses Methuen was sitting up with one

hand clutching at his throat, looking at me

wildly.

"What has happened?'' he gasped. "I

thought I was dead, and Garcia had hanged

me. Garcia - No one is here. The

puebla seems deserted. Calvert, tell me.''

" They have gone," I said. " We are alive.

We will get away from here as soon as you

THE GORGEOUS PALACES

OF THE TSAR.

By MARY SPENCER WARREN.

Moscow, as the scene of the coming corona-

tion, is just now a great centre of interest to

the whole of the civilised world, for the

pageant there to be witnessed will be one of

unrivalled splendour, and will entirely eclipse

any State function of the present century.

In view of our Queen's Jubilee, and the

wedding of the Duke and Duchess of York,

this may seem a very broad statement; but it

must be remembered that Russia, above all

countries in the world, is not only given to a

display of its riches, but also has an Imperial

Treasury and a collection of plate and

jewels which surpasses that of any other

Court. Its palaces are built in the most

costly style, the interiors being for the most

part perfectly dazzling with magnificence.

No doubt some account of these Russian

Royal palaces will prove of great interest,

the more especially as the interiors are sealed

books.

First, I purpose giving you a descrip-

tion of the Kremlin, the world-renowned

palatial pile of Moscow, and the habitation

of the rulers of Russia from time immemorial.

The present building dates only from the

reign of Nicholas I., former ones, which were

comprised almost entirely of wood, having

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW.

been burned to the ground one after another;

but this, and each preceding one, had been

erected on the same site, and always known

by the same name—the Kremlin. As the

eye-rests upon it now, it sees an enormous

pile of mixed architecture, the best view,

perhaps, being obtained from the opposite

banks of the river which runs beneath its

walls. Its interior comprises some seven

hundred rooms, the State apartments of which

almost baffle description.

Of course it is an impossibility to do more

than select a few of the principal rooms for

this purpose. We begin with the Hall of

St. Andrews, which is the Throne Room.

This is so named from the senior order of

knighthood, founded by Peter I. in 1698.

The colour of the order is light blue, and

this is the tone of the silk everywhere cover-

ing the walls of this hall.

The proportions are magnificent, the Hall

being 16oft. in length, 68ft. in width, and 58ft.

in height. The doors, pillars, vaulted ceiling,

and interspersions of silk panelling, are

lavishly and profusely gilded in relief. The

floor is of rich parqueterie, and the whole is

brilliantly lighted by means of a series of

particularly graceful chandeliers of beaten

THE GORGEOUS PALACES OF THE TSAR.

501

gold, which burn hundreds of wax candles. Assumption, the actual scene of the coronation

On the walls, and on the lofty pillars may ceremony. No words of mine can picture

be seen the arms of the various Russian this to you, so gorgeously lavish are its

provinces. appointments. Turn where you will,

At the far end stands the Imperial throne, gold and precious stones, rich and rare orna-

a particularly handsome, if somewhat gorgeous mentation, glitter with unwonted splendour,

appendage; it is, of course, mounted on a The whole place is literally coated with

dais, and is supported by the griffins, the gems and rare metals, and is prolific in costly

heraldic device of the Romanoffs. From shrines. These I shall not attempt either

various points of view this throne is of the to enumerate or describe; I will merely tell

greatest interest; it was sent from Persia in you that in one, the image of the Virgin, is an

THE HALL OF ST. ANDREWS.

the year 1660 by a dignitary of the Shah's

Court as a present to the Tsar Alexis.

Whether of solid gold throughout I am

unable to say, but it presents the appearance

of this precious metal in a highly ornamented

state, and is set with a multiplicity of precious

stones of the most exquisite cutting. On

the front, sides, and on the interior above the

seat, appear plaques of ivory, ornamented in

relief.

Before visiting other apartments it may be

as well to point out to you the interior of the

" Usspenski Sabor," or Cathedral of the

emerald of the actual worth of .£10,000.

Four massive pillars support the domed roof,

and these are decorated with frescoes of

saints, patriarchs, martyrs and prophets.

We now enter the Hall of St. Catherine,

which is 68ft. long and 45ft. wide, and

is supported by pilasters of malachite.

The gold relief of the ceiling and arches

is rich in the extreme, and is rendered

the more prominent by the rich crimson

and silver of the walls. At the top of the

room, stands the throne of the Empress,

and here Her Imperial Majesty will hold her

502

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

THE HALL OF ST. GEORGE.

first drawing-room immediately after the

coronation. Probably this function will sur-

pass any former one, even of the brilliant

Court of the present Dowager Empress. The

throne is beautifully draped and canopied in

rich crimson velvet, on the summit appearing

the crown, and on the canopy and chair the

Imperial Arms, richly emblazoned.

The Hall of St. George is another state-

room of magnificent proportions, measuring

2Ooft. in length, and 68ft. in width. This is

dedicated to the military order of that name,

and has mural tablets down either side with

inscriptions thereon, showing the names of the

knights of the Order. These names—which

are all written in letters of gold—are legion, as

the Order was instituted in 1769. The zinc

capitals of the columns are each surmounted

by figures of Victory carrying shields, on which

are recorded the dates of the chief conquests of

Russia, commencing in 1472. On the shields

are also the arms of the victorious provinces.

One end of the apartment shows a magnificent

silver group of conquerors of Siberia, pre-

sented by the Cossacks of the Don; and near

to it are two bronze casquets, which contain

the statutes and the roll of the order. Then

there is a grand painting of St. George and

the Dragon, a copy of the Raphael at St.

Petersburg. The lustres and candelabra are

magnificently grand, composed of crystal and

gold, and carrying no fewer than 3200

candles. The inlaid parqueterie floor, and

the furniture in black and orange, are

other distinctive features calling for special

note.

This leads into the Alexandra Hall, com-

memorative of the order of St. Alexis. This

hall is most superbly hung and decorated in

pink and gold, and is 1O3ft. in length and

68ft. in breadth and height. Rare paintings

and frescoes everywhere abound ; while

marble columns, exquisite tracery and

gold relief, costly chandeliers and rare parq-ie-

terie, are only surpassed by the wonderful

and priceless collection of gold and silver

plate, which is piled on the stands on either

side of each doorway when the Imperial

family are in residence. This hall, which

immediately adjoins the Throne Room, is

really one of the most beautiful in the palace.

I may say that the whole of these magnificent

THE GORGEOUS PALACES OF THE TSAR.

503

halls open on to a fine terrace, from whence

a good view of the city may be obtained.

Another very important saloon in this

palace is known as the Granavitza Ban-

queting Hall. Here it is customary for the

Imperial Majesties of Russia to dine in great

state immediately after their coronation.

During the dinner they are seated on the

joists are one mass of gold relief of exquisite

design.

The Emperor's State bedroom is almost a

dream of art, so beautiful is the general effect

of its appointments; it is entirely hung with

the richest white brocade, its supporting

columns and pilasters are of verte antique,

and its mantelpiece of the purest jasper.

Rich velvet pile in white covers

the floor; the light and graceful

frames of the furniture are of

overburnish, with upholstery to

match the hangings.

A journey up to St. Peters-

burg, and we can see the Winter

Palace, another of the State

residences of the Emperor and

Empress of Russia. When I

say State residences, I speak

advisedly, for neither at the

Kremlin nor the Winter Palace

do their majesties take up any

permanent residence: merely

THE THRONE OF THE EMPRESS IN THE

HALL OF ST. CATHERINE.

silver-gilt throne shown in the

photograph, adorned for the first

time with the Imperial insignia. It

has also from time immemorial

been used as an audience chamber

on very special occasions. It has

a vaulted ceiling, with arches rest-

ing on columns ; around the room

are massively carved stands,

whereon the Imperial gold dinner

service is arranged.

Before leaving the State rooms

the rich appointments of the draw-

ing rooms may just be glanced

at. These, as may be expected, are

superb in the extreme, the most beautiful,

perhaps, being the one known as the Green

Drawing Room. Malachite, lapis lazuli,

gold-framed furniture, the rarest of china,

and the most valuable of paintings figure

largely. The ceilings are masterpieces of

painting and decoration, and the doors and

THE GRANAVITZA BANQUETING HALL.

staying there for State functions, as does

Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.

Smaller palaces, which, however, are quite

as beautiful, are the real homes, of the

monarchs ; one which is a particular favourite

is at Tsarkoe Seloe, not very far from St.

Petersburg. This is beautifully situated and

quite secluded, .standing in the midst of

504

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

grounds upwards of eighteen miles in

circumference.

One or two principal attractions may be

mentioned. The banqueting hall, for instance,

has its ceiling and walls literally covered with

gold, richly wrought. One room is known

as the Lapis Lazuli Room, from the great

quantity of that precious material used in the

decorations. Its floor, too, is a great feature,

consisting of ebony inlaid with mother-of-

pearl. Another is known as the Amber

Room, the walls being of the finest amber,

in exquisite design. It is well known that

the late Emperor Alexander was very fond of

tapestry, and here it can be seen in great

quantities, the majority of the rooms and

corridors having their walls covered with it,

this being the case in ever}" private room of

the Emperor.

In the same park, and not far from the

large palace, is a much smaller one, known

as the Alexander Schloss, standing in the

midst of grounds cut off from the larger tract.

This is just a cosy residence, chiefly

remarkable for a fine collection of models,

the majority of which are military; and a

good collection of paintings by Russian

artists. In this small palace the infant

daughter of their majesties was born.

Perhaps the favourite home—at any rate of

the late Emperor—was at Spala, in Russian

Poland. This is an old castle in the midst

of a large forest, where the Emperor was

wont to indulge in his favourite pastime of

hunting, and here he became quite a different

man, entering into amusements and recrea-

tion with the same eagerness as he did at

Bernstorff, in Denmark. At these two places

it was possible for him to throw off the cares

of State, and thoroughly enjoy himself.

Other palaces are the one at Warsaw and

the Anitschnoff Palace at St. Petersburg,

where the present Tsar spent most of his boy-

hood.

To return, however, to the Winter Palace,

which is a building of enormous size, standing

on the banks of the Neva. It is four storeys

in height, supported and fronted with massive

columns, and surmounted with beautiful

statuary. The arches and pediments are

finely carved. The principal entrance faces

the Neva, and from here a wide flight of steps

leads direct to the Stete apartments. Here, it

will be remembered, the present Emperor

took up his residence just prior to his

marriage ; to here the bride and royal guests

came in procession, the former retiring to

the magnificent suite of rooms which had

formerly been occupied by Alexandra Feodo-

rovna, wife of Nicholas I., and which had

now been prepared for her.

These open out from the Pomenian

Chamber, and include a beautiful reception

room, the walls of which are lined w1th

malachite, the frescoes are copies of Raphael,

and the chandeliers and candelabra lapis

lazuli; a sleeping apartment, with exquisite

appointments, and ornamented with a fine

THE GORGEOUS PALACES OF THE TSAR.

5°5

verted into gardens—palms, exotics, and

even fruit trees being transplanted there with

fine effect. Coloured lights add to the beauty,

and hundreds of seats for the convenience

of the guests are stationed in cool places.

Another noteworthy saloon is known as

the White Hall; this, in addition to its

lavish decoration, is further distinguished by

a large number of marble statues. Next

comes the Golden Hall, decorated entirely in

the Byzantine style; here must be noticed

the exquisite work of the costly marble

chimney-piece, representative of a temple;

and Winchman's fine sculptured statue of the

consort of Nicholas I.

The Throne Room, known as the St.

George's Hall, is a parallelogram, of over

i4oft. in length ; on either side of it are some

lofty Corinthian columns. Down the centre

of the concave ceiling hangs a continuation

of graceful and rich candelabra. The

Imperial Throne faces the principal

entrance.

This is a brief summary of the parts of the

Winter Palace best worth seeing; but it is a

matter of course that the Kremlin of Moscow

will be by far the most interesting just at the

present time, the more especially as hitherto

no description and views of it have appeared

in the pages of a magazine.

THE WINTER PALACE, ST. PETERSBURG.

Vol. i.—34.
" I DON'T CARE." .

DE moon am shinin' bright, on de melons in de patch,

But I don't care ! Let 'em stay !

I turn my eyes away, for fear dey're goin' to stray,

For I'm gwine to serenade Belinda May !

Oh, Belinda ! Ope dat winder !

No melon am so plump an' sweet as you.

I'll lub you all my life, so come an' be my wife;

An' all de day an' night I'll lub you true!

De chickens am asleep on de roost as I pass ;

But I don't care ! Let 'em stay !

I turn my eyes away, for fear dey're goin' to stray,

For I'm off to serenade Belinda May.

Oh, Belinda ! Ope dat winder !

No chicken am so tender, lub, as you.

Come home to roost wid me, my little wife to be;

An' all de day an' night I'll lub you true.

De darkies down below hab all gone to de ball;

But I don't care ! Get away !

One darky won't be dere who can far outstep 'em all,

For I'm off to serenade Belinda May.

Oh, Belinda! Ope dat winder !

We'll dance by de shinin' ob de moon.

Oh, come an' be my wife, a partner for my life;

An' we'll dance while de banjo am in tune.

H. J. NICHOLLS.
BY ERNEST R. SITFLING.

PEDLAR'S WINDOW, ST. MARY'S

CHURCH. LAMBETH, S.W.

PROBABLY every form of

art has its idiosyncrasies,

its anachronisms, and its

curiosities, but the lack

of a chronicler causes

numberless interesting

items to be passed un-

noticed by those who

love to have at their

fingers' ends anecdotes and strange facts connected in any way

with objects of art.

Our present purpose is to glance at a few interesting

oddities of the beautiful and lasting art of staining glass.

The windows of Fairford Church, Gloucestershire, are

among the finest in the kingdom, and contain a number of

anachronisms, some of which are very curious.

One panel of the Crucifixion window shows the mounted

figures of Pilate and Annas, the ex-high priest's father-in-law.

These figures are doubtless intended to symbolise the fact that

both Jew and Gentile were implicated in the divine tragedy.

Behind Pilate rides his body-guard, not a Roman soldier,

but a fifteenth century knight in cap-a-pie armour.

In the foreground may be seen a soldier carrying, of all

weapons, a Lochaber axe, while to make the whole figure

more incongruous, he has a border to his jerkin or jazerant,

upon which is to be read the French motto: •' Juge sans

besoin."

Besides dragging the first and fifteen centuries together, some

fifteenth-century glass painters might also have the charge of

impiety laid against them. An instance of this occurs in

Gouda Church, Holland.

One of the windows, the gift of a certain king of Spain,

represents the Last Supper; but to the usual number of

thirteen persons (whence the absurd superstition against thirteen

sitting at table together) is added the figure of the Spanish king

and donor.

The king and his wife have just entered the room, and are

WINDOW IN FAIRFORD CHURCH,

GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
508

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

THE LAST SUPPER

GOUDA CHURCH, HOLLAND.

reverently kneeling, while Our Saviour, who

has risen from his seat at the table, is

graciously receiving them !

Of course, the window being painted by a

Flemish artist, the assembled apostles

are painted in correct Dutch costumes

That the craving for patrons to view

themselves in stained glass windows

was a great drawback to pictorial truth

and chronological accuracy may be

noted in a fine example of Flemish

work in the stained glass corridor of

the South Kensington Museum.

The window was painted about

1540-60, having for subject "The

Annunciation." The two principal

figures—the Angel and the Virgin Mary

—are drawn, coloured, and painted in

an excellent manner, but -from the

sublime the whole composition is

brought to the level of the ridiculous

by the introduction into the sacred

subject of two tiny figures representing

a portly burgomaster and his buxom

wife, the donors of the window.

The angel is delivering his gracious

and momentous messnge, but is

apparently unheeded by Mary, who,

with hands uplifted in amazement, is

gazing intently at the midget visitors,

who have, unbidden, broken in upon

her privacy.

The Pyramids and ancient temples

may in modern days be profaned by

unsightly advertisements, but we

appear, happily, to have fallen upon

times when patronage is not carried

to such a fulsome length as in the

sixteenth century.

It is held as a general rule by

modern stained glass artists that the

introduction of anything in a window

requiring perspective for its adequate

interpretation is bad art. Canopies

and other architectural features of

a window are usually subject to a

certain amount of shadow, and the

various members of a canopy are

brought forward or toned back so as

to produce an effect of " perspec-

tive," but many artists decry this as

false art and clamour for " flatness."

Decoration of all kinds must, therefore, in

modern days, be flat and unobtrusive, or the

work of the producer is, by some critics,

looked upon as an artistic crime.

"THE ANNUNCIATION," IN THE SOUTH KENSINGTON

MUSEUM.
CURIOSITIES OF STAINED GLASS WIXDOWS.

509

That this was not the case with the Flemish

glass painters of three centuries since

is amply proved by many beautiful

examples of their work still

extant. The reproduction of

the window herewith given,

" Christ clearing the

Temple " (painted in

1567)is probably one of

the most remarkable

renderings of perspective

in a painted window that

can be found in Europe.

Sometimes windows

painted with special ob-

jects in view contain

remarkable inaccuracies:

thus a commission was

given to a London artist to

paint a small window for

an Irish convent, the sub-

ject selected being " Via

Dolorosa,'' and certain

obligations were imposed

upon the artist, which he

faithfully carried out.

Everything in the

window when finished

was correct except one

figure, which was very

much out of place.

That figure represented one of the nuns of

the modern convent, standing amid the crowd

of sad women, and, yet more strange, from

her neck hung a crucifix.

She was actually wearing the emblem

before the event took place.

Some thirty years since a lady was per-

sistently importuned to defray the cost of a

window for a certain college chapel, but for

a long time she was obdurate. Still her purse

was besieged, and at length, to obtain peace,

she consented to present a window, if the

subject might be kept secret until the un-

veiling ceremony.

The promise was given, the window

ordered, painted, and fixed ; and then. on a

given day, the unveiling took place.

She had chosen for the subject " Job

plagued with boils." Patient Job was repre-

sented as covered from head to foot with the

loathsome disease, but was soon released

from his physical infirmity by being taken

down from his niche and broken up.

" At times birds are also introduced,

and animals receive recognition

in stained glass, and we be-

come so used to seeing

winged bulls and lions

that we cease to regard

them with curiosity. In

one instance that unclean

animal, the pig, has not

only a place in a window,

but, not content with a nave

light, is actually repre-

sented in the east window,

from whence he looks

5io

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

small window is a large modern one of fine style and colouring, containing the seven acts of

Charity, the eighth compartment being filled with the presentment of the pedlar and his dog.

Thus the personality and charitable acts of the good man will in

all probability be perpetuated for centuries to come.

A strange optical illusion was the means of the writer procuring

commissions for two large windows for churches in Melbourne,

Australia.

He painted a single-light window for Yarra-Yarra Church, near

Melbourne, the subject of which was " Christ raising the daughter

of Jairus."

The maid is represented as being raised from her couch by

the Saviour, who, standing on the further side of the picture,

with His left hand takes the maiden's hand in His, while with the

right He points towards Heaven.

Behind the window grew a palm tree, and, upon certain nights

of the year, the moon being at or near the full, a shadow was

thrown from the palm leaves upon the window, and the wind

raising and depressing the feathery leaves, caused it to appear

to those inside the church that the Saviour's arms really moved,

and some averred they could see the maid raise her head.

It was simply an illusion, but the commissions it brought were

no illusions to the artist, who would willingly plant a palm behind

each window he paints if the same results were

likely to follow.

There are several windows still extant

and in good preservation treating up-

on legendary "or mythical subjects.

Probably the finest examples occur

in St. Neot's Church, Cornwall.

One window is devoted to St.

Neot himself, and, in a number

of compartments, gives a history

of the chief events of his life.

These absurd fables were in

mediaeval times held up as ex-

amples of holy life, and implicitly believed in by those who

attended the church.

St. Neot is seen in one compartment bathing his feet in

his favourite well. In another three fish are show-n in the

water, which were placed there by an angel, so that the saint

might catch one whenever he felt hungry and prepare it for

his meal. These fish were so blessed by the angel that so

long as one only was taken from the well their number

would never decrease, but there would always be three.

Then we have a picture of the saint ill in bed, and

another of his servant cooking two of the fish which he has

taken from the well. Poor fellow, he has spoiled the charm,

and the saint angrily commands him to throw the broiled fish

back into the well.

Another picture shows the faithful servant at the well side,

and in yet another the fish are seen swimming about as gaily as if they had not suffered

martyrdom a few minutes before by being grilled, like St. Lawrence, over a slow fire.

''THB PEDLAR AND HIS DOG,"

ST. MARY'S CHURCH, LAM-

BETH, s.w.

•' THE CREATION WINDOW,

ST. NEOT'S CHURCH, CORNWALL.

CURIOSITIES OF STAINED GLASS WINDOWS.

In the same church is another fine old window called the " Creation " window,

because the first compartments are filled with different phases of the creation of the world.

One picture shows the Divine Architect planning out the heavenly bodies with an enormous

pair of compasses, the two limbs of which stretch from sun to moon without full extension.

THREE COMPARTMENTS OF THE WINDOW, SHOWING INCIDENTS IN ST. NEOT'S LIFE.

In the lower compartments of this window are shown a number of scenes from the

life of Cain and Abel.

Everyone knows the cause of the death of Abel, but few probably could declare how

Cain died.

A visit to St. Neot's Church will put visitors in possession of the facts of his death, for

they may be read in the painted glass. The legend is as follows :

After Cain had killed his brother he fled into, the wilderness, and, living apart from

his parents, led the life of an outcast.

One day Lamech, who was fond of hunting, prepared

himself for the chase, taking

with him a lad as servant or

game carrier.

Presently the boy espied a

hairy animal in a thicket, and

pointing it out to his master,

asked him to shoot quickly

or the large animal would

get away. Lamech fitted an

arrow to his bow and shot,

when lo! out from the bush

rolled Cain, transfixed with his

kinsman's arrow.

One compartment in the

window shows Lamech armed

with a crossbow ! As this

weapon was not invented till

5000 years after the death of

Cain, there wrould certainly

appear to be a slight dis-

crepancy somewhere.

"LAMECH SHOOTING CAIN."

ST. NEOT'S CHURCH, CORNWALL.

ST. NEOT BATHING HIS

FEET.
BY

PUGH.

A STORM was rising from the sea. Columns

of cloud were rolling up over the horizon

across the hard, white sky. The gorse-

sprinkled common had changed its aspect

from golden-green to heavy bronze. The

rigid hills were become impalpable with mist.

There was a singing wind abroad. Birds

flew, quaking, to the hollow bolls of trees, or

nestled down deep among the leaves. Circling

gulls screamed hoarsely.

I was a poor, neurotic thing from London,

come to this barbaric region in search of

primitive sensations. I had started out in

the morning to walk across the cliffs, trusting

to the weather's promise of continued

clemency. It was now the meridian of day.

Half a mile distant there wras a cluster of

houses. I made towards them, seeking

timely shelter from the threatening storm :

but ere I had gone a furlong the rain was

upon me, battering my face and beating up

about my legs from the parched soil. I

found refuge at last under an ample porch.

The house, of which the porch was an

appurtenance, stood apart in a plot of gar-

den. It was small and picturesque enough

to embellish this tale without expanding it.

I had not been under the porch ten

seconds when the door behind me was opened,

and a neat maid asked me to step inside the

house. I went into the hall, and there an old

lady met me with many kind courtesies.

She offered me the hospitality of her parlour,

which I accepted readily enough. I thought

to have the pleasure of her company also, but,

having seen me seated, she went out, leaving

me alone.

A book lay open on the table. I picked it

up, and, glancing at the superscription, saw

that it was one of my own, a novel I had

lately published. I was surprised that it

should have penetrated to this remote district

of England so soon. I had the book still in

my hand when the old lady re-entered the

room. She was followed by the neat maid,

who bore a tea-tray.

"You will have a cup of tea?" the old

lady said.

I thanked her. She glanced at the book

in my hand.

" Have you read it ?'' she asked me.

" Yes," I answered.

" Is it not beautiful ? "

" I am afraid I can't pronounce on it quite

impartially," I replied.

" Have you a special interest in it, too ?"

she said.

It was in my mind to tell her I wrote it,

but I was curious to know what was her

special interest, and restrained myself.

" The author is a friend of mine," I said.

She laughed softly.

THE LIAR.

513

" We are not strangers, then," she said.

"No?"

" No. My son wrote that book."

" Your son ? " I cried.

" Yes," she said. " Alan Rupus is my

son."

She spoke softly, with her face averted. I

sat gazing at her in astonishment. If Alan

Rupus were her son, then she was my mother

—or I had no existence. But my mother

was dead; I had seen her die, blessing me.

" Alan Rupus is not his real name," she

said, after a pause, " but an assumed one.

His name is Gregory Pont." She laughed.

" Of course you know that," she said, " as

you know him."

I mumbled an unintelligible reply. I had

not heard the name " Gregory Pont" before.

" Since you are a friend of my son," she

said, " I expect your name will be perfectly

familiar to me. What is your name?"

I hesitated for a moment in great doubt.

I knew not what to reply. The old lady

looked at me over her spectacles.

" Perhaps I can guess," she said.

" Try," I answered feebly.

She wheeled about and faced me.

" Is it Joseph Travers ? " she asked.

I was surprised. " No," I said ; " but

Joseph Travers is a friend of mine."

She mentioned many other names, some

of which were familiar to me, but most were

strange. I shook my head. She seemed

greatly disappointed. When she had ex-

hausted her list she said :

" I am afraid he cannot have mentioned

you to me. Or I have forgotten. You must

tell me your name, afier all."

I was now prepared with an answer.

" My name is Frederick Davies," I said

It was the first name that occurred to me.

"Frederick Davies," she repeated. "No,

he has never mentioned you."

" I am surprised," I said. " I take so

much interest in his books."

" It is odd that he should not have men-

tioned you," she mused.

" I cannot understand it," I said.

We were silent for a space.

" He is the very best son in the world,"

she said.

" They often are," I answered, smiling.

" They always are, I hope," she rejoined,

smiling too. " And if any mother says they

aren't she is the reason why. But my

boy "

She stopped.

" Please go on," I intreated her.

" It will not weary you? "

" I am his friend."

" And it is right his friends should know

him as he really is. Men are such queer

creatures, they hate to own to being good.

They brag of the vices that are not theirs, as

if they were the virtues they really do possess,

while they keep the virtues secret. It is a

lopsided morality. But men are lopsided

animals, and they want a code to match

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

very young man," she continued. " He was

away at Oxford at the time—a good education

is one of my fads—and he had it. He only

stayed to take his degree, and then went up

to London at once to make a living for him-

self. He very soon won fame and fortune,

though there were a few failures, of course.

He bought this house for me, and sends me

money every month. He writes to me once

a week, sometimes oftener than that. I

have hundreds and hundreds of letters from

him; a great trunk full. Those and his books

are all the literature I need.''

" There is no better literature than his

books, at any rate," I interpolated. (One so

seldom has an opportunity to be unblushing.)

She thanked me with a smile.

" Not very long ago,'' she continued, "he

was down here. He could not stay long, he

has so much to do. He was very silent and

reserved, too ; he used lo be more talkative.

He would tell me so little of himself. But

at heart he was the same as ever. There were

only surface differences. And I found it

hard to believe that greatness could be so

simple and human, even to its own mother.

I had expected to find him haughty, perhaps

a little cold, distant; any ordinary man would

have been so. But success has no effect on

him. He said, I remember: ' When you find

out what a little satisfies mankind you realise

how little mankind is.' He said he was great

because he had taken care to praise in his

works the very few people who were great

enough to gauge him. He was full of

sayings like that, full of modesty about

himself. I should think he must be famous

for modesty."

" If he is not it is because his bigger

qualities, his more majestic attributes, have

spoiled our eyes for the lesser ones," I

said.

I thought she raised her head and regarded

me rather sharply, as if she detected the sneer

underlying my words.

" Now for an anachronism," said she.

I feigned to miss her meaning.

" Tea," she explained.

I laughed, and she drew up to the table.

She presided with an old-world grace.

" Please don't put yourself to the pain of

balancing a cup on your knee," she pleaded.

" It is so much more comfortable at the table,

and so much better for my carpet."

I sat down, facing her.

" Do you think I am like him ? " she asked.

" Gregory ? "

"Yes."

" I—I can't see any very strong resem-

blance."

" Nonsense! "

She spoke irritably, almost shrilly. I began

to tremble with apprehension. She set her gaze

on me. I endeavoured to mask my agitation

behind my tea-cup, but there was no escape

from her keen scrutiny. I wished I had not

entered this seeming impasse. I ventured a

remark :

"Children are a mother's apotheosis," I

THE LIAR.

5'5

the old lady, despite her frank demeanour,

must be but a vulgar imposter after all,

sacrificing her self-respect to a petty foible.

Nevertheless, on my return to London, I

went at once to my friend, Joseph Travers,

hoping that, as the old lady had mentioned

his name, he could afford me a clue to the

mystery.

" It is quite true that I know her son,'' he

said.

" She has a son.

then ? "

" Yes."

" And his name

is Gregory Pont ?"

" O, yes."

" What kind of

man is he ? "

" A poor sort.

He was brought tip

in that third-rate

village you saw.

He was a farmer's

son, but his mother

is a woman of

superior education.

I think she trained

him wrong, or

didn't train him at

all. She spoilt him,

anyway. He came

to London ten or

twelve years ago,

with the windiest

head under broad

heaven. He had

ideas about everv-

thing, and was going to spin the world like a

top. There wasto be a giddy time for people—

a sort of universal merry-go-round with him at

the crank. He bubbled over with enthusiasm,

was noisier than a coach-horn, and as useless.

He wallowed in a bog of scarlet vanities. He

was more conceited than the male senile.

He had a hundred weaknesses, and thought

they were his strong points and bragged about

'em. He had one strength and was ashamed

of it—he loved his mother."

"How do you know? "

" One feels these things without knowing

them. I haven't a doubt about it."

" I begin to see light," I said.

" Of course you do. As I was saying, this

windbag came to London to arrange things.

He got into the right set. He was good

company to a point, and a fair gentleman in

the showy parts. He wrote some poetry and

then a play, and other little things ; finally, he

slowed up a bit and started writing I O U's.

He thought Byron ought to know and took

hock and seltzer matutinally, and other things

,e presided with an old-world grace.

overnight. It was half sad and half absurd.

I think I was sorry for him. But what could

I do ? He went on getting remittances from

home till the fount was dry. Then the haggard

time started. He had some ability and plenty

of friends—this sort of man always has friends;

516

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" What is he now ?" I asked.

" He is the wannest journalist in Europe.

Edits three papers openly, and half-a-dozen

sub rosa."

"Eh?"

" He has used his talents to queer ends, I

can tell you. You can buy a lot with a lump

of self-respect and a little talent in the world

of journalism. He has his price, and his

field, and his chances. And if you want

someone to roll a log for you—or a subtler

advertisement than the usual sort—or a

bribe or an office or a title, Gregory Pont is

your man. He does not write I O U's now.

He hasn't time, even if he had the need."

"I should like to know him,'' I said.

" If you were not so deeply wrapped up in

yourself, you would have known him years

ago. Everybody else does. I will give you

an introduction, if you like. But he is hardly

respectable."

"That augurs well for his being in-

teresting," I ventured.

Travers laughed. "My dear boy," he

replied, " I should say there are quite three

people in the world who are not respectable

or original, either. Quite three !"

" Indeed !" I said.

" But come and dine with me at my club

to-morrow," he went on. " I will give you

Font's address, then."

I was resolved to push my promising

adventure to a climax, if possible, and so I

accepted Travers' invitation. He gave me

the address and a letter. A day or two later

I was able to call on Gregory Pont.

He received me in his library, a disordered

apartment overflowing with magazines and

newspapers. He was a man with a sallow,

jaundiced face and tired eyes. I had thought

he might deny himself to me ; but he did not.

" You are the great man himself, eh ? " he

said. " I haven't seen you before or read

your books, you know."

He was big and insolent. I could discern

no trace of discomfiture in his demeanour.

" Your mother has read my books," I said.

The shaft stuck. He stared at me, and a

faint, dull flush burnt under his dark skin.

" Sit down," he said quietly, " or I shall

think you have come to box me."

I sat down.

" How do you know I have a mother?'' he

asked.

" I talked with her a fortnight ago."

" Where ? "

I told him.

" What did she say to you? "

" She thinks success has not turned your

brain."

" And you think it hasn't had a chance ? "

•'I think," I remarked sternly, "that you

are not in a position to bluff me. You know

why I come here ? "

" Frankly, I don't," he replied. " I am

pretty bad at divination, as I am at a good

many other things. And I find that guessing

wastes time."
THE LIAR.

517

the very decent thing, and I am sorry I

treated you like that just now. I didn't

know. If it will please you to see me

struggling after truth, I will struggle. I owe

you that much."

" It will settle up things," I said.

He lit a cigar.

*' That was rather good of you," he said,

recovering himself.

" I'll try and work backwards," he said.

" You know what I am now—anybody's ladder

to anywhere. There are dirty footmarks all

over me. I don't mind it much. Life is

mostly French cooking to me. I can't breathe

in a high altitude. I like the good indigestible

things of this wicked world. But I wasn't

always as I am now. I was never much harm,

of course. I had some brains and some

incrustations of conceit; I was ambitious—

not to rise, but to fly; and I loved—myself—

exceedingly."

He paused.

" I dug away at things for two years," he

continued, " and then I got tired. I couldn't

make much headway, and my mother was

waxing impatient. I

had written one

anonymous volume

of poems and a bad

play. She had copies

I of them ; but she

wanted more. I told

her I was doing a

novel. She wrote

back saying all about

how she would feel

when she read it—

something about

holding the book in

her heart, and so on

—and the happy

realisation of her ex-

pectations, you know.

It was awkward; for

I knew there was

never a novel would

come out of me. Hut

I had started her on

the idea and she had

got to be satisfied.

When your first book

came out, I saw it

was the sort of thing

to please her. And I believed it would not

be much of a success. Unfortunately (for

me) it was a triumph. (You might be a

little less popular, I think.) I bought a

copy and sent it to her, saying it was my

own book, written with my own hand.

There didn't seem to be any chance that she

would find me out, living in that desert land.

And, hitherto, the cheat has prospered."

" There isn't any chance now," I said.

He thanked me. " That's pleasant," he

said; " and that's all."

I think we did not say any more to one

another about it. But it is a long time ago,

and I forget exactly.

V7 P&

21 m

j—i*

Rv FRANK LAMBURN.

THE British soldier is, I venture to say. the

)est clothed of any in the world. More care

is taken in the selection of the material, and

more pains bestowed upon the actual making

of his garments, than is the case with the

soldier of any other country; and if you

doubt this, a visit to the Royal Army Cloth-

ing Department in Pimlico will convince you

that you are wrong.

From this externally unassuming block is

issued every yard of cloth used in the British

army. The cloth for the uniforms of the

' officials in the Post Office, the Egyptian army,

the Metropolitan Police, the Royal Irish Constabulary, and other important branches of

the Government service, is also examined and passed at the R.A.C.D.

Mr. G. Fleetwood Wilson, the Director of Clothing, kindly acquiesced in my suggestion

ehat I should make a tour of the building, with a view to explaining to readers of this

magazine how our army is clothed, and the other day I was handed over to the care of

Mr. H. L. Kennedy, the storekeeper of the establishment, who piloted me through the

maze of rooms, and told me everything I wanted to know.

Although the buildings cover more than seven acres of ground, they are by no means

scattered about, but are divided into four solid blocks—three given over to packing and

storing the materials and made-up garments, the other being divided into the Inspection

Department and the factory, where the garments are made up.

Once a year tenders are issued for the supply of fresh materials, and contractors come

and examine the patterns of stuffs required in the pattern room, a spacious apartment

containing samples of every article used by a soldier, from a pair of trousers to a shaving

brush or tin of blacking.

Each sample bears three seals, so that there is no chance of a contractor defrauding

the Government by asserting he supplied material of the same quality as the pattern he

examined, when he did not.

As the goods come in they are stocked in enormous rooms, and drawn on as required,

and every inch of cloth is carefully tested before it finally takes the shape of a tunic or a

pair of trousers.

Each incoming bale is opened, and its contents passed through a machine that weighs
HOW OUR ARMY IS CLOTHED.

519

and measures it at one and the same time.

If the figures are incorrect, the cloth is

done up again and the contractors are told

about it; if the figures are all right, a sample

of it passes into an adjoining room, where it

is placed on another machine and its strength

is tested.

This is done by fastening the two

ends of the slip between steel bars and

stretching it until it breaks, when the

breaking-strain, in pounds, is registered

on a dial.

Then another piece is taken into the

dye-testing room, where it undergoes

some three or four boilings to discover

if the dyes used are in accordance with

the contract or not. In the case of

civilian blue cloth, coal tar dyes are

frequently used instead of indigo,

and if this is so the material turns

green after a few months' exposure to

the weather.

One of the reasons why the army of

no other nation is clothed in scarlet in

the same way as the British is that

material of this particular colour can

be manufactured only in England. The

water of the West of England lends

itself to -the dyeing of this cloth as

no other water does.

Having satisfactorily

undergone these ordeals, the

cloth is next slowly passed

over a couple of hori-

zontal rollers about

twelve feet from

the ground, and

i.

TESTING THE CLOTH BY STRETCHING.

PERCHING

THE CLOTH.

examined by two

experts standing

with their backs to

the north light,

while another person, on

the other side of the cloth,

looks out for holes and rlaws.

After this, it is folded lengthwise, and

stamped every quarter of a yard with the

broad arrow and the number of the person

through whose hands it passes, and who is

responsible for the bale of which it forms

part. One of the machines I saw at work

measured the cloth and folded it in yard folds,

the quantity being indicated on a dial.

The bales are then taken to the store room,

and are ready to be used up for making

clothes.

A fair percentage of the garments are given

. out to contractors, and of these I shall have

more to say presently. Those turned out on

the premises necessitate the employment of

about fourteen hundred women, all of them

piece-workers, and all at work within the four

walls of the factory.

Coming suddenly from the comparative

quietness of the stores, I was completely

520

PEA XSON' S MA GA ZINE.

hive. Leaning over the balustrade of the

uppermost balcony that runs round this work-

shop, I looked down upon six hundred

women, fifty feet below, seated at tables

covered with a profusion of needleworking

implements, while in the glass fronted bal-

conies at the sides I could see hundreds and

hundreds of other women doing the same

sort of work.

All these

folk are

under the

supervision

of eight or

nine men—

"viewers "

they are

called—who

receive a

certain

quantity of

material

every day

from the

storekeeper

and make

themselves

responsible

for its return

in the form

of garments.

But I shall

have to drift

from this

department

for a few

minutes to

tell how the

cloth is cut

up before it

reaches the

viewers. In

the cutting-

room are a number of machines, each with

an endless band-knife that revolves rapidly

over a couple of wheels, one above and

one below a steel table. The shape of the

garment is chalked out on a piece of cloth,

this is placed on twenty others, and the whole

lot cut out at one operation.

The plaid trousers for the Scotch regiments

are cut out by hand, and are the most difficult

THE HALL IN THE FACTORY

Prom a Photograph by the London Stereoscopic Co.

to manipulate, as the pieces have to be so put

together that there is no glaring misfit where

the pattern joins.

As the clothes are so treated they are taken

to the viewers' rooms, where a number of

girls place with the pieces of cloth the

quantity of braid, silk, thread, buttons, and

so on, necessary for its formation into a tunic

or pair of

trousers, as

the case may

be.The

whole is

rolled into a
HOW OUR ARMY IS CLOTHED.

521

THE IRONING

ROOMS.

for much of the work on a

garment is done by hand,

and the needleworkers make

their own arrangements with

the machinist for stitching their work.

There are also a number of women who

do nothing else but make button-holes.

Special machines are used, and a woman can

complete fifty an hour; and this is very

quick, considering there is a lot of niggling

work to be attended to before the actual

stamping and sewing of the hole.

It is a curious fact that in the making of

khaki uniforms the presence of a certain

chemical in the dye results in heating the

needle of the sewing machine to a degree

that would render it useless unless it

were soaped after each passage through

the cloth.

As each garment is finished, the

maker takes it to the viewer, who enters

it in a book, gives her another batch of

raw materials, and hands the finished

garment to the store department, where

it is packed away ready for sending out.

Most people imagine, as I did

myself, that when a recruit joins a

regiment his uniform is made to fit

him; but this is by no means the case.

The uniforms are made in thirty-six

different sizes, numbered consecutively

Vol. I.—35:

from one to thirty-six, and all that has

to be done is to send along the number

required, and that particular uniform

is served out which comes nearest to

the measurements of the soldier.

Great coats and cavalry cloaks are

made in eighteen different sizes, and

over 90,000 of these are always kept in

stock.

Roughly speaking—and few corps

vary in this respect—when a man

enlists he is allowed two pairs of

trousers and two frocks; about three

months afterwards (in infantry regi-

ments) he receives another frock, which

he may wear out in a year, and a third

pair of trousers and a tunic, which

have to last him two years. If anything

happens that makes it necessary for

him to replenish his wardrobe, he must

do so at his own expense, provided the

fault is his own.

Of course, it is very seldom that an order,

or " requisition," as it is known to the War

Office, comes in for only one uniform.

Most requisitions are for a dozen or more

garments, and these are sent to all parts of

the world in bales. I saw fifty tunics and

pairs of trousers piled one on top of the

other, ready for packing, and it struck me

that it was a pity no method was thought of

by which the bulk could be reduced, in order

to lessen the cost of carriage.

But I was premature; for a man came

522

MAGAZINE.

along, and, carrying the pile to a hydraulic

press, he quickly reduced the size to less than

one half without the slightest injury to the

goods. The brass buttons are all made with

loose shanks, which do not stick into the

cloth.

Speaking of buttons, it is interesting to

note that consider-

ably over ten mil-

lions are sewn on in

a twelvemonth.

The same pattern

button goes on all

the uniforms of the

infantry regiments,

with the exception

of the foot-guards

and rifle regiments,

who have a design

of their own, as

has each regiment

of cavalry.

And now we

come to the goods

that are made by

contract. Most of

the inferior class of

work is given out,

and pretty nearly all

the shirts are cut

out on the premises

— fifty at a time, in

the same way as

tunics—to be made

up by soldiers'

wives and widows,

and, of course, the

official inspection of

these garments is

somewhat more

elastic than in the

case of manufac-

turers.

A very big stock of shirts, all of one

material, is kept on hand, and when I was

there, the quantity exceeded 200,000.

But there is nothing more astounding in

the stores department than the huge quantity

of necessaries. Thousands of packing cases,

piled up to the very top of the lofty rooms,

are to be found in this branch, filled with

nothing but blacking and pipe-clay for clean-

A STUDY

IN THE

GREAT HALL.

ing accoutrements, braces, combs, brushes

(hair, boot, and clothes), table knives, forks,

spoons, big clasp knives (for these are always

used when a regiment is on active service),

and spurs. Rather a curious fact is that

these last are so awkward to pack that only

ninety will go into a rase capable of holding

about four hundred clasp knives.

The razor is a marvel of cheap-

ness, and the Clothing Depot is

justly proud of its ability to dis-

pose of these articles at

5Jd. apiece, for they

HOW OUR ARMY IS CLOTHED.

523

and found that either the leather was bad or

that the instep was smaller in the one case

than in the other.

The soles of two per cent of the boots are

occasionally cut open, and if any imperfection

is present at all it will usually consist of a few

superfluous nails left in that ought to have

been taken out.

As the boot is examined it is stamped on

the inside with the broad arrow and the

number of the examiner, just in the same

fashion as the cloth is treated, and for a

similar purpose.

In a neighbouring room are several people

engaged in overhauling the uniforms that

have come in from outside manufacturers,

and not far away is another department where

all the socks undergo inspection. The

women who carry out this part of the pro-

gramme put their hands down every pair of

socks to see that they are perfect, and as

considerably more than one million pairs see

the light of this room in the course of a year,

the work must become rather monotonous.

So far as I was able to gather, not a single

article of a soldier's uniform reaches him

without having first been most carefully

scrutinised and tested by the authorities.

Even the very silk and thread is put on a

machine, something like the one for trying

the breaking powers of the cloth, and its

strength proved.

Every roll of gold braid passes through the

hands of an expert, and the packets of

buttons are all opened and their contents

overhauled, a certain percentage of the

buttons being cut open to see whether their

insides are satisfactory or not.

I spent quite a long time

simply walking through

rooms filled with nothing

but helmets and caps.

The greater part of these

are kept in cupboards,

on shelves, and scat-

tered all about promis-

cuously were what I first

took to be lumps of loaf

sugar, but which were,

I afterwards discovered,

pieces of naphthalin and

camphor to protect the

material against moth. Nearly two tons of

these commodities are put to this use alone

in a twelvemonth.

The headgear is of every description, from

the formidable bearskin to the unassuming

service cap, and considerably more than one

million and a half of all sorts and kinds are

issued every year.

When you have digested the following big

figures you will probably be able to form

some idea of the amount of work the Clothing

Depot of the British army gets through so

unostentatiously and quietly; for I suppose

less is known to the general public about this

branch of the Government than of any other,

although strangers are allowed to pass through

W.L.ALDEN

Illustrated by CHAS. MAY.

POSSIBILITIES OF BRAIN PHOTOGRAPHY THE

VALUE OF THE POLES THE INSIGNIFICANT

CITY OF CHICAGO WHERE OUR WEATHER

COMES FROM—THE WOMAN IN KNICKERBOCKERS

—WHEN AUTHORS GO ON STRIKE.

NEW photography be-

comes more and more

alarming. It was bad

enough to have one's

skeleton photographed,

but it is infinitely worse to

have one's brains surrep-

titiously photographed, by

a scientific kodacker. Of

course there are circum-

stances in which it may be useful to photo-

graph a brain, and already certain medical

men claim that by the aid of photography

they can tell whether a man is a lunatic, or

merely a Little Englander.

Only the other day, a New York doctor

photographed the brain of a Scotsman, who

had suffered for some weeks from an intense

and violent headache—for which there

seemed to be no remedy in the materia

medico. The photographs revealed the

fact that a small joke had by some means

penetrated nearly half an inch into the brain,

and had set up an irritation which was the

cause of the man's terrible distress. By

the help of surgery the joke was safely

removed, and the Scotsman was cured of

his headache.

It is the opinion of the photographing

physician, that many cases of insanity are

due to the presence in the brain of small

jokes, especially those that are rough and

honeycombed with age. When the photo-

graph demonstrates that this is the case,

surgery will, in nearly every instance, effect a

rapid cure. Admitting, however, that it may

be well to photograph apparently diseased

brains, the thought that every

man's brain may be photo-

graphed is none the less

terrible.

Where a spy formerly

photographed a fortress, he

will now photograph the

brain of the enemy's com-

mander-in-chief, and so learn

exactly what plans he has in

his head. Instead of asking Lord Salisbury, in

Parliament, what he means to do in regard

to Venezuela, Mr. Labouchere will surrepti-

tiously photograph the Premier's brain, and

publish a " processed " copy of the photo-

graph in Truth. Jealous wives will photo-

graph their husband's brains, and eagerly

scan the negative in search of the figure of

that pretty girl who rides the bicycle; and

your bitterest enemy will send you a snap-

shot photograph of your brain, taken while

listening to the Rev. Mr. So-and-So's sermon,

with the information that unless you consent

to pay a thousand pounds, the photograph

will be published.

Life may still be worth living after brain

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

not be worth living in lands where the camera

is known.

HAVE always looked for-

ward with eagerness to

the discovery of the North

Pole, for the reason that

it will put a stop to Arctic

exploration. As it has been

hitherto conducted, Arctic

exploration has been a miser-

able failure. The men who

have gone to the frozen regions

to endure terrible sufferings,

and, too often, to vanish for

ever, have been precisely the

men whom we could not spare. They have

been our bravest sailors and scientific men,

and there is not an instance on record of the

departure on a Polar expedition of the sort of

men who were designed by Nature for such

an enterprise.

When we consider the facilities for freezing

to death and for drowning—not to mention

the lavish supply of Polar bears, with good

appetites for explorers—which are supplied

by the Arctic regions, it is sad to think that

the men who deserved to profit by them have

remained at home, and permitted good and

useful citizens to go in their place.

We all of us know dozens of men who

seemed to have been created for no other

purpose than to go in search of the North

Pole, and never to return. The House of

Commons contains at least a dozen such

men, and the ranks of journalism and litera-

ture are full of them. If a fleet of ships

loaded with organ grinders were to sail for

the Arctic regions, with

what enthusiasm would

we speed their departure !

And if an expedition

composed entirely of

professional reformers

were to go to Smith's Sound

or to Franz Josef Land to

teach the Polar bear the

beauties of vegetarianism, or

to start an agitation against

compulsory vaccination amongthe Esquimaux,

what a sense of relief would gladden every heart.

But men like these, although they know

that the North Pole has yawned for them, so

to speak, for centuries, never think of trusting

themselves in the Arctic regions. The final

discovery of the Pole will put a stop to Arctic

expeditions altogether, since there will no

longer remain any prize to tempt the Arctic

explorer, and this is something for which we

can all be devoutly thankful.

Let us have done with such expeditions for

ever, and turn our attention to urging upon

our undesirable neighbours the

advantages of emigration to the

most unhealthy regions of Africa.

As for the South Pole, a pro-

test against any expedition in

search of that particular spot

should be made in the interests

of our romance writers. At

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

domesticated most of the animals that are

extinct in the other parts of th globe ; who

receive all strangers, from the British globe-

trotter in checked dittoes, to the Yankee

explorer in search of gold mines, as

messengers direct from the gods; are still

dwelling and thriving close to the South Pole.

Of course, they will not be seen by any

members of the Antarctic expedition, and

after the expedition has made its report they

will vanish for ever, just as the wonderful

white Africans have vanished. Cannot

science keep its hands from this one com-

paratively small part of the globe, and leave

it to the romancer. Why take the latter's

means of livelihood from him, and deprive

the lover of impossible romance of his

favourite food.

Any scientific discoveries that the expedi-

tion may make will not be half as interesting

as the stories which the romance writers will

give us, if the Antarctic continent is made

over exclusively to them.

• • • • •

-' Ih'e INFLUENCE of Chicago

\ I reaches far beyond its own

" * " saloons." Some time ago

the Philadelphia Public Library

banished the works of Mr. Kipling

from its shelves, on the ostensible

ground that certain of Mr. Kipling's

characters occasionally used " swear

words." This was, of course, a

mere pretext. The books were

banished, not because of the language used

by Mulvaney and Ortheris, but because of the

language used by the author himself in

regard to Chicago.

He dared to speak disrespectfully of that

city, and he was instantly denounced as a

bold blasphemer. The American Press

discovered that he had a deep-rooted hatred

of everything typically American, and hence

that his stories were greatly over-rated, and

that as a story-writer he was far inferior to

half-a-dozen young American authors.

I can understand why a Chicago man

should resent any want of respect for his

native town, and why Americans generally

should object to any ridicule of things that

they hold sacred; but why the American

Press should insist that there is anything

particularly American about Chicago is not

so clear.

In point of fact Chicago is the least

American of any city in the States. Four of

every live of its

inhabitants were

born in Europe.

Take away the

eight hundred

thousand foreign

born residents of Chicago, and leave only the

two hundred thousand Americans, and it would

be a very insignificant little town.

Instead of being, as the Chicago people

insist, the typical American city, Chicago

is simply an aggregation of European

immigrants, among whom the few native

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

527

cool winter and a hot summer. If, on the other

hand, she is lavish of her warm weather in

winter, there will not be enough left to make

the summer decently warm. Last winter we

used our warm weather with reckless prodi-

gality. During the greater

part of the time we used

what might be called " half-

and-half '' weather, con-

sisting of equal parts of

heat and cold. The result

was a winter of extra-

ordinary mildness, which

made good people happy

and plumbers wretched.

But we cannot use our heat

and have it too. Now that

summer is coming, nothing

is more certain than that we

have not heat enough left to give us anything

like the sort of warmth that we ought to have

in July and August. We shall receive no more

weather until next January, and when we find

ourselves wearing overcoats in July and

starting fires in August, we shall regret our

wild extravagance.

Of course the scientific men will treat this

theory of the weather with contempt, but as

Mr. Kipling unaccountably failed to say:

" What do they know of weather, who only

England know ? " Let them go to Manitoba,

say in the early part of December, when the

packages of weather are made up for

exportation to England and the Continent,

and they will learn more of the origin and

nature of weather than they will ever know so

long as they stay at home, and babble of

"steep gradients " and " approaching depres-

sions."

*****

THE coming woman is to wear

|| knickerbockers, she will inevitably

steal her husband's tobacco and

cigars. Whether this will be worse

for the husband than is the present

wifely practice of presenting him

with cigars of her own selection, is

by no means certain. Still, the fact

that she will steal cigars can be

easily demonstrated.

At present women do not smoke

to any extent, for the reason that it

is unsatisfactory to smoke in skirts. In order

to enjoy a cigar it is necessary to put one's

hands in one's trousers pockets, and to assume

a lounging attitude. No woman can do this,

for the simple reason that she has no trousers

pockets. Moreover, she finds it very awkward

to light a match on the sole of her shoe, and,

as every smoker knows, the sole of the shoe

is the only place where a match can be lighted

with ease and certainty.

But the moment a woman puts on knicker-

bockers she is able to put her hands in her

pockets, and to scratch matches on her soles.

Being thus able to smoke in comfort, she

will unquestionably become addicted to that

manly habit. Now it is notorious that, no

528

PEA RS ON'S MA GA ZINE.

our cigar boxes, and to tell us that we are

"mean old things" when we mildly protest

against their conduct.

OW that we have both

an Authors' Union

and a Publishers'

Union, the public is

anxiously looking for-

ward to the first

general strike, or

lock-out. Speculation

is rife as to whether

the coming struggle

between the two unions will be carried through

without bloodshed or outrage. Suppose the

authors strike for higher royalties, what will

they do to the blacklegs (including the blue-

stockings) who will immediately rush to the

publishers' offices with manuscripts ? Will

the authors resort to picketing ? Will stalwart

authors, like Mr. Morley Roberts and Mr.

Christie Murray, lie in wait at the corners of

the streets, and fall upon blackleg authors with

heavy clubs, or perhaps with octavo editions

of the last new epic ?

If the strike is a long one, shall we be

harassed with appeals to subscribe money to

provide the starving authors with food and

tobacco, and will Parliament appoint a com-

mission of arbitration in the hope of settling

the dispute ? My own impression is that the

authors, if they do strike, will meet with a

disastrous defeat, for there are, according to

the best statistics, nearly eight millions of

women who at this moment have in their

possession manuscripts of novels dealing

with the " sex problem," for which they have

hitherto been unable to find a publisher, but

which will be offered and accepted for publi-

cation the moment the Publishers' Union see

that by publishing the novels in question

they can temporarily dispense with the ser-

vices of authors.

A lock-out on the part of the publishers

would be ruinous both to union authors and

to blacklegs. Suppose the publishers were to

establish a new scale of wages, reducing all

royalties to five per cent., to begin only when

two thousand copies had been sold. The

authors would unanimously resolve to starve

before accepting such terms, and during the

two or three months which might elapse

before the authors had grown tired of starving,

not a book of any kind would be published.

By the time that the authors had confessed

their defeat, and begged the publishers to

accept their books

on any terms, the

general public

would have been

so delighted with

the blessed interval

of freedom

from all new

books that they

would probably

seek to prolong it by ignoring nine-tenths of all

the books that the reconciled authors and

WHEN I am dead, if one should come,

Perchance, to seek me here,

Remember, though my lips be dumb,

I shall be very near.

If one should cross the kirkyard grass,

Or by the kirkyard go,

However silently he pass,

Yet I shall hear and know.

But if thou readest in his eyes

That I am half forgot,

Then tell him " Soft and warm she lies,

And she remembers not."

And only if his eyes are dim

With sorrow for my sake,

Tell him I sleep and dream of him

Until we both shall wake.

MAY KENDALL.
IN attempting to estimate the annual cost of

the different sections of British sport, one is

met with an initial difficulty, and that is, as

to what can legitimately and properly be in-

cluded under the head of sports. Whitaker's

Almanac used to give an annual resume of

sports, confining it to those which are of the

distinctly competitive order. But, to exclude

such items as hunting, shooting, and fishing,

which are in a very minor degree competitive,

from consideration, would be to omit some

of those which may be called the truest

branches of sport.

Outdoor recreations are, broadly speaking,

sports, as distinguished from indoor amuse-

ments ; yet here a considerable part of

horsemanship, and of cycling, lawn tennis,

croquet, etc., may be more correctly described

as recreation pure and simple, rather than as

sport.

Preserving these distinction^ as far as

possible, we consider that racing, hunting,

polo, shooting, fishing, coursing, cricket, and

football, may be included wholly in the

term sport; whilst golf, hockey, swimming,

cycling, athletics, bowls, archery, quoits,

yachting, boating, and skating, contain a very

large element thereof. This list may be said

to include the major part, if not the whole

domain, of British sports.

A second point of difficulty is : What may

legitimately be called the " cost " of a sport ?

Betting, of course, may be disregarded.

Though it attaches to many, it is not essen-

tial to any. We propose to confine " cost,"

in each case, to what is fairly and properly

expended on the prosecution of the sport

itself; and, probably, by the time we have

come to the end of our list, we shall find the

total formidable enough.

In regard to many branches of sport, it is

exceedingly difficult to obtain sufficient data,

for a reliable estimate of cost. In cricket,

for instance, we have the county matches;

but their cost in the aggregate becomes

insignificant compared with that of the myriads

of small clubs all over the country, whose

individual expenditure in a year falls far

short of that of a single day in a first-class

match. The like remark applies to football,

and other branches of sport.

There is also danger of duplicating ex-

penses, as where one might heedlessly debit

a popular sport with both gate-money and the

cost of management; whereas, in a large

degree, the one supplies the other. It has

been the care of the writer to avoid these pit-

falls ; and, whatever the merits of the

calculations which follow may be, he is

pretty confident that he will not be accused

of exaggeration.

First in magnitude, as it is in general

popularity, comes horse-racing. There is

scarcely a considerable town in the country

without a race-course of some sort; and

there is not a single grade of society which

does not yield it many devotees, both male

and female. That its cost is very great no

one can doubt, and we will endeavour to

trace out some of the leading factors.

THE MONEY WE SPEND ON SPORT.

expenses of management of these courses

cannot be put down at a less average than

£500, or ,£50,000 in all.

On these courses there are 265 days' races

in the year, and each day will have at least

six events, whilst the value of the stakes will

certainly average £200.

265 X 6 X 200 gives us ,£318,000. Then,

for each of these races, the average number

of competitors coming to the post will be

ten. This does not by any means equal the

number entered for each race, but which, for

one reason or another, fail to run. On the

other hand, of course, one horse will some-

times figure in many races in the course of a

season. Putting the one against the other,

we may safely assume that ten horses are

trained for each one of these first-class races,

or 15,900 horses in training.

Coming to the cost per head of these

horses, and including therein fair

interest on first cost of the

animals, food, attendance, rent

of stables and training grounds,

jockey's fees, saddlery, and

travelling expenses, the average

cost of a racehorse in training

cannot be put at less than

.£300. Now our sum becomes

265 X 6x 10X300=^4,770,000.

To these figures we must add

some approximation to the cost

of the immense number of small

country meetings, hunt club

steeplechases, etc., for which

horses are trained and courses provided.

Surely a million and a half is a modest figure

for this.

We next come to the breeding establish-

ments ; and, including stallions, mares, colts,

and foals, estimating the total number at the

same figure as horses in training, and calcu-

lating interest on first cost, keep, and inci-

dental expenses at £200 per head, we have

a further sum of .£3,180,000.

Finally we have to estimate the expenses

of people attending race meetings, in addi-

tion to the sums paid for admission. Assum-

ing that each day of the first class race

meetings brings only 10,000 persons on to

the course, or 2,650,000 in all, and the host

of minor meetings only half that number, we

"ONE POUND PER HEAD."

(Annual Expenditure on Sport

in the British Isles.)

have a total of, say broadly 4,000,000; who,

looking at the immense amount of driving,

railway travelling, lunching, etc., that is

involved, may be put down at 5^. per head,

or a round million in all. Now we have

Racecourses—first-class . .£50,000

Stakes do. . . 318,000

Horses racing and training . 4,770,000

Minor meetings . . . 1,500,000

Breeding establishments . 3,180,000

Expenses of spectators, etc. . 1,000,000

Making a total cost of .£10,818,000

It may be argued, with some force, that, as

the stakes go back into the pockets of race-

532

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

Next we have to consider the private

members of the hunt. Such packs as the

Quorn and Pytchley number some hundreds

of subscribers and followers, and if we take

the average number at one hundred Cnot all,

of course, hunting every day the hounds are

out) we shall not be far wrong. Many

professional men, gentlemen fanners, and

others, keep only one hunter, and ride to

hounds occasionally; but, on the other hand,

the majority will have stables of three or four.

Taking the small average of two horses for

each subscriber, and increasing the average

cost per annum to £100 per head, we have

this nice little sum :

388 X 10oX 2 X 100=^7,760,000.

Personal expenditure in hunting costumes,

railway fares, horse boxes to distant meets,

and saddlery may be very moderately

assessed at £20 per head per season, which

amongst the 38,800 people who regularly

hunt, and do so en regie, adds a modest three-

quarters of a million to our total.

Compensation to farmers is a tangible

item, which will run up to at least .£50,000;

and if we add another .£50,000 as a special

expenditure in the shape of rentals of

hunting quarters, we have about exhausted

the bill:

Hounds

Masters' studs

Subscribers' do. .

Equipments

Compensations .

Hunting quarters

.£106,000

325,000

7,760,000

750,000

50,000

50,000

Total cost of hunting .£9,041,000

Where one man hunts, half-a-dozen shoot,

and twenty fish; for both the latter sports, in

the vast majority of cases, are very much

cheaper. Of course, the owner of a large

domain highly preserved, or who chooses to

rent grouse moors, deer forests, and salmon

streams, must spend goodly sums, which

will rival even his stable expenditure; but

your country squire, or gentleman farmer,

or town resident even, can have his few

hundred acres of fairly stocked general

shooting, or his mile or two of trout stream,

or ponds for coarse fishing, for vastly less

than the sum for which he can decently,

and according to his station, follow the

hounds.

In regard to shooting, there are several

bases of calculation. According to Mulhall,

in an average season, of deer, pheasants,

grouse, partridges, hares, and rabbits, there

are slain by the gun some diirty-two millions

in the United Kingdom. If we add another

five millions for other game, wildfowl and

pigeons ("including those killed in shooting

matches), and put the market value all round

at 1s. f>d. a head, we get the goodly figure of

THE MONEY WE SPEND ON SPORT.

533

The fancy rents paid for deer forests,

grouse moors, and shooting quarters, may be

moderately estimated at another million and

a half. We now have

Game preserving . . .£4,000,000

Personal expenses of sports-

men .... 2,700,000

Licences, etc. . . . 275,000

Special rents, etc. . . 1,500,000

Total . . £8,475,000

We must, however, in fairness, deduct

some set-off for the value of the game, etc.

killed ; and, taking that at the figure already

given, we have, as the net cost of shooting,

£5.700,000.

Angling is essentially the sport of the

masses, be-

cause of its

infinite scope

and variety,

ranging as it

does, from

urchins of ten

to veterans of

seventy; and

from the mag-

nate who flogs

his Scotch,

Irish, or Nor-

wegian salmon

rivers, to the

tune of some

hundreds a

year, to the

small boy who

fishes for min-

nows, and

whose whole

equipment

would be dear

at sixpence.

Much de-

pends on

locality : where facilities are good, as around

London, Sheffield, Birmingham, etc., the

class of humble anglers—clubmen—is very

large; and the devotees of all ranks and

ages throughout the country cannot be

far short of a million. Gauging the pro-

portions and numbers as closely as possible,

a fair classification

will be as follows :

for the whole country

10,000 anglers spending in

rents, or subscriptions,

licences, tackle, travelling,

lodging, etc., an average of

.£30 per annum

100,000 „ „ „ £1 5

300,000 „ „ „ /s

400,000 „ „ „ /1

800,000 = Total spent

angling.

on

.£300,000

1,500,000

1,500,000

400,000
534

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

1000 clubs, with an average expenditure of

.£250 each.

Of the smaller clubs, averaging an expen-

diture of .£25 Per season, we have fully 5000.

This gives us a total club expenditure of

,£435,000.

At least 500,000 cricketers of all grades

and classes incur a personal expenditure

clearly incidental to the game, to the average

amount of .£3 per annum, or .£1,500,000; and

at least 3,000,000 of spectators of matches

average one shilling per head of expenditure

beyond admission fees, or .£150.000. Hence

cricket contributes to our total some

,£2,085,000.

Coming now to Football, and reckoning

there are 40 Association clubs whose average

annual expenditure is .£5,000, also 5,000

other clubs averaging .£40 a year, and credit-

ing the Rugby clubs with an expenditure of

.£200,000, we have a total of .£600,000.

Half a million players in both sections

of the game will not average less than £2

per head in clothing, boots, travelling, and

various incidentals, or .£1,000,000. Finally,

spectators flock to the great matches in their

thousands, and many travel considerable

distances. An average expenditure beyond

their admission fees of is. a head, no one can

say is excessive. Putting the number of spec-

tators at three millions, we add on .£150,000;

and our football bill is.£1,750,000.

We have now disposed of what may fairly

be called the six major sports of the country,

and our figures are: Racing,.£io,818,ooo;

hunting, ^9,041,000; shooting, ^5,700,000;

angling, .£3,700,000 ; cricket, .£2,085,000;

football, .£1,750,000 ; or a total for six

months' sport of .£33,094,000

Space does not permit

of a similar close

analysis of the various branches of sport

which still remain; but, bearing in mind the

necessity for some discrimination between

what may be fairly termed sport, and that

which is ordinary recreation, and applying

the same broad principles, we arrive at the

following additional figures:

Coursing .... .£400,000

Cycling .... 1,200,000

Polo 250,000

Yachting .... 1,000,000

Boating .... 500,000

Swimming.... 200,000

Golf 1,000,000

Hockey, bowls, quoits, etc. 100,000

Athletics .... 500,000

.£S, 150,000

In this way we bring up the total cost of

British sport to a total of over thirty-eight

millions per annum, or about £1 per head

of the whole population.

If we added to this gigantic total the

various branches of what may be alterna-

tively termed outdoor recreation, such as

horse-riding, driving, lawn-tennis, croquet,

etc., etc., and the distinct branches of indoor

recreations, such as billiards, cards, chess,

BY JOHN M. LE SAGE.

TWENTY-FIVE years since, I saw an act of

devotion on the part of a young French-

woman, which for cool bravery I have never

seen excelled, although I have witnessed

many instances of splendid courage on the

field of battle. At all events, it filled me

with admiration at the moment, and I

believe enabled me to go through a scene

from which I only just escaped with my life.

In April, 1871, when the Commune was

making full use of its happily brief power, I

was in Paris acting as a special corre-

spondent for The Daily Telegraph. It was

part of my duty to mingle freely with

the leaders of these desperate men. I had

reported many of the worst crimes of which

they were guilty—the burning of public

buildings, the destruction of the Vend6me

Column, the deliberate murder of some of

their victims, the awful misery which they

inflicted even on each other.

Once or twice I had been compelled to

pretend to assist at the erection of barricades,

but I was always fortunate enough to escape

without serious loss or annoyance. I

generally found that a little money, a great

show of politeness, and the fact that I was

an Englishman, were accepted as excuses for

my presence.

At last I became so well known to the

NOTE.—The writer of this article was a Special Correspondent

of Yhe Daily Ielegrraph during the Paris Commune, and is

now Managing Editor of that journal.

" Generals in Command," who had their

office in the Place Vendome, that they often

spoke to me about some of their plans for

defeating the Government troops, who were

then stationed near Versailles. One morning

I had sat chatting with the officer on duty

for some time, and, as a politic compliment,

expressed a confident belief in the fighting

quality of his men. Gratified with what I had

said, he invited me to go that afternoon to

an advanced post at Neuilly, which was ex-

posed to immediate attack, and where he

hoped that his comrades would teach the

enemy (their fellow-countrymen, the Ver-

sailles troops) that Paris now belonged to the

People.

He gave me an introduction to the officer

commanding the baitalion at the front, and

told me that I should probably find him at a

small villa which flew the ambulance flag.

As a matter of fact, the place was an important

point in their line of defence, and the flag was

a mere ruse.

After a hasty and very poor lunch—for in

those unhappy days only the coarsest food

could be obtained even at the best restaurants

—I set out for the rather long walk. It is

difficult to believe now that the beautiful city

presented the dreadful and utterly desolate

appearance it actually did. From the moment

I entered the Champs Elys^es uniil I reached

the spot at which I joined the Insurgents I

hardly met a soul.

536

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

She entered the room with a cup of coffee.

Hurrying on, I at last saw the

park and the ambulance where I

was to meet Commandant Le

Saigne, of the 261st battalion. I

had no time to notice the arrange-

ments, as a support to skirmishers

then in action was already formed,

and the Commandant was that

instant going to the park,

about two hundred yards

distant, where the Versailles

troops were, in considerable

force, making a determined

effort to Capture our position.

We shook hands, he addressed

encouraging words to his men,

and a few minutes afterwards we

were exposed to the fire of the

Versailles skirmishers. The

National Guards dashed up to the

park wall, which was about 3ft.

high, and under it I was glad to seek shelter.

Wanting something to do, I asked a marine to

let me look at his rifle. I had hardly taken the

weapon from his hands when a bullet struck the

poor fellow immediately above the heart, and he fell dead at my feet. I instantly dropped the

rifle, but, curiously enough, put the cartridge in my coat pocket, where I afterwards found it.

There was one ambulance attendant lying near

wiih a stretcher, so I volunteered to help carry his

comrade to the Villa we had not long left.

The body was placed in a room on the

ground floor.

Looking round I saw that some

hasty preparations had been made

for the wounded. There were a

box of lint and bandages, a case

of surgical instruments, bottles of

morphine and drugs. Several badly

injured men had been brought in,

and I was busily engaged render-

ing what help I could, when a

skirmisher rushed in with the

news that the enemy had

brought up a battery of

artillery and were about to

open on us.

" But we have an am-

bulance flag," I exclaimed.

" You ought to know,'' said

a young officer, "that the

assassins don't respect it."

A bullet struck the poor fellow. That they did not we

THE BRAVEST DEED I EVER SAW.

537

soon had painful proof. A shell pitched

into the garden, and several others followed.

Fortunately, it was soft earth, and there was

no greater damage than broken windows and

clouds of dust. We all sought the best

protection we could from flying splinters.

Most of the uninjured men lay flat on

the ground and covered themselves with

mattrasses or bundles of straw.

It was while we were all wondering what

would happen—whether a shell would not

explode in the house itself—that I had full

opportunity of witnessing the cool courage and

daring of a young woman who had joined the

corps as a cantiniere. I don't know what

regular regiment she belonged to, but she

had managed to dress

herself in a very good

imitation uniform, con-

sisting of boots and

gaiters, short skirt with a

soldier's overcoat,

turned down at the

neck, showing a silk

neckerchief cover-

ing the lower part

of the throat.

She had no cap,

and her curly hair

was rather dis-

arranged owing

to her exertions

in assisting the

wounded.

She was apparently

about nineteen or twenty

years of age ; not very tall,

with bright expression, and

' certainly pretty features,

large, and full of animation. I was speaking

to an officer about our chances when she

entered the room, with a cup of coffee for a

poor fellow who had been hit by a bullet in

the leg, and whose wound had just been

roughly attended to.

Mistaking me for a surgeon, she said:

" Good Doctor, I have been in two or three

battles, but never under such a fearful fire as

this. If it is the hour of death, we will die

bravely." Then, changing her tone, she

laughingly demanded: "And now, cher citoyen,

what will you have—coffee or spirits ? "

Vol. I.—36

Her eyes were

I assured her that I did not want any-

thing, and begged her not to stand up; but

she only laughed, and rather suggested by her

manner that the officer and I should show a

good spirit, and invited us to accompany her

to the hall.

We went with her to the passage, which

was only a narrow one, leading from the two

or three steps at the entrance to the bedroom

stairs at the end. A National guard had just

brought her a small table, on which she had

arranged a coffee-pot, a few cups, and a

couple of bottles of wine and spirits. With-

out speaking she ran to an

538

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZIXE.

declare that she could count the shells as they

flew past, and then run back to the wounded

and say that she was sure they were much

better shots.

At last the fire slackened, and its direction

changed. In the confusion, when assisting

the wounded, I had lost my pass, and the

officer kindly offered to give me one with

permission to

re-enter Paris

by another gate.

He was in the

act of writing it

when a National

guard came in

with the news

that Com-

mandant La

Saigne had just

been killed, and

that the enemy

were advancing.

My exceed-

ingly kind young

friend, the can-

tiniere, would not

believe in such

ba:l hick — the

C o 1n m a n d a n t

was evidently a

great favourite

with her — and

was sure that

the "Good

Doctor " would

go out and aid

him. I could

Hot well refuse

after the splendid courage she had herself

shown. She grasped my hand and wished

me God speed.

Once in the roadway, I ascertained that

the National Guards and Versailles troops

were fighting from house to house. They

had loopholed the walls of gardens and villas,

and were firing rapidly. The Commandant

had been killed while trying to storm a

barricade which defended pan of the suburb

held by the Government skirmishers. He

had mounted it when a bullet struck him in

the thigh, and a second in the breast. Fortu-

nately the Versailles skirmishers, who were not

twenty yards distant, respected the ambulance

flag which I waved, and with the aid of a Com-

munist I carried

the body back to

the house.

I instantly

warned the young

woman and her

comrades that

this place would

be captured in a

few minutes, and

that every one

of them would

be shot or

bayoneted. The
BY FRANCIS JOHN.

AT the moment of going to press with this

number of Pearson's Magazine, affairs on the

south-eastern frontier of Egypt are assuming a

most serious appearance. A force of Der-

vishes—10,000 cavalry, camelmen, spearmen,

and Soudanese riflemen—is collected at

Dongola; and an expeditionary force, con-

sisting of three Soudanese battalions, num-

bering a couple of thousand men, with a

detachment of the Egyptian camel corps,

a camel battery, a mule battery, and a strong

body of cavalry, is on the point of moving

forward from Wadi-Halfa, on the Egyptian

southern frontier line, to Dongola; while

reinforcements are rapidly being concen-

trated towards that former stronghold in

order to assist in the expedition should it be

necessary.

No actual fighting has yet taken place,

therefore it is impossible, as matters now

stand, to form anything beyond a theoretical

opinion concerning the morale of the Egyptian

forces in action against those warriors by

whom they were time after time soundly

beaten in the early stages of the Soudan

campaign of 1883-5.

Whether, however, the results will be the

same in the conflict which at present seems

imminent, or whether they will give a good

account of themselves, is probably by this

time known to the world; yet, even though

the events daily occurring just now should,

after all, fail to culminate in a serious, war,

and matters be amicably arranged between

Egypt and the Khalifa, still, the eyes of all

Britain will be turned upon the native

Egyptian soldiers; and it is the object of this

article to give readers some idea of the

magnificent results that have been attained in

the comparatively short space of ten years by

the organising capabilities, dogged perse-

verance, and patience of those British officers

and non-commissioned officers who, from

the chaotic remnants of an army that was no

army, have built up a fighting force equal, so

far as smartness and drill is concerned, to

any body of armed men outside our shores.

On September 191!!, 1882, a decree was

issued, immediately after the British occupa-

tion of Egypt, stating in laconic terms that

" the Egyptian army was disbanded."

The motive which prompted this disband-

ment was the knowledge that the Egyptian

army, or what remained of it, was not only

useless as a fighting body, but an absolute

source of danger to the country. The

regulations that were supposed to control the

soldiers existed only in so many words.

The men were subjected to the most fearful

tortures at the hands of the inhuman and

corrupt officers, who, themselves frequently

receiving no salary, were in the habit of

540

PEARSON'S MAGAZIXE.

intercepting the miserable pittance due to

each of the men under their command.

The recruit was torn from his home, pro-

vided with an ill-fit-

ting and, probably,

well-worn uniform,

equipped with arms,

made to live in

barracks that were

never cleaned by

order from one

year's end to the

other, and if sick,

had to depend, by

reason of the total

absence of hospital

accommodation,

upon the charitable-

ness of his com-

rades in arms and

miser}'.

No specified term

of service existed. A

man was made to

serve the colours

just as long as his

commanding officer

thought fit; and, as

this latter individual

never held com-

munication with his

men, except to bully

and maltreat them

on parade, the

soldier, if he ever

returned at all to

his native village, would do so, in nine cases

out of ten, because physical weakness, result-

ing from his mode of living, had rendered

him useless for further military service.

Living in a perpetual state of fear, bullied

and struck at every conceivable opportunity

by the men in whom, according to the

accepted military spirit of the civilised world,

he should have placed his confidence, half-

starved, ill-paid or not paid at all, existing in

a state as low as slavery—such, in the early

eighties, was the life of the private soldier

of the Egyptian army, and small blame to

him if, at the critical moment, he exhibited

those traits of cowardice and incapacity

which, thanks to his officers, was all that

ONE OF THE "2ND BATTALION

OF THE CAMERON HIGH-

LANDERS."

remained, since every atom of manliness had

been crushed out of his nature.

Aware of their men's childish craven-

heartedness, and, possibly, conscience-

stricken with the knowledge of their own

corruptness and brutality, the officers them-

selves in most of the engagements exhibited

as much terror as their men, and invariably

led the panic-stricken flight.

This condition of affairs, then, may safely

be taken to account for the miserably poor

exhibition made by the fellah as a fighting

man. All the warlike propensities of that

THE SOLDIERS OF THE KHEDIVE.

541

of the same material as that which had formed

the previous disastrously ineffective force, he

argued, and, as events have proved, rightly,

that the best defensive body for a country

should be composed of its inhabitants, and this

conclusion was arrived at in face of schemes for

placing in this responsible position trained

men drawn from the scum of other nations,

men who, though endowed with better fight-

ing qualities than the home-born Egyptian,

were also endowed with an uncomfortable

propensity for loot, a propensity ineradicable

from the nature of the hireling.

Therefore, Lord Dufferin relegated the task

of reorganising the army to Sir Evelyn

Wood. He, with Lord Dufferin, fully

realised the bottom cause of the Egyptian

soldiers' cowardice, and promptly went the

right way to work to develop their higher

qualities by paying minute attention to the

health of the six thousand men conscripted to

form the new army, and by

endeavouring to get them.

to place confidence in

their British officers—in

both of which respects/ he

and his successors have

been most successful.

The fellah, immediately

he recognised the im-

provement in his. position

under British influence,

applied himself to drill

with a zeal never yet

exhibited by Tommy

Atkins. It is stated on

good authority, that not

only were the men posi- - _ •*

tively anxious to be put

through their movements,

but it was found necessary

on more than one occasion to prevent them

from practising their drill in the streets and

barrack-rooms when off duty. Perhaps this

was not so much the result of a pious

endeavour to please the drill instructor, as the

amount of childish pleasure they reaped from

going through the movements before an

admiring crowd.

It had taken years of persistent ill-treat-

ment and degradation to break the spirit of

the Khedive's soldiers up till the year 1882

and, in the natural order of things, it has

taken years of careful treatment to develop in

them a spirit of manliness.

Shortly after the army was

reorganised a number of

troops under Hicks Pasha

were dispatched against the

Mahdists, whom they engaged

at El Obeid on March 3rd,

1883. At this early stage of

the1r training under British

officers their smartness was

only veneer, with the result

that immediately on the

advance of the Dervishes

their cowardice asserted itself,

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

have been made in the improvement of the

army, and that it fully justified the confidence

that had been placed in it was shown in 1889,

when Sir Francis Grenfell routed an army of

30,000 Dervishes at Toski with a force that

did not exceed 5000 men, killing and taking

prisoners nearly 16,000 of the enemy.

These miraculous changes have been

brought about by the confidence felt by the

fellahin for their British leaders. The

prominent in the temperament of his fo/e-

fathers.

In this respect he differs from the more

recently organised battalions of Soudanese—•

tall, ebony-coloured men, with very thin legs

and scraggy bodies, magnificent fighters

withal. These regiments—there are five of

them—form the leaven of the Egyptian army,

and the combination results iu an excellent

fighting body.

A MEMBER OF THE CAMEL BATTERY.

Egyptian is docile and easily affected by the

moral influence of his superiors. Individually

he is helpless and uninitiativc, but, in

numbers, is a fairly reliable fighting machine.

He is recruited chiefly from among the work-

ing class of natives, who are held in the

lowest estimation as a degenerate race,

although hard-working and sober. Among

the poorer classes he is invariably a vege-

tarian. •

Physically, he has all the attributes that go

to make a good soldier, being strong, robust,

and capable of undergoing a large amount of

privation. But he lacks the warlike ."-pirit so

They are all born soldiers, hot blooded,

and difficult to hold in check during an

engagement, especially when fighting their

hereditary enemies, the Arabs of the Soudan.

They have that brilliant dash which the

" Gippy " lacks, a virtue, however, that,

unless controlled by British discretion, would

carry them in nine cases out of ten to certain

annihilation.

During a fierce engagement on the south-

eastern frontier of Egypt some years back,

between a party of these men and a force

of Dervish marauders, the excellent shooting

of the troops had completely routed the

THE SOLDIERS OF THE KHEDIVE.

543

enemy. But when the order to cease fire

was given, the fighting blood of these men

was so roused that they paid no attention

whatever to the instructions, with the result

that the English officers had to walk along

in front of their rifles in order to stop the

firing.

In addition to the eight fellahin, or native

Egyptian, battalions and the five Soudan

battalions, there is one reserve regiment and

one disciplinary company.

Thanks to the services rendered by the

officers and non-commissioned officers of the

Royal Artillery, this arm of the Egyptian

service is in a very efficient condition, the

mule and camel batteries being of immense

utility in the class of warfare carried on in

the Soudan.

The cavalry, consisting of five hundred

men, constituting a regiment of six squadrons,

is mounted on fine Syrian horses; and the

camel corps of three hundred men—the

Cavalry of the Desert—has attached to it

a body of English officers, the equal of

whom, for the work entailed, no other army

in the world but that of Great Britain could

produce.

In connection with camels, it is interesting

to note that when the expedition organised

for the relief of General Gordon was in

preparation at Assouan, 8000 of these animals

were purchased for the British forces at an

average price of £1$ 6s. nd. and this is,

without exception, the largest number of

camels ever collected at any one time within

recent years for military purposes.

The drill and instruction of the men is the

same as that adopted in our own Army, and

is imparted by a staff of non-commissioned

officers lent by the War Office authorities at

home for a term of years, during which time

the Egyptian Government pay all expenses.

And it is these men, under the direction of

the British authorities, who have lifted the

Egyptian soldier from his life of misery and

corruption to his present high standard of

efficiency as a fighting machine; and this

result, moreover, has been attained without

undue harshness, for between the Egyptian,

especially the Soudanese, and his white com-

manders exists an attachment on the one

side and respect on the other that is most

gratifying.

The feeling, moreover, between the British

private and the Soudanese blacks is curiously

warm; in fact, so attached are the 79il1

Highlanders and the 9th Soudanese, that

the latter are known amongst the troops

as the '• 2nd Battalion of the Cameron

Highlanders."

•i"'.

THE CAMEL CORPS OX OUTPOST DUTY.

SECRETS^ Cou RTS

OF

EUROPE

THE CONFIDENCE'S OF AN

Ey-/\MBflSSADOK ELICITED BY

rLLEN UPWARD

V.—"PRINCE CITRON."

WE were strolling past the Madeleine,

on our way back from the Ode"on

Theatre, when all at once the Ambas-

sador broke off in the midst of an

animated dissertation on the decline of

the French drama, and slackened his

pace, glancing at the broad flight of

steps which leads up to the imposing

front of this church.

"I never pass this spot at night," he

observed in regretful tones, "without recalling

the fate of poor ' Prince Citron '!"

''Prince Citron!" I exclaimed, completely puzzled,

and imagining him to refer to a character in some

burlesque. " And who was this prince of fruits, if one may

ask?"

His Excellency turned and glanced at me in grave surprise.

"Is it possible that you have never heard of this nickname, which Paris, in a jesting

moment, bestowed upon the late Prince of Orange ? I thought that you were too old a

boulevardier not to be familiar with it. But it is only another proof of how quickly such

things are forgotten."

" Now you speak of it, I remember having heard something about this Prince," I

murmured.

" He was, of course, the heir to the throne of the Netherlands," remarked my companion,

beginning to walk on again, "and, if he had lived, would have succeeded to William III.,

instead of this little Queen Wilhelmina."

" But was he not a young man with a terrible reputation, who was compelled to live abroad

on account of the scandal created by his proceedings?"

The Ambassador frowned, and jerked his shoulders impatiently.

" Wrong, quite wrong," he replied with warmth. " That is rather the effect which vulgar

gossip has mistaken for the cause. I know well what the Parisians, so easily deceived by

appearances, thought of this unhappy young man, who exposed himself so freely to harsh

judgments during ihe years which he spent on the Boulevards.

Copyright, 1896, in Ihe Unistd States of America by Allen Vptcard.

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

545

" But chance led me into relations' with

him which caused me to learn the trouble

underlying that wrecked life, a tragedy to

which only three persons possessed the key-

However, we are nearly at my hdtel. Pay

me the compliment of coming

in for a short time, and as I

well know your insatiable

curiosity, I will in return tell

you the true story of ' Prince

Citron.'

'• It was on just such a

night as this, some years ago,"

began the Ambassador, as

soon as we were comfortably

settled in the smoking room

of his luxurious mansion,

" and King William's first

wife was still alive. You are

aware that it was his second

wife who is the mother of

Wilhelmina ? "

" I had forgotten it, but no

matter."

" It is, on the contrary, a

fact which must be borne in

mind," retorted his Excel-

lency. " I was returning

home from the theatre, but,

having lingered to chat with

one of the performers—this

was while I was still a

bachelor — the crowds had

had time to clear away, and I

found the streets almost

deserted. It was, in effect,

past midnight, an hour at

which the true boulevardier is

seldom abroad, as by that

time he has selected the

restaurant in which he intends to sup, and has

settled down for the remainder of the night.

" It was therefore with some surprise and

curiosity that, as I approached the Madeleine,

I observed a small crowd collected at the

foot of the steps. Crossing over to find out

what had taken place, I found myself on the

outside of a ring of women, the most aban-

doned wretches of the quarter, who had

gathered round the figure of a man lying on

the bottom step of the flight, apparently

intoxicated beyond the power to move.

" The spectacle of this unfortunate seemed1

to have strangely excited the women, who

were hurling at him the vilest insults in their

horrible vocabulary. Incensed at the

behaviour of these hags, I roughly pushed

" The spectacle of this unfortunate seemed to have strangely excited

the women."

my way through them to the side of their

victim, whose clothes, disordered and covered

with mud as they were, seemed to be those of

a man of position. The wretched creature

was lying on one side, his left hand out-

stretched, with which he seemed to be trying

feebly to ward off the foul epithets of his

tormentors. I stooped down over him, and

lifted his head to the light.

546

PEARSOX'S MAGAZINE.

monarchy, the descendant of William the

Silent, in this deplorable situation. I had

not failed to hear some of the dark reports as

to this young man's career; nevertheless at

such a moment the only sentiment which

inspired me was that of the most profound

pity.

" Sternly rebuking the filthy hags, who

" Into this I assisted Alexander."

slunk away before my reproaches, I raised

the Prince to his feet, and supported him

down to the edge of the pavement, where I

perceived an empty fiacre coming up. Into

this I assisted Alexander—to give him his

proper name—who instantly fell like a log

upon the cushions. Then I gave the driver

my own address, and we proceeded to the

house near the Rue de Rivoli, in which I at

that time occupied a small flat.

" During the short drive, Prince Alexander

lay absolutely motionless, and without uttering

a sound. But from time to time I caught a

gleam of dull intelligence in his bloodshot

eyes, which were turned

towards me, as if he were

trying to comprehend who

I was, and what accident

had brought him into my

company.

" When we got to the

house, it was necessary for

me to engage the services

of the concierge to get the

unfortunate youth upstairs

to my apartment, which was

on the third floor. Then I

found that my valet had

retired, a circumstance

which I did not regret. I

got my strange visitor com-

fortably settled upon a

couch ; I loosened his

collar and necktie for him,

removed his boots, and

spread a warm rug over his

feet Then I sat down to

wait till he should recover

from his lethargy.

" While I watched his

uneasy repose, I strove to

recall the various things

which I had heard about

the heir of William III. He

was, of course, well known

to me by sight, for the

incident I speak of took

place at a time when I was

attached to the Staff of the

Foreign Office in Paris, and

when, as you may have

heard, there was some talk

of making me Deputy and Minister.

" But I preferred a diplomatic career i0 a

parliamentary one. and I do not regret my

decision. In a country like France, which is

ruled over by the bourgeois, politics reduce

themselves to a terribly prosaic level. I can

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

547

only find the romance for which my dis-

position craves in the courts of those

countries where the will of a monarch still

counts for much, and where the course of

the greatest events may be decided by a nod

given at the right moment, or by a sentence

whispered in the intervals of a waltz."

The Ambassador paused, an absent look

came into his eyes, and a subtle smile over-

spread his features, as if called forth by some

recollection which pleased him.

•' You were saying?" I ventured to observe.

"A thousand pardons! I had lost myself,''

he exclaimed, rousing himself from his

abstraction. •' Yes, I was about to say that,

though I had never before had any inter-

course with • Prince Citron,' I was familiar

with the scandalous stories which were in

circulation about him. It was generally

believed that his residence in Paris was not

altogether voluntary—that, in fact he had

been compelled to leave the Hague in conse-

quence of some terrible misunderstanding

with his father, and there were those who

asserted that the old King of the Netherlands

had sworn that his son should never return

so long as he himself was alive. But, though

there were a hundred different versions of

the cause of this exile, the truth of the matter

had remained a secret from every one, and

even in his most reckless moments no

allusion to it ever passed the lips of the

Prince.

" In the meantime, the manner of his life

since he had come to reside in Paris was

unhappily only too well ascertained. From

the moment of quitting his own country he

seemed to have cast aside all restraint, and

abandoned himself to all kinds of excesses,

without even attempting to keep up that

outward decorum which is the morality of

princes.

" There were few crimes which had not

been laid to the charge of this degenerate

scion of the House of Orange, who appeared

to take a delight in outraging public opinion.

The worst things which were said about him,

it would be impossible for me to repeat, and

I firmly believe they were unfounded ; but

enough was known or suspected to make

his friendship considered a doubtful honour;

and, in short, but for his exalted rank, the

doors of society would have been long ago

shut in his face.

"Such was this miserable being, on whom,

nevertheless, the eyes of European statesmen

had long been anxiously fixed, and whose

life, by a strange turn of events, had become

of the greatest value to France."

" To France? But I fear I do not follow

you, M. l'Ambassadeur,1' I exclaimed.

" It is a very simple matter. If you will

cast your eye over the map of Europe you

will perceive, nestling between the frontiers

of France, Germany and Belgium, the little

State of Luxemburg. At the time of which I

speak, Luxemburg was united to the Dutch

kingdom by a similar tie to that which

54*

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

since come to pass. You will now com-

prehend what important interests centred in

the life of ' Prince Citron,' this disreputable

waif of the Boulevards.

" You will acquit me, I feel certain, of any

intention to profit by the accident which had

caused me to become the protector of the

Prince. So little did I expect that I was

about to become the possessor of a

secret sufficient to have lighted the

flames of war, that I was merely

waiting till my guest was suf-

ficiently recovered to offer him

my escort to his own residence.

" The first sign I

had that he was

coming to himself

was finding his eyes

obstinately-fixed upon

me in a long gaze.

No sooner did he

perceive that his look

was returned, how-

ever, than a deep

flush suffused his

face, he threw up his

hands with that

pathetic gesture I had

observed when I first

came upon him, and

uttered a sorrowful

groan.

" I sprang to my

feet and approached

him.

"• I fear your Royal

Highness is unwell,'

I said, exaggerat-

ing the defer-

ence of my

manner in

order to

soothe his ^

self-respect, •„

so cruelly

wounded by

the events of the night.

' If there is anything which it is

in my power to do, I respectfully

request that you will honour me with

your commands.'

" Re-assured, no doubt, by the cordiality

of my expressions, the Prince withdrew his

hands from before his face, and again

regarded me steadily for about half a minute.

A sentence whispered in the

interval of a waltz."

" ' Who are you ? ' he asked, with

reserve.

" I explained to him, dwelling on my con-

nection with the Quai d'Orsay. in order to

SOCRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

549

inspire him with confidence. I went on to

add:

" ' Accident caused me to come up at the

moment that your Royal Highness was over-

come by illness on the Boulevard, and I took

the liberty of bringing you to my apartment

to recover, as I had not the honour to know

your address.'

" He sat up on the couch, and thrust his

disordered hair back from his forehead, while

he retorted morosely:

" ' I was not ill; I was drunk. You found

me lying on the steps of the church, sur-

rounded by those horrible women.'

" And he groaned afresh at the recollec-

tion.

"' It is not for me to contradict your

Highness,' I responded mildly ; ' but should

there ever be a question raised as to this

affair—which I do not anticipate—I shall

adhere to my opinion all the same.'

" As I said this, I observed a milder

expression coming over his features. He

gave me a wistful, questioning look which

-.vent to my heart.

"' Why do you treat me like this ?' he

asked, speaking less abruptly. ' You know

what I am—an outcast for whom no one

pretends to feel respect.'

" ' Pardon me,' I returned, ' the race you

represent, and the exalted destiny to which

you have been born, must always command

respect. Concerning your private life, I have

not presumed to form an opinion, but I am

not so ignorant as not to perceive that the

benefits conferred on nations by personages

of your rank, and the peculiar temptations

which assail them, enable them to claim

justly a certain toleration which is not

extended to everybody.'"

I had long suspected the Ambassador of

being but a lukewarm adherent to the

Republican regime in his country, for I had

observed in him a tone of old-world reverence

in speaking of the members of Royal houses.

At this open display of Royahst sentiment,

I could not forbear inquiring:

" But surely, M. l'Ambassadeur, I am

right, am I not, in supposing you to be a

Republican?"

His Excellency drew himself up, frowning,

and replied with some formality :

" You are right in supposing me to cherish

feelings of loyalty towards those institutions

which the French people has adopted, and

which are suited Co its genius. But I am not

a fanatic, and it appears to me that .there are

many nations which depend for their

prosperity upon the monarchical system. But

all this is beside the mark. In what I said to

Alexander, it was simply my object to set

him at his ease, and if you will reflect, you

will see that I could not have spoken other-

wise than I did."

I felt that I had been let off lightly, and

allowed him to proceed without further

interruption.

" Not to worry you with the details of our

550

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZIXE.

ship with which you have inspired me is so

profound that I am overwhelmed with gratifi-

cation at the honour which you propose to

confer on me. But it is right that I should

remind you that as yet I am hardly known

to you sufficiently for you to repose in me so

great a trust. Permit me to suggest that you

should wait till another occasion before you

yield to an impulse which you may perhaps

afterwards regret.'

" 'No, I will not,' he replied, with resolu-

tion. ' The delicacy which you show in

making such a suggestion confirms the

opinion I had already formed of your char-

acter. Besides there are political reasons

which assure me that my secret is safe in

your hands. I merely ask that what I am

about to say to you shall not be repeated as

long as my father and I are alive.'

"I hastened to give the required assurances,

which Alexander received with melancholy

indifference.

"' From your official connections,' he

began, ' you are no doubt aware of the state

of things as regards the Luxemburg suc-

cession.'

"'Certainly, M. le Prince,' I replied. 'The

circumstances to which you refer are perfectly

familiar to me. There is no Frenchman in

my position who does not earnestly hope that

you may long live to preserve the connection

between the Grand Duchy and the Kingdom

of the Netherlands.'

'• He shook his head mournfully.

" ' Wait till you have heard my confession

before you express a sentiment which may

afterwards appear to you in the light of a

mockeiy.'

" He drank off the remainder of his

chocolate, threw himself down again upon

the couch, and proceeded to frame his

narrative in words which I will repeat to the

best of my power.

" ' Of my father—as I suppose I must

continue to call him—King William, it is

difficult for me to speak without appearing

to give way to resentment. As a patriot and

a sovereign the independence of the Nether-

lands is the thing dearest to his heart, and

hence the strength of that hatred with which

he has always regarded the threatening march

of Germany.

"' The Germans covet the wealth of our

people, our flourishing seaports, and our fine

mercantile marine. Above all, they have

cast hungry eyes upon our magnificent

colonies in the East Indies. In short, the

rulers of that empire have fully made up their

minds to annex the Netherlands at the first

opportunity, and only the influence of France

and England restrains them from carrying

out their intention, and reducing us to the

condition of Schleswick and Alsace.

" ' The knowledge of these unscrupulous

designs, which were not too well concealed

by Von Bismarck, caused the greatest indig-

nation to King William, who was in conse-

quence especially anxious that Luxemburg

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

to believe that I was unmoved. Yet I was

still far from anticipating to what this pitiful

relation tended.

" ' As I grew older,' proceeded Alexander,

' I ceased to torment myself with the vain

idea of conquering my father's regard. As a

result. I became indifferent to his good

opinion, and finally embittered against him

and against

my circum-

stances. I

cursed the

evil fortune

which had

separated me

from the com-

mon lot of

my fellow

creatures, and

while crush-

ing me with

the pomp and

state of

royalty, had

deprived me

of far more

precious pos-

sessions. It

wasn't long

before the

restraints im-

posed upon

me by my

high rank

galled me to

an unbearable

degree.

"'It be-

came my

favourite re-

source to

elude the

watchfulness

of my attend- '

ants, to quit

the Palace in disguise, and to seek adven-

tures in the streets of the Hague, or on

the beach of Scheveningen. At such

moments I could forget that I was a prince,

and revel in the freedom which is so dear to

boys.

"' When the news of these escapades

reached the King, his frigid demeanour

towards me was exchanged for anger. He

reproached me in bitter terms for what he

called my low and unprincely tastes, and

ordered my governor to maintain over me a

guard more suited to a prisoner than a youth

of royal blood. This governor, faithful to

his instructions, was never tired of lecturing

me on the duties of my station

and remonstrating with me on my

unworthy inclinations.

" ' The only result of this was

to confirm me in my own bent.

The Bohemian instinct was too

strongly planted in my nature for

M—p^fc... them to root it out. I

552

PEA RSOArS MA GA ZINE.

panion was saying. That the prince had

indulged in bad habits, I was well aware, but

that he should have stooped to the society of

persons so much his inferiors, came to me as

a shock. I fancied he observed my con-

sternation, for he remarked:

"' You see I conceal nothing from you,

M. le Baron. I rely on your kind heart,

when you have heard me to the end, to

extend to me what sympathy you can. From

my father I received none. His anger was

redoubled, on the contrary. He sent for me

time after time, told me that I was disgracing

my rank, and asked me whether I should

prefer the station of a peasant to that of a

prince.

" ' On one occasion, stung by these taunts,

I boldly answered that I should, since in that

case I might have a father who cared for me.

I was startled by the effect which this reproach

produced on him. He turned pale, stam-

mered out some unintelligible words, and

then signed to me to leave him alone.

"' This state of things could not last.

Why should I seek to excuse myself?

Neglected by those who ought to have watched

•over my childhood, outraged in the tenderest

part of my nature, I will admit to you that I

•did become hardened and depraved. I took

to play, and plunged heavily into debt; I

•drank, and in short I indulged in dissipations

which speedily became a public scandal.

" ' One day affairs came to a crisis. The

King had sent for me to confront me with

the claims of certain creditors who had sent

in their accounts to him, and insolently

demanded payment. I was not in the Palace;

•a search was made for me, and they discovered

me in the parlour of a tavern in a disreputable

•quarter of the city. I was even slightly

intoxicated, and in this state they brought me

before William III., one of the most decorous

of men.

" ' His language quickly restored me to my

senses. As soon as we were alone together,

he used to me expressions so degrading that

I exclaimed indignantly:

"' " Remember, sire, that I am of the race

of Orange equally with yourself."

" ' " You are nothing of the sort ! " he

retorted fiercely, and then suddenly checked

himself, and trembled all over like a man

who has just committed a desperate deed,

and realises the consequences when it is too

late.

" ' It would be idle to describe the shock

which was caused to me by these words. As

soon as I could collect myself sufficiently to

speak, I insisted on an explanation. Whether

he saw that he had gone too far to draw back,

or whether he hoped that the knowledge of

the truth would work a change in my future

conduct, he gave way, and revealed to me the

terrible secret which has blasted my life.'

" This secret," continued the Ambassador

after a moment's pause, " which I learnt on

that night from the lips of ' Prince Citron,'

I have never communicated to a human

SECRETS OF THE COl'RTS OF EUROPE.

553

been married to William III. for twelve years,

was about to give birth to a child. It was

felt that if this child should prove to be a

boy, the long-vexed question of Luxemburg

would be set at rest, and hence the anxiety

which prevailed.

" The King himself, as you will gather

from what I have already repeated, was not

less concerned than his subjects. In short,

the Queen's bedside became the

centre of the most terrible sus-

pense. The King could hardly

be induced to leave her for

a moment, the chief

physician of the Court

took' up his residence

in the Palace, and the

Prime Minister was

constantly in attend-

ance.

"In spite of every

precaution, however,

the birth took place

prematurely at an un-

expected moment,

when only the phy sici an

and a single nurse

were present in the

royal chamber.

The doctor, a man

of great resolution,

instantly dis-

patched the woman

to inform the King

that he was a father, •

and to request him

to come imme-

diately to the

scene.

" His Majesty,

who was in an

adjoining room,

hastily obeyed the

summons, and the physician, shutting the

nurse into another apartment, broke to him

the fearful intelligence that the child just born

was of the feminine sex, while, owing to the

unhappy circumstances of the case, it was

impossible that the Queen could ever again

become a mother.

" The dilemma in which William III. now

found himself was indeed a desperate one.

Vol. I.—37.

This girl, his only child, must clearly succeed

to the throne of the Netherlands. As clearly,

she could never occupy that of Luxemburg.

In order to secure the Grand Duchy it was

necessary that King William III. should have

a son; the possibility of his having one had

now practically disappeared.

" In his extremity the unfortunate King even

sounded the physician as to the prospect of

life for his Queen,

to whom he was

much attached. But

the reply was to the

effect that her

Majesty would cer-

554

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

it still seems to me—this monstrous scheme

was adopted, the physician himself under-

taking to carry it out. He took away the

tiny princess, without being detected, gained

•admittance to the keeper's wife under the

pretext of being sent by the King to offer his

services, exchanged the infants, and brought

back the plebeian child to be reared in the

Palace as the heir to the Nether-

lands and Luxemburg,

"Thus was this

extraordinary plot

carried out with the

most complete

success. The

early death of

the unhappy

little daughter

of the Royal

house, from a

congenital

cause, seemed

to condone the

King's treach-

ery to his wife,

and effectually

stopped all fear

of discovery.

The King and

his two accom-

pli ce s pre-

served their

secret, till the

moment when

a fit of rage led

tothe revelation

of it to the

person most

concerned."

" And what did the Prince of Orange do,

when the King informed him of all this?"

I asked, as the Ambassador made a long

pause.

" That is the very question which I put to

him on the occasion when he took me into

his confidence. He replied :

" ' My first feeling, on learning that I had

no title to the position that I occupied, was

one of sheer dismay. But this feeling

deepened into one of fierce resentment as I

realised what these men. this King and his

ministers, had made of me. I was a living

" Alexander suddenly got up to

propose my health."

falsehood, the most colossal impostor in the

world, robbed of my very manhood, and un-

able thenceforth to look my fellow creatures

in the face.

'•' If my adoptive father had hoped to

crush me by the disclosure of my true position,

he must have been sadly disappointed. My

first impulse was to reject the lying role he

had thrust upon me, and to publicly

renounce my borrowed rank. The

first hint of such an intention,

was enough to bring him to

reason. For the first time,

some faint notion of the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

555

stantial pension being assigned to me on the

condition that the secret of my birth was

strictly kept.

" ' Such I am, such is my career. You

perceive in me a monster of the moral world,

a creature to whom every virtuous and noble

aspiration has been forbidden before he was

born, a wretch whose life is a prolonged

crime, and who will render the only atone-

ment to society which is in his power by

hastening his progress to the grave.' "

As the Ambassador repeated these pathetic

words of the Prince, his voice shook. It

was indeed necessary to believe that his re-

collections had caused him genuine emotion.

" I endeavoured to soothe this young man,

so miserably situated, but without any real

success. By this time dawn was approaching,

and he decided to return to his own residence,

where he pressed me to visit him. To gratify

him I consented, but I did not fulfil my

promise. With every sentiment of pity for

this ' impostor in spite of himself,' I did not

care to associate with him ; and, besides, his

circle, you understand, was not one of those

in which one gains reputation by mixing.''

" You do an injustice to your kind heart,

my dear Ambassador, in assigning such a

reason," I remonstrated. " I am positive that

you are concealing something from me.''

His Excellency blushed.

" Ah, well, my friend, I see that you are

insatiable. In effect I did meet ' Prince

Citron' once, shortly after the night I have

described to you. He was in the company

of some of his friends, together with several

ladies, in a restaurant which I chanced to

enter.

" Although somewhat excited by drink, he

readily recognised me, and insisted on my

joining his party. This I was most unwilling

to do, but rather than create a scene, I con-

sented, and sat down at the table. The

conversation was decidedly indelicate, and in

fact the whole atmosphere was such that I

was seeking for an excuse to take my depar-

ture when Alexander suddenly got up to

propose my health.

" In words which were fortunately

rendered indistinct by the effect of his

intoxication, he proceeded to relate at great

length, and with many bewildering pauses

and digressions, the story of my rescue of

him on the former occasion. But to my

horror, he did not stop there, but began to

show an intention of reproducing our

conversation, including the terrible disclosure

which he had made to me.

" I sprang to my feet, and endeavoured to

silence him. At the same time I looked

round, and gladly perceived that his other

guests had ceased to pay any attention to

what he was saying. I had some difficulty in

checking the wretched young man, who, I

firmly believe, had repented of the confidence

he had placed in me, and hoped, by turning

the affair into ridicule, to make me disbelieve

the entire story.

Mr. Grant Allen's name

Mr. Grant Allen, has been before the public

for many years past in the

three capacities of man of science, social

philosopher, and novelist. Latterly he has

doubled up his social philosophy with his

fiction, producing what he calls " Hill Top "

novels. It is proverbial that the public

possesses a short memory, and, above all

things, loves to have a convenient label

attached to a man who is being talked about :

it helps it to identify individi als

In the case of novelists the

public rarely chooses to con-

nect an author at one time

with more than one work,

although he may have writ-

ten a hundred. A year ago

Mr. Grant Allen's name

was universally coupled

with "The Woman Who

Did,'' and, had he not pub-

lished another work which

has partially eclipsed that

in popularity, he might

have continued to be

known almost exclusively

as Herminia Barton's

biographer.

But the satire on middle-

class Britons contained in

"The British Barbarians"

—the book in which a twenty-fifth century

gentleman, named Bertram Ingledew teaches

Fridat Monteith that marriage is a fetish, and

that many other customs dear to Britishers

rank with the taboos of savages—has begun

to sink into the mind of the public, and will

doubtless end in Mr. Grant Allen shortly

acquiring the sobriquet of "barbarian.''

This latest book of his has had the

•

MR. GRANT ALLEN.

From a Photo by Elliott and Fry.

distinction of a laboured lampoon from a

leading critic, and the inestimable advantage

of being well abused by all who wish to

consider themselves orthodox, either in

religion or in social science.

Of the man behind the book—that is, of

Mr. Grant Allen in ordinary life—it is impos-

sible to speak without respect, whatever one's

judgment may be of his special work in

literature. In person he is tall, wiry, and

enthusiastic. One could almost picture him

as a typical missionary, so earnest

is his manner, and so far removed

from the flippant cynic that

many have imagined him

to be.

Few men have passed

through such struggles and

misfortunes, as he; but he

has striven bravely, and

trouble has left no per-

manent mark upon him.

Born in Canada, in 1848,

the son of a clergyman, and

belonging on his mother's

side to an old French

IN THE PUBLIC EYE.

557

who had been his benefactress up till then,

left him stranded, and he married.

The necessity of earning a livelihood

drove him to that refuge of the destitute,

the trade of schoolmaster, and for three years,

after leaving Oxford in 1870, he taught Latin

and Greek verse at various public schools,

until Providence, disguised as the Colonial

Office, sent him to Jamaica as Professor of

Classics in the new Government College at

Spanish Town.

Three years later, on the break up of the

College, he returned to England without an

occupation. This was twenty years ago.

Then began a long struggle to make a

name in literature. Space will not allow us

to give the details of the struggle, but they

have been recorded in an article entitled

" My First Book," which appeared in The

Idler of September, 1892, and are

available also in book form to any

young aspirant who imagines that

there is a royal road to success in

the world of books.

Despite the sombre views of

matrimonial bliss contained

in Mr. Grant Allen's later

works, it may be interesting

to our readers to know that

he is most happily married,

and lives in a charming

house at Hind Head.

Lord Roberts of

Candahar.

Son of the

late Sir Abra-

ham Roberts,

Lord Roberts of Candahar was born in 1832,

and was educated at Eton, Sandhurst, and

Addiscomb. In 1851 he received his first

commission as second lieutenant in the

Bengal Artillery.

A few years later he was in the thick of

the Indian Mutiny, and during this campaign

displayed a dash and a brilliancy which

surprised even those who were intimate with

him. In 1858 he received the Victoria Cross

for personal bravery in the field. The descrip-

tion of the act which gained for him this

distinction was given thus in the report sent

to the Home Government:

Lieutenant Roberts's gallantry has on every

occasion been most marked. On following up the

retreating enemy on January Jnd, 1858, at Khoda-

gunge, he saw in the distance two sepoys going

away with a standard. Lieutenant Roberts put

spurs to his horse and overtook them just as they

were entering a village. They immediately turned

round and presented their muskets at him, one of

the men pulling the trigger ; but, fortunately, the

cap snapped, and one of the men was cut down by

the gallant young officer, and the standard taken

possession of by him. He also, on the same day,

cut down another sepoy who was standing at bay

with musket and bayonet keeping off a sowar.

Lieutenant Roberts rode to the assistance of the

horseman, and, rushing at the sepoy, with one blow

of his sword cut him across the face, killing him on

558

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

of the most brilliant exploits in modern

military history. Ayoob Khan, after inflict-

ing a terrible defeat on General Burrows at

Maiwand, prepared to attack General Prim-

rose's garrison at Candahar. Meanwhile,

Sir Frederick Roberts gathered a force of

9,000 picked men, and disappeared with his

little army into the interior of that wild, war-

stricken country.

Cut off from all communication with the

outer world, nothing was heard of him for

three weeks, during which time the national

anxiety was intense. At last he emerged

victorious from that trackless region, grappled

with Ayoob Khan, inflicted on him a crush-

ing defeat, and relieved the garrison.

Sir Frederick Roberts succeeded Sir

Donald Stewart as Commander-in-Chief of

India, an appointment which met with the

general approbation of the British public.

He has since returned to England, and is

now Commander of the Forces in Ireland.

*****

In the minds of many

Bret Harte. people the short story is

the very highest form of

literary art—always excepting poetry. Bret

Harte is its most amazing exponent. He

made his reputation through it in the be-

ginning ; he clung to it as a means of

keeping his fame, not turning seriously to

what another and less commonsensible man

might have thought more "ambitious"

channels, and he still believes in it and

thrives by it after he has passed his fifty-third

birthday.

The quality which has made Bret Harte's

stories as famous in Europe as they are in

America (their sale in Germany is yearly

greater than their sale in the United States)

is unquestionably their sincerity. They are

stories. They do not pretend to be anything

else. Mr. Harte is not ashamed to be

interesting. When he has a fine thing to

say he says it finely. When he. has a plain

thing to say he says it plainly. But neither

is said for its own sake. It is said for the

sake of the story.

There is always a story for the fine thing

and the plain thing to wind themselves round.

He has not been inoculated by that modern

and distressing virus which has gained fame

for so many men in the big magazine offices,

and made the public yawn.

He believes that the first thing a story

BRET HARTE.

Prom a Photo by Thomas Fait.

ought to do is to interest. He does not write

" studies." He does not go on the principle

that if a thing is otherwise than common-

place it cannot be otherwise than vulgar. He

does not neglect detail, but he sees art in

things that are not pretty. He realises that

sublimity and simplicity, sorrow and merri-

ment, go together in this world, and that the

story that is great must have them all.

In all American literature there is no one

who has the daring of Bret Harte. He has

IN THE PUBLIC EVE.

559

The maintenance of his household costs

two millions sterling a year, and the balance

ot his income, deducting a fraction for

Government, is spent in the accumulation of

jewels and the adornment of his palace in a

manner befitting the wealthiest and most

powerful prince in India.

The royal stables contain over five hundred

horses for racing, hunting, polo, and carriage

use; while the greater number of his vehicles

are as gorgeously decorated as those of any

European potentate. They are lavishly

adorned with gold and silver, and fitted

inside with the finest silks and

velvets.

The Nizam himself is a fine

fellow. Of magnificent propor-

tions, he revels in the chase, and

enjoys a reputation among his

English friends as one of the

most daring tiger sportsmen in

India. In his part of the world

elephants are chiefly used in

hunting big game, and of these

animals he owns a large number.

Among the many forms of

relaxation in which he

indulges is that of

giving dinners, which

more often than not

cost several thousand

pounds apiece. The

service is of solid gold ;

the drinking goblets

thickly encrusted with

diamonds; the clothes

and uniforms of his

courtiers dazzling with gems of startling

beauty.

The Nizam, in common with other native

princes of India, converts his spare cash into

gold and precious stones, and stores it in his

palace closely guarded by trusted soldiers.

This potentate is in possession of a well-

stocked strong room valued at six millions

sterling, and among his heirlooms is one

diamond of 450 carats worth .£8oo,ooo.

Yet, side by side with these superb gems,

one may find an old kitchen clock, or an

almanack in loud colours, or a wire birdcage

worth about a couple of shillings, according

to our standard of value; and yet to this

dusky potentate they represent individually a

handful of diamonds or a bar of gold.

The present ruler ascended to the throne

at an early age on February 26, 1869. His

predecessor remained faithful to the British

during the Mutiny, and the Nizam to-day

still shows by many actions his appreciation

of the advantages of British rule. Although

he has to all intents and purposes a free hand

in the management of his twelve million

subjects, he may not move his troops beyond

certain limits, nor make any radical changes

in his Government without consulting and

obtaining the consent of the

political officer of the supreme

Government, who lives at the

56o

PEARSO.Y'S MAGAZINE.

COL. MAJENDIE.

(From a Phtto by C. A. Pcarson.)

were unable to force their bombs through

the bars, and the resulting explosion killed

them all three, but did no great damage to

ihe bridge.

After the cloak room at Victoria Station

was blown up, he opened at Paddington a

clockwork infernal machine which was work-

ing at the time, and which might have

exploded and killed him at any moment.

Sir Vivian Majendie is a striking, well-built

man of fifty-nine. His military training

through the Crimea and Indian Mutiny is

obvious in the scrupulous tidiness of his room

on the second floor of the War Office, and in

his ability to know exactly where to place his

1875

are

down in the Explosives Act of

observed.

The years 1883, 1884, 1885, were the

worst for bomb outrages in Great Britain.

During this time nearly thirty people were

sent to penal servitude in this connection,

seventeen of them for life, including Daly,

upon whom were found three bombs. One

of these bombs Sir Vivian Majendie after-

wards exploded in a specially prepared room

equipped with a dozen dummy figures, with

the result that 168 wounds were found upon

them.

In his museum the Colonel treasures relics

of explosive curiosities

with which he has been

personally concerned.

Those of which he is, if

anything, more proud

than the rest are some

bent iron bars. Shortly

before the London Bridge

explosion of December

1884, he received intima-

tion that an outrage would

be attempted on the

London bridges, and

made an inspection with

aview to discovering their

vulnerable points. He

suspected some of the

drain holes on London

Bridge as a likely point

of attack, and had these

bars put there to protect

them. The dynamitards

THE PADDINGTON BOMB AND DYNAMITE.

.From a Photo by C. A. Pcanon.}

hand on the right books, facts, and figures in

support of any statements he may make.

He really does not see

himself in the light of a

fearless public servant, as

others see him; and if

you happen to suggest

that he runs great risks in

the execution of his duties,

he will probably say:

" There
7.V THE PUBLIC EYE.

561

is the author of twenty novels which have

had an average sale of 40,000 copies each,

giving the enormous total of 800.000, and

if two or three shilling stories he has

written be added, the sales exceed a million

copies.

The first, " Alec Green," was written in

1877, and the last, " The Heart of Man,"

appeared only the other day. One of his

early stories, a tale of street life, called

" Her Benny," has, we believe, had the

largest circulation, and first gave its author a

vogue.

Mr. Hocking was born at St. Stephen's in

Cornwall in 1850. His father was a

mine captain and the son takes his

second Christian name from his

mother, who was of the same

family as the famous Dr. John

Kitto. He received his edu-

cation at the local grammar

school, and was intended

for a mine surveyor, but

when nineteen years of

age he entered the

ministry of the Metho-

dist Free Churches.

Mr. Hocking's father

belonged to the sect

known as Bible Chris-

tians, and has been

sketched by his son

under the character of

"Caleb Carthew" in

one of his stories. The

placeswhere Mr. Hock-

ing carried on his work as a minister were

Pontypool, Spalding, Liverpool, Burnley,

Manchester, and Southport, and he is still

engaged in doing so at the last of these.

Nineteen years ago he married the daughter

of Mr. Richard Lloyd, of Liverpool.

The secret of his popularity as a story-

writer is the power Mr. Hocking possesses of

portraying human passion in a simple and

direct style. Never tedious or involved, his

narrative flows easily and naturally, and,

though he writes with a purpose, his purpose

is never obtruded. His stories may be

described as clear, healthy, and inspiring, and

he has successfully appealed to the young

people of England as few writers have done.

Asked to explain the art of successful novel-

writing, Mr. Hocking once said it was this:

" Hook your readers with your first half-

dozen sentences. Bring in your heroine as

soon as possible, never forgetting that love is

the secret spell of all story-telling. And

don't be in a hurry to unfold your plot."

Mr. Hocking dislikes to be addressed

" Reverend," and certainly conforms very

little, if at all, to the conventions that usually

hedge in a parson. He took to story-writing

by accident, and has no compunction what-

ever in using the talent which he thus

discovered.

The Sultan of

Morocco.
562

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

caids, to whom are intrusted the collection

and remission of the imperial taxes.

Every office is directly or indirectly pur-

chased ; small salaries, or none at all, are

paid, and the holders recoup themselves by

plunder and oppression.

The Sultan spends a great deal of his

time on the march, and, like his father used

to, lives for nearly half the year under canvas,

either on the warpath or journeying from one

capital to another. Save among his soldiers,

whom he treats comparatively well, he is

distinctly unpopular with his subjects, who

consider him personally responsible for the

brutal treatment received by them at the

hands of the tax-gatherers.

As a matter of fact he is any- /

thing but a merciful ruler. /

Already his short reign has

been stained with abominable

acts of cruelty towards the

Jews, who are subjected to

every form of insult and

degradation by the Moors

on all possible occasions.

* » *

Senor Castelar.

England its Gladstone;

Spain its Castelar. A

brilliant orator, an all-

powerful statesman, an

indefatigable writer,

Emilio Castelar, although

retired from active par-

ticipation in public life,

remains till this moment the most widely

known and the most impressive individuality

that Spain in the course of a whole century

has produced.

It is an eventful career that the last few

years have virtually brought to a close. In

1866, taking a leading part in the revolu-

tionary movement that was suppressed -by

Serrano, Senor Castelar was condemned to

death, and only saved his head by making

good his escape and seeking voluntary exile.

His whole life has been one of turmoil. In

his declining days literary activity has taken the

place of political frenzy. The house of Senor

Castelar is still the rendezvous of Spanish

politicians, of literary celebrities, the brightest

and cleverest men and women in Madrid.

SENOR CASTELAR.

The statesman's own suite of rooms is on

the third floor. Here are his bed and

dressing-room, his beloved library, and a

secretary's room, the walls of which are lined

with the overflow of books from the adjoining

apartment, and glass-faced cupboards con-

taining pyramids of papers which are still

piled pell-mell on the floor, chairs, and tables,

and, in fact, wherever a resting place can be

found. The library itself is by no means an

imposing apartment. Besides the central

table, a few chairs and a sofa comprise the

entire furniture. On the walls hang half-a-

dozen pictures. The whole room is littered

with manuscripts and books.

ALEC and Johnny Forbes were joint owners

of 2500 hectares of mountain land on the

Mexican border, twenty miles from anywhere,

as also of some cattle and horses, whose

bones still remain on the mountains.

In the London office, where their father

had bought it, and so started them in life,

this tract of land was represented by a clean,

flat square on a bright green map. Maps are

always flat; and curates for life, of the stamp

of guileless, invertebrate little Alec Forbes,

the elder, are generally so, too. Otherwise

he would not have spent what he and his

wife had pinched and scraped for years to be

able to spend on the nice green square. Had

he possessed even a glimmer of worldly so1se

he would have bought two smaller squares,

with a hundred miles or so between them;

for, though brotherly love and companion-

ship at home in holiday time are not

uncommon, yet, given two brothers, a joint

waste of isolated mountain and everlasting

companionship, and—well, one sees the

camel trotting through the eye of the needle

with ease and precision.

For the first six months of ownership, when

writing home, the brothers spoke of their

mountain as their farm, and big Johnny

Forbes did in truth try to farm it, while Alec,

his spoiled and delicate elder brother, looked

on through his glasses. For the second six

months they carefully avoided the subject of

farming when writing home, though casually

mentioning that there was a lack of rain.

At the end of eighteen months rain came

in torrents, a glorious rain ; but in the mean-

while the stock on the Eldorado Rancho had

dwindled to a crazy cow and two steers. It

was soon after this that Alec, having jabbed

a knife into the cow to ease his feelings,

evacuated the Rancho, and headed southward

for the new-found Ojos Negros Places Mines,

and his big brother Johnny followed him.

At this time all was bustle and excitement

at Ojos Negros. Its population was two

thousand, though a month before a solitary

Indian hut had been the only dwelling in the

neighbourhood, and its stream-bisected plain

was crossed and intersected by innumerable

earthworks and dotted by a thousand tents,

as though an undisciplined army had suddenly

appeared on the scene, and every soldier had

thrown up an earthwork and dug a ditch at

random.

Now, a year later, the earthworks still re-

mained, but the stream was long since dry,

564

PEAR SOX'S MA GAZINE.

and the population had long since dwindled

to eight souls—two of them white, one brown,

and five Chinese yellow, if such souls exist.

Neither was there any traffic on the road, for

even the stage coach had long ceased to run

from Tia Juana, which lay on the United

States border fifty miles northward. The

bottom had fallen out of the boom. That

was all. Who ever heard of a Place Mine

without water ?

The Palace Store and Restaurant was the

largest in Ojos Negros. It was the only one,

too, and stood in the main street, which was

deserted and fallen to decay. Neither was

there any other street. On a board above its

door the words " Forbes Bros., Restaurant,''

had been roughly burnt with a poker, but now,

on this 2Oth evening of December, 1885, they

were scarcely visible, by reason of the coating

of thick red dust which had accumulated on

them.

A girl was standing on the threshold of the

Palace Restaurant listening attentively to the

sound of voices which came from within it as

she scanned the surrounding landscape—a

girl, aged fifteen, but a woman withal," with

a tawny, oval face set in a tangle

of horse-tail hair, black as the

pupils of her eyes, She was

clad only in a ragged linen

wrap of dusky red, which

flapped wide and unheeded

in the scorching desert wind,

and was graceful and pic-

turesque enough as she stood

in the sunlight. She was

watching a man on'a mustang,

half a mile distant on the

dusty trail which stretched

northward, uninterrupted by

tree or vegetation, to the only

rift in the surrounding moun-

tains, and the man and the

mustang were the only crea-

tures visible in the vast

sun-blighted basin of Ojos

Negros.

The voices in the earth-

floored restaurant grew louder, and the Indian

girl judged of their import by sound alone,

for she knew no language but her own. The

sounds were these:

" Can't live on heat, you know, and the

stock's mighty low."

" No. What's in the till ? "

" Two dollars and a nickel."

" How about the girl, Alec ? Of course,

we must take her."

" Take her! What an infernal fool you

are!"

" Steady, Alec. She loves you with all her

little animal soul and "

" And so Pie Johnny ordains that I am to

go through life with a squaw at my heels."

"She has given you all she had, Alec.

She is your wife in the sight of God. Surely

you can't be such an abominable cur as

to "
GATA.

565

" Why don't you hit her, John ? Hit

her, you coward, as you hit me—'—

S-s-s-s-s-s-s! Worry him, Gata; kill the

brute! Break her neck, Johnny, why

don't you ? Help us out of a difficulty-

Take her off, or you'll hurt her ? Not much.

Fight it out, and two to one on the little 'un.

Hulloa ! Buenas noches, senor."

gently talked to his brother as he gathered

himself up from the floor.

" Better go and tie up your neck with your

shirt-tail, eh, Johnny ? Why didn't you

choke her? Pity. Oh, don't look at me

like that; it's too ridiculous, and you're

bleeding like a pig, you know. What are

you glaring at ? Ah! that's a sensible chap.

•

The girl had sprung through the doorway.

The last remark was addressed to a man

who had appeared in the doorway.

" Great Scot, man! Don't you see she's

a-chawin' his head off?" cried the stranger.

" Really, you know, I believe she is.

Thanks. Had enough, Johnny ? All right.

Gata! "

The girl released her hold at once, and,

going to him, crouched at his feet like a

faithful dog. Alec stroked her hair and

Adios No, no, don't slam the door.

Shows temper, you know, and that's naughty

—naughty. Toddle on and read your ever-

lasting Bible."

Johnny Forbes, seemingly by a mighty

effort, left the room, and his brother's voice

continued to sound with caressing softness as

he stroked the girl's hair.

" Dear little girl," he said. " Don't kiss

my hand like that, you little animal. How

566

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

your eyes speak and shine! There, there,

what are you trembling about ? Don't

understand it all ? But you understand that,

don't you, dear? Kiss, kiss! Sabe ?-•

All right, seiior ; I'll attend to you now. Git,

Gata ! Vamos ! "

The girl, still trembling visibly with emotion,

passed out obediently into the waning day-

light, to resume her position on the threshold,

and Alec, turning to the stranger, asked :

•' Well, what do you want ?"

" Is this a restarong ? ''

" Yes, it is. Can't you read ? "

" No, I can't; but I'm starvin' and that's

what."

" You look it. Half a dollar, please. Pay

first in this shop.''

" Ain't got no money. Ain't had nothin'

t' eat for two days. Lost prospectin'."

" Sorry, but this isn't a soup kitchen.

Move on to the next station."

" Wha's that? "

" Is that a newspaper sticking from your

shirt?"

" That's what. Will you trade ? Throw

in this ticket along of it for a square meal.

Starvin'."

" Thought you couldn't read."

•' God's truth. Took 'em off a dead man

first day out from Tia Juana. Had 'em

gripped in his hand as though they was

eternal life."

•' Let me look."

The man took a pistol from his hip and

then handed over the papers.

The newspaper was a San Francisco

Examiner, dated November ist, 1885. The

ticket was a Louisiana Lottery ticket

numbered 33,333.

Alec looked at them and said :

" I'll trade for the paper. You can keep

that useless ticket."

" It's a go," said the miner, carelessly

replacing the ticket in his gaping shirt.

" What will you have ? Bacon or jerked

beef ? "

" Both, and somethin' to chew while you're

fixin' it. Tell you I'm starvin', man."

" Take the show, won't you ? Hullo! Is

that your mustang eating the cracker box ? "

" That's what."

There was no further conversation between

the men that night. The miner gorged him-

self, and wearily laid himself to sleep on the

earthen floor. The sun sank, and its heat

remained behind on the baked red land, and

Alec sat musing and muttering alone as he

watched the moon rise on the mountains,

and the tones of his voice echoed sadly on

the heart-strings of the girl, who still guarded

the threshol.I- -sounds of dreary laughter ajid

bitterness, which made her feel she knew not

what, and suffer she knew not why. Suddenly

she sprang to her feet, for Johnny Forbes

had passed through the doorway into the

semi-darkness. He was breathing hard, and,

approaching his brother, stood for a moment

towering above him with hand outstretched.

GATA.

567

She saw him grasp the bar with one hand, and poise it on his -shoulder.

in his eyes with a dim sort of meaning.

Then he sat up, and, grasping the paper,

read:

NOTICE! NOTICE! NOTICE!

Notice is hereby given that unless Ticket No.

33,333, which drew the Capital Prize of 3OO,ooodols.

in the October Drawing of the Louisiana Lottery

Company, is presented at the head office of said

Company at New Orleans on or before January

15th, 1886, the said ticket will be deemed lost, and

will become null and void, and the sum of

300,ooodo!s. will be added to the Grand Prize to be

drawn for on February I5th, 1886.

JOHN CONKLIN,

President of the Louisiana Lottery Company.

Alec Forbes sat motionless with the paper

before him until the light of early morning

began to wax behind the mountains. He

was thinking hard and of many things.

" No, no," he muttered; "Johnny would

preach deceit, and robbery and honour.

Poor old John ! Wouldn't do. But by ''

He checked himself, and started, for the

girl at his side was feeling for his hand in her

sleep. Avoiding her touch, he slid from the

bed, and the crackle of the straw mattress

seemed to alarm him unnecessarily. After

listening for a moment in stillness, he went

to a corner of the room where a crowbar

stood. It clanged against a drill as he lifted

it, and the simple sound seemed to root him

to the floor. Nothing stirred and he stole to

the door, opened it noiselessly, and peered

through the dusky restaurant towards the

corner where the miner lay, and listened.

The man was plainly visible, for the light

on the mountains was stronger now, and the

colouring had changed from slate to grey.

Alec sank to his knees, and began to creep

across the floor. It was a slow and ex-

hausting process, for the iron bar was heavy,

and had to be left behind to the full stretch

of his arm, and then hoisted forward hori-

zontally many times with the greatest nicety.

His whole mind was absorbed by the task,

and when at last he was near enough to risk

the next step in his undertaking, his forehead

was wet with sweat, and his chest seemed

bursting with suppressed breath. All was

safe, he thought, and his mind travelled on-

ward to what was before him ; neither did he

look behind.

This was well. Had he done so, the sight

of the Indian girl as she crawled at his heels

might have unnerved him even more than his

movements puzzled her. But, though she

did not understand him, she loved him, and

that was enough for her. Where he went she

would go ; what he suffered she would suffer ;

what he did she loved best. That was all.

568

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

So she followed and watched to guard her

lord, and when he gradually knelt upright, so

slowly and stealthily that the movement was

hardly perceptible, she did so too. It was

the nature of the animal. She saw him grasp

the bar with one hand, and poise it on his

shoulder, and as his other hand stole nearer

and nearer to the gape in the sleeping man's

shirt, her eyes became bright and keen with

excitement, and her graceful form tense and

motionless.

Soon Alec's hand was buried in the folds

of the shirt, and then, after groping for a

moment, he found what he wanted and

began to withdraw it with laborious care.

Half of it was visible to the watching girl

when the man moved uneasily in his sleep,

and unconsciously lifted his hand to scratch

his breast. Alec had tickled it, much as

would the legs of a tarantula, and dreams of

tarantulas are disturbing.

The movement affected Alec's nerves, and

he tried to jerk his hand away. This was

foolish, for the hand was captured in a

moment by a startled nervous clutch, and the

miner yelled as he tried to sit up.

" Curse yer, for a low down sneakin'

skunk. What the ——"

But he stopped, and his anger faded

away as he fell back again on the floor.

Alec had pacified him by means of the crow-

bar, and he was likely to lie peacefully for

some time to come. It was a nasty thud, and

blood streamed over his eyes as he fell; yet

his head had hardly reached the floor before

the Indian girl was at his throat with a beast-

light in her eyes, and the miner saw them ere

he closed his own.

" Gata!"

Alec had risen to his feet and the girl roser

too, and stood before him. She raised her

eyes, now tender and submissive again, to his,

but drooped them quickly and trembled, for

his were not nice, and she could not

understand it.

" So you watched me, you loathsome little

Cat? Come here. Nearer. I hate you,

Gata. Do you understand, you dumb little

beast, hate ! Oh, my God, how I hate you.

You have made a fiend of me. By all that's

holy, I'll make you understand ! Hate!

hate ! hate !" and at each sobbing repetition

of the word, Alec raised his hand and struck

the mute girl on the cheek. " Go ! " He

pointed to the door of the sleeping-room;

but Gata, instead of obeying him, dropped

on her knees and kissed his feet, and clung

with her arms round his legs.

He stumbled backward to free himself, but

slipped and fell with the whole weight of his

shoulder on the miner's upturned face. The

miner did not move, and his paper-white face

remained blank and indifferent. Alec was

over-wrought, otherwise why should he now

have struggled with and pommelled and

madly fought, with terror in his eyes, a man

who lay still and indifferent to the proceeding ?

Even Gata's eyes filled with fear as she

GAT A.

569

for the night, a white man—hatless, coatless,

and with filmy eyes—had staggered and

swerved into the ranch house as though it

were his own, and then fallen to the floor in

their best parlour.

This was vexing enough, but endurable,

for, as the partners had agreed after five

minutes of excited gesticulation, a senseless

man could not bite,

and might have some-

thing of interest in

his pockets. Thus

they had approached

him with beaming

smiles, and while

Lung had sat upon

him firmly, Wang

had gently turned his

trouser pockets inside

out, but had found

nothing.

Some papers which

he clasped in his hand

had next attracted

Wang's attention, and

he had been in the

act of prizing open

the firmly clasped

fingers with a chop-

stick, when someone

had come whirling

through the door,

spitting and fighting

like a wild cat, and

the partners had fled

in terror to patch up

their wounds in the

back room, where

they had since dwelt.

Now,as the second

day waned, they were

peering, as they had

already done a hundred times, through a

crack in the dividing door.

The brown girl was awake as usual,

sat by the white man's side, crooning in a

soft-toned language and stroking his yellow

hair. Gata's eyes were soft, and her hand

strayed tenderly in the curly hair as she sat

and crooned her baby song, and her whole pose

was touching and pathetic. But the China-

men called her a devil notwithstanding, for,

Vol. I.—38.

Someone had come whirling through the door.

and

as they reasoned, no one but a devil could

endure as she had done.

A moon and a sun had risen and died, and

still the devil was watching, and had only

left her post when they were absent to steal

their rice and soup for the man to drink, and

water to sprinkle on his hair and brow.

Once, Wang and Lung, deceived by her

seeming abstraction

and the soft light in

her eyes, had crew

through the doorway

and approached her

570

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

happy to be with and guarding her love ; and

when daylight came once more, it found her

still watching with dreamy eyes, and bravely

crooning her song.

The Chinamen heard it, and reviled her

again as they rose from their corner and

went to the crack. Soon they heard another

sound, which they assured each other, in

Chinese, came from the white man who was

talking in his sleep. This was not a soft-

toned sound, and it frightened the devil into

silence, and even made them feel uncom-

fortable.

Alec Forbes was dreaming of the miner's

face, and was not enjoying it. He opened

his eyes, and they lit on a photograph of his

mother which still remained tacked to the

red-wood boards which formed the walls of

the room. Under the photograph was the

fragment of a letter, which cautioned one

named Alec earnestly against keeping his

coat off or drinking cold water when hot,

and begged him to say his prayers night and

morning for the sake of his old mother. It

also promised a chest protector and a bottle

of '• those excellent pills."

The photograph seemed familiar to Alec as

he lay half in dreamland, and he remembered

ieeringly tacking up the letter underneath it.

lie smiled, and shouted : "Johnny, Johnny,

where are you? Oh, I've had the most

infernal dream! I thought I was "

But he left his sentence unfinished, for he

had brought the hand with the papers still in

it to his forehead, and the papers puzzled

him. He sat up, and, glancing round

nervously, met the big black eyes of the

witness of his crime. She stretched out her

arms to him, and gave a little cry of pain,

but Alec jumped to his feet with a vigour

produced by his long sleep and the China-

men's soup, shouting his hate as he warned

her away; and the Chinamen gibbered with

joy as they watched her eyes.

The sun peeped over the mountains again,

and caressed her weary face. Alec saw the

sun, and ran to the door, calling as he went:

" How long have I been here—how long,

how long ? " His voice was harsh and fretful,

and the girl, though she did not understand,

followed in his wake, with her arms out-

stretched.

He jumped from the doorstep, and was

already making for the Tia Juana trail, which

lay two miles away, before he saw her coming :

then the look on his face, and his voice, and

his upraised fist caused Gata to halt and

crouch to the ground. He did not want her

any more. The look on his face told this to

her eyes, and the tone of his voice said the

same to her heart, which was throbbing so

hard. The truth had come home to her at

last.

Once, when a boy, Alec had stepped on a

kitten in the dark and broken its back, and

now, as he turned and resumed his way, he

thought of that kitten's eyes. The thought

was unpleasant, and he tried to get away

GAT A.

571

don't you forget it. And thanks to you

likewise, for you done yer best to ketch her

Now, then, you two, none o' yer blamed

sentiment Jump up ! All aboard !

Let her go, Gallagher ! Great Scott,

woa !"

Johnny had been watching his brother's

face anxiously while the miner spoke, and

his own was troubled as he turned to

see the reason of the sudden stoppage.

He was just in time to seize the miner

by the collar of his shirt as he was

jumping again off the buck-board,

with fury in his eyes.

A limping girl, with a face convulsed'

with despair and pain, was the cause

of the miner's rage, and it was on him

that her eyes were fixed as she strove

madly to reach the trail. Alec, sitting

on the tail of the buckboard, saw her,

and shrank as his brother, still holding

the struggling man, bent over him

and whispered:

" Did she really do it, Alec ? "

" Yes."

" Will you swear it? "

" Yes; do you think I would lie ?''

'• Thank God," said Johnny, and

then, seizing the whip and reins, he

lashed the mustang along the trail.

Gata watched them disappear in the

distance as she knelt with outstretched

arms.

Half a dozen lamps still twinkled

in the main street of the dirty little

town of Tia Juana, though it was

past midnight, and a solitary light

still burnt on the ground floor of the

only hotel of which it boasted. Gata

saw the lamps as she moved along

the lonely street, and they struck her

as odd. They were not like other T1

... , , j The man grasped his

lights she had seen. But then, as

she dimly reasoned, her head had

been wrong and swimming all day,

love away, and she must find him again or

die. Alec, Alec, Alec! That name alone

had beaten into her heart, and framed itself

again and again in her dizzy brain, as she

travelled the endless trail. Twenty miles

only from sunrise to midnight! Yes, it was

the night wind's fault.

Gata swerved to the lighted window like a

hand and shook

it heartily.

and her bones had ached excruciatingly ever dazed moth, and panted as she leant on

since the night wind had blown through the

paneless windows.

sill and looked in. It was a tiny room,

by ioft., but Gata did not note this.

This was it, no doubt, and what did the only saw Alec lying on the bed, where

devil lights matter? The pale-faced man

with the blood on his eyes had stolen her

had thrown himself three hours before,

then dropped asleep in his weariness.

the

6ft.
572

PEA RSOX- S MA GA ZINE.

She tried to raise the sash, and succeeded,

though, before she had done so, one of her

nails was hanging from her fingers. She did

not note this either, but crept through the

opening, and the sash, being gearless, came

down with a crash behind her. Gata did not

heed it, but crept to her lost love's side, and

sobbed for long, as though her

heart were breaking, and gazed

at his handsome face.

By-and-bye his eyelids

quivered, and he sighed as

he moved in his sleep.

Gata remembered,

and shading his

eyes with her hand,

looked at the light

above the bed.

She had never

seen one like

it before, and

it dazzled her

own eyes and

made her head

swim yet more

hopelessly.

She tried to

rise to her feet,

but swayed

and fell from

pain and ex-

cessive fatigue.

Then clench-

ing her little

hands she

made one

more effort for

her master's

sake, and,

standing up

bravely, blew out the light ere she sank to the

bed by his side.

» • * * *

Johnny Forbes was examining some papers

and his mining friend stood opposite. Be-

tween them was a bed, and on it Alec and

Gata lay dead.

"Blowed out the gas, eh?" asked the

miner.

" Yes.

about? "

" Can't read,

mighty like it."

"Had you a lottery ticket,

Is this the newspaper you told me

Couldn't swear, but it looks

"I did ycr a wrong, little gel, God forgive me."

tOO ? "

"Yes, but I

reckon it's lost.

What of it?

See here,

young man,

you just come

away out of

this. Oh, yes,

you've grit

right enough,
.

GEORGE GRIFFITH

I BF.MEVE that it is the orthodox thing, when you are

writing anything about prison life, to begin with the

almost inevitable allusion to Dante's celebrated line,

usually in the form of a turn of fancy which pictures it

as graven over the prison door. The allusion will not,

however, be made here, not only because it is hackneyed,

but because it is inaccurate.

There is no necessity even for a man upon whom the tremendous sentence of " penal

servitude for life" has been pronounced, to abandon hope unless his age is such that it

is impossible for him to outliv* his penalty. It is always possible to earn a remission of

one fourth of the nominal sentence, and even " lifers '' may regain their freedom within

sixteen to twenty years of their passing beyond the bars. What might, however, without

any stretch of the truth, be imagined as standing written over the doors of one of Her

Majesty's convict prisons would be Dante's line with one word altered :

All •mill abandon, all ye who enter here.

l-'or the first, nay, almost the only thing that a -convict, or, to use the more correct official

term, a prisoner, has to do from the first to the last day of his confinement is to keep his

individual will absolutely in abeyance.

It is not true, as has so often been said, that a man on becoming a convict ceases to be

a man with a name, and becomes only a thing with a number, because many of the attributes

of manhood are left to him. The exercise of prudence, forethought, industry, intelligent

perception of detail, and acquisition of mental and manual culture, may be carried on under

circumstances by no means intolerable, and over his cell door hangs perpetually a ticket

inscribed on one side with his prison "register" (his number), previous convictions, if any,

and sentence, and on the other with his name.

He may go into prison, ignorant, brutalised by vile surroundings, besotted with drink, and

mentally paralysed by the influences of a life spent at war with Society, and he may come

out healthy, clear-headed, and well skilled in handicraft—in short, saving only for the stigma

of the felon and the gaolbird, in every respect better than when he left the world.

But for all that, penal servitude is not a matter even to be talked of lightly. It is, on

the contrary, a very terrible thing even to see at all closely from the vantage-ground of

freedom. To endure it must, for a man of any sensibility, not to say refinement, be a
574

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

slow torture, which begins with the first

waking moments of every day, and ends only

when the merciful hand of sleep closes his

eyes and opens the prison doors.

A well-conducted modern prison, such as

the visitor to Portland sees, is a vision of

order, discipline, and cleanliness, which at

first sight conveys anything but the idea of

punishment and suffering. But behind the

exquisite neatness and formal perfection of

the visible surface there is a ghastly wilderness

of silence and soulless, mechanical routine,

on which there blooms not a single blossom

of all the myriad flowers which make the

world where freemen dwell so bright and

beautiful, when contrasted with that other

world which lies behind the prison bars.

This is no exaggeration. The moment I

had passed through the second of the double

gates of the main entrance to Portland I felt

that I was in another world. The one that I

had left might for the time being have been

ten thousand miles away or even on some

planet far off in the depth of space. This

was a world of chilling, ghastly formalism

peopled by silent shapes in hideous garb, and

watched every instant of their waking lives by

other shapes, uniformed, hearty, and strong,

but silent as they were.

Even Portland itself, that is to say "the

Island,'' as it is called, has a prim, formal,

unhomely look about it which somehow

suggests the grim purpose to which, for the

most part, it is devoted. It is a bleak, tree-

less land of vast grey rugged quarries, huge

forts, and mighty cliffs, of steep roads running

between unlovely lines of whitish grey stone

walls on one side and low, stone-built cot-

tages on the other, and in the dusk of an early

February morning, with the damp mist blow-

ing in from the Channel, it looked just as

cheerless and unhomely a place as sensible

folk could wish to stop away from.

The earliest hour at which visitors coming

of their own free will are received at the prison

is nine o'clock, but the official proceedings

of the day have begun three and a half hours

before that. At half past five the bell rings,

the prisoners turn out, wash, dress, put their

cells in order, have breakfast—an eight-ounce

brown loaf of very respectable quality, and a

pint of cocoa made on conspicuously

economical principles—and attend morning

prayers in the chapel.

Meanwhile the sentries form up, and after

a brief inspection, march out of the gate

leading to the works, that is to say to the

quarries and outside workshops, stone dress-

ing sheds, carpenter's shop, foundry, etc.

The uniform is a sort of cross between that

of a policeman and a soldier. Each man

carries a loaded rifle at full cock, and each

falls out as he passes his allotted post. In a

few minutes you cannot see a single point of

vantage that is not occupied by a sentry.

Every cross road is guarded, and, go where

you will, you are never out of view of their

eyes nor out of reach of their rifles.

A PEEP INTO PENAL SERVITUDE.

575

along the top of the cliffs, and here in front is

the wide expanse of the Channel, to the right

curving round to the long yellow foam-fringed

strip of sand and pebble called Chesil Beach,

along which the railway runs, and which

forms the only land communication between

the so-called island and the mainland.

To the left is the splendid sweep of

Portland Bay, and in the smooth water

behind the great breakwater lie, in two lines,

the six big battle-ships of the Channel fleet,

headed by the Majestic and the Magnificent.

and flanked by their attendant cruisers and

little black, piratical-looking torpedo

boats and destroyers, the visible

incarnation of the force which

lies behind the law, whose

outstretched arm

makes the barrier

between the freeman

and the felon.

When nine o'clock

struck we had seen

the parties go out to

work within the prison

precincts and two or

three others brought

out into the roads,

some harnessed to carts

others carrying brooms

shovels. These were the

cleaners, and their presence at once explained

the wonderful neatness and cleanliness of the

roads. At first sight, saving only for their

dress and the presence of a single warder,

they were to all intents and purposes free.

The popular notion of the chain gang is a

myth. There is no such thing in the ordinary

routine of convict life.

They walked about the roads without let

or hindrance as their work demanded, and I

even saw some out of one party leave the

road and go in and clean a school out while

the warder remained outside. But a single

glance round showed that they were covered

by the rifles of three or four sentries, and

that not one of them could have gone twenty

yards along the road without being shot

down.

The rule is that no party must number

more than twenty under the charge of a single

warder, but no prisoner must ever be beyond

immediate supervision. I saw one, fur in-

stance, with a bag of tools over his shoulder

go into a private house to do some work, and

he had a warder all to himself who would

never let him out of sight, and would stand

over him till his work was done, and then

inarch him back to his cell.

At the gate we presented our permit and

our cards, and were then shown into the

waiting-room, a little room on the left-lnnd

side. I think we were locked in, but I did

not-try the door, as I didn't wish to appear

rude. Presently the warder at the gate came

and

and

street
576

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

world, and the other from another. This is

the interview room, and it is here that at rare

intervals the convict sees and speaks with his

visitors. The door in the passage leads into

a section of the room

cut off by iron bars

running from floor to

ceiling. Be-

yond this there

is a space

about three

feet wide, then

there is

another rail-

ing behind

which the con-

vict stands.

A warder

sits in the

middle space,

and his duty is

to see that no

illicit commu-

nication is

passed, and

that the con-

versation is

THE PRINCIPAL WARDER.

'From a Photo by Wheeler, Weymcuth.)

rigidly confined to the prescribed topics. If

the visitor is a relative, then only family matters

may be spoken of; if a solicitor, then only

legal matters. Were a convict, for instance,

to ask who was Prime Minister, or whether

there was a war going on anywhere, or what

horse had won the last Derby, he would be

instantly stopped, and afterwards reported

and punished.

No plea of ignorance would be taken as

an excuse, for the principal purpose of the

nine months' "solitary," which every prisoner

has to do at Pentonville or Wormwood

Scrubbs before entering a regular convict

establishment, is to train him in the laws and

customs of the new world in which he is to

live, and everyone is supposed to know how

to conduct himself in accordance with them.

In connection with the visiting room I may

mention an incident which the Governor told

me, and which illustrated the wonderful

effect of prison life and discipline in reducing

its victims to a dead level of sameness.

The day on which it occurred the Governor

was taking the place of the warder. A

woman had come in to see her son who had

been less than a year in prison. When he

came in she looked at him, and said to the

Governor: " This is not the man I want. I

want to see my son Joe." He told her that

this was her son, but she was not convinced

until the convict said: " What, mother, don't

you know' me ? " and then she was satisfied.

Facing the inner gates as you enter is the

chapel, a large square building, plain, of

course, and equally, of course, clean as scrub-

bing and polishing could make it. The

pulpit and reading desk are in front of the

altar, and are much higher than usual, for the

A PEEP INT'O PENAL SERVITUDE.

577

the table which gives light by day and

another one opposite the foot of the bed

outside which a gas jet burns from dark till

eight o'clock. The doors lock as they are

closed, but the warders can give an extra

turn and double lock them.

In the middle of the door, about 51t. 6in.

from the ground, there is an eye-hole covered

with a little iron plate which swings from side

to side on a bolt. This hole is much larger

on the inside than on the outside, so that

you can see

nearly the whole

cell through it.

At night, after

the lights are

out, the warder

on duty has only

to put his bull's-

eye against the

inner window

and look

through the eye-

hole to have the

prisoner in full

view. There are

two rows of cells

on the ground

lloors, which

have no win-

dows, and are

therefore dark

all day. Offici-

ally, they are

only supposed

to be used when

the prison is

full.

At the end of

the hall by the

door stands the

Chief Warder's

desk, and by this hangs on the wall a slate

headed " prisoners to be specially watched,"

and the man who gets his name and register

written under that is practically under constant

supervision day and night.

As far as is possible everything that is

eaten or used in prison is prepared or manu-

factured there, and hence the prisoners are

divided into what may be called the outdoor

and indoor parties. The aristocratsof Portland

society are the cleaners, for they do the

lightest work under the most comfortable

conditions, but the cooks and bakers are,

perhaps, the most envied of their fellows, for

the outdoor labourers are practically always

hungry, while these are seldom so for obvious

reasons.

The dietary in ordinary consists of coarse

brown bread, boiled meat, potatoes, gruel,

and cocoa. A man must either be sick or of the

highest possible class and character to get tea

instead of cocoa,

and have his

meat roasted in-

stead of boiled.

It is, of course,
57«

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

world save for the uniforms and the silence,

and for the fact that nearly all the trades of a

civilised community were being carried on

side by side. The warders might have been

overseers and the

prisoners free work-

men working whole-

heartedly at their

daily toil.

There was no

visible evidence of

coercion. Several

hundred men—there

were nearly a thou-

sand altogether in

the prison—were dis-

tributed through the

quarries, stoneyards,

building yards, and

workshops, intrusted

with tools which in

most cases would make

deadly weapons—heavy stone

hammers, hatchets, crowbar*,

smiths' hammers, bars of red

hot iron, and the like, while

the warders in charge of

them were only armed with little

wooden truncheons.

While we were going through the foundry

I saw a prisoner pouring molten brass into a

mould, and I said to the Governor: •' What is

to prevent that man flinging that stuff over

us instead of putting it into the mould?"

" Nothing," he said, " except discipline and

the absolute certainty of punishment."

In the smithy there were stalwart prisoners

swinging hammers with which they could

have brained us in an instant. They might

have been reprieved murderers or garot-

ters, certainly they were scoundrels of

some sort, yet they swung away as steadily

and industriously as though their hearts

were in their work, and they had a good

wage to draw at the week end instead

of the distant hope of a gratuity of three

pounds when the long years that lay between

them and freedom had passed.

But as I looked at them I thought of

something else I had just seen, the " jewel-

room " as it is playfully called, or. in official

language, the "manacle-room." This is a little

stone-paved chamber about six feet by nine,

whose walls are covered with festoons and

cunningly arranged devices of chains, hand-

cuffs, and leg-irons, all polished and speck-

less, shining like silver; and there in the

midst of them was the big steel triangle,

A CONVICT COOK PREPARING SKILLV.

or more correctly tripod, with a hard padded

cushion fixed to the three legs about midway

between the floor and the apex, and beside it

hung the dreaded cat and the degrading but

less terrible birch.

The cat is a long-handled nine-thonged

whip, whose lashes are made of very hard

cord about a sixteenth of an inch in diameter,

A PEEP INTO PENAL SERVITUDE.

579

flesh, and only the strongest and most callous can stand the

full thirty-six without fainting. Of course the doctor stands

facing the victim and can stop the punishment at any

moment.

When the birch is used the victim's head is put

between the front legs and his body drawn

tightly over the cushion. The warders who

inflict the punishment are always selected

from those on night duty, who, by the

way, are usually sailors, and thus a prisoner

who has been flogged never again sees the

man who flogs him unless he has to

endure a second punishment. The opera-

tor's fee is five shillings.

When the operation is over a large

blanket, soaked in brine, is thrown round

the victim's body, and he is taken off tc

the hospital. It is not a soothing applica-

tion, but I was told that its healing effect

is wonderful.

Flogging and putting in irons are only

resorted to as punishment for the most

serious offences — assaults on officers,

THREE DOZEN.

CONVICTS AT WORK IS THE FOUNDRY

attempts to escape, and persistent insubordination

or refusal to work. The irons consist of rings

for the ankles and two chains, which are

linked together and fastened to a belt.

Their weight varies from six to ten

pounds, and when a prisoner is put

into them he wears them constantly

day and night for the period of his

punishment, for which the maximum

is six months. He must work, eat,

sleep, and even have his baths in them,

and, in addition to this, he has to live

on punishment fare, and this of itself,

seeing that he has probably been

hungry for years on the full prison

diet, is no light infliction.

If I had not acquired this knowledge

beforehand I might have been even

more surprised than I was at the

apparent confidence in the good be-

haviour of the prisoners which the

quiet-spoken and seemingly good-

humoured officials exhibited. I was

also informed that floggings take place

about once a month, not very much

perhaps for the maintenance of order

among a thousand men who have been

<;8o

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

guilty of pretty nearly every crime known to

human wickedness, but quite sufficient to

encourage the others in the way of discipline

and obedience.

Added to the fear of punishment there is

also the hope of reward, which takes the form

of promotion through three classes in which

increasing privileges may be enjoyed. Thus.

for instance, when the first twelve months

have been passed as a probationer, a prisoner

can get into the third class. During this

time his dress has been the

plain drab with no further

ornament than her Majesty's

signet, the broad

arrow, and he

has not been

permitted either

to correspond or

receive visitors.

When he enters

the third class

black facings are

put on his sleeves

and collar, and

in six months he

may write one

letter and receive

one visit of twenty

minutes. In the

second class he

may have an

interview of thirty

minutes in four

months, and

write and receive

a letter in the

same period. He

then wears

yellow facings.

A year's good

behaviour in this class will put him into the

first, in which he may have an interview of

forty minutes, and write and receive a letter

every three months. He now wears blue

facings.

The highest class of all is the " Special,"

which a man can only enter within a year of

his discharge after passing through the other

classes. His dress is now all blue. He

may have an interview, and write and receive

a letter every two months, and, as I said

DAD CONDUCT DRESS.

before, he may have tea instead of cocoa and

roast instead of boiled meat.

But there is a livery of discredit as well as

of credit. For the worst offences, such as

an assault on a warder, the penalty, as I have

said, is the cat. But this is not all. When

the victim has recovered and goes back to

work he is dressed in a fashion so hideously

grotesque that he would be conspicuous

among a thousand of the others. The right

side of his jacket and the right halves of his

knee breeches are black and the rest

drab, and he wears a seven pound

pair of chains attached to his ankles

and suspended from his

A PEEP INTO PENAL SERVITUDE.

581

arms aloft, holding his cap in one hand and

his pocket handkerchief in the other, and be

" rubbed down,'' which means that a warder,

whose fingers long practice has made able to

detect even a pin pushed into a seam, passes

his hands over his clothing, and woe betide

him if anything is found. At the very least

he will lose his dinner, and that is a terrible

thing for a man who is always hungry.

This, by the way, reminds me of a some-

what curious fact, which really means a great

deal, simple as it may look. Owing to the

difference of climate penal servitude at

Portland is much more severe than at

Brixton, Chatham, Portsmouth, or \Yorrmvood

Scrubbs. At Wormwood Scrubbs, for in-

stance, the regulation dietary is more than

enough for an average appetite, but at Port-

land, owing to the keen air, it is never

enough, and this to a man on a five or ten years'

" stretch " means a difference which a well-

fed man is quite incapable of calculating.

It is hardly necessary to say that the

society of Portland is about as mixed as any

on earth. Hardly a rank in social life or

a profession or trade in the work-a-day world

would you find unrepresented if you could

see through the veil of sameness which, by a

merciful provision of the law, covers the

baronet and the ex-churchwarden as com-

pletely as the pickpocket and the garotter.

Personal identification of prisoners is

absolutely forbidden to officers and visitors,

and rightly so. Nevertheless, without any

breach of the law, I was able, by means

unknown of course to my guides, to locate

one or two whose names and achievements

once made some little stir in the world.

Thus, for instance, I recognised the gentle-

man who, by arrangement with the autho-

rities, once broke the bank at Monte Carlo.

engaged in the more profitable occupation of

breaking, or rather chipping, stones. Another

gentleman, once philanthropist, town-council-

lor, and churchwarden, was devoting his

energy and his skill, which by the way is the

best in Portland, to the finishing off of a

door in a carpenter's shop; while yet another,

once a most prosperous solicitor and astute

financier who unfortunately got the rules of

the game mixed up, was seated on the floor

of the tailor's shop stitching away at a drab

canvas garment plentifully stamped with the

same distinguishing mark which ornamented

his own apparel.

But this is a subject upon which one could

moralise without end and say nothing new.

It may, however, be worth while to add that

there was once a prisoner in Portland in

whose case the rule of non-identification

could not be enforced. He was also, I

believe, the only convicted and sentenced

murderer who was neither reprieved nor

hanged.

In his youth he had been very severely

scalded.about the face and neck and chest,

and when his injuries healed his chin was

firmly attached to the upper part of his chest

By WALTER BESANT and W. H. POLLOCK.

DRAMATIS PERSON/E.

GEOFFREY ARMIGER.

HORACE CATERHAM. ., T

KATIE DE LISLE.

TIME The Present.

PLACE A London Drawing-room.

ACT I.

(The day after the ball.)

SCENE—A London Drawing-room. KATIE standing at the window, looking out. EMMELINE

at piano, playing. CLARINE^MW painting at table. It is winter, and a fire is burning.

KATIE. Oh ! How flat, and dull, and stupid, everything is after the dance. (Drums

on window with fingers.) If only something would happen ! (Walks about

restlessly.)

CLARINE. Things are always dull the morning after a dance. What do you want to

happen ?

KATIE. Last night I was exactly like Cinderella. I had no ball-dress—I could not go—

and at the very last moment, Auntie arrived with a beautiful dress—made me put it

on—took me in her carriage, and then—(Clasps her hands).

Copyri9ht, 1896, ill tht l'nitnl Statn of America by IP. Besant and W. H. Pollock.
THE SHRINKING SHOE.

5«3

CLARINE. And then, as you justly observe, you did not dance furiously; you sat out more

than once; with a certain Mr. Armiger, was it not ?

KATIE. Geoffrey.

CLARINE. Oh ! You know his Christian name ?

EMMELINE (looking up.) This was the waltz I liked the best. (Plays a few lines.)

KATIE. Mr. Armiger dances beautifully. His step suits mine perfectly.

EMMELINE. It is a pretty waltz. Here is another.

CLARINE. Who is Mr. Armiger, Katie ? He's quite young. What is he ?

KATIE. Quite young? Oh! No. Why, he is twenty-one. He is an undergraduate

at Cambridge. But he is going to be a great man.

CLARINE. Ah ! He gave you that information ?

KATIE. He did—he knows what he can do. I don't know yet whether he is to be

a poet, or a dramatist, or a statesman ; but he will be something great. Oh ! yes.

Of that there is no doubt.

EMMELINE (from the piano). Horace knows him, Clarine. He is Geoffrey Armiger, son of

the Vicar of something, and first cousin to Sir Roland Armiger. He is quite poor

and has got his way to make. If I were you, Katie, I should wait till he had made

that way before I thought too much about him.

KATIE. Oh! You think of it in that light, I don't. He impressed me as a man

who could most certainly win his own way. I adore success—and he will attain

success. It is such a splendid thing to be a man just because every man can be a

Prince if he likes.

EMMELINE. You are a dear little enthusiast. (Jumps up from piano.) And a simpleton,

and a goose. (Kisses her.) She shall have her Prince to think about—so she

shall. Clarey, Horace said he would look in at five

o'clock this afternoon.

Mi

It was

•

(Enter Servant.)

SERVANT (Announces.) Mr. Caterham.

Armiger.

(Enter Caterham and Armiger.)

HORACE. Hope you are not too tired

after last night.

EMMELINE. Not a bit, thanks.

a really good evening.

GEOFFREY (to KATIE.) I need not

ask if you are too tired.

Your looks anticipate the

question. I do not think

I have ever enjoyed a

dance so much, but I am

afraid y.ou must have

thought some of my talk

somewhat—what shall I say

—conceited ?

KATIE. Not at all. Conceit

is one thing, and not

an agreeable thing.

Ambition is another.

GEOFFREY. " By that sin fell the angels "—yet what is youth without ambition ?

KATIE. As somebody once said, like a lame old man without crutches.

was the waltz

kcd the best."

Have you
PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

decided the particular form of your ambition ? Last night you were, if I remember

rightly, divided between literature and law, or was it

GEOFFREY. It is not kind of you to remind me so keenly of foolish sayings, but, as a matter

of fact, it was not law. It was

KATIE. Of course, I remember now. It was statesmanship. A noble calling, but oh !

what a difficult one !

GEOFFREY. Is there anything worth attaining that is not difficult ? Who, without purpose

and strenuous endeavour, can win either a place among great men, or, what is

greater still, a woman's love ? (They go up stage.)

(EMMELINE and HORACE come down. CLARINE is left at piano.)

EMMELINE. He looks a nice boy, Horace. Perhaps he really will turn out very well.

HORACE. That's as may be, but certainly he's a nice boy, and if his brother were to go off,

he would be a rich boy as well.

EMMELINE. Katie seems to like him.

HORACE. Why not ? It may be a boy and girl fancy, or it may be more serious. He

begged me to bring him here. You don't mind, Emmeline ? (They walk up

stage.)

(GEOFFREY and KATIE come down. CLARINE goes on playing dance music, softly.)

(Puts on slipper ivtik

eau.)

KATIE. And you are going back to Cam-

bridge to-morrow ?

GEOFFREY. Yes—to-morrow. I shall take back

a very happy memory. May I call

again when I come back to London ?

KATIE. Pray do, and tell me all about your

plans for your future career.

GEOFFREY. If I have the knowledge that you

take an interest in such plans, they will,

believe me, mature just as fruits and

flowers mature when sunlight is poured

on to them.

KATIE. You must not

waste a statesman's

energy in pretty

speeches, but, in-

deed, I shall always

be interested in your

success.

(Enter SERVANT with parcel. He

gives it to EMMELINE who reads

the address.)

EMMELINE. To the Miss de Lisles. What a curious address!

three of us.

( They all look at it-

CLARINE. A brown paper parcel! Let us open it.

EMMELINE. (Opens it. Takes nut a white satin or kid slipper.}

This is unheard of. One slipper cannot be for all of us.

CLARINE. Oh ! I have it. It is Cinderella over again. The slipper is for the one whom

it fits. Sit down. Emmeline. and try it on.

Here is something for all

-gather round—form group.)

For the Miss de Lisles.

THE SHRINKING SHOE.

585

EMMELINE. (Takes off shoe and tries.) No, it is too small.

CLARINE. (Takes her place.) Let me try. No, it is too small.

KATIE. (Sits down, puts on slipper with ease.) It is mine.

I wonder who sent it.

(Glances at GEOFFREY, who turns his head.

GEOFFREY. An odd idea indeed. I—I—fear I must

be going. Good-bye. I shall remember last

night and all that you have said. (Exit.)

HORACE (looking after him). He still possesses the

attribute of modesty. Katie, it is a pretty

slipper.

KATIE. I shall keep it—to remind me of my first

ball—and

EMMELINE. And—and of what, dear child ?

KATIE. Of the man who is to be a Prince.

CURTAIN.

ACT II.

(Four years later.)

^-7%i? same. EMMELINE and

They all look at him.)

(Reads aloud.:

CLARINE are now married.

KATIE lives on in the same

house.

EMMELINE. (In walking dress,

•waiting.) My hus-

band promised to be

here by five. It is now

a quarter-past. The

fickleness of woman j j

is nothing to the

unpunctuality of man.

{Goes to table, turns

over things.) Katie

is not fickle, but she

is very untidy. Always

leaving things about:

what is this ? Why, like Mr. Wegg, she has dropped into poetry.

aloud.)

Oh! tell me, willow wren and whitethroat, beating

The sluggish breeze with eager homeward wing,

Bear you no message for me—not a greeting

From him you left behind—my Prince and King?

You come from far—from south, and east, and west:

Somewhere you left him, daring some great thing:

I know not what, save that it is the best:

Somewhere you saw him—saw my Prince and King!

You cannot choose but know him : by the crown

They place upon his head—the crown and ring:

And by the loud and many voiced renown,

After the footsteps of my Prince and King.

Vol. I.—39.

{Reads
586 PEAR'SOX'S MAGAZINE.

He speaks ; and lo! the listening world obeys:

He leads, and all men follow; and they cling

And hang around the words, and works, and ways,

As of a prophet—of my Prince and King.

Her Prince and King! We l, if she's really waiting for that I begin to understand

why she refuses everybody. As if she could expect a man to be made on purpose

for her ! Her Prince and King ! How curious a fancy ! (Lays down verses.)

(Enter HORACE CATERHAM and GEOFFREY ARMIGER. )

HORACE. Sorry to keep you waiting, dear. I was engaged with Armiger on some legal

work. You know my wife, Geoffrey ?

GEOFFREY (looks a little puzzled). I think I have had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Caterham

before.

EMMELINE. I think you came here once with my husband. It was some time ago, Sir

Geoffrey.

HORACE. Of course. Why, Geoffrey, there was a dance, and you fell half in love with

my wife's sister, who was little more than a child then. Now she's a woman, and—

.well, perhaps you'll see for yourself. Don't you remember the slipper business?

GEOFFREY. Yes, yes. It all comes back to me—all.

EMMELIXK. I believe you sent the slipper, Sir Geoffrey.

GEOFFREY. I believe I did. How is your sister, Mrs. Caterham ?

EMMEUNE. She is quite well, thank you. She lives here in the old house where our people

have lived for f.vo hundred years—and she writes poetry.

GEOFFREY. Poetry ? I can well imagine that.

EMMELINE. Here are some verses which I found on her table just now. She is always

dreaming about someone whom she calls her Prince—who is going to do something

wonderful.

HORACE. Katie has reached the age of twenty-one, and she still believes in the man who

is going to do something wonderful.

GEOFFRKY. A robust faith. May I read the verses, Mrs. Caterham ?

(She bows assent and he takes them and reads three verses aloud. Then he

breaks off, remembering) ,

GEOFFREY. Prince and King! Many-voiced renown ! Ah ! what has come of it ?

EMMELINE. Come of what, Sir Geoffrey ?

GEOFFREY. Oh! I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else—something

forgotten. Forgive me.

EMMELINE. I will on one condition, that you dine with us to-night •

HORACE. Yes—do, old chap, and look here, Emmeline and I have to go out now—duty

visits—but—Ah! there's Katie's knock at the door—I know it. Wait a few

minutes, and she'll come in and give you some tea. Till to-night.

GEOFFREY. Till to-night, then.

(E.s-entit HORACE and EMMELINE.)

GEOFFREY (takes up verses again).

Somewhere you left him, daring some great thing:

I know not what, save that it is the best:

Somewhere you saw him—saw my Prince and King !

I remember it all; the sweet and eager face of the girl, and my silly talk about

greatness. I was to be a Poet —or a Statesman—which ? I forget. Poet ?

Statesman ? And what am I ? Pleasure hunter. I live to enjoy the fruits of the
THE SHRIXKIXG SHOE.

587

earth. Pleasure hunter. It is not a glorious profession. Four years ago I should

have scorned it. Now—it seems as if there was nothing more possible for me.

What is a rich man to do ? I wonder if she thinks—No ! That was impossible.

Yet I told her that when I had done something great—Heavens ! what a fool I was \

I would return and tell her.

You cannot choose but know him : by the crown

They place upon his head.

I can't get the words put of my head—" My Prince and King." I am a pretty sort

of King : mine would be a pretty sort of crown. Yet four

years ago I could think in that way—and talk in that

way, too.

KATIE. (Outside.) Very well. I will write

to her.

(Enter KATIE.)

GEOFFREY. Miss de Lisle. I

see you do not remem-

ber me.

KATIE. Oh! yes; and am

so glad to see you

again.

GEOFFREY. You are kind-

ness itself, but I see

that if you have

some memory of

my face, you have

forgotten my name.

I am Geoffrey

Armiger. I had

the honour of

making your

acquaintance four

years ago at a

ball—your first ball—and was allowed to call the next day.

KATIE. Of course I remember. Now you are Sir Geoffrey Armiger.

GEOFFREY. Yes. I came into my brother's title.

KATIE. Ah l yes. (Short pause.) When we met that night you had ambitions—great

ambitions.

GEOFFREY. I had.

KATIE. And what have you done with them .'

GEOFFREY. Nothing. I have forgotten them.

KATIE. What have you done, then, since I saw you last?

GEOFFREY. Nothing much, I fear. Followed the occupation — or the pursuit — or the

profession of pleasure.

KATIE. It sounds a poor profession.

GEOFFREY. Terribly poor, isn't it ? Wears one out, you see, with nothing to show for it.

KATIE. Do you mean that you have thrown away all those fine ambitions and

resolutions ?

GEOFFREY. Every mortal one of them. The young man who amused you with his dreams

is dead—dead and buried, I believe.

KATIE. What ? have you really resolved to bury all those dreams that seemed so

beautiful to me ?

' See. How tarnished and faded it is."

5^8 PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

GEOFFREY. Did they ? Did Ihey really ? Perhaps it may yet be not too late to bring the.n

to life again.

KATIE. To actual living life and realisation ! It would be a great thing. But I fear it

was but a dream—a dream I thought of much when I was scarce more than a child.

I shall never get another like it.

GEOFFREY. (Takes up paper of verses.) Was it a dream about a Prince and King ?

KATIE. Yes. But you could not understand it any more—now—even if you were to

try. You had better go, Sir Geoffrey. There is Pleasure waiting outside for you.

GEOFFREY. She can wait; Miss de Lisle, do you remember a certain dipper?

KATIE. Yes.

GEOFFREY. Have you by any accident kept that slipper ?

KATIE. Yes. I have kept it because it reminded me of certain things—of hope—of

courage—of possibilities. It is in this cabinet. (Opens drawer, takes out slipper jn

silver paper.) See. How tarnished and faded it is. The silver buckle is black

and the leather has shrunk.

GEOFFREY. No—let me look. No—it hasn't altered. (Takes it.)

KATIE. (Takes it back.) It has. It has shrunk. You don't know this kind of slipper. It is

like the piece of shagreen in Balzac's story. It goes on shrinking, as the original

owner goes down hill. You were the original owner.

GEOFFREY. Do you think you could put it on again ?

KATIE. No, I am sure I couldn't. But I will try. (Siis down, tries.) No, you see, it

won't go on.

GEOFFREY. Perhaps, with a little patience—a little goodwill—a little coaxing.

KATIE. No.

GEOFFREY. Give me the slipper. Yes. I really think it has shrunk. It is a slippe-r

bewitched. Miss de Lisle—Katie—do you think if one were to climb up the hill

again that slipper would go back to its proper size ?

KATIE. You couldn't climb up the hill again. I wish you could. Give me back the slipper.

GEOFFREY. If I were to keep it ?

KATIE. No, you shall not have it. Pleasure is waiting for you. Go back to Pleasure.

GEOFFREY. Your sister gave me these lines. And I remembered suddenly—the young man

who, perhaps, after all, is not dead. I think, if I could, I should like to take up

those ambitions once more. Do you think I could ?

KATIE. It would be far, far harder now than it was four years ago. You have got to

recover the noble mind and the pure heart. Can you hope to do that ?

GEOFFREY. Perhaps.

KATIE You have fallen. Are you strong enough to rise ?

GEOFFREY. I don't know. If that slipper should enlarge again

KATIE. Oh ! How can a man say [/"when he ought to say shall?

GEOFFREY. It shall, then. I swear it shall.

KATIE. Very good. When that happens you may come again.

GEOFFREY. I will. (Takes her hand. Goes. Stops in the doorway to look round.)

KATIE. (Recites the last verse of her poem.)

He speaks ; and lo! the listening world obeys :

He leads, and all men follow; and they cling

And hang around the words, and works, and ways,

As of a prophet—of my Prince and King.

GEOFFREY. (Returns swiftly.) Katie! Let me come again befoie that happens. Not your

Prince and King. That may never be — but for ever your servant and your

scholar ! (Takes her hand and, kneeling upon one knee, kisses it.)

CURTAIN.
•' OH ! the happy time when

1 I was sad." This celebrated

epigram by a great French actress,

if you analyse it and think over it, is

as true of the sights we see every day of our

lives in London, and in the great centres of toil, as

it is assuredly true of our inmost thoughts and impressions.

I suppose we are all of us dreamers, if we only cared to own it, and I believe that the

toil of London — its noise, its din, its excitement, and its feverish pleasure—would be

absolutely intolerable if we did not know that some day the release would come, and

London pavement, London dust, and London mud would all be forgotten in a buttercup

meadow, on a heather-covered moor, deep in the heart of an English wood, consecrated

to silence, among the flower-fringed lanes of our own delightful country, that has no equal

or rival in the world; or lost in meditation, soothed by the monotonous reiteration of the

wave-beats, on the pebbled shore.

And if these things be true of men and women, how much more true they must be

of Iktle children, those helpless creatures of imagination, so rarely studied, so often mis-

understood ! I can only speak from my own experience as a child—a. singularly imaginative

one, though the fact was known to very few besides myself.

The love for the country was to me a veritable passion, encouraged by the fact that the

early days of my life were spent in solitude with two old maiden aunts, and without the

companionship of other children of my own age. But when the time came for me to

go to a day school in London, walking to and fro from the New North Road, Hoxton—my

home—to distant Islington, my delight was to indulge in a kind of day-dream of the

country from the time the door was closed behind me, to the instant of arriving at the

school-gates—London—the great dust heaps of Mr. Dodd, the brick-kilns in the Shep-

herdess Fields—did not exist so far as I was concerned.

I was far away at Stony Stratford, watching the market carts come in; I was sunning

myself in the meadows that lead to Passenham, or in the farm lands of Castle Thorpe.

Without the relief of putting my mind back to what I had enjoyed so keenly, my childhood's

days would have been intolerable.

Perhaps it is on this account that I have such a deep pity for imprisoned London
590

PL:i xsoN' s MA GA ZIXE.

children, who, born to sorrow and privation,

never see a wood carpeted with blue bells,

never a meadow golden with buttercups,

never are awed by the silence of a forest, and

have never rushed over the yellow sand to

the "many sounding sea." In the old days,

before trains and trams were so popular,

London children were taken out to Epping

Forest, or to Bushey Park, or to Hadley

Wood in the long greengrocers' vans, which

were specially decorated for the occasion in

red, white, or blue, and the horses were

covered with rosettes, and the little ones

waved flags and coloured handkerchiefs, and

they gave a shrill joyous scream when they

started, and a weary cheer when they came

home again; and I cannot help confessing

that the outgoings and incomings of London

children suggested some of those " thoughts

that lie too deep for tears."

I never saw a van of children start from

London without noticing that most pathetic

of all sights—the child who is left behind.

The forlorn ones—unkempt, ill-shod, ragged

—who stood in the gutter, and watched with

their great big wondering blue eyes, as the

holiday vans departed, and the cheers of the

lucky children grew fainter and fainter in the

distance.

For several years of my life I had special

opportunities for studying the pathetic

features of the daily life of a London child.

I lived in Lincoln's Inn Fields before the

gates were thrown open to the London poor,

and I passed every day through the slums,

and courts, and alleys of Clare Market. As

the spring came round, and the lilac and

laburnum bloomed into flower, the sight of

the blossoms, and the scent of them seemed

to madden the poor little children, and I

could see them from my window, half

squeezing their thin bodies through the bars

of the garden, or leaping up for a handful of

flowers and green.

Somehow or other the passion is irre-

sistible, and it exists with people far more

sensible than children. And what household

lives that does not love a sprig of green, or

a little bit of country, as old-fashioned folks

call it ?

It is very wrong, of course, to tear down

the hedges, and so it is. perchance, to rob

the hedgerows of their primroses, and the

woods of their daffodils and blue bells, but

I know of very few people who are able to

resist the temptation. But next to noticing

the pained faces of the London children

who are left on the pavement, I think the most

pathetic sight is that of London children

" playing at country" on the sun-baked

pavements in the height of the summer.

I don't know if they play this game else-

where in London, but I know it is a very

favourite one round and about Lincoln's Inn

Fields. In front of the old house where I

dwelt was a quaint courtyard, so little dis-

turbed by the traffic, that weeds grew up

between the well-worn stones. Here the

THE FRESH AIR Fi\\D.

59'

There are two sides to the question, the

sentimental and the practical side. My friend,

the originator of the " Fresh Air Fund,'' is a

bit of a sentimentalist, but he is at the same

time an eminently practical man. He stood

up to advocate the " Fresh Air Fund " armed

with three strong weapons. First, a tender

heart; second, a sound business head ; third,

the pick of several popular periodicals, which

brought him every week in touch with the

public. He discovered, to the surprise of

charitable London, that any human being

could send a child down into the country for

a day, feed it, give it fresh . ,.

air, games, songs, dances,

and music, for the sum of

uinepence !

Just think of that! For

threepence less than a

shilling one of these little

London children, whom I

have described to you

picking up the weeds in a

Lincoln's Inn Field court-

yard to make a miniature

garden, sobbing in secret

over the departure of the

holiday vans, could be

taken for a long day into

the country, and sent

home well fed, satisfied,

and refreshed with a

glimpse of Paradise.

Let us go still further.

The ninepence belongs to

anyone who will sacrifice

a few 'bus rides, a cigar or two, or some imma-

terial luxury. I do not believe that when it is

widely known that one London child can be

made happy for ninepence, that any human

being would dare to take a summer holiday

without insuring his peace and happiness with

ninepence I call it an insurance fund. Secure

a happy holiday for yourselves by contributing

ninepence to the neglected children of rich

London town!

But then my friend attacked another class,

a class that could afford far more than nine-

pence to make a poor child happy for a few

hours. He said to the wealthy, who have all

they want: " Look here, mv good fellow,

do you know that if you, with all your wealth.

Wha-a-a-fs that •

sign me a small cheque for .£8 2s., you can

send 200 children into God's fresh air for a

long summer day ? You may select your

own children ! You may be boss of your

own show ! You may work out your cheque

how you like, but all I tell you is that if you

write out a cheque for .£8 2s., I will organise

a rare treat for any given 200 children."

My friend, C. Arthur Pearson, is a kindly-

hearted practical man, but he cannot, with all

his multifarious labours, organise a Fresh Air

Fund without assistance, so he called to his

elbow one of the best organisers it has ever

been my lot to meet. Need I mention his

name, Mr. John Kirk, the secretary of the

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

wild flowers. When they were tired, they

assembled at the sound of a whistle, and sat

on the grass in a circle whilst one told them

a story, and another played to them on a banjo

or concertina, and a third gave them a song.

An incident happened on that first Fresh

Air Fund Day which should never be for-

gotten. I have often told it before in print,

but a good story is always worth repeating.

Somewhere about Bow Church or Stepney,

a crippled girl in a perambulator, and a lame

lad with one leg and a crutch were to meet

the tram car to take them to the forest.

Alas! They arrived just in time to be too

late! The tram car had departed, and her

little crippled ladyship was left in her peram-

bulator sobbing her heart out. This was too

much for the lame boy, who was a perfect

stranger to her. And what do you think he

did ? He touched his ragged little cap, and

asked if he might have the privilege of wheel-

ing the crippled child to Epping Forest.

And the brave little fellow did it, lame leg,

crutch and all, and I saw them arrive on the

scene happily before the long day and the

feast were over.

Since then the " Fresh Air Fund" has

advanced by leaps and bounds. The London

children have been taken to another glade in

the Forest of Epping, and have been made

acquainted with Bushey Park. In four years

nearly a quarter of million of children have

been made happy by this glorious fund, and

the idea has spread in a marvellous manner.

Bradford, Edinburgh, Sheffield, Glasgow,

Leeds, Liverpool, Bristol, Belfast, Birming-

ham, Hull, Nottingham, and Manchester, have

all had handsome grants from the Fresh Air

Fund, and have duly administered them under

the excellent Fresh Air Fund regulations.

Mr. C. Arthur Pearson and Mr. John Kirk,

intend, if all be well, to make the " Fresh Air

Fund " a greater success than ever this year.

All that they want are the sinews of war ; they

know how to make the children happy, if the

public will allow them to do so. And at

what an infinitesimal cost!

If you cannot afford ninepence, get a col-

lecting card and tax everyone who swears or

uses a bad word, the money will simply

pour in.

But best of all, think that the expenditure

of ninepence is an insurance that will result

in a very holiday for all; bad weather,

storms, accidents, disasters, uncongenial

companionship, and all the ills of holiday

travel will never occur to anyone who has

insured success by sending one child into the

fresh air for ninepence. The pathetic cry of

a little outcast, who sobs with joy at the first

sight of a field of flowers, is worth ten times

ninepence to the thinking man and woman,

and possibly there will ring in the ears of the

giver a greater comfort yet. "Inasmuch as

you have done it unto the least of these little

ones you have done it unto Me."

[The Fresh Air Fund was started by the Editor of

Pearson's Weekly and Pearson's Magazine in 1892.

During the summer of 1892 20,600 poor children

ago,

No. III.

BIRMINGHAM ILLUSTRATED.

BY ROBERT MACHRAY.

ABOUT the middle of the eighteenth century

Birmingham made application to Parlia-

ment for permission to erect its first theatre,

and in a speech supporting the motion,

Edmund Burke referred to the town as

"the toy-shop of Europe." And, to this

day, some of its most serious work is put

into the making of trifles.

Another well-known phrase, invented by

an American visitor, descriptive of Bir-

mingham, and one upon which it perhaps a

little unduly plumes itself, is " the best

governed city in the world." This was

probably more fully deserved a few years

for Birmingham has rather rested on

its achievements for some time back, and Glasgow,

I daresay, would be inclined to have something to say in the matter of laying claim to such

a high distinction.

If there is any one word that can be used to describe Birmingham, it is the word

" interesting " : the city is interesting regarded from the point of view of the development of

its municipal life, from the part it has played and still plays in politics, and, chiefly, from the

bewildering multiplicity of its industries, and their comprehensive character.

With regard to the last, it has been well said that we are never outside of the range of

their influence. Whether " at home or abroad, sleeping or waking, walking or riding, in a

carriage or upon a railway or a steamboat, we cannot escape reminiscences of Birmingham.

She haunts us from the cradle to the grave. She supplies us with the spoon that first brings

Vol. I.—June, 1896.--No. 6.

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZIN£.

ROMAN " DAGGERS (" BRUMMAGEM ").

our infant lips into acquaintance with ' pap,'

and she provides the dismal ' furniture ' which

is affixed to our coffins."

It has been hinted, nay, it has even been

broadly stated that Birmingham in its

undefeated enthusiasm to supply any-

thing and everything, has now and

again, perhaps, supplied a little too

much.

It certainly was curious, for instance,

that a number of metal spear heads

and arrow heads found amongst other

things in one of those mounds in

North America, supposed to have

been built by a pre-historic race as a

burial place for their dead, should

have been pronounced by the authori-

ties of the Smithsonian Institute at

Washington as excellent evidences of

Birmingham's zealous study of archx'-

ology, and nothing more.

This love for things ancient on the

part of Birmingham has been dis-

played in many ways. Herewith is

presented a sketch of two veritable

antiques, a couple of Roman daggers, which

were dug up in the course of constructing the

Thames Embankment—they had been " dug

in " a few minutes before the " find " was

made—and, though genuine enough to the

ordinary gaze, yet to the eye of the expert,

they bore the legend " Brummagem."

Is there a demand for curios of

any kind or of any period—bits of the

Holy Cross, old vessels, armour,

weapons, coins ?—the ever capable

and industrious metal or wood worker

of Birmingham is ready to meet it.

The " Duke of Wellington Tobacco

Stopper " shows what Birmingham

can do in the way of caricature in

brass.

There is a rumour that Birmingham

makes idols both for Asiatic and

African merchants ; and, as one of the

partners in the oldest firm in the brass

trade said to me : " Why not ? "

While he stated that he had no

personal knowledge of idols ever

having been made by his own firm or

any other, he admitted he would be

DUKE OF

WELLINGTON

TOBACCO STOPPER. 1ulte prepared to hear of the existence

of a factory for the manufacture of

idols. " Birmingham will make anything if

a pattern is given it, or even without one ; I

would noi be surprised," he added with a

THE ORIGINALS (?) OF THE IDOL MYTH OF BIRMINGHAM.

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

smile, "if you should find the Brazen Serpent

somewhere in the town."

In the Art Museum, which forms an

interesting portion of the Art Gallery of

Birmingham, I noticed several men, who

looked like intelligent artisans, examining,

with the utmost care, some mummies, and I

shall not be altogether unprepared to hear

A BIT OF OLB BIRMINGHAM.

that the making of genuine Egyptian four-

thousand-year-old mummies has been added

to the world-embracing repertoire of

Birmingham.

The truth is, to speak seriously, that Bir-

mingham suffers somewhat in general

estimation from the penalty which attaches to

what the French call " the defects of one's

qualities." Birmingham can make, and does

make the best of everything; it can also

make the best imitations of the best of every-

thing ; but the town itself resents the sneer

which is contained in the expression " Brum-

magem,'' and abhors the phrase '' made in

Brum "—terms frequently used to describe

or characterise such imitations, and then

transferred to inferior and unoriginal articles

whether made in Birmingham or not.

Like our other largest cities, there is not

much left in it that can be called old.

" Bermingha " was mentioned in Domesday

Book, which place. the Book adds, " was, and

is worth 2os."

In 1538, John Leland made a journey

through England, and in his notes on

" Birmingham towne " says : " There be

many smiths in the towne that use to make

knives and all manner of cuttinge tooles, and

many loriners that make bittes, and a great

many naylors. Soe that a great part of the

towne is maintained by smithes whoe have their iron and sea-

cole out of Staf-

ford-shire."

One view of Old

Birmingham, the

"Bull Ring,"

which we are able

to reproduce

through the cour-

tesy of the Com-

mittee of th e

Birmingham Art

Gallery,appears on

this page. Here

bulls used to be

baited in the

"Good Old Days."

In the latter half

of the eighteenth

century, Birming-

ham showed a

remarkable combination of great men who

composed what is sometimes spoken of as

the " Soho Circle." Chief amongst these

were Matthew Boulton and James Watt.

The former established himself in Soho in

1763, where he erected machinery for water

power. James Watt visited the place later,

and so impressed Boulton with his improve-

ments in the steam engine that in 1773 a

6oo

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

they have taken much of

their colour from the great

national political move-

ments. The city was long

regarded as the stronghold

of extreme opinions. It was

early associated with Noncon-

formity in all its phases, it

sympathised with the Chartist

agitation, it took strong ground

on the Reform question, one

result of which was to make in

1832 Birmingham a Parlia-

mentary borough. Later on it was the

champion of Radicalism, and the home of

the " Caucus " (a portrait of whose founder,

Mr. William Harris, is here given) and,

still later, becomes the centre of Liberal

Unionism, with Mr. Chamberlain as Grand

Elector, who, it will be observed, is portrayed

here sans orchid and sans eyeglass.

Enfranchised in 1832, Birmingham was

MASON COLLEGE.

"SQUIRT" SQUARE.

Prom Photos by H. J. IVhitlock.

incorporated as a borough in 1838, but so little centralised was the local authority, that there

were half a dozen governing bodies or so within the town, each independent of the other,

with duties and interests which were constantly conflicting.

It was not until 1851 that the Town Council became supreme, and the various warring
BI RUING HA M ILL USTRA TED.

601

factions were harmonised. Steady growth

was shown up till 1873, when Mr. Chamber-

lain became Mayor, which position he held

until 1876, the period of his mayoralty being

signalised by the

erection of the

Council House,

the acquisition of

the gas supply

and waterworks

from local com-

panies by the cor-

poration, the

founding of a

Great Street

Im pro vement

Scheme, and other

undertakings

which have added

materially to the

welfare of the

capital of the

Midlands.

It was the great

George Dawson, preacher and prophet, led

the way, giving a higher and broader tone to

the thought of the town.

Mr. Chamberlain was born in London, but

THE TOWN HALL.

From a Photo by H. J. WMtlock.

good fortune of Birmingham to have a man

like* Mr. Chamberlain—the right man in the

right place—at a critical time ; it was Mr.

Chamberlain's good fortune to have associated

with him a band of men who cherished the

THE COUNCIL HOUSE.

From a Photo by H. 7. Whitlock

same aims and ideas in regard to municipal

life as he himself held, and who were able to

give effective help in carrying them out.

business took him to Birmingham, and it is

curious to note that those who supported him

were not natives of the town, but had come

there, like himself, from outside it.

This is not the place for giving an account

of Mr. Chamber-

lain's life. Having

realised what he

considered a suf-

ficient fortune, he

first devoted his

services to the

town where he had

made it, and then

gave them to the

nation. Had he

chosen otherwise

he would have

been, no doubt,

one of the richest

men, even in this

land where there

are many rich

men.

To commemo-

rate the services rendered by Mr. Chamberlain

to the city, a memorial fountain has been

erected opposite the Art Gallery, and it bears

602

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

on the front a medallion portrait of the Right

Honourable gentleman. The memorial

itself is a beautiful and artistic piece of

work, but the stream thrown up by the

jet in front of the fountain

is not of the most vigorous

character, so that local

irreverence has given to the

place the derisive title of

'• Squirt Square."

Another Mayor of Bir-

mingham who held office

after Mr. Chamberlain

was the Right

Honourable

making the acreage 12,705. The population

now of the city proper is over half a

million, and its rateable value in 1895 was

,£2,190,853.

Portraits are given of the present Mayor

of the city, James Smith. Esq., and

of the Mayoress as they appeared

Jesse Coilings, who is one of Mr. Chamber-

lain's most trusted allies. His portrait

appears on page 600.

In 1889 Biimingham was raised to the

rank of a City by Royal Charter; in 1891

several suburban areas were annexed,

KING EDWARD VI. GRAMMAR SCHOOL.

From a thaw by a. J. IVhillock.

at a fancy dress ball given by them in the

winter (see page 608).

Birmingham possesses four or five fine

f treets—New Street, Corporation Street, and

Colmore Row are the best, and the principal

buildings are all in or about these streets.

The Town Hall occupies the finest site in

the City, standing on the summit of the rising-

ground on which the older portion of

Birmingham is built, and is an imitation of

the Corinthian Temple of Jupiter Stator at

Rome.

The Council House, built during Mr.

Chamberlain's regime, is a handsome

structure, the fronts being in the Italian style,

and the large arch over the portico contains

some fine work in mosaic by SaKiati.

Adjoining the Council House is the Art

Gallery, in which are to be seen many

fine paintings, from which we have been

permitted to make a selection for repro-

duction in this number of the JHagazine.

Birmingham has produced several artists of

more than ordinary fame, among whom may

be mentioned David Cox, of whose celebrated

works in oil the Art Gallery contains the best

and most extensive collection in England, the

BIRMINGHAM ILLUSTRATED.

603

ST. PAUL'S, LONDON, FROM THE RIVER.

From a Painting by Henry Davison. Reproduced by permission from the Birmingham Art Gallery.

magnificent gift of a citizen of the town ; Sir

Edward Burne-Jones, whose great picture,

" The Star of Bethlehem," is in the

Gallery; and others. St. Philip's Church,

in Colmore Row, contains some beautiful

stained glass, made from designs of Sir

Edward Burne-Jones.

Other Birmingham buildings, notable either

architecturally or from their specific character,

are the Midland Institute, Mason College—

founded and endowed by the late Sir Josiah

Mason, who made a fortune in pens—the

Victoria Law Courts (p. 604), recently com-

pleted, a handsome block in warm, ruddy

terra-cotta, Queen's College, and the famous

Grammar School of King Edward VI.

The school building, Tudor in style, is of

comparatively recent date. The present

Archbishop of Canterbury, the late and

present Bishops of Durham (Dr. Lightfoot

and Dr. Westcott), Sir Edward Burne-Jones,

and Mr. Grant Allen are numbered amongst

the alumni of the school.

Two noteworthy features of the city are its

arcades, the Great Western and the North-

Western, which together form the finest

arcaded thoroughfare in the kingdom ; and

New Street Station, occupied jointly by the

London and North-Western and the Midland

Railways, which has a magnificent roof of

immense span weighing something like

fifteen hundred tons, and which, covering

eleven acres, is amongst the largest railway

stations in the world.

Birmingham has erected statues to the

following, amongst others: The Queen and

Prince Albert, Sir Robert Peel, James Watt,

George Dawson, Sir Rowland Hill, the

postage man; John Bright, who represented

Birmingham lor so many years; Thomas

Attwood, the " father of the Political Unions;"

Joseph Sturge, the apostle of peace; Nelson

(who was not exactly an apostle of peace),

Priestley, etc.

Birmingham is making great efforts towards

solving the street tram-car problem. There

are steam cars, cable cars, electric cars to be

seen in different parts of the city. The

electric cars are on the storage principle, and

are run at a heavy financial loss, but it is now

purposed to have the electric " trolly" car

placed on trial.
604

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

THE VICTORIA LAW COURTS.

From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock.

From the point of view of either popular

or technical education, Birmingham, which

has thoroughly grasped the idea that in

business, as in everything else, knowledge is

power, is very thoroughly equipped,possessing

art schools, technical schools, many public

libraries—all of which are brought to bear

with special emphasis on the local industrial

life.

Birmingham is not a great reading place

outside of politics and business—everybody

in Birmingham is engaged in business of

some kind, and every man makes a business

besides of politics.

One excellent feature about Birmingham

is that its people are proud of their city. It

seems to have a firm hold upon their

affections. It certainly is peculiar, says Mr.

J. Thackray Bunce (page 608), the well-

known editor of the Birmingham Daily Post,

in opening a career even to the humblest

who are gifted with ingenuity and industry.

The great number of trades keeps work

constant, wages are at a high level owing

to skill being required, while the distribution

of labour and its dependence upon personal

aptitude afford chances of rising in the social

scale which cannot be found in places where

manufactures are mainly of one class, and

are conducted in factories demanding large

capital.

It is easy in Birmingham for a man to

become a small master, and gradually work

his way up to being the head of a large factory.

Many of the largest employers have either

been workmen themselves or are the sons of

workmen; while of the smaller manufacturers

almost all take a part in the handicraft work

carried on in their places of business.

I am told that it is not an uncommon thing

for a man to work quietly for years, apparently

in a very small way in a modest workshop

behind his dwelling, making this little

speciality or that for the branch of industry

to which he individually belongs, and at his

death it will be found that he has left a nice

BIRMINGHAM ILL USTRA TED.

605

little fortune of twenty or thirty thousand

pounds.

Now what are these trades and industries

which have made the Birmingham of to-day,

and whose development have led many to

consider and to call it " the City of the

Future ? " I have already referred to their

bewildering multiplicity, and it is impossible

to do more than group them together in some

sort of rough order.

Take, for instance, the brass trade. The

various forms of this industry, Mr. Davis, the

Secretary of the Brassworkers' Association,

the brass trade is to be found in the fact

that it had a population possessed of an

hereditary aptitude for this kind of work,

transmitted from father to son for many

generations.

Of course the same remark applies with

equal force to the artificers in gold, silver,

iron, and other metals. Another example of

this is to be found in the making and fashion-

ing of glass.

Now if you think of the thousands of

things which are wholly or partly made of

brass, it will not perhaps be surprising to

HOMEWARD.

From a Painting by C. Napier Henry. Reprodnced by permissiun from the Birmingham Art Gallery.

informs me, employ in one way or another

some forty thousand people, and there are

more than eight hundred factories big and

little engaged in it.

" What Manchester is in cotton, Bradford

in wool, and Sheffield in steel, Birmingham is

in brass," although at one time Bristol was

the centre of the English brass trade.

With the solitary exception of iron, working

in brass is the oldest industry of which we

read; all metal working requires highly

trained skill, and one good reason for

Birmingham's becoming the great home of

hear that there are as many as 300,000

patterns and prices known in the trade, one

firm alone having 15,000 casting patterns in

constant use, besides a vast number which

are only wanted occasionally.

Working in brass reaches its highest

development in Birmingham in the beautiful

and artistic articles designed for ecclesiastical

purposes. The movement which resulted in

this, was set on foot by Pugin, about the

middle of the century, and is a revival of the

purest and highest art of the Middle Ages—

ornament being united with utility.

6o6

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

In connection with the brass trade may be

mentioned the making of metallic bedsteads,

which have superseded the old-fashioned

four-posters of wood.

In 1849 there were only eight manu-

facturers of these metallic bedsteads; in

This trade is confined almost exclusively to

one portion of the town known as the

jewellers' quarier.

The sub-divisions of this business are

almost as innumerable as those of the brass,

trade, and cover not only gold and silver

1886 there were forty,

with a weekly pro-

duction of not far

short of twenty thou-

sand ; and the trade

has gone on growing,

brass being supple-

mented by nickel,

electro - plate, silver,

and even gold.

Prices range from

four-and-sixpence — a

bedstead on which you

would probably prefer

to let somebody else

sleep than sleep your-

self—up to a hundred

pounds per set. But

one that cost you a

little less would per-

haps suit you just as

well.

There are seven

thousand men, women,

and young persons

employed in this trade

alone.

Steam and railways

gave a great impetus to the brass trade of

Birmingham, and electricity promises to

do even more, as the making of electroliers

and other electric appliances, is now largely

gone into.

More capital is employed in the jewellery

trade of Birmingham—gold, silver, and gilt—

than in any other, and there are as many as

twenty thousand people employed in it.

facture

chains,

badges,

jewellers proper, but

chain makers, gilt-

plated and black

ornament artificers,

lapidaries, cutters,

chasers. engravers,

enamellers, die-

sinkers, stampers —

and goodness knows

what besides.

At the top of this

business is the manu-

of mayoral

municipal

ceremonial

keys, reliquaries, cas-

BIRMINGHAM ILL USTRA TED.

607

Street, Birmingham, are certainly very in-

teresting.

Towards the close of the seventeenth

century the gun trade was established in the

town; at the present time the small arms

industry is extensive and important. The

Government have a factory at Sparkhrook,

Birmingham, and at Smallheath

the Birmingham Small Arms

Company have a very large and

expensive plant. Several thou-

sand people are employed in

these factories, and it gives one

some idea of the amount of

labour necessary to, say, com-

plete a Lee-Metford rifle, when

one knows that there are more

than one thousand processes,

etc., to be brought into play

before the finished article can be

handed over to the War Office.

Birmingham also supplies a

great many sportingguns—-of the

famous Westley-Richards make,

for example — carbines, and

revolvers: the Webley revolver,

which is the revolver in use in

the British army, being made

here. There are more than five

hundred different processes

gone through in the manufacture

of the last-named weapon.

In this age of cycles it is

worthy of remark that several

of the arms factories are turning

their attention, with great suc-

cess, to the making of cycle

components, and are putting into

use the same nice perfection of

finish required in making the

parts of a rifle for Government

inspection—which scales down

differences to the two-thousandth

part of an inch—into their con-

struction of bearings, and other parts

fittings of the ubiquitous wheel.

Passing over the glass trade, in which

Birmingham has no small renown—I saw at

the Messrs. Osiers' an exquisite service of

glass which they had just made for the King

of Italy—the button trade, hook-and-eye

trade, the pin trade, the artificial human eye

trade, and others which, in the language of

the showman, are far too numerous to men-

tion—many of them of great importance,

such as.the Nettlefold's screw trade (in which

Mr. Chamberlain made his money), and the

making of lighthouses, of which, at Messrs.

Chance's, Birmingham has the monopoly—

and

TRINITY CHURCH, STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

From a Photo by P. Frith Sf Co.

something must be said about the pen

trade.

I suppose there is hardly any person who

can write who does not use at least at some

time or other the steel pen of Birmingham.

The J pens (so called, because that letter

6o8

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

used, and have influenced in no small degree

handwriting, especially that of ladies.

There is a story, the truth of which I have

THE MAYOR OF BIRMINGHAM.

From a Photo by H. J. IVhitlock.

no means of corroborating, connected with

the two best-known names in the pen trade

of Birmingham. It seems that the original

Gillott was a lover of a sister of the original

Mitchells, and that the lady confided to her

sweetheart all the secrets of her brothers'

trade, to the no small benefit of the aforesaid

Gillott.

Some four or five thousand people are

employed in this manufacture, and it is said

that more than 20,000,000 pens are made

weekly in the town.

Coming to the social aspects of the town,

it may be noted that wealth, being more

evenly distributed in Birmingham

than in most great cities, there

is an unusually large class of

people who are comfort-

ably off. They have

acquired their means, as a

general thing, not by specu-

lation, but by industry and

hard work.

The richer classes live-

chiefly in Edgbaston, a

beautiful district belonging

almost entirely to Lord

Calthorpe, and in which

regulations have been en-

forced as to the description,

position, and area of the

houses. Moseley is another handsome suburb.

Strictly speaking, I am assured there is no

'• society," in the usual acceptation of the

word, in Birmingham. Owing to the indus-

trial character of the town, one class shades

off so imperceptibly from another—the

master who has been a workman and the

workman who will become a master—that

J. THACKRAV BUNCE.

Editor of the " Birmingham Post."

From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock.

THE MAYORESS OF BIRMINGHAM

From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock.

the clear drawn lines which obtain elsewhere

are hardly possible in Birmingham.

But I am told that if there is any " society "

in Birmingham Mrs. Joseph Chamberlain is

queen of it, just as her husband is king

politically.

Ever since the memorable reception in the

Town Hall one January night seven

years ago, when Mr. Chamberlain

introduced his American bride

to his fellow-citizens and

their women folk, the fair

hostess of Highbury has

held without an effort the

preeminence given to her

by the man for whom

Birmingham has shown so

remarkable an affection.

Mrs. Chamberlain has

BIRMINGHAM ILLUSTRATED.

609

bright conversation, and dignity united with

grace.

London rather than Birmingham, however,

is now Mrs. Chamberlain's home.

Mrs. Kenrick, Mr.

Chamberlain's sister,

and Mrs. Herbert

Chamberlain, are pro-

minent ladies in Bir-

mingham both socially

and politically. They

are both effective

public speakers, and

take an active part in

promoting Liberal-

Unionist Associations

among the women of

Birmingham; and, in-

deed, it may be added

that the ladies of this

Midland city are quite

as keen politicians as

their men-folk.

An illustration on

this page shows the

interior of the " Catacombs" under Christ

Church, Birmingham.

It is not always realised that Birmingham

stands on the edge—part of the city actually is

in Warwickshire—of what are perhaps themost

famous districts of England, which include

Warwick Castle, Kenilworth Castle, and the

whole land of Shakspeare, indeed Bir-

mingham claims to be in the Shakspeare

country.

Our frontispiece is a photograph of War-

wick Castle, whose chatelaine, the Countess

of Warwick (Lady Brook), is one of the

fairest women in the Empire, and whose

many deeds of kindly charity make her fairer

still.

In concluding this article, I would make

brief mention of the religious influences

INTERIOR OF CATACOMBS, CHRIST CHURCH.

From a Photo by F. J. Burgoyne.

which have radiated from Birmingham.

One could not forget that it con-

tained at one and the same time two

such great and influential personalities as

Dr. Dale, one of the best loved and

best known of Nonconformist divines, and

that prince of the Roman Church, Cardinal

Newman, who, I venture to think, will live

as long as the English language is spoken,

not because he was one of the most

wonderful influences upon the religious

thought of our time, but because he was the

author of the most beautiful hymn, perhaps,

ever composed—"Lead, Kindly Light."

: .u

Vol. I, 41.

KEN1LWORTH CASTLE.
a [resident1

By C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE.

" You are quite wrong, my dear fellow,"

said Don Pablo. " It isn't only a case of

trade, and jealousy at British prosperity; we

have a much heavier count against you than

ihat. You won't keep your fingers out of

our politics. All our South and Central

American revolutions are schemed out in

your blessed England—most of them are

financed in London—and yet you pestilential

meddling islanders wonder why we hate you.

You don't care a bit what you do, as long as

there's a chance of making money out of it.

And then you're so indecently reckless. I

knew a man once, the master of a little tramp

steamer, who successfully tackled a Central

American revolution absolutely single-handed.

He went into the business at five minutes' notice,

without even knowing the language of the country; and

he disorganised the movements of the two immense

political parties to such an extent, that a third party

sprang up and swept the board whilst the others were gasping with astonishment."

" A clever man," said I. " An Englishman, you say ? "

" Yes, an Englishman. And he wasn't clever either. He was just woodenly reckless and

plucky."

" Some soldier of fortune, I suppose ? Some broke army man——'

" He was nothing of the kind. We could have stood it better if he had been anybody

respectable. He was a little dried up man of forty, with a red head and a red peaked

beard. He was master of a small, old, ramshackle steamer; and he had come into our port

with a cargo of hides, I think it was, or anyway, something equally impolite; and he was too

insignificant for anyone to take any notice of. His name was Kettle, but of course the tale

wouldn't interest you, because "

" Wait a bit; I rather think that you're talking of a man I know. Captain Owen Kettle,

was it; and did you ever catch him making poetry ? "

" That's the man; poetry or war, he delighted in them both; and his verses were

absolutely the most drivelling I ever had thrown at me. But how came you," Don Pablo

asked suspiciously, " to know the blackguard ? "

I laughed. " We foregathered in quite another corner of the seas, and he tried to shoot

me. What we disagreed about was neither poetry nor politics; but I'll tell you about that

afterwards. How did you get mixed up with him ? "

"Well, you see,'' said Don Pablo drily, " it was my own native Republic that he saw fit to

meddle with. I was not in residence at the time that Kettle made his coup ; to be accurate,

they'd forced me into exile ; but various reasons made me take a great interest in the matter,

and I had all the scenes painted to me by one person and another with much vividness."

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America, by C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne.

STEALING A PRESIDENT.

611

He broke off and smiled reminiscently,

watching the fire-flies shedding their crumbs

of light as they danced in and out of the long

aisle of the piazza. I got up and opened a

new tin of cigarettes, and placed them on the

arm of his long chair. He helped himself

meditatively. I didn't disturb him, and he

lay there quietly with his tobacco for forty

minutes. Then he looked dreamily out into

the warm Southern darkness, and spoke :

" I shouldn't like Captain Kettle harmed,"

he said tentatively.

" I'd sooner wreck myself than injure him

intentionally."

" Well, then, if I tell you about him, all

you've got to do is just to forget a few geo-

graphical names, and some dates, and then

no trouble will be made. I'm saying this

because I know you'll repeat the story. It's

too good to keep in."

Don Pablo broke off, and laughed to

himself softly. " Do you know, the beggar

actually did with his own single pair of hands

what a whole Congressist army had been

trying to do for six continuous months ? He

captured the President! Yes, sir, seized the

man in the middle of all his troops, ran him

off to sea, and held him there a prisoner till,

as I say, the revolution was settled in a way

which no one expected.

" Now I don't want to give you the idea

that from start to finish the whole thing was

a merely commercial speculation on Kettle's

part. Money had a good deal to do with it,

that goes without saying, but it was the sheer

insolence of the idea which gave him his first

appetite for it. He had come in from the

North, and a guardship met him outside and

told him that it was dangerous to go into the

harbour, because there was fighting going on

every day, and shots were crossing the quays

and the water in every direction.

" Kettle said that was no concern of his ;

he was consigned to that port, and he was

going in; and if anybody knocked bits off his

steamboat his consul would make them pay

for it. The boarding officer from the guard-

ship shrugged his shoulders, thought him a

fool, and got back into his boat; and Kettle

rang on his engines to " Full Ahead."

Nothing happened. The crew didn't see

the force of being peppered, and refused

to lift a hand. They were in a state of

passive mutiny."

" That was no new experience for Red

Kettle," said I.

" He was quite ready for the emergency,"

Don Pablo retorted. " His crew hated him

so much that he'd had three outbreaks with

them already since they'd signed on, and in

consequence he'd acquired the habit of

carrying loaded weapons ready to hand in his

jacket pockets. He'd not even a brace of

truculent mates to help him ; they were

disaffected like the rest; and it was himself

against every soul on board.

"Any ordinary human being would have

subsided before the force of such a combina-

612

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" ' It's comparatively small in bulk,' said

the merchant, ' but it isn't stuff you can haul

through the streets on a dray.'

"Captain Kettle sat down upon a corner

of the table and helped himself to a cigar.

• Something to be smuggled, you mean ?'

said he. ' Well, that bounces up the freight

at once. Is there any chance of the forts

having a pot at us if we go out ?'

" ' Every chance if they knew what you've

got on board. So I suppose,' said the mer-

chant (who knew his man), 'that frightens

you off the bargain ? '

" ' If I chose to go out,' said Kettle, ' not

all the forts in your blessed republic should

stop my trying. It's my crew I was thinking

of. The beasts are fit to eat me already ;

they'll try and do it if they hear of this new

game; and if I've to fight the lot of them,

I've got to be paid for it. So now name your

figure.'

'"Wait a bit. You've got to hear more

about the business first, and at the same time

I've to be very careful what I say.'

" ' Oh, don't mind me.'

'"Well, you said just now you'd take Old

Nick's bitterie de cuisine. . . . You see it

isn't that. . . . It's a man we want you

to get on board.'

"'To kidnap? Well, offer me a big

enough price, and point out your man.'

" The merchant considered a minute.

Then he said, in a low voice : ' There's two

thousand pounds if you get him clear of the

harbour, and a hundred for every day we ask

you to keep him at sea. But it's a risky job,

and although the money's sure enough,

maybe you'd be frightened when you

knew '

"' Yes,' said Kettle, ' I'm the right sort of

man to be frightened, aren't I? We'll call that

a bargain, Senor. I'd carry off Old Nick him-

self out of his kitchen on those terms. But

I'd like to see them down on a slip of paper

with your name written to them over a

charter party stamp.'

" But to that the merchant would not con-

sent, and it was agreed that he was to send an

agent on board the Parakeet with the hard

cash in his pocket ready to deliver; and

after that detail had been comfortably settled,

the merchant leant forward, and in a whisper

disclosed the name of the victim. It was

no less a person than the President of the

Republic!

" Kettle, brazen little ruffian though he was,

was plainly staggered by the name ; but the

merchant knew his man. ' Ah,' he said, 'but,

of course, the job's too big for you.'

'"I haven't said so,' replied Kettle. 'I

must have ballast, coal, and the money put

on board my steamboat; and when it's there

I'll ship your President.'

" ' Yes, but how do I know that you will do

that ?'

" ' I'm telling you now. You must take

my word for it, my son, or do the other

thing. This is a matter to be arranged by

He cowed the men on deck.
614

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

through whether I like it or not. The only

thing is, Captain, if you do happen to come

to grief, I should take it as a great favour if

you'd keep my name out of the business.

You see I'm a married man with a family,

and it would cause people I care about a good

deal of pain if I was taken out into the public

streets and shot.'

" '.Oh, certainly,' said Captain Kettle, ' I'm

always quite ready to oblige. And if you

don't mind, I'll just take another of these

cigars of yours.' "

II.

DON PABLO broke off and smiled remi-

niscently, and a servant with noiseless feet

came out on to the piazza to take away the

coffee cups and liqueur glasses.

" Yes ?" I said wherf we were alone once

more with the fire-fli«s and the darkness.

" That little countryman of yours was really

a marvellous person. The President was

away up country arranging for a battle and a

siege during the next week, and so, as nothing

could be done, Kettle sat in his chart house

and wrote poetry, whilst the peons tipped

shingle ballast into the Parakeet's holds. I

saw the poetry, and it fairly made me gasp.

You know what the man is ? "

" I can sincerely say that he is the most

thoroughly-paced little ruffian that ever hazed

a crew."

Don Pablo nodded.

" He is a man who tor years has carried

his life in his hand, and has never gone to

sleep on board ship without a probability of

waking with a cut throat. But you should

have seen that poetry ! Anyone would have

expected it to be full of fights, and gunpowder,

and melodrama generally. But not a bit of

it. One piece was a serenade to a lady with

eyebrows; in another he eulogised the 'glow-

ing scarlet of the grain,' presumably from a

railway view of poppies in a corn field; and

a third was a hymn as full of religion and

doggerel as its writer was crammed with

truculence.

" It seems that the man was an ardent

chapel-goer when he was at home, and, as he

had never been in the country, his one ambi-

tion in life was to turn farmer and never look

upon the sea again. However, when the

time came for action, he was quite ready to

put away his drivelling manuscript and get to

work, and within twelve hours of the Presi-

dent's return, Kettle had got him on board,

and was calmly steaming past the harbour

forts out to sea.

" His method succeeded from its sheer

impudence. He called at the palace just as

the clocks struck midnight, and demanded to

see the President. He was asked his business.

' I have got something to show his worship,'

said he, and refused to explain further. So

he got his audience, and then proceeded to

clear everybody else out of the room. ' I

must see your worship alone,' said he, and

when the President replied in his own tongue,

he added, ' and you must speak English; I

STEALING A PRESIDENT.

615

" But Captain Owen Kettle cut him short

with very meagre ceremony. 'I must ask

your worship to come with me at once,' said

he. ' My engineers have got steam up, and

I cannot afford to waste coal. You have a

pistol on you.'

" ' In my hip pocket.'

" Kettle went round, dived a hand

respectfully beneath the frock coat-tail, and

removed it. ' Your worship will kindly put

on your hat, and take my left arm. I shall

have my right hand—and this Smith and

Wesson—inside my coat breast, so; and if

you make it needful, I'll shoot you stone

dead through the cloth. Your worship quite

understands ?'

" ' Your explanations are wonderfully

clear, captain. May I ask what your

steamer is ?'

" ' The Parakeet.'

" ' Then you are the

gentleman who shot a

mutinous quarter-

master from the upper

bridge a week ago out-

side this port, and fired

on your engineers from

the skylight till they let

steam into the engines ?

"Kettle nodded.

' But I wasn't trying to

hit my chief,' he ex-

plained, ' or he wouldn't

be alive now. I was

only scaring him on to

his duty. No, sir; I'm

not a man that ever

misses a shot when I lift a gun: shoot and

write poetry, these are the things I can do :

and I'll ask you to come with me right now

without any further waiting.'

" ' You want me to go out of the palace on

your arm, walk unescorted through the streets

of this city, and then put off to sea in your

steamer? My dear sir,you seem toforget that I

am President of this country, and that all my

movements are carefully mapped out for me.'

" ' Quite so,' said Kettle. ' I'm mapper.'

"' I admit you hold one key to the

situation, senor, but perhaps you will suggest

how I am to explain to my officers and friends

this sudden sweeping change of plan ?'

"' No,' said the little man, ' that's a

thing I can offer no suggestion on. As a

liar, I'm the biggest failure you could find.

And, besides, I don't know a word of the

language. But your worship is a politician,

and so I can leave explanations confidently

to you. The only thing is,' he added

significant!y,' I should advise square dealing,

because if you try to give the show away

whilst we're getting back to my steamboat,

it's a certain fact that you'll go to your own

funeral, whatever happens to me.'

" ' And if I go with you submissively to the

Parakeet, what afterwards ?'

" ' Your worship shall be fed like a prince,

You will kindly keep your arms folded as they are now."
6i6

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

It was always Kettle who drew from the accordion its unwilling notes.

" ' Well! ' said the President ruefully, ' I

see no way of avoiding your invitation.

Permit me to take your arm, Captain Kettle.

It is a pity you do not understand Spanish.

As it is, you will miss one of the prettiest

pieces of fiction a man ever composed to

deliberately bring about his own ruin.'

" The Parakeet steamed eighty miles out

to sea, and there lay-to with banked fires.

" The passenger and Captain Kettle in-

habited the chart house, and through the

doorways there came at intervals strains of

music squeezed forth from an accordion, and

accompanied by the human voice. The voice

varied; sometimes the President sang, and

sometimes Captain Kettle, but it was always

Kettle who drew from the accordion its

unwilling notes. It turned out that the stolen

President was a maker of verse himself, and

as he affected a profound admiration for his

captor's own poems, that little ruffian's heart

warmed towards him.

" ' Your worship,' he would say, ' if I'd

known you were a man like this, darn me

if I'd ever have carried you off.'

" But when the President suggested resti-

tution as the best recompense, Kettle would

shake his head. ' No, senor,' he would say ;

' a bargain's a bargain. I gave my word to a

man ashore, and as long as he keeps his faith

with me, your worship's got to stay here.' At

which the President would sigh, and ask

Kettle to favour him with more melody.

" And so matters went on for a week, and

the Parakeet swung gently over the swells,

and diffused the scent of paint over the plains

of ocean. But at the end of a week, the face

of the matter changed. Kettle had his usual

morning's interview with the agent, and that

worthy asked for a pen and the ink-pot.

" ' For what ?' asked Kettle suspiciously.

" The agent confessed his inability to make

further cash payments, but said airily that his

cheque was in every way as good.

" Kettle stood up and stepped to the chart-

house door. ' Ah,' said he, ' then I'll be

STEALING A PRESIDENT.

617

getting under weigh to dump my passenger on

dry land again. No payee, no keepee.'

" ' But, senor Capitan,' the other retorted,

' you will have my signed promise to pay,

and that is as good as gold any day.'

" ' I hear you say it,' said Captain Kettle.

" ' Senor, have you no gratitude ? I have

paid you in cash .£2700 English already.'

" ' Quite right. You handed me over

£2000 for doing with one pair of hands a bit

of a job which your whole blooming army

failed at, and you paid me £100 a day for

turning my steamboat into a common hotel.

Well, sir, I'm going out of this public-house

business right now without further talk, and I

tell you I'm sorry I ever started in at it. If I'd

known a week ago what I know now, I'd never

have meddled at all. There's not a sweeter-

natured man in all Central America than this

President of yours. It seems I'm the brute

that's pulled him off his perch ; well, I'm

going to put him up there once more; and if

you don't hear him crowing again before three

more days are over, it won't be my fault.'

" ' But, Capitan,' pleaded the agent,

' consider '

" ' I've no more to say to you,' said Captain

Kettle, and went out into the bridge deck.

He passed word to the Chief Engineer; and

the chief did what was needful; and an hour

later the Parakeet was standing in again

towards the coast.

" Now, Captain Owen Kettle," Don Pablo

went on, " though possessed of the best

intentions, had yet to learn, that, though it

may be difficult to upset, it is ten thousand

times as hard to put straight again. He

had completely disorganised all the political

arrangements of a very considerable republic

by a stroke of impudent recklessness; but

such things do not bear repeating a second

time.

"And, besides, whilst he and the Parakeet

had been away, history had galloped. When

he left shore, the Congressist party were in a

tight place : the President's troops had pinned

them. But when by this piece of kidnapping

he decapitated the winning side, they were

too paralysed by the shock to follow up their

advantage; and as the Congressists had not

the nerve to turn the opportunity to account,

a third person stepped in and got the country

nicely within his grip before the other con-

tending factions quite knew what had hap-

pened.

" The novelty of the new-comer's promises

came as a pleasing stimulant to the jaded

nerves of the citizens, and as most of them

flocked to his standard at once, the rest

followed for fear of being got at by a pronun-

ciamento. I guess," said Don Pablo com-

placently, " it was the most unlocked for and

the most satisfactory ending the Republic has

ever seen to any of its revolutions. Don't

you think yourself it was neat ? "

I nodded.

" And what became of Kettle's President ? "

I asked.
A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF LIMA, FROM

FORT SAN CRISTOBAL.

A RAILWAY BEYOND THE CLOUDS.

BY GEORGE GRIFFITH.

PERU being essentially the country of

paradoxes and extremes—as, for instance,

the richest and the poorest, the hottest and

the coldest, the most fertile and the most

barren of the lands of earth-—it is perhaps in

accordance with the general unfhness of

things Peruvian that, having no roads outside

the streets of its towns, it should also be the

proud possessor of the two most marvellous

railways under the sun.

We in Europe have heard a good deal of

late of Alpine railways, up which vehicles like

tramcars on their hind legs are, or shall be,

pulled or pushed by cables or ratchet-wheel

contrivances up a trifle of five or six thousand

feet carrying a couple of dozen persons ; but

this is only a sort of locomotive hop, skip,

and jump to what the trains do on the two

great railways of Peru. These, too, are trains

with heavy locomotives, cars on the Pullman

pattern, and baggage-waggons to match.

The climbing that they do is quite worth

talking about, for on the Central Railway, the

one to which this article will be devoted, the

traveller starts from the Callao Station, eight

feet above the level of Callao Bay, and when

he has travelled 106 miles he is on the point

of entering a long tunnel, the mouth of which

is 15,665 feet above the Pacific. On the

other, the Southern Railway of Peru, he will

start from the beach at Mollendo, and cross a

wild, arid plain 14,666 feet above sea level,

and he may end his journey at the terminus

at Puno, on the shore of Lake Titicaca,

where the train will run him down on to a

jetty alongside a steamer, in which he may

make a voyage out of sight of land on a sheet

of water whose surface is as high above that

of the Pacific as the peak of Monte Rosa is

above the waters of the Mediterranean.

Originally, the purpose of the Central

Railway was as magnificent as its conception,

for it was nothing less than to stretch the

iron thread from the shores of the Pacific

across the colossal barrier of the Andes, and

then down the Eastern slopes to a port on

the Amazon, whence a line of steamers would

connect the port of Callao with those of the

Old World—and, splendid as the conception

was, it must be admitted that the most

difficult portion of its execution has been

accomplished; for the line, as I have said,

rises from the wharves at Callao, till it pierces

a 3cooft mountain, at an altitude only a few

A RAILWAY BEYOND THE CLOUDS.

619

feet short of that of the summit of Mont

Blanc, and then descends again at the pre-

sent terminus at Oroya, 12,1781t. above sea-

level.

My upward journey on the Central line

only extended as far as Casapalca, ninety-

five miles from Callao, and just a little short

of I4,oooft. nearer the stars. Peru was just

emerging from the throes of her last revolu-

tion ; the upper

portion of the line

had been closed

for six months,

and beyond Casa-

palca there were

still earth - slides

on the metals and

broken bridges

that had not been

repaired. Through

the kindness of the

Chief Engineer of

the line, I was

given a seat on

the engine of the

first freight train

that went up, and

I was not disap-

pointed in my

expectations that

I had before me

quite as marvel-

lous an experience

as I had some

eighteen months

ago, when I rode

across the Rockies

on the engine of

a Canadian Pacific

train.

Of course, the

scenery of the

foot-hills of the

dawn upon you—when you see grass green

and flowers blooming at an elevation from

which you could look down on the highest

summit of the Rockies, and when from there

you see great, red-brown, rugged rock-walls

rising thousands of feet above you, and above

them again, the dazzling fields and pinnacles

of eternal snow and ice soaring up into the

sky and over-topping the highest clouds—

A GORGE OF THE RIMAC, SHOWING ANCIENT TERRACE CULTIVATION.

Cordilleras in the Southern Tropics is as

different as can well be imagined from that

of the Selkirks and the Rockies in the latitude

of Vancouver. In the Rockies everything is

on a smaller scale, and yet the scenery is far

more imposing because you can see it all.

It is only when, after considerable ponder-

ing, some faint conception of the colossal

scale on which the Andes are built, begins to

that the overwhelming impression of your

own infinite littleness and the immeasurable

grandeur of these Titans of the Tropics bursts

upon you with a force that leaves you, not at

first appreciative, but only half stunned and

dumbly wondering whether or not you have

62O

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

It was just about sunrise that we pulled out

of the Desemparados Station at Lima, and

ran at a very respectable speed up through

the wide, gently sloping plain between two

great spurs of the foot hills which a few

miles farther on gradually approach each

other to form the Valley of the Rimac. On

the one hand was the broad rugged stony bed

over which the Rimac pursues a course which

is somewhat noisy at its quietest. In the

rainy season, when the snows are melting and

the deluges falling on the mountains beyond

the rainless zone of the coast, it thunders and

foams in a succession of cataracts, like the

daughter of the mountains that it is.

On the other were wide expanses of

emerald-green cane-fields, and beyond these

the rounded, red-brown mountains rising

group beyond group and range beyond range

away into the dim distance to light and left

and in front of us, to be crowned at last by

the still invisible diadems of the Nevados of

the Cordillera.

To-day the vegetation of the Rimac Valley

is entirely confined to the level, but a few

miles out of Lima the train brings you within

sight of evidences that once upon a time it

must have worn a very different aspect. As

the mountains come closer together you see

that they are terraced almost to their summits,

and moreover, as you open up the lateral

valleys on either hand, you find that nearly

every one of them contains the grey ruins of

a city, or town, or village, standing silent and

forlorn in the midst of a brown, waterless

plain upon which no drop of rain falls or

ever has fallen within the memory of man.

Yet once upon a time, in the days when these

towns and cities were filled by a lost people,

and were the homes of a vanished civilisation,

the plains on which they stand were green

and well watered, and verdure and flowers

rose in terrace after terrace up the now leaf-

less and sunbaked sides of the mountains,

watered by some system of irrigation whose

secret is as utterly lost as are those who

devised it.

A run of thirty-three miles up the valley of

the Rimac, on an ever-increasing grade,

brought us to Cosica, 2800 feet above the

station we had started from, and here the

actual climbing began. Fourteen miles

further on, at San Bartolome", we had climbed

2000 feet higher, and then we came to the

first tunnel. The tunnels on the Central

Railway form a distinctive feature, second only

to the enormous elevation over which it

passes. There are sixty-five of them in a

distance of 136 miles, and fifty-seven of these

are between San Bartolome" and Casapalca,

a run of under fifty miles. Of course, they

are not long tunnels, but they are quite long

enough when you go through them on an oil

engine. In fact, each of them struck me as

a miniature, but thoroughly characteristic

entrance to the Infernal Regions.

Out of the clear, crisp, sunlit mountain air

we plunged suddenly into darkness, made

A RAILWAY BEYOND THE CLOUDS.

621

A "V."

of rock with nothing but a foot or so of level

ground between the wheels, and a precipice

which sometimes drops from I5coft. to

zoooft. almost sheer into the valley, while on

the other side another rock-wall towers to an

equal or greater height, and to sit on the

tender of an engine, swinging round curves,

and jumping into and out of tunnels on a

little ledge that seems to hang between

heaven and earth, is just at first more calcu-

lated to give one the creeps than to fill the

soul with unadulterated delight. But this

soon wears off, and then, saving only the

intermittent suffocation, one's sensations are

all of wonder and exhilaration.

It will be readily understood that a train

does not climb over nearly 16,oooft. of

mountains in less than 140 miles without a

considerable amount of winding about and

not a few devices for overcoming the

difficulties of the route and the force of

gravity. The most useful of these is a system

of what are called " V's," and a glance at the

illustration will show what these are better

than a page of description. The engine has

pulled the train up the grade to the right, out

of the valley below. Round the corner it has

been detached and run back on to the turn-

table. It is just being swung round. When

that is done it will come back on the down

grade, back the train on to the V-piece round

the corner, and then pull it along the up

grade to the left. This contrivance is used

in places where there is no room for a curve

of the necessary radius. In this place, for

instance, which, as will be seen, is not very far

below the snow-line of the Andes, say some

I5,oooft. above sea-level, the mountain side

has been chopped away to make room for

the " V." A curve would be impossible, for

the mountains here form a complete cul de

sac, and without the device of the " V," the-

railway must have stopped there.

In other parts of the line, the ascent is.

made by long, winding curves.

It may be worth while to mention here that

the thin, zig-zag lines on the mountain sides.

are mule tracks, that is to say, the nearest

approach to a road that the mountain districts

of Peru can boast.

The railway passes through three distinct

zones before it reaches its highest point at the

mouth of the Galeia tunnel. First there is

the arid rainless region of the coast, with its

valleys of brown-grey sand and its gaunt, sun-

scorched mountains of red earth and black.

622

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

rock. Then at about 12,000 feet comes the

zone of seasonal cloud and rain, with fertile

tree-clad valleys and enormous mountain

masses green with grass to their summits.

Here there is, of course, an abundance of

water, and unmistakable evidences of very

extensive cultivation, which utilised every foot

of ground in the valleys, and turned the

mountains into a sort of hanging gardens with

' terraces on which the golden maize once

waved and rustled, but which are now

broken down and barren, and, like almost

everything else in Peru, neglected and going

to ruin.

Beyond this zone is another where, albeit

under the Tropics, the limit of vegetation is

passed. This is a region of wild, glaring

wastes of sand and rubble, of huge ragged

rock masses, foaming cataracts, and deep,

dark mountain tarns, and around and above

all is the white majesty and awful grandeur

of the mighty Nevados themselves—range

after range of shining snowfields and glaciers

and glittering peaks, dazzling in their un-

earthly purity and fearful beauty, untrodden

and unapproachable, the virgin abodes of a

silence that never has been, and never will be,

broken by the sound of a human voice, and

of a winter that will never end as long as the

eternal Andes stand.

THE clouds flit o'er the starlit sky,

O'er fields the shadows creeping.

As whisp'ring through the lanes they hie.

Beware ! The moon is peeping.

She is so happy ! He so gay !

With lovers' tales beguiling.

The hours so quickly pass away;

And see ! The moon is smiling.

He, enraptured, dreams of bliss—

Coyly she is chiding.

Stays her speech with lover's kiss.

The moon its face is hiding.

Oh, tell no tales, fair lady moon—

Their inmost thoughts divining.

Or much I fear when next they walk,

The moon must not be shining.

H. J. NICHOLLS.
BY Lou1s TRACY.

" FOR the benefit of such military charities as

the Commander-in-Chief may select," and

for the delectation of many thousands of

enthusiastic Londoners, the smartest soldiers

in the British army are providing at the

date on which this magazine is published

a superb exhibition of martial exercises

in the Agricultural Hall, Islington. Indeed,

it is permissible to say that every branch

of Her Majesty's forces is represented.

Not only are the regular and auxiliary arms

fully in evidence—horse, foot, and artillery—

but the soldierly display which they have

staged is for the first time aided and amplified

by the presence of a naval brigade and of

Indian and Colonial troops.

This is the seventeenth year of the Royal

Military Tournament. It has been annually

received by the public with ever-increasing

favour, and has now attained such dimen-

sions as a popular attraction that for

thirteen days—from May 28th to June nth,

inclusive—the magnificent hall near the sign

of the "Angel " will be crowded twice daily

to its utmost capacity. The scope of the

project has widened to an extent commen-

surate with its success as a national pageant.

Originally, it consisted merely of well-

organised military sports, somewhat on the

lines of a regimental gymkhana in India. To-

day, the spectators at Islington may surely

count upon seeing the most athletic soldiers

in the service using the latest devices for

strengthening their muscles and developing

their intelligence, exhibiting at the same time

the best and most recently adopted scientific

appliances for the purposes of warfare.

Since his accession to power, the present

Commander-in-Chief has materially reformed

the administration of the Tournament. Quick

to recognise the direction and intent of popu-

lar movements, Lord Wolseley was clearly of

opinion that an antiquated system of control,

doubtless suitable enough , for its day, no

longer met the exigencies; of an eminently

progressive and attractive " show." In some

quarters the drastic reforms insisted upon

under the fresh regime were resented and

severely criticised. It was the evergreen

quarrel between the old and the new, that

springs up intermittently between the advo-

cates of long and short service, that shoots

forth afresh whenever a weapon is modified

or the cut of a tunic altered, and that dies

away so rapidly when the question is irre-

vocably settled. It is not in my province,

however, to resurrect worn controversies.

Whether stone or lump of lead,

Anyhow, the man is dead.

Suffice it to say that the present Tournament

624

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

is the best of its kind that has ever taken

place. The average Britisher will, indeed,

be hard to discover, who quits the Agricultural

Hall and finds aught to quarrel with in the

display itself, or the manner in which it is

conducted.

A glance at the personnel of the executive

committee will demonstrate the extent to

which the military authorities are committed

to full responsibility for the completeness and

accuracy of the manoeuvres and military

exercises represented in the long and varied

programme. Lord Wolseley himself is the

President, whilst Major-General Lord

Methuen, who commands the Home District,

within the bounds of whose jurisdiction the

Tournament takes place, fills the important

office of Chairman of the Committee. Colonel

W.H.Mackinnon,

Assistant Adju-

tant-General of the

Home District,

supplies depart-

mental recogni-

tion. Major R. S.

S. Baden-Powell,

of the 13th Hus-

sars, Major J. S. S.

Barker, of the

Royal Artillery,

Captain Irvine, of

the Royal Engi-

neers, and Captain

Bramhall, of the

Army Service

Corps, represent

individually and

collectively, those

highly important

sections of the

service to which

they belong.

Colonel G. M.

Fox, Inspector of

Gymnasia, the

Commandant at

the Hall, and

Lieutenant-

ColonelE.Blaks-

ley, R.A., Super-

intendent of the

Woolwich Rid- sviien "Jack " enters the inclosure.

ing Establishment, complete the roll of the

executive; whilst Lt.-Col. E. W. D. Ward,

D.A.A.G., discharges the onerous duties of

treasurer.

But the man upon whose shoulders falls

the weight of organisation and efficient con-

trol, is Major Eyre M. S. Crabbe, of the

Grenadier Guards, the honorary secretary.

For many months he has been busily engaged

in his offices at 2, Great Scotland Yard,

conducting the manifold operations which

yield their fruitful product in the "two perfor-

mances daily " now advertised. The whole

scope of this article might well be occupied,

in interesting detail, with a description of the

preliminary arrangements. It must not be

AT THE ROYAL MILITARY TOURNAMENT.

6*5

when he is wheeled for the course, as he well

knows that in a few seconds he must gallop

for all he is worth, keeping his line the while

with the directness of a definition by Euclid.

Tent-pegging, and its magnificent cousin

pig-sticking, are deservedly popular in the

army. There is one form of the milder sport

which the conditions of space will not permit

in the Agricultural Hall. Sections of four

ride abreast here, and very striking is the

scene when each rider thunders ahead,

proudly waving the lance with its transfixed

peg. But imagination alone can picture the

superb effect when two sections dash forward

from opposite ends of the runs, meet in the

centre with well-considered accuracy, and

ride through each other with eight pegs

carried off. This is

a most frequent

form of the exercise

in India, and it is a

highly commendable

fact that the organ-

isers of the tourna-

ment have succeeded

style must be considered, as the judges

deduct points for inelegance or insufficiency

of pace. Marks are allotted by scale : two

for a strike, four for moving the peg, and six

for "taking," which means carrying it off to

the length of the ride.

The rules under which tent-pegging is

conducted in the Bengal army are very

explicit on questions of manner and method.

Here is an extract: " The seat from the hips

'

in obtaining the services of the picturesque

contingent of native troops, who figure so

prominently in this and other portions of the

current programme.

And the thing is not so easy as it seems,

even to the experienced horseman. First and

foremost, the horse must have a level gallop,

without the slightest swerve or deviation in

direction or length of stride. The point of

the lance must be kept high in air until

within fifteen yards of the peg, which, by the

way, is twelve inches long, three inches wide,

and half imbedded in stiff clayey soil. Abso-

lute confidence, a firm seat, and correct hand

and eye are all essentials in the game, and

Vol. !.- -4.2

For dath in execution and

brilliancy in effect, there

is nothing to compare

with .... tent-

pegging.

downwards should be immovable, the body

from the hips upwards bent well down towards

the right rather than forward, its sway, being

supported by the left leg, the handling of the

lance easy and free from stiffness, the right

arm slightly' bent, the hand just in front of

the instep, the back of the hand inclined

downwards, and the thumb along the lance,

which should be kept close to the ground.

Any jobbing at the peg, striking it with the

PEARSOX'S MAGAZINE.

side the elbow, otherwise it is apt to strike the

rider on the back of the head, and the blow

will probably unseat him. There are many

obvious ways of leaving the saddle when a

two-year-old boar replaces the peg, but un-

fortunately Colonel Fox cannot turn a

" sounder " out of the jungle at the back of

the Islington arena; else seats behind steep

barriers would fetch a guinea a time.

" Heads and posts " is a suggestive title. It

is redolent of carnage, and reeks of villainous

saltpetre. Indeed any beau sabreuf^ who

decapitated three opponents, ran three others

through the body, and jumped a five -barred

gate, all in eight seconds, during an aciual

fight, might certainly claim that for one brief

moment he had not been denied the pomp

and circumstance of glorious war.

" Shaw, the Lifeguardsman," never

had such a time, and the Paladin

who accomplished the feat would

deserve many medals. Seriously

speaking, here again much

depends upon the horse.

The pace is not a fast

one, but the requi-

sites are accuracy

of stride, complet-'

confidence, and

perfect obediene"

to the rider's ban l

and knee. There

is no better test of

a charger's temper

than to try him

first at "lemon-

cutting" or " ten .

pegging,'' and

A good guard.

afterwards at " heads and posts." In the two

former high speed and evenness of line are

necessary ; in the latter, judgment of pace

and unhesitating compliance with his masters

will. If an animal exhibits these characteristics

after the dash and clatter of the fast run, he

may be regarded, other things being equal,

as a safe mount.

" Lemon-cutting " is simple enough to look

at. Two lemons are slung on gallows some

fifteen yards apart, and they must be sliced

alternately with cuts numbers " one " and

."two," the blows being properly laid for

according to Crocker, and the sword being

" carried " in the approved style before and

after each cut.

There are many variants of these exercises

which may be indulged in before another

section, that of single or collective combat, is.

reached. For instance, placing polo balls in

a bucket, picking up a handkerchief from the

ground, throwing off saddle and girths, riding

rapidly to a fixed locality, dismounting,

putting on a night-shirt over the ordinary

garments, remounting (try this with a skittish

pony), and galloping back to the starting

point—of such and others is the Anglo-

Indian bumble-puppy gymkhana, which

I would sooner describe than give

the derivation of its name.

AT THE ROYAL MILITARY TOURNAMENT.

627

Sword, mounted T-. Bayonet, dismounted.

the tricks of the circus. In this category

naturally fall such items as "Sword v. Sword,"

" Sword v. Lance," both mounted ; "Lance,

mounted v. Bayonet, dismounted," and the

cavalry weapon par excellence, the sword,

against the deadliest arm of the infantry-man,

the bayonet. The handiness and steadiness

of the horse are everlastingly the dominant

factors in these affrays, but with the best and

most docile of animals the mounted soldier

is at the mercy of the man on foot if the

latter be active, quick to decide, and coolly

proof against the terrifying appearance of his

antagonist.

The reasons are obvious. The bayonet is

effective enough in itself were it constructed

*or use in the naked hand. Its keen point

and murderous stab, which is so hard

to heal when not fatal, make it a very

unpleasant object at close quarters, but when

these qualities are wedded to the length and

driving force of a rifle wielded by an expert,

it must be regarded as excellent for defence

and simply irresistible in attack.

There is a picture in the Louvre pour-

traying an incident in the Peninsular War,

which shows with awesome vigour the pecu-

liar qualities of the bayonet. A Frenchman

has lunged at a Spaniard who is guarding

himself with a sword, and of course the

Frenchman is getting the better of it. Both

hands are lifted above his head grasping the

stock and barrel of his rifle. The point of

the bayonet has entered the Spsniard's

stomach, and the unfortunate Don is vainly

endeavouring to ward off the frightful thrust,

which one feels, as one gazes at the ca/ivas,

must come in an instant. I know no more

gruesome object lesson of the power of the

white arm. During a tournament the con-

ditions of the game render it possible for the

lance or sword to occasionally get the better

of the struggle, but in the fury and careless-

ness of battle, the infantry soldier, if he only

keeps calm and collected, can laugh at the

attacks of cavalry. They are utterly power-

less against him.

Some very pretty play with singlesticks

628

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

may be seen when two mounted men oppose

each other, equally well horsed, ahke in skill,

and each fully determined to get the better of

his adversary. " Sword v. Lance," too,

affords many points which demand the

enthusiastic plaudits of the onlookers, and

when bayonet meets bayonet, on foot, there

is plenty of cause for excitement. Hence it

is that few events in the programme are so

thoroughly successful in a spectacular sense

as the " Bayonet Combats by Teams of

Infantry."

Each team consists of a sergeant and eight

men. They face each other along the sides

of the arena and fight in pairs commencing

from the flanks. If four on each side are

placed hors de combat, it is obvious that keen

interest is attached to the struggle between

the two leaders, and as these are usually the

most expert men in a district, the battle is

one of giants.

Closely allied to the fight is the " Bayonet

Exercise," by regimental teams of twenty-four

men. This is quite a show business, but it

has its serious application, as we have seen.

It accustoms the soldier to Ihe use of his

weapon, it must be conducted with regularity,

quickness, and grace, and, as a matter of

fact, the discipline and drill of a battalion

may be estimated more quickly by this means

than by any other.

" Physical Drill," a modern development

of the old fashioned " extension motions," is

one of the prettiest sights for parade pur-

poses. The majority of the practices are

performed in time with the music of a band,

ordinarily drums or pipes, but the fifth prac-

tice must be accomplished without the aid of

the conductor's baton, metaphorically speak-

ing, as its efficiency depends upon the powers

of the men to maintain a uniform rate of

movement throughout. It is pleasant for the

men owing to its variety, and its popularity

with the public cannot be doubted. Even in

our board schools and " select establishments

for young ladies " it has found a place.

But vhat is this rattle and clatter, and bump

and thump at the entrance to the arena ? In

the shadows of the dark passage one sees a

mass of blues and browns and blacks, with

bright points of brass-mounted harness and

the glittering of burnished steel. Ah, it is a

gun of the Royal Horse Artillery, about to

try for the valuable prize given to the battery

which best fulfils the difficult conditions of

the galloping competition.

What a fine-looking fellow the sergeant is

who leads! How splendidly the three drivers

sit their horses, flying around the small

space of the enclosure, and steering team and

gun between gate-posts only 6ft. 10in, apart.

Be proud of our gunners, for there is not

their equal in the wide world. This is no

idle boast. It is a fact admitted by everv

foreign soldier of distinction who has seen

them in action or on parade. Where a horse can

go those men can plant a gun. Their motto is

" Vbique"—everywhere—and they live up to it.

AT THE ROYAL MILITARY TOURNAMENT.

629

Dragged the twelve-pounder through to ih? other side.

minutes from the top of some rising ground

nearly a mile distant. Away flew puns,

cavalry escort, and attaches, in a cloud of

dust, but they had not gone far when the

leading gun stopped dead, as did everybody

else when they found that a forgotten irriga-

tion canal, banked up jft. high, and some

14ft. in width at the surface, blocked the road.

There was not a bridge for miles. It was

an apparently insuperable obstacle, and the

continental militaircs curled their moustaches

as they smiled at each other. At last, then,

by the holy blue, the British artillery had to

confess itself beaten !

Gambler smiled, too, and gave some orders

in a low tone. Men sprang from the limbers

with spades, and cut tracks for the wheels in

the embankments. The horses from No. I

gun were taken out, swum across the canal,

and then harnessed with ropes to the horses

of No. 2. With a terrific amount of plunging

and strong language, the twelve animals

630

PEARSON'S MA GAZIXE.

dragged the twelve-pounder through to the

other side, the operation was repeated, and in

an incredibly short space of time the six

guns were over.

Gambier himself was the last to cross

before the e. "ort of dragoons. Now came

the turn of the gold-laced gentlemen from

St. Petersburg, Berlin, and the rest. But

their horses were strange, and the water was

deep—and wet. A French officer tried the

passage and was thrown off. So they decided

that they had witnessed enough of the

manceuvres. Gambier noticed their hesita-

tion ; he rose in his stirrups, waved his hand,

and shouted genially: " Au re1'oir, messieurs,

jfe vous Terrai a diner."

Then he hastened after his battery, and

opened fire from the eminence selected

withs.i three minutes of his allotted time.

But the guns are now clattering off to

make room for the " Tug of War," which

needs no comment here, though it moves

everybody in the Hall to a state of yelling

and frenzied excitement. A fine variation

would be afforded if the authorities could

secure an elephant to pull against a squad of

men. And this proposition should not be

quite impracticable, as there were several of

these huge brutes at the Indian Exhibition

last year.

The Naval Brigade, though small in

number, wears a remarkably serviceable

aspect. There is, to my mind, always

something very stern and menacing in the

appearance of the British Navy, both in ships

and men. To use a theatrical expression,

they look the part; and when the stage villain,

in the shape of a foreigner, comes upon the

scene, it is evident that he experiences ihis

emotion to a remarkable extent. The

cutlass, too, is dear to the heart of every

schoolboy. He is not quite sure what it is

like, but he knows that, by national birth-

right, he is entitled to use it indiscriminately

upon pirates and Frenchmen.

No wonder, then, that people cheer to the

echo when the sailors march into the centre

of the Agricultural Hall and give their con-

vincing display of exercises common to the

early hours of the day on board a British

man-of-war.

" Wrestling on Horseback " and the

" Balaclava cavalry mild " are highly

interesting items in their own way. They

are amusing enough for the spectators and

the combatants, but very distressing for the

horses. A horse hates to be hauled about

without order or method, which is, of course,

the chief characteristic of these contests. On

the other hand he takes most readily to the

" Musical Ride," given this year by the Royal

Horse Guards and the Scots Greys.

This, which seems the most difficult of

the trio, is thoroughly enjoyed and easily

learnt by the animals, but even the most

patient amongst them fails to see why his

master should tug and kick him into all sorts

of absurd positions, whilst he (the aforesaid

AT THE ROYAL MILITARY TOURNAMENT.

631

pneumatic-tyred torpedo. Special heed should

be given to the operations of the Sappers. The

manner in which they throw two effective

bridges acrose a ravine is remarkable alike

for its rapidity and excellence. A pageant

of all arms supplies a fitting denouement.

Some statistics in connection with the

tournament should prove neither dry nor un-

instructive. The total value of the money

prizes given to non-commissioned officers and

munitions of war and other military impedi-

menta. The Agricultural Hall holds 5000

people when packed to its utmost capacity,

and as the house is full during each of the

twenty-six performances, it is obvious that no

fewer than 130,000 spectators will this year

seek amusement and recreative information

at Islington.

Concerning the utility of the Royal Military

Tournament there can surely be no two

The Balaclava Cavalry mflfe."

'men is ^571 7*. The officers, who figure

prominently on the card, take eight silver

challenge cups, value .£294, and sixteen silver

cups, value £120. The cups, medals, and

•whips provided for the N.C.O.'s and men

amount to .£94, or a grand total in prizes for

all ranks of .£1079 7s- During the fortnight

•Colonel Fox is called upon to find board and

•lodging for 800 men and 400 horses simul-

taneously, besides housing a vast quantity of

opinions. Its lessons are as potent for good

with the audience as with the competitors.

Its influences are wholesome and invigorating,

and its place as a national pageant will become

more and more firmly established as its scope

becomes enlarged.

When Englishmen are keen to play at

soldiering their enemies throughout the world

will be less eager to tempt them to indulge

in realities.
r>

yr

FLOWING brown hair, which loosed might

kiss her feet,

Roseate skirts that drop and almost meet

The stream in which her languorous image

lies,

Eyes deep as flowers and dreamy like dim

skies !

By whose brightness bound one's fate we re fair

Flowing brown hair.

No lithe Swinburnian she-thing panther-

keen

For clinging passion blent with hectic spleen

Just a sweet F.nglish maiden sweet to fondle

The rigid rules of the exotic Rondel

She'd break, as from restraint breiks forth

her fair

Flowing brown hair.

Rondel be hanged! Ronsard & Co. knew

not

Our Tamise ripe, and mediaeval *' rot."

(Let not the argot reach her dainty ears!)

Concerning biting kisses and salt tears,

Fits not the frank-eyed damsel sleeking there.

Flowing brown hair.

Hebraic fervour, fierce Proven9al flame

Might find the English girl too trim anJ

tame;

Like the unhurrying stream she hangeth

over.

Yet have those lips no love thrill ? Ask her

lover

Who smooths those strands with bold hands

brown and bare,

Flowing brown hair.

Ask him ! He'll not reply in rondel form,

But with cold steely glance and language

warm,

After the fashion of the British man,

Checking impertinence on his simple plan ;

He has no " lyric cryl' who finds you fair,

Flowing brown hair.

But by the eyes of heaven—is that an oath 5

" He'll kick the cad who cheeks her,"

nothing loth ;

Oxonian, oarsman, he, he loves the river,

But F,ngland's Thames is not the Guadal-

quiver,

Your wind-kissed tresses flutter here, not

thsre,

. Flowing brown hair.

v

The Quarry Woods hang not o'er

the Ilissus

But, by high Jove, did you, a she-

Narcissus,

Over the river self-admiring hang,

Lost in self-worship — till the tea-

bell rang,

It were small wonder. Sages you

might snare,

Flowing brown hair.

Happy Amandus ! Honest English

love

By Thames in Summer is a sight

above

Faustine or Fragolette. So at least

Amandus thinks. Flit to the pic-

nic feast

Thrice happy pair, first braiding-

up with care

Flowing brown hair.

But nay, not you, Amanda dear,

not you !

An English maiden, modest, simple,

true,

You look from shoe-point to brown-

crowning curl,

You are no "damosel," but just

a girl,

You love Amandus, 'tis for him you

care,

Flowing brown hair.

'Tis spread al fresco in the inner

wood,

Fragrant Bohea and solid British

food

Await you, pair of pretty Philis-

tines,

Better than Roman cakes or Gascon

wines

You'll find it, doubtless. You'll

coil primly there ;

Flowing brown hair !

\.

HH"

/«*
•" IT'S no use, Sturman, I shall never get it

finished—at least, to my liking and Sylvia's.

It's five years now since I made the first

sketch for it, and there it is, complete in

every detail as far as manual skill and tech-

nical knowledge can make it, and yet it's not

a picture. There's something wanting that

only genius can give it. The figures are

correct, but they're not alive. There's no

sight in their eyes, no movement in their

limbs. No: it's not a picture, and I'm not an

artist—only a successful illustrator, and that's

all there is to be said about it."

" Except that Carlyle's definition of genius

would hardly fit your case, for if ever mortal

man had an infinite capacity for taking pains

you have, March."

" Yes, Sydney would certainly be a genius

if Carlyle had been right. I think the Fates

have made a most aggravating division of the

talents between us. They have given him

the faculty of re-creation and almost perfect

skill in execution, while they have given me

the tormenting gift of dreams and denied me

utterly the power of reproduction. Now, if,

BY LEVIN CARNAC.

instead of being brother and sister,

we could just be rolled into one,

either Sydney would be a great

artist, or I should be—well, able to write as

well as dream, and then I should live in a

heaven of my own creation."

" In which you would yourself be the

brightest angel!"

The words slipped out almost before John

Sturman knew that he had spoken them.

His lips had of their own mere motion

echoed what he was saying in his soul at the

moment. They brought a just perceptibly

deeper colour into Sylvia March's cheeks, and

a faint flash into the deep grey eyes that were

looking at his from under the straight, dark.

finely-drawn eyebrows. Her brother saved

her from the awkwardness of replying to such

a speech from a man she had only lately

refused, albeit in the friendliest fashion, to

marry, by saying:

" That's not at all badly put for you,

Sturman, though it seems to sound a bit

queer from a man who defines poetry as the

pearl of literature because it is the result of

disease."

" I'm quite consistent," said Sturman,

half smiling and half serious. " What I

ought not to have said just now was the result

of disease—heart disease."
A GENIUS-FOR A YEAR.

635

" Now you've made it worse," said Sylvia

gravely.

" What ? The disease ? That couldn't be

•worse."

" Suppose we change the subject—or get

back to our muttons," said Sylvia, looking

more serious than her words. " Now tell

me, have you ever heard a satisfactory defini-

tion of this something that Sydney and I seem

to want so badly : this mysterious gift of the

gods that people call genius without knowing

•what they are talking about ? "

" No, I haven't; and if I did hear one

It would probably be so far above

my head that I should not under-

stand it."

" That's only your

vanity, Sturman," said

March. " I think I've

told you before that

these aggressive as-

sertions of medio-

crity savour some-

what strongly of the

pride that apes

humility. But, to

come to the concrete,

I think there's some-

thing very like genius

in this new book of

Marcus Algar's that

I'm illustrating. That

fellow has a great rf

future before him if ""v^

his twenty pounds a

thousand words doesn't make him .

ureedy, and start him off writing

himself out, as it has done with

one or two others one could name."

" Or if he doesn't get the notion that he

has a mission in literature, and take to

climbing hills," said Sylvia demurely. " By

the way, I suppose you haven't forgotten,

Sydney, that the new genius is coming to tea

this afternoon, to discuss those last sketches

of yours."

"No, I haven't forgotten. Don't go,

Sturman. No, you really mustn't. I par-

ticularly want you to meet Algar. Sylvia,

tell him to sit down and behave himself.

Ah ! there he is. ' Talk of an angel,' etc."

A ring and a well-composed fantasia on

the knocker sounded as he spoke, and a few

moments later the door of the studio opened.

As Sturman rose he saw Sydney go forward

with outstretched hand to greet a tall, slightly

built, perfectly dressed young fellow, fair-

haired and dark-eyed, with the complexion

of a boy and the face of a woman—at least

it would have been a woman's face, he

thought, but for a certain strength of brow

This was

Marcus Algar.

and chin, and two little perpendicular lines

between the eyebrows, which would not have

quite become a woman.

This was Marcus Algar, le succes de

I'heure, as they would have called him in

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

and hadn't a chapter that either the British

Matron or the Young Person could condemn

openly with a view to dwelling fondly on it

in secret.

The reviewers already called their notices

of his work "appreciations,''and were almost

falling over each other in their haste not to

be last or least loud in his praise. Far-seeing

editors were competing for his unwritten

works, and literary agents were scheming

subtly for the honour and profit of standing

between him and them.

In a word, Marcus Algar was the man of

the hour, as other men and women had been

of previous hours. The Vagabonds had

entertained him and the Authors had dined

him—and John Sturman knew all this, and if

he had had all the wealth of Kimberly he

would have given it cheerfully to stand in his

shoes, for did he not possess that priceless

gift of literary expression, that God-given,

unlearnable art, the want of which meant to

him the difference between Sylvia's friendship,

which had been his for years, and her love,

which, as she had told him, could be given

only to the twin soul for whose advent hers

was waiting, the ideal she had rot yet met.

unless—and as he looked at Marcus Algar

and thought of that wonderful book of his, al'

the evil spirits that lurk behind the rose

bushes in the Garden of Love seemed to

come out of their hiding places and take

possession of his soul.

He made his excuses and got away as

soon as he decently could, because he wasn't

the sort of man who could chatter cheerful

trivialities when his soul was full of bitterness,

and the earth's base seemed stubble and the

pillars of the firmament rottenness to him.

He was a strong, straightforward, clean-

hearted, clear-headed man, rich, well read

and well educated, but with no more romance

in his being than was inspired by his almost

life-long and now hopeless love for the sister

of his old schoolfellow and friend, Sydney

March, this girl with the soft chestnut hair

and big dreamy grey eyes whom he had

worshipped as a boy and loved as a man, in

his own p'ain, honest, manly fashion—only to

learn, as he had learned but a few days before,

that that wretched transcendental soul-theory

of matrimony of hers was to condemn him to

stand by and see her give herself to someone

else just because he lacked the one faculty

that she placed above all others.

It was maddening to be so near and yet so

far, for, with the confidence born of their life-

long friendship, she had even told him that

she liked him so much " in other ways " that

she really would have tried to love him if

she could, and she had said this so innocently

and so sweetly that it had hurt him more

than the most scornful refusal could have

done, for it did not even leave him the poor

consolation of getting angry either with her

or with himself.

If Mephistopheles had come to his side just

then, as he was walking home from March's

studio in Edith Villas, West Kensington to

A GENIUS FOR A YEAR.

637

again, and then he put it down and sat for

nearly half-an-hour without moving a muscle,

staring straight before him into the fire, and

conscious of nothing but a single sentence,

which he could no more get out of his brain

than he could have helped hearing it if

Mephistopheles himself had been whispering

it into his ear :

" Perhaps the most extraordinarv property

of the drug is the unmistakable power that It

has of alter-

1ng either the

mtntal or

moral charac-

ter, and some-

times both, of

its victims,

and making

those under its

influence the

exact opposite

of what thev

are in a nor-

mal state ! "

II.

IT was a

curious and

perhaps more

than usually

merciless

irony of Fate

that Mephis-

topheIes

should come

to John Stur-

man in the

guise of his

younger

brother, and

yet such was

literally the case. The plain facts, as repre-

sented in the doctor's letter, were that

Cecil had become a victim to the haschisch

habit, and as soon as he had discovered this

he had sent him straight home, knowing as

he did that if he was to have a chance of

rescue he must, be almost constantly under

the eye of someone for whom he had both

affection and respect.

He had himself suggested his elder brother,

the only near relation he had left, as soon as

If Mephistopheles himself had been whispering it into his ear.

the matter had been put plainly before him,

and he had been told that his one chance of

life and sanity depended on his placing

himself unreservedly in the hands of some-

one who could bring a strong, healthy mind

and an unimpaired will to the task of

supervising the gradual diminution of doses

which, as it were, marked the milestones

along the only possible road to a cure.

The doctor's letter had consisted for the

most part of

precise in-

structions as

to the course

of treatment

to be pur-
638

MAGAZINE.

evening brilliant in thought and expression,

and then they would sit over the fire in the

library and smoke, and Cecil would tell him

of his visions, and weave stories splendid with

all the gorgeous imagery of Eastern life, and

then when Cecil had gone to bed he would

sit on a'one and think, and, unconsciously to

himself, and before an atom of the drug had

passed his lips, the subtle poison worked, and

at last the struggle ended, and he

yielded, almost before he knew that

it had begun in deadly earnest.

He had been to tea that after-

noon at the studio, anl,

though nothing direct or

positive had been said, he

had intuitively felt that Sylvia

was fast coming to the

belief that in Marcus

Algar she had at last

met the twin-soul,

the incarnate

ideal for

which hers

had been

waiting, and,

from a re-

mark or two

dropped, ---

perhaps pur-

posely and

with the kind-

liest intention?,

by Sydney, that the

young genius seemed

also to have tound his

own ideal in Sylvia.

Nay, he had even at the

last minute put back the

publication of his new book,

and, with a few deft and

masterly touches, had recreated his heroine

in the living likeness of Sylvia, and in a few

days more all the world would be at her feet,

drawn there by the master-hand which had

painted this other-self of hers so perfectly

ihat henceforth she would live two lives, her

own and the greater and brighter one that

Algar's genius had given her.

It was this that had brought his struggle to

an end. His rival, as he perforce regarded

him, had drawn the magic circle of his genius

He went and looked over his ovvn shoulder.

round his darling, and so, in a sense, had

already made her his own. What did it

matter then to him, what became of the life

that was henceforth to be a desert for him?

The enchantment of his hopeless love,,

turned all the strength of nature which should

have saved him against him; and where a.

weaker man might have resisted through fear,

he took the fatal step, impelled by his own.

perverted strength.

The night after Cecil had

gone to bed, he went to his

cabinet, and took what was,

for a beginner, a heavy

dose of haschisch.
A GENIUS FOR A YEAR.

639

such life-likeness, (hat he seemed to see and

recognise them as though they had been old

acquaintances, as they moved and spoke

amidst the scenes that Sylvia had imagined

for them without being able to reproduce

them; and all was so real and vivid and

beautiful that it seemed as though he were

actually living in that vision-world which she

would have painted if she could.

Why should he not paint it for her since

he saw it so plainly before him ? There was

his writing-table and his chair ready for him.

In his early clerking days he had learned

shorthand as a convenience, and he had kept

it up since as a hobby, and, however swiftly

the glowing sentences might come to him,

his pencil would keep pace with them.

He made an effort to rise from his chair

and go to his table, but, before he reached it,

it seemed to him that he was already there.

It was curious, but he put it down to the

effects of the drug, and caught himself

wondering what was going to happen next.

He saw himself sitting in the chair, and he

went and looked over his own shoulder and

saw the pencil already flying over the paper.

Sheet after sheet he read as it was finished

and thrown aside, and hour after hour he

stood there reading and wondering what it

all meant, until at last it was finished, and

his other-self got up and looked at him.

He saw now that his face was ashen grey

and deep scored with the lines drawn by

intense mental effort. Deads of sweat were

standing out thickly on his brow, and his

eyes were burning with a fierce light that

might have been either insanity or genius.

Then he saw his lips move into a faint and

almost ghastly smile, and heard his own

voice say to him, as though speaking from a

distance:

" Well, that's a good night's work, and I

think it's about time to go to bed. Good-

night !"

Then his two beings seemed to fuse

together again and become one. He lit his

hand-lamp as usual, turned the gas out and

went to bed and scarcely was his head on the

pillow than he fell into a deep, heavy,

dreamless sleep.

When he woke the next morning all that

remained to him of his experiment in visions

was a slight tightness across his forehead and

a dim recollection of having dreamed a very

wonderful dream. That the dream was a.

reality never occurred to him for a moment.

He got up half an hour later than usual,

feeling a trifle repentant and perhaps just a

little ashamed of himself, but thinking that,

after all, he had got pretty cheaply out .of

what seemed to him now to be the greatest

danger of his life.

He had breakfast with Cecil, as usual, and

then went to the library. He found the door

locked, a circumstance which struck him as

being rather strange, and mechanically put

his hand into his pocket for the key. It was

there, and he opened the door and went in.

640

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

an unreality, a spectre that came out of the

darkness of a drug-induced slumber to work

its wondrous spells and then vanish back into

the shadows.

Only too clearly did he see this, for the

•more he read of his own work the more

horribly apparent became the truth that, not

to save his soul alive, could he in his natural

self put two of those glowing, perfectly

worded sentences together.

He got up and collected the sheets, and

put them in order, and then read the story

through from beginning to end. He had

learned enough of the art by reading to sec

that it was a literary gem, enough even of

itself to found a reputation upon, and this

was his work—or at least the work of that

other-self of his which the potent magic of

the drug had called into being.

And if it had done this once why should

it not do it many times ? Here was Sylvia's

own story glorified into a splendid reality,

and by him ! Was not this a proof that this

other-self of his was in truth that twin soul

which hers had, by her own confession, been

waiting to meet and mate wiih ?

He folded up the sheets and put them into

his pocket. At eleven his brougham came

as usual to the door, and he took them to the

city and gave them to his confidential clerk

to transcribe on his typewriter. That evening

he paid a visit to the Studio, and asked Sylvia

to read his first essay in fiction.

III.

NOT quite a year had passed since John

Sturman had made his first experiment in

•visions, and during those swiftly passing

months he had lived on earth and in heaven,

and not infrequently he had descended into

the nethermost hell of human suffering. He

had carried on his business affairs as of

•second nature, yet with an ever lessening

interest in them.

That spectre-genius of his had won him

fame with all its intoxicating accompaniments,

tmd he had no cause to envy Marcus Algar

now, either in his new art or his old love, for

his own fame was fresher and brighter than his,

and Sylvia, all innocent of its terrible origin,

had welcomed the awakening of his long-

dormant genius as a heaven-sent revelation ;

and so his latest wooing had not been in

vain.

Sydney's picture, finished at last under his

inspiration, was hanging on the line at

Burlington House, the wonder and admira-

tion of the thousands who had read the

marvellous romance which he had woven

round it, and for him the whole earth had

been transfigured—until one of those inevit-

His latest wooing had not been in vain.

able hours came when he stood alone with

his own reproachful and accusing; soul on

the edge of the deep, black, unbridgeable

gulf at which the flower-strewn path of his

love and fame must some day infallibly end,

for that spectral other-self of his had to be

fed every day with ever-increasing doses of

A GENIUS FOR A YEAR.

641

They were to be married in a month, and

meanwhile he was finishing the novel for

which all the world was waiting. What was

to happen ? Would the remnant of "his man-

hood and self-control compel him to save his

darling from himself while yet there was

time, or would he take her hand irrevocably

in his, and lead her for a while along that

enchanted path, knowing as he did what the

end of the brief journey must be ?

What his own answer to the inexorable

question might have been there is no telling,

neither is there any need to guess at it, for

the Fates themselves answered it in their own

way.

One night he sat down to write the last

pages of his book. For a while the ideas

came bright and thronging as ever, wedding

themselves in harmonious union of sound

and sense with the words which flowed so

easily from his pen. Then, just on the

threshold of the last scene, his pen stopped.

The splendid vision whose reali-

sation was to have been the

crowning glory of his work

grew dim and blurred and dull

as the night-clouds from which

the glory of the sunset has

faded away. He stared about

him, dazed and wondering like

a man suddenly awakened from

a dream. Then he

turned back and read

the pages he had just

written, and could not

even recognise his own

work. He saw that it

was beautiful, but it was

utterly strange to him.

Who had written it, and

how did it come there

on his table with the

ink scarcely dry on

the paper ? He had

forgotten.

dead.

Then his eye fell upon a few little greenish-

brown lozenges lying at his elbow. A swift

gleam of remembrance shone through the

darkness that was falling on his mind like

a lightning flash through sudden night.

Behind him lay the path of his brief, dear-

bought glory, strewn with flowers that now

were withered, and before him the gulf, and

beyond that a black infinity.

He gathered up the lozenges and swallowed

them all at a gulp. Soon the fast-fading fires

leapt up into a blaze of light, wild, lurid, and

dr.zzling. Visions of chaotic splendour

chased each other in headlong haste through

the death-dance of his expiring senses. He

had a dim consciousness of seizing his pen

and driving it over the paper as though he

were writing for his very life and more.

Then, like the falling of a black pall before

his eyes, came darkness darker than night,

and he felt himself falling, bound and blinded,

into immeasurable depths, through an eternity

FTT ! and the

gas is alight.

So simple, so

very simple,

only to have to

strike a match,

and to turn on

a tap, and the

darkness be-

comes light.

What would

our great, great

grandfathers

have thought

of it?

And yet of the hundreds, nay thousands, of

men and women in London who every night

go through that simple process of "lighting

the gas," how many think for one instant of

the immense amount of labour, or the

marvellous engineering skill necessary to

supply them with light for their city ?

Everybody knows that gas is procured from

coal, and that fact is enough for most people.

But, luckily for London, they are not so

uninterested in the Old Kent Road or at

Beckton, the very existence of which latter

place is unknown to so many, though from

that place come daily fifty million cubic feet

of gas.

Beckton is a dirty, grimy place situated on

the borders of the Essex marshes in North

Woolwich, and the extreme east of easternmost

London ; and at Beckton are the big works of

the Gas Light and Coke Company, while in

the Old Kent Road are the works of the

South Metropolitan Gas Company, and it is

thither that those who would see the art of

gas-making in its entirety must go.

On arriving at the works the first idea the

casual visitor gets is one of chaos inde-

scribable and bewildering, of undersized,

albeit capable, little engines bustling hither

and thither, drawing trucks crammed with coal

and coke, not only all around, but above as

well, for an overhead iron railway is indis-

pensable to take the coal right up to the

top of the retort houses.

But despite the ceaseless din and the

apparent confusion and chaos, the Beckton

works—and they cover an area of some

three hundred acres—are most systematically

and methodically arranged.

To begin at the beginning, we must go to

the huge pier which runs out into the

Thames, a structure big enough to berth

four large steamers and one small one, the

larger sized ones capable of carrying two

thousand tons of coal each journey, which

they bring from the collieries of Northumber-

land and Durham, while the small one is

a "tramp."

Steam cranes snatch up the coal out of the

steamers' holds, the coal itself having been

transferred into ponderous iron buckets, each

capable of holding twelve hundredweight.

The " black diamonds" are then tilted

into the railway trucks waiting on the pier to

receive them, and the train, when loaded,

passes on its way between two long rows of

HOW LONDON'S GAS JS MADE.

643

ascension pipe is the technical term—for the

purpose of conveying the coal gas into the

great water tank or hydraulic main above,

where it is cooled, before being condensed

and purified according to State regulations as

to illuminating power, after which process

it is ready for use.

It is inside the retort houses that the gas is

actually made, and therefore are they models,

if not of beauty, of all that man's ingenuity

can devise in the way of practical utility.

They are split up into three storeys or

stages. The ground floor consists of the

furnaces which heat the retorts on the stage

above to a fiery red, and where the coke—

the coal with the gases drawn from it—falls

when raked out from the retorts, to be

quenched with water, put into trucks, and

whirled away into the gloom beyond.

The retorts being the most important

factors in the works, merit our careful atten-

tion, as it is in them that the gas is made.

A pitch-black wall runs along one side of

the huge building, into which are set number-

less small circular doors, from the vicinity of

which pipes rear themselves perpendicularly—

like the wall, coal black—to bend backwards

after a while into a square box extending

along the top of the wall.

Huge mounds of coal lie in front of the

doors, coal that has fallen from the topmost

floor above, along which a railway runs,

though the floor itself does not reach right

across the building, while through trap-doors

in the top the coal falls in a black cascade,

ready to be flung into the retorts.

Inside the furnaces is a heat of between

two and three thousand degrees Fahrenheit,

though so perfect is the system of ventilation

in the building that no excessive heat is

apparent, unless indeed you may happen to

stand opposite an open retort door, through

which the angry sea of fire can be seen

surging and boiling with fearful intensity.

Up an iron ladder, at the top of the retorts,

are the "beds," where runs the hydraulic main,

on a level with the top floor, the railway

running on either side.

Below is the furnace flue, into which you

can look, though not for long, as the heat

that comes up is tremendous, and makes one

shudder to think of the awful, raging sea of

fire below.

It is terrible work, that incessant stoking

at the furnace doors, and the men work in

shifts of eight hours, so that there are three

relays of men in the twenty-four hours. Nor

is this all. The eight-hours shift, so trying

is the labour, is divided into turns of half an

hour each—half an hour continuously at the

retorts, and then an interval while the next

gang works its time.

The loading of

the retorts is done

thus : Underneath

the retorts — which

•

u: •
644

PEARSON'S MA GA ZINE.

are fixed in sets of nine, three upon three,

with three men for each—run openings, find-

ing their egress in the furnace floor below.

Before these openings is set a plate of iron,

while simultaneously three retort doors are

thrown open.

A wave of tremendous heat rushes forth,

and with long rakes the silent, strenuous

figures of the

men draw forth

the. glowing

coke. The fiery

shower at once

falls on to the

floor beneath,

the furnaces

being instan-

taneously re-

filled with coal,

shovelful after

shovelful being

hurled inside,

tobeapparently

at once con-

sumed, so ter-

rific is the heat.

So far the

door-opener

alone has been

engaged in

feeding the

retort, in the

meanwhile his

two colleagues

loading their

long scoop with

coal.

Then the

word is given,

and each man,

with marvel-

lous precision,

flings in two shovelfuls.

The man who had opened the door then

seizes the cross-handle of the great scoop,

the other two placing a bent iron bar under

the centre of the scoop, and the trio thrust it

into the retort. The scoop is dexterously

turned over, to be speedily drawn out empty.

This process having been gone through again,

the retort is full, and the door closed.

Thus is each retort filled.

A huge machine runs alcr.g"

the front of the wall.

In the case of the South Metropolitan

Company, a huge machine runs along the

front of the wall, and pulls out the coke and

tar when the burning process is finished, and

fills up the retorts with a fresh supply of

coal.

And in this huge, gloomy place, lit up

occasionally by flashes of lambent flame.

which throw

out into bold

relief the many

pipes and clus-

tering tubes and

the figures of
or

-THE CADENCES

VI—A ROYAL FREEMASON.

I HAD called at the Ambassador's at a

rather late hour, and, learning that he was

out at a Masonic function, I was turning

away from the entrance to his hotel, when I

ran into the arms of his Excellency himself,

returning from the scene of his mysterious

celebrations. He insisted that I should

retrace my steps.

" You are the man of all others whom I

could have wished to see," he was good

enough to observe, as he gave his overcoat

to his man and led the way into the inner

retreat reserved for his intimate friends. " I

have been reminded to-night of a truly

thrilling adventure which I passed through

many years ago at a northern Court, and

which I had just resolved to relate to you at

our next meeting. But what a pity that you

are not a Mason !"

" But why do you conclude that I am not

one?" I demanded, attempting to borrow a

touch of diplomatic caution from my host.

He turned round from the cabinet out of

which he was taking a box of choice Pedro

Murias, and regarded me with the amused

pity of a father who watches the innocent but

awkward gambols of his infant.

" Permit me to inform you," he replied

gravely, " that it is impossible for two Masons

to associate together for a day without dis-

coverimj that they are members of the same

craft. Even this fatal schism, which separates

the lodges of your country from ours, would

not have interfered with your recognising

those elementary signs which are common to

the whole brotherhood, and which I exhibited

to you at the time when I first had the pleasure

of making your acquaintance."

I perceived the necessity of abandoning

my ill-conceived attempt at reserve. Accept-

B/

ing the cigar which the Ambassador pressed

upon me, I responded:

" You will find me deplorably ignorant of

Masonry, I fear, if I confess to you that I

never heard of this schism of which you speak.

If it is not some secret of the craft, perhaps

you will consent to enlighten me on this

subject."

"Ah! lam not surprised," exclaimed his

Excellency with bitterness, as he struck a

vesta to light his own cigar. " You, who are

so truly French in many respects, will pardon

me if I pronounce that it is the degraded

state of Masonry in England and other

northern countries which is responsible for

the cleavage. With us Masonry is an

enthusiasm, a holy mission, in which we are

united to combat the odious principles of

Legitimacy and Ultramontanism; with you it

is merely an affair of banquets and of

orphanages.

" The schism about which you ask me

is due to the influence of your Lutheran

clergy, who have imposed a profession of

religious belief on the neophytes of the

order. It is in the interests of respectability

646

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

And the Ambassador relit his cigar, which he

had suffered to go out under the influence of

his emotion, and dropped into one of the

luxurious smoking chairs which give his

rooms almost an English air.

"It was during my residence in Stockholm,

where I represented France at the Court of

Oscar II., that I became involved in the affair

of which I have

promised to give you

an account. You

will no doubt recol-

lect that it was this

King who presided

over the initiation of

the Prince of Wales

into the Masonie-

order, in which he

occupied an unusu-

ally advanced posi-

tion. Unfortunately

he had placed himself

at the head of the

revolt which I have

described, and was in

consequence in-

cluded in the excom-

munication launched

against these traitors

by the Oriental

Masons.

" For this reason I

was unable to hold

any Masonic inter-

course with the King,

with whom I was

nevertheless on very

friendly terms. The

sovereign of Sweden

and Norway is indeed a man of the mggt

amiable character, and is besides distinguished

in his own country as an author. I was

frequently honoured by being admitted to

those select gatherings at which he was

accustomed to read aloud his literary com-

positions.

"My knowledge of the barbarous language

of Scandinavia did not always permit of my

comprehending what he read, but this fact did

not prevent me from expressing the pro-

foundest admiration for his genius. I even

solicited his Majesty's permission to translate

I found him surrounded

printed volumes

some of his works into French, with a view to

their publication in Paris, a compliment which

completely won his heart.

" It was not tong after this incident that I

received an unexpected invitation to the

Palace one evening. I hastened to obey the

summons, and was shown into the King's

private cabinet, where I found him surrounded

by an immense

quantity of printed

volumes and manu-

scripts.

'"'Come in, my

dear Ambassador,' he
SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

647

crowned heads. He was accustomed, in

private, to disparage the charming romances

of my friend the Queen of Roumania; and I

recollect his complaining to me once of the

popularity achieved by Queen Victoria's

Highland diaries, whose success he pretended

was due rather to the exalted position of the

authoress than to the real merits of the book

itself. I 'therefore responded :

" ' You have too much reason for your

regrets, sire, though the loss is in reality that

of those nations -who have not the good

fortune to be included among your subjects.

But I trust that it will not be long before a

remedy is found for this unfortunate state of

things.'

" The King directed at me a smile of

triumph.

"' What shall you say if I tell you that

your friendly offers have already been

repeated from another source, and that I am

at this moment engaged in going through my

works in order to select the most suitable

for publication abroad ?'

" I was so much taken by surprise by this

announcement that it was with the utmost

difficulty I preserved a suitable composure.

"' I am not astonished to hear that your

Majesty's fame has attracted other, and no

doubt more able, admirers,' I replied. ' In

fact, the only wonder is that your writings are

not already as widely known throughout

Europe as they are in Sweden. Nevertheless,

I offer you my respectful congratulations.'

" ' Come, my dear Ambassador, you must

not be jealous,' retorted the King, who per-

haps detected some insincerity in my tone.

' I promise you that if there is any particular

book which you desire to translate, I will

reserve it from those which I am going to

give to the syndicate which has approached me.

"' Yes,' he continued, observing my sur-

prise at the word syndicate, ' the application

which I have received comes from a repre-

sentative syndicate of three gentlemen, one

of them a countryman of your own, who have

come to Stockholm to negotiate for the copy-

right of my works on behalf of the publishers

of Europe and South Ame"'ca. They propose

to translate them into French, Italian, Spanish,

and Portuguese, and issue them in all these

countries- at the same time.'

" While I was listening to this great scheme.

I could not forbear from inwardly remarking

the curious circumstance that these publishers

who had shown so sudden a desire to acquire

the works of Oscar II. should all belong to

the Latin nations. It was at least singular

that no proposal had come from Germany or

Great Britain, countries so much more closely

allied in language and modes of thought with

King Oscar's own dominions.

" I was careful to keep these reflections to

myself, however. I merely answered :

" ' The publishers who have formed this

idea have given a proof of their good sense.

No doubt the terms which they offer your

Majesty are very handsome ones.'

648

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

ledge of French methods of business which I

could not hope to find elsewhere.'

"' Say no more, sire, I intreat you. I

shall feel hurt if you refuse to intrust me wi:h

this important task.'

" With these words I closed the

discussion, and shortly afterwards I

took leave of His Majesty, and

returned home with the address

of the members of the syndi-

cate whom I was to inter-

view. Their names were

Monsieur De Roche-

mort of Paris, Signor

Calvetti of Turin, and

Dr. Ruy Blanco of Rio

de Janeiro, and they

were staying at one of

the principal Stock-

holm hotels.

" On arriving at the

Embassy I was met in

the hall by my Secre-

tary of Legation, the

Comte d'Herve", a

young man whom I

regarded as a son.

"The Count inter-

cepted me with a

strange piece of intelli-

gence. He informed

me that three strangers,

one of whom was a

Frenchman, and gave

the name of De Roche-

mort, had come to the

Embassy to see me,

r.nd were at that

moment waiting in the

library for my return.

They had positively

refused to disclose

the nature of their

business, but had

insisted on being allowed to see me that

night.

"It required very little discernment lo

connect these mysterious visitors with the

syndicate who had been in communication

with King Oscar. I rushed to the natural

conclusion that my fellow-countryman had

come to solicit my influence with the King,

but I could not help feeling surprised and a

little annoyed at this show of persistence.

Filled with these ideas I walked straight into

" The Count intercepted me with a strange piece of intelligence."

the library, and found myself in the presence

of the three men.

" They rose to their feet as I entered, and

saluted me with grave courtesy. De Rochemort

was a middle-aged man of imposing appear-

ance, and apparent respectability, who evi-

dently acted as the spokesman of the party.

The Italian was more elderly, of noble

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

649

bearing, but with a certain sternness in his

yaze which affected me uncomfortably. Dr.

Ruy Blanco, the third man, was more difficult

to describe. He might have been any age

from forty to sixty, so little had time marked

his bold and inscrutable countenance. His

eyes he kept half closed most of the time,

but when he oj ened them to their full width

they glowed with a fierceness and intensity

which was positively startling. In short, it

was easy to see that the three were no ordinary

men.

" I motioned to them to sit down, setting

the example myself, and opened the conver-

sation by saying:

" ' I have already heard of your arrival in

Stockholm. His Majesty King Oscar, whom

I have only just left '

"At this point I made a sudden pause.

De Rochemort, to whom I was addressing

my remarks, had quietly made a sign which

filled me with astonishment. You may have

heard that in Masonry 1here are thirty-three

degrees or stages of initiation. The highest

degree to which any ordinary man can hope

to attain is the thirtieth, and the number of

those who attain to that may almost be

reckoned on the fingers of one's hands.

De Rochemort had indicated to me, by the

sign of which I speak, that he was himself

an adept of the thirtieth degree.

" Hastily recovering from my confusion, I

proceeded :

" ' The King has been graciously pleased

to consult me with regard to the proposal

you have addressed to him, and which he is

disposed to '

" Again I had to break down in the middle

of a sentence. Signor Calvetti had seized

the opportunity of my turning a glance in

his direction to make another sign which

caused me an even greater shock. I Jiave

spoken of thirty-three degrees. The three

last have always been reserved for the secret

masters and governors of the order, men

who seldom reveal themselves to their dis-

ciples. Only one man in each generation is

admitted to the thirty-third and last degree,

and his identity never transpires below the

numbers of the next two grades.

" There are usually four adepts in the thirty-

second degree, corresponding to the four

quarters of the world. The number of those

in the thirty-first degree is not much greater,

never exceeding one for each nation. The

last initiate of the thirty-first stage in Great

Britain was an Earl, whose name I am for-

bidden to reveal, but who has since renounced

Masonry and embraced the Church of Rome.

Kmg Oscar himself represented this degree

in Sweden. My consternation may be

imagined, therefore, when I realised that

Calvetti had announced himself as an initiate

of the thirty-first degree.

" It was with a beating heart that I strove

to go on, while my eyes wandered with

dread towards the grim countenance of the

third of these companions.

650

PEARSON'S MA GAZINE.

promoted the rebellion, and placed himself

at the head of the seceding lodges. For

this crime he has been judged worthy of

death.'

" So far I had listened with feelings of

dread and horror. The conclusion made my

blood run cold.

" ' Of death !' I gasped out.

" ' That is his doom,' returned De Roche-

mort sternly. ' There is, moreover, another

reason for the sentence. When the schism

took place, the Masters resolved that the ex-

communicated lodges should be deprived of

the final knowledge shared among the three

last degrees. Of these, there were only three

initiates among the rebels.

"' One, an Englishman,has saved himself by

renouncing our order, and solemnly pledging

himself to let his knowledge die with him.

Another, a German, defied us, and was put to

death six months ago. Now it is the turn of

Oscar II. He has openly declared his inten-

tion of initiating others, and imparting the

sacred knowledge to them. For this, too,

the Masters have adjudged him to be worthy

of death.'

" I sat petrified. To know that so fatal, so

relentless a conspiracy had been formed

against the life of this monarch whom I so

much esteemed, was enough to overpower me,

but I knew that I had not yet heard the worst.

These men would not have bestowed on me

their terrible confidences unless they intended

to make me an instrument in carrying out

their designs. It was this presentiment

which so unnerved me.

" My fears were quickly justified. As soon

as De Rochemort had finished expounding

the reasons why King Oscar's death had been

determined on, he demanded my assistance

in the name of the Secret Tribunal of the

Masters.

" Of course I demanded the proofs of l.is

authority, though I well knew this request to

be a mere form. It was Calvetti who

produced the solemn and alarming ensigns of

that authority which all Masons are bound at

the peril of their lives to obey. I could only

bow my head in respectful submission.

" But, though I am a sincere Mason, I am

not the less a man. It was impossible for me

to calmly give my aid to the murder in cold

blood of a sovereign from whom I had

received so many tokens of goodwill.

"I therefore ventured to remonstrate with my

Masonic superiors. I pleaded for the life of

the King, and urged them to postpone their

design till the Masters had had an opportunity

of reconsidering their severe sentence. I

reminded them that the foundation of all

Masonry was benevolence and the love of

our fellow creatures, and that its progress

ought not to be stained with blood. I

became eloquent, reproachful, menacing.

" At the end of my address the doctor, Ruy

Blanco, opened his lips for the first time.

" ' Have you done, Brother ? Then now,

Brethren, we will explain to the Baron what it

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

651

exercise the frightful powers which they

possessed.

" However, I feigned to listen to them with

the greatest deference, though I raised some

fatal objection to every one of the plans

which they proposed. Finally I saw Ruy

Blanco dart a

frowning glance

at Calvetti, who

interposed this

remark :

" ' It is evident

that our brother,

familiar

Swedish

" By no means, my dear Ambassador," I

responded, with earnestness. " Your conduct

in this affair, as in every circumstance of your

career, seems to me 10 have reconciled the

nicest dictates of honour with the imperative

demands of conscience."

who

the

Court, is the best

person to arrange

a suitable scheme.

We will leave you,

M. le Baron, to

turn the matter

over in your

mind, and to

elaborate such a

plan as seems to

you most likely to

be successful.'

"With these

frigid words he

rose from his

chair, and the

three companions

silently took their

departure, leaving

me in a state of

truly pitiable dis-

may.

"Torn between

the conflicting

duties of humanity

and loyalty to my

Order, I resolved

upon a middle

course, which I

believe will com-

mend itself to you. I resolved that, while

doing nothing to betray my Masonic brethren,

I would secretly watch over their victim, and

if possible protect him from their vengeance-

Say, then, my friend, would you have had me

to act otherwise ? " And his Excellency

looked at me with stern inquiry.

' For this crime he has been judged worthy of death." "

" It is well. I rejoice that you take that

view, which consoles me for many slanders

and misrepresentations which my enemies

have wished to propagate." And the Am-

bassador sighed eloquently.

" The whole of the night which followed

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

in considering my plans. I arrived finally

at the conclusion that it would become neces-

sary for me to assume a disguise in order to

watch the proceedings of the three emissaries,

and that which I selected was the costume of

a Swedish gendarme. I took great trouble

to alter my face by means of paint and a false

beard, so as to defy recognition, since I had

no wish to find the daggers of the secret

tribunal turned against myself.

" I made these preparations with the

assistance of young D'Herve, whose name I

have already mentioned to you. My next

step was to cause it to be announced to my

household that I was indisposed, and should

probably not leave my bedroom during the

next few days. These details arranged, I

was able to go forth from the Embassy

unsuspected, and devote myself to my

task.

"My first experience was an amusing one.

As I was approaching the hotel, the Carl-

skrona, where the trio were staying, I per-

ceived two of them coming out, De Roche-

mort and Calvetti. I hung back and allowed

them to pass by me, after which I turned and

followed them. It was not long before I

discovered that they were on their way to my

own resitience.

" I crept slyly up as the door was opened,

and heard the porter inform them of my ill-

ness. The two men turned and exchanged

chagrined looks, and as they came away I

heard De Rochemort muttering the most

offensive epithets between his teeth, for which,

but for my disguise, I should have challenged

him upon the spot.

" I continued to watch the movements of

the conspirators during the day. It was my

constant expectation to see them setting out

for the Palace, in order to interview the King;

and I had arranged an elaborate scheme for

intercepting them, of which, as things turned

out, I had no occasion to make use.

"But instead of that, the only movement

that occurred was a solitary expedition of

De Rochemort, this time to the railway

station. I followed him as closely as I dared.

It had evidently not occurred to these men

that they were likely to be watched, for De

Rochemort obferved no precautions. He

proceeded straight to the ticket office, and I

got near enough to hear him demand three

tickets to Norrkoping.

" I was seriously alarmed at this, as it

clearly indicated to me that the conspirators

expected to complete their work that very

day Completely baffled by the secrecy of

their movements, I could only follow De

Rochemort back to the hotel, where I

remained on guard. My movements began

to attract the attention of the hotel-keeper,

whom I had to pacify by pretending that I

had received instructions to watch his foreign

guests, on suspicion of smuggling. Mean-

while the hours dragged on till night without

my vigilance being repaid by any fresh dis-

covery.

" I was beginning to fear that I should

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

653

doctor of Rio de Janeiro had been secretly at

work. No doubt his acute and suspicious

mind had detected my lurking enmity to his

schemes on the previous night, and he had

determined to go to work without me.

" As I subsequently learnt, he had caused

a private message to be conveyed to King

Oscar, in which he pretended that, to defeat

the rivalry of other publishers, it was necessary

for their literary negotiations to be carried out

with the profoundest secrecy. He had

stipulated that the King should come to them

at the hotel under a strict incognito, and had

artfully sought to inspire confidence by telling

his Majesty that I was to be present at the

conference.

" You will realise," pursued his Excellency,

"the fearful predicament in which I found

myself. Every moment of delay might mean

the death of his Majesty. On the other hand

if I attempted to give the alarm I should

involve myself in the charge of treachery to

the Masonic Order, and it would no longer be

merely the life of another which I should be

called upon to defend.

" It was on my own resources that I had to

rely in this extremity. I considered for a few

moments—it is well-known with what rapidity

the mind moves in such circumstances—and

then decided on a plan. I listened once

more at the door, and heard De Rochemort

beginning to speak. Then I tapped softly

on the panel.

" The knocks which I gave formed a

Masonic signal, which I am not permitted to

indicate more clearly, but which I knew the

persons I had to deal with would not dare to

disregard. ^The event justified my expecta-

tions. There was a dead silence within the

room, then a muffled whisper, and imme-

diately after I heard footsteps stealing towards

the door.

" I drew back a couple of paces, and

waited. The next moment the door was

cautiously opened, and the anxious face of

De Rochemort peered out. He perceived

me, but my disguise, together with the

obscurity of the passage, made it out of the

question that he should recognise who I was.

I made a well-known sign, and at the same

time beckoned him to come a few paces

down the corridor.

" He appeared to be overwhelmed with

astonishment, as he well might be. Stepping

out into the passage, he softly shut the door

behind him, and followed me. As soon as

he was close up, he whispered :

" ' Who are you, brother ? What is it ?'

" He rushed away."

" ' Beware !' I whispered back. ' Every-

thing is known. I am here at the peril of my

life to warn you. Go instantly to the train,

and do not feel safe till you are on board the

Aesir at Noi rkoping.'

" He stared at me aghast.

" ' But who are you then ?' he asked

again.

" ' Do not inquire,' I said sternly. ' Enough

654

MAGAZINE.

myself with their safety. They shall rejoin

you in the train. Now hasten ; every moment

may mean death.'

" This time he showed no further hesita-

tion. He rushed away, and I heard him

passing downstairs and out of the hotel.

" As soon as I was satisfied that he was out

of the way, I returned to the door of the

room, and repeated the same signal. I felt

assured that the others would not proceed

with their deadly business till they knew what

had drawn their comrade away, and I was

right.

" This time it was the Italian whose dark

face appeared in the doorway. I made the

same sign to him that I had done to De

Rochemort, and he, too, stepped out into

the passage and closed the door after him.

But his manner showed more distrust of me

than De Rochemort's, and I quickly realised

that I was dealing with a man who would not

be so easily got rid of.

" ' Where is M. De Rochemort ?' he

commenced by demanding.

"' He is on his way to Norrkoping, to

embark on a certain steamer which is waiting

there,' I answered. ' I have come to warn

you to do the same. Your intentions have

been discovered and your plot foreseen.

Your only safety lies in immediate flight.'

" While I spoke I edged my way gradually

down the passage, to increase the distance

between us and the fatal room. But Calvetti

saw through this manoeuvre, and remained

standing within a few paces of the door.

" ' What does all this mean ?' he demanded

in low but threatening tones. ' What guarantee

have I of your good faith ?'

"' Simply this, that I have incurred the

guilt of high treason in order to save your

life. This house is already surrounded by

officers of the police. In a few moments I

shall be obliged to give the signal, and they

will rush in and arrest you.'

" He gazed at me darkly, as if still

sceptical. Finally he exclaimed :

" ' But the King is inside. At all events,

there is time to complete our work.' And

he made a movement back towards the door.

" The perspiration broke out on my brow.

I ask you to believe that, for an instant, I

was at the end of my resources. At once,

however, I recovered my composure, and

answered with coolness:

"' That is not the King at all. He is a

substitute sent to deceive you.'

" It was a fearful artifice. Instantly

Calvetti's brow became black with rage, and

he seized me by the arm.

"' Now I know that you are lying!' he

cried fiercely, under his breath. ' King

Oscar is well-known to me by sight. Traitor,

you shall not save him !'

" There was not another moment to lose,

as you will perceive. It was Calvetti's life or

the King's. Like lightning I had drawn

forth my trusty revolver, with which I had

been careful to arm myself, and thrust the

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF EUROPE.

655

hampered by the same consideration which

had been present to my mind all along. It

was not merely necessary to rescue the King

of Sweden from his assassins, but also to

rescue my brother Masons from the vengeance

of Oscar II. To do this it was necessary to

keep his Majesty in ignorance till the three

men were beyond his reach, and hence my

anxiety to get them away

without arousing any

alarm.

"At length the door

was opened for the third

time, and, to my aston-

ishment, the face which

met my gaze was that of

King Oscar himself.

The idea that Ruy

Blanco, in the exercise

of his Masonic superi-

ority, would compel a

sovereign to act as his

doorkeeper, had not

occurred to me, so that

I was for the moment

bewildered. But I did

not hesitate long. Draw-

ing his Majesty out into

the passage by the same

artifice I had already

employed twice, I hastily

whispered:

" ' Sire, you have been

deceived in the charac-

ters of these men whom

you have visited. The

police have found it

necessary to take certain

steps with regard to

them, and they entreat

that your Majesty will at

once return to the Palace.

It will then be possible

to keep secret the fact of your presence here

io-night.'

" Oscar II. showed considerable annoy-

ance and chagrin, as was natural, on receiving

such an intimation. He plied me with ques-

tions as I escorted him respectfully down to

the street, and I had considerable difficulty

in satisfying him with the vague explanations

I was compelled to invent. I fell back on my

What does all this mean?' he demanded.

theory of smugglers, and in the end I

succeeded in seeing him safely off the

premises.

" I now returned to deal with the formid-

able chief of the conspiracy. I approached

the room where I had left him with trepida-

tion, and took the precaution to display my

revolver as I threw open the door and walked in.

" But I alarmed

myself without cause.

The apartment was

empty."

" Then what ? "

I began, as the Ambas-

sador assumed an air of

656

PEA RSON' S MA GA ZINE.

" Drawn by an irresistible impulse, I went

down into the library. There, arranged in a

certain order upon my desk, I found a key,

a coin, and a skull. I had no longer any

doubt. This fearful man had penetrated the

secret of my double dealing. The emblems

which I beheld spoke to me in the mystic

language of the craft the most awful of sen-

tences. It was my death-warrant."

This time I allowed an interval to elapse

after the Ambassador finished speaking before

I exclaimed :

" Thank Heaven your Excellency is still

alive ! But have these monsters ever attempted

to execute their wicked threats ? "

He shook his head with a rebuking air.

" Do not

apply such

language to

those men,

who, after all,

were faithful

to their ideas

of duty. But

no, there has

been no such

attempt as you

speak of, for a

reason which,

perhaps, I

ought to men-

tion. The

three men whose schemes I had been obliged

to defeat arrived in safety at Norrkoping, as

I had promised them, and set sail upon their

steamer the same night. But the Aesir has

never been heard of since. She went down

in the Baltic with all hands; do not ask me

to tell you how, or why."

Although I have set down this narrative

exactly as I received it from the Ambassador's

lips, I have since been informed by an

English Mason of high standing, that my

friend's statements with regard to the Order,

and in particular his description of the

degrees, must not be taken literally.

Whether this is one of the differences be-

tween English and Continental lodges, or

whether the

Ambassador

purposely

misled me

with regard

to mysteries

into which he

did not think

me worthy of

complete ini-

tiation, is a

question

which I have

not yet dared

to put to his

Excellency.

" it was my death-warrant."

IPUNG

^^^

INDIA

By the day's end he was spotted all over with ink

like a Dalmatian dog.

BY E. KAY ROBINSON.

CHANCK found me on November 2nd

last, within twenty-four hours of my first

landing in America, inside the Century

Club, New York, at the moment when

Rudyard Kipling was being elected a

member, and I had last seen him years

before at Lahore, in India, where he

used to be my yoke-fellow in the daily

mill-round of Anglo-Indian journalism. This coincidence has suggested that some

reminiscences of Kipling, as he was before he became famous and adopted America as his

home, might not be without interest.

Although my official relations with Kipling did not commence till the autumn of 1886,

our acquaintance on paper opened almost immediately after my arrival in India in January,

1885. I had written some dog-Latin verses in the Pioneer of Allahabad, to which pages I

had gone out as assistant editor, and signed them with my initials " K. R.," while Kipling,

who was assistant editor of the Civil and Military Gazette of Lahore, was also in the habit

of sending verses to the Pioneer, signed " R. K.'' I was unaware of this, and, indeed, of

Kipling's existence, until I received a courteous letter from him saying that he had been

undeservedly complimented upon the Latin verses which, owing to the similarity of our

initials, were being attributed to him. I soon had opportunities of reading some of his work,

and appreciated the compliment implied in the mistake.

Shortly afterwards I obtained a month's leave, and among other places visited Lahore,

where I made the acquaintance of the Kipling family. A more charming circle, or rather

square, it would be hard to find.

John Lockwood Kipling, the father, a rare genial soul, with happy artistic instincts, a

polished literary style, and a generous, cynical sense of human humour, was without exception

the most delightful companion I have ever met.

Mrs. Kipling, the mother, preserved all the graces of youth with a sprightly, if occasionally

caustic, wit, which made her society always desirable, except, perhaps, to those who had

cause to fear the lash of her epigrams.

Miss Kipling, the sister, now Mrs. Fleming, inherits all her mother's wit, and possesses a

rare literary memory. I believe that there is not a single line in any play of Shakespeare

which she cannot quote. She has a statuesque beauty, and in repose her face is marvellously

like that of the lovely Mary Anderson. Indeed, a terra cotta bust of Miss Kipling,

executed by her father, although an excellent likeness, used generally to be mistaken by

strangers (myself at first included) for a bust of Mary Anderson.

With Kipling himself I was disappointed at first. At the time of which I am writing,

Vol. I.-

Copyright, tSi)6, in lhe United States of America, &v E, Kay Robinson.

658

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

early in 1886, his face had not acquired the

character of manhood. His juvenile appear-

ance contrasted moreover unpleasantly with

his stoop, acquired through much bending

over an office table, his heavy eyebrows, his

spectacles, and his sallow Anglo-Indian

complexion ; while his jerky speech and

abrupt movements completed an impression

so unlike what I had expected to derive from

meeting with the author of Kipling's poems

that I felt inclined for the moment to throw

him down from the high pedestal of future

fame upon which I had already placed him.

With the passage of time a marked and

rapid improvement has taken place in Kip-

ling's personality, and even at our first meeting

the unfavourable effect which it produced was

transient; for his conversation was always

brilliant, and his sterling character gleamed

through the humourous light which shone

behind his spectacles. In ten minutes his

personal disadvantages were forgotten, and

he fell into his natural place as the most

striking member of a remarkably clever and

charming family.

It was a domestic quartette—they had

combined, by the way, in the previous year

to produce " The Quartette," a Christmas

publication—of unusual ability, and each of

the four had individually attained to almost

as much literary fame as can be won in India,

where the English - reading

public numbers perhaps fifty

thousand persons, scattered

over a vast continent, three-

fourths of whom are either

too preoccupied with dry-as-

dust official business, or too

devoted to the frivolities of

life to regard literature as

anything better than a vehicle

for the conveyance of pon-

derous statistics, or a means of

embroidering the accounts of

polo matches.

It was inevitable that such a

family should, amid such

surroundings, become a select

Mutual Admiration Society,

with a forcing-house atmo-

sphere of warm domestic approval, liable to

dangerously encourage eccentric growth in

Kipling's budding genius. He was compelled,

however, to toil daily in a newspaper office

under a man who appreciated his talent very

little, and kept him at work for the most part

utterly uncongenial ; and this may have acted

as a salutary antidote.

Nevertheless it was almost pathetic to look

through the Civil and Military Gazette at that

time, and note how Kipling's bright humour

only flashed out in the introductory lines to

summaries of Government reports, dry semi-

political notes, and the side headings of

scissors-and-paste paragraphs. This, how-

ever, was the maximum of literary display

usually allowed to him, and it seemed such

waste of genius that I strongly urged his

RUDYARD KIPLING IN INDIA.

659

that I personally gained much is certain, for to

Kipling's refusal to leave India was due

the fact that when I subsequently arrived at

Lahore to take over the editorship of the

Civil and Military Gazette, I found him still

there as " assistant." I also found a letter

from the chief proprietor, in which he

expressed the hope that I would be able

to " put some sparks into the paper."

When the staff of a journal consists of

two men only, one of whom is Kipling,

such an exhortation addressed to the other

doubtless seems curious; but, as I have said,

above, Kipling had been discouraged from

" sparkling." There are men going about,

apparently sane, who deny to Rudyard

Kipling any literary merit whatever, "unless,"

as they say, " vulgarity can be called such,"

and my predecessor in the editorship of the

Civil and Military Gazette spoke of him, in

his most favourable mood as " a clever young

pup," and as a general rule did his best to

make a sound second-rate journalist out of

Kipling, by keeping his nose at the grind-

stone of proof-reading, scissors-and-paste

work, and the boiling down of government

blue books into summaries for publication.

But Kipling had the buoyancy of a cork,

and, after his long office hours, still found

spare energy to write those charming sketches

and poems which in " Soldiers Three," etc.,

and the " Departmental Ditties," gave him

such fame as can be won in the narrow world

of Anglo-India. The privilege which he

•most valued at this time, was the permission

to send such things as his editor, my pre-

decessor, refused for the Civil and Military

Gazette, to other papers for publication.

These papers used to publish and pay for them

gladly, and the compliments and encourage-

ment with which more sympathetic critics

treated his work, partly consoled him for the

consistent efforts made by his own boss to

suppress his exuberant literature, and his

subsequent writings betray no undue suppres-

sion of fancy or depression of spirits.

There are many indeed who think Kipling's

chief or only fault is excessive self-confidence,

a cock-sureness, so to speak, about any phrase

or sentiment he may fling down to the public

being accepted as the mintage of genius.

Perhaps this fault—and I think it is not

absent from some of Kipling's writings-

would have been more conspicuous if my

predecessor in the editorship of the Civil

and Military Gazette at Lahore had been one

of his admirers.

Youth is easily spoiled by success; and,

although Kipling a year or two later passed

through the ordeal of suddenly stepping into

world-wide fame, without turning a hair or his

back upon any old friend, however humble—

and Kipling's range of acquaintance was as

" extensive and peculiar" as Mr. Weller's

knowledge of India—he may owe the fact

that he has not been spoiled by a literary

elevation as sudden as Byron's, to the chasten-

ing influence of those early years, when

66o

PEAR SON'S MA GAZINE.

like a Dalmatian dog. He had a habit of

dipping his pen frequently and deep into the

ink-pot, and as all his movements were

abrupt, almost jerky, the ink used to fly.

When he darted into my room, as he used

to do about one thing or another in connec-

tion with the contents of the paper a dozen

times in the morning, I had to shout to him

to " stand off" ; otherwise, as I knew by

experience, the abrupt halt he would make

and the flourish with which he placed the

proof in his hand before me, would send the

penful of ink—he always had a full pen in

his hand—flying over me.

Driving or sometimes walking home to

breakfast in his light attire plentifully be-

sprinkled with ink, his spectacled face peep-

ing out under an enormous, mushroom-

shaped pith hat, Kipling was a quaint-

looking object, especially as the vest—

not infrequently minus the top button—

displayed 'an expanse of chest. This was

in the hot weather, when Lahore lay

blistering month after month under the sun,

and every white woman and half of the white

men had fled to cooler altitudes in the

Himalayas, and only those men were left who,

like Kipling and myself, had to stay. So it

mattered little in what costume we went to

and from the office. In the winter, when

" society " had returned to Lahore, Kipling

was rather scrupulous in the matter of dress,

but his lavishness in the matter of ink changed

not with the seasons.

He was always the best of company,

bubbling over with delightful humour, which

found vent in every detail of our day's work

together; and the chance visitor to the editor's

office must often have carried away very

erroneous notions of the amount of work

which was being done when he found us in

the fits of laughter that usually accompanied

our consultations about the make-up of the

paper.

This is my chief recollection of Kipling

as assistant and companion; and I would

place sensitiveness as his second characteristic.

Although a master of repartee, for instance,

he dreaded dining at the club, where there

was one resident member, since dead, who

disliked him, and was always endeavouring

to snub him. Kipling's retorts invariably

turned the tables on his assailant, and got us

all in a roar; and, besides this, Kipling was

popular in the club, while his enemy was not.

Under such circumstances an ordinary

man would have courted the combat, and

enjoyed provoking his clumsy opponent; but

the man's animosity hurt Kipling, and I knew

that he often, to avoid the ordeal, dined in

solitude at home when he would infinitely

have preferred dining at the club, but I could

never persuade him of the folly of doing so.

For a mind thus highly strung the plains

of India in the hot weather make a bad

abiding-place; and many of Kipling's occa-

sional verses and passages in his Indian

stories tell us how deep he drank at times of

RUDYARD KIPLING IN INDIA.

661

mien and features—Mahbab Ali, I think was

his name—who regarded Kipling as a man

apart from all other " Sahibs." After each

of his wanderings across the unexplored

fringes of Afghanistan, where his restless

spirit of adventure led him, Mahbab Ali

always used to turn up travel-stained, dirtier

and more majestic than ever, for confiden-

tial colloquy with " Kuppeling Sahib," his

" friend " ; and I more than fancy that to

Mahbab Ali, Kipling owed the wonderful

local colour which he was able to put into

such tales as " Dray wara yow dee " and

" The Man Who Would be King."

To me, as Kipling's superior, Mahbab Ali

was always embarrassingly deferential, for

we understood not a word of each other's

language, and his Mosaic magnificence of

mien oppressed me, no less than if Abraham

had arisen to do obeisance

before me. His presence in

my office was in fact over-

powering, and so was his smell.

Out of doors however, I have

seen Kipling, in his cotton

clothes and great mushroom

hat, and Mahbab All's tower-

ing, turbaned, and loose-robed

figure, walking together in

earnest and confidential col-

loquy, the queerest contrast

that friendship, even in India,

that land of startling contrasts,

has probably ever produced.

But Mahbab Ali, peace to his

ashes, was only one link in the

strange chain of associations

that Kipling riveted round

himself in India.

No half-note in the wide gamut of native

ideas and custom was unfamiliar to him, just

as he had left no phase of white life in India

unexplored. He knew the undercurrent of

the soldiers' thoughts in the whitewashed

barracks on the sunburnt plain of Mian Mir

better than sergeant or chaplain. No father

confessor penetrated more deeply into the

thoughts of fair but frail humanity than

Kipling, when the frivolous society of Anglo-

India formed the object of his inquiries.

The " railway folk," that queer colony of

•white, half white, and three-quarter black,

which remains an uncared for and discredit-

able excrescence upon British rule in India,

seemed to have unburdened their souls to

Kipling of all their grievances, their poor

pride, and their hopeless hopes. Some of

the best of Kipling's work has been in stories

drawn from the lives of these people, although

to the ordinary Anglo-Indian, whose caste

restrictions are almost more inexorable than

those of the Hindoo whom he affects to despise

on that account, they are as a sealed book.

Sometimes, taking a higher flight, Kipling

has made viceroys and commanders-in-chief,

members of council and secretaries to

government his theme, and the flashes of

light that he has thrown upon the inner

662

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

suppose, Kipling was able, however he

might be engaged, to make mental excursions

of various kinds while still pursuing the even

tenor of the business in hand.

In sporting ma1lers, for instance, I suppose

nothing is more difficult than for a man who

is no " sportsman "—in the exclusive sense

of the men who carry the scent of the stables

and the sawdust of the ring with them

wherever they go—to speak to these in their

own language along their own lines of

thought. Of a novelist, who writes a good

sporting story, it is considered praise to say

that " none but a real sportsman could have

written it." But Kipling was no sportsman,

and an indifferent horseman; yet his sporting

verses always took the sporting world in

India (where sport takes precedence of

almost every other power of human activity)

by storm.

I recollect in particular one case in which

a British cavalry regiment, once famous in

the annals of sport, and quartered at Umballa,

once the brilliant headquarters of military

steeplechasing in India, published an adver-

tisement of their steeplechases, and to attract

number rather than quality of entries, stated

that the fences were " well sloped " and

" littered on the landing side," or something

to that effect.

Now, if Kipling had ridden a steeplechase

then, I imagine the odds would have been

against him and the horse arriving at the

winning post together ; and in India he

could only have seen a few second-class,

steeplechases in the way that the ordinary

spectator sees them. But he wrote some

verses upon this advertisement, reminding the

regiment of what they had been and of what

Umballa had once been in sport, filled with

such technicalities of racing a stable jargon

that old steeplechasers went humming them

all over every station in Upper India, and

swearing that "it was the best thing ever

written in English."

It was a bitter satire on the degeneracy in

sport of the cavalry officers who " sloped "

and " littered " their fences, to make the

course easy and safe ; and to the non-sporting

reader the technical words gave good local

colour, and might or might not have been

rightly used; but what impressed me was

that a sporting "vet.,'' who had lived in the

pigskin almost all his life, should have gone

wandering about the Lahore Club, asking

people " where the youngster picks it all

up ? " As for the bitterness of the satire, it

is enough to say that many years after an

officer of the regiment, finding the verses in a

scrap-book of cuttings belonging to a friend

in whose house he was staying, apologised

for the necessity of tearing the page out anil

burning it.

On leaving India Kipling was plunged into

a new world, and to some extent seemed to

have lost his bearings, while his Indian

writings—of jungle life, etc.—are losing the

exactitude of local colour which marked his

Greybeard dreams of the days that were.

When feet were tripping and life was fair;

Dreams of the lassie he wooed and won,

The wife who shared with him shadow and sun !

The merry patter of baby feet

Around his chair makes a music sweet;

Sorrow and sunshine, smiles and tears,

Make up the tale of the lost sweet years!

IV.

See, at the threshold somebody stands,

A posy of flowers in her tiny hands ;

Looking at him with the sweet blue eyes —

Her grandmother has in Paradise !

GREYBEARD sits in the old armchair—

The firelight shines on him dreaming there;

Three score and ten is he to-day—•

Ah me, how the years have slipt away!

Those whom he loved in the days of yore—

When life was sunny, are here no more;

Some are (lead, some over the sea,

All alone with his dreams is he !

Greybeard, Greybeard,

There are wrinkles on his

brow,

He is old, so old,

And the years are told—

Nobody wants him now !

Greybeard wakens—it is no dream—

Someone is there in the firelight gleam ;

Somebody's kisses are on his brow—

Somebody cares for him, loves him now I

Greybeard, Greybeard,

Let the world say what it will,

Though you're old, so old,

And the years are told,

Somebody loves you still!

CLIFTON BINGHAM.
BY J. BRAND.

HE title of this article is not intended as a joke. It is

a matter of fact that almost every form and variety of

human crime is to be found among animals. There

are burglarious bees, filibustering sparrows, and

murderous individuals among nearly all animal species.

And not only is criminality existent among insects and

animals, but it has attained such proportions that

Professor Lombroso, the eminent Italian savant, has

made it a branch of study in the school of criminal

anthropology that he has founded.

Bees, in order to save themselves the trouble of

working, have been known to attack well-stocked hives

in masses, kill the sentinels, massacre the inhabitants,

rob the hives and carry off the provisions.

Repeated success in these nefarious enterprises

begets in them such a taste for robber}' and violence

that they recruit whole companies, which get more and

more numerous, until regular colonies of brigand bees

are formed.

The most curious fact is that crime can be produced

by drink among bees just as it is among men. By

giving working bees a mixture of honey and brandy to drink you can introduce brigandage

into an otherwise well-conducted, moral hive. The bees soon acquire a keen taste for this

beverage ; they become ill-disposed and irritable, losing all desire to work ; and. finally, when

hunger comes upon them, they attack and plunder the well-supplied hives of their sober

neighbours.

One variety of bees lives entirely by plunder. They are born with defective organs of

nidification, and are what Professor Lombroso would call born criminals—that is, individuals

who are led to crime by their own organic constitution.

It is almost impossible to suppress a certain feeling of sinful satisfaction at this discovery.

From our childhood up, we have had the example of bees cast in our teeth. Their natural

history has been made up in portable doses, mixed with trite moralities, and administered

for the correction of youthful backslidings. And, after all, bees are no better than they

ought to be—they are drunkards, thieves, housebreakers, and murderers. Not a bad record

for a little insect that has for generations posed as a model of sobriety and well-ordered

industry.

Sparrows and swallows are, I am sorry to say, very little better, but they have not the

excuse of drink. Here are two instances of criminal outrage that may well take their place

beside the Armenian atrocities.

" Some swallows had built their nests under the windows of the first floor of an uninhabited
ANIMALS AS CRIMINALS.

665

house in Merrion-square, Dublin. A sparrow

took possession of the nest, and in vain

the unfortunate swallows endeavoured to

retain their hold upon it. They were forced

to abandon the nest; but they returned with

a band of their companions, each of whom

was provided with a little lump of mud. The

entrance to the nest was soon blocked up, and

the intruder found himself a prisoner."

Sometimes revenge takes a form even

more demoniacal. " At Hampton Court a

couple of sparrows took possession of a nest

built by a couple of swallows, in spite of an

obstinate resistance on the part of the latter.

Having once established themselves, the

intruders were no longer molested. But the

day came when they were obliged to leave the

nest in search of food for their young: then,

as soon as they were out of sight, several

swallows came to demolish the nest, and I

saw the young sparrows lying dead upon the

ground."

Theft is a common crime among pigeons,

even in the civilised communities of artificial

dove-cotes. An Italian naturalist tells us

that in almost every dove-cote of the Roman

Society for pigeon breeding there are indi-

viduals who try to obtain the material neces-

sary for their nests by abstracting it irom the

heap of straw collected by others for that

purpose; in fact, they rob their neighbours

rather than work for their own families.

Among female dogs theft is not uncommon,

but in almost all such cases maternal love is

the cause of their lapse from virtue. Dogs

ordinarily moral and self-respecting, are

known to have begun stealing when they

had puppies, when they steal anything that

the latter will eat. This is a form of crime

that may well be viewed with leniency.

The child-stealing of which sterile dogs

have been proved guilty is more serious.

Lady dogs whose maternal instincts have not

been gratified will frequently steal the young

belonging to others, in order to complete

their own family circle. The family in these

cases generally dies, in spite of the solicitude

of the adopting parent, who is affectionate

but inadequate maternally.

A Spanish naturalist has detected the same

form of crime among mules, certain mules

luring foals away from their mothers in order

to satisfy a morbid maternal instinct; then,

being unable to nourish the foals, they let

them die of starvation.

This is a serious indictment against the

animal kingdom, but it is not the whole of

my case. Murder in its worst form, com-

mitted under the influence of malice and

passion, has been proved among animals.

Karl Vogt,the celebrated German naturalist,

quotes the case of a couple of storks that had

for several years built their nest in a village

near Salette. One day it was noticed that,

when the male was out in search of food,

another younger bird began to court the

lady. At first he was repulsed, then tolerated,

and at last his insidious attentions were

saw

By MAJOR-GENERAL NK.LSON A. MILES.

(Communder-in-Chief of the L'nited States Army.)

IN relating a few of the bravest, boldest, and most

heroic acts that have come under my observation, I

recall a scene at the battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia,

December I3th, 1862. The army of the Potomac had

crossed the Rappahannock under very difficult circum-

stances. The opposite shore was lined with Confederate

sharpshooters, and a pontoon bridge had to be laid

under the fire of their rifles. Our own sharpshooters

were aligned along the bank of the river, hotly engaging

the riflemen on the opposite shore, in order to attract

their attention, and as much as possible draw their fire

away from the corps of engineers who were engaged

in putting the pontoon boats into the river, and lashing

them together. So hot was this fire that many of the

men were killed, and volunteers were called for to take

their places and carn' on the desperate work. And

there was ready response to the call; for, singular as it

may seem, in almost every desperate emergency there

was no lack of heroic spirits, ready to volunteer to

occupy the most dangerous positions.

The bridge was finally completed, and a regiment

passed quickly over, storming the banks on the other

side, driving back the skirmish line of the enemy, and

taking possession of that side. They were quickly

followed by brigades and divisions, who took possession

of the grounds and drove the enemy out of the city,

back on to the hills beyond, where the army of North

Virginia had taken up its position in battle array. Many

hours of the day and the succeeding night were occupied

in crossing the army over on the pontoon bridges. The

troops then moved out across the low ground, and gradually ascending the heights of Frede-

ricksburg, encountered the Confederate forces, who were in very strong positions, partly

behind stone walls, whence their fire was most destructive, and effective in checking the

Union troops.

While my command of two regiments was supporting one part of the advance line,

although not at the moment hotly engaged themselves, and w'ere lying down in order to

escape the severe fire of shot and shell that swept over the field, Captain William G.

Mitchell, of General Hancock's staff, rode up to me and said :

" General Hancock sends his compliments, and directs that you move your command

to the right and engage the enemy in that direction."

Copyright, 1896, in the United States of America, by Nelson A. Miles.

Â¥/

'" ",

••.
THE BRAVEST DEEDS I EVER SAW.

667

This order was given under one of the

most terribly destructive fires that I have ever

experienced. Men were falling rapidly about

us, and the whiz of bullets and the cracking

of bursting shells were rending the air on

every side. Soldiers under such circumstances

usually display some trepidation, excitement,

enthusiasm, or emotion of some kind. In

fact it is very rare that at such a time men do

not exhibit strong feeling, either in their tone

of voice, or expression of face, or otherwise

indicate the feelings inspired by such appalling

circumstances.

But this young officer was as cool as if on

dress parade. He showed himself the bean

ideal of chivalry, and presented a perfect

picture of the true knight in action. His

voice was as clear and quiet as if he were in

a drawing-room, or as if he were speaking

under the most ordinary circumstances; his

large, clear, dark eyes indicated the cool

fortitude that possessed his soul. He had

finely chiseled features, a spare- form, dark

eye-brows, light moustache, and straight,

black, unusually long hair, and had the atti-

tude, appearance, and manner of the true

soldier.

On another occasion, in the next ensuing

desperate battle, which occurred on the field

of Chancellorsville, during the worst and

most desperate fighting of the second day of

that battle, when the Union forces were

being assaulted at every point, and in several

places were being driven back in some dis-

order, a duel was being fought by two

batteries, one on the Union and the other on

the Confederate side, near where General

Hancock, with his staff, had taken station. In

the shifting phases of the battle, a division of

the Confederate infantry made a strong

assault upon one portion of Hancock's line,

and it became necessary for him to change

the front of one of his divisions in order to

meet this threatened onslaught. It was one

of those cases where the element of time is

of the most vital importance.

In this emergency General Hancock

turned to his trusted aide-de-camp, and, point-

ing to the danger, gave him directions to

' proceed as quickly as possible to the

threatened point and change the front of the

position there, in order to make a counter

attack on the enemy. Mitchell, with his

soldier's instinct, realised the importance of

giving the order with the least possible delay ;

so instead of going round to the rear of our

own battery, then engaged in the duel, with a

total disregard of his own safety, he dashed

between the two batteries and succeeded in

safely conveying the order, changing the

front of the division, and saving that part of

the field from disaster.

In doing this he had to defy the dangers

from the shot and shell of the Confederate

battery as well as the risk of death from the

one on his own side, which was then engaging

it. Such acts illustrate the indifference of

some men to personal danger in the hour of

668

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

was mounted on a powerful, thoroughbred

horse, and, soon leaving his troop well to the

rear, gained rapidly on the young officer. As

they struck into a well-beaten road, it was

evident that it was a race for life. The young

officer seeing that the other, who had left his

troop far in the rear, gained upon him,

resorted to a stratagem to effect his escape.

Coming to a sharp turn in the road, he

lines, and swept back over the few miles that

separated him from them. His own forces,

who had awaited his return with much

anxiety, were much relieved when he dashed

up to them leading the captured charger.

Another instance of great daring was

observed at Malvern Hill. This was the

closing battle of that campaign known as

the " seven days before Richmond," where

sc latter

swept round the turn of the road, the Union

officer fired upon him.

passed for a moment completely out of sight,

and wheeled in behind some thick evergreen

trees. Springing from his horse he waited

with cool determination the approach of the

Confederate officer. As the latter swept

round the turn of the road, the Union officer

fired upon him, rolling him in the dust.

Then, springing upon his own horse again,

he seized the bridle of the Confederate

charger, whirled round towards the Union

the siege of Richmond was raised, and

McClellan changed his base of operations

from the York river to the James. There

had been six days' desperate fighting, in

which both contending armies sustained

severe losses, but in the end the ground

was held by the Confederate forces, and the

gradual retreat of the Federal forces towards

the James river was the result. On the after-

noon of July ist, 1862, the army of the

THE BRAVEST DEEDS I EVER SAW.

669

Potomac had taken position on the strategic

ground of Malvern Hill, a very strong posi-

tion, overlooking the surrounding country.

There were a few undulations, but mostly

wide fields of flowing grain, and rich green

grass, that in places was from ten to fifteen

inches in height, presenting one of the most

beautiful and picturesque midsummer pros-

pects that could possibly be imagined. The

scattering trees of the open forests in full

foliage and the green fields interspersed with

flowers, under ordinary circumstances would

have formed a scene most fascinating to be-

hold.

The artillery

was placed in

position, and

the infantry

was drawn up

in line of

battle along

the most

commanding

crests, prepa-

ratory to the

final struggle

of that re-

ma r k ab I e

campaign.

The Confede-

rate army fol-

lowed in

pursuit of the

Union forces

after the des-

perate battle

of Glendale, or Nelson's Farm, as it is some-

times called. They had taken position in the

stretches of timber some three miles from

Malvern Hill. They did not long allow the

Union forces to remain in inactivity.

The first lines that were advanced by

brigades, divisions, and corps, received a

terrific fire from the Union batteries on the

crests of Malvern Hill, but they still moved

on up the slope occupied by the Federal

troops. In these advances and assaults the

destructive work of our artillery was very

evident, and when they reached the infantry

line they were hurled back with serious loss.

In one of the advances made later in the

afternoon was a Confederate regiment led by

Come on! Come on! Do von want to live for ever?

a bold young colonel, who moved forward

with his command with great spirit over the

plain.

After they had debouched from the timber,

the artillery cut wide gaps in the line,

but they closed in towards the centre on the

colours, and moved forward with splendid

martial spirit. As they ascended the slope

and came under the scattering fire of the

infantry line, their pace slackened, and they

seemed to move with a less elastic step, a

growing semblance of hesitation, and grad-

ually moved more slowly, and with less

impetuosity.

Impatient at
I,

As evening began on

the highway, the quiet

French highway, your

traveller riding to his friendly inn might have

drawn rein in some uneasiness, catching the

first notes of a strange and dread-inspiring

chant. He pulled up, perhaps, under the

shelter of an oak, not certain whether to

advance or to put his horse's head about.

That terrible dirge-like chant grew more

•distinct, and now in the intervals arose

another sound, not more grateful to the ear,

the clank of steel fetters.

Oh ! oh ! Jean Pierre, oh!

F;iis toilette.

Via, v'la le barbier, oh !

Oh, oh, oh, Jean Pierre, oh !

V'la la charette.

The air was unutterably mournful, the

words were horrid in their realism. What

voices were these urging Jean Pierre to his

last toilette, showing him the barber-surgeon

come to clip the hair from the back of the

neck, and the cart of the guillotine

standing for him at the prison door?

By the jangling of their chains the singers

were proclaimed before they came in sight.

These were theformats, or convicts, of France

marching to the prison called the bagne, and

singing as they went the Chanson de la

Veuve—Song of the Widow—the guillotine,

the widow-maker.

They came on at a slow and painful

BY TIGHE HOPKINS.

tramp, hundreds of them, men and youths,

each wearing an iron collar and supporting a

part of the chain which attached him by the

neck to the prisoner in front. Their clothes

were dull with dust; dust and sweat had

made a glaze upon their faces. Some of the

younger ones wore a look of terror, the effect

of the dreadful " Song of the Widow," added

to the wretchedness of their situation. Others,

o\d formats, were reminded of a guillotining in

the bagne, when they had knelt upon the

ground in a long double row, bareheaded, to

see a comrade pass between them to the

scaffold, at the foot of which stood the black

coffin-cart, with the skull and cross-bones

painted above the door.

The armed guard marching on either side of

the vast chain of the condemned had heard that

chant of the " widow-maker," many times, but

none ever listened unmoved to those fearsome

words, that air of incommunicable sadness.

Some of the prisoners had tears streaming

down their faces, faces on which crime or

evil fortune had written such " strange de-

features." In others that hymn of the scaffold

seemed to kindle afresh the passions which

had riveted on their necks the steel collar of

the format. Here and there in haggard eyes

which were never uplifted burned the slow

fires of remorse.

Ah! Ah! Ah I

Faucher colas.

The chant ends with the falling of the blade.

* In the May number of PEARSON'S MAGAZINE appeared a realistic description of the convict prison system

in England to-day We are now enabled to publish an article throwing a strong light upon the horrors of the
THE SUCCESSORS OF THE GALLEY SLAVE.

671

On and on at a heavy pace went the long

cohort of the chain, and each man knew that

every step he took brought him nearer to the

place where his miseries would not finish but

begin. At the end of the march was the

bagne. For the new-made format the name

was an epitome of all the terrors the imagina-

tion could conceive.

Would not the traveller whose progress this

piteous pageant had arrested spur forward to

the shelter of his inn, and call quickly for

a flagon of warm

red wine ?

II.

BUT leave the

gentleman to dis-

pel the picture

with his wine, and

follow the chain in

its miserable pro-

cession through

France, the France

of the early days

of our own century

of grace.

When night fell,

with its chances of

slipping from the

gang into cover of

ditch or thicket,

a halt was called.

There were fixed

etapes or stages

for each day, and

sheds and barns

were requisitioned ,

for the night's

lodging. If the regular ration of meat were

not forthcoming, it was a struggle to have the

hand first in the common mess-tub of beans

and cabbage. The warder's whistle blew the

signal for rest, and, fettered and galled, you

threw yourself into the straw.

At daybreak the whistle blew again. There

was no dressing to be done, for no one had

changed his clothes, and no washing, for

there was no water to wash with; but the

smell of the air, how sweet it was when the

doors of the straw-shed were unbarred. The

march was taken up once more.

Here came a little town, just turning out

for the business of the day—shop, warehouse,

or meadow beyond. The rattle of the fetters is

heard. Via lesformats! The''lags" are com-

ing! The town rushes out pell-mell, feasts itself

with that gruesome sight, howls imprecations,

which the chain is not slow to give back.

Sometimes it was different. The towns-

folk or the peasants were ready with gifts of

fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, wine, cider;

and the chain knew how to thank them for

these sympathies. In general, however, when

a town or village

\was passed on

the stage, it was

a battle of oaths

and obscenities

between the free

672

PEA RSO.Y S MA GA ZINE,

of the chain. There were some who went

mad on the route between Paris and the

bagne.

At certain stages, lengths were added to

the chain. The provincial courts sent out

their drafts to meet the main contingent from

Paris. As the chain increased in length it

increased in criminal and psychological in-

terest; and towards the end of the closingstage

it linked together examples of every offence

that the law had cognisance of. Thieves,

robbers, and house-breakers made the largest

category. Murderers, in a greatly less

numerous class, figured sepond on the

list; and it dwindled down from

the poisoners (the art of poison

flourished rather poorly at that

epoch) to the parricides, the

perjurers, the bigamists, and the

curiously small tail of political

offenders. I have omitted the

forgers, coiners, incendiaries,

blackmailers, and defaulters

in public offices; but it will

be seen that the catalogue

embraced male society at

large. The "flyingchain"

of the/ormatson the march

tethered one and all.

At the walls of Brest,

Toulon, or Rochefort, the

march ended.

III.

WHAT was the bagne ?*

It represented the penal

system which had super-

seded the punishment of the galleys. The

gallrien, or galley slave, ceasing to be

employed at the oar, or but very rarely

employed there, became the format, which

term is the equivalent of our convict. There

were three great bagnes in France. That of

Toulon was built in 1748; in the following

year the bagne at Brest was erected by con-

vict labour ; and, sixteen years later, the bagne

•The name seems to be of rather doubtful origin :—

Hal. bagno, Fr. bain, bath; i.e., the bath of the

Seraglio at Constantinople was in the first instance a

prison of this nature. Or, as others have it, the prison

adjoined the bath. The French bagnes were some-

times known as prisons mouillees, floating prisons,

because the prisoners had once been lodg-ed in hulks.

of Rochefort was constructed. These prisons

were under the control of the Ministry of

Marine (which to this day has the control

of transportation), and towards the middle of

the present century they held a population of

nearly eight thousand.

FITTING THE IRONS.

Footsore and sick and stained with many

weathers, the company of felons at length

passed through the gates of the bagne. The

free world was fairly behind them now.

They saw andyW/ defiant walls around them:

great doors were unbarred for them; iron

gratings smote them with a sense of hope-

lessness.

They-saw the strong bodies of guards and

THE SUCCESSORS OF THE GALLEF SLA VE.

673

This was the manner of their reception on

arrival. They were first passed in review by

the governor and chief officers of the prison,

by the principal surgeon, and by the head of

the police, who assured himself of each man's

identity. They were then sent for a sorely

needed bath, and the clothes which they put

off for their ablutions were exchanged for the

costume of the bagne. This was a loose red

jacket, a sleeveless waistcoat of the same

colour or of yellow, trousers of dark yellow

or drab, buttoning down the leg, a shirt of

coarse calico, and a woollen cap in shape

like the Republican cap of liberty. The

colour of the cap indicated to some extent

the status of the wearer. The bonnet rouge,

or red cap, told that he was condemned

a temps, that is to say for a period of years,

few or many. The dreaded bonnet vert, the

green cap, was the badge of servitude

a perpetuit'—for life! Jacket and trousers

were stamped with the letters T.F., (travaux

forces, hard labour).

Now, then, the habit of the new-comer is

CONVICTS FOR LIFE.

PILING SHOT.

Vol. I.- -15.

complete. Not so; he has yet to receive

his irons. The collar which he wore on the

march has been put off, but an anklet of

steel must replace it. He is taken to a

courtyard where a convict smith, with

anvil, hammer, and an assortment of

fetters, awaits him. He lies face down-

wards, and a convict assistant bends his

leg and raises his foot to the anvil. The

ring is bolted on the ankle, and to this

is riveted a chain, one end of which is

attached to a leathern waistbelt.

Now, it would be no mean portion of

one's punishment to sustain, night

and day for years, the degrading

burden of the fetters, but the

degradation yet lacked some

thing.

The format must not

alone be chained ; he

must, in addition, be

chained to another

format. In certain cir-

cumstances this must

have been the worst and

most torturing penalty

of all. For the new-

comer could make no

674

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

choice of a companion for his chain.

The choice was made hap-hazard, and in

general without the least consideration, by

the officer who presided over the ironing.

" Your name's Legrand, is it ? Next man in

the line whose name begins with L," and so on.

As a result, the most bizarre and repulsive

couplings. There were, it is true, many

affectionate companionships of the chain ;

but there were many more which inflicted an

eternity of suffering upon one of the pair.

Even in slaver}', where there are two in

perpetual association, one will be

master; and thus it was with T-"

the bondslaves of the bagne.

It was by no means im-

possible for a man of breed-

ing and refinement, choice

and gentle in word and

manner, to drag his chain at

the heel of a truculent

assassin, a brutal robber,

or a gigantic negro

who was continu-

ally coming

under the

lash for in-

subordina- /f-—

tion. That (.'

was an

anxious moment

when the accouple-

ment was made,

and the two part-

ners of the chain

first scanned one

another.

Three days of

repose were al-

lowed to the new

arrivals — " re-

pose," fettered to

the wooden guard-

bed of the bagne, in a huge chamber shared

by some five or six hundred condemned

ones, and patrolled day and night by

warders.

IV.

AT five on the morning of the fourth day, if

it were summer, at six in winter, the Diane

sounded the turn-out, and the new hand fell

in with his gang. The life of ihe bagne had

begun for him.

Suspicion is the note of prison rule, and in

prisons like the bagnes, where most minds

brooded on escape, suspicion was a virtue.

What format had been tampering with his

chain or ankle-ring in the night ? This was

the first question in the governor's mind in

the morning, and there was a warder whose

special duty it was to furnish a practical

answer by demonstration.

As he descended into the courtyard from

the great sleeping chamber, each

convict presented his fettered

ankle to this functionary,

who tapped the ring

and chain with a

THE SUCCESSORS OF THE GALLEY SLAVE.

675

(the English convict works only seven) the

format might be exposed in turns to the action

of a burning sun, to humid airs, to glacial

rains, to biting winds and penetrating fogs.

The locality of the bagne made all the

difference in this respect.

The raw beginner had his apprenticeship

to go through, and it was more bitter or not

quite so bitter, according to the character of

his chain companion. He had to learn to

walk and work in a steel tether just 9ft. long,

4±h. of which belonged to another man. He

had to swing his pick without danger to his

comrade, and to avoid the danger of the

other pick—and he might be quite unused

to physical labour of any kind. If the

brother of the chain (supposing

him an old hand) did not choose

to help the 'prentice, it was

liable to be awkward for

both, but it was almost

certain to be awkwanl for

the 'prentice. In the haul-

ing of weights of stone up

a steep incline, so many

formats harnessed like

beasts to the cart, no in-

dividual could shirk his

share of the pulling with-

out being observed by the

others ; and if he made a

slip he brought a risk

upon the whole trace.

In this event, on the

return journey, the

weakling or the shifty

member of the party

seldom escaped the

vengeance, individual

or collective, which the

bagne so well knew how

to wreak, unnoticed by

the warder in charge.

In the stacking of timber, a pile, awkwardly

built, was in danger of toppling. The warn-

ing was given, two partners of a common

chain pulled opposite ways, and one—it was

always, of course, the feebler of the pair for

whom the grave had to be dug. These

accidents might be accidental, but rather

often they were not. Yet there were instances

of quite another sort. It was not uncommon

for the habitual criminal, linked with a deli-

cate first offender, to take him under his

wing, shield him from the gibes of the gang,

and do all his work for him during the first

weeks of his sojourn in the bagne.

There were critics of the bagms in the

AX HCH'R'S REST AT MIDDAY.

Chamber and on the press, who maintained

that the grande fatigue was a farce, and that

no work was done. But access to these

prisons—or, at least, to the actual scenes of

labour—was even more difficult than it is to

an English prison to-day, which, I need

scarcely say, is not open to the first caller.

Few persons capable of recording their

impressions had ever seen the interior of a

676

PEARSON'S MA GA ZINE.

French bagne. It would have been a juster

criticism that the grande fatigue was of com-

paratively little worth to anybody. It was

seldom so directed as to train the format to a

habit of industry—the aim of the modern

penal system in most European countries, and

certainly in ours—but, when rigidly applied,

and this depended a good deal upon a very

callous system of overseership, it took the

physical utmost out of the convict. He slept

awhile in the sun at noon, or walked if the

chance of the

cards went

against him.

It was not

unusual, when

one partner of

the chain

wanted to

sleep and the

other to stroll,

to settle the

difference over

a game of

cards — a for-

bidden luxury

which a "soft"

warder winked

at. One part-

ner played

the other for

his half of

the chain.

At the night

whistle the

several gangs

were marched

back to the

bagne. Each

man got what

he could out of the gamelle, or mess-tub,

and took his place on the plank bed, a long

bench runningfrom end toend of the dormitory.

No pillow eased his head, no mattress his

limbs; his chain was locked to a ring at the foot

of the bed ; and hot, wet, or cold, he never put

off his clothes. The aspect of the &/§•;« at night,

under the flicker of the lamp, was that of an

extended Morgue.

V.

THE bagne had its own penal code. It was

death by the guillotine to strike an officer, to

kill a comrade, or to incite the chiourme (the

general body of convicts) to revolt. Not

seldom death on the scaffold was a form of

suicide peculiar to the prisoner of the bagne.

"I'm sick of life!—-je mennuie de vivre!"

—and the weary wretch took another's life to

end his own. Sometimes it was an agree-

ment between two companions of the chain ;

one slew the other, and gave himself up to be

guillotined.

The escaped convict a temps, brought back

to the bagne,

received an

addition of

three years to

his original
THE SUCCESSORS OF THE GALLEY SLAVE.

677

were held by the rest of the chiourme is easily

imagined. The gusto they had for their work,

arising in a deep-seated sanguinary instinct,

was stimulated by the small gratuities paid

them by the administration, and by extra

rations. It was necessary to lodge them

together in a separate part of the prison, for

their lives were always in danger, and most

of them carried the cicatrices of wounds

inflicted by those of their comrades who had

received the bastonnade. One of

these ferocious creatures might

be seen in the evening, towards

the hour at which his victims

were delivered to him,

watching like an animal

of prey the door by which

they were led in.

The convicts made one

exception, and one only,

in favour of the correcleur.

It was when the office was

bestowed upon one of

their number who had

fulfilled a similar function

before being sent to the

bagne. They considered

it not improper that he

should continue to exer-

cise in misfortune the

calling he had lived by

when in freedom.

VI.

" Les for mats, Ms cou-

pables qu'Hs soient, sont

bich malhcureux."—" Let

the formats be as guilty

as they may, they have a

pretty evil time of it."

These were the words of

an officer who had held

one of the highest posts in A WARDER.

the French prison service.

It was great luck to get into hospital for a

while, if only to escape the eternal mess of

bean-broth, brown bread, a little olive oil or

rancid butter, and biscuit which the navy had

rejected. Some trifling extras in food and

drink might be bought at the canteen of the

bagne, but in quantities such as none but the

convicts themselves would appreciate.

Nevertheless, there were degrees in the

pains of these unfortunates. Like Dante's,

the Inferno of the bagne had its lower and its

higher circles. From toiling in the open air

under an ardent or inclement sky, the convict

of approved behaviour might pass in time to

the covered workshops, where the petite, as

opposed to the grandefatigue, offered a large

amelioration of his lot. Here he joined,

along with other good-conduct prisoners, the

infirm and sickly of the flock who

could not be employed at the rude

tasks of the outdoor gangs. The

first great boon accorded

here was the releasing him

from his companion of

the chain. He was pro-

PEA RSON'S MA GA ZINE.

the bagne, became to a small extent a free

agent in his choice of work, and a fair

latitude was allowed him to do little jobs on

his own account. He had time of his own,

and could use it to plait things in straw, or

carve things in wood or cocoanut, or make

little churches or models of the bagne in

pasteboard, which were sold for him to

visitors in the bazaar against the gate. If he

remained a rogue in the salle dipreuve, he

found oppor-

tunity to coin

money, or to

forge passports

for himself or a

friend, for use

in the event of

an escape.

A coveted

berth was that

of payole, or

scribe for the

unlettered lags.

This was only

to be secured

in the salle

d'epreuve. It

was an office

which brought

perquisites to

the letter-writer,

and gained him

of necessity

many of the

secrets of his

clients, which,

at a pinch, he

might turn to

his own advan-

tage. There is

not an angle

from which this

uniquely tragic scene of the human comedy

may be viewed which does not show up some

baseness, attempted or practised on one

another by these unhappy creatures, who, dead

tothe laWjCametokill in them selves every sense

of justice and of honour. " I.e bagne esl une

pepiniere de monsires "—" The bagne is a

nursery of monsters "—was said of it a few

years before its abolition, in 1852,by those best

able to speak of the actual results of the system.

SOMETHING TO SEI.I. THE VISITOR.

There was an ironic humour in some of

the anomalies of the administration. At one

epoch, certain favoured formats lived in the

bagnes much as it pleased them. " Gentle-

men" with means were allowed to hire

themselves out as grooms, valets, tutors, or

dancing masters. Some were followed to

the town where the bagne lay by their wives

and families (as the well-to-do British felon

was accompanied by wife or mistress to

Botany Bay),

and went out to-

spend the day

with them,

dressed in the

fashion, and
THE SUCCESSORS OF THE GALLEV SLAVE.

679

oar, from which nothing but death or utter

sickness ever released them. It was not in

his bond to bring into the ways of virtue the

criminals whom the law had handed over to

him to use as " mechanical motors," or beasts

of burden : or even to guide their labour in

such a way as to teach them how to work for

themselves when they had passed out of his

keeping. In general he made it a point of

honour to leave his bagne to his successor in

the precise condition in which it had been

left to him. His intercourse with his brother

governors was confined to an occasional inter-

change of prisoners, as a present, much as

the American slave-owner made a gift of a

" useful boy" to a neighbour or a new

colonist. Rarely, a prison chaplain of an

intelligent and benevolent force not common

in that service, devoted himself wholly to

softening and elevating the lot of his " miser-

ables " ', and often with grand effect.

VIII.

BUT the humanest of governors, or the

tenderest of chaplains, could not drive from

the format's mind his fixed idea of escape.

With many, if not with most of the inhabitant

of the bagne, the hope or notion of escape

became in time a veritable obsession. The

A "CACHE."

chapter of flights from the bagne is the

most incredible in the sordid and sorrowful

romance of its history. Were it not written

by some half dozen unimpeachable hands, it

would never be believed how the format

succeeded, in the open harbour, or chained

A SCRIBE OF THE

"BAGNE."

to the plank in the " double chaine " room, in

cutting his fetters, and slipping out of reach.

One old hand, brought back after his

tenth escape, saved himself from punish-

ment for once by showing the governor

the thirteen different ways of filing the

irons. There was a trade in escapes by

the formats who were less eager for

liberty than their fellows. They built a

temporary hiding place for the convict

who was willing to pay for it, put him

in, and left him to his own resources.

If he could not get out of his cache at the

right moment he might be starved to

death or buried alive. The cache maker

was not unwilling to sell him to the

governor for the legal reward. He seldom

got clear away. If captured in the at-

tempt he was flayed by the correcteur.

If caught beyond the walls the life-

term man went to the " double chain " for

three years ; and the format a temps had

three years added to his sentence. There

were men whose accumulations would have

required them to live to one hundred.

BY

NELLIE-.K-BUSSETT

ILLVSTRATEO B/

CHAPTER I.

THE Cardinal laid down his pen carefully on

the inkstand, pushed his papers away from

him, and, leaning back in his writing-chair,

looked out at the trees opposite to him. The

window at which he sat was upon that side of

the Royal Kensington Palace Hotel which

looks out on Kensington Gardens, and,

though it was late in October, the sun was

bright and the leaves were still thick. The

suggestion of Nature amongst the works of

man—the greenery of antiquity beside the

upstart redness of the Palace Hotel—pleased

the Cardinal. An amused twinkle played

about the corners of his keen eyes, and a

corresponding softening curved the edges of

his thin lips.

As a child, his had been one of those faces

at which every one in the street turns to look.

It was changed now, considerably, but what

it had lost in almost angelical sweetness, it

had gained in expression and power. It was

a beautiful face still, wonderfully charming in

animation, curiously cold in repose. Indeed,

as His Eminence sat there, grave again now,

there was something almost repellent in the

icy majesty of his expression. His features

looked as though cut out of a block of

marble ; he might have been a portrait of

himself, so still was he, but for the tremulous

shimmering of the great diamond in the ring

on his hand. The diamond might have been

an expression of the Cardinal himself—mag-

nificence without ostentation.

Upon the writing-table lay two letters, open

and unfolded, but both finished and signed.

The signature of the first, written in the Car-

dinal's official writing—thin, angular, and

small—was " Uberto " ; the second, written

in a much larger and more irregular hand,

ended, " Your affectionate uncle, Christian

Hubert." They were two different hand-

writings, and two different names; but both

belonged to the same man.

The Cardinal, indeed, was a more import-

ant personage in reality, than he appeared lo

be at first sight. In addition to his high rank

in the Church—and it was so very high, in

every respect, that it was whispered in Rome

that the " English Cardinal"' had a very good

chance of attaining to the Papal throne—he

was celebrated throughout Europe as an

elegant scholar, a profound and polished

writer, an organiser of no mean ability, and,

probably, the greatest orator of his day. He

deserved the reputation he had gained, and

something more, for over and above his many

ecclesiastical roles he was something greater,

perhaps, than all—a superb, if unconscious,

actor.

The theatrical attitude was so perpetual

with him that it had become part of his

nature. His eye for dramatic effect was so

fine that he played comedies and tragedies in

expression when he was alone. It amused

him, though he never realised that he was

acting. He had long ago banished every

HIS EMINENCE.

681

disturbing emotion from his mind—heart he

had none—and he had played an ideal

character so long that at last he had really

become what he had set himself to be. His

idea of a Prince of the Church was the

perfection of magnificent simplicity; he

embodied it in himself.

As he sat gazing out at the gardens many

different thoughts passed through his brain.

He had not been in London for twenty-five

years, and, though the changes he saw

amazed him less than the fact that so many

things remained unchanged, he thought fit to

adopt a mildly sentimental attitude in alluding

to his return to his old haunts. It had been

early spring, he remembered, when he left

London; it was now autumn. The idea

pleased him, for he had left as quite a young

man, and, although he was not much over

fifty now, he could appropriately call his

period of life autumnal. He made a note of

this train of thought and pigeon-holed it in

the inmost recesses of his literary memory.

It would make a charming Latin poem, or

even a tolerable English sonnet. Personally,

the Cardinal preferred Latin; he did not

write for the vulgar.

There was one incident in his life, however

—it was merely an incident, nothing more—

particularly connected with his departure from

London, «-'hich, he was bound to admit, had

not been marked by that prudence and fore-

sight which characterised most of his actions.

This was his marriage. He moved uneasily

in his chair when he thought of it; the mere

memory annoyed him. And yet there was

little reason why »it should. The marriage

had been a secret, and the secret well kept—

the Cardinal had kept it, and can anyone say

more ? It was a miserable piece of folly, of

course, but then people are frequently foolish

when they are in love, and the Cardinal had

been very much in love—for the time. The

time was not long, partly because his mad

infatuation was bound to pass over, partly

because the woman who availed herself of

that infatuation was not capable of sustaining

it for any lengthy period, and partly, perhaps,

because the Cardinal himself was not the

sort of man to remain long under the

influence of any human affection what-

soever.

His marriage was merely a chapter in the

book of his life. He soon wearied of it, and

grew tired of the continual necessity for

caution and secrecy which it entailed upon

him. The inevitable catastrophe was hastened

by the unwelcome appearance on the scene

of a little daughter. For the sake of a son

and heir the Cardinal would have braved the

unpleasant consequences of his marriage and

its avowal; he had all the feudal instincts of

his ancestors. But, for a girl, he did the only

thing he conceived to be prudent and possi-

ble under the circumstances—left England,

studied for the priesthood, for which his

father had originally intended him, and finally

took orders. The Christian Hubert, who

682

PEA RSOX' S MA GA ZIXE.

nephew. How, he asked himself with a

smile of conscious power, how could anyone

disregard him ? The idea was absurd.

The smile called up by the absurdity of the

idea still lingered on his expressive features,

when his reflections were disturbed by a rap

at the door, followed by the hasty entrance of

the nephew in question.

The Cardinal rose from his seat with all the

warmth of a genial unbending.

" My dear boy ! " he said, with the cordial

manner to which, had the world known it, he

probably owed far more of his success than

to his own abilities, brilliant though they were.

The three words, spoken so graciously, the

smile on the speaker's face, the dignity of his

presence, and the very genuine affection

existing between uncle and nephew, all con-

spired to soothe considerably Hugo Hubert's

feelings, ruffled by a recent skirmish with a

maiden aunt strongly opposed to actresses.

" It's delightful to see you again, Uncle

Chris," he said heartily. "You don't look

as if your favourite beverage were vinegar.

And I'm sure you've no foolish prejudices—

now, have you ? "

The Cardinal laughed pleasantly.

" My dear Hugo, of course not! I have

no prejudices," he held up a volume which

lay on the writing table, " if I had, should I

be reading ' Lourdes' ? Yet I am, and I

have not discovered anything very dreadful

in it, though if I dared to say so in

Rome, there would be a schism in the

Church ! Sit down and have a cigar, and

we will consider the question of your sins;

they are the chief topic of interest with your

elderly aunts just now, to judge by their

let'.ers."

Hugo Hubert's face clouded over again.

He was a good deal like his uncle, though

the likeness was more that of a softened

and toned-down edition than of an even

moderately correct copy. The characters of

the two men were utterly different, and it

was owing to that difference that the Cardinal

had been summoned to England.

They sat silent for some moments. His

Eminence wished to play a waiting game.

At last the younger man spoke.

" You don't mean to go against me, Uncle

Chris ? "

The unexpected mode of attack rather

startled the Cardinal.

" I have never gone against you, Hugo,"

he replied cordiatly, " I should never wish

to. But really—I think that in this matter

you should be prudent. It is exceedinglv

serious."

His nephew's gaze was fixed on the floor

before him, with an abstracted expression.

" Yes," he repeated slowly, " it is serious."

The Cardinal smiled to himself.

" Of course ! I am delighted to see that

you are open to conviction. Naturallv—

ahem !—undue influence has been brought to

bear on you—you have been pushed too far.

My dear boy, the best of us make fools of

HIS EMINENCE.

683

The Cardinal smiled to himself.

" Larochc," answered Hugo tartly. He

had an idea that his uncle was preparing a

trap for him.

The Cardinal looked slightly surprised.

" Laroche ? Rqse Laroche ? " he repeated.

His tone was thoughtful.

" Rosina Laroche," corrected Hugo.

The Cardinal bent down suddenly, and

picked up a pin from the floor. The opera-

tion' detained him in a stooping position for

some seconds, and when his face again met

his nephew's eye, it had regained its usual

expression. Only the diamond on the hand

which held the pin trembled oddly in the

autumn sunshine.

" Rosina Laroche," he repeated again—

his voice was quite steady. " And her

mother's name ? "

" It is the same."

" Is her father an actor ? " inquired the

Cardinal. For the first time his smooth voice

sounded huskily ; the strain was too much

for him, superb 'dissembler though he was.

Hugo coughed uneasily.

" I know nothing about her father, except

that he must have been a consummate

scoundrel. He married in secret, would not

own his marriage, and deserted his wife when

Rosie was a week old. He was a man of

very good family, I believe. They never

traced him."

"I wonder if they tried?" said the Cardinal

to himself; but aloud he only remarked, in

his iciest manner: " Do you believe this

marriage to have been legal ? "

" I believe Rosie's mother," said Hugo

simply.

The Cardinal rose to his feet; he must put

an end to the interview somehow, and get rid

of Hugo. His self-control was fast deserting

him ; there was a curious choking sensation

in his throat, and a sound as of many sledge-

hammers in his head. If the strain were

not removed in another moment he would

become hysterical. But of this inward dis-

turbance nothing appeared. He held out his

hand.

" You must run away now," he said sweetly.

" I have a deputation from the Sisters of St.

Lachrymosa due in five minutes. Come and

684

PEARSON'S J/.-lGAZINE.

dine with me to-morrow. I have not much

appetite," he added regretfully, " but we will

try and find something tolerable for you.

Good-bye, dear Hugo—God bless you."

Hugo departed rapidly, having the fear of

St. Lachrymosa before his eyes.

* * « * »

Five minutes passed—ten—twenty. The

deputation did not arrive.

The Cardinal sat at the table with his hands

thrown out before him among the papers.

disappearance ; he inquired into the matter,

and sifted it thoroughly. By this judicious

inquiry he found out what he really wanted

to know—namely, that, as far as Hugo could

tell him, Rosie knew nothing about her

father, and was even ignorant of his real

name. He had gone by the name of

Christian, according to her mother's story,

but whether he had been married under it

or not was uncertain. Madame Laroche was

obstinately silent on that point. But there

seemed every reason to suppose that the

name was assumed. The Cardinal was

much relieved when he put together the

information he had collected so carefully.

He was in no imminent danger of discovery.

His countenance was a study in dramatic

expression ; his whole attitude denoted the

concentration of tragedy.

" Good heavens! " he murmured. " Rosina

—Rosina Laroche ! "

He said no more—there was no need.

Those few words expressed the mistake of

his life.

CHAPTER II.

THE Cardinal set himself with praiseworthy

interest to learn all he could about his

nephew's future bride. He seemed par-

ticularly struck by the story of her father's

" In any case, Hugo, you are much better

out of the business "

" It is evident,'' he explained to Hugo,

" that Madame Laroche either does not

know her husband's real name, or else

that, knowing it, she has reasons for her

silence. Perhaps she has doubts as to the

legality of the marriage, and so wishes no

inquiry made into the matter for fear of what

such inquiry might bring to light. Possibly

the whole story is a fabrication. In any c.ase,

Hugo, you are much better out of the business.

Take the advice of an older man than your-

self, and don't put a skeleton in your cup-

board."

He threw such a pathetic emphasis into the

last sentence that Hugo looked astonished.

For once in his life the Cardinal was not

acting; he honestly wished his nephew well.

But he wished himself well, too, and if his

HIS EMINENCE.

685

nephew married his daughter, and so estab-

lished a link between him and the wife he had

abandoned for twenty-five years, some solution

of the mystery of that missing Christian was

inevitable. The Cardinal shuddered at the

bare thought of such a catastrophe. It was

awful! Though he would have faced the

greatest personal danger coolly, he was a

coward. He feared the world which he had

conquered ; he dreaded the scorn of the men

he had outstripped in the race of life.

His advice was quite lost on Hugo. He

stood to his original intention. He would

marry Rosie. " I am not marrying her

family, but herself," he argued.

The Cardinal repressed an outburst of rage

which would have astonished his ecclesiastical

brethren. He had never spoken angrily to

Hugo in his life, and he did not mean to

begin now if he could avoid it; but really the

boy was very irritating.

"That is what many men think," he

responded drily. "There is her mother in

your way."

Hugo sighed. " I hope she may remain

there, I'm sure," he said. " I'm afraid she

won't, though. She is very ill, and it makes

Rosie anxious."

The Cardinal experienced a strange

sensation—whether of joy or sorrow he could

not quite tell. If she were to die—well, of

course, in the abstract he wished her no harm.

But it would simplify matters very much if

she did.

After that day he took a great interest in

Madame Laroche's health. It even struck

his unsuspecting nephew as a little odd that

he should appear so anxious about a com-

plete stranger. It also seemed curious that

he did not oppose the marriage so violently

as he had done. His resistance appeared to

be somewhat modified.

The fact was that a great struggle was

raging in the Cardinal's mind. He was

sincerely fond of Hugo; he wished him to be

happy. If his happiness really depended

upon this marriage, what did the social posi-

tion of Rcjsie Laroche matter? The Cardinal

was a broad-minded man ; as he said, he had

no prejudices. Rosie, as Hugo's wife, would

have as good a position as anyone could

desire, and, after all, it was as Hugo's wife

that she would be considered. Her own

previous status was not of much consequence;

besides, she was his daughter. If the world

only knew it, she was as aristocratic, on one

side at least, as Hugo himself.

In fact, the Cardinal was fast becoming

reconciled to the idea of the marriage. The

only thing in the way of it now was Madame

Laroche. If she were to die, he told him-

self that he would be ready to marry his

daughter and Hugo to-morrow, did they

belong to his Church. At least, he would

give them his blessing, and a present in his

best style of priceless simplicity. But while

Rosie's mother lived the great danger of dis-

covery still remained. A chance meeting—a

686

PKARSON'S MAGAZINE.

svas of age. Meanwhile he remained in

London, lie seemed to be waiting for

something—-was it for Madame Laroche to

die ? It was hard to tell; indeed, he could

not have told himself. His feelings were in

far too complex a condition for any attempt

at analysis to be satisfactory.

CHAPTER III.

WHATEVER the Cardinal was waiting for,

he did not have long to wait. One morning,

as he sat writing, Hugo entered, looking very

much disturbed. The Cardinal observed his

excitement, and inquired the cause of it, not

without certain guilty misgivings on his own

account.

" It's no good. Uncle Chris," burst out his

nephew in reply, "you can't stop the thing

any more.''

The Cardinal shivered. What would come

next ?

" We must be married at once — next

week."

' The Cardinal was intensely relieved. Hugo

at least knew nothing; but the situation

remained dangerous, all the same. He felt

that if Hugo married Rosie during her

mother's life, the secret was not safe for an

hour. His spirits rose with the need for

immediate action.

He turned on his nephew with all the air

of authority he could muster at such short

notice.

" I forbid it," he said absolutely. " Once

for all, Hugo, I forbid it. I have no legal

claim on you ; you are free to act as you

please ; but if you marry this girl you incur

my serious displeasure. Your obstinacy

pains me beyond words. It is very hard,''

he concluded, striking the pathetic note with

much success, " to have arrived at my age

without feeling secure of the obedience of

my dearest relative."

Hugo was much affected; he walked up

and down the room restlessly, and the dis-

turbed expression on his face deepened.

" I can't," he said, " I can't break it oft

even if I would." His voice trembled ; there

were tears in his eyes. " Even if I didn't love

Rosie so—and I do—I do indeed—you don't

knew how I love her—I couldn't give her up.

I shall soon be the only person there is in

the world to take care of her—her mother

The Cardinal started. " What ? "

" Her mother is dying—the doctors say

she has only a few more days to live. How

can I desert Rosie, now ? It would be mean

—dishonourable. Surely, surely, Uncle Chris,

you would never tell me to do anything

dishonourable ?"

I have said that the Cardinal had an eye

for dramatic effect. It stood him in good

stead now. He saw his opportunity, and

seized it with a decision not far removed from

genius.

"I, Hugo!" he exclaimed. His voice

quivered with wounded feeling—his beautiful

eyes were turned upwards with an exquisite

expression of reproach. "I, Hugo!" He

HIS EMINENCE.

687

a box of very choice cigars as a seal of their

reconciliation.

" By the way, Uncle Chris," he remarked

presently, " there's one thing I have not told

you. You said when—I mean just now "

—poor Hugo! he did not like to allude even

remotely to his unfortunate speech—" you

said you would do anything I liked to show

—you know, don't you ? Well, Rosie's

mother wants to see you. She has got a

fancy to ask you something about us

—to be kind to Rosie, I believe. Of

course you would be that in any case,

you couldn't help it; but it would

satisfy her to see you. Will you go ? "

The Cardinal began to re-

gret that box of cigars. Here

was a worse dilemma than

any he had found himself in

yet. See Rosie's mother

•' I can't,'' he said de-

cidedly. Then he caught

Hugo's eye, and paused.

To refuse would be to

court suspicion. What

excuse could he plead

when he had already con-

sented to the marriage ?

He paused; and in that

pause there came to him

ihe inspiration of genius

in despair. He would go.

He would see Rosie's

mother—he would appeal

to her as he knew how to

appeal. He would influ-

ence her as he had done

long ago. The game was

dangerous, and he felt that

this was his last card. Very

well; he would play it. He

looked up at his nephew

with a beautifully assumed air of hesitation;

gradually the hesitation softened into a smile

of tenderness.

'• My dear boy," he said, " I—I can refuse

you nothing! "

CHAPTER IV.

HAVING decided on a desperate course, the

Cardinal was naturally anxious to see how it

would turn out; he therefore announced his

intention of visiting Madame Laroche at

once.

" But remember one thing, Hugo," he

said impressively. " I must see her alone—

do you understand ?—alone. Your presence,

or even her daughter's, would probably be a

restraint upon her, and I wish her to speak

freely."

" About her husband ?" asked Hugo

doubtfully. " You won't find out anything—

is it any good to try ? "

But the Cardinal was far too diplo-

matic to commit himself to any distinct

statement. If the interview brought

about what he wished, he did net

intend to be tied down to any revela-

tions. So he said nothing more,

688

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

should feel any unusual sensation at meeting

her—whether his presence would affect her

in any way. He almost hoped, for a moment,

that it would. But nothing occurred. She

greeted him pleasantly enough, and he sat

down opposite her, and began a very prettily-

worded declaration of the pleasure he felt at

seeing her. All the time he was observing

her closely, with a peculiar sensation ot

satisfaction. It was the desire of his life to

keep the secret of their relationship, and yet,

so strange is human nature, that he would

have been very disappointed had she fallen

short of his idea of a Hubert, and Hugo's

future wife. Happily there was no cause for

disappointment ; he acknowledged, with a

thrill of hardly impersonal gratification, that

in appearance, at least, she fully justified

Hugo's devotion. There was something

curiously and deliciously simple about her.

The mauve dress was simple — with the

elegant simplicity of perfection so dear to the

Cardinal's heart. He recognised his own

faultless taste in the dress, the manner, the

speech of the girl before him. She was his

daughter, and he felt she was worthy of him.

After a little while she looked up at him.

" I think you had better see my mother,

now," she said ; " she is expecting you. I

hope it was not inconvenient to you to come.

Sick people have such fancies, you know,"

she sighed, "and my mother is very ill. I

will show you up and leave you. She wishes

to see you alone."

Curious ! Why did she wish it ? At the

same time it was convenient.

The Cardinal followed his daughter upstairs

with a mind reduced to an amiable blank.

He did not know what was coming; he had

no idea what to do or say. But he felt that,

whatever happened, he was equal to the occa-

sion. That was a comfortable state of mind

to be in : the Cardinal felt comfortable.

Rosie opened the door and looked in.

" The Cardinal is here, mother," she said ;

then she smiled, nodded, and left him with

the handle of the door between his fingers.

He went in slowly; he had expected gloom,

and dreary surroundings; he saw a pretty

little sitting-room, bright with flowers,

furnished simply but cheerfully, with oddly-

shaped tables and big wicker chairs lined

She greeted him pleasantly enough.

HIS EMINENCE.

689

with silk cushions in art shades. By the

window was a long couch, and beside the

couch, on a pedestal, stood a small copy, in

marble, of Carey's wonderful " Eternity

releasing Time." Even at that supreme

moment the Cardinal's artistic sense was

alert. He could admire the marble group.

It was a beautiful idea, exquisitely worked out.

Time, old and worn, sat gazing mournfully

at his scythe which had fallen at his feet.

Behind him, in all the radiance of never-

ending youth, stood Eternity, a smile of

meaning sweetness in his eyes, and with his

hands outstretched towards the old man's

shoulder.

The Cardinal was amazed. There was no

surprise in her face—no reproval—no anger.

Beyond a doubt she recognised him, but the

recognition seemed expected.

He took the hand she offered, and stood

holding it and looking down at her, in

silence.

She was the first to speak.

" You have come back, Chris," she said

very gently. Then the great tears rose

Beyond a doubt she recognised him.

All this the Cardinal saw in his first glance ;

then he saw the woman lying on the couch,

and the details of the room became a hazy

impression on his mind.

She was very pale, this woman, and very

thin. Her features had once been pretty, but

of that there was little trace left. Her dark

hair was streaked with faint lines of grey, and

her eyes, which the Cardinal remembered

soft and laughing, burned in her white face

with a feverish light. But they were the same

eyes still, and as he approached her some-

thing of their old softness came back to

them. She smiled too, and held out her

hand.

Vol. I.--46.

slowly in her eyes and overflowed them, and

ran down her cheeks, but she made no effort

to brush them away. Indeed, she seemed

quite unconscious of their existence, as she

lay there gazing up at the Cardinal.

He had turned white, with a mixture of

indescribable sensations.

" You know me then ? " he asked presently.

" Yes."

He turned whiter still.

" How long have you known—what be-

came of me ? "

•' I found it all out after you went away."

The Cardinal looked at her with a strange

expression.
690

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" You have had my life in your hands for

twenty-five years," he said—his voice was very

quiet—"you could have ruined me if you

had spoken.'"

He paused. " Why didn't you speak ? "

She smiled again, and closed her eyes for

a moment without answering.

" You are going to speak now, and ruin

me," went on the Cardinal, breaking into

uncontrollable agitation.

He waited ; she said nothing.

" Are you ? " he asked presently.

She opened her eyes ; the tears were gone

from them. There was something else there,

which the man who was watching her did not

understand.

" No," she said quietly, " I am not."

He drew a long breath of relief. Then a

strong feeling of curiosity came over him.

•' Why? " he inquired, more naturally than

he had yet spoken.

•' Because I love you, Chris," she said,

very simply.

His eyes dropped hastily from her face.

For the first time in his life he, Cardinal

Uberto, whom no man had been able to snub

or dismay, turned scarlet with something very

like genuine shame. He had wronged this

woman persistently and unrelentingly for

twenty-five years, and now, after everything

he had done, she told him that she had

renounced her plain rights, that she had kept

his secret as carefully as he himself had done

—that she would keep it to the end—because

she loved him. It was a strange sequel to

that sarcastic remark of his to Hugo about

the instability of early sentiments !

He looked up once more.

" I am sorry," he said. Perhaps it was

the humblest confession he had ever made

in his life. Indeed, he felt almost humble

—which is saying a good deal.

She did not answer, and he noticed what

had escaped him before—that she looked

fearfully ill. Her white face caused him a

sudden pang of terror. " You feel worse ? "

he said. " Shall I call Rosie ? "

Madame Laroche shook her head.

"Idon't want Rosie." Her voice was faint,

and she spoke with an effort. " I have had

Rosie always. You—I want you. Don't

go! "

He stood helplessly waiting. She put out

her hands towards him, sharply, as if she

were about to fall. " Hold me ! " she gasped,

" my head is going round."

The Cardinal hesitated for a moment.

Then he sat down on the edge of the couch,

and lifted her from the pillows to his arms.

Her head rested against his shoulder. The

pressure of the small grey head, so fragile, so

pathetically light, sent an odd thrill quivering

through him. He bent over her, and his

hard face looked almost pitiful.

" Keep still," he told her. " You will be

better in a moment "

She raised her head and tried to smile at

him.
HIS EMINENCE.

691

chairs—on to the figure lying on the couch.

It glittered on the statuary; it played in a

halo over the brow of the white Eternity, and

touched the scythe of Time with gold.

The Cardinal rose to his feet; his beautiful

features were haggard and drawn. He looked

up at the shining figure of Eternity above

him. Its eyes met his, and the sweetness in

them seemed to deepen. The marble face

appeared to smile at him.

Then he spoke, and his voice was harsh

and broken

" Thank God ! " he said. " Thank God ! "

The woman was dead.

CHAPTER V.

FOR the third time in this history

the Cardinal sat at his writing-

table with a pen between

his fingers. But this time

the writing-table stood,

not in the Kensington

Palace Hotel, but in the

library of the Cardinal's

palace in Rome.

A little more than two

years had passed since

Madame Laroche's death;

about eighteen months

since the marriage of

Hugo and Rosie. The

Cardinal had kept his promise,

and attended the weddin

breakfast with his sweetest smile,

and in all the magnificence of his

ecclesiastical presence. This action

of his had rendered Hugo radiantly

happy, and set the seal of social approval

on Rosie. Even the maiden aunts, find-

ing their new niece not such an awful person

after all, succumbed to circumstances; but

they remarked sometimes with bated breath,

a propos of Hugo's marriage, •' how bad it

might have been," thus proving that, though

they might be conquered, the main bulk of

their prejudices survived.

The Cardinal laid down his pen and pushed

back his chair. It was Christmas time, and

he had been attending a service in all the

glory of his gorgeous robes. He had not

taken off his state vestments, as he was wait-

ing to go down into the chapel to superintend

the rehearsal of the Mass he had lately

written—he was a musician of considerable

ability, with a very pretty gift of composition.

He had kept on his robes as usual, with an

eye to effect; he wished to impress the choir.

It must be confessed there was some method

in this desire. The boys would be more

attentive if he impressed them, and it was

necessary to the success of the Mass that they

should be attentive.

He glanced impatiently at the clock.

" Father Geronimo is very late,'' he muttered.

The choir were practising whilst waiting

The silence of sunshine and peace.

for him in the chapel. As the chapel was

next to the library, the sound of the music

floated in, and fell pleasantly on the Cardinal's

692

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

" On the , at Hubert House, Hubert-

stowe, the wife of Sir Hugo Hubert, of a son

and heir. (Christian Uberto.)"

That is what the Cardinal read. He sat

holding the paper in his hand for a moment,

and then suddenly tore it across and flung it

on the floor. It was a strange action, and,

for a man like him, almost inexplicable. He

was not given to fits of unreasonable rage

when a fresh relative came into the world.

But it was not so much the announcement

that affected the Cardinal, as the two names

in brackets at the end of it. They had called

the child—his unacknowledged grandson—

after him!

He sat back in his chair and looked round

the library. It was a beautiful room, and, as

he made it a sitting-room as well as a library,

it contained many things not appertaining to

books. There were two or three pictures in

it— only two or three—but each worth a sum

which would not be paid as ransom for any

ordinary king. There were two or three

cabinets of priceless glass and china: the

books themselves were exceedingly old, and

many of them could not have been bought

for money.

For the first time he realised how silent it

was—how empty—how cold. For the first

time he saw it as it really was. It was

very beautiful—very imposing—but there

was something wanting—something wrong.

What was it ?

As he sat thinking, there passed before

him, in a long, monotonous procession, all

the years he had lived in that room. It was

his favourite sitting-room; all the associations

which bound him to the place centred in it.

He had worked there, read there, thought

there for years. Yet now, as he looked

rourd, he almost hated it.

It was so empty, so lonely. He realised

suddenly how lonely it was—how empty the

long years of triumph and success. They

were filled with magnificence—the swinging

of censers—the sound of cathedral music—

the softened light of coloured windows—the

sweep of trailing vestments over pavements

inlaid with mosaic of marble and gold; and

they would go on as they had gone on for so

long—one march of towering supremacy

over the rest of the world; the triumph of

the one man over the many. The Cardinal

saw that march as he sat there, watched it

sweeping slowly and surely on its way till it

passed into a blaze of light—an apotheosis

of unearthly radiance—and ended in the

haven of all his hopes, all his triumphs and

ambitions—the Vatican.

He saw something else, too. He saw

himself Pope ; an old man, lonely in his

splendour, friendless amongst a host of

admiring parasites, far removed above the

reach of human affections. And then he

knew what he had thrown away when he fled

from London twenty-seven years ago.

He saw again that little room, bright with

flowers, with the long couch by the window,

W.L.ALDEN

Illustrated by CHAS. MAY.

WANTED, AN INTELLIGENT MILKMAN ; ALSO A

MODERN EDITION OF THE DELPHIC ORACLES

—FAIR PLAY FOR THE POET LAUREATE A

SUGGESTION FOR MR. EDISON—AUTOMATIC

SOLDIERS—SUBURBAN VILLADOM—HOW DID

DICKENS'S CHARACTERS LIVE? THE LEAP

YEAR JOKE IS PLAYED OUT.

'HERE was once an honest

and benevolent milkman.

Having said this I need

hardly adti by way of ex-

planation, that he was a

sort of *dlry milkman, and

dwelt in a flourishing city

of fairyland. This good

man wanted to sell milk,

and yet he was far too good to be willing

to yell. He therefore had a large number

of cards printed with the single letter

" M." These he distributed to every house

in his part of the city, and requested the

householder who might wish for milk to place

a card in ttoe window, just as the Londoner

who desires the services of Patter Cartison or

other carrier, to that effect places a card with

" P. C." in his window.

The public hailed this new method of

"obtaining milk with enthusiasm. In the

morning every house displayed the magic

card, and the good milkman thereupon

stopped and supplied his customers with pure

milk as silently as if he were a mere gentle-

man making an early call. The rival milk-

men yelled themselves hoarse for a few days,

but, finding that they could not sell a single

pint of milk, they presently gave up the

struggle, and drowned themselves in their

own cisterns.

Meanwhile, the good and silent milkman

grew fabulously rich, and when, after a long

and well-spent life, he was finally removed to

Paradise, his grateful customers erected to

his memory a monument higher than the

Eiffel Tower, bearing the inscription : " To

the First Milkman who ever sold Milk with-

out a Yell."

Of course, it will be said that no merely

human milkman can ever

be expected to emulate

this noble example, 'but

I am by no means sure

that at some future day

there may not be such a

person as an intelligent

milkman, even if he is not

a good milkman. This in-

telligent man will possibly

grasp the idea that the

public would rather buy

its milk of a silent man

than of a yelling fiend,

and if he puts this idea

into practice, nothing is more certain than

that he will speedily bankrupt his yelling

rivals.
694

PEARSON'S MA GAZIXE.

'O\V that the Greeks

have revived the

Olympic games with

modern improve-

ments, they should

also revive the Oracle

of Delphi. The latter

would be an easier task

than the former. At the

modern Olympic games

there are bicycle races

instead of chariot races,

and Scotsmen playing golf matches take

the place of boxers with the cestus. These

modern improvements hardly add to the

interest of the Olympic games, but a modern

edition of the Delphic Oracles would be at

once interesting and valuable.

Of course the New Priestess would sit

on her tripod and prophesy concerning the

weather. Her predictions of an approaching

anti-cyclone from Macedonia, or an area of

depression from Salamis, would be based

upon sound meteorological information, and

would be true at least three times in five,

which would beat the average of ancient

oracles clear out of sight.

Then it would be perfectly safe for the

Priestess to prophesy speeches and telegrams

from the Kaiser, for the Kaiser would be

sure to make the prophecy good within a

week or two after the delivery of the oracle.

Probably the Priestess, as she mounted her

daily tripod, would begin business with an

announcement of an impending cabinet crisis

in France, and a week later

everyone would say that her

prophecies were simply

infallible. A letter from

Mr. Gladstone would be

another safe prophecy,

and there would be very

little risk in prophesying

that Prince Ferdinand

would presently discover

some new method of

rolling in the Russian

mud.

The ancient oracles were simply guess-

work, and if one in ten of them turned out

to be true, the simple public of the period

was filled with admiration. The modern

oracles would be based on scientific theories,

and they would be universally popular. The

oracle business has had vitality enough to

last until the present time, although it has

fallen almost exclusively into the hands of

racing touts, and manufacturers of astrological

almanacs. Still its popularity is unquestion-

ably great, and if the Greeks were to publish

a weekly edition of Delphic Oracles, say at

the price of one penny, they would make

almost as much money as they now make by

robbing tourists.

'T is becoming clear that

the shortest and surest

way to ruin a poet's

reputation is to appoint
WISDOM LET LOOSE.

695

EDISON seems to

think that soldiers have

a terrible dread of

water, for he proposes

to substitute pumping

engines and hose pipes

for artillery and rifles,

and to put the enemies

of America to flight

by throwing water on

them. 1t is barely possible that a Russian

regiment might prefer death by the bullet

to compulsory washing with water; but

water has no such terrors for the British

soldier.

It is only fair to say that Mr. Edison does

not mean to rely upon pure water alone.

His plan is to pump electrified water on the

enemy. I have never tasted electrified water,

and I cannot say to what extent it is more

unpalatable than pure water; but I doubt

very much if it would have any terrors for the

average soldier.

Now, if Mr. Edison were a practical man

instead of a mere inventor, he would fill his

pumping machines with American cheap

whiskey instead of water. The fumes of this

whiskey are warranted to intoxicate a man at

a distance of several yards, and if every

advancing regiment were to

with it, the entire regiment

would fall

down dead

drunk

within five-

minute s

after re-

ceiving

, the deadly

discharge.

It is true that there are one or two trifling

difficulties in the way of fighting successfully

with the help of pumping machines alone.

The modern rifle can kill at the distance of a

mile, and as nobody has yet invented a

pumping engine that can throw liquid of any

kind further than a few rods, the men in

charge of Mr. Edison's pumping machines

would be shot down long before the enemy

came within reach of his water. Mr. Edison

doubtless means well, in trying to throw cold

water on the enemies of his country, but his

soldier of an

be sprinkled

proposal will hardly commend itself to

military men. Even a Russian regiment

could face a stream of mingled soap and

water, by charging with umbrellas as well as

bayonets fixed to their rifles.

NOTHER American inventor

has taken what may prove to

be the first step towards

putting an end to bloodshed

in war. He has invented a

new automatic gun which fires

three hundred shots a minute, and

does not need the service of a single

man, after it once begins to fire. It

696

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

with live men, when they could be fought

with machinery. This is the age of

machinery, and since we have learned how

to make a steam excavator do the work of a

thousand navvies, why should we not make

a mechanical soldier capable of doing the

work which it now takes a whole regiment of

men to do ? War carried on by automatic

soldiers would be quite as humane as

arbitration ; and in the case of England it

would probably be much more satisfactory, for

it is scarcely probable that automatic battles

would be as uniformly decided against

England as arbitrations have hitherto been.

HE dweller in the suburban

villa has a fondness for

giving his residence a

name, and carving or

painting the name above

his front door. This is a

harmless amusement, except

in the opinion of the postman,

who, in order to deliver letters,

is compelled to commit to memory the names

of four or five hundred villas, most of which

begin with the syllable " Glen."

The fondness of the villa resident for

Scotch names is very curious. The whole

of Scotland has been ransacked in search of

Glens, and as the supply has fallen short of

the demand, hundreds of new Glens have

been invented. There is nothing that is less

like a glen, except perhaps in point of damp-

ness, than is the average suburban villa, but

the villa resident is never happy unless he can

say that he lives in " Glencairn " or " Glen-

livet,'' or " Glen-somethingelse." If he is

unable to hit on a Glen that has not already

been appropriated by someone living in the

same postal district, he contents himself with

a Scotch county, or anything else that is

Scotch.

Now and then a bold cockney calls his

villa by some English name, but the dweller

in " Usquebaugh " or " Haggis " looks with

scorn on the man who lives in " Cedar

Grove " or " Three Oaks." There must be

some explanation of this passion for Scotch

names, but no one has yet ventured to offer it.

The American suburban resident shows

vastly more poetic feeling whe*1 he comes

to name his villa than does the Londoner.

The man who lives in " Home ! B'Gosh ! "

advertises to all his neighbours

his happiness in having a home

of his own. The dweller in

" Struckitrich " wishes every-

body to know that he has been

fortunate, and the owner of

the "Howling Paradise" is

instantly recognised as a

contented man. The more

sarcastic American calls his

villa " Robber's Cave," or

" Stockbroker's Den," or

" Pirate's Delight," or "Lawyer's Lair." But

these names have not the poetic charm of the

usual American villa nomenclature.

WISDOM LET LOOSE.

697

money. Where did this money come from ?

How did Little Nelly's objectionable old

grandfather provide food for himself and his

tiresomely angelic grandchild ? He kept an

old curiosity shop, but, like the rest of

Dickens's shopkeepers, never sold anything.

He borrowed money from Quilp, but it was

solely for gambling purposes, and he con-

scientiously lost the whole of it at cards.

Does anyone believe that old Willet made

a living out of the Maypole ? The man was

little better than an idiot, and to suppose -that

he was capable of keeping an inn is absurd.

Mr. Pickwick is said to have been a

gentleman of more or less for-

tune, but he kept no bank

account, and never drew

any dividends or collected

any rents. Apparently he

always carried his entire

fortune in his pocket-book,

and it must have come to

an end long before he went

to the Fleet. George, the

ex-Dragoon, is represented

as keeping himself and his retainer Phil out

of the profits of a shooting gallery to which

no one ever came. Mortimer and Eugene

were lawyers, but they openly acknowledged

that neither of them ever had a client.

Dickens introduces us to several solicitors

and barristers besides these two young men,

but would any sane person ever go to any one

of Dickens's lawyers, with the possible excep-

tion of Mr. Tulkinghorn, for advice on any

matter involving the value of a yellow dog ?

How did all these incapable people make

their living ? My own impres-

sion is that most of them were

makers of counterfeit money,

and the renjainder lived by

skilful forgeries of Bank of

England notes.

****

AJES ago, that is to say at the period

when the astronomers invented

leap year, someone proposed that

during every leap year women

should have the privilege of ask-

ing men to marry them. A little later a

second idiot, probably the professional

humourist of the Roman Agenda, made the

reckless assertion that women gladly availed

themselves of this privilege.

This anaemic and rickety joke has survived

to the present day. Every time a leap year

arrives we suffer from twelve consecutive

months of this joke. The newspapers repeat

it daily, and persons who, in other respects

are sane, constantly allude in conversation to

the danger which threatens the unmarried

man. Maidens and widows are constantly

represented as going to and fro during leap

year seeking whom they may

marry, and young men and

old bachelors take an

inexplicable pleasure in

pretending to dread the

ONG before the dawn

of reliable history,

the process of honey-

combingthese islands

began in its south-western extremity with the

search for tin. For ages after that, the Sussex

hills were tunnelled for iron ore, and lead,

copper, and salt were mined in very early

times. It was not, however, until the advent

of the coal-consuming age that mining opera-

tions in this country assumed great propor-

tions.

It is a singular fact, and one difficult of

comprehension, that of all the principal pro-

ducts of the mineral kingdom, that which

now distances all others, in magnitude and in

utility—coal, was the last known, or at any

rate the last applied to industrial purposes.

In less than three centuries our annual

yield of coal has risen from very small to

colossal figures, and in its wake the mining

of iron ore has also reached formidable

•dimensions.

For many years past the duration of our

coal supply has been the subject of anxious

inquiry, for, in the matter of coal, we cannot

conserve the capital whilst we live on the

interest; and, unlike the metals, when once

employed, it is gone for ever. Still, according

to the best authorities, our reserves are very

large, and even if the present heavy rate of

•consumption were maintained, but not ex-

ceeded, our children, to the tenth or twelfth

generation, would have no great cause for

worry. But of late years the annual rate of

consumption has increased so enormously—

more than doubling in thirty years—that, if

the same rate of increase goes on, the year

2000 will find the annual British output risen

to something like 2000 millions of tons, and

the workable coal will be exhausted in con-

siderably less than another century.

Of course, all the probabilities point to a

greatly reduced rate of increase, but the

prospect is still sufficiently serious. Our

object, however, is to show that, even now,

the term " honeycombed " is by no means a

misnomer, and therefore our business is with

what has already been done, rather than with

what remains to be done.

At the beginning of this century the annual

output of the British coal mines was esti-

mated at ten millions of tons; in 1894—the

last year for which the returns are yet issued

—it had risen to 188 millions of tons. Allow-

ing an average of only five million tons per

annum for the eighteenth century, and of two

million tons for the seventeenth century, we

arrive at a grand total of coal production in

the British Isles, of nearly 7500 millions of

tons.

Dealing in a similar way with iron, lead,

tin and copper ores, salt, etc., we get at a

total of not less than 10,000 millions of tons

of mineral so extracted.

The area of the United Kingdom is

74} millions of acres, and therefore it follows

that, on the average, from beneath every

single acre of that area, 130 tons at least of

mineral matter have been extracted.

HONEY-COMBED ENGLAND.

699

This is quite sufficient to justify the title of

this article, but after all, relatively, it does not

amount to much. A cubic yard ef coal

weighs practically one ton, and necessary

waste included, iron ere and other minerals

will average just ths same; but, as coal

amounts to 91 per cent, of our whole mineral

output, the coal datum may be taken for the

whole. Ten thousand millions of cubic

yards of solid matter ! After all, it means

only the clearing out of some two millions of

acres to the depth of one yard.

But many collieries work coal seams, one

below another to a total thickness of thirty

feet or more, and including a certain amount

of water brought to the surface, a single acre

may yield 50,000 tons, or, its equivalent,

50,000 cubic yards of minerals.

Vast figures are sometimes rendered a

little more comprehensible by what may be

termed fancy illustrations. The 188 millions

of tons of coal taken out of British mines in

1894, if it could all be placed in one great

block, would measure 1000 yards long by

1000 wide and 200 yards high, or, in other

words, would cover considerably more than

200 acres to a depth of 600 feet.

Out of this block the Houses of Parlia-

ment, which cover nine acres; St. Paul's

Cathedral, and all the other cathedrals in the

country could be carved in the solid; and we

should still have a good many million tons

of chippings left. Or again, if the whole

of this mass could be spun into a cable

a yard in diameter it would suffice to go

round the world at the Equator nearly six

times.

Just one more. The 10,000,000,000 of

cubic yards of mineral matter in one block

would cover 10,000 acres to the same height

of 600 feet; and out of this huge mass could

be carved, in the solid, every dwelling-house,

every cathedral, church and chapel, and every

public building in the United Kingdom.

Thus, at the usual average of five people

to a house, we have 8,000,000 of dwelling

houses in the whole country. At the liberal

average of 500 cubic yards to each we absorb

only 4,000,000,000 out of the 10,000,000,000

of cubic yards, and leave 6,000,000,000 for

the various classes of public buildings.

It might be supposed that such enormous

masses of material could not be extracted

without causing much more surface dis-

turbance than appears to take place. Around

Wigan there are considerable depressions,

and in recent years large lakes have been

formed, in the midst of which trees still

standing bear silent witness to what has been

going on far below. But it must be borne

in mind that by means of props and cross

beams, and stacks of waste stone, or pillars

of coal left standing, any serious depression,

whilst the colliery is working, is guarded

against; and directly work ceases water fills

every vacant space; and, as water is practi-

cally incompressible, and at such depths finds

no easy vent, whilst a column of water rising

DRAMATIS PERSONS.

HUGH VALENTINE . (Cavalier Colonel, in love with Lady Beatrice).

JOHN TOMLINSON . (Roundhead Colonel, in love with Lady Beatrice).

VAUGHAN (Serving Man).

LADY BEATRICE GRAHAM . . (Aged 21. Father killed at Worcester).

NELL (Lady Beatrice's Waiting Woman. Father killed at Worcester.

Almost same age as her JWistress).

TIME May, 1660.

PLACE Lady Beatrice Graham's House in the Country.

SCENE—Hall of the House. If the space is very limited, call it LADY BEATRICE GRAHAM'S

boudoir. Not too much furniture. Portrait of a Cavalier on the wall.

(NELL discovered at work—sewing a silk dress at a table—dress of the period for servants-—

neat and sober—white cap, white kerchief over her neck and shoulders.)

NELL (looking up.) There's more trouble ! Always more trouble! Ay! and always

will be till the King comes back. As my lady is so fond of singing:

Then look for no peace, for the war shall never cease,

Till the King shall come to his own again.

Yes, always more trouble. And my lady always to know about it. One of these

fine days she'll be carried off to prison for treason. When all is said, there's some

advantage in being a waiting woman instead of a great lady; not but what I'd follow

my lady to prison, or anywhere else, if she wanted me. No one can know my lady

and not love her. She wins all hearts.

(Enter LADY BEATRICE with a letter in her hand.)

Copyrigbf, i8i)6, in the United States of America, by Walter Besant and W. H. Pollock.
THE GLOVE. 701

LADY B. Nell! Nell! Where are you ? I have had news

NELL (looks up interrogatively'.) What news, my lady ?

LADY B. Nell! You are a Phoenix of waiting-women. And, like me, Nell, you have

memories to keep you faithful. Your father was well stricken in years when he

went out to Worcester to die beside my father—I was a mere girl of eleven—yet I

remember as if it were yesterday seeing them ride away. Your father rode behind

and ever looked over his shoulder for the chance of sudden attack.

NELL. I remember it, too, my lady.

LADY B. My brother rode with them.

NELL. Yes, my lady—I remember.

LADY B. (laying hand on NELL'S shoulder.) You are a good girl. But listen, Nell, listen.

Is there no one about ? (Looks about.) This letter—is from Holland—from my

brother the Earl, who is with the King. Listen. " The times are almost ripe.

Noll gone to his own place "—he means the Devil—my brother always means well—

" the new man with no hold of the people, who have no fear of him, nor no love of

him "—indeed, that is true. You see, Nell, how well they understand things at the

Hague. " I can tell you now, but this. Expect the King in his own Palace at

Whitehall before many weeks, and thy brother back to his own house as soon as the

crop ears are turned out. Our messengers are up and down the country heartening

the people. Tis a dangerous duty, and they who undertake it carry their lives in

their hands. The messenger who brings you this may be trusted. But be careful

in whose presence you speak to him. I will not tell thee his name. That is a

surprise for thee. I have told His Majesty what I have said. He bade me add

these words: 'Tell thy sweetheart sister, Tom, that I will kiss her at Whitehall

before all the Court'"—Nell—'Tis a gallant Prince !—" Certainly, dear sister, none

ever knew the King to break his word in such a promise as that. Wherefore be of

good heart, forget the past, and look forward steadfastly and stoutly to the time

when the King shall come to his own again." Yes, Nell, yes—that time is at hand.

(Sings same song as the maid).

Then look for no peace, for the war shall never cease,

Till the King shall come to his own again.

Oh! the old words. They ring in my brain. . . . It is like the morning when

they rode away. Nell! (Catches maid by the hand.) Yes, we can both remember

that day. . . . they rode away—they rode away. ... to die—two of them

to die and the other to live in exile. My brother's life was saved by his friend

Hugh Valentine, whom he loves so dearly. I would I could see that Hugh

Valentine again. Well, we would send them again to-day on the same errand if

need were—to die—to die—for the King—for the King! (Sinks down and buries

her face in her hands. Springs to her feet again and sings again.)

NELL. Nay, mistress, be calm. Should Colonel Tomlinson hear !

LADY B. His ears must be tingling ; let them tingle !

NELL. Should the servants hear!

LADY B. Let them hear ! They will all join in this refrain.

Then look for no peace, for the war shall never cease,

Till the King shall come to his own again.

NELL. The people are not all to be trusted, my lady. But yesterday I met the sour

old saint, Win-the-fight Sludge, the sexton; he was muttering as he walked along.

When he saw me, he lifted up his head, and said: " Go, tell your mistress there's

men to fight now as there were men to fight then. Another Worcester field shall

send them flying again." There had been drinking of the King's health at the tavern.
7O2

PEARSONS MAGAZINE.

LADY B. Let him talk. He will be drinking the King's health ere long himself. But,

Nell—where is the messenger who brought this letter ? My brother said it would

be a surprise. Go, look for him. Find him food and drink.

NELL (looking out at window. ) Madam, he is on the terrace, and—he is a cavalier gentleman.

LADY B. A gentleman ? You have quick eyes. Then—then—it must be one of the

messengers of whom my brother speaks. Go, bring him here. (Exit NELL.) Oh !

If it can be true ! If I shall see the King—and my brother, banished for nine long

years—and perhaps the gallant Colonel Valentine who saved my brother's life, and

is my brother's dearest friend.

(Enter COLONEL VALENTINE. NELL waits with folded hands at the door.)

VALENTINE (bowing low. ) Lady Beatrice Graham, if I guess aright.

LADY B. Sir, I am sister to the Earl of Mercia. Pray be welcome, Sir. You come

from the Hague recently ?

VALENTINE. Quite recently, Madam ; as the letter which I brought with me has doubtless

told you.

LADY B. (looking at him curiously.) My brother is well ?

VALENTINE. He is quite well—and hopeful.

LADY B. And—and—he said that I.should receive a surprise. Sir, there is a gallant

gentleman about the King, of whom I would fain ask news. He is a gentleman

whom I saw once, when I was but a mere girl. But he

saved my brother's life; being a very valiant gentleman—and

he is my brother's dearest friend—and—I should like to ask

about him—the Colonel Hugh Valentine.

VALENTINE. Madam, I carry that poor name.

LADY B. Then, Sir, in one word, I thank you.

Can I say more ? There are no words that

can say more. (Offers her hand. He takes

off hss glove—throws it on the table, and

raises her hand and kisses it.) Sir, it is now

nine years since you dragged my poor brother

off the field. Oh! Colonel Valen -

tine, what can I say ? Where fiml

words of gratitude ? Oh ! loyal

friend and brave soldier ! In

my brother's name you are wel-

come here. For his dear sake,

all that this poor house contains

is yours.

VALENTINE. Nay, Madam. This is

but old history. Shall I tell you

about your brother ?

LADY B. Why did he not tell me

who was the bearer ? But he

said it would be a surprise. It

is, indeed, a joyful surprise—

yet I must not forget. There

is danger—which you love—tell

me of—the King—does all go

well ?

VALENTINE. All goes well. We wait only to see which way inclines the army. Meantime,

there are many, like myself, going from house to house to sound the heart of the

country. If I read the signs aright, a few more weeks—or even days—and then

(He raises her hand a1hl kisses it.

THE GLOVE.

703

NELL (runs in hurriedly.) My lady—my lady—Colonel Tomlinson is marching across the

park towards the house with a posse of men armed with pikes and firelocks.

LADY B. With a posse of men ? Then, Colonel Valentine, he is coming to seek you.

Who betrayed you ? Did you pass through the village ? Did anyone speak to you ?

VALENTINE. One spoke to me—a sour, crop-eared knave. I showed him scant courtesy in

reply. The scoundrel looked as if he would threaten.

NELL. Win-the-fight Sludge. It must be he. The bitter Independent!

LADY B. No doubt—no doubt—the sexton. He must have made some guess and gone

straight to Colonel Tomlinson. Well, quick,

Nell—quick, girl—thou art always ready.

Should Colonel Valentine fly ?

NELL My lady, it is too late. The Colonel

cannot get .across the open ground of the

park without being seen.

LADY B. Then the hiding-place—the Priest's

Room !

NELL. They found Lord Hexham there. The

secret of the Priest's Room is known too

well. If we were to disguise Colonel

Valentine

LADY B. Not friendship for me—not the love he

professes—would stay Colonel Tomlinson's

hand a moment. He will arrest you if he

finds you, and, once arrested—Oh ! They

know nor ruth nor reason. Oh, Colonel

Valentine ! That you should run this cruel

peril for me!

VALENTINE. Since it is for you, Lady Beatrice, could

I regret it ?

LADY B. Quick, Nell! What disguise shall we

invent ?

NELL. He is the same height as Vaughan,

your Ladyship's serving man.. He might put on Vaughan's clothes.

LADY B. True—true ! The trick shall serve well. Quick ! quick !

(Exeunt NELL and COLONEL VALENTINE.)

LADY B. (looks out of window.) Here they come—the Colonel and his posse. How

determined he looks! Ah ! How good and great a man is there spoiled by

his party and his religion. What shall we want the pretended Vaughan to do?

He must bring in wine. He must pour it out. That is not much. Men like

Colonel Tomlinson do not regard a serving man. They never look such an one

in the face. The King himself escaped as a serving man. Oh! It will be a

quarter of an hour only; a formal search of the house—then he will go away

again—and search the park and gardens. (Tramp of feet outside.) Here they

are. (Goes to door. ]'oices outside.) You are welcome, Colonel Tomlinson. You

would be more welcome without this company of armed men. What mean you.

Colonel? Am I to be arrested ? Come in and let me know what I have done to

be honoured by this visit of an armed posse:

(LADY B. enters, followed by COL. TOMLINSON. At the door he turns round and speaks to

men outside.)

COLONEL T. Six of you remain outside. No one is to leave the house. The rest remain in

the hall, waiting orders. Lady Beatrice, believe me, I am troubled thus to intrude

' Here they come—the Colonel

and his posse."

704

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

upon you. My reason is this. The country is filled with agitators and emissaries

of the Young Man

LADY B. You mean, of the King !

COLONEL T. As you will. They are going in disguise from house to house, from village to

village. They fill the minds of ignorant people with hopes that cannot be realised;

they preach another rising; they want more bloodshed.

LADY B. They might be better pleased with a bloodless

revolution ?

COLONEL T. They prepare the way—a way that will be rude

and rugged.

LADY B. (sings in a low voice.) " Till the King shall

come to his own again."

COLONEL T. As for these messengers of rebellion,

one of them passed through the village just

now—called for wine at the inn—told the

people to expect the Young Man soon, and

then entered the park and came to this house.

LADY B. To this house ? Colonel Tomlin-

son, you have always expressed a

great friendship for me.

COLONEL T. More than friendship, Madam.

LADY B. Then—more than friendship—if

you please to call it so. Now is the

time to prove that friendship. If the

man is here—let him depart in

peace. Take your soldiers away and

let this person—if he is in the house

—go unmolested.

COLONEL T. Should I be worthy of your

friendship, Lady Beatrice, if I were

guilty of treachery to my countr}- ?

LADY B. Treachery to—but I must needs be silent.

COLONEL T. Lady Beatrice, I have my duty. I must search the house.

LADY B. As you please. I will tell my women to throw open the rooms. (Exit.)

COLONEL T. (sees glove on table—takes it up—examines it. Aside.) A glove! A gentle-

man's glove! The glove of a caballero—of a cavalier! I must find the hand

that fits it! Let me think! What if it were the very man I am seeking. Hugh

Valentine! the old friend of the Earl of Mercia. Yes—it may well be. And I

must arrest him, and the end is certain. Then farewell to Lady Beatrice ! Yet it

must be done. (Goes to door, calls men. ) Four of you to basement and cellars.

Look behind every cask. Take lights and leave no corner unsearched. Four of

you take the rooms on the ground floor. The rest upstairs —• search in every

room—search the roof—the chimneys—the garrets—look in every cupboard and

under every bed. (Stands back to let LADY B. enter. She contes in followed by

NELL and COLONEL VALENTINE disguised as a serving man ; NELL takes her work

again. COLONEL VALENTINE stands in the corner, ready to obey when ordered

COLONEL TOMLINSON when the men have gone off (ramping to their work, turns

back to the room.)

COLONEL T. I trust, Madam, that this trouble to your household will not occupy many

minutes. I confess that I hope the fellow has escaped. He will be arrested sooner

or later, and I would prefer that he should be arrested outside your house.

LADY B. The trouble, as you call it, Colonel Tomlinson, of your presence, and that of

'* A glove! A gentleman's glove."

THE GLOVE. 705

your friends, has gone on for a good many years. A few house searchings, more

or less, matter little. We are, however, in hopes that all this will cease before long.

But I forgot. Vaughan, bring wine. (Exit COLONEL VALENTINE.)

COLONEL T. (goes to door and speaks of.) Well ?

(Enter a trooper, who says : Nothing, sir.)

COLONEL T. You are sure ?

TROOPER. I am sure, Colonel. (Exit trooper.)

COLONEL T. Lady Beatrice, I am happy to report that this man of whom we are in

search is not in the house.

(Enter WIN-THE-FIGHT SLUDGE, the Sexton. He carries in his hand the COLONEL'S

embroidered coat.)

SLUDGE. They did not look in the Priest's room, Colonel—I knew the room. 'Twas

there we found Lord Hexham, whom we took to London and beheaded. In the

Priest's room I found these things. (Shows coat.) 'Tis the scarlet coat of the man

who passed through the village—the man to whom I spoke—the man we are

looking for.

COLONEL T. I know it—he has been here—he must be here still. (Goes to door.) Search

the house once more from top to bottom. He must be here somewhere.

(VALENTINE, bearing tray with wine and two long glasses upon it, offers

to LADY BEATRICE, who pours out a little and holds the glass in her hand. He

offers to COLONEL TOMUNSON, who fills a glass and takes it off the tray. Notices

servant's hands. (Aside.) Ha! Hands rather white and shapely for a servant.

(Looks at his face.) And face—ah ! not a familiar face. I have never seen this

fellow at the Hall before.)

WIN-THE-FIGHT (whispers COLONEL TOMLINSON.) Sir—Sir—a word—this servant is no

servant—he is the gentleman whom you seek.

COLONEL T. Silence ! I understand. You can leave the room.

(Exit WlN-THE-F1GHT.)

COLONEL T. (shuts the door, points to coat and to glove, addresses VALENTINE.) Sir, I see

before me a servant whose hand seems to me to fit a cavalier's glove, and I believe

that I am speaking to Colonel Hugh Valentine, lately arrived trom the Hague, and

one of the followers of the young man, Charles Stuart.

VALENTINE. Sir, I am a cavalier and I am a servant, the servant of the King! Long live

the King! (He fills and drinks a bumper to the King's health and breaks the glass.

Now, Sir, I am at the service of Colonel Tomlinson, the King's enemy, but despite

that a gentleman.

COLONEL T. Sir, you are my prisoner. I arrest you by my power as a Magistrate of the

County.

LADY B. Hugh I (She takes his hand. To COLONEL T.) Who told you that this was

Colonel Valentine ?

COLONEL T. That glove which I found on your table told me. I knew that Colonel Valentine

was in the country—I knew that he would come here from your brother. I saw that

the hands of the serving man were not the hands of a servant.

LADY B. Oh, the glove I—the fatal glove I

COLONEL T. Lady Beatrice, you must say farewell to my prisoner. Sir (to COLONEL V.),

make your farewells. I will leave you alone with this lady for a few minutes. I

have your parole. (Exit COLONEL T.)

VALENTINE. Lady Beatrice, I thank kind Heaven that it has allowed me once to look into

your face and to kiss your hand. (He raises her hand and kisses it.) I have so

often talked with your brother over your perfections that—may I say it ?

Vol. I.-47.
706

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

SLUDGE.

LADY B. Colonel Valentine, say what you will; for, oh ! my heart is breaking! Oh, my

brother, my brother ! That you should lose such a friend ! And I Quick!

Let me think. They will take you to the assize town—to London. They will try

you. I will fall at the feet of this new man—this son of the Protector

VALENTINE. Nay, I fear that will scarce serve. It will be a drum-head court martial most

likely. Let me say farewell. Dear Lady Beatrice! (Kneels on one knee and takes

her hand.) Queen of my heart! whom I have always loved, yet never till now

spoken to—Farewell!

{Ringing of church bells outside ; blowing of trumpets; shouting.)

LADY B. (rum to window.) What is it? They ling the

church bells. There are men running across the

park. They are crying—what ?

VOICES (outside.) God save the King !

LADY B. (clutching VALENTINE by the

hand.) What? Is it—is it—is

it—God save the King ?

(Enter COLONEL T.)

COLONEL T. Whatever the varlets shout,

you are still my prisoner, sir.

( Opens door.) What ho !

Guard! (Enter SLUDGE.)

They are all tossing up

their caps for the Young

Man, sir. They are

drunk with the blood

of Babylon. They are

all gone astray. The

Devil reigns. (Exit, toss-

ing up his arms.)

VALENTINE. You see, Colonel,

to remain a prisoner I

must have a guard. I

withdraw my parole. If

— outside the house —

(touches hill of sword.)

VOICES. God save the King !

"God save the King." God gave tne King !

COLONEL T. You are free, sir.

VALENTINE. In that case—(takes cup of wine ; offers it to LADY B.)—in that case, Lady

Beatrice, what say you ?

LADY B. (takes the cup and sips; then holds it up and sings):

Then look for no peace, for the war shall never cease.

Till the King shall come to his own again.

(To COLONEL T.) Friend, we have been friends when to be a friend to any of your

party demanded the highest gifts on your side and the greatest faith on mire.

Reverse the position, dear Colonel Tomlinson. Be now the friend of the

conquering side.

VALENTINE (takes the cup and holds it up). God save the King!

COLONEL T. I may not drink that toast with you. Madam, we have been friends—we shall

remain friends, friends for ever and ever. Lady Beatrice, I drink your health.

(He raises his glass, puts it to his lips as the CURTAIN falls.)

(This series is naa> concluded.)

WANTING

BY ROBERT BARR.

N the Far West they have a phrase which is applied to

a grasping person, and the phrase is " This man

wants the earth." The desire for the possession of

our planet has been universal throughout all the ages,

and there has been no time in the history of man

when some one did not want the earth. Alexander

the Great was one of the few men who really got it,

and we read that even then he was not satisfied, but

sat down and wept because there were not a few

more worlds for him to conquer.

This yearning on the part of man may be pictured

in various ways. Here, for instance, is a sketch of an unfortunate sailor struggling with the

waves in the middle of the Atlantic ocean; in his case there was undoubtedly some

justification for his demands. And here is another of an unfortunate man falling out of a

balloon, something more than a mile up in the air. It certainly looks exceedingly probable

that his wish will also remain ungratified.

The latest individual who desires the universe is Mr. C. Arthur Pearson, but differing

from Alexander, he desires the earth only to give it away, temporarily, to a horde of

needy little people, who not only do not possess an inch of its surface, but rarely have an

opportunity of playing for an hour, even, on one of its many green fields, and Mr. Pearson

does not wish all the earth, but merely a portion of it, and that the cheapest. He does not

desire any part of the town, which is always an expensive portion of this planet, but what

he would like, to bestow again, would be some open fields, a pure stream or two, and,

perhaps, a few thickets or part of a forest, where little folks from the slums might wander at

will and hear the birds sing.

It has been well and truly said that God made the country, but man made the town.

In the town are concentrated all the malignities of our modern civilisation—the newspaper

offices, the clubs, policemen, railway stations, sewer gas, four-wheelers, coal smoke, and the

Underground. Many of us take our cities as we do our stimulants; revelling in town and

having a high old time, and then going to the country to recuperate. But there are
708

PEARSON'S MAGAZINE.

unfortunately some hundreds of thousands of

wretched creatures who would never have an

opportunity of seeing the country at all, were

it not for the benevolence of those who

subscribe to such a laudable charity as " The

Fresh Air Fund."

Year in and year out they are prisoners of the

slums, just as truly as Bonivard was a prisoner

chained to his pillar in the Castle of Chillon.

They can no more get out through their own

efforts than can a convict in Dartmoor prison,

in fact the convict in Dartmoor is better off

than they, for he has his share of the fresh

air from the moors. Being a civilised people

we take good care of our criminals, and they

live long; but we allow the honest poor to

shift for themselves, and depend on the

donations of the charitable.

It is too late in the day to write a eulogy on

fresh air; everyone knows its health-giving

qualities.

I see it stated in the papers that the new

Rontgen rays, if projected through a man's

body, will ki!'. certain microbes that may

inhabit that body. We all know how, a few

years ago, Doctor Koch thought he had

discovered a substance that would kill the

consumption microbe. Perhaps all these

things may help, but it must not be forgotten

that Providence entered the field with microbe

remedies long before the Germans took to

that branch of discovery. Fresh air is a

greater specific for all the ills of the body

than any decoction ever " made in Germany."

Mr. Eden Philpotts, the novelist, some

years ago wrote a charming and most

delightful book, entitled "Folly and Fresh

Air." The two make an exceedingly en-

trancing combination, and it is to give the

poor children of this great city a chance to

mix some folly with fresh air that Mr.

Pearson now asks all those with a little money

to spare to contribute to his fund. He wants

a portion of the earth to give away to those

children who rarely see the world in its green

mantle. An incredibly small sum will take

an incredibly small child an incredibly long

distance, and give him or her something to

eat when he or she gets there.

Fresh air has been responsible for all the

stirring events in history, and for most of the

books that are worth reading. The Jameson

raid is an interesting case in point; the

troopers had an overdose of fresh air, and

consequently invaded the Transvaal while

the cautious inhabitants of the town, Johannes-

burg, not having fresh air enough, did not

move from their houses, although they out-

numbered the troopers a hundred to one.

Evidently Jameson's men would have got

through all right enough had it not been that

they happened to meet the Boers, who had a

still greater supply of fresh air than them-

selves, because a Boer will never willingly

enter a town. This is the true explanation

of the Jameson raid, which has never yet been

placed before the public.

" Treasure Island " is a book that owes its

INDEX.

ANIMAL ACTORS. H. J. Milton. Illus-

trated by H. Piffard 407

Animals as Criminals. J. Brand 664

Army is Clothed, How Our. Frank Lamburn.

Illustrated by George Ashton 518

Artists and Their Work. Brief notes on

prominent painters, with the portraits of

some, and representative examples of their

work 3,114,234

BAN, THE. John Bloundelle Burton. Illus-

trated by G. Montbard 203

Billiam. S. R. Crockett. Illustrated by W.

F. Calderon 134

Bones, The Chapel of. Walder Brawn. Illus-

trated by photographs 321

Bravest Deed I Ever Saw, The:

Archibald Forbes. Illustrated by R. Caton

Woodville, R.I 14

Lt.-Gen. Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C. Illus-

trated by R. Caton Woodville, R.I 129

Lady Henry Somerset. Illustrated by G.

G. Manton 246

The Marquis of Lome, K.T. Illustrated

by Sydney Cowell 436

J. M. Le Sage. Illustrated by R. I. Potter

and C. L. Le Sage 535

Major-Gen. Nelson A. Miles. Illustrated

by Sydney Cowell 666

COLONIAL KING, A. J. Brand. IIlus-

trated with photographs 83

Convert of the Mission, A. Bret Harte. Illus-

trated by A. Forest ier 64

DRAMATIC POINT, A. Robert Barr.

Illustrated by G. G. Manton 88

Drawing-room Comedies. Sir Walter Besant

and W. H. Pollock :

The Voice of Love 102

The Charm 219

Peer and Heiress 344

Loved I not Honour More 464

Illustrated by Chris Hammond.

The Shrinking Shoe 582

The Glove 700

Illustrated by A. Jule Goodman.

EARTH, WANTING THE. Robert Barr.. 707

Editorial Mind, The:

112, 232A, 352A, 472A, S92A, 7I2A

England, Honey-combed. J. Mason 698

FIVE ACT TRAGEDIES. Barry Pain.

Illustrated by J. F. Sullivan 96

Floret Stanley J. Weyman. Illustrated by

H. Piffard '. 303

Fresh Air Fund, The. Clement Scott. Illus-

trated by S. Nation 589

Frontiers of Europe are Kept, How the. Levin

Carnac. Illustrated by H. Piffard 460

GAS IS MADE, HOW LONDON'S. Le

Breton Martin. Illustrated by S. Nation ... 642

Gata. Cuthbert Barmby. Illustrated by

Trevor Haddon 563

Gates and Pillars of the Empire. Robert

Machray :

No. I.—Liverpool Illustrated 354

No. 2.—Glasgow Illustrated 473

No. 3.—Birmingham Illustrated 593

Genius for a Year, A. Levin Carnac. Illus-

trated by A. Kemp Tebby 634

Grave of a Nation's Honour, The. George

Griffith. Illustrated with photographs 261

INDEX.

MEN WHO WILL LEAD IF WAR

COMES, THE. Archibald Forbes. Illus-

trated with photographs 392

Mountain of Valour, The. Lt.-Gen. Sir Evelyn

Wood.V.C. Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood 372

PARADISE, GLIMPSES OF. Ideal Illus-

trations by Holland Tringham 126

Parlour Window, The Front. Written and

illustrated by James Scott 440

Penal Servitude, A Peep Into. George Griffith.

Illustrated by H. Piffard 573

Photograph of the Invisible, A. George

Griffith. Illustrated by G. G. Manton 376

Photography, First Attempts at. A. W... 43,324

President, Stealing a. C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne.

Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood 610

Public Eye, In the. Illustrated with photos:

35. 'SB, SS6

QUEEN'S PETS, THE. Gambler Bolton,

F.Z.A. Illustrated from photographs by

the Author 154

RAILWAY BEYOND THE CLOUDS, A.

George Griffith. Illustrated with photographs 618

Railway, What it Costs to Work a. W. J.

Gordon. Illustrated with photographs 57

Ransom, The. C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne. Illus-

trated by Warwick Goble 492

Retiring of Domsie, The. Ian Maclaren.

Illlustrated by R. Sauber, R.B.A 400

SECRETS OF THE COURTS OF

EUROPE. Allen Upward. Illustrated by

Hal Hurst, R.B.A.:

I. A Stolen King 45

II. The Honour of an Empress 166

III. The Sultan's Foot 276

IV. The True Story of Prince Bismarck's

Fall 425

V. " Prince Citron." 544

VI. A Royal Freemason 645

Shadow of the Greenback, The. Robert Barr.

Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood 327

Slave, The Successors of the Galley. Tighe

Hopkins. Illustrated by E. F. Sherie 670

Society, Leaders of London. Mrs. F. H.

Williamson. Illustrated with photographs.. 266

Soldiers of the Khedive, The. Francis John.

Illustrated with photographs 539

Sport, The Money We Spend on. J. Mason.

Illustrated by E. F. Sherie 53°

Stock Exchange, A Morning on the. W.

Arthur Woodward. Illustrated with photo-

graphs and drawings by G. Ashton 146

Steamships, What it Costs to Run a Great

Line of. W. J. Gordon. Illustrated with

photographs 294

Strangers at the "Stag." Nellie K. Blissett.

Illustrated by A. Kemp Tebby in

TOURNAMENT, AT THE ROYAL MILI-

TARY. Louis Tracy. Illustrated by Stanley

L. Wood 623

Tsar, The Gorgeous Palaces of the. Mary

Spencer Warren. Illustrated with photo-

graphs 500

VERSE:

Clerk's Child, The. Norman Gale. Illus-

trated by Abbey Altson, R.B.A 338

Dream, A Waking. Clarence Hope 399

Fleeting. Clarence Hope 157

Greybeard. Clifton Bingham. Illustrated

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