The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue 30,
June 1893, by Various
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Title: The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue 30, June 1893
An Illustrated Monthly
Author: Various
Editor: George Newnes
Release Date: January 7, 2008 [EBook #24188]
Language: English
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THE STRAND
AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY
Vol. 5, Issue. 30.
June 1893
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE HEAD BOOK-KEEPER STEPPED OUT OF THE SAFE."
(_Pierre and Baptiste._)]
Pierre and Baptiste
BY BECKLES WILLSON.
I once knew two industrious mechanics named Pierre and Baptiste. They
dwelt in a ramshackle tenement at Sault aux Beloeuil, where each had
half-a-dozen children to support, besides their wives; who, it is
grievous to relate, were drones. They were only nominally acquainted
with that godly art commonly associated with charwomen.
Pierre and Baptiste were hard workers. They worked far into the night
and, occasionally, the thin mists of dawn had begun to break on the
narrow city pavements before their labours would cease. No one could
truthfully say that theirs was not a hard-earned pillow. Sometimes they
did not toil in vain. It depended largely upon the police.
It was early one November that this horny-handed pair planned the
burglary of a certain safe located in a wholesale establishment in St.
Mark Street. On the particular evening that Pierre and Baptiste hit upon
for the deed, the head book-keeper had been having a wrangle with his
accounts.
"I can't make head or tail of this!" he declared to his employer, the
senior member of the firm, "yet I am convinced everything must be right.
An error of several hundred dollars has been carried over from each
daily footing, but where the error begins or ends, I'm blessed if I can
find out."
[Illustration: "THE HEAD BOOK-KEEPER HAD BEEN HAVING A WRANGLE WITH HIS
ACCOUNTS."]
The fact was that the monthly sales had been unusually heavy, and a page
of the balance had been mislaid. The head book-keeper spent upwards of
an hour in casting up both the entries of himself and his subordinates
after the establishment had closed its doors for the day.
Then he went home to supper, determined to return and locate the
deficit, if he didn't get a wink of sleep until morning.
Book-keepers, it must be borne in mind, have highly sensitive organisms,
which are susceptible to the smallest atom reflecting upon their probity
or skill. At half-past eight the book-keeper returned and commenced anew
his critical calculations. He worked precisely three hours and a half;
at the end of which period he suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead
and exclaimed:--
"Idiot! Why haven't you looked in the safe for a missing sheet? Ten
chances to one they have been improperly numbered!"
He turned over the pages of the balance on his desk, and, sure enough,
the usual numerical mark or designation in the upper left-hand corner
which should follow eleven was missing. Page twelve, in all likelihood,
had slipped into some remote corner of the safe.
The safe was a large one, partially receding into the wall and
containing all the papers, documents, and several day receipts in cash
and drafts of the firm.
The head book-keeper, in his efforts at unearthing the lost page of the
cash balance, was obliged to intrude his entire person into the safe.
Fearful lest the candle he held should attract attention from the
street, showing out as it did against the black recesses of the safe,
upon entering he drew the door slightly ajar.
As he stepped in the tail of his coat caught on an angle of the huge
riveted lock; the massive gate swung to as if it weighed no more than a
pound, and the book-keeper was a prisoner.
He heard a resonant click--that was all. His candle went out.
The book-keeper at the outset lost his presence of mind. He fought like
a caged animal. He first exerted almost superhuman strength against the
four sides of the iron tomb. Then his body collapsed and, not for an
instant losing consciousness, he found himself sitting in a partially
upright posture, unable to so much as stir a muscle.
It was almost at the same moment, although hours seemed to have passed,
that the drum of his ear, now abnormally sensitive, was almost split
into fragments. A frightful monotonous clangour rent the interior of the
safe.
[Illustration: "HE STEPPED IN."]
The book-keeper used to observe afterwards that a single second's
deviation of characteristic thought and he would have gone mad. Stronger
minds in a parallel situation would have indeed collapsed. But a weaker
man can never confront the inevitable, but clings more stubbornly to
hope. They are only weak individualities who, in the act of drowning,
catch at straws.
As the book-keeper felt himself gradually growing faint for want of air
to breathe, his revivified hope led him to deliberately crash his fist
into the woodwork with which the interior of the safe was fitted, in
secretaire fashion, one drawer being built above another. This gave him
a few additional cubic feet of air.
As may have been conjectured, the noise which smote the book-keeper's
ear was that of a drill. Although acutely discerned within, the sound
was practically smothered on the outside of the vault.
At one end of the drill was a cavity, rapidly growing larger, in one of
the steel panels. At its other end was a heavy, warty fist, part of the
anatomy of Baptiste, the industrious mechanic. Baptiste held the drill
while his comrade, Pierre, pounded it in.
Soon the two burglars became aware that some sort of animal commotion
was going on within the safe. It nearly drove them into convulsions of
astonishment. Baptiste was so startled that he dropped the drill.
"It is a ghost," he said.
Baptiste was for throwing up the job uncompromisingly on the spot, but
this proposal met with obstacles. His fellow workman, who was of stiffer
courage, rejected it with scorn, as savouring too much of the
superstitious. Pierre had a large family to support, he argued. He spoke
frankly. They could not afford to throw away the opportunities of
Providence. To his friend and co-labourer, the burden of his remarks
was:--
"_Lâche!_ Go hon! You make me tired wiz yer ghosts an' tings. Let's not
have no beast foolin'--see? De job is commence: _Allons!_"
The upshot of this was that Pierre and Baptiste went back to work. At
the third crack of the drill, Pierre crossed himself, and said:--
"Baptiste, dere's a man in dat safe!"
Both men grew pale as death at the very suggestion. Baptiste, for
instance, was so frightened he couldn't utter a syllable. His tongue
clove to the roof of his mouth. However, Pierre, as usual, was the first
to recover. He applied his ear, first to the lock and then to the
drill-hole.
"Hey, in dere!" he cried, yet not so loud as to be heard on the
side-walk. To this there came a faint response--a very faint shout
indeed; it sounded as if it were a mile away:--
"For God's sake, give me air! I am locked in here. Try and burst open
the safe!"
The two burglars did not stop to talk, but went at once to work as if
their own lives depended on the result, instead of the life of the
mysterious occupant of the vault. In less than four minutes they had a
hole, somewhat smaller than the business end of a collar-button, knocked
into the panel of the vault.
Then Pierre and Baptiste paused to wipe the sweat from their brows. The
man inside breathed.
It was now that the pair began to muse on the dénouement. Could this be
a member of the firm or an employé? This hypothesis jeopardized the
success of the night's adventure, unless, when they had permitted the
prisoner to emerge, they bound and gagged him into silence.
On the other hand, this course would have an ugly look. If he resisted
it might mean murder in the end; whereas, if they did not let him out at
all, they would stand no chance of profiting by the pecuniary contents
of the safe. Besides, as the man could scarcely live thus until morning,
they would be responsible for his taking off. Thus reasoned Pierre and
Baptiste.
[Illustration: "BOTH MEN GREW PALE AS DEATH."]
These were not highly comforting reflections, but there was still
another and a better in reserve. What if, after all, the man were
himself a felon? Might he not be a companion crib-cracker? In that case
they would merely have to divide the spoils.
"Hey, in dere," cried Pierre, suddenly struck with an idea. "What is de
combination hof de safe?"
"Fifteen--three--seventy-three!" came back in sepulchral tones.
It was evidently growing harder and harder to draw breath through the
tiny aperture.
Thus it transpired that at the expiration of fifteen seconds the lock of
the vault gave back the same resonant click it had rendered eight
minutes previously. Thanks to the timely advent of Pierre and Baptiste
it opened as lightly, as airily, and as decisively as it had closed 480
seconds before on the unhappy accountant.
The head book-keeper gasped once or twice, but without any assistance
stepped out into the free air. He was very pale and his dress was much
rent and disordered when his feet touched the floor. But this pallor
quickly made way for a red flush at perceiving the two burglars, with
the implements of their profession strewn around them.
Meanwhile Pierre and Baptiste themselves stood transfixed by the sheer
novelty of the situation.
Without any kind of speech or warning, or without making any attempt at
bravado, the book-keeper walked deliberately to his desk and rang an
electric call for the police. Simultaneously it seemed, for so rapid and
quiet was the action, he opened a drawer, took out a small revolver, and
covered both burglars with a fatal precision. As he did so he uttered
these remarkable words:--
"Gentlemen, I would, indeed, be the basest of men if I did not feel
profoundly grateful for the service you have just rendered me. I shall
always regard you as any right-minded man should regard those who have
saved his life with imminent peril to themselves or, which is just the
same, to their liberty. Any demand in reason you make of me I shall make
an effort to perform--but my duty to my employers I regard as
_paramount_. I have accumulated a little money, and with it I propose to
engage the best counsel in your defence, which is certainly marked by
mitigating circumstances. If, on the other hand, you are convicted----"
Here the officers of justice entered, having broken open the door with a
crash.
[Illustration]
Future Dictates of Fashion
BY W. CADE GALL.
An elderly gentleman of our acquaintance, whose reading has been rather
desultory than profound, and tending rather to the quaint and
speculative, was astonished recently at coming across a volume in his
library of whose very existence he had been completely unaware. This
volume was oblong in shape, was bound in mauve morocco, and was called
"Past Dictates of Fashion; by Cromwell Q. Snyder, Vestamentorum Doctor."
Glancing his eye downwards past a somewhat flippant sub-title, the
elderly gentleman came, with intense amazement, to understand that the
date of this singular performance was 1993. Other persons at a similar
juncture would have pinched themselves to see if they were awake, or
have tossed the book into the street as an uncanny thing. But our
elderly gentleman being of an inquisitive and acquisitive turn of mind,
despite his quaintness, recognised the fact that if he was not of the
twentieth century the volume obviously was; seized pen and paper, and
began to make notes with the speed of lightning. Being also something of
a draughtsman he was able to embellish his notes with sketches from the
engravings with which "Past Dictates of Fashion" was copiously
furnished. These sketches appear with the present article.
Fashion in dress, according to the twentieth century author,
notwithstanding its apparent caprice, has always been governed by
immutable laws. But these laws were not recognised in the benighted
epoch in which we happen to live at present. On the contrary, Fashion is
thought a whim, a sort of shuttlecock for the weak-minded of both sexes
to make rise and fall, bound and rebound with the battledore
called--social influence. But it will interest a great many people to
learn that Fashion assumed the dignity of a science in 1940. Ten years
later it was taken up by the University of Dublin. By the science as
taught by the various Universities later on were explained those points
in the history, manners, and literature of our own ancestors which were
formerly obscure and, in fact, unknown. They were also, by certain
strict rules, enabled to foretell the attire of posterity. Here is a
curious passage from the introductory chapter to the book:--
"Cigars went out of fashion twenty years ago. Men and women consumed so
much tobacco that their healths were endangered. The laws of Nature were
powerless to cope with the evil. Not so the laws of Fashion, which at
once abated it. It will, however, return in thirty-one years. In 1790
Nature commanded men to bathe. They laughed at Nature. In 1810 Fashion
did the same thing. Men complied, and daily cold baths became
established. In 1900 it was pushed to extremes. The ultra-sect cut holes
in the ice and plunged into the water. The fashion changed. For forty
years only cads bathed."
The following table is also interesting, and should be borne in mind in
considering the accompanying cuts. It professes to exhibit the
sartorial characteristics of an epoch:--
TABLE OF WAVES.
Type. Tendency.
1790 to 1815 Angustorial Wobbling
1815 " 1840 Severe Recuperative
1840 " 1875 Latorial Decided
1875 " 1890 Tailor-made Opaque
1890 " 1915 Ebullient Bizarre
1915 " 1940 Hysterical Angustorial
[Illustration: 1893]
[Illustration: 1905]
The first plate in the book is dated 1893, and serves as a frontispiece.
The costumes of the lady and gentleman are familiar enough, although we
note with surprise that the gentleman's coat-talks seem to have a
crinoline cast, and if the turned-up bottoms of his trousers are a
little mortifying, it is atoned for by a triumphant attitude which
disarms hypercriticism. Also the lady's posture makes it difficult for
us to tell whether it is a stick or an umbrella she is carrying.
[Illustration: 1908]
There is a pictorial hiatus of some years, but the text notes that
crinoline for women enjoyed a sway of some years' duration. For, taking
the tracings from the plates in the order in which they are given in the
book, we find a subdued form of the article in the female costume for
1905. The ladies may well regard this plate as astounding. There is even
a suggestion of "bloomer" about its nether portion, and if the hat is
not without precedent in history, the waist is little short of
revolutionary.
[Illustration: 1910]
The next plate displays a gentleman's habit for the year 1908. The
tailors, fifteen years hence, seemed to have borrowed, in the
construction of the coat, very liberally from the lady's mantle of 1893.
Apropos of this and the ensuing three plates, it is pleasing to be told,
as we are by the author of this book, that the long reign of black is
doomed. Towards the close of April, 1898, Lord Arthur Lawtrey appeared
in the Park attired literally in purple and fine linen, _i.e._, in a
violet coat, with pale heliotrope trousers.
[Illustration: 1902, 1911-12]
Yet, in spite of the opposition to Lord Arthur, the wave was due, and
the affection for colour spread. The new century, at its birth, saw
black relegated to the past--also to the future. This was midway in the
Ebullient Age. Pent up for decades, mankind naturally began to slop over
with sartorial enthusiasm. In 1920 its _bizarrerie_ became offensive,
and an opposition crusade was directed against it. Something had to be
conceded. Trousers, which had been wavering between nautical buttons and
gallooned knees--or, in the vernacular of the period, a sail three
sheets in the wind and a flag at half-mast--were the items sacrificed.
Knee-breeches enjoyed vogue for a time, but only for a time; for they
vanished suddenly in 1930 and were replaced by tights or shapes. Boots
made way for Elizabethan slippers. Hats had long since gone the way of
the superannuated. Taught by the Darwinian theory, society discovered
whence its tendency to baldness originated. They had recourse by degrees
to flexible tiles of extraordinary cut.
[Illustration: 1912]
[Illustration: 1912]
A further glance at the costume for the swells between 1902 and 1912
reveals the existence of an entirely novel adjunct to male attire. Silk
bows have been worn about the neck for nearly, if not quite, a century,
but never in the body of the attire. It is true the gentleman as early
as 1910 adorns his nether garments with a plain silk band, but in the
elderly party of 1911 he has assumed gay ribbons for his shoes as well
as at his knees and throat. In this plate we greet the presence of an
unmistakable umbrella as a good omen. But it is only a short-lived
rapture, for the spruce young party in the next sketch is balancing
lightly between thumb and forefinger what we take to be nothing more or
less than a shepherd's crook. This is hardly an edifying prospect. Yet
if we do not altogether mistake the two wing-shaped objects projecting
from his person, it is not the only feature of gentlemen's fashions
twenty years hence which will occasion a shock. Nor must we overlook the
frivolity of the lady of the same period who is doing her utmost to look
pleasant under the most trying conditions. Yet it must be confessed that
in spite of its intricate novelty and perplexity, the costume must still
be called plain. One might be forgiven for surmising that the
kerchief-shaped article covering a portion of the lady's bust is formed
of riveted steel, for surely nothing else could support the intolerable
load she is so blandly carrying off.
Female costume seems to have always been regulated by the same waves and
rules which governed male costume, but in a different degree. In the
Ebullient period it is chiefly distinguished by head-dress and the total
abolition of stays. Crinoline, in spite of certain opposition, enjoyed a
slight revival in the present day, and in 1897 the divided skirt
threatened to spread universally. But it passed off, and nothing of a
radical order was attempted in this direction until the revolution which
brought in trousers for women in 1942.
Meantime, in the next plate of a lady's costume, which is dated 1922, we
have presented a very rational and beautiful style of dress. The skirt,
it is true, is short enough to alarm prim contemporary dames, and it is
scarcely less assuring to find in the whole of the remaining plates only
three periods when it seems to have got longer. But doubtless the very
ample cloak, which is so long that it even trails upon the ground,
extenuated and in some degree justified its shortness.
[Illustration: 1922]
[Illustration: 1920]
[Illustration: 1926]
The plate dated 1920 exhibits a very gorgeous and yet altogether simple
set of garments for the male of that period. We are told that the upper
portion was of crimson plush, and the lower part of a delicate pink,
with white stockings and orange boots. It were well had the leaders of
fashion stopped at this, but it would appear that either their thirst
for novelty was insatiable or the Hysterical Wave too strong for them,
for in the incredibly short space of six years fashion had reached the
stage depicted in the following plate. Yet, even then, the depth of
folly and ugliness does not appear to have been sounded, for three years
later, in 1929, we are favoured with a plate of what is presumably a
husband and wife on their way to church or perchance upon a shopping
excursion. The lady is evidently looking archly back to see if anybody
is observing what a consummate guy her spouse is making of himself, for
with all her sartorial short-comings she has certainly the best of the
bargain. The prudes, too, seemed to have gained their point, for the
skirt is considerably less scanty in the region of the ankles.
[Illustration: 1929]
This skirt seems to have been rather a weak point with our posterity of
the female persuasion, for in the next three or four plates we find it
rising and falling with the habitual incorrigibility of a shilling
barometer. The Oriental influence is easily traced in the fashions from
1938 to 1945, but it cannot but make the judicious grieve to note that
trousers seem to have been adopted by the women at the same time that
they were discarded by the men.
[Illustration: 1935]
[Illustration: 1938]
A further detail which might interest the student concerns the revival
of lace, which transpired so early as 1905. Curiously enough, this
dainty adjunct to the attire had fallen into desuetude among women. More
curiously still, it remained for the sterner sex to revive it. For it
was in that year that the backbone of stiff white collars and cuffs was
broken. A material being sought which would weather the existing
atmospheric conditions, it was yielded in lace, which continued in vogue
for at least two generations.
[Illustration: 1940]
[Illustration: 1945]
If we look for the greatest donkey in the entire collection, it is
obvious that we shall find him in the middle-aged party of 1936, who is
gadding about in inflated trunks and with a fan in his hand. If it were
not for the gloves and polka-dot neck-wear we should assume that this
costume was a particularly fantastic bathing-suit. The youth of the
ensuing year, in the next plate, is probably a son of the foregoing
personage, for it is not difficult to detect a strong family likeness.
As to the costume itself for 1937, barring the shaved head and
Caledonian cap, there is nothing particular to be urged against it. It
seems clearly a revival of the dress of the Middle Ages.
[Illustration: 1936]
[Illustration: 1937]
[Illustration: 1945]
It is at least consoling to feel that only a very small minority of
those who read this is destined to enliven our thoroughfares with such
grotesque images as is furnished by the plate for 1945. The confidently
asinine demeanour of this youth is hardly relieved by the absurdity of a
watch suspended by a chain from the crown of his hat. That society
protested against this aspect of idiocy is evinced by the harmonious
costume for 1950, in which a complete revolution is to be noted. We
hasten to observe that the latter plate--the one for 1948--is that of a
clergyman.
[Illustration: 1950]
[Illustration: 1946]
[Illustration: 1948]
There is very little beauty about the lady's costume for 1946, or in
that of the child in the plate. That for 1950 is a great improvement.
The exaggerated chignon has disappeared, and two seasons later we find
the costume fascinating to a degree, although certainly partaking more
of the male than of the female order of dress. Without the cape it is
not so captivating, as shown by the plate dated 1955-6, where both a
lady and gentleman are shown, although to accord praise to either's
hideous style of head-dress would be to abandon permanently all
reputation for taste.
[Illustration: 1950]
[Illustration: 1952]
[Illustration: 1955-6]
The policeman shown in the drawing for 1960 seems to have a very easy
time of it, for no man's person can be considered in danger from the mob
who habitually offers so many _points à saisir_ as this policeman's head
displays. We may likewise suspect the military gentleman depicted in the
plate for 1965. It is not customary in the present day for army officers
to affect umbrellas, but seventy years hence it may be found necessary
to protect one's head-dress.
[Illustration: 1960]
[Illustration: 1965]
[Illustration: 1965]
Mawkish describes the attire of the civilian of the same year, but in
1970 we notice a distinct change for the better, although personally
many of us would doubtless strenuously object to wearing neckties of the
magnitude here portrayed. In 1975 costume seems to have taken a step
backward, and the literary young gentleman, who is the hero of the
engraving, may well be carrying about his MSS. inside his umbrella.
Whatever may be the merits of the spring fashions for 1978, it would
appear to have been universal (to speak of the future in the past
tense), for both these young gallants are dressed precisely alike. Of
the three remaining designs, that of 1984 appears to us to exhibit the
contour of the lady's figure most generously, and to have certain
agreeable and distinctive traits of its own which are not only lacking
in the gentleman's apparel, but are absent from the inane conception
which appears to have obtained vogue five years later.
[Illustration: 1970]
[Illustration: 1975]
[Illustration: 1978]
[Illustration: 1984]
As to the last plate in the series, we can only remark that if the
character of our male posterity after four or five generations is to be
as effeminate as its attire, the domination by the fair sex cannot be
many centuries distant. The gentleman appears to be lost in
contemplation of a lighted cigar. If he possessed the gift of seeing
himself as others now see him, he would probably transfer his attentions
to another and not less contiguous quarter.
[Illustration: Spring and Summer Fashions, 1932.]
In a general review of the costumes of the forthcoming century the
Doctor observes:--
"The seventeenth is famous as the brown; the eighteenth is with us the
yellow; and the nineteenth we term the black century. I am asked my
opinion of the twentieth. It is motley. It has seen the apotheosis of
colour. Yet in worshipping colour we do not confound the order of
things. As is the twentieth, so was the fifteenth."
The author furthermore observes that "the single article of apparel
which stands out most silhouetted against the background of the 19th
century's dress is its hard, shiny, black head-gear. It is without a
parallel. It is impossible for us to conceive of a similar article
surviving for so long a period; and I venture to say, versed as I am in
the science, nothing more absurd and irredeemably inappropriate, or more
openly violating in texture and contour every rational idea on the
subject, was ever launched. In 1962 the neck was left bare, in the
négligé fashion, in imitation of Butts, the æsthete who the year
previously had discovered the North Pole. In 1970, however, ruffs were
resumed and are still worn, and I regret to say are growing in
magnitude, until they threaten to eclipse precedent."
At this juncture the notes and nap together terminated, for our elderly
gentleman woke up.
[Illustration: 1989]
[Illustration: 1993]
_Shafts from an Eastern Quiver._
XII.--THE DAUGHTER OF LOVETSKI THE LOST.
BY CHARLES J. MANSFORD, B.A.
I.
"Our journey seems to have no end, Harold," remarked Denviers, as he
lashed the horses which drew our sledge over the dreary plain; "for a
week we have been pressing on, night and day almost, in the hope of
coming across the hut near the road over which the exiles pass. If that
mujik told us the truth, we certainly ought to have seen it by this
time."
"We have had a long, desolate ride since we parted with him," I
assented; "yet the snow lies in such drifts at times that we can hardly
be surprised to find ourselves still driving onwards."
"See, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan, as he pointed to where the snow-clad
plain was at last broken by a distant forest of stunted pines. "There is
surely the landmark of which the mujik spoke, and the peasant woman's
dwelling cannot be far off."
After wandering through the outlying provinces of China, we determined
to visit the vast plains beyond, being anxious to see a Russian mine. To
all our requests for such permission we met with refusals, until
Denviers pressed a number of roubles into the hand of an official, who
eventually helped us to effect our purpose, after evincing some
reluctance. Staying a few days after this at a peasant's hut, we had
been fortunate enough to win his goodwill, and it was in consequence of
what he told us that we promised to undertake our present expedition.
[Illustration: "A DESOLATE RIDE."]
No sooner did the keen eyes of Hassan discover the forest far ahead than
we dashed onwards quicker than ever, as our exhaled breath froze in icy
particles and the biting wind struck right through the heavy sheepskin
wraps which we had purchased on entering Russia. Away across the snow
our foam-flecked horses sped, until we saw the blue smoke curling upward
in the frosty air from a low log hut, situated so that the pine forest
sheltered it somewhat from the icy winds.
"Someone evidently lives here," said Denviers, as he beat with the
handle of his whip against the low door. We heard a footstep cross the
floor, then the noise of a bar being removed as a woman opened the door
cautiously and peered into our faces. Bent as she was with age, with
hair that hung in white masses about her shoulders, there was an
unsubdued look which rested upon us from her dark eyes that contrasted
forcibly with the dull, patient glance of the average Russian peasant.
"Who is it crossing the plains? Are you servants of the Czar?" she
asked, in a tone of hesitation at our unexpected appearance, and
glancing strangely at Hassan, who had secured our steeds and joined us.
"We are travellers crossing the Siberian wastes with our guide, and
come to you for shelter," I answered, although we had a deeper purpose
in visiting her.
"It is yours," the woman replied, and having shaken our sheepskin wraps,
we entered the hut and accepted the invitation to gather about the
pine-wood fire which burnt in one corner of the rude dwelling.
"You are not a Russian peasant?" remarked Denviers, in a tone of
inquiry, for the woman spoke English with some fluency.
"I am not, for my people are the Lost Ones, of whom you may have heard,"
she answered, with a dreary smile.
"We do not understand you," Denviers responded, as we waited for her
explanation.
"If you were men of this country my words would be lucid enough. Among
all those who were overcome in the many Polish struggles for liberty,
none have ever returned who once trod the road by which the exiles
passed to join those whom we call Our Lost."
"You have a motive for living here?" I remarked quietly, watching
attentively to see what effect my words would have upon her.
"I am friendless and alone, choosing rather to dwell here within sight
of the way to Tomsk, than in the great city from which I came. The Czar
is merciful, and permits this."
"Then the mujik who directed us here was mistaken," I persisted. "He
related strange stories to us of fugitives, whom the peasants
whisper----"
"Hush!" she cried, looking nervously round. "What was the mujik's name?"
For reply I placed in her hand a scrap of paper, upon which the man had
scrawled a message. She glanced keenly at us after reading the missive,
then answered:--
"He may be mistaken in you, for you are Englishmen, and do not
understand these things. A piece of black bread--what is it that it
should be denied to an enemy, even of the Czar, who has escaped from the
mines and wanders for refuge over these frozen wastes?"
"You may trust us fully in this matter," said Denviers. "We have given
our word to the mujik to render all the help we can."
"It is a terrible day to traverse the plain," the woman replied, as she
rose and threw open the rough door to the icy blast, which was only
imperfectly kept out before. We followed to where she stood, then
watched as she raised her hand and pointed at a distant object.
"See!" the woman cried, bitterly; "yonder pine cross marks the spot
where a brave man fell, he who was the lover of the daughter of
Lovetski, one of our Lost Ones. By it, before the day is ended, will
pass the long train of exiles guarded by the soldiery and headed by the
one who hates to see that monument of his own misdeeds, but fears to
remove it, for, persecuting the living, he dreads the dead." She closed
and barred the door again; then, after some hesitation, spoke of the one
to help whom we had gone so far.
"It was the night of a masquerade at the Winter Palace, long to be
remembered by many, for on the following day another rising of the Poles
had been planned to take place. A number of the leading citizens of St.
Petersburg were involved in it, but so well apparently was their secret
kept, that they ventured to accept the invitations issued to them. Amid
the mad revel the plotters moved, making occasionally a furtive sign of
recognition to each other, or venturing at times to whisper as they
passed the single word which told of all their hopes and
fears--'To-morrow!' Chief among them was Count Lovetski, who murmured
the watch-word more hopefully than any of those concerned whenever his
keen eyes searched out those sworn to take part in the revolt so near at
hand.
"For three hours the gay crowd moved through the salons, then Lovetski,
as he leant against a carved pillar, saw one of the revellers who was
clad in strange attire approach several of the masqueraders and
smilingly whisper something in their ears. At last the Count saw the
stranger move close to himself, and a moment after he heard a mocking
laugh from behind the black mask, as the unknown one stooped and uttered
the preconcerted word. Lovetski looked doubtfully at the man's sombre
garb, for the glance from his eyes was by no means reassuring.
"'To-morrow!' repeated the masker. 'Count Lovetski, you do not respond.
Have you forgotten?'
"'Lower your voice, or we shall be heard by others,' said the Count,
with a warning gesture. 'Who are you?'
"'One of the three hundred citizens who are sworn to revolt to-morrow.
The appointed day is fast drawing near, for in ten minutes the
great clock will chime the midnight hour, and then, Count
Lovetski--_Siberia!_'
"His listener stared in blank amazement, then, regaining his composure,
he replied:--
"'So the plot is discovered? I am no coward. When is it settled for me
to set out?'
"'At the last stroke of the hour a drosky will await you at the main
entrance. The palace is guarded by the soldiery. The others do not start
immediately; you are the leader, and will be ready, doubtless.'
"'Quite,' answered Lovetski, for he knew resistance would be useless. He
quietly passed his sword to the masker, who took it, smiled again, and
disappeared in the crowd. One by one the followers of the Count were
singled out by the strange messenger of the Czar, and when the
masquerade was over three hundred exiles followed the track of the
sledge in which their leader had been hurried away a couple of hours
before them on the long, dreary journey to Tomsk.
[Illustration: "SIBERIA!"]
"Lovetski was refused the privilege of communicating his whereabouts to
his wife, who shortly after this event died, leaving their daughter to
the care of strangers. Before long a rumour reached the capital that the
Count had been shot while attempting to escape in disguise, and this was
eventually found to be true.
"Scarcely had Marie Lovetski reached womanhood when she joined a
political movement, fired with a mad resolve to avenge her father's
death, and within a year her name appeared among those on the list of
suspects, whose every action was closely observed. A Russian officer of
high rank, Paul Somaloff, who had more than once made her an offer of
marriage, begged her to remember the fate which overtook Count Lovetski,
but the bare mention of it only made the woman more inexorable. The end
which everyone foretold soon came, for, seated one day in the midst of
treasonable correspondence, Marie Lovetski was surprised by three
gendarmes, who burst into her apartment. She tore the letter into
fragments before they could stop her, then scattered the pieces over the
floor. One of the gendarmes, motioning to his companions to pick them
up, moved towards her and attempted her arrest. For one moment the woman
stood at bay, then thrust the cold barrel of a pistol into the
gendarme's ear.
"'Raise but a hand or move an inch nearer and I will shoot you!' she
cried, warningly. Her would-be captor shrunk back, and before he had
recovered from his surprise Marie Lovetski darted past him towards the
door. She seized the handle to wrench it open, then saw that all was
lost. The door was locked and the gendarme had removed the key. There
was a fierce struggle, in which one of the officers was dangerously
wounded, but eventually they secured her, and within two months Marie
Lovetski set out to traverse the same dreary road over which the Count
had gone long before when she was a mere child.
"Ivan Rachieff, the masquerader who had whispered into Count Lovetski's
ear the fate to which he was consigned, was at that time a young attaché
at the Court of the Czar. The zeal which he displayed in hunting down
the autocrat's enemies rapidly brought promotion, so that when Marie
Lovetski was exiled he had risen to be a general of the Russ army, and
specially chosen for the duty of heading the Cossacks who conducted the
exiles over the Siberian wastes, while among his subordinates was Paul
Somaloff, who held a position scarcely inferior to his own.
"Convicted of a double offence, Marie Lovetski was condemned to walk the
whole of that wearisome distance among criminals bound for the mines,
while the political exiles were somewhat less harshly treated. General
Rachieff had been warned that a band of discontents had threatened to
attempt the rescue of the prisoners, and special powers of life and
death were granted to him. By long forced marches he hurried the exiles
on, scarcely giving them a few hours' rest each night when they arrived
at their halting-places on the route.
[Illustration: "SHE THRUST THE COLD BARREL OF A PISTOL INTO THE
GENDARME'S EAR."]
"It was with a deep feeling of sorrow at his inability to lessen her
sufferings that Paul Somaloff glanced many times on the way at Marie
Lovetski. In spite of the strange position in which he found himself,
his love for the woman was by no means lessened, but increased each day
as he saw to his dismay how plainly her strength was failing as he
looked upon the woman's haggard countenance, who was wearily dragging
her limbs forward over the frozen wastes. One day Marie Lovetski's
condition became so serious that Somaloff begged General Rachieff to
order the fetters which bound her wrists to be removed, receiving in
reply a refusal as contemptuous as it was decisive. All that day the
exile's secret lover walked moodily on, racking his brains for some
method by which to save the woman from dying before even the terrible
journey was ended.
"Not far from the hut in which you are now resting, the weary exiles
were halted that night, and soon sank down in the log building into an
exhausted sleep. After a severe conflict between his love and his
allegiance to the Czar, Paul Somaloff rose, and, stealing carefully
among the unconscious ones, he bent at last over the form of Marie
Lovetski, stretched upon a straw pallet.
"'Marie,' he whispered softly, as he cautiously awakened her. ''Tis I,
Paul Somaloff--I come to save you.'
"He remained by the woman's side till he had deftly removed the manacles
from her wrists, then stole to the entrance as she silently followed
him. Once he was outside the log building, Somaloff made for where his
general's horse was stabled, and quickly untethering it led it forth.
For one brief moment he clasped the exile to his breast, then lifted her
into the saddle and placed the reins in her hand with a few hurried
words as to the best course to pursue to avoid pursuit.
"Suddenly Paul Somaloff felt a heavy hand grip him by the shoulder, and
turning round he found himself face to face with Ivan Rachieff, his
general! At the same time the woman was dragged from the horse and held
by three of the Cossacks.
"'Your traitorous plan was well thought out,' said Rachieff, as he
smiled in derision at its failure. 'Paul Somaloff, you have broken your
oath to the Czar, and I swear you shall die for this.'
"'You may do your worst,' replied the young officer. 'You would not
listen to my repeated appeals for a slight act of clemency for Marie
Lovetski, and so have turned a loyal subject of the Czar into a
traitor.'
"'Insolent!' cried General Rachieff. 'At sunrise you shall be knouted to
death.'
"'Coward that you are,' retorted Somaloff, 'that is a punishment you
dare not inflict upon one who wears a decoration given to him by the
august Czar. I am a soldier, General, and, at the hands of my comrades,
will die a soldier's death.'
"'So be it,' answered Rachieff, calmly; 'you shall be shot at sunrise,'
and he motioned to the soldiers who had gathered about him to take
Somaloff into their charge, then turned on his heel and strode away,
humming an idle air.
"The grey morning had scarcely dawned when brave young Somaloff was
blindfolded and led forth to be shot in sight of the exiles, while the
woman whom he had failed to save looked helplessly on.
"A few minutes afterwards, Paul Somaloff knelt on the snow-covered
plain, the report of a dozen rifles rang out on the morning air, and the
exiles saw his arms raised as he clutched convulsively at his breast,
then he fell forward, dead!
[Illustration: "HE FELL FORWARD, DEAD."]
"The wild, despairing cries of the exiles were quelled with threats of
the knout, and then the prisoners were hurried on, as they had been for
so many days and weeks past. Ten days later a large number of Polish
insurrectionists, ill-armed, and accompanied by a throng of even worse
accoutred peasants carrying a red banner, flung themselves upon the line
of march, and made a futile effort to break through the soldiers who
guarded the exiles. The trained troopers of the Czar thrust them back
and, as they broke and fled into the forest, chased and cut them down
like sheep, till the snow turned to a crimson hue with their hearts'
blood.
"The exiles made desperate efforts to avail themselves of the
opportunity to escape which the confusion presented. Those who were
unbound fought with branches, which they tore from the stunted trees,
while the others madly thrust the shackles upon their wrists into the
faces of the brutal soldiery, who knouted or cut down men and women
indiscriminately. Long will that massacre be remembered, and the
dreadful sufferings which the survivors endured at the command of Ivan
Rachieff. When at last Tomsk was reached, only a handful of decrepit
exiles passed into the city out of all those who started on the long
journey."
"And Marie Lovetski?" I interrupted, "did she live to complete the
distance, or what was her fate?"
"It was reported that she was cut down during the massacre," the woman
replied, slowly; "for nothing has been heard of her since by General
Rachieff, although her body could not be found among the slain."
I glanced at the woman thoughtfully as she concluded her story, and
Denviers, who had listened in silence throughout, asked:--
"Where is Marie Lovetski? You are aware that she is alive--nay, more,
you know her place of concealment."
Surprised at the directness of the question, the woman involuntarily
rose, and then, seeing that we suspected the fugitive was hidden in the
log hut, she answered:--
"Marie Lovetski is not here, yet if the mujik has rightly judged your
courage, within a week he will see your sledge return with one more
occupant than when it started. Once she is carried there her escape is
assured, for----" She stopped suddenly and pointed to the door. We
listened attentively as the sound of footsteps drew near, then a heavy
blow smote the barred entrance and a voice exclaimed:--
"Open, in the Czar's name!" The woman's face turned ashy pale as she
muttered faintly:--
"That is the voice of Ivan Rachieff, who is again in command of the
exiles," and she drew away the heavy bar to admit him. We rose to our
feet in an instant as the door was flung open and General Rachieff
entered and stood before us.
II.
For a moment the Russian officer stared at us without speaking, then
throwing back his heavy sealskin cloak and revealing the military garb
which he wore beneath, he asked the woman sternly:--
"What does the presence of these men in your hut mean?"
"We are travellers, who have asked for shelter. Our guide is an Arab; we
are Englishmen," responded Denviers, quietly but decisively.
"Spies, I do not doubt," said Rachieff, as he bit his heavy moustache.
"My word is accustomed to be believed," replied my companion, sharply.
"If you doubt what I have said, read that," and he flung a package
containing our passports upon the table as he spoke.
The officer took out our passports, which we had been careful to obtain.
He glanced through them, then tossed the papers on to the table again as
he remarked, in a morose tone:--
"You would not be the first Englishmen who have made their way into the
Czar's territory only to discredit it."
"You have chosen a curious method of displaying your pleasantry,"
retorted Denviers, glancing sternly at the heavy-bearded Russian who had
so wantonly insulted us. Rachieff drew a chair to the table, and,
sitting down, leant his head upon his hands, narrowly scrutinizing our
features.
[Illustration: "NARROWLY SCRUTINIZING OUR FEATURES."]
"I saw some horses and a sledge in the shed without," he continued; "are
they yours?"
"They are," answered my companion, laconically.
"Where was your last stopping-place before you reached here?" Rachieff
asked, as if he were examining some prisoners.
"We are neither Russian subjects nor refugees," Denviers replied. "You
may save your inquiries for others, since we have no intention of
satisfying your ill-timed curiosity." My companion turned his back to
Rachieff, and raising a blazing piece of pine-wood which had fallen,
tossed it again among the glowing embers, taking no more notice of the
discomfited officer. Rachieff was nonplussed; he frowned heavily, then
rising, moved to the door. He turned as he held it partly open,
saying:--
"If you were a Russian gentleman instead of an English spy, I would call
you out for your insolence to an officer in the Czar's service."
I saw the blood mount to Denviers's forehead as he snatched the driving
whip which Hassan held and, striding forward, struck the Russian a blow
across his face with it.
"If I were an exile, no doubt you would knout me for that," he said,
quietly. "You can do nothing as it is, since our papers are in order,
except fight me."
"I am in command of the exiles," answered Rachieff. "They are now
passing yonder; when the halting-place is reached to-night I will leave
my subordinate in charge of them and return here with an officer as my
second. If you are not a coward you will be here awaiting me at
mid-day."
"I shall be here," replied Denviers. "Choose your own weapons; you have
brought this meeting about entirely unprovoked, and to-morrow you or I
will fall."
"Adieu till then!" cried Rachieff, with a bitter smile of hatred, then
he turned his face away, upon which was a long livid mark where the whip
had fallen, and we saw him stride towards the exiles passing over the
plain before us.
"Ivan Rachieff is one of the most skilful duellists with sword or pistol
in the Czar's army," said the woman, who had been an attentive observer
of all that passed between the two men. "He will kill you with as little
remorse as he ordered Paul Somaloff to be shot by the soldiers."
"Paul Somaloff!" exclaimed Denviers. "Ah! I had forgotten his fate for a
moment; but to-morrow, when Rachieff and I stand face to face, I will
surely remember it."
"Allah and Mahomet help the sahib," cried Hassan. "If the bearded Russ
should chance to win, he shall fight the Arab afterwards."
"Never mind Rachieff, Hassan," said Denviers; "we must at once make our
plans for the purpose of helping Marie Lovetski to escape from Siberia.
Whatever happens to me, she must be saved at all hazards."
"Where is the woman concealed?" I asked the one who was our hostess.
She rose and questioned us:--
"Will you swear by the memorial which I have raised over Paul Somaloff's
resting-place never to speak of what you may see in the strange
hiding-place to which I may conduct you?"
"We will," I answered briefly, as Denviers joined in assenting.
We lost little time after Rachieff's departure, but drew together and
discussed the probabilities of various plans succeeding, and at last
decided on that which seemed to promise success. The dusk rapidly closed
in upon us as we sat in thoughtful conversation, after which the woman
rose, and, having scanned the plain near the hut as well as she could in
the gloom, motioned to us to follow her.
Hassan remained in the hut while we set out, and making our way through
a part of the pines and firs close to the dwelling in which we had
sought shelter, we found ourselves groping blindly along, following each
other like phantoms in the darkness which enveloped us. So far there was
little need for the woman to have sworn us to secrecy, for neither going
nor returning did we get a glimpse of anything likely to indicate the
spot to us again at any future time. At last we felt what appeared to be
a rough flight of stone steps beneath our feet, then our guide lit a
pine-wood torch which she carried.
Holding up the flickering light before us, the woman led us into what we
conjectured to be one of the catacombs of an ancient city. On both sides
of us as we moved along the red flare of the pine-wood revealed many
bodies of the dead, each stretched in a niche cut for it in the red
rock, while at intervals between these we saw the resting-places of
others distinguished by various strange emblems. One of these niches was
silently guarded by two carved figures of horsemen with their white
steeds caparisoned, and each of the riders held in his uplifted hand a
sword such as the Damascenes use.
"A strange resting-place that," I remarked to Denviers, as it stood out
weird and ghastly in the light of the torch. "No Russian soldiery ever
wear such accoutrements as are depicted there, I am certain."
"They wear the garb of boyars of the time of Ivan the Terrible," our
guide said, as she pointed to the mounted horsemen. "Where the pine
forest about us is now there stood more than four hundred years ago one
of the many cities built by that extraordinary monarch, but it has long
been blotted out, and the Russ have forgotten its very existence. None
now know of its catacombs save those of us who form a secret band, and
whose object is to help the exiles who may escape and seek shelter and a
safe hiding-place. Even now it would be impossible for you to find the
one you seek, and if you wish to go farther it must be done blindfolded,
or I will not lead you."
We stood by the strangely carved horsemen, and having consented to the
woman's request, allowed her to fasten our sashes securely over our
eyes; then, led by her, we slowly advanced through what appeared to be a
labyrinth of ways until we were stopped by someone who spoke to the
woman in a calm, grave tone. There was a whispered conversation between
the two, directly following which our eyes were uncovered, and we found
ourselves facing a strangely-robed hermit. His long white beard fell
almost to his waist, contrasting forcibly with the black garment which
covered him, while his high forehead and the steadfast look directed
towards us seemed to be in keeping with the hermit's strange
surroundings. A heap of blazing pine-wood lit up his retreat and served
to lessen the intense coldness of the air.
[Illustration: "WE FOUND OURSELVES FACING A STRANGELY-ROBED HERMIT."]
"You are Englishmen, and have promised to help Marie Lovetski to escape
from here to our next station of refuge," he said. "Since the day when
she fled she has been hidden in various of our secret places. Six months
ago she was brought here, yet so dangerous is the risk that we have
waited for the mujik's messengers, telling us that all is safe for her
to be conveyed there. He says in his message that you can be trusted,
and doubtless your passports will help you to accomplish the task more
easily than Russ or Pole could do. We trust, then, in your honour, that
once Marie Lovetski is in your keeping, you will die in her defence
rather than surrender her to the horrors of a mine."
We explained to the hermit the difficulty which the approaching duel
between Denviers and Rachieff might cause, and discussed with him the
possibility of overcoming it. Denviers was emphatic in his determination
to meet the Russian on the morrow, and so it was arranged that at a
certain hour Marie Lovetski should leave the catacombs and secretly
watch the result of the duel. If Denviers escaped uninjured we were to
mount our sledge and make for the spot where she would be stationed, and
hiding her beneath the wraps, to start on our long journey back to the
mujik who had intrusted us with the task of saving her.
"You will, of course, allow us to see this exile?" Denviers remarked, as
soon as everything was arranged. "It was for that purpose that we were
brought here to-night."
"Then your visit has been made in vain," was the unexpected reply. "It
will be time enough for you to do so if your duel with Rachieff is
successful."
We endeavoured to overcome the hermit's objection, but, although the
woman who had guided us there spoke strenuously on our behalf, the
strange guardian of Marie Lovetski was not to be persuaded from
following his own cautious plan. Finding our protests useless, we
consented to be blindfolded once more, and were led back through the
catacombs into the forest, and before long we had entered the log hut
again. There we threw ourselves on our sheepskin wraps in front of the
pine-wood fire, and laid down upon them to sleep; then, when daylight
came, the woman awoke us and we passed the morning vaguely wondering
what the result of the duel would be.
Denviers urged upon our guide, Hassan, and myself the necessity of
attempting to save the woman so long shut up in the dismal catacombs,
and at last I gave a reluctant consent to do so if he fell, instead of
making an attempt to avenge him. The Arab stolidly refused to do this,
and justified his position by numerous quotations from the Koran, while
declaring that Mahomet would certainly come to my companion's
assistance, which, in spite of the gravity of his position, provoked a
smiling retort from Denviers. Little did we know what the termination of
the fight would be, or the strange part in it which Marie Lovetski was
to have.
III.
"Hark, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan. "Although noon has not yet come, the
Russian is approaching to keep his promise to fight."
We threw open the door of the hut and distinguished the ringing sound of
the bells of a distant sledge. A few minutes after this the cracking of
a whip and the neighing of horses were heard, and finally we saw the
sledge appear before us. There were three occupants, and as it drew near
we distinguished among them General Rachieff as the one who was urging
on the horses. The conveyance dashed up to the hut; then one of the
officers sprang out and restrained the animals, while a second, who
carried a couple of swords, followed close behind Rachieff, with whom
Denviers was soon to try conclusions.
"The weapons are here," said General Rachieff, frigidly, as Denviers
approached and bowed slightly. "There is no time to lose: we fight with
swords as you see. Choose!" and he motioned to his second, who held them
out. Following out the plan which we had determined to adopt, Hassan
quickly placed our horses in our own sledge and drew them a little
ahead, so that the conveyance should be ready for us to enter when the
duel was ended, if my companion did not fall in the encounter.
"We fight there," said Denviers calmly, as he motioned to the part of
the plain to the right of where Hassan had already stationed our sledge.
"As you will," responded Rachieff indifferently, and, accompanied by his
second, he moved to the spot Denviers pointed out. There the usual
formalities were settled by the other officer and myself, whereupon the
two duellists made ready and waited for the signal to begin, which fell
to my lot to give.
I fluttered a handkerchief in the biting air for a moment, dropped it,
and the swords were rapidly crossed. The reputation which Rachieff had
won as a duellist was certainly well deserved, since his feints and
thrusts were admirable, while Denviers, whose coolness in critical
circumstances never deserted him, acted mainly on the defensive,
parrying his enemy's lunges with remarkable skill.
More than once the duellists stopped as if by mutual consent, to regain
breath, then quickly facing each other again, fought more determinedly
than ever. Rachieff saw that for once he had apparently met his match
with the sword, and grew by degrees more cautious than he had been when
the fight began; yet repeatedly he failed to completely ward off the
quick lunges from my companion's weapon, and I saw the crimson stains of
blood which marked where the sword point had touched him. Then he rained
in his blows with lightning speed, pressing hard upon Denviers several
times, and glaring furiously at him, while his distorted features showed
plainly enough the mark of the blow he had received from the whip the
day previous.
"Rachieff wins!" cried the Russian's second, and I saw, to my dismay,
Denviers's weapon suddenly twisted from his hand and flung into the air,
while an exultant exclamation burst from Rachieff's lips as he rushed
upon his defenceless opponent! Before he could make use of the advantage
which he had unexpectedly gained, Marie Lovetski uttered a wild,
mournful cry, and started forward from the pine forest, standing pale
with momentary fear before him!
The superstitious Russian stared incredulously, his sword-arm dropped to
his side, while he gasped out:--
"Lovetski's daughter, and yet she is surely dead!"
Taking full advantage of the Russian's dismay, Denviers instantly flung
himself upon his foe, dashing him backwards to the ground. Kneeling upon
his enemy's chest and gripping him by the throat, as he held the sword
he had seized before the startled Russian, my companion hissed in his
ear:--
"Yield, or you are a dead man!"
The Russian's face turned to a purple hue as he almost choked for
breath, then he muttered brokenly the exiled woman's name.
"She is living!" cried Denviers, as he lowered the point of the sword
till it touched the Russian's breast. "Swear that you will not attempt
to hinder her flight, and I will release your throat."
General Rachieff raised his hand in sign of assent, for his voice had
failed him. Denviers rose, whereupon the Russian staggered to his feet,
then, mad at his defeat, moved over to where his sledge was.
[Illustration: "HE RUSHED UPON HIS DEFENCELESS OPPONENT."]
"Get the woman into our sledge," cried Denviers to me. I started forward
to where Hassan was; we snatched up the exile and immediately drove off.
"After them, men!" cried Rachieff, caring nothing for his promise. "We
will take Marie Lovetski, or shoot her down!"
"Never trust a Russ, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan, as he lashed our horses
on, while our enemies followed furiously behind. "The only way to secure
his silence would have been a sword thrust through the false one's
heart."
Away our sledge was whirled across the plain, faster and faster still,
yet Rachieff, whose horses were more numerous than our own, drew
gradually nearer. Marie Lovetski, who had forgotten her alarm now that
Denviers was safe, turned her pale-set countenance towards our pursuers,
and, as she did so, the report of a pistol rang out, while a bullet
whizzed past her head! I saw Rachieff holding the smoking weapon in his
hand as Denviers cried to me:--
"If he fires again, I will shoot him like the dog that he is!"
"No," cried Marie Lovetski, snatching a pistol from my sash before I
could prevent her. "Rachieff slew Somaloff, my lover, and I will avenge
him." She pointed the weapon full at the Russian, and I barely had time
to brush her arm aside before the frenzied exile fired. Fortunately, the
shot was deflected, and Rachieff was saved from the fate that he
certainly deserved.
"Shoot their horses!" exclaimed Denviers, and as our own dashed along he
leant over towards the pursuing sledge and fired at the foremost of
them. The animal reared for a moment, then fell dead, throwing the rest
into confusion. Out the Russians sprang, and cut the traces through, and
having in this way speedily managed to disencumber their steeds of the
dead one, they immediately began the pursuit again. We waited for them
to get near again, then fired in quick succession and brought down their
other horses, in spite of the bullets which the Russians rained upon us,
and which, fortunately, struck none who were in the sledge. Baffled in
their pursuit, we saw our enemies standing knee-deep in the snow
watching us as we dashed along.
"Well," remarked Denviers, as we slackened our speed at last, "we have
had a strange running fight, such as I least of all expected."
"The sahibs have saved the woman," said our guide. "Their slave the Arab
believes that even the Great Prophet would approve of what they have
done. The promise to convey Marie Lovetski to the mujik's hut will now
surely be kept"; and so it came about, for the daughter of Lovetski the
Lost lived to find freedom hers on another soil and under another flag.
_Illustrated Interviews._
No. XXIII.--MR. HARRY FURNISS.
[Illustration: "INTERVIEWED!"]
It is the proud boast of every married man, and more particularly so
when his quiver is fairly full, that he presides over the happiest home
in the land. But there is a corner of Regent's Park where stands a house
whose four walls contain an amount of fun and unadulterated merriment,
happiness, and downright pleasure that would want a lot of beating. The
fact is that Mr. Harry Furniss is not only a merry man with his pencil.
Humour with him may mean a very profitable thing--it unquestionably
does; fun and frolic as depicted on paper by "Lika Joko" brings in, as
Digby Grant would put it, many "a little cheque." But I venture to think
that the clever caricaturist would not have half as many merry ideas
running from the mind to the pencil if he sold all his humour outside
and forgot to scatter a goodly proportion of it amongst his quartette of
children.
[Illustration: "MY LITTLE MODEL."]
[Illustration: "LITTLE GUY--OR, A FIDGETY MODEL."]
I had not been in the house five minutes before they made their presence
known. I had not been there a quarter of an hour before the discovery
was made that they were small but impressive editions of their father.
Have you heard of Harry Furniss's little model--"My Little Model"? She
is Dorothy, who sits for all the little girls in her father's pictures.
A clever, bright young woman of thirteen, with glorious auburn tresses.
For two or three years past she has not forgotten to write her father a
story, illustrated it herself, and duly presented it on his birthday.
"Buzzy," for that is her pet name, is retained as a model at a modest
honorarium per sitting. Should she be indisposed, she must find a
substitute! Then there is Frank, the eldest, home for his holidays just
now from Cheltenham; young Lawrence, who also draws capitally; and
little Guy, the youngest, who creeps into the pictures occasionally. Guy
is a very fidgety model. "I have drawn him in twenty different moves,
when trying to bribe him with a penny to sit!" said Mr. Furniss. And it
seemed to me--and one had an excellent opportunity of judging during a
too-quickly-passed day spent at Regent's Park--that not a small amount
of Mr. Furniss's humour was caught from the children. He has brought
them up to live a laughing life, he ignores the standing-in-the-corner
theory, and believes that a penny discreetly bestowed on a youngster
during a troubled moment will teach him a better lesson than a
shilling's-worth of stick. It is also evident that the brightness and
jollity of the children are inherited, not only from father, but mother
as well; and it was easy to discern, from the remarks that fell from the
subject of my interview, that the touches of artistic taste to be seen
about the place were due to the "best of wives and mothers"--immaculate
housewife and capital hostess--Mrs. Furniss. And, as Mr. Furniss himself
acknowledges, half the battle of life is overcome for a hard-worked
professional man by the possession of a sympathetic and careful wife.
[Illustration]
Just run through this budget of letters from father to children. When I
arrived at Regent's Park--ten minutes before my time, by-the-bye--Mr.
Furniss was out riding, a very favourite exercise with him. "Buzzy" and
Frank and Lawrence and Guy brought out their treasured missives. When
"Lika Joko" gets a pen or pencil in his hand he can't help caricaturing.
These juvenile missives were decorated with sketches in every corner.
Here is a particularly merry one. Frank writes from Cheltenham for some
fret-work patterns. Patterns are sent by return of post--the whole
family is sent in fret-work. Mr. Furniss goes away to Hastings,
suffering from overwork. He has to diet himself. Then comes a letter
illustrated at the top with a certain gentleman greatly reduced in face
and figure through following Dr. Robson Roose's admirable advice. There
are scores of them--all neatly and carefully kept with their envelopes
in scrap-books.
Some few days afterwards I discovered that Mr. Furniss delights in
"illustrating" his letters to others besides his children. My photo was
needed by Mr. Furniss for the purpose of making a sketch. I sent him a
recent one. He wanted a "profile" too. The "profile" was taken when I
was sadly in need of the application of the scissors of the tonsorial
artist. I posted the "profile" with a request that perhaps Mr. Furniss
would kindly apply his artistic shears and cut off a little of the
surplus hair. By return comes an illustrated missive. I am sitting in a
barber's chair, cloth round neck; the artist is behind me with the
customary weapon, and laying low the locks. The whole thing probably
only took a minute or two to do, but it is a capital little bit of
drawing. It is reproduced at the end of this article.
This quarter of an hour spent with the youngsters over their paternal
letters was not lost. It prepared me for the man himself, it gave me the
true clue to his character, and when he rushed into the house--riding
boots and whip included--it was just the one the children had
unanimously realized for me. A jolly, hearty, "give us your hand" sort
of individual, somewhat below the medium height, with a face as merry as
one of his own pages in _Punch_. He is restless--he must be always at
it. He thinks and talks rapidly: there is no hesitation about him. He
gets a happy thought. Out it comes--unique and original in its
unvarnished state. He is as good and thorough a specimen of an
Englishman as one would meet--frank and straight-spoken, says what he
thinks and thinks what he means. An Englishman, notwithstanding the fact
that he was born in Ireland, his mother was a Scotchwoman, and he
married a lady of Welsh descent! But, then, his father was a
Yorkshireman! So much for the man--and much more. Of his talents we will
speak later.
We all sat down to lunch, and the children simply did for me what I
could not have done for myself. Frank ran his father on funny stories.
Then it all came out. Mr. Furniss is an excellent actor--had he not been
a caricaturist he must have been a comedian. His powers of imitation are
unlimited. He will give you an Irish jarvey one moment and Henry Irving
the next, and the children led him on. But it all at once dawned upon
Mr. Furniss that it was interfering with the proper play of knife and
fork, so we dispensed with the mimicry and went on with the mutton.
[Illustration]
"Lika Joko" is suggested at once on entering the hall. Here are a
quartette of quaint Japanese heads, which their owner calls his "Fore
Fathers!" His Fellowship of the Zoo is typified by pictures of various
animals. A fine etching of St. Mark's, at Venice, is also noticeable,
the only two portraits being a Rembrandt and Maroni's "Tailor."
"I always hold that up as the best portrait ever painted," said Mr.
Furniss, as he glances at Maroni's masterpiece.
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
In the dining-room Landseer, Herkomer, Alma Tadema, and Burton Barber
are represented--little Lawrence was the original study for the child in
the latter artist's "Bethgelert." Fred Barnard's work is here, and some
quaint old original designs on wood by Boyd Haughton are pointed out as
curios. _Punch_ is to the front, notably in Du Maurier, by himself,
which cost its possessor thirty guineas; a portrait group of the staff
up the river, some delicate water-colours by C. H. Bennett, and a fine
bit of work by Mr. Furniss of the jubilee dinner of the threepenny comic
at the Ship Hotel, Greenwich. Upstairs the children's portraits, and
pictures likely to please the youngsters, reappear. The nursery is full
of them, though perhaps the most interesting apartment in this part of
the house is the principal bedroom. It is full of the original
caricatures of M.P.'s and other notabilities, and the occupant of the
bed has Bradlaugh and the Baron de Worms on either side of him, whilst
from a corner the piercing eye of Mr. George Lewis is constantly on the
watch.
A striking portrait of Mr. F. C. Burnand recalls to Mr. Furniss the
first time he sketched him.
"I was making a chalk drawing of him," said the caricaturist. "He sat
with his back to me for half-an-hour writing, and suddenly turned round
and wanted to know if I had finished! Perceiving a piece of bread for
rubbing-out purposes in my hand, he objected to my having lunch there!
And finally, when I induced him to turn his head my way and I finished
the sketch, he looked at it critically and cried out, 'Splendid
likeness, remarkable features, fine head, striking forehead,
characteristic eyebrow, splendid likeness; somebody I know, but I can't
remember who!' Encouraging, wasn't it?
"But I remembered it. Some years after I gave a dinner at the Garrick
Club to the _Punch_ staff and some friends. Burnand sat at the head of a
long table. It was understood that there was to be no speaking. Suddenly
I saw the editorial eyebrows wriggling. I knew what it meant--Burnand
was going to make a speech. I hurriedly got about a dozen sheets of
note-paper, and tore them in bits. I jumped up very nervous, produced
'notes'; terrible anxiety on part of diners--suppressed groans. I spoke,
got fearfully muddled, constantly losing notes, etc. 'Art amongst the
Greeks,' I said--notes; 'yes, your sculptors of Athens were,
unquestionably'--notes again. 'And what of it? _Punch_ is a--_Punch_ is
a--well, you all know _what Punch_ is!' Then it began to dawn upon them
that this was a little lark. So I hurriedly threw notes under the table
and suggested that on an occasion like the present it was our duty to
first propose the health of the Queen! We did. Then the Prince of Wales,
the Army and Navy, the Reserve Forces, the Bishops and Magistrates. All
these were replied to, and Burnand didn't get a chance!"
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
There are many delightful water-colours in the drawing-room, bronzes and
quaint Japanese ivories. The first meet of the "Two Pins Club" at
Richmond, June 8th, 1890, gives excellent back views of Sir Charles
Russell, F. C. Burnand, Frank Lockwood, Q.C., Linley Sambourne, Chas.
Matthews, Q.C., and the caricaturist himself. The "Two Pins" is a riding
club named after Dick Turpin and Johnny Gilpin. Works by Goodall and
Rowlandson are here, a fine Albert Dürer, and a most ingenious bit of
painting by a man who never had a chance to get to the front--he has
used his brush with excellent effect on the back of an old band-box.
Mary Anderson has written on the back of a photo, "Better late than
never," for the picture was a long time coming; another excellent
example of photographic work being a large head of Mr. Irving as
"Becket," bearing his autograph. In a corner is a queer-looking wax
model of Daniel O'Connell addressing the crowd, and amongst a hundred
little odds and ends spring flowers are peeping out. Mr. Furniss finds
little time now to use his paint-box. The example--an early one,
by-the-bye--he has contributed to this apartment is by no means
prophetic. It is a trifle in water-colours--a graveyard of a church with
countless tombstones! Now, who would associate the caricaturist with
tombstones?
[Illustration: THE STUDIO.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Passing down a glass corridor--from the roof of which the grapes hang in
great and luscious clusters in the autumn--you reach the studio. It is
a big, square room. Run your eyes round the walls, try to take in its
thousand and one quaint treasures. You can see humour in every one of
them--merriment oozes out of every single item. Stand before this almost
colossal statue of Venus. She of the almost faultless waist and
fashion-plate divine rests on a coal-box. Sit down on the sofa. It is
the stuffed lid of another receptacle for fuel. Golf is one of the
artist's hobbies, and he invariably plays with clergymen--excellent
thing for the character. We light our cigars from a capital little
match-stand modelled out of a golf-ball, and the next instant "Lika
Joko" is juggling with three or four balls. A clever juggler, forsooth.
And the battledore and shuttlecock? Excellent exercise. After a long
spell of work, the battledore is seized and the shuttlecock bounces up
to the glass roof. It went through the other day, hence play has been
postponed owing to the numerous engagements of the local glazier.
Fencing foils are in a corner; a quaint arrangement of helmets, masks,
and huge weapons _à la_ Waterloo suggests "scalping trophies." The china
is curious--there is even an empty ginger jar--picked up in country
places, of a rare and valuable old-fashioned type. He has the finest
collection of old tinsel pictures of the Richard III. and Dick Turpin
order in the kingdom, and values an old book full of tinsel patterns of
the most exquisite design and workmanship. Old glass pictures are
scattered about, "Lord Nelson's Funeral Car," and Joey Grimaldi grins at
you from the far corner of the room.
[Illustration: SCALPING TROPHIES.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
All this and much more is characteristic of the humour of the famous
caricaturist. We look at "Lika Joko's" skits and laugh; we take a
delight in picking out from his ingenious pictorial mazes our own
particular politician or favourite actor; we roar at "Lika Joko's"
comicality, and only know him as a caricaturist. But there is another
side to this studio picture--Mr. Harry Furniss's pencil is such that it
can make you weep; so realistic, indeed, that when in his early days he
was sent to sketch scenes of distress and misery, they were so terribly
real and dramatic that the paper in question dared not publish them. No
artist appreciates a "situation" better than he. I looked through
portfolio after portfolio, drawer after drawer--full of character
studies and work of a serious character done in all parts of the world.
These have never been given to the public. Should they ever be
published, Mr. Harry Furniss will at once be voted as serious and
dramatic an artist as he is an eminently refined yet outrageously
humorous caricaturist. He is a great reader--he once collected first
editions. We begin to talk seriously, when he suddenly closes the
portfolio with a bang, shuts up once more his hidden and unknown
talents, and hastens to inform you that he is a member of the Thirteen
Club--Irving and he were elected together--and believes in helping other
people to salt, dining thirteen on the thirteenth, with thirteen
courses, etc. Always passes under ladders, and swears by peacocks'
feathers.
We stand before the great easel in the middle of the room--though not
much work is done there. He prefers to work standing at a desk. He draws
all his pictures very large; they are studies from life. It prevents the
work from getting cramped. The same model has stood for all his
principal people for the last ten years, and he has a wardrobe of
artistic "props" big enough to fit out every member of the House of
Commons. He is a perfect business man. His ledger is a model book. Every
one of his pictures is numbered. In this book spaces are ruled off
for--Subject, Publisher, When delivered, Published, Price, When paid,
When drawing returned, Price of original, and What came of it. Humour by
no means knocks system out of a man. Look at the score of pigeon-holes
round the studio. As we are talking together now his secretary is
"typing off" his illustrated weekly letter which finds a place in the
_St. James's Budget_, _New York World_, _Weekly Scotsman_, _Yorkshire
Weekly Post_, _Liverpool Weekly Post_, _Nottinghamshire Guardian_,
_South Wales Daily News_, _East Anglian Times_, and in Australia, India,
the Cape, etc. He writes children's books and illustrates them. His
impressions of America are in course of preparation. There is his weekly
_Punch_ work; he is dodging about all over the country giving his unique
"Humours of Parliament" entertainment, and he found time to make some
special sketches for this little article.
[Illustration: _From a Drawing by Mr. Furniss._]
We sat down. Tea was brought in--he believes in two big breakfast cups
every afternoon--and with "Bogie," the Irish deerhound--so called owing
to his very solemn-looking countenance--close by, Mr. Furniss went back
as far as he could possibly remember, to March 26th, 1854. That is the
date of his birthday.
"I am always taken for an Irishman," said Mr. Furniss. "Nothing of the
kind. My father was a Yorkshireman. He was in Ireland with my mother,
and I believe I arrived at an unexpected moment. Possibly my artistic
inclinations came through my mother. Her father was Æneas Mackenzie, a
well-known literary man of Newcastle-on-Tyne, and proprietor of several
newspapers. He founded the Newcastle School of Politics, and Mr. Joseph
Cowen--as a boy--got his first tuition in politics from sitting at the
knee of my grandfather. A bust of him is in the Mechanics'
Institute--which he founded."
[Illustration: "AT WORK."
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Little Harry was brought up in Wexford. He remembers being held up in
his nurse's arms to see the _Great Eastern_ pass on its first voyage,
whilst an incident associated with the marriage of the Prince of Wales
is vividly impressed upon his mind. He was struck on the top of his hat
by a "fizzing devil" made out of moist powder, which burnt a hole
through it. He says that he would rather have this recollection on his
mind now, than the "fizzer" on his head at the time. The young artist in
embryo was a rare young pugilist at school. He was forced to use his
fists, as friction was strong between the Irish and English lads at the
school he went to. But he did well in athletic sports, and was never
beaten in a hundred yards race. He firmly believes that this early
athletic training is responsible for the rapid way in which he does
everything to-day--be it walking or talking, eating or working, all is
done on the hundred yards principle--to get there first.
He was a spoilt boy--first of all because he was sent to a girls'
school, but mainly from a very significant incident which happened at
the Wesleyan College School in Dublin--a collegiate establishment from
which pupils (not necessarily Wesleyans, for Mr. Furniss is not of that
sect) passed to Trinity College--where he obtained all his education. He
was not a studious lad. He found the editing, writing, illustrating,
publishing, and entire bringing-out of a small journal he founded far
more agreeable to his taste than Latin verbs and algebraical problems.
[Illustration: STUDY OF AN IRISHMAN.]
"I was in knickerbockers at the time," he said, "and introduced to the
schoolboy public--_The Schoolboy's Punch_. It sounds strangely prophetic
as I think of it now. The entire make-up of it was _à la Punch_, and it
had its cartoon every week. At that time the Davenport Cabinet Trick was
all the rage, and the very first cartoon I drew was founded on that.
Here is the picture: myself--as a schoolboy--being tied up with ropes
depictive of Greek, Latin, Euclid, and other cutting and disagreeable
items. I am placed in the cabinet--the school. The head-master, whom I
flattered very much in the drawing, opens another cabinet and out steps
the young student covered with glory and scholastic honours thick upon
him! From that moment my school-master spoiled me. I left school and
started work. I got a pound for my first drawing. A. M. Sullivan started
a paper in Ireland on very similar lines to _Punch_. There was a wave in
Ireland of better class journalism at this time which had never existed
before or since. I slipped in. For some years I drew on wood and
engraved my own work. I was given to understand that all black and white
men engraved their own efforts, so I offered myself as an apprentice to
an engraver.
"He said: 'Don't come as an apprentice. If you will undertake to look
after my office, I'll teach you the art of engraving.'"
It meant a hard struggle for young Furniss. He was loaded down with
clerical work, but in his own little room, when the day's labours were
done, he would sit up till two and three in the morning. There was no
quenching his earnestness. Work then with him was a real desire. It is
so to-day. To rest is obnoxious to him.
He worked away. The feeling in Ireland against Englishmen at that time
was very strong. Tom Taylor, then the editor of _Punch_, saw some of his
sketches in Dublin, and advised him to go to the West of Ireland to make
studies of character. He was in Galway, and he had persuaded a number of
Irishmen who were breaking stones to pause in their work and let him
sketch them. They consented. The overseer came up.
"What d'yer mane," he cried, "allowing this hathen Saxon to draw yer?"
"I've never been out of Ireland in my life," said the artist; but the
overseer had seized him, and but for the intervention of the men, whom
he had paid liberally for the "sitting," he would have thrown him into
the river.
Then a great trouble came. His father was stricken with blindness. The
young man came to London, and with something more than the proverbial
half-crown in his pocket. He was nineteen years of age when he hurried
out of Euston Station one morning and stood for a moment thinking--for
he did not know a soul in the Metropolis. But he soon found an
opportunity.
"My first work was on _London Society_, for Florence Marryat," he said;
"then for the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News_. The _Illustrated
London News_ employed me. I did such things as the Boat Race, Eton and
Harrow cricket match, and similar subjects--all from a humorous point of
view. I have had as many as three full pages in one number. Then came
that terrible distress in the mining districts. I was married that year.
I was sent away to "do" the Black Country, and well remember eating the
first Christmas dinner of my married life alone in a Sheffield hotel.
[Illustration: MR. FURNISS ON "RHODA."
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"Those sketches were never published. They were too terribly real. The
people dying in rooms with scarcely a stick of furniture, the children
opening the cupboards and showing them bare, appealed to me, and my
pencil refused to depict anything else. It was the same kind of thing
that was afterwards made notorious by Sims and Barnard in "How the Poor
Live." I came back and was selected to do some electioneering work for
the same paper. This necessitated the putting off of a little dinner
party to some friends, and I wired one of the invited to that effect.
When I was starting, imagine my surprise to meet a _Graphic_ artist on
the platform, and to hear that my friend had unwisely given away the
contents of my telegram! However, we chummed up. He stayed with
friends--I at an hotel. I sat up all that night working after attending
the meetings. At four o'clock I heard a knock at the door. A journalist.
I was just about to put into my picture the large figures. I made him
very much at home, and told him I would give him any information I knew
as to the previous night's proceedings if he would act as my model. He
did. We worked on till breakfast time, and we sat down together. I sent
off my page--it was in a week before the _Graphic_! It was a good
return. I had started on the Tuesday, got home on the Thursday, and
never had my boots off the whole time! I'd rather keep my boots on for a
week than disappoint an editor."
_Punch!_
I asked Mr. Furniss if Tom Taylor helped him to any considerable extent.
Oh! dear, no. Tom Taylor wrote a terrible fist, spattered the page all
over with ink, and invariably replied on the back of the letter sent
him. At least, it was so in Mr. Furniss's case. He would send sketches
to _Punch_; they were acknowledged as "unsuitable." They invariably
turned up a week or so later--the idea re-drawn by a member of the
staff! He began to despair. But that first cartoon in the schoolboy's
periodical was always before him.
"When Mr. Burnand became editor," continued Mr. Furniss, "I was working
on the _Illustrated London News_. He saw one of the sketches and asked
me to call--the result was that I have worked for them ever since. I
started at very small things; my first was a small drawing of Temple
Bar. Then, when Parliament opened, Mr. H. W. Lucy commenced
_Toby_--by-the-bye, Lucy and I both joined the _Punch_ table, the weekly
dinner, together--and I worked with him. I have special permission at
the House; as a matter of fact, I have the sanction of the Lord Great
Chamberlain to sketch anywhere in the precincts of Westminster. My right
there is an individual one."
"But supposing, Mr. Furniss," I said, "they put a stop to you and your
pencil entering?"
"I'd go into Parliament!" came the ready reply. And, indeed, he has been
approached on this subject by constituencies two or three times.
We spoke of some of the eminent statesmen and others Mr. Furniss has
caricatured. Mr. John Morley is the most difficult. He is not what an
artist would call a black and white man. You must suggest the familiar
red tie in your picture and then you have "caught" him.
[Illustration: THE FURNISS FAMILY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"I have seen Mr. Morley look a boy, a young man, and an old man--and all
in an hour," said Mr. Furniss. "Mr. Asquith is difficult, too. But I
don't think I have ever missed him, as there's a Penley look about his
face and a decided low comedian's mouth that help you immensely. Sir
Richard Temple is the easiest. Many members have some characteristic
action which assists you materially. For instance, Mr. Joseph Arch
always wipes his hands down his coat before shaking hands with you,
whilst Mr. Goschen delights to play with his eye-glass when speaking.
Lord Randolph Churchill likes to indulge in a little acrobatic exercise
and balance himself on one foot, whilst Mr. Balfour hangs on
persistently to the lapel of his coat when talking. All these little
things help to 'mark' the man for the caricaturist. I invented
Gladstone's collar and made Churchill small. Not because he is small,
but because I think it is the caricaturist's art not so much to give an
absolutely correct likeness, but rather to convey the character and
value of the man through the lines you draw. Gladstone! A wonderful man
for the caricaturist, and one of the finest. I have sat and watched the
rose in his coat droop and fade, his hair become dishevelled with
excitement, and his tie get round to the back of his neck."
"And what do the wives of our estimable M.P.'s think of all this?" I
hinted.
"Oh! I get most abusive letters from both sides. Wives of members write
and ask me not to caricature their husbands. One lady wrote to me the
other day, and said if I would persist in caricaturing her husband,
would I put him in a more fashionable coat? Now, this particular member
is noted for the old-fashioned cut of the coats he wears. Another asked
me to make the sharer of her joys and sorrows better looking; whilst
only last week a lady--the wife of a particularly well-known
M.P.--addressed a most plaintive letter to me, saying that since some of
the younger members of her family had contrived to see my pictures they
had become quite rude to their papa!
"Why, members often _ask_ me to caricature them. One member was very
kindly disposed to me, and suggested that I should keep my eye on him. I
did. Yet he cut me dead when he saw his picture! It's so discouraging,
don't you know, when you are so anxious to oblige."
I asked Mr. Furniss if he thought there was anything suggestive of
cruelty in caricature.
"Not in this country," he replied; "in Spain, Italy, and France--yes.
Caricaturists there score off their cruelty. Listen to this. One night I
was in the House. Mr. Gladstone rose to speak. He held his left hand up
and referred to it as 'This old Parliamentary hand.' I noticed a
fact--which men who had sat in that House for years had never seen. On
that left hand Mr. Gladstone has only three fingers! Think of it--think
of what your caricaturist with an inclination towards cruelty might have
made of that fact, coupled with those significant words! I ask you
again--think of it!"
He spoke in thorough earnestness. He told me that he looked forward to
the time when he should consign to the rag-basket the famous Gladstone
collar and cease to play with Goschen's eye-glass. He is striving to
accomplish something more--he would do it now, but it isn't marketable.
Mr. Furniss is a sensible man. He caricatures to live; and, if the
laughs follow, well, so much the better.
The afternoon passed rapidly, and the studio became darker and darker.
Venus on the coal-box looked quite ghostly, and a lay figure in the far
corner was not calculated to comfort the nervously-inclined when amongst
the "props" of an artist's studio. "Buzzy" merrily rushed in and
announced dinner, and "Bogie" jumped up and barked his raptures at the
word. "Bogie" knew it meant scraps. Mrs. Furniss and the children met us
at the dining-room door. The youngsters' faces were as solemn as the
Court of Queen's Bench. Little Lawrence looked up at me very demurely,
the others waiting anxiously.
"Please could you tell us what a spiral staircase is?" he asked.
A dead silence.
"Oh!" I answered, anxious to show a superior knowledge of these
peculiarly constructed "ups and downs," "It's--it's--it's one of those
twirley-whirley"--here I illustrated my meaning by twirling my finger
round and round.
A shout of laughter went up.
If the reader will try this little joke on a score of people, by the
time the twentieth is arrived at he will then discover why the happiest
quartette of youngsters in the immediate vicinity of Primrose Hill
laughed so gaily.
Then we all went in to dinner. How well the shirt-cuff story went down
with the soup.
"Pellegrini," said the artist, "used to remark somewhat sarcastically to
his brother artists: 'Ah, you fellows are always making sketches. I
carry all mine here--here in my brain!' Pellegrini wore very big cuffs.
He made his sketches on them. Until this came out we thought his linen
always dirty!"
[Illustration: BALLYHOOLY, M.P., GETS EXCITED.]
Then Burnand came on with the beef. The two fellow-workers on
_Punch_--Mr. Burnand and Mr. Furniss--run pretty level in their ideas. A
happy thought is often suggested to both of them through reading the
same paragraph in a newspaper, and they cross in the post. We spoke of
_Punch's_ Grand Old Man--John Tenniel--of clever E. J. Milliken, whose
really wonderful work is yet but little known. Mr. Milliken wrote
"Childe Chappie"--and is "'Arry." Of Linley Sambourne, whom Mr. Furniss
once saw walking down Bond Street, and had the strange intuition that he
was the artist, connecting his work, and walk, and bearing together. He
had never seen or spoken to him before. Charles Keene's name was
mentioned. It was always the hardest matter to get Keene to make a
speech. He far preferred the famous stump of a pipe to spouting. Mr.
Furniss hurt Keene's feelings once with the happiest and kindest of
compliments. It was at a little dinner party, and Mr. Furniss linked
Keene's name with that of Robert Hunter--who did so much to provide open
spaces for the people. He referred to Keene as "the greatest provider of
open spaces!" Keene said he was never so grossly insulted--he never
forgave Mr. Furniss. He failed to see the truly charming inference to be
drawn from this remark.
[Illustration: "THE ASSASSINATED SCARECROW, SOR!"]
We went into the drawing-room, and together ran through the pages of a
huge volume. It contained the facsimiles of the pictures which comprised
one of Mr. Furniss's biggest hits--what was in reality an attack on the
Royal Academy. His "Artistic Joke"--a sub-title given to this exhibition
by the _Times_ in a long preliminary notice--created a sensation six
years ago. He attacked the Royal Academy in a good-natured way, because
he was not himself a member of that influential body. But there was a
more solid and serious reason. "I saw how cruel they were to younger
men," he said; "the long odds against a painter getting his work
exhibited, the indiscriminate selection of canvases."
This really great effort on the part of Mr. Furniss--this idea to
caricature the style of the eminent artists of the day--kept him at work
for more than two years. There were eighty-seven canvases in all. His
friends came and went, but they saw nothing of the huge canvases hidden
away in his studio. He worked at such a rate that he became nervous of
himself. He would go to bed at night. He would wake to find himself
cutting the style of an R.A. to pieces in his studio at early morn--in a
state of semi-somnambulism. He fired his "Artistic Joke" off, the shot
went home, and the effect was a startler for many people and in many
places. It advanced Mr. Furniss in the world of art in a way he never
expected, and did not a little for those he sought to benefit. One of
these "jokes"--and a very dramatic one--is reproduced in these pages.
The hour or two passed in the little drawing-room after dinner was
delightful. We had his unique platform entertainment. Mr. Furniss was
induced by the Birmingham and Midland Institute to appear on the
platform as a lecturer. This was followed by his lecturing for two
seasons all over the country, but finding that the Institutes made huge
profits out of his efforts, and that his anecdotes and mimicry were the
parts most relished, he abandoned the role of lecturer for that of
entertainer with "The Humours of Parliament." As soon as he had crushed
the idea that it was a lecture, people flocked to hear his anecdotes and
to watch his acting, the result of his first short tour resulting in a
clear profit of over £2,000.
[Illustration: DRAWING FROM "AN ARTISTIC JOKE."]
So it came about that young Frank closed his foreign stamp book, and
"Buzzy" settled down in a corner by her mother's side and looked the
little model she is. "Bogie" lay on the hearth-rug. Suddenly--we were
all in "The House." We heard the young member make his maiden speech; we
watched the mournful procession of the Speaker. Mr. Gladstone appeared
upon the scene--he walked the room, and in a merry sort of way played
with "Buzzy's" long curls--and took an intense interest in Frank's
collection of foreign stamps. "Bogie" was evidently inclined to break
out in a loud bark of presumable applause when the Irish member rose to
his legs--the member for Ballyhooly--who had a question to ask the Chief
Secretary for Ireland regarding an assassinated scarecrow! The reply did
not satisfy him, and the Ballyhooly M.P. poured forth such a torrent of
abuse upon the Chief Secretary's head that "Bogie's" bark came forth in
boisterous tones just as the Speaker called the Irish representative to
order!
"What a hissing there was at one of my entertainments at Leicester,"
said the humorist-caricaturist looking across at me with twinkling eyes.
"A terrible hissing! I showed Mr. Gladstone on the sheet. Immediately it
burst forth like a suddenly alarmed steam-engine. The audience rose in
indignation--they tried to outdo it with frantic applause, but in spite
of their lusty efforts it continued for several minutes.
"'Turn him out--turn him out!' they cried. But we couldn't find the
party who was acting so rudely.
"Imagine my feelings next morning when I saw in the papers leading
articles speaking in strong terms of this occurrence, which, one of
them stated in bold type--'was a disgrace to the people of Leicester.'"
"Bogie" rose from the hearth-rug, wagged his tail, and made his exit.
"Good night, Buz."
"Good night, Frank."
"And did they ever discover this very unseemly person?" I asked Mr.
Furniss when we were alone.
"Oh! I forgot to tell you," he said, "that it was the hissing of the
lime in my magic lantern!"
HARRY HOW.
[Illustration: Telegraphic Address, Likajoko, London]
_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._
[Illustration: AGE 10.
_From a Photo. by W. Andrews, Dublin._]
[Illustration: Age 20.
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
HARRY FURNISS.
BORN 1854.
At ten years old Mr. Furniss was a pupil at the Wesleyan College School
at Dublin, where he started and edited _The Schoolboy's Punch_, in the
manner described in the extremely interesting interview which appears in
the present number. At twenty he had just come up to London, and was
working for the illustrated papers. At twenty-six he joined the staff of
_Punch_, with which his name has ever since been intimately connected.
[Illustration: AGE 26.
_From a Photo. by C. Watkins, Camden Road, N.W._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by Debenham & Gould._]
[Illustration: AGE 17.
_From a Photo, by A. Adams, Aberdeen._]
[Illustration: AGE 24.
_From a Photo. by John Lamb, Aberdeen._]
SIR GEORGE REID, P.R.S.A.
BORN 1842.
Sir George Reid, P.R.S.A., was born in Aberdeen, N.B., in the year 1842,
and when nineteen years of age commenced his artistic studies at the
"Trustees' Academy," in the City of Edinburgh, and shortly afterwards in
Utrecht, under Mollinger. In 1870 he quitted the latter place for Paris,
where he continued his studies; and for several months in 1871 completed
his student life with Israels, at The Hague. He has proved himself a
true artist, and proficient in all departments--both figure and
landscape. Latterly he has applied himself to portrait painting, in
which he finds few competitors. He has done much in the way of book
illustrating. He was elected an Associate of the Royal Scottish Academy
in 1870, and a full member seven years afterwards, receiving on the
death of Sir W. Fettes Douglas the unanimous call of his brethren to
occupy the chair as President.
[Illustration: AGE 36.
_From a Photo. by John Lamb, Aberdeen._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo. by A. Inglis, Edinburgh._]
COLIN HUNTER, A.R.A.
BORN 1841.
[Illustration: AGE 15.
_From a Daguerreotype._]
Colin Hunter, A.R.A., was born in Glasgow, July 16, 1841, and is the son
of John Hunter, bookseller and postmaster, of Helensburgh. He was
educated in that town, and began painting at twenty years of age, after
four years' clerkship. His education as a painter was derived from
Nature. Mr. Hunter was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy in
January, 1884, and is also a Member of the Royal Scottish Water Colour
Society.
[Illustration: AGE 24.
_From a Photo. by Ovinius-Davis, Glasgow._]
[Illustration: AGE 32.
_From a Photo. by Fradelle & Marshall, London._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: AGE 20.
_From a Drawing by Carl Hartmann._]
SIR FREDERICK AUGUSTUS ABEL, BART., K.C.B., D.C.L., F.R.S.
BORN 1827.
[Illustration: AGE 28.
_From a Photo. by Maull & Co., London._]
Sir Fredk. A. Abel, Bart., who has lately been prominent before the
public in connection with the recent opening of the Imperial Institute,
of which he has been Organizing Secretary from 1887, was born in London
in 1827, and is known principally in connection with chemistry and
explosives. His published works are: "The Modern History of Gunpowder,"
1866; "Gun Cotton," 1866; "On Explosive Agents," 1872, "Researches in
Explosives," 1875; and "Electricity Applied to Explosive Purposes,"
1884. He is also joint-author with Colonel Bloxam of a "Handbook of
Chemistry." Sir Frederick Abel has been President of the Institute of
Chemistry, the Society of Chemical Industry, and the Society of
Telegraph Engineers and Electricians. He was appointed Associate Member
of the Ordnance Committee in 1867; and is Chemist to the War Department
and likewise Chemical Referee to the Government. In 1883 he was one of
the Royal Commissioners on Accidents in Mines, and was President of the
British Association at the Leeds meeting, 1890. He was created C.B. in
1877, Hon. D.C.L., Oxford, in 1883, knighted in the same year, and
raised to the rank of Baronet at the opening of the Imperial Institute.
[Illustration: AGE 50.
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: AGE 65.
_From a Photo. by Barraud, London._]
LORD KELVIN.
BORN 1824.
[Illustration: AGE 28.
_From a Photograph._]
William Thomson, Lord Kelvin, was born at Belfast on the 26th of June,
1824. His father was a distinguished mathematician, and was Professor of
Mathematics, first in Belfast, and afterwards in Glasgow University. At
a very early age, Lord Kelvin showed extraordinary mathematical ability;
and he passed with great distinction, first through the University of
Glasgow, and then through Cambridge, where he gained the Second
Wranglership and the first Smith's Prize. He became Professor of Natural
Philosophy in the University of Glasgow in 1846, at the age of
twenty-two; and he still holds that office. He was one of the pioneer
band who laid the first successful Atlantic cable, in 1858. In 1866 Her
Majesty conferred the honour of knighthood on him for his distinguished
services to the science and practice of submarine telegraphy. Lord
Kelvin is the author of many inventions. His mariner's compass and
sounding machine have done good service to seamen. His electrical
instruments are the standards all over the world. He is President of the
Royal Society and member of every important scientific society at home
and abroad. In January, 1892, the Queen conferred upon him his peerage.
He held the Colquhoun Sculls, at Cambridge, for two years. He is a
sailor at heart and an enthusiastic yachtsman; and, among amateurs, a
more keen lover of music it would be difficult to find.
[Illustration: AGE 45.
_From a Photo. by John Fergus, Largs._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: AGE 2.
_From a Painting._]
[Illustration: AGE 8.
_From a Photo. by R. Tudor Williams, Monmouth._]
[Illustration: AGE 40.
_From a Photo. by M. Guttenberg, Manchester._]
CARDINAL-ARCHBISHOP VAUGHAN.
BORN 1832.
His Eminence Herbert Vaughan, D.D., is the eldest son of the late
Lieut.-Colonel Vaughan, of Courtfield, Herefordshire, born at
Gloucester, April 15, 1832, and was educated at Stonyhurst College,
Lancashire, on the Continent, and in Rome. On the death of Bishop
Turner, he was elected Bishop of Salford, a post which he held until his
recent elevation to the rank of Cardinal-Archbishop.
[Illustration: AGE 25.
_From a Photo. by Jules Géruzet, Brussels._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo. by G. Felici, Rome._]
[Illustration: COLONEL VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by G. Borelli._]
[Illustration: JOHN S. VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by A. Sauvy._]
[Illustration: KENELM VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by Southwell Bros._]
[Illustration: REGINALD VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by Bradley & Rulofson._]
[Illustration: THE LATE COLONEL VAUGHAN.
_Father of Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster._
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: JOSEPH JEROME VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by Bara._]
[Illustration: BERNARD VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by G. Jerrard._]
[Illustration: ROGER BEDE VAUGHAN.
_From a Photo. by J. H. Newman._]
THE FATHER AND BROTHERS OF CARDINAL-ARCHBISHOP VAUGHAN.
ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO
XII.--ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The accipitral birds are the eagles, the vultures, the falcons, the
owls--all those birds that bite and tear unhappy mammals as well as
birds of more peaceful habits than themselves. They have all, it will be
observed, Roman noses, which may be the reason why the Romans adopted
the eagle as a standard; as also it may not. They have striking
characteristics of their own, and have been found very useful by poets
and other people who have to wander off the main subject to make plain
what they mean. The owl is the wiseacre of Nature, the vulture is a vile
harpy, and the eagle is the embodiment of everything great and mighty,
and glorious and free, and swooping and catoptrical. There is very
little to say against the eagle, except that he looks a deal the better
a long way off, like an impressionist picture or a volcano. When the
eagle is flying and swooping, or soaring and staring impudently at the
sun, or reproaching an old feather of his own in the arrow that sticks
in his chest, or mewing his mighty youth (a process I never quite
understood)--when he is doing noble and poetical things of this class at
an elevation of a great many thousand feet above the sea level he is
sublime. When you meet him down below, on his feet, much of the
sublimity is rubbed off.
[Illustration: CHARLEY.]
[Illustration: CORNS,--]
[Illustration: BUNIONS,--]
[Illustration: CHILBLAINS, OR--]
[Illustration: IKINESS?]
There is only one eagle in the world with whom I can claim anything like
a confidential friendship, although I know many. His name is Charley.
If, after a chat with Bob the Bactrian, you will turn your back to the
camel-house and walk past the band-stand toward the eagles' aviaries,
you will observe that the first corner cage is occupied by wedge-tailed
eagles--a most disrespectful name, by-the-bye, I think. There are
various perches, including a large tree-trunk, for these birds; but one
bird, the oldest in the cage, doesn't use them. He keeps on the floor by
the bars facing the place where Suffa Culli and Jung Perchad stand to
take up passengers, and looks out keenly for cats. That is Charley. He
is all right when you know him, is Charley, and I have it on the best
authority that there are no flies on him. A rat on the straggle has been
known to turn up in this aviary and run the gauntlet of all the
cages--till he reached Charley; nothing alive and eatable ever got past
_him_. I have all the esteem and friendship for Charley that any eagle
has a right to expect; but I can't admit the least impressiveness in his
walk. An eagle's feet are not meant to walk with, but to grab things. An
eagle's walk betrays a lamentable bandy-leggedness, and his toe-nails
click awkwardly against the ground. This makes him plant his feet
gingerly and lift them quickly, so that worthy old ladies suppose him to
be afflicted with lameness or bunions, an opinion which disgusts the
bird, as you may observe for yourself; for you will never find an eagle
in these Gardens submitting himself to be fondled by an old lady
visitor. It is by way of repudiating any suggestion of bunions that the
eagle adopts a raffish, off-hand, chickaleary sort of roll in the gait,
so that altogether, especially as viewed from behind, a walking eagle
has an appearance of perpetually knocking 'em in the Old Kent Road. On
Charley's next birthday I shall present him, I think, with a proper
pearly suit, with kicksies cut saucy over the trotters, and an artful
fakement down the side, if the Society will allow me.
[Illustration: A PASSING SNACK.]
[Illustration: DINNER AHOY!]
There is nothing in the world that pleases an eagle better at
dinner-time than a prime piece of cat. Charley tells me that, upon the
whole, he prefers a good, plump, mouse-fed tabby; he adds that he never
yet heard of a tame eagle being kept at a sausage shop, though he would
like a situation of that sort himself, very much. The stoop of a free
eagle as it takes a living victim is, no doubt, a fine thing, except for
the victim; but the grabbing of cut-up food here in captivity is merely
comic. The eagle, with his Whitechapel lurch, makes for the morsel and
takes it in his stride; then he stands on it in a manner somehow
suggesting pattens, and pecks away at the hair--if, luckily, he has
secured a furry piece. I am not intimate with any eagle but Charley, but
I am very friendly with all of them--golden, tawny, white-tailed, and
the rest, with their scowls and their odd winks--all but one other of
the wedge-tailers, who stays for ever at the top of the tree trunk and
looks out westward, trying to distinguish the cats in the gardens of St.
John's Wood; he is reserved as well as uppish, and I don't know him to
speak to.
[Illustration: UNCIVIL BAWLINGS.]
I am pretty intimate with many of the owls. The owl I know least is a
little Scops owl, kept alone in the insect-house. He has for next-door
neighbour a sad old reprobate--Cocky, the big Triton cockatoo--who
abuses him horribly. The fact is, they both occupy a recess which once
Cocky had all to himself, and now Cocky bullies the intruder up hill and
down dale; although little Scops would gladly go somewhere else if he
could, and takes no notice of Cocky's uncivil bawlings further than to
lift his near wing apprehensively at each outburst. He and I have not
been able to improve our acquaintance greatly, partly because he is out
of reach, and partly because Cocky's conversation occupies most of his
time.
[Illustration: WHAT!]
[Illustration: WELL--]
[Illustration: DID YOU EVER!]
[Illustration: OF ALL THE--!]
The Zoo owls are a lamentably scattered family. Another Scops owl, with
one eye, lives in the eastern aviary, in Church's care. He is a
charming, furious little ruffian (I am speaking of the owl, and not of
Church), and perfectly ready to peck any living thing, quite
irrespective of size. Where he lost his eye is a story of his own, for
he was first met with but one. He sits on his perch with a furious cock
of the ears--which are not ears at all, but feathers--with the aspect of
being permanently prepared to repel boarders; and the only thing that
could possibly add to his fierceness of appearance would be a patch over
the sight of the demolished eye; a little present I would gladly make
myself, if he would let me.
[Illustration: THE SCOWLING SCOPS.]
He lives just underneath a much less savage little Naked-foot Owl, who
doesn't resent your existence with his beak, but gazes at you with a
most extreme air of shocked surprise. He doesn't attack you bodily for
standing on this earth on your own feet--he is too much grieved and
scandalized. He looks at you as a teetotal lady of the Anti-Gambling
League would look at her nephew if he offered to toss her for whiskies.
He follows you with his glare of outraged propriety till you shrink
behind Church and sneak away, with an indescribable feeling of personal
depravity previously unknown. Why should this pharisaical little bird
make one feel a criminal? As a matter of fact, he is nothing but a
raffish fly-by-night himself; and his pious horror is assumed, I
believe, as much to keep his eyes wide open and him awake as to impose
on one.
The owls' cages proper are away behind the llamas' house, and here you
may study owl nature in plenty; and you may observe the owls, like
people sitting through a long sermon, affecting various concealments and
excuses for going to sleep in the daytime. The milky eagle-owl pretends
to be waiting for a friend who never keeps his appointment. You come
upon him as he is dozing away quietly; he sees you just between his
eyelids, and at once stares angrily down the path as if he were sick of
waiting, and the other owl already half an hour overdue. Of course there
is no owl coming, so he shakes his head testily and half shuts his eyes.
If you go away then, he goes to sleep again. If you stay, he presently
makes another pretence of pulling out his watch and wondering if that
owl is ever coming. He has practised the transparent deception so long
that he does it now mechanically, and sleeps, I believe, or nearly so,
through the whole process. The oriental owl does it rather differently.
He doesn't open his eyes when you first wake him--this in order to give
greater verisimilitude to his pretence of profound meditation; he wishes
you to understand that it is not your presence that causes him to open
his eyes, but the natural course of his philosophical speculations. As a
pundit, he disdains to appear to observe you; so he gazes solemnly at a
vast space with nothing whatever for its centre. He sees you, but he
knows you for a creature that never carries raw meat with it, like a
keeper; a creature beneath the notice of _Bubo orientalis_.
[Illustration: MILKY REPOSE.]
[Illustration: IS HE COMING?]
[Illustration: WHAT A NUISANCE!]
As a song-bird, the owl is not a conspicuous success. Perhaps he has
learned this in the Zoo, for he cannot be induced to perform during
visiting hours. He is a reserved person, and exclusive. If you, as a
stranger, attempt to scrape his acquaintance, he meets you with an
indignant stare--confound your impudence! Nothing in this world can
present such a picture of offended, astounded dignity as an owl. I often
wonder what he said when Noah ordered him peremptorily into the Ark. As
for myself, I should as soon think of ordering one of the beadles at the
Bank.
[Illustration: NOT YET?]
[Illustration: OH, HANG IT!]
Many worthy owls, long since passed away as living things, now exist in
their astral forms as pepper-boxes and tobacco-jars. They probably
belonged, in life, to the same species as a friend of mine here, who
exhibits one of their chief physical features. He sits immovably still,
so far as his body--his jar or pepper-reservoir--is concerned; indeed,
if he is not disturbed, he sits immovably altogether, and sleeps. When
he is disturbed he wakes in instalments, opening one eye at a time. He
fixes you with his wild, fiery eye, his indignant stare. Start to walk
round him; the head turns, and the stare follows you, with no movement
whatever of the part containing the pepper. The head slowly turns and
turns, without the smallest indication of stopping anywhere. I never
tempted it farther than once round, but walked back the other way, for
fear of strangling a valuable bird. Besides, I remembered an owl
pepper-box once, which became loose in the screw through continual
turning, so that the head fell off into your plate, and all the pepper
after it.
[Illustration]
The biggest owls are the eagle-owls. The eagle-owls here occupy a
similar sort of situation to that of the hermit in an old tea-garden. In
a secluded nook behind the camel-house a brick-built cave is kept in a
wire cage, which not only hinders the owls from escaping, but prevents
them taking the cave with them if they do. The cave is fitted up with
the proper quantity of weird gloom and several convenient perches; the
perches, however, are indistinct, because the gloom is obvious. In the
midst of it you may see two fiery eyes, like the fire-balls from a Roman
candle, and nothing else. This is the most one often has a chance of
seeing here in bright day. Often the eagle-owls are asleep, and then you
do not even see the fireworks. I know the big eagle-owl fairly well;
that is to say, I am on snarling terms with him. But once he has settled
in his cave he won't come out, even when I call him Zadkiel.
[Illustration: THE EAGLE-OWLS' RETREAT.]
There is nothing much more grotesque than a row of small barn owls, just
awakened from sleep and curious about the disturber. There is something
about the odd gaze and twist of the neck that irresistibly reminds me of
an illustration in an Old Saxon or Early English manuscript.
[Illustration: SLEEP.]
[Illustration: WHO SAID RATS?]
[Illustration: THE ANGOLA.]
I am not particularly friendly with any of the vultures. Walk past their
cages with the determination to ingratiate yourself with them. You will
change your mind. There are very few birds that I should not like to
keep as pets if I had the room, but the vulture is the first of them. I
don't know any kind of vulture whose personal appearance wouldn't hang
him at a court of Judge Lynch. The least unpleasant-looking of the lot
is the little Angola vulture, who is put among the kites; and she is bad
enough: a horrible eighteenth-century painted and powdered old woman; a
Pompadour of ninety. The large bearded vulture is not only an
uncompanionable fellow to look at, but he doesn't behave respectably. It
is not respectable to hurl yourself bodily against anybody looking over
a precipice and unaware of your presence, so as to break him up on the
rocks below, and dine off his prime cuts. I have no doubt that
Self--(Self, by-the-bye, keeps eagles and vultures as well as
camels)--has any amount of sympathy for his charges, but who _could_
make a pet of a turkey-vulture, with its nasty, raw-looking red head, or
of a cinereous vulture, with its unwholesome eyes and its
unclean-looking blue wattle? No, I am not over-fond of a vulture. He is
always a dissipated-looking ruffian, of boiled eye and blotchy
complexion, and you know as you look at him that he would prefer to see
you dead rather than alive, so that he might safely take your eyes by
way of an appetizer, and forthwith proceed to lift away your softer
pieces preparatory to strolling under your ribs like a jackdaw in a cage
much too small. He sits there placid, unwinsome, and patient; waiting
for you to die. But he has his little vanities. He is tremendously
proud of his wings--and they certainly are wings to astonish. On a warm
day he likes to open them for coolness, but often he makes this a mere
excuse for showing off. He waits till some easily-impressed visitor
comes along--not a regular frequenter. Then he stands up and spreads his
great pinions abroad, and perhaps turns about, and the visitor is duly
impressed. So the vulture stands and receives the admiration, hoping the
while that the visitor has heart disease, and will drop dead where he
stands. And when the visitor walks off without dying the old harpy lets
his wings fall open, ready for somebody else.
[Illustration]
_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._
XIX.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE REIGATE SQUIRE.
BY A. CONAN DOYLE.
It was some time before the health of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,
recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring
of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the
colossal schemes of Baron Maupertins are too recent in the minds of the
public, and are too intimately concerned with politics and finance, to
be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in
an indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem, which gave my
friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among
the many with which he waged his life-long battle against crime.
On referring to my notes, I see that it was upon the 14th of April that
I received a telegram from Lyons, which informed me that Holmes was
lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his
sick room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in
his symptoms. His iron constitution, however, had broken down under the
strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during
which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had
more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a
stretch. The triumphant issue of his labours could not save him from
reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was
ringing with his name, and when his room was literally ankle-deep with
congratulatory telegrams, I found him a prey to the blackest depression.
Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three
countries had failed, and that he had out-manoeuvred at every point
the most accomplished swindler in Europe, were insufficient to rouse him
from his nervous prostration.
Three days later we were back in Baker Street together, but it was
evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the
thought of a week of spring-time in the country was full of attractions
to me also. My old friend Colonel Hayter, who had come under my
professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate, in
Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On
the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with
me, he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little
diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment
was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he
fell in with my plans, and a week after our return from Lyons we were
under the Colonel's roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier, who had seen
much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and
he had plenty in common.
On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room
after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked
over his little armoury of fire-arms.
"By the way," said he, suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols
upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."
"An alarm!" said I.
"Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of
our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great
damage done, but the fellows are still at large."
"No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.
"None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country
crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after
this great international affair."
Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had
pleased him.
"Was there any feature of interest?"
"I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for
their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open
and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's
'Homer,' two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak
barometer, and a ball of twine, are all that have vanished."
"What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of anything they could get."
Holmes grunted from the sofa.
"The county police ought to make something of that," said he. "Why, it
is surely obvious that----"
But I held up a warning finger.
[Illustration: "I HELD UP A WARNING FINGER."]
"You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake, don't get
started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds."
Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards
the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.
It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be
wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a
way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a
turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast
when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of
him.
"Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunningham's, sir!"
"Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee cup in mid air.
"Murder!"
The Colonel whistled. "By Jove!" said he, "who's killed, then? The J.P.
or his son?"
"Neither, sir. It was William, the coachman. Shot through the heart,
sir, and never spoke again."
"Who shot him, then?"
"The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just
broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end
in saving his master's property."
"What time?"
"It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."
"Ah, then, we'll step over presently," said the Colonel, coolly settling
down to his breakfast again. "It's a baddish business," he added, when
the butler had gone. "He's our leading squire about here, is old
Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over this, for
the man has been in his service for years, and was a good servant. It's
evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's."
"And stole that very singular collection?" said Holmes, thoughtfully.
"Precisely."
"Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world; but, all the same,
at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of
burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of
their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within
a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions, I remember
that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish
in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their
attention; which shows that I have still much to learn."
"I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the Colonel. "In that case,
of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for,
since they are far the largest about here."
"And richest?"
"Well, they ought to be; but they've had a law-suit for some years which
has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some
claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with
both hands."
"If it's a local villain, there should not be much difficulty in running
him down," said Holmes, with a yawn. "All right, Watson, I don't intend
to meddle."
"Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing open the door.
The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room.
"Good morning, Colonel," said he. "I hope I don't intrude, but we hear
that Mr. Holmes, of Baker Street, is here."
The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.
"We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes."
"The Fates are against you, Watson," said he, laughing. "We were
chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can
let us have a few details." As he leaned back in his chair in the
familiar attitude, I knew that the case was hopeless.
[Illustration: "INSPECTOR FORRESTER."]
"We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on,
and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man was
seen."
"Ah!"
"Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor
William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom
window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was a
quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got
into bed, and Mister Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They
both heard William, the coachman, calling for help, and Mister Alec he
ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he
came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together
outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer
rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out
of his bedroom window, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost
sight of him at once. Mister Alec stopped to see if he could help the
dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he
was a middle-sized man, and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no
personal clue, but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he is a
stranger we shall soon find him out."
"What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?"
"Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very
faithful fellow, we imagine that he walked up to the house with the
intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course, this Acton
business has put everyone on their guard. The robber must have just
burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when William came upon
him."
"Did William say anything to his mother before going out?"
"She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The
shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very
bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at
this!"
He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it out
upon his knee.
"This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears
to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the
hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his
fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet
from him or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It
reads almost as though it was an appointment."
Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here
reproduced:--
[Illustration: at quarterto twelve learn what maybe]
"Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the Inspector, "it is,
of course, a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan, although he
had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with
the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break
in the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves."
"This writing is of extraordinary interest," said Holmes, who had been
examining it with intense concentration. "These are much deeper waters
than I had thought." He sank his head upon his hands, while the
Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famous
London specialist.
"Your last remark," said Holmes, presently, "as to the possibility of
there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and
this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious
and not entirely an impossible supposition. But this writing opens
up----" he sank his head into his hands again and remained for some
minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again I was
surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with colour and his eyes as
bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old
energy.
"I'll tell you what!" said he. "I should like to have a quiet little
glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which
fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my
friend, Watson, and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to
test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with you
again in half an hour."
An hour and a half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.
"Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," said he. "He
wants us all four to go up to the house together."
"To Mr. Cunningham's?"
"Yes, sir."
"What for?"
The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't quite know, sir. Between
ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes has not quite got over his illness yet.
He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited."
"I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I. "I have usually found
that there was method in his madness."
"Some folk might say there was madness in his method," muttered the
Inspector. "But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go
out, if you are ready."
We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his
breast, and his hands thrust into his trouser pockets.
"The matter grows in interest," said he. "Watson, your country trip has
been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning."
"You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand?" said the
Colonel.
"Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance
together."
"Any success?"
"Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what we
did as we walk. First of all we saw the body of this unfortunate man. He
certainly died from a revolver wound, as reported."
"Had you doubted it, then?"
"Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We
then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able to
point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the
garden hedge in his flight. That was of great interest."
"Naturally."
"Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no
information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble."
"And what is the result of your investigations?"
"The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit
now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both
agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand,
bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of
extreme importance."
"It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."
"It _does_ give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought
William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of
that sheet of paper?"
"I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it," said the
Inspector.
"It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was someone so anxious to
get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do
with it? Thrust it into his pocket most likely, never noticing that a
corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get
the rest of that sheet, it is obvious that we should have gone a long
way towards solving the mystery."
"Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the
criminal?"
"Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious
point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have
taken it, otherwise of course he might have delivered his own message by
word of mouth. Who brought the note, then? Or did it come through the
post?"
"I have made inquiries," said the Inspector. "William received a letter
by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him."
"Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. "You've
seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the
lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of
the crime."
We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and
walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which
bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and the
Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which is
separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A
constable was standing at the kitchen door.
"Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes. "Now it was on those stairs
that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling just
where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second on the
left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush. So
did the son. They are both sure of it, on account of the bush. Then
Mister Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is very
hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us."
As he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of
the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined,
heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling
expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the business
which had brought us there.
"Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes. "I thought you Londoners were
never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all."
"Ah! you must give us a little time," said Holmes, good-humouredly.
"You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham. "Why, I don't see that we
have any clue at all."
"There's only one," answered the Inspector. "We thought that if we could
only find----Good heavens! Mr. Holmes, what is the matter?"
My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression.
His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a
suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified at
the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the
kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair and breathed heavily for
some minutes. Finally, with a shame-faced apology for his weakness, he
rose once more.
"Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe
illness," he explained. "I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks."
"Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham.
"Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to
feel sure. We can very easily verify it."
"What is it?"
"Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this
poor fellow William was not before but after the entrance of the burglar
into the house. You appear to take it for granted that although the door
was forced the robber never got in."
[Illustration: "GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT IS THE MATTER?"]
"I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. "Why, my
son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard
anyone moving about."
"Where was he sitting?"
"I was sitting smoking in my dressing-room."
"Which window is that?"
"The last on the left, next my father's."
"Both your lamps were lit, of course?"
"Undoubtedly."
"There are some very singular points here," said Holmes, smiling. "Is it
not extraordinary that a burglar--and a burglar who had had some
previous experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time
when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still
afoot?"
"He must have been a cool hand."
"Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have
been driven to ask you for an explanation," said Mister Alec. "But as to
your idea that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him,
I think it a most absurd notion. Shouldn't we have found the place
disarranged and missed the things which he had taken?"
"It depends on what the things were," said Holmes. "You must remember
that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and
who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the queer
lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball of
string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends!"
"Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said old Cunningham.
"Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be
done."
"In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you to offer a
reward--coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time
before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done
too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind
signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I thought."
"I would willingly give five hundred," said the J.P., taking the slip of
paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. "This is not quite
correct, however," he added, glancing over the document.
"I wrote it rather hurriedly."
"You see you begin: 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday
morning, an attempt was made'--and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve,
as a matter of fact."
I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any
slip of the kind. It was his speciality to be accurate as to fact, but
his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was
enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He was
obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised his
eyebrows and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman
corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.
"Get it printed as soon as possible," he said. "I think your idea is an
excellent one."
Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away in his pocket-book.
"And now," said he, "it would really be a good thing that we should all
go over the house together and make certain that this rather erratic
burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him."
Before entering. Holmes made an examination of the door which had been
forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been thrust in,
and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks in the wood
where it had been pushed in.
"You don't use bars, then?" he asked.
"We have never found it necessary."
"You don't keep a dog?"
"Yes; but he is chained on the other side of the house."
"When do the servants go to bed?"
"About ten."
"I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour?"
"Yes."
"It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up.
Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us
over the house, Mr. Cunningham."
A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it, led
by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house. It came
out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair which
led up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened the drawing-room
and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son.
Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the house.
I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I
could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were
leading him.
"My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham, with some impatience, "this is
surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and
my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment whether it
was possible for the thief to have come up here without disturbing us."
"You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy," said the son,
with a rather malicious smile.
"Still, I must ask you to humour me a little further. I should like, for
example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front.
This, I understand, is your son's room"--he pushed open the door--"and
that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat smoking when the
alarm was given. Where does the window of that look out to?" He stepped
across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the other
chamber.
"I hope you are satisfied now?" said Mr. Cunningham, testily.
"Thank you; I think I have seen all that I wished."
"Then, if it is really necessary, we can go into my room."
"If it is not too much trouble."
The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber,
which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across
it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were
the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed was a small square
table, on which stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we
passed it, Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front
of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed
into a thousand pieces, and the fruit rolled about into every corner of
the room.
[Illustration: "HE DELIBERATELY KNOCKED THE WHOLE THING OVER."]
"You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've
made of the carpet."
I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit,
understanding that for some reason my companion desired me to take the
blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its
legs again.
"Halloa!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"
Holmes had disappeared.
"Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. "The fellow is off
his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got
to!"
They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me
staring at each other.
"'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Mister Alec," said the
official. "It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me
that----"
His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! Help! Murder!"
With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed
madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down
into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had
first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The
two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock
Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the
elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three
of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet,
very pale, and evidently greatly exhausted.
"Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.
"On what charge?"
"That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!"
The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. "Oh, come now, Mr.
Holmes," said he at last; "I am sure you don't really mean to----"
"Tut, man; look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.
Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human
countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed, with a heavy,
sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on the other
hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had characterized
him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes
and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector said nothing, but,
stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at
the call.
"I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he. "I trust that this may
all prove to be an absurd mistake; but you can see that----Ah, would
you? Drop it!" He struck out with his hand, and a revolver, which the
younger man was in the act of cocking, clattered down upon the floor.
[Illustration: "BENDING OVER THE PROSTRATE FIGURE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES."]
"Keep that," said Holmes, quickly putting his foot upon it. "You will
find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted." He held
up a little crumpled piece of paper.
"The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.
"Precisely."
"And where was it?"
"Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you
presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and I
will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I
must have a word with the prisoners; but you will certainly see me back
at luncheon time."
Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he
rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a
little, elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton
whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.
"I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter
to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a keen
interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must
regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."
"On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the
greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of
working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I
am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the
vestige of a clue."
"I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you, but it has
always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend
Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them.
But first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in
the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your
brandy, Colonel. My strength has been rather tried of late."
"I trust you had no more of those nervous attacks."
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn,"
said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order,
showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray
interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to
you.
"It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to
recognise out of a number of facts which are incidental and which vital.
Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being
concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt in my
mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for
in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.
"Before going into this I would draw your attention to the fact that if
Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant after
shooting William Kirwan had _instantly_ fled, then it obviously could
not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not
he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the
old man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is
a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started
with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do
with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices and
of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so in the very
first stage of the investigation I found myself looking a little askance
at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.
[Illustration: "THE POINT IS A SIMPLE ONE."]
"And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which
the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it
formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now
observe something very suggestive about it?"
"It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.
"My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the
world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words.
When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to' and ask
you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,' you
will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief analysis of those four
words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the
'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the 'what'
in the weaker."
"By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth should
two men write a letter in such a fashion?"
"Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted
the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an
equal hand in it. Now, of the two men it is clear that the one who wrote
the 'at' and 'to' was the ring-leader."
"How do you get at that?"
"We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared
with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing
it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the
conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words
first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not
always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to
fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,' showing that the
latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is
undoubtedly the man who planned this affair."
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.
"But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a point
which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a
man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable
accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true
decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health
and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the
invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of
the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which
still retains its legibility, although the t's have begun to lose their
crossings, we can say that the one was a young man, and the other was
advanced in years without being positively decrepit."
"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.
"There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater
interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong
to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the
Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same
thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in
these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the
leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were
twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts
than to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that
the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.
"Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the
details of the crime and to see how far they would help us. I went up to
the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The wound
upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute
confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four
yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently,
therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were
struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as
to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point,
however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom.
As there were no indications of boot-marks about this ditch, I was
absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that
there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.
"And now I had to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at
this I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of the original
burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood from something which the Colonel
told us that a law-suit, had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and
the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had
broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document
which might be of importance in the case."
"Precisely so," said Mr. Acton; "there can be no possible doubt as to
their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half their present
estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which, fortunately,
was in the strong box of my solicitors--they would undoubtedly have
crippled our case."
[Illustration: "THERE WAS NO POWDER-BLACKENING ON THE CLOTHES."]
"There you are!" said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless
attempt in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having
found nothing, they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be
an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could
lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that
was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part
of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's
hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of
his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question
was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and
for that object we all went up to the house.
"The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the
kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they
should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they
would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to
tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest
chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the
conversation."
"Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing. "Do you mean to say all our
sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"
"Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in
amazement at this man who was for ever confounding me with some new
phase of his astuteness.
"It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I
managed by a device, which had, perhaps, some little merit of ingenuity,
to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might
compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."
"Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.
"I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness," said
Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I
know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered
the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I
contrived by upsetting a table to engage their attention for the moment
and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper,
however, which was, as I had expected, in one of them, when the two
Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me
then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel
that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my
wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that
I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute
security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.
"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of
the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon,
ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got
to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so
strong he lost all heart, and made a clean breast of everything. It
seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night
when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and, having thus got them
into his power, proceeded under threats of exposure to levy blackmail
upon them. Mister Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of
that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in
the burglary scare, which was convulsing the country side, an
opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William
was decoyed up and shot; and, had they only got the whole of the note,
and paid a little more attention to detail in their accessories, it is
very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused."
"And the note?" I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us:--
[Illustration]
"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of
course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec
Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The result shows that
the trap was skilfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be
delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails
of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also
most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has
been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return, much invigorated,
to Baker Street to-morrow."
_Beauties._
[Illustration: _Miss Ella Banister._]
[Illustration: _Miss A Hughes_]
[Illustration: _Miss Alice Ravenscroft._]
_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._
[Illustration: _Miss Friend._
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _Miss C. L. Foote._
_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]
[Illustration: _Mrs. Marsh._
_From a Photo. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]
[Illustration: _Miss Norah Williams._
_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]
[Illustration: _Miss L. Harold._]
[Illustration: _Lady Aberdeen._
_Photo. by Barraud_]
LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER
By José de Campos
FROM THE FRENCH OF JOSÉ DE CAMPOS. AN EPISODE OF THE CRIMEAN WAR.
APPROVED AND AUTHORIZED BY GENERAL SAUSSIER, MILITARY COMMANDER OF
PARIS.
[Illustration]
Nicolas Gauthier, Sergeant-Major in the Foreign Legion, was about
twenty-six years of age. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair and
moustache and a pale complexion. His dark eyes were perhaps somewhat
dreamy and intensely sad, but they had a certain expression of
gentleness and candour which won all hearts.
He was above the medium height, upright and broad-shouldered, and was
altogether more fitted for a cuirassier than for a foot-soldier. As,
however, he had entered the army from choice, it was for him to select
the arms he preferred.
He had undoubtedly military tastes, but he had evidently some family
trouble or some love affair which had made him anxious to leave Paris
and to go to Africa with the Foreign Legion (which, as everyone knows,
is always the first regiment to be called out in case of war).
He had been in the garrison at Constantine, and while there had been a
great favourite with all the ladies, and the men had envied him.
It could scarcely be wondered at, for he was so handsome, and then, too,
he had such a martial bearing and such pleasant, attractive manners.
All the sensation he caused was lost upon him, for he did not even seem
to notice it himself.
He was a good soldier: subordinate to his superiors, and always
indulgent to the men under his command, and, consequently, a great
favourite in the Legion.
When Napoleon III. was reviewing the troops, he noticed Gauthier, who
was at that time only a sub-officer. He made inquiries about him, and a
fortnight later Gauthier was appointed sergeant-major.
It was evident that some great sorrow was weighing on him, for when he
was free from his military duties, instead of going out with his
comrades to any places of amusement, he would go off by himself for
long, solitary walks.
Several times, on seeing him strolling along far from the walls of the
city, the other officers had warned him of the risk he ran of being
surprised by one of those bands of Arabs who wander about outside the
Algerian cities, and who take their revenge on any European who falls
into their hands for the yoke that has been put on to them.
Sergeant Gauthier took very little notice of these warnings. He loved
solitude and was perfectly fearless. No one knew why he was so sad.
Certainly he had lately lost his mother, and still wore a badge of crape
on his arm. Of course, this had increased his melancholy, but it was not
the original cause of it.
The war with Russia had just been declared. Gauthier, like a great many
other officers and sub-officers, was tired of the monotony of garrison
life, and volunteered to join the regiments which were to be sent to the
Crimea. The Minister of War dispatched the Foreign Legion, to the great
joy of Gauthier. His brother officers noticed that he was almost gay,
not at all like his former self.
* * * * *
He soon distinguished himself; was always foremost in the fight. His
courage and _sang-froid_ won the admiration of all. He was wounded, but
he cared little for that; and shortly after he was promoted to the rank
of sub-lieutenant.
Gauthier was very intimate with Lieutenant Saussier, another hero who
had gone through the "baptism of fire" in Africa, and whose great valour
and integrity have won for him the high office he now holds.
These two soldiers were of the same metal: they were able to understand
and appreciate each other, and were almost inseparable.
One day during the siege of Sebastopol, Lieutenant Saussier said to his
friend:--
"Gauthier, may I ask you a question?"
"Two questions, if you like."
"You won't think it mere curiosity?"
"Are we not friends, Saussier?"
"Yes, but perhaps this is a secret----"
"I have only one secret in the world, and as you do not know _that_ and
could not even have an idea of it, there is no fear, so you can speak
out."
"Well, will you tell me what is the cause of your sadness, I might
almost say bitterness? When we left Africa I thought you had left it
behind you; but now in Russia it is worse than ever."
At this unexpected question Gauthier started, then trying to smile he
answered:--
"It must be a kind of complaint born in me, and perhaps the change of
climate aggravates it."
"Perhaps so," said Lieutenant Saussier, slowly, and watching the
expression of his friend's face.
"This cold goes right through me to my very bones," said Gauthier,
shivering.
Saussier quite understood that his friend meant, "Let us change the
subject," but he continued:--
"May I ask you another question?"
"You seem to have a few to ask to-day," said Gauthier, looking rather
annoyed.
"I have often wanted to speak to you, but have never dared before."
"Well, to-day you don't seem afraid of running the risk."
"If it vexes you, don't answer me."
"Oh, I don't mind. I have had one; I may as well have the next."
"Well, will you tell me why, every time there is an engagement, you take
such pains to find out the name of the chief who commands the enemy?"
This time Gauthier was visibly annoyed. He answered, after a few
minutes' hesitation, "Because some day I intend writing the history of
the Crimean War. It is only natural I should want to know the names of
the commanders on the other side."
"Oh! of course," said Saussier, feeling rather disconcerted.
For some minutes the two friends continued their walk in silence. There
was no sound but the crunching of the snow under their heavy boots, for
it had been snowing hard in the district of Simferopol, and a thick
white mantle covered the ground.
Lieutenant Saussier looked at Gauthier, and in spite of his friend's
attempt to turn away his head, Saussier saw that there were tears in his
eyes.
"Forgive me for asking you!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea of causing you
pain."
"How do you know you have?" asked Gauthier, passing his arm through that
of his friend.
"Don't try and hide it. I can see that, quite unintentional as it was, I
have pained you with my questions."
"It is nothing, nothing at all; or rather your questions brought to mind
something in my past life. It is only natural that you should have asked
me, and as a proof of my friendship I will tell you all."
"No, no! Indeed I do not want you to. We will not talk about it. I am
awfully sorry to have spoken of it."
"After all, you are my greatest friend. Why should I not tell you about
it? Perhaps, too, it might relieve me to speak of my trouble."
"If it will be any relief to you, tell me; but if not, why, do not let
us say any more about it."
[Illustration: YOU ARE MY GREATEST FRIEND.]
"I would rather tell you. Life is very uncertain on the battlefield, and
I would rather not die with this secret untold. Perhaps, too, if you
knew it you might be able to help me."
"If I could help you in any way, you know you have only to tell me how."
"Well, you shall hear all. You know that, before leaving Algeria, I went
to Paris with a three months' leave."
"Which you never stayed out, for you were back again in six weeks."
"What could I do with myself in that Babylon, where everyone was gay
while I was so wretched? How could I stand the sardonic laughter and
gaiety around me when my heart was aching bitterly? As soon as my poor
mother was buried I was only too anxious to get from that city of
luxury, where the artificial lights only blinded and dazzled me.
"I wanted to get away from the noise and the vice and the hypocrisy, and
go to the desert and be alone with Nature and with reality, where I
could breathe pure, wholesome air, and not that atmosphere which
bewilders and poisons you. I left what we _call_ the civilized world to
go to the savages whom I prefer.
"I gave up society for solitude, peace for war. I despise my life and
long for death, but death does not come at my call."
Gauthier stopped for a minute, overcome with emotion.
"You are too sensitive," said Saussier.
"Perhaps so, but I have had something to bear."
"Is it a love affair, Gauthier?"
"No, no! I have never loved anyone, and besides, I am one of those who
must not, who dare not love----"
"I do not understand."
"No, I will explain. My mother, who was dying of consumption, brought on
by some great grief that she had always suffered alone, sent for me to
bid me farewell. Three days before her death I was at her bedside.
"'My son,' she said, 'I have sent for you to tell you something which I
feel you ought to know before my death. I have always led you to believe
that your father was dead.'
"'And he is not dead. I have felt sure of that for a long time.'
"'How could you nave guessed it?' exclaimed my mother.
"'By your sadness, and, too, because you have never taken me to his
grave, nor even spoken of it. My poor mother, did he leave you?'
"'No, no! Do not blame him; it was not his fault that he had to leave
us.'
"'He is in prison, then; but surely he is innocent?'
"'No, he is quite free.'
"'How is it, then----"
"'Listen, but do not interrupt me, for I have not strength for much. The
name you have, Gauthier, was my father's and mine, but not your
father's, Nicolas. My father was a wealthy shipbuilder at Havre. He
died in 1825. My mother sold everything, and then she and I went to
Paris to live.
"'She was ambitious for me and wished me to marry well. We had plenty of
money, and as that opens most doors she managed to get introductions and
invitations to her heart's content.
"'I was nineteen, and people said I was beautiful. My mother paid great
attention to my toilette, and by mixing in society I soon lost all
traces of having been brought up in the provinces. There was a young
Russian captain, Prince Nicolaï Porthikopoff, whom I used to meet at
different houses. He belonged to the Czar's Imperial Guard, and was an
_attaché_ of the Russian Embassy in Paris.
"'He was very handsome, and was as noble at heart as he was by birth.
"He loved me, and I returned his affection. At the end of six months he
came to my mother and asked for my hand. Our engagement caused a great
stir in Paris, it scandalized the aristocracy and caused jealousy in our
own circle. Prince Nicolaï cared nothing for the storm that he had
roused.
[Illustration: "HE CAME TO MY MOTHER AND ASKED FOR MY HAND."]
"'There was so much gossip, and there was so much scheming to break off
our engagement, that the Ambassador himself felt it his duty to inform
the Czar. It appears the Czar only laughed at it all until the Princess
Porthikopoff, your father's mother, wrote herself asking for his
intervention, and declaring that she would never give her consent to our
union. The Czar wrote a letter of advice to the Prince, but as it took
no effect, and the Princess still insisted, the Czar objected formally
to the marriage. Your father saw that it was hopeless, that there was no
chance whatever of winning the consent of his mother or of his
Sovereign. He proposed to me a desperate expedient, and I, young and
inexperienced as I was, and believing that it would be for our mutual
happiness, consented.
"'We were to be married privately, but, as your father told me, the
marriage would not be legal, as we could not have the necessary papers,
and should even have to be married under assumed names, and in another
country. He believed that then, when his mother saw that the honour of a
Porthikopoff was at stake, she would take steps to have the ceremony
performed again with the necessary formalities. He thought that she
would do for the honour and pride of her family what she would not do
for love of her son.
"'I consented to everything; but, alas! a month later, seeing that your
father continued to brave all authority, the Czar recalled him to St.
Petersburg.
"'Your father pleaded our cause but in vain! Nicholas I., proud autocrat
as he was, and the Princess were both inexorable. Your father was
exasperated, and he gave vent to his indignation. The result was that he
was ordered to start the next day for Irkoutsk, in Siberia He was to be
exiled! Exiled because he had loved me, because he wished to do his duty
and make me his lawful wife! My mother and I went away to Lille, where
you were born.
"'The Prince, your father, was not allowed to write or receive letters
without sending them first to the Governor to be read and approved. I
happened to meet with someone who was going to Irkoutsk, and begged him
to take a message to your father and to tell him of your birth. When
this man returned he brought me a letter from your father, in which he
said he was going to try and make his escape, and that he would never
again set foot in Russia.
"'Just at this time my mother died. Your father was not able to put his
plan into execution, and a year later he was allowed to write to me, but
merely to tell me the conditions on which Nicholas I. offered to allow
his return from exile. The Czar had chosen a wife for him, and he was to
renounce me for ever. Your father added that he was refusing such terms;
that he would never break his vow to me, and preferred exile to what was
offered him.
"'He was right!' I exclaimed, proudly, for I was glad to find that I had
no cause to blush for my father.
"'It was noble of him!' said my mother, and her eyes filled with tears.
'It was noble, but how could I accept such a sacrifice? I could not; it
would have been too selfish. There was only one thing to do, and
although in doing it I had to sacrifice all my womanly pride, my courage
held out. I wrote to your father, telling him to accept the Czar's
offer, as I myself was about to marry.'
"'It was not true?'
"'No! No! It was to save him. I wanted him to be free, to be happy if
possible. As for me, all was over. He wrote to me, reproaching me, and
it broke my heart. I did not reply to his letter. I went back to Paris,
where I lived quietly and unknown, devoting myself entirely to you....
Six months later I heard that he had married a Princess according to the
will of the Czar, and that he was appointed captain.'
"'Is he happy?'
"'I have never heard another word about him, and as he has no idea of my
whereabouts, he could never have made inquiries about me. Now you know
all, you know the cause of my sadness and the secret of your birth. You
must now judge between your father and your mother, and either pardon or
condemn us, for, alas! my poor boy, you have no name and no future.'
"My poor mother hid her face in her hands and sobbed in an agony of
grief.
"'I have nothing to forgive, mother; but if you wish me to judge my
father and you, I can only say that you both did your duty and that your
sacrifice was sublime. Society makes laws at its own pleasure, but in
the sight of God, who surely is over all, your marriage was valid, and I
have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, you were both victims,
and you suffered through your loyalty to each other--and your love was
surely truer and more ideal than many which society recognises.'
"My poor mother could not speak for some time, her emotion was so great.
Later on she told me where I should find some papers, which I was to
read after her death, and she added:--
"'You will also find in the same drawer two things by which your father
would always recognise you, if you should ever meet him and if you
wished to make yourself known. I leave it entirely to you to act as you
think best; but if you ever should see him, tell him that I was true to
him, explain all, and tell him that I loved him to the last.'
"Two days later my poor mother passed away. I was thus left an orphan
and nameless. I was utterly alone in the world. I had not a creature to
love me, and I knew that I must never dare to love anyone. Left to
myself, I cursed the whole world and its prejudices and baseness."
Gauthier covered his face with his hand, and Saussier, respecting his
friend's grief, did not speak for some time. The two officers walked on
through the snow without noticing where they were going.
Suddenly Gauthier said, bitterly: "You understand now the cause of the
melancholy that is always weighing on me?"
"I do, indeed," replied Saussier.
"The tortures of the Inquisition are nothing to what I endure, when I
think of my poor mother suffering through all those years without a word
of consolation from any living soul."
"It must have been terrible!"
"Then, too, you know now why I always find out the name of the Russian
commander before every attack; for by now he must be at least a
General."
"Yes, it is indeed fearful!"
* * * * *
Sebastopol had been besieged ever since October 9th, 1854. Marshal
Canrobert commanded the troops with Lord Raglan.
[Illustration: "TELL HIM THAT I LOVED HIM TO THE LAST."]
Prince Mentschiskoff and Prince Todleben resisted the attack bravely.
The sight of the city, which was all in ruins, exasperated the Russian
Commander-in-Chief, and he ordered a sally, but the French and the
English were well on guard and repulsed this desperate attempt.
The attack was terrible, and the heroism on every side sublime.
The most warlike of the besieged troops rushed against the French,
preferring to have to do with the _furia francesca_ rather than with the
British deliberation and _sang-froid_. The combat was sustained and
desperate.
Profiting by the confusion amongst the French troops, caused by the
death of their Commander-in-Chief, the Russians succeeded in obtaining
the first trench. The besiegers, however, got reinforcements and the
struggle was continued.
Two young officers, who were fighting side by side, attracted everyone's
notice. They were in the first rank, and they led their soldiers into
the thickest of the fray and cut down the enemy right and left.
One of them was rather in advance of the other, and was encouraging his
soldiers to follow him. Suddenly with his pistol he took aim at a
Russian commander, who, on seeing that the enemy was gaining ground, had
spurred his horse forward and was calling to his soldiers to advance.
Another horseman, seeing the danger his chief was in, rushed before him,
exclaiming:--
"Take care, General Porthikopoff!"
On hearing this the French officer dropped his murderous weapon and
stood as if paralyzed, looking at his enemy.
On receiving the warning the Prince had drawn out his pistol and fired
at the French officer. The ball struck him, and he fell. His friend, who
had just reached him, and who had also heard the Russian General's name,
drew his men to the right where the enemy was strongest, exclaiming, in
desperation: "Follow me! Follow me!"
The Russian soldiers rushed at the young officer, who had fallen, and
would have killed him, but, waving them off, he said he must speak with
their General before he died.
The Prince, astonished at the request at such a moment, consented.
"What is it you have to say, and why did you not attempt to shoot me?"
"I could not."
"But what prevented you?"
"Duty."
"I do not understand."
The young officer drew from his tunic a letter, a locket, and a small
box, and handed them to the General.
"What is the meaning of this?" exclaimed the Prince.
"Look inside the locket."
The Prince opened it and started. "My portrait and Madeline's!" Then,
opening the box: "And her engagement ring! Where did you get these
from?"
"The letter will explain all."
The Prince opened it, and, after glancing at it quickly, said: "And you
are----"
"Nicolas Gauthier."
"And your mother?"
"She is dead. Her love for you killed her."
"That is not true, for she married another."
"Never! She loved you to the last, and died with your name on her lips.
Read the letter to the end."
Mechanically the General read the letter, and then kissing the locket
passionately: "I knew, I felt that Madeline was true!" he said, and then
bending over Gauthier, he continued: "How did you recognise me, though?"
"I heard them call you by your name."
"That was why you would not fire?"
"Yes. A son could not kill his father, even though he be his enemy."
"But you allowed a father to kill his son?"
"I could not help it. It was fate."
"No, no, my son! You shall not die! You _must_ live!"
"God wills otherwise, father. Farewell! I have only seen you for a
minute, but I am satisfied."
Gauthier made a great effort to get up, smiled at the Prince, and then
fell back dead.
"My boy, my boy!" exclaimed the Prince, in desperation, stooping over
the dead body of his son. "Dead, dead, and killed by me, his father! And
this is the work of our Czar! Oh, cruel fate!"
[Illustration: "THE GENERAL REMAINED KNEELING BY THE SIDE OF HIS SON."]
The General remained some minutes kneeling by the side of his son in
mute despair, and then for the last time he sprang on to his horse and
rushed into the thickest of the fray.
"Prince! Prince! what are you doing there?" exclaimed a French officer
at his side.
"I am seeking death! I have killed my son, and I will not survive
him----"
He had scarcely finished when a ball struck him and he fell down dead.
"Who can say there is no Providence! The father has not waited long to
join his son," exclaimed the French officer, as he rushed on at the head
of his men.
For some time the result of the combat seemed uncertain, but at last the
French won the day, and the Russians had to take refuge in Sebastopol.
* * * * *
When Marshal Canrobert went over the battlefield, he asked where the
young officer was who belonged to the Foreign Legion, and who had fought
so bravely.
"He fell by the retrenchments," was the reply.
The Commander-in-Chief rode over to the spot named and ordered the
surgeon to examine the young officer who was lying on the ground. It
was, however, too late.
"There was another officer of the same Legion whom I saw fall there, to
the left," said the Marshal.
The young officer was brought and was told that his friend was dead.
"It is a pity," he said to the Marshal, "for you have lost a true
soldier."
"What was his name?"
"Nicolas Gauthier."
"And yours?"
"Félix Saussier."
The Commander-in-Chief ordered the army to fall into rank, and then as
they presented arms he took the Cross of the Legion of Honour which he
was wearing himself and placed it on Lieutenant Saussier's breast.
"Wear it proudly," he said; "it is the recompense that France accords to
her bravest sons, and you well deserve it."
Then taking another Cross from one of the officers who belonged to the
État Major, he placed it on the body of Gauthier. "You, too, have well
earned it," he said, "and shall take it with you to your grave."
The troops filed off, after passing in front of the two officers, the
one wounded and the other dead. Marshal Canrobert himself raised his
sword and saluted the two heroes (the one, alas! had died too soon, and
the other was destined to become one of the bravest Generals of France),
and then passed on deeply moved, but satisfied with the victory, and
ignorant of the drama which had taken place so near to him.
[Illustration]
_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._
VI.
(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)
[Sidenote: SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT.]
Sir William Harcourt has been so long a familiar figure in the House of
Commons, and has established so high a reputation, that it seems odd to
speak of him as one of the successes of the new Session. But the phrase
accurately describes his position. Circumstances connected with the
personality of the Premier have given him opportunity to show what
potentialities as Leader of the House modestly lurk behind his massive
figure, and the result has been eminently satisfactory to his party and
his friends. Sir William's early reputation was made as a brilliant
swordsman of debate, most effective in attack. The very qualities that
go to make success in that direction might lead to utter failure on the
part of a Leader of the House.
[Illustration: "MODESTLY LURKING."]
If one sought for a word that would describe the leading characteristics
of Sir William Harcourt in Parliament it would be found in the style
aggressive. Perhaps the most fatal thing a Leader of the House of
Commons could do would be to develop aggressiveness. The Leader must be
a strong man--should be the strongest man on his side of the House. But
his strength must be kept in reserve, and if he err on either side of
this particular line, submissiveness should be his characteristic. The
possession of this quality was the foundation of Mr. W. H. Smith's
remarkable success as Leader. It is true he could not, had he tried,
have varied his deferential attitude towards the House by one of sterner
mould, and the House enjoys the situation more keenly if that
alternative be existent. It took Mr. Smith as he was, and the two got on
marvellously well together.
Nothing known of Sir William Harcourt's Parliamentary manner forbade the
apprehension that, occupying the box-seat, there would be incessant
cracking of the whip. It was difficult in advance to imagine how he
would be able to resist the opportunity of letting the lash fall on the
back of a restive or a stubborn horse. The opportunity of saying a smart
thing, at whatever cost, seemed with him irresistible. If only he had
his jest they might have his estate; in this case the estate of his
party.
[Illustration: "AGGRESSIVE."]
Reflection on an earlier experience of Sir William in the seat of the
Leader might have caused these forebodings to cease. Four years ago,
towards the close of the Session of 1889, the temporary withdrawal of
Mr. Gladstone from the scene gave him his chance. It happened that the
Government under the leadership of Mr. Smith, and, it was understood,
on the personal instruction of Lord Salisbury, were pressing forward
the Tithes Bill. They had an overwhelming, well-disciplined majority, and
being pledged up to the hilt to carry the Bill, the issue seemed certain.
Through a whole week Sir William led the numerically-overpowered
Opposition, fighting the Bill at every step. The hampered Government
were determined to get some sort of Bill passed, and, hopeless of
achieving their earliest intention, foreshadowed another measure in a
series of amendments laid on the table by the Attorney-General. The
Opposition were not disposed to accept this with greater fervour than
the other, and finally Mr. Smith announced a total withdrawal from the
position.
Nothing was finer throughout the brilliant campaign than Sir William
Harcourt's lamentations over this conclusion. Having inflicted on a
strong Government the humiliation of defeat upon a cherished measure,
he, in a voice broken with emotion, held poor W. H. Smith up to the
scorn of all good men as a heartless, depraved parent, who had abandoned
by the wayside a promising infant.
In the present Session Sir William, as Deputy Leader, finds himself in a
position different from, and more difficult than, the one filled in
August, 1889. He was then in the place of the Leader of the Opposition,
and had a natural affinity for the duty of opposing. In the present
Session he has been frequently and continuously called upon to perform
the duties of Leader of the House, and his success, though not so
brilliantly striking as in the short, sharp campaign against the Tithes
Bill, has stood upon a broader and more permanent basis. The House of
Commons, as Mr. Goschen learned during the experiments in Leadership
which preceded his disappearance from the front rank, may be led, but
cannot be driven.
It is curious that two of the most aggressive controversialists in the
House, being temporarily called to the Leadership, have shown themselves
profoundly impressed with this truth. Like Lord Randolph Churchill, when
he led the House, Sir William Harcourt appears on the Treasury Bench
divested even of his side-arms. Like the Happy Warrior, his helmet is a
hive for bees. His patience in time of trial has been pathetic, and,
whatever may be his own feelings on the subject, the House has been
amazed at his moderation. He has sat silent on the Treasury Bench by the
hour, with Mr. Arthur Balfour, Mr. Chamberlain, Lord Randolph Churchill,
and other old familiar adversaries, trailing tempting coat-tails before
him.
[Illustration: "THE HAPPY WARRIOR."]
One night this Session, in debate on Uganda, Mr. Chamberlain interposed
and delivered a brilliant, bitter speech, which deeply stirred a crowded
House. It was drawing to the close of an important debate, and Mr.
Chamberlain sat down at half-past eleven, leaving plenty of time for the
Leader of the House to reply. To an old Parliamentary war-house the
situation must have been sorely tempting. A party like to be sent off
into the division lobby with a rattling speech from the Front Bench.
There was ample time for a brisk twenty minutes' canter, and the crowded
and excited sport. But there was nothing at stake on the division.
Though Mr. Chamberlain could not withstand the opportunity of
belabouring his old friends and colleagues, he did not intend to oppose
the vote for Uganda, which would receive the hearty support of the
Conservatives. Half an hour saved from speech-making would mean thirty
minutes appropriated to getting forward with other votes in Committee of
Supply. Sir William followed Mr. Chamberlain, and was welcomed with a
ringing cheer; members settling themselves down in anticipated enjoyment
of a rattling speech. When the applause subsided the Chancellor of the
Exchequer contented himself with the observation that there had been a
useful debate, the Committee had heard some excellent speeches, "and now
let us get the vote."
There was something touching in the depressed attitude of the right hon.
gentleman as he performed this act of renunciation. What it cost him
will, probably, never be known. But before progress was reported at
midnight half-a-dozen votes had been taken.
[Sidenote: THE WHIPS.]
Of the various forms ambition takes in political life the most
inscrutable is that which leads a man to the Whip's room. In
Parliamentary affairs the Whip fills a place analogous to that of a
sub-editor on a newspaper. He has (using the phrase in a Parliamentary
sense) all the kicks and few of the half-pence. With the sub-editor, if
anything goes wrong in the arrangement of the paper he is held
responsible, whilst if any triumph is achieved, no halo of the resultant
glory for a moment lights up the habitual obscurity of his head. It is
the same, in its way, with the Whip. His work is incessant, and for the
most part is drudgery. His reward is a possible Peerage, a Colonial
Governorship, a First Commissionership of Works, a Postmaster-Generalship,
or, as Sir William Dyke found at the close of a tremendous spell of
work, a Privy Councillorship.
[Illustration: SIR WILLIAM DYKE.]
Yet it often comes to pass that the fate of a Ministry and the destiny
of the Empire depend upon the Whip. A bad division, even though it be
plainly due to accidental circumstances, habitually influences the
course of a Ministry, sometimes giving their policy a crucial turn, and
at least exercising an important influence on the course of business in
the current Session.
An example of this was furnished early in the present Session by a
division taken on proposals for a Saturday sitting made necessary by
obstruction. Up to the announcement of the figures it had been
obstinately settled that the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill should
be moved before Easter. The Opposition had pleaded and threatened. Mr.
Gladstone stood firm, and only three days before this momentous Friday
had almost impatiently reiterated his determination to move the Second
Reading of the Bill on the day appointed when leave was given to
introduce it. The normal majority of forty reduced to twenty-one worked
instant and magic charm. The falling-off had no political significance.
Everyone knew it arose from the accidental absence of a number of the
Irish members called home on local business. But there it was, and on
the following Monday Sir William Harcourt, on behalf of the Premier,
announced that the Home Rule Bill would not be taken till after Easter.
For other members of the Ministry there is occasional surcease from
work, and some opportunity for recreation. For the Whip there is none.
He begins his labour with the arrival of the morning post, and keeps at
it till the Speaker has left the chair, and the principal door-keeper
standing out on the matting before the doorway cries aloud: "The usual
time!"
That ceremony is a quaint relic of far-off days before penny papers
were, and the means of communicating with members were circumscribed. It
is the elliptical form of making known to members that at the next
sitting the Speaker will take the chair at the usual time. For ordinary
members, even for Ministers, unless they must be in their place to
answer a question, "the usual time" means whatever hour best suits their
convenience. The Whip is in his room even before the Speaker takes the
chair, and it is merely a change of the scene of labour from his office
at the Treasury. He remains till the House is up, whether the business
be brisk or lifeless.
In truth, at times when the House is reduced almost to a state of coma,
the duties of the Whip become more arduous and exacting. These are the
occasions when gentle malice loves to bring about a count-out. If it is
a private members' night the Whips have no responsibility in the matter
of keeping a House, and have even been suspected of occasionally
conniving in the beneficent plot of dispersing it. But just now private
members' nights stand in the same relation to the Session as the
sententious traveller found to be the case with snakes in Iceland. There
are none. Every night is a Government night, and weariness of flesh and
spirit naturally suggests a count-out. The regular business of the Whip
is to see that there are within call sufficient members to frustrate the
designs of the casual counter-out.
[Illustration: MR. JARRETT, DOOR-KEEPER.]
[Sidenote: "BOBBY" SPENCER.]
Mr. Gladstone and other members of the Cabinet, on many dull nights of
this Session, have been cheered on crossing the lobby by the sight of
Mr. "Bobby" Spencer gracefully tripping about, note-book in hand,
holding an interminable succession of members in brief but animated
conversation. He is not making a book for the Derby or Goodwood, as one
might suspect. "Do you dine here to-night?" is his insinuating inquiry,
and till he has listed more than enough men to "make a House" in case of
need, he does not feel assured of the safety of the British
Constitution, and therefore does not rest.
[Illustration: "BOBBY" SPENCER.]
This is part of the ordinary work of the average night. When an
important division is impending, the labour imposed upon the Whip is
Titanic. He, of course, knows every individual member of his flock. With
a critical division pending he must know more, ascertaining where he is
and, above all, where he will be on the night of the division. It is at
these crises that the personal characteristics of the Whip are tested. A
successful Whip should be almost loved, and not a little feared. He
should ever wear the silken glove, but there should be borne in upon the
consciousness of those with whom he has to deal that it covers an iron
hand.
It happens just now that both political parties in the House of Commons
are happy in the possession of almost model Whips. As was said by a
shrewd observer, no one looking at Mr. Marjoribanks or Mr. Akers-Douglas
as they lounge about the Lobby "would suppose they could say 'Bo!' to a
goose." The goose, however, would do well not to push the experiment of
forbearance too far. All through the last Parliament Mr. Akers-Douglas
held his men together with a light, firm hand, that was the admiration
and despair of the other side. Mr. Marjoribanks has, up to this present
time of writing, maintained the highest standard of success in Whipping.
[Sidenote: MR. MARJORIBANKS.]
With a Ministerial majority standing at a maximum of forty, it is of the
utmost importance to the Government that there shall be no sign of
falling off. If the forty were diminished even by a unit, a storm of
cheering would rise from the Opposition Benches, and Ministerialists
would be correspondingly depressed. With the exception named, due to
circumstances entirely beyond the Whip's control, Mr. Marjoribanks has
in all divisions, big or small, mustered his maximum majority of forty,
and has usually exceeded it.
That means not only unfailing assiduity and admirable business
management, but personal popularity on the part of the Whip. Aside from
party considerations, no Liberal would like to "disoblige Marjoribanks,"
who is as popular with the Irish contingent as he is with the main body
of the British members. He is fortunate in his colleagues--
Mr. Ellis, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Causton, and Mr. McArthur. The Whip's
department has not always been a strong feature in a Liberal
Administration. In the present Government it is one of the strongest.
[Illustration: MR. MARJORIBANKS.]
Why Mr. Marjoribanks should be content to serve as Whip is one of the
mysteries that surround the situation. He does not want a peerage, since
that will come to him in the ordinary course of nature. He is one of the
personages in political life who excite the sympathy of Lord Rosebery,
inasmuch as he must be a peer _malgré lui_. He served a long
apprenticeship when the office of Whip was more than usually thankless,
his party being in opposition. When Mr. Gladstone's Ministry was formed,
it was assumed, as a matter of course, that Mr. Marjoribanks would have
found for him office in other department than that of the Whip. But Mr.
Gladstone, very shrewdly from the Leader's point of view, felt that no
one would be more useful to the party in the office vacated by Mr.
Arnold Morley than Mr. Marjoribanks. Mr. Marjoribanks, naturally
disposed to think last of his own interests and inclinations, did not
openly demur.
[Sidenote: ALL-NIGHT SITTINGS.]
The Whip's post, though hard enough, is much lightened by adoption of
the twelve o'clock rule. Time was, at no distant date, when for some
months in the Session Whips were accustomed to go home in broad
daylight. It is true the House at that time met an hour later in the
afternoon, but the earlier buckling to is a light price to pay for the
certainty that shortly after midnight all will be over. Even now the
twelve o'clock rule may be suspended, and this first Session of the new
Parliament has shown that all-night sittings are not yet impossible. But
so unaccustomed is the present House to them, that when one became
necessary on the Mutiny Bill everyone and everything was found
unprepared. In the old days, when Mr. Biggar was in his prime, the
commissariat were always prepared for an all-night sitting. When, this
Session, the House sat up all night on the Mutiny Bill, the larder was
cleared out in the first hour after midnight.
It is not generally known how nearly the valuable life of the Chairman
of Ways and Means was on that occasion sacrificed at the post of duty.
Having lost earlier chances by remaining in the chair, it was only at
four o'clock in the morning he was rescued from famine by the daring
foraging of Mr. Herbert Gladstone, who, the House being cleared for one
of the divisions, brought in a cup of tea and a poached egg on toast,
which the Chairman disposed of at the table.
[Illustration: MR. MELLOR.]
Mr. Mellor is an old Parliamentary campaigner, and remembers several
occasions when, living injudiciously near the House, he was brought out
of bed to assist in withstanding obstruction. Being called up one
morning by an imperative request to repair to the House, he observed a
man violently ringing at the bell of the house of a neighbour, also a
member of the House of Commons. On returning two hours later, he found
the man still there, diligently ringing at the bell.
"What's the matter?" he asked; "anyone ill?"
"No, sir," said the man. "Lord Richard Grosvenor sent me to bring Mr.
---- down to the House, and said I was not to come away without him."
"Ah, well, you can go off now; the House is up."
Mr. ----, it turned out on subsequent inquiry, had gone down to Brighton
with his family, and the servants left at home did not think it
necessary to answer a bell rung at this untimely hour.
[Sidenote: "PAIRED FOR THE NIGHT."]
It was about the same time, in the Parliament of 1880, that another
messenger from the Government Whip went forth in the early morning in
search of a member. He lived in Queen Anne's Mansions, and the messenger
explaining the urgency of his errand, the night porter conducted him to
the bedroom door of the sleeping senator. Succeeding in awakening him,
he delivered his message.
"Give my compliments to Lord Richard Grosvenor," said the wife of the
still somnolent M.P.; "tell him my husband has gone to bed, and is
paired for the night."
[Sidenote: BARE-HEADED.]
It is an old tradition, observed to this day, though the origin of it is
lost in the obscurity of the Middle Ages, that a Whip shall not appear
in the Lobby with his head covered. It is true Mr. Marjoribanks does not
observe this rule, but he is alone in the exception. All his
predecessors, as far as I can remember, conformed to the regulation. In
the last Parliament the earliest intimation of the formation of a new
Radical party was the appearance in the Lobby of Mr. Jacoby without his
hat. Inquiry excited by this phenomenon led to the disclosure that the
Liberal opposition had broken off into a new section. There was some
doubt as to who was the leader, but none as to the fact that Mr. Jacoby
and Mr. Philip Stanhope were the Whips. Mr. Stanhope was not much in
evidence. But on the day Mr. Jacoby accepted the appointment he locked
up his hat and patrolled the Lobby with an air of sagacity and an
appearance of brooding over State secrets, which at once raised the new
party into a position of importance.
[Illustration: MR. JACOBY.]
Dick Power, most delightful of Irishmen, most popular of Whips, made
through the Session regular play with his hat. Anyone familiar with his
habits would know how the land lay from the Irish quarter. If Mr. Power
appeared hatless in the Lobby, a storm was brewing, and before the
Speaker left the chair there would, so to speak, be wigs on the green.
If his genial face beamed from under his hat as he walked about the
Lobby the weather was set fair, at least for the sitting.
[Sidenote: THE WINSOME WIGGIN.]
One of the duties of the junior Whips is to keep sentry-go at the door
leading from the Lobby to the cloak-room, and so out into Palace Yard.
When a division is expected, no member may pass out unless he is paired.
That is not the only way by which escape from the House may be made. A
member desirous of evading the scrutiny of the Whips might find at least
two other ways of quitting the House. It is, however, a point of honour
to use only this means of exit, and no member under whatsoever pressure
would think of skulking out.
For many nights through long Sessions, Lord Kensington sat on the bench
to the left of the doorway, a terror to members who had pressing private
engagements elsewhere, when a division was even possible. There is only
one well-authenticated occasion when a member, being unpaired, succeeded
in getting past Lord Kensington, and the result was not encouraging.
[Illustration: "SKULKING OUT."]
One night, Mr. Wiggin (now Sir Henry), the withdrawal of whose genial
presence from the Parliamentary scene is regretted on both sides of the
House, felt wearied with long attendance on his Parliamentary duties.
There came upon him a weird longing to stroll out and spend an hour in a
neighbouring educational establishment much frequented by members. He
looked towards the doorway, but there was Lord Kensington steadfast at
his post. Glancing again, Mr. Wiggin thought the Whip was asleep.
Casually strolling by him he found that this was the case, and with
something more than his usual agility, he passed through the doorway.
Returning at the end of an hour he found Lord Kensington still at his
post, and more than usually wide awake.
"You owe me £25," said Mr. Wiggin.
"How?" cried the astonished Whip.
"If," said Mr. Wiggin, producing his unencumbered watch-chain and
dangling it, "you hadn't been asleep just now, I wouldn't have got past
you; if I hadn't got past you, I wouldn't have dropped in at the
Aquarium; and if I hadn't looked in at the Aquarium, I shouldn't have
had my watch stolen."
_Quod erat demonstrandum._
[Illustration: "ABSORBED."]
[Sidenote: REMARKABLE FEAT OF A COUNTRY PAPER.]
It was stated at the time, to the credit of the provincial Press, that
at the very moment Mr. St. John Brodrick was delivering in the House of
Commons his luminous speech on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill,
his constituents at Guildford, thanks to the enterprise of the local
weekly paper, were studying its convincing argument, lingering over the
rhythm of its sentences, echoing the laughter and applause with which a
crowded House punctuated it. I enjoyed the higher privilege of hearing
the speech delivered, and was probably so absorbed that I was not
conscious of the crowd on the benches, and do not recollect the laughter
and applause. Indeed, my memory enshrines rather a feeling of regret
that so painstaking and able an effort should have met with so chilling
a reception, and that an heir-apparent to a peerage, who has had the
courage to propose a scheme for the reform of the House of Lords, should
receive such scant attention in the Commons.
[Sidenote: _Il y a_ POWER _et_ POWER.]
Mr. Brodrick, however, got off his speech, and the local paper came out
with its verbatim report, a concatenation of circumstances not always
achieved. In the high tide of the Parnell invasion of the House of
Commons, there happened an accident that excited much merriment. Mr.
O'Connor Power--one of the ablest debaters the early Irish party brought
into the House, a gentleman who has with equal success given up to
journalism what was meant for the House of Commons--had prepared a
speech for a current debate. Desirous that his constituents should be at
least on a footing of equality with an alien House of Commons, he sent a
verbatim copy in advance to the editor of the local paper, an
understanding being arrived at that it was not to be published till
signal was received from Westminster that the hon. member was on his
feet. It happened that Mr. O'Connor Power failed on that night to catch
the Speaker's eye. Mr. Richard Power was more successful, and the local
editor receiving through the ordinary Press agency intimation that "Mr.
Power opposed the Bill," at once jumped to the conclusion that this was
the cue for the verbatim speech. Mr. Power was speaking; there was not
the slightest doubt that Mr. O'Connor Power, when he did speak, would
oppose the Bill. So the formes were locked, the paper went to press, and
the next morning County Mayo rang with the unuttered eloquence of its
popular member, and Irishmen observed with satisfaction how, for once,
the sullen Saxon had had his torpid humour stirred, being frequently
incited to "loud cheers" and "much laughter."
[Sidenote: SIR ELLIS ASHMEAD-BARTLETT'S DILEMMA.]
In this same debate on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill, where
the energy and enterprise of the provincial weekly Press was
incidentally illustrated in connection with Mr. Brodrick's speech, there
happened another episode which did not work out so well. Sir Ellis
Ashmead-Bartlett broke the long silence of years by delivering a speech
in the House of Commons. It was a great occasion, and naturally evoked
supreme effort. It was, in its way, akin to the wooing of Jacob. For
seven years that eminent diplomatist had worked and waited for Rachel,
and might well rejoice, even in the possession of Leah, when the term of
probation was over. For nearly seven years Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had sat
on the Treasury Bench wrapped in the silence of a Civil Lord of the
Admiralty. Now his time was come, and he threw himself into the
enjoyment of opportunity with almost pathetic vigour. It was eleven
o'clock when he rose, and the debate must needs stand adjourned at
midnight. When twelve o'clock struck, Sir Ellis was still in the full
flow of his turgid eloquence. His speech was constructed on the
principle of, and (except, perhaps, in the matter of necessity)
resembled, the long bridge in Cowper's "Task"--
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood.
The scene and the atmosphere were sufficiently Arctic to bear out the
comparison. The audience had long since fallen away, like leaves in
wintry weather. In ordinary circumstances Sir Ellis, an old
Parliamentary Hand, would have wound up his speech, and so made an end
of it, just before the stroke of midnight gave the signal for the
Speaker's leaving the chair.
There were, however, two reasons, the agony of whose weight must have
pressed sorely on the orator. One was the recollection of an incident in
his career still talked of in the busy circles round Sheffield. One
night in yesteryear he was announced to deliver a speech at a meeting
held in Nottingham. "For greater accuracy"--as the Speaker says, when,
coming back from the House of Lords on the opening day of a Session, he
reads the Queen's Speech to hon. members who have two hours earlier
studied it in the evening papers--Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had written out
his oration and supplied it to the Sheffield paper whose recognition of
his status as a statesman merits reward. Proceedings at the Nottingham
meeting were so protracted, and took such different lines from those
projected, that the orator of the evening, when his turn came, found the
night too far advanced for his ordered speech, which would in other
respects have been beside the mark. He accordingly, impromptu, delivered
quite another speech, probably better than the one laboriously prepared
in the seclusion of the closet. In the hurry and excitement of the
moment he forgot to warn the Sheffield editor, with the consequence that
the other speech was printed in full and formed the groundwork of a
laudatory leading article.
[Illustration: SIR ELLIS ASHMEAD-BARTLETT.]
That was one thing that agitated the mind of Sir Ellis, and probably
gave a profounder thrill to his denunciation of Mr. Gladstone's iniquity
in the matter of the Home Rule Bill. Another was that this later speech,
with all its graceful air of ready wit, fervid fancy, and momentarily
inspired argument, was also in print, and, according to current report,
was in advance widely circulated among a friendly Press. It turned out
to be impossible to recite it all before the adjournment; equally
impossible to cut it down. That mighty engine, the Press, was already,
in remote centres of civilization, throbbing with the inspiration of his
energy, printing off the speech at so many hundreds an hour. It was
impossible to communicate with the unconscious editors and mark the
exact point at which the night's actual contribution to debate was
arrested. There was only one thing to be done: that was boldly to take
the fence. So Sir Ellis went on till twelve o'clock as if nothing were
happening elsewhere, was pulled up by the adjournment, and, turning up
bright and early with the meeting of the House next day, reeled off the
rest regardless of the gibes of the enemy, who said some of the faithful
papers had muddled the matter, reporting on Tuesday morning passages
that were not delivered in the House of Commons till Tuesday night.
[Sidenote: THE PITY OF IT.]
These accidents have their comical aspect. When it comes to
appropriating two hours of the time of a busy Legislature, they also
have their serious side. The House of Commons is a debating assembly,
not a lecture hall, where prosy papers may be read to sparse audiences.
The House is seen at its best when masters of fence follow each other
in swift succession, striking and parrying, the centre of an excited
ring. A prevalence of the growing custom of reading laboriously-prepared
papers will speedily bring it down to the level of the Congress meeting
at Washington. There the practice has reached its natural and happy
conclusion, inasmuch as members having prepared their papers are not
obliged to read them. They hand them in to the printer, and, at a cost
to the nation willingly borne in view of compensating circumstances,
they are printed at length in the _Congressional Globe_.
[Illustration: "REELING IT OFF."]
Perhaps when we have our official report of debates in the House of
Commons this also will follow. It is easy to imagine with what eagerness
the House would welcome any alternative that should deliver it from the
necessity, not of listening to these musty harangues--that, to do it
justice, it never suffers--but of giving up an appreciable portion of
its precious time to the gratification of ponderous, implacable,
personal vanity.
[Sidenote: THACKERAY ON THE SUBJECT.]
There is one gleam of light flickering about this intrinsically
melancholy topic in connection with the name of Thackeray. I have read
somewhere that it was a kindred calamity of a public speaker which led
to Thackeray's first appearance in print. At a time when the century was
young, and the author of "Vanity Fair" was a lad at Charterhouse,
Richard Lalor Sheil, the Irish lawyer and orator, had promised to
deliver a speech to a public meeting assembled on Penenden Heath. In
those days there were no staffs of special reporters, no telegraphs, nor
anything less costly than post-chaises wherewith to establish rapid
communication between country platforms and London newspaper offices.
Sheil, rising to the height of the occasion, wrote out his speech, and,
before leaving town, sent copies to the leading journals, in which it,
on the following morning, duly appeared.
Alack! when the orator reached the Heath he found the platform in
possession of the police, who prohibited the meeting and would have none
of the speech. The incident was much talked of, and the boy Thackeray
set to and wrote in verse a parody on the printed but unspoken oration:
Here is the last verse, as I remember it:--
"What though these heretics heard me not?"
Quoth he to his friend Canonical;
"My speech is safe in the _Times_, I wot,
And eke in the _Morning Chronicle_."
* * * * *
[_The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are always
on view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is open
to the public without charge._]
_A Work of Accusation._
BY HARRY HOW.
"Suicide whilst in a state of temporary insanity."
Such was the verdict of the coroner's jury, and they could scarcely have
declared anything else--there was not a tittle of evidence implicating
another as the perpetrator of the deed. The deceased was found lying in
his studio at the foot of his easel, shot through the heart. The
revolver--a six-chambered one--was tightly gripped in his hand. Four out
of the six chambers remained undischarged. It must have been suicide,
simple and premeditated! The inquiry into the death of the deceased
revealed only one spark of anything approaching sensationalism. It was
the evidence of the housekeeper--an old lady of distinctly nervous
temperament--who wept bitterly. Previous to the sad occurrence she had
heard the firing of a pistol some five or six times during a period of
two days. On the first occasion she had hurried to the studio, and the
alarmed state of her feelings was sufficient to cause her to overlook
the formality of giving the customary tap at the door previous to
entering. She entered the room, only to find the deceased artist holding
a pistol--the one produced--and looking at its barrel, still smoking,
earnestly. He burst into a hearty laugh when he saw her, and told her
not to be frightened.
"It is nothing, Mrs. Thompson," he said, "and should you hear the firing
again, do not be alarmed. Don't be frightened."
[Illustration: "DON'T BE FRIGHTENED."]
So the firing was frequent, and though it played pitifully with the old
housekeeper's nerves and shook her seventy-year-old bones considerably,
she quietly submitted to it and "hoped it was all right."
I knew Godfrey Huntingdon well. He often chatted over his pictures with
me. As a medical man and a student somewhat beyond the range of physic
and prescriptions, the pros and cons of an idea to be eventually carried
to the canvas gave rise to many interesting and discussable points. I
liked the man--he was so frank and true and positively simple in his
unassuming manner. Poor fellow! He never dreamt for a moment that he was
a genius, but what he did not know the public were quick to recognise.
Every picture from his brush was watched and waited for--a canvas from
him meant a vivid, striking, often sensational episode, which seemed to
live. I have some of his work in my dining-room now. I often look at his
figures. They are more human than anything I have seen by any other
modern painter. They seem possessed of breath and beating hearts of
their own, with tongues that want to speak, and eyes that reveal a
thinking brain. The trees in his landscapes appear to be gently shaken
by the breeze from across the moorland, the clouds only need touching by
the breath of the firmament to lazily move across the face of the blue
sky. He was indeed a genius.
It was always an open question in the minds of the public and the
judgment of the critics as to who excelled the other--Godfrey Huntingdon
or Wilfred Colensoe. They both belonged to the same school of ideas.
Their works were equally impressive, their figure and portrait painting
particularly so, and the judges said it would be a life-long race
between them for supremacy with the brush. Huntingdon's sad death was a
terrible blow to the artistic world. I went to his funeral.
He had not forgotten me. He left me all his studies. There were several
hundreds of them. Many were familiar to me, for he had made them whilst
we were smoking a pipe together, as I pointed out to him the necessary
laws of science he must needs regard in order to insure accuracy in his
work. The studies made quite a number of huge bundles, and in the
evening I would delight in sorting them through. It was a long task, for
I found something to admire and think over in every single one of them.
A fortnight had passed away since they first came into my possession. I
had only another parcel to go through, and I should be finished. I was
quietly sitting in my chair with my legs stretched out on another chair,
as is my custom--I find it remarkably restful--and lighting up my brier
I cut the string of the last bundle. Slowly, one by one, I lifted up
those pieces of brown paper. They were still objects of reverence to me.
Here was the head of a child, a sweetly pretty child, and next to it a
study of a dissipated character, the face of a man fast losing every
working power of his brain and body by liquor. I realized the genius of
my dead friend more and more.
[Illustration: "SLOWLY I LIFTED UP THOSE PIECES OF BROWN PAPER."]
I had gone through quite a score of these play studies, when my hand
stretched out for another from the pile by my side. I turned the piece
of paper round and round, and it was some time before I grasped what the
subject was intended for. It appeared to be a piece of round tubing from
which smoke was protruding. The next half-dozen studies were of a
similar character. In one the smoke was very small, just a thin streak;
in another it was a full volume, as though to represent the after effect
of the discharge of a bullet from a revolver. I looked again. The chalk
drawing of the tubing was evidently intended for the barrel of a pistol!
Huntingdon always put the date on every study he made, and I found my
hand trembling as I turned the paper over. Great heavens--10th October,
1872--the day before his death! Another paper bore the same date, and
the others had the date of the previous day--the 9th. Was his death,
then, the result of an accident and not a suicide after all? Here was
the simple explanation of it so far--here was the reason for the several
shots which the old housekeeper had heard fired. He had discharged the
revolver at these times in order to watch the effect and immediately
place his impressions on the pieces of paper I now held in my hand. My
knowledge of Godfrey Huntingdon--both medically and fraternally--told me
that, at the time of his death, there was positively nothing on his mind
to cause such an act, and I now began reasoning the whole within myself
once again, as I had done many times since the occurrence.
"It's a mystery--a terrible mystery!" I exclaimed, jumping up and
commencing to pace the room. I walked that room for over an hour, and
was only aroused from my reverie by the announcement of a servant that
supper was served. I ate my meal in silence, and the deliberate
mouthfuls I took, and my more than ordinarily methodical manner of
eating, must have told my wife that to disturb my present inward
argument would have been disastrous to the immediate prospects of
domestic harmony. I had come to a conclusion. There is nothing like
science and its accompanying occupations for balancing a man's brain. A
game of chess is recreative concentration. So the study of science was
with me, whilst physic was my profession. Scientific research and the
weighing of Nature's problems had steadied my thoughts and cooled my
actions. It was a settled thing with me that poor Huntingdon had been
murdered. By whom? Scientific investigation had transformed me into a
calculating individual. Every action, to me, could be proved as a
proposition in Euclid or an algebraical problem. I therefore said
nothing about my startling discovery, and decided to wait the
possibility of a further suggestion coming in my way, and "proving it."
I suppose it was the deep interest I took in all matters concerning art
which brought so many artist-patients to my consulting room. Six months
had passed since the fatal 11th October, and the public were loudly
expressing their approval of a marvellously impressive bit of painting
by Wilfred Colensoe, which was the feature--and very justly so--of one
of the early spring exhibitions. It was the picture of a duel--a very
realistic canvas indeed. The young man--lying bleeding on the
ground--almost told the story of the attempted avenge of an action
towards someone dear to him on the part of an elderly _roué_, whose
still-smoking revolver was in his hand. Colensoe came to see me one
morning. He was a remarkably handsome man, classically featured, with
hair picturesquely scattered with streaks of silver.
"Done up, eh?" I said to him.
"Done up is the word," he answered.
"You've been doing too much," I said, looking into his grey eyes as I
held his hand a moment. "You must cease work for a time. Get away from
your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go
anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman's."
[Illustration: "'YOU'VE BEEN DOING TOO MUCH,' I SAID."]
"My dear doctor," he answered, "your prescription is too strong. You
forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a
fountain of water and telling him he mustn't drink. I can't leave my
work."
"When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or
your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is
undeniably true. Do you sleep well?"
"I can't say," was his reply. "When I fall asleep at night I never wake
until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I
turned in over-night."
"Quite so. Do you dream at all?"
"Yes, I dream."
"Feel sleepy now--eh?"
"Doctor, I could go to bed for a week," he replied.
"Again, I tell you--overwork," I said, with strong deliberation. "Now
I'll make you a proposal, which I can couple most heartily with the name
of Mrs. Gratton. Come away with us. We are going to Herne Bay for a few
weeks. I have taken a house there. Most invigorating place. You want no
medicine, you won't leave your work alone, I won't be hard in my
treatment of your case. Bring your tools with you. I will prescribe so
much colour for you during the day--your paints and brushes may become
converted into agreeable physic, but--they must be taken at periodical
times. What do you say?"
Colensoe consented--gratefully accepted my offer, stayed to lunch, and
my wife took care to let him feel that the invitation was one of
combined cordiality from both of us. I was a great admirer of Colensoe's
work, and therefore took a deep interest in the worker. In a week's time
we were at Herne Bay. A room--with a good light--was apportioned off as
a small studio for Colensoe. A week passed by. Colensoe obeyed my
instructions to the letter. I limited his working hours, and he began
himself to be thankful when the periodical times for laying aside his
brush came round. I noticed this, and lessened the hours of painting
more, thinking that by degrees he would soon put his palette away
completely and take the undisturbed rest he needed for a time to restore
him thoroughly.
About a fortnight after our arrival I was sitting alone in the
dining-room. My wife and visitor had retired an hour ago. It was a
glorious night. I turned out the gas, walked to the window, and drew up
the blinds. The sea was sparkling with gems thrown out by the
moon-beams. The beauty of the night seemed to heighten the stillness of
the surroundings. Although it wanted but a few minutes to midnight I
determined to walk out to the cliffs--a couple of hundred yards from the
house--and view the moonlit scenery to greater advantage. I turned from
the window, opened the door, and, just as I was turning into the
passage, I heard a footstep. It was a steady, deliberate step; there was
nothing uncertain or hesitating about it. I waited a moment; it came
nearer. I drew back into the shadow. Now it was on the top stair. A form
appeared in sight. It was Wilfred Colensoe.
"Colensoe," I cried, softly; "why, what's the matter?"
[Illustration: "HE STOOD BEFORE HIS EASEL."]
He made no answer. With monotonous step he descended the stairs and was
now at the bottom. His blank, staring eyes at once told me that he was
in a state of somnambulism. He was fully dressed. His face was deadly
pale, his features stolidly set, and his lips were gently moving as
though impressively muttering. When he reached the bottom stair, he
turned and walked in the direction of the room we had converted into a
studio for him. I followed on quietly. With all the method and
mysterious discretionary power of the sleep-walker he turned the handle
of the door and entered. The room was flooded with light, for the roof
was a glass one. I watched him take his palette in hand and play with
the brushes on the colours. He stood before his easel, on which rested a
half-finished canvas. And he painted--painted as true and as sure as if
awake, blending the colours, picking out his work, working with all his
old artistic touch and finish. All this time his lips were moving,
muttering incoherent words I could not hear. At last he laid aside his
tools with a sigh that almost raised compassion in my heart. Then
walking towards the window at the far end of the room, he appeared to
look out upon the sea. He was now talking louder. I crept up to him and
tried to catch a word. It was a terrible brain-ringing word I heard--and
uttered in a way I shall never forget.
"Murder!"
That was the word. "Murder, murder, murder!" he muttered, with agonized
face. Yet another word came to his lips.
"Huntingdon!"
"Murder--Huntingdon!" I said within myself as I linked the two words
together.
The sleeping man passed his hand across his forehead. It was evident
that he was in the midst of an agonizing dream--a vision of conviction.
Here stood the guilty man before me now, pale and motionless, the rays
from the moon lighting up his face and revealing the word "guilt"
written on every feature. I watched him and waited for something else to
come from his lips. I stood by his side for nearly an hour, but he did
nothing more than repeat these same two words. With measured tread he
turned to go. I followed him to his bedroom and heard him turn the key.
I sat up the whole night--thinking. None knew of the remarkable
discovery which I had made amongst poor Huntingdon's sketches; none
should know of what I had learnt to-night. By the morning I had fully
determined upon my course of action. The ramblings of a sleep-walking
man would not prove a conviction to those who would judge his deed. He
should convict himself. He should witness against himself. He was a
sleep-worker. I had met with many similar cases before, all of which
tended to prove that sleep by no means deadens the faculties of labour.
It is indisputable that the hands will follow the inclinations of the
brains of somnambulists. They will act as they think--perform what they
dream. If Colensoe would only work out his terrible night dreams!
My conduct towards him at the breakfast table and throughout the day was
just the same as ever. It was far from a comfortable feeling, however,
to pass the wine to one who had taken another's life, and to offer an
after-dinner cigar to a murderer. The day passed. I slept during the
afternoon, for I was tired with my over-night watching, and could I but
put my inward plans into execution, it was more than probable that I
should be awake for many nights to come. I told my wife that Colensoe
was a somnambulist, and that he worked at the canvas equally as well
whilst sleeping as waking. I impressed upon her the absolute necessity
of silence on the subject, as I firmly believed that I was on the brink
of a great discovery. Seeing that I was a medical man, her curiosity was
in no way aroused. Indeed, she thought me foolish to give up my night's
rest.
That night, after Colensoe had gone to bed, I went into his studio. My
hand trembled somewhat as I placed on his easel a square piece of new
canvas. This done, I waited patiently. A step on the stairs rewarded me.
It was Colensoe walking again. His speech was louder this time, and more
impressively distinct; his dream was evidently more agonizing than the
night before. If he would only follow out the promptings of that
dream--if he would but work to-night--to-night! I watched him
breathlessly. He wandered about the room for some time, then suddenly,
as though impelled by some mysterious force within, crossed to the
cupboard where he kept his tools, took out his materials and walked to
the canvas.
"Huntingdon--Huntingdon!" he cried, and the first lines of his
everlasting vision were written on the hitherto untouched canvas. It was
the outline of a man's face! For two hours he worked, and then,
replacing his brushes and palette, went to bed. I took the canvas away.
Night after night for ten days I placed the canvas in position. Night
after night the artist got nearer to accomplishing his own condemnation.
And as the picture grew more like the man he had murdered, so his dream
became more intense. His features showed that. The rapidity of his brush
revealed the rush of thoughts within, of an anxiety to complete his
task. Never was such a true portrait painted, and when on the last night
he put the finishing touches to it, the face of Huntingdon seemed to
live on the canvas. It was the face which existed in the brain of the
painter. The last night's work was done. The sleeping man turned from
his easel and went to his bedroom once more.
The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of
it in my own mind--but he should say so himself when waking as he had
condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and
confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man
whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than
usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the
intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw
him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale,
every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention--their
gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs.
"Don't stop me," he cried. "I must go into the open. I want God's air.
Let me go now--let me go, only for a little while!"
"Colensoe," I said, catching him by the arm, "what mad act do you
contemplate?"
"Nothing--nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing
breeze, that's all. I'm tired--worn out."
"Yes, you are truly tired," I said.
"What do you mean?" he cried.
"Your work."
"Work--what work?--who works?"
"Come with me," I said.
[Illustration: "HE SHRIEKED THE MURDERED MAN'S NAME."]
Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The
portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had
painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in
accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground.
He was dead!
* * * * *
The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe's dressing-table:--
"What good is life to me?--what good am I for life? Then why live? A
guilty conscience only means a living death. You have been very good to
me--both you and your wife. But I am going to end it all. Let me
confess. It will bring me some small comfort even now in the dying hour
I have given to myself. You remember poor Huntingdon? I shot that
man--murdered him. Listen and then 'Good-bye.' Huntingdon and I were
friendly rivals. You remember my picture of 'The Duel'? Yes. One day I
visited Huntingdon. That same morning I had been making some studies of
a revolver in the act of being discharged. I had it in my pocket when I
went to see Huntingdon, and one chamber remained loaded. I walked
straight into his studio. As I entered Huntingdon had a pistol in his
hand pointed immediately towards me and--fired. In an instant my
revolver was in my grasp and a bullet had entered his heart. That is the
simple history of the crime. I fled from the place and none knew. Thank
God this is written. A life for a life. I am passing through death all
the day, and at night I do not cease to die. You do not know what that
means. The guilty do. Angels of darkness play with you all day long and
at night watch over you--watch over you that you do not escape, that
they may gambol with you on the morrow. They are making merry now. They
have got what they want--_Me_. Yes, a life for a life. I will deliver my
own up. Good-bye."
_The Queer Side of Things._
[Illustration: A USE FOR GENIUS]
Young Bansted Downs had finally arrived home from school; the cabman had
placed his box in the front hall, and young D. was in the act of hanging
up his hat on the stand, when the elder Bansted Downs, his father, put
his head out of the library, and said:--
"And now, young Bansted Downs, what sphere in life do you propose to
fill?"
"I have been thinking, old Bansted Downs," replied the youth,
respectfully, "since I left school seventy-five minutes ago, that I
should prefer to be something prosperous."
The father nodded his head approvingly at this evidence of foresight in
his child, and said:--
"I think you have come to a very wise decision, young Bansted Downs. No
doubt you have, while at school, selected such studies as were best
fitted to prepare you for the struggle of life?"
"I think so, old Bansted Downs," replied the son. "The head-master took
in regularly for our use all the best prize-competition periodicals; in
fact, he was of opinion that a complete selection of these rendered all
other educational books superfluous. I myself have attained to such
dexterity in guessing the right word, deciding on the best eight
pictures and the two best stories, divining the correct number of pairs
of boots made in London on a given day, and so forth, that Dr.
Practiccle pronounced my education singularly complete."
"Good--very good! young Bansted Downs," said the father, thoughtfully;
"and now as to a more specific choice of profession?"
"Well, old Bansted Downs," said the son, "I have been thinking that I
should like to be apprenticed to a Genius, with a view to adopting his
calling."
"Very well thought out," said the parent. "I must consider whether the
necessary premium----"
"Pray do not trouble about that," said the son, "as my success at the
word competitions has more than provided for the contingency." And young
Bansted Downs drew from his pocket a large bag filled with a mixture of
sovereigns, marbles, and peppermint-drops.
"Very good! Then the matter's settled; and perhaps you would like
something to eat."
All the friends by whose opinion old Bansted Downs set any store
heartily approved of young Bansted Downs's choice of a calling; and the
matter was fully discussed that evening. The advertisement columns of
the newspapers were consulted as to the most suitable genius to
undertake the charge of the youth; and the following seemed promising:--
"_To Parents and Guardians._--_Young men of promise wishing to adopt the
profession of genius will do well to apply to Brayne Power and Sons, of
3019A, George Street, Hanover Square, who have a vacancy for one
apprentice. Telephone No. 7142863._"
The very next day young Bansted Downs called at the address given, and
was shown into the presence of Power senior, a man of venerable
appearance, whose high broad forehead, far-away gaze, long hair, and
abstraction sufficiently revealed his calling.
"It will be fifty pounds--twenty-five down, and the rest in monthly
instalments of one pound after you have got your H.A.W.," said the
Master Genius.
"If you please, what is my H.A.W.?" asked young Bansted Downs.
"Your final degree--your Head Above Water."
"That will not be just yet?" asked the youth.
"Oh, dear, no! Not for a very long while, if ever. There are two
preliminary degrees to get before that. There are the F.I. and the
E.P.--your Foot In and your Ear of the Public; and before you can obtain
either of these you will have to Make your Mark."
"I can sign my name--will not that do as well?" asked the youth.
[Illustration: "THE MASTER GENIUS."]
"That entirely depends upon the sort of name. If it's just a surname
with a coronet over it, it entitles you to your F.I. and your E.P.
without any examination. You have the same advantage if you can append
to your signature either of the following affixes: P.P. (Pertinacious
Pusher) or C.I. (Chum of the Influential).
"But if you can't sign these kinds of names, you will have to Make your
Mark. It's a difficult mark, and requires a lot of learning.
"As the first instalment of twenty-five pounds down is all I am ever
likely to get, I will take it now--no, that one won't do; it's a
peppermint-drop, not a sovereign. _That's_ not the way to get on, young
man!"
"Isn't it?" asked young Bansted Downs thoughtfully. "I'm glad you told
me. I thought perhaps it might be; but, of course, I've got to learn."
That very week young Bansted Downs commenced his studies under the
Master Genius. He found he had a very great deal to learn.
"The difference between talent and genius is that talent does what it
can and genius does what it must--you will find that in the poets," said
the Master Genius. "Consequently, to be a genius, you need not feel that
you have the _ability_ to do a thing, but only that it is _necessary_ to
do it. A house-painter is a specimen of genius: he has not the ability
to do his work; but he is compelled to do it in order to obtain the
means for his Saturday drinks. But, of course, that's only one kind of
genius. What we have to teach you first is to feel that you _must_ do
something transcendent--and then all you've got to do is to do it--see?"
So, acting on his instructions, young Bansted Downs went to the office
and sat quite still day after day for a month or two, with his eyes
fixed on space; and one afternoon at the end of that time he got up and
rushed at Power junior (who took charge of him in these preliminary
studies), and announced that he felt the irresistible impulse to do
something great and wonderful.
"What sort of thing?" asked the Junior Genius.
"I don't know--anything--something stupendous and transcendent--a
master-piece!" said young Bansted Downs.
"Knock it off, then. Don't make a labour of it, mind; that would spoil
all the genius of it. Just knock it off--shed it--see?"
The apprentice went back to his stool in the corner and knocked off that
scintillation of genius.
"Very good for a beginner," said the Junior Genius; "you show much
promise. I shall soon be able to hand you over to my father for the
Higher Grades."
And some time after that young Bansted Downs moved into the room of the
Master Genius to learn the higher attributes of genius--eccentricity and
obscureness. These were the most important parts of the qualifications,
and he worked hard at acquiring them. The eccentricity had infinite
ramifications extending into language, manner, dress, habits,
appearance, and opinions. The teacher communicated a thousand little
touches of eccentricity invaluable to a genius--such as the bringing out
of a book of poems with the title printed upside down and the capitals
at the end of the lines instead of the beginning; the wearing of the
back hair tied in a bow under the tip of the nose, and so forth. The
pupil learned to hop backwards on to a public platform, wearing his
dress-coat upside down, to paint his figures with their bones outside
their skin, to sob audibly when performing on the piano; and many other
things necessary to the obtaining of his degrees.
[Illustration: "A HOUSE-PAINTER IS A SPECIMEN OF GENIUS."]
Having completed these studies, he was ready for the uphill work of
trying to Make his Mark; and he found it a complicated bit of drawing
too, far worse than the signature of a Chinese emperor--everything lay
in the flourish.
The Master Genius said that no one could Make his Mark without a great
flourish; and the best way to make the flourish was to blow it on his
own trumpet; so there was the expense of a trumpet.
But he didn't seem able to get on; and after he had worn out a gross of
pens in the attempt to Make his Mark he felt that he would never obtain
his degrees, and took a back cistern-cupboard under the roof in a poor
street, and fell into a low state.
One day, as he was eating his weekly sausage at the Three Melancholy
Geniuses, off Fleet Street, there entered a party whom he knew slightly
and who had Made his Mark and passed all his degrees some time before.
[Illustration: "TO SOB AUDIBLY WHEN PERFORMING ON THE PIANO."]
"Haven't Made your Mark yet?" said this party. "Tell you what--why don't
you get Boomed?"
"Does it hurt?" asked young Bansted Downs.
"Hurts your self-respect just a little and your respect for your
fellow-creatures a little more--but it's nothing," replied the party.
"Where do you go?"
"To the Press Booming Department, of course. Just put your name down for
Booming, and fill up a form, stating what you require said about you.
You began all wrong: I never studied--I only went and put my name down
the moment it occurred to me that I would be a genius. I called at the
office every day, and shouted my name, and created disturbances, and got
turned out; until at last they couldn't stand it any longer, and my turn
came.
[Illustration: "I CALLED AT THE OFFICE EVERY DAY AND SHOUTED MY NAME."]
"They put a long article about me in every newspaper, all the same
day--mostly interviews--and quoted me as a classic. Some of 'em
described me as a painter, and others as a novelist: I never was either;
but it answered all right."
So young Bansted Downs went to the Booming office, and put his name
down, and shouted; and the end of it was he got his Boom, and several
editors wrote to him; and he began to be a little successful.
He hired halls, and went before the public in person; and painted on the
platform; and sang and played his own compositions to them; and recited
his own poems, and acted his own plays; and told them about his own
scientific researches, and his military, exploratory, judicial,
political, and athletic achievements.
But the thing dulled off, for one day a deputation of the public called
at the Booming office to ask something about him; and the office had
forgotten his name, and said that he wasn't being Boomed now, as Smith
was up; and so the public got on an omnibus and went to Smith's hall,
and Bansted Downs faded out.
After that he was to be found all day at the Three Melancholy Geniuses,
drooping over fours of Irish; and one day his late instructor happened
to come in and find him thus, with his melancholy nose over the edge of
his glass.
"Haven't got your Head Above Water, I see?" said the Master Genius.
"Sorry you haven't Made your Mark."
"I've made a good many," said Downs, pointing to the wet rings on the
counter.
"Ah, that sort of mark's no use--unless you make it in Company," said
the Genius.
[Illustration: "HAVEN'T GOT YOUR HEAD ABOVE WATER, I SEE?"]
One day, as young Bansted Downs sat in his cistern-cupboard biting his
nails, a step was heard on the stair, and his late instructor entered.
"I've been all wrong," he said, sitting down on the cistern. "I put you
all wrong--I've put all my pupils all wrong. I fell down stairs lately
and knocked my head, and when I got up I saw everything--the light broke
in upon me!"
"Why, you've cut your hair, and you're dressed quite neatly--I should
hardly have known you for a Master Genius at all!" exclaimed young
Bansted Downs.
"I am no longer a Genius--I am now the M.W.K.A.A.I.--the Man Who Knows
All About It. I now know why genius fails to get the Ear of the Public,
and is not appreciated----"
"Fault of the public--everybody knew that before," growled young Bansted
Downs.
"Pardon me, it is not the fault of the poor public, but the fault of the
system. We--the entertainers--have made the mistake of being geniuses;
whereas we had no business to meddle with genius at all.
"It is the public who ought to have the genius; _they_ should have the
lively appreciation, the keen sense of humour, the afflatus, and all
that; and then those who cater for them would not need to trouble about
those things--they would only have to cater, and leave the public to
perceive, by means of their genius, the excellences of the fare
provided. If a plain person does something, and geniuses perceive
greatness in it, that's a right state of affairs; but if a genius does
something great, and plain persons fail to appreciate it, that's a wrong
state of things, and a waste of material---see?"
"And what do you propose to do?" asked young Bansted Downs.
"That's very simple--just make geniuses of the public. Of course the
public, having their own affairs to attend to, will not wish to turn
caterers and originate--their province is to appreciate, perceive,
applaud, and pay at the doors--see? By this system any dullard is
enabled, without effort, fatigue, or preliminary study, to Make his Mark
and get his F.I., his E.P., and his H.A.W. A child could use it."
"But," objected young Bansted Downs, "under your system, dullardism
paying so well, everybody would want to cater for the public, and there
wouldn't be any audience--any public."
"Pooh! The system at present in vogue is all I require--compulsory
education. Everybody will have to be educated as a genius, except a few
who will be specially exempted from attendance at the Board schools to
enable them to lie fallow and fit themselves for originators.
"Of course, you may say that it would not be _necessary_ for the
entertainer to be dull. Of course it would not; but, as it is not
necessary for him to be a genius either, there would be a waste of
public money in educating him as one. In fact, it might be a
disadvantage for both originator and appreciator to be geniuses, and
their conceptions might clash and create confusion. It's better for a
conception to be lighted from one side only, as you get more contrast."
"But would not the genius of the spectator simply perceive the dulness
of the originator?"
"Not in the least. It's just the sphere of genius to perceive, in a
given production, excellences which the ordinary observer fails to
detect; and it's only a question of degree of genius. I take it that
perfect genius can detect perfect excellence in everything submitted to
its discrimination. And now, will you be kind enough to come and vote
for me, as for the furtherance of my scheme I am offering myself as
Chairman of the School Board?"
In due course, the Man Who Knew All About It was elected to the School
Board. He secured this by publishing handbills declaring his intention
to squander the rate-payers' money like water, and provide free food,
clothing, lodging, sweets, tobacco, drinks, theatres, and pianos to all
the Board school children and their parents, relatives, and friends. The
public judged by the proceedings of past candidates, all of whom had
deliberately broken their promises on coming into office; and they
concluded that this one would do so as well, and refuse to spend a
penny. The Board were compelled to choose him as Chairman; and he at
once commenced his work of reform.
Genius took the place of all the former studies at the Board schools: no
pupil was permitted to leave until he had passed the fifth standard,
which turned him out a full-fledged genius; and he had to attend until
he _could_ pass it, even if he became old and decrepit. This was a wise
step; for, had this rule been relaxed, those unable to pass the standard
would have joined the ranks of the originators, and thus flooded the
market.
[Illustration: "THE GENIUS CLASS AT THE BOARD SCHOOL."]
Young Bansted Downs now set himself to steadily forgetting all the
genius he had learned, feeling that it would be nothing but an
incumbrance in his new career; and he succeeded so well that in the
course of a few years he had become as dull as ditch-water.
Meanwhile a new public were growing up, a public of such brilliant
perceptions--so great a faculty of appreciation--that they were quite
bewildered with the excellences they perceived in everything around
them.
To take the sense of humour alone: they possessed it to so marvellous an
extent that they could perceive a joke in the passing cloud,
facetiousness in the growth of flowers, a choice witticism in the rates
and taxes, an incentive to mirth in strikes. Not that they were
incessantly giggling--that would have argued a something wanting; no,
they drank in and appreciated and enjoyed the universal humour, and
their eyes were bright.
So, when young Bansted Downs was middle-aged Bansted Downs he started
all over again in quite a different way: he just wrote twaddle, and
painted twaddle, and composed twaddle; and went on to a platform and
twaddled about twaddle: and the public genius detected the brilliancy
lurking in it all, and they were in ecstacies.
A terrible thing happened to the Boom Department of the Press. One day
the public arose as one man and remarked that they were capable of
finding out merit for themselves and no longer required the Department;
and they took large stones, and bad eggs, and dead cats, and fagots of
wood, and proceeded to the Boom Department; and it was in vain that the
head of the Department came out on the balcony and pleaded that the
Booming System, as practised by the Press, had nothing to do with the
finding-out of merit; for the public smashed the windows and burned the
offices, and abolished the Boom Department.
[Illustration: "A CHOICE WITTICISM IN THE RATES AND TAXES."]
However, nobody required Booming now, as absence of ability was no
longer a bar to fame; and things worked far more happily than they ever
had under the old system. Authors and others no longer pined under want
of appreciation; on the contrary, they were always wildly surprised at
the wonderful things the public discovered in their work; and as for the
public, they were vastly contented.
It's the true system--there's not a question about that.
J. F. SULLIVAN.
[Illustration: TABLES OF ALL AGES]
[Illustration: COMPLIMENTARY (A FACT).
GLADYS: "GRANDPA, WHAT ARE THOSE STRINGS MADE OF?"
GRANDPA: "CAT-GUT, MY DEAR."
GLADYS: "WHAT'S THAT?"
GRANDPA (JOKINGLY): "OH, THE INSIDES OF PUSSIES DEAR."
GLADYS (AFTER A PAUSE): "I SUPPOSE THEY FOUND OUT THEY WERE
GOOD FOR THAT ON ACCOUNT OF THE NOISE CATS MAKE!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TURN THESE UPSIDE DOWN.]
INDEX.
PAGE
ADJUTANT'S LOVE STORY, THE. From the French of LE COMTE ALFRED
DE VIGNY
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.) 528
ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. By A. CONAN DOYLE.
(_Illustrations_ by SIDNEY PAGET.)
XIV.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX 61
XV.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE YELLOW FACE 162
XVI.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE STOCKBROKER'S CLERK 281
XVII.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE "GLORIA SCOTT" 395
XVIII.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL 479
XIX.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE REIGATE SQUIRE 601
"AUTHOR! AUTHOR!" By E. W. HORNUNG 241
(_Illustrations_ by W. S. STACEY.)
BARNARDO, DR. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 173
BEAUTIES:--
I.--LADIES: THE COUNTESS OF ANNESLEY, THE MISSES HATHAWAY
(TWINS), MISS HAYTER, MISS LEE, MISS MENCE 74
II.--CHILDREN: MISS BEAUMONT, MISS CROSS, MISS DUNLOP, MISS
MARGUERITE FOSTER, MISS SERJEANT, MISS WATERLOW, MISS WHITE,
MISSES WHITE, MISS WINSTEAD 186
III.--LADIES: PRINCESS AHMADEE, MADAME ARNOLDSON, MISS DOROTHY
DORR, MISS FLO HENDERSON, MISS KINGSLEY, MISS ALICE
LETHBRIDGE, MADAME SCHIRMER-MAPLESON, MLLE. DEL TORRE,
MISS WEBSTER 292
IV.--LADIES: MISS ARCHER, LADY CHARLES BERESFORD, MISS FLO
BERESFORD, MISS BRANSON, MRS. BRATE, MISS LLOYD, MISS
DECIMA MOORE, MISS RIPLEY, MISS NELLIE SIMMONS 415
V.--CHILDREN: MISS KATE BIRCH, MISS DORIS COLLINS, MISS ERNA
COLLINS, MISS GASCOYNE DALZIEL, MISS ELSIE DIEDRICHS, MISS
GLADYS HERBERT, MISS DOROTHY NORCUTT, MISS MAUDE WALLIS,
MISS KATHLEEN WHITE 525
VI.--LADIES: LADY ABERDEEN, MISS ELLA BANISTER, MISS C. L. FOOTE,
MISS FRIEND, MISS L. HAROLD, MISS A. HUGHES, MRS. MARSH, MISS
ALICE RAVENSCROFT, MISS NORAH WILLIAMS 613
CARDS, PECULIAR PLAYING 77, 148
CHILD'S TEAR, A. From the French of EDOUARD LEMOINE 95
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
COURTSHIP OF HALIL, THE. By A. F. BURN 84
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
DARK TRANSACTION, A. By MARIANNE KENT 362
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
DEAD OF NIGHT, AT. By MRS. NEWMAN 498
(_Illustrations_ by W. B. WOLLEN.)
DICTATES OF FASHION, FUTURE 551
(_Written_ and _Illustrated_ by W. CADE GALL.)
FASHION, FUTURE DICTATES OF 551
FURNISS, MR. HARRY. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 571
GAME OF CHESS, A. Translated from the French 219
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
HANDS. By BECKLES WILLSON 119, 295
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs of Casts.)
HUMANE SOCIETY, ROYAL. With Portraits of Winners of the Medals 370, 446
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs.)
ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. By HARRY HOW.
XIX.--THE LORD BISHOP OF RIPON 12
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XX.--DR. BARNARDO 173
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XXI.--MR. AND MRS. KENDAL 228
(_Illustrations_ by MR. KENDAL; and from Photographs by Messrs.
ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XXII.--SIR ROBERT RAWLINSON 513
(_Illustrations_ from Drawings and Paintings; and from Photographs
by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XXIII.--MR. HARRY FURNISS 571
(_Illustrations_ by HARRY FURNISS; and from Photographs by
Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)
KENDAL, MR. AND MRS. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 228
LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER. From the French of JOSÉ DE CAMPOS 616
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
LITTLE SURPRISE, A. Adapted from the French of A. DREYFUS by
CONSTANCE BEERBOHM 25
(_Illustrations_ by W. S. STACEY.)
MAJOR'S COMMISSION, THE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL 138
(_Illustrations_by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)
NANKEEN JACKET, THE. From the French of GUSTAVE GUESVILLER 418
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
ONE AND TWO. By WALTER BESANT 44
(_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)
PIERRE AND BAPTISTE. By BECKLES WILLSON 547
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
PLAYING CARDS, PECULIAR. By GEORGE CLULOW 77, 148
(_Illustrations_ from facsimiles of Curious Playing Cards.)
PORTRAITS OF CELEBRITIES AT DIFFERENT TIMES OF THEIR LIVES:--
ABEL, SIR FREDERICK, BART. 589
ADLER, DR. HERMANN 278
ALISON, SIR ARCHIBALD 279
BATTERSEA, LORD 274
BERESFORD, LORD CHARLES 393
COWEN, FREDERIC H. 161
FURNISS, HARRY 586
GIRARD, MISS DOROTHEA 59
GOULD, REV. S. BARING 392
HADING, MADAME JANE 280
HALLÉ, SIR CHARLES 277
HALLÉ, LADY 276
HARDY, MISS IZA DUFFUS 473
HAWEIS, REV. H. R. 160
HERKOMER, MR. HUBERT, R.A. 474
HOUGHTON, LORD 156
HUNTER, COLIN, A.R.A. 588
KELVIN, LORD 590
KNILL, MR. STUART (LORD MAYOR) 60
LESLIE, THE LATE FRED 58
LLOYD, EDWARD 478
MACWHIRTER, JOHN, R.A. 476
NICOL, ERSKINE, A.R.A. 475
ORCHARDSON, W. Q., R.A. 275
PETTIE, JOHN, R.A. 157
POTTER, MRS. BROWN 389
PRINCESS MARIE OF EDINBURGH 56
PRINCE FERDINAND OF ROUMANIA 57
PRINCE OF WALES 390
PRINCESS OF WALES 391
REID, SIR GEORGE, P.R.S.A. 587
ROBERTS, JOHN 394
ROBERTSON, J. FORBES 477
RUSSELL, W. CLARK 55
TECK, DUCHESS OF 158
TECK, DUKE OF 159
VAUGHAN, CARDINAL 591
VAUGHAN, CARDINAL, FATHER AND BROTHERS OF 592
PRINCE OF WALES AT SANDRINGHAM, THE 327
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by BEDFORD LEMERE and W. & D.
DOWNEY.)
QUASTANA THE BRIGAND. From the French of ALPHONSE DAUDET 124
(_Illustrations_ by JEAN DE PALÉOLOGUE.)
QUEER SIDE OF THINGS, THE:--
BOTTLE FROM THE DEEP SEA, A 214
CHILDREN OF A THOUSAND YEARS 542
CLOAKS AND MANTLES 106
CROCODILE STORY, A 324
DRINKING VESSELS OF ALL AGES 322
DWINDLING HOUR, THE 98
EXPLOSION OF A LOCOMOTIVE 214
HORSE AND ITS OCCUPATIONS, THE 430
HUNTER AND THE BIRD, THE 108
JUDGE'S PENANCE, THE 535
MANDRAKE ROOTS 105
MISCELLANEOUS 648
N.P.M.C., THE 315
OLD JOE'S PICNIC 423
PAL'S PUZZLES 104, 215
ROOM PAPERED WITH STAMPS 321
SAGACITY OF A DOG 216
STORY OF THE KING'S IDEA 209
TABLES OF A CENTURY 646
TURNIP RESEMBLING A HUMAN HAND 321
USE FOR GENIUS 639
VEGETABLE ODDITIES 214, 432
WHO ARE THESE? 544
RAWLINSON, SIR ROBERT. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 513
RIPON, THE LORD BISHOP OF. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 12
ROSITA. From the French of PITRE CHEVALIER 302
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
SANDRINGHAM, THE PRINCE OF WALES AT 327
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs.)
SHADOW OF THE SIERRAS, IN THE. By IZA DUFFUS HARDY 433
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
SHAFTS FROM AN EASTERN QUIVER. By CHARLES J. MANSFORD, B.A.
VII.--MARGARITA, THE BOND QUEEN OF THE WANDERING DHAHS 3
VIII.--THE MASKED RULER OF THE BLACK WRECKERS 189
IX.--MAW SAYAH, THE KEEPER OF THE GREAT BURMAN NAT 258
X.--THE HUNTED TRIBE OF THREE HUNDRED PEAKS 340
XI.--IN QUEST OF THE LOST GALLEON 453
XII.--THE DAUGHTER OF LOVETSKI THE LOST 561
(_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)
SLAVE, A. By LEILA HANOUM. Translated from a Turkish Story 203
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
SPEAKER'S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE. Viewed by H. W. LUCY 89, 198, 267,
381, 490, 624
(_Illustrations_ by F. C. GOULD.)
STRANGE REUNION, A. By T. G. ATKINSON 376
(_Illustrations_ by A. J. JOHNSON.)
TYPES OF ENGLISH BEAUTY. (_See_ "BEAUTIES.")
WEATHERCOCKS AND VANES 351
(_Written_ and _Illustrated_ by WARRINGTON HOGG.)
WEDDING GIFT, A. By LEONARD OUTRAM 111
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
WORK OF ACCUSATION, A. By HARRY HOW 633
(_Illustrations_ by JOHN GÜLICH.)
ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO. By ARTHUR MORRISON.
VII.--ZIG-ZAG CURSOREAN 35
VIII.--ZIG-ZAG PHOCINE 129
IX.--ZIG-ZAG CONKAVIAN 248
X.--ZIG-ZAG OPHIDIAN 407
XI.--ZIG-ZAG MARSUPIAL 464
XII.--ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL 593
(_Illustrations_ by J. A. SHEPHERD.)
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED. 8, 9, 10 AND 11, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER
STREET, STRAND. W.C.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue
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