The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 42,
June, 1894, by Various
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Title: The Strand Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 42, June, 1894
An Illustrated Monthly
Author: Various
Editor: George Newnes
Release Date: November 17, 2014 [EBook #47377]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRAND MAGAZINE, JUNE, 1894 ***
Produced by Richard Tonsing, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
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THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_
EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
Vol VII., Issue 42.
June, 1894
[Illustration: "MIRSKY WAS STARING STRAIGHT AT ME."
(_See page 571._)]
_Martin Hewitt, Investigator._
BY ARTHUR MORRISON.
IV.--THE CASE OF THE DIXON TORPEDO.
Hewitt was very apt, in conversation, to dwell upon the many curious
chances and coincidences that he had observed, not only in connection
with his own cases, but also in matters dealt with by the official
police, with whom he was on terms of pretty regular and, indeed,
friendly acquaintanceship. He has told me many an anecdote of singular
happenings to Scotland Yard officials with whom he has exchanged
experiences. Of Inspector Nettings, for instance, who spent many weary
months in a search for a man wanted by the American Government, and in
the end found, by the merest accident (a misdirected call), that the
man had been lodging next door to himself the whole of the time; just
as ignorant, of course, as was the inspector himself as to the enemy at
the other side of the party-wall. Also of another inspector, whose name
I cannot recall, who, having been given rather meagre and insufficient
details of a man whom he anticipated having great difficulty in
finding, went straight down the stairs of the office where he had
received instructions, and actually _fell over_ the man near the door,
where he had stooped down to tie his shoe-lace! There were cases, too,
in which, when a great and notorious crime had been committed and
various persons had been arrested on suspicion, some were found among
them who had long been badly wanted for some other crime altogether.
Many criminals had met their deserts by venturing out of their own
particular line of crime into another: often a man who got into trouble
over something comparatively small, found himself in for a startlingly
larger trouble, the result of some previous misdeed that otherwise
would have gone unpunished. The rouble note-forger, Mirsky, might never
have been handed over to the Russian authorities had he confined his
genius to forgery alone. It was generally supposed at the time of his
extradition that he had communicated with the Russian Embassy, with a
view to giving himself up--a foolish proceeding on his part, it would
seem, since his whereabouts, indeed, even his identity as the forger,
had not been suspected. He _had_ communicated with the Russian Embassy,
it is true, but for quite a different purpose, as Martin Hewitt well
understood at the time. What that purpose was is now for the first time
published.
* * * * *
The time was half-past one in the afternoon, and Hewitt sat in his
inner office examining and comparing the handwriting of two letters by
the aid of a large lens. He put down the lens and glanced at the clock
on the mantelpiece with a premonition of lunch; and as he did so his
clerk quietly entered the room with one of those printed slips which
were kept for the announcement of unknown visitors. It was filled up in
a hasty and almost illegible hand thus:--
Name of visitor: _F. Graham Dixon_.
Address: _Chancery Lane_.
Business: _Private and urgent_.
"Show Mr. Dixon in," said Martin Hewitt.
Mr. Dixon was a gaunt, worn-looking man of fifty or so, well although
rather carelessly dressed, and carrying in his strong though drawn face
and dullish eyes the look that characterizes the life-long strenuous
brain-worker. He leaned forward anxiously in the chair which Hewitt
offered him, and told his story with a great deal of very natural
agitation.
"You may possibly have heard, Mr. Hewitt--I know there are rumours--of
the new locomotive torpedo which the Government is about adopting;
it is, in fact, the Dixon torpedo, my own invention; and in every
respect--not merely in my own opinion, but in that of the Government
experts--by far the most efficient and certain yet produced. It will
travel at least four hundred yards farther than any torpedo now made,
with perfect accuracy of aim (a very great desideratum, let me tell
you), and will carry an unprecedentedly heavy charge. There are other
advantages, speed, simple discharge, and so forth, that I needn't
bother you about. The machine is the result of many years of work and
disappointment, and its design has only been arrived at by a careful
balancing of principles and means, which are expressed on the only four
existing sets of drawings. The whole thing, I need hardly tell you, is
a profound secret, and you may judge of my present state of mind when I
tell you that one set of drawings has been stolen."
"From your house?"
"From my office, in Chancery Lane, this morning. The four sets of
drawings were distributed thus: Two were at the Admiralty Office,
one being a finished set on thick paper, and the other a set of
tracings therefrom; and the other two were at my own office, one
being a pencilled set, uncoloured--a sort of finished draft, you
understand--and the other a set of tracings similar to those at the
Admiralty. It is this last set that has gone. The two sets were kept
together in one drawer in my room. Both were there at ten this morning,
of that I am sure, for I had to go to that very drawer for something
else, when I first arrived. But at twelve the tracings had vanished."
"You suspect somebody, probably?"
"I cannot. It is a most extraordinary thing. Nobody has left the office
(except myself, and then only to come to you) since ten this morning,
and there has been no visitor. And yet the drawings are gone!"
"But have you searched the place?"
"Of course I have. It was twelve o'clock when I first discovered my
loss, and I have been turning the place upside down ever since--I and
my assistants. Every drawer has been emptied, every desk and table
turned over, the very carpet and linoleum have been taken up, but
there is not a sign of the drawings. My men even insisted on turning
all their pockets inside out, although I never for a moment suspected
either of them, and it would take a pretty big pocket to hold the
drawings, doubled up as small as they might be."
"You say your men--there are two, I understand--had neither left the
office?"
"Neither; and they are both staying in now. Worsfold suggested that it
would be more satisfactory if they did not leave till something was
done towards clearing the mystery up, and although, as I have said, I
don't suspect either in the least, I acquiesced."
"Just so. Now--I am assuming that you wish me to undertake the recovery
of these drawings?"
[Illustration: "YOU WISH ME TO UNDERTAKE THE RECOVERY OF THESE
DRAWINGS?"]
The engineer nodded hastily.
"Very good; I will go round to your office. But first perhaps you can
tell me something about your assistants; something it might be awkward
to tell me in their presence, you know. Mr. Worsfold, for instance?"
"He is my draughtsman--a very excellent and intelligent man, a very
smart man, indeed, and, I feel sure, quite beyond suspicion. He has
prepared many important drawings for me (he has been with me nearly ten
years now), and I have always found him trustworthy. But, of course,
the temptation in this case would be enormous. Still, I cannot suspect
Worsfold. Indeed, how can I suspect anybody in the circumstances?"
"The other, now?"
"His name's Ritter. He is merely a tracer, not a fully skilled
draughtsman. He is quite a decent young fellow, and I have had him
two years. I don't consider him particularly smart, or he would have
learned a little more of his business by this time. But I don't see
the least reason to suspect him. As I said before, I can't reasonably
suspect anybody."
"Very well; we will get to Chancery Lane now, if you please, and you
can tell me more as we go."
"I have a cab waiting. What else can I tell you?"
"I understand the position to be succinctly this: the drawings were in
the office when you arrived. Nobody came out, and nobody went in; and
_yet_ they vanished. Is that so?"
"That is so. When I say that absolutely nobody came in, of course I
except the postman. He brought a couple of letters during the morning.
I mean that absolutely nobody came past the barrier in the outer
office--the usual thing, you know, like a counter, with a frame of
ground glass over it."
"I quite understand that. But I think you said that the drawings
were in a drawer in your _own_ room--not the outer office, where the
draughtsmen are, I presume?"
"That is the case. It is an inner room, or, rather, a room parallel
with the other, and communicating with it; just as your own room is,
which we have just left."
"But then, you say you never left your office, and yet the drawings
vanished--apparently by some unseen agency--while you were there, in
the room?"
"Let me explain more clearly." The cab was bowling smoothly along
the Strand, and the engineer took out a pocket-book and pencil. "I
fear," he proceeded, "that I am a little confused in my explanation--I
am naturally rather agitated. As you will see presently, my offices
consist of three rooms, two at one side of a corridor, and the other
opposite: thus." He made a rapid pencil sketch.
[Illustration]
"In the outer office my men usually work. In the inner office I work
myself. These rooms communicate, as you see, by a door. Our ordinary
way in and out of the place is by the door of the outer office leading
into the corridor, and we first pass through the usual lifting flap in
the barrier. The door leading from the _inner_ office to the corridor
is always kept locked on the inside, and I don't suppose I unlock it
once in three months. It has not been unlocked all the morning. The
drawer in which the missing drawings were kept, and in which I saw them
at ten o'clock this morning, is at the place marked D--it is a large
chest of shallow drawers, in which the plans lie flat."
"I quite understand. Then there is the private room opposite. What of
that?"
"That is a sort of private sitting-room that I rarely use, except for
business interviews of a very private nature. When I said I never
left my office I did not mean that I never stirred out of the inner
office. I was about in one room and another, both the outer and the
inner offices, and once I went into the private room for five minutes,
but nobody came either in or out of any of the rooms at that time, for
the door of the private room was wide open and I was standing at the
book-case (I had gone to consult a book), just inside the door, with a
full view of the doors opposite. Indeed, Worsfold was at the door of
the outer office most of the short time. He came to ask me a question."
"Well," Hewitt replied, "it all comes to the simple first statement.
You know that nobody left the place or arrived, except the postman, who
couldn't get near the drawings, and yet the drawings went. Is this your
office?"
The cab had stopped before a large stone building. Mr. Dixon alighted
and led the way to the first floor. Hewitt took a casual glance round
each of the three rooms. There was a sort of door in the frame of
ground glass over the barrier, to admit of speech with visitors. This
door Hewitt pushed wide open, and left so.
He and the engineer went into the inner office. "Would you like to ask
Worsfold and Ritter any questions?" Mr. Dixon inquired.
"Presently. Those are their coats, I take it, hanging just to the right
of the outer office door, over the umbrella stand?"
"Yes, those are all their things--coats, hats, stick, and umbrella."
"And those coats were searched, you say?"
"Yes."
"And this is the drawer--thoroughly searched, of course?"
"Oh, certainly, every drawer was taken out and turned over."
"Well, of course, I must assume you made no mistake in your hunt. Now
tell me, did anybody know where these plans were, beyond yourself and
your two men?"
[Illustration: "I WAS STANDING AT THE BOOKCASE."]
"As far as I can tell, not a soul."
"You don't keep an office-boy?"
"No. There would be nothing for him to do except to post a letter now
and again, which Ritter does quite well for."
"As you are quite sure that the drawings were there at ten o'clock,
perhaps the thing scarcely matters. But I may as well know if your men
have keys of the office?"
"Neither. I have patent locks to each door and I keep all the keys
myself. If Worsfold or Ritter arrive before me in the morning, they
have to wait to be let in; and I am always present myself when the
rooms are cleaned. I have not neglected precautions, you see."
"No. I suppose the object of the theft--assuming it is a theft--is
pretty plain: the thief would offer the drawings for sale to some
foreign Government?"
"Of course. They would probably command a great sum. I have been
looking, as I need hardly tell you, to that invention to secure me a
very large fortune, and I shall be ruined, indeed, if the design is
taken abroad. I am under the strictest engagements to secrecy with the
Admiralty, and not only should I lose all my labour, but I should lose
all the confidence reposed in me at headquarters should, in fact, be
subject to penalties for breach of contract, and my career stopped for
ever. I cannot tell you what a serious business this is for me. If you
cannot help me, the consequences will be terrible. Bad for the service
of the country, too, of course."
"Of course. Now tell me this. It would, I take it, be necessary for
the thief to _exhibit_ these drawings to anybody anxious to buy the
secret--I mean, he couldn't describe the invention by word of mouth?"
"Oh, no, that would be impossible. The drawings are of the most
complicated description, and full of figures upon which the whole
thing depends. Indeed, one would have to be a skilled expert properly
to appreciate the design at all. Various principles of hydrostatics,
chemistry, electricity, and pneumatics are most delicately manipulated
and adjusted, and the smallest error or omission in any part would
upset the whole. No, the drawings are necessary to the thing, and they
are gone."
At this moment the door of the outer office was heard to open, and
somebody entered. The door between the two offices was ajar, and Hewitt
could see right through to the glass door left open over the barrier,
and into the space beyond. A well-dressed, dark, bushy-bearded man
stood there carrying a hand-bag, which he placed on the ledge before
him. Hewitt raised his hand to enjoin silence. The man spoke in a
rather high-pitched voice and with a slight accent. "Is Mr. Dixon now
within?" he asked.
"He is engaged," answered one of the draughtsmen; "very particularly
engaged. I'm afraid you won't be able to see him this afternoon. Can I
give him any message?"
"This is two--the second time I have come to-day. Not two hours ago Mr.
Dixon himself tells me to call again. I have a very important--very
excellent steam-packing to show him that is very cheap and the best of
the market." The man tapped his bag. "I have just taken orders from the
largest railway companies. Cannot I see him, for one second only? I
will not detain him."
"Really, I'm sure you can't this afternoon--he isn't seeing anybody.
But if you'll leave your name----"
"My name is Hunter; but what the good of that? He ask me to call a
little later and I come, and now he is engaged. It is a very great
pity." And the man snatched up his bag and walking-stick and stalked
off indignantly.
Hewitt stood still, gazing through the small aperture in the doorway.
"You'd scarcely expect a man with such a name as Hunter to talk with
that accent, would you?" he observed, musingly. "It isn't a French
accent, nor a German; but it seems foreign. You don't happen to know
him, I suppose?"
"No, I don't. He called here about half-past twelve, just while we
were in the middle of our search and I was frantic over the loss of
the drawings. I was in the outer office myself, and told him to call
later. I have lots of such agents here, anxious to sell all sorts of
engineering appliances. But what will you do now? Shall you see my men?"
"I think," said Hewitt, rising, "I think I'll get you to question them
yourself."
"Myself?"
"Yes, I have a reason. Will you trust me with the key of the private
room opposite? I will go over there for a little, while you talk to
your men in this room. Bring them in here and shut the door--I can look
after the office from across the corridor, you know. Ask them each to
detail his exact movements about the office this morning, and get them
to recall each visitor who has been here from the beginning of the
week. I'll let you know the reason of this later. Come across to me in
a few minutes."
Hewitt took the key and passed through the outer office into the
corridor.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Dixon, having questioned his draughtsmen,
followed him. He found Hewitt standing before the table in the private
room, on which lay several drawings on tracing-paper.
"See here, Mr. Dixon," said Hewitt, "I think these are the drawings you
are anxious about?"
[Illustration: "MY NAME IS HUNTER."]
The engineer sprang toward them with a cry of delight. "Why, yes,
yes," he exclaimed, turning them over, "every one of them. But
where--how--they must have been in the place after all, then? What a
fool I have been!"
Hewitt shook his head. "I'm afraid you're not quite so lucky as you
think, Mr. Dixon," he said. "These drawings have most certainly been
out of the house for a little while. Never mind how--we'll talk of that
after. There is no time to lose. Tell me, how long would it take a good
draughtsman to copy them?"
"They couldn't possibly be traced over properly in less than two or two
and a half long days of very hard work," Dixon replied, with eagerness.
"Ah! then, it is as I feared. These tracings have been photographed,
Mr. Dixon, and our task is one of every possible difficulty. If they
had been copied in the ordinary way, one might hope to get hold of
the copy. But photography upsets everything. Copies can be multiplied
with such amazing facility that, once the thief gets a decent start,
it is almost hopeless to checkmate him. The only chance is to get
at the negatives before copies are taken. I must act at once; and
I fear, between ourselves, it may be necessary for me to step very
distinctly over the line of the law in the matter. You see, to get at
those negatives may involve something very like housebreaking. There
must be no delay--no waiting for legal procedure--or the mischief is
done. Indeed, I very much question whether you have any legal remedy,
strictly speaking."
"Mr. Hewitt, I implore you, do what you can. I need not say that all
I have is at your disposal. I will guarantee to hold you harmless
for anything that may happen. But do, I entreat you, do everything
possible. Think of what the consequences may be!"
"Well, yes, so I do," Hewitt remarked, with a smile. "The consequences
to me, if I were charged with housebreaking, might be something that no
amount of guarantee could mitigate. However, I will do what I can, if
only from patriotic motives. Now, I must see your tracer, Ritter. He is
the traitor in the camp."
"Ritter? But how?"
"Never mind that now. You are upset and agitated, and had better not
know more than necessary for a little while, in case you say or do
something unguarded. With Ritter I must take a deep course; what I
don't know I must appear to know, and that will seem more likely to him
if I disclaim acquaintance with what I do know. But first put these
tracings safely away out of sight."
Dixon slipped them behind his book-case.
"Now," Hewitt pursued, "call Mr. Worsfold and give him something to do
that will keep him in the inner office across the way, and tell him to
send Ritter here."
Mr. Dixon called his chief draughtsman and requested him to put in
order the drawings in the drawers of the inner room that had been
disarranged by the search, and to send Ritter, as Hewitt had suggested.
Ritter walked into the private room, with an air of respectful
attention. He was a puffy-faced, unhealthy-looking young man, with very
small eyes and a loose, mobile mouth.
[Illustration: "SIT DOWN, MR. RITTER."]
"Sit down, Mr. Ritter," Hewitt said, in a stern voice. "Your recent
transactions with your friend, Mr. Hunter, are well known both to Mr.
Dixon and myself."
Ritter, who had at first leaned easily back in his chair, started
forward at this, and paled.
"You are surprised, I observe; but you should be more careful in your
movements out of doors if you do not wish your acquaintances to be
known. Mr. Hunter, I believe, has the drawings which Mr. Dixon has
lost, and, if so, I am certain that you have given them to him. That,
you know, is theft, for which the law provides a severe penalty."
Ritter broke down completely and turned appealingly to Mr. Dixon:--
"Oh, sir," he pleaded, "it isn't so bad, I assure you. I was tempted, I
confess, and hid the drawings; but they are still in the office, and I
can give them to you--really, I can."
"Indeed?" Hewitt went on. "Then, in that case, perhaps you'd better get
them at once. Just go and fetch them in--we won't trouble to observe
your hiding-place. I'll only keep this door open, to be sure you don't
lose your way, you know--down the stairs, for instance."
The wretched Ritter, with hanging head, slunk into the office opposite.
Presently he reappeared, looking, if possible, ghastlier than before.
He looked irresolutely down the corridor, as if meditating a run for
it, but Hewitt stepped toward him and motioned him back to the private
room.
"You mustn't try any more of that sort of humbug," Hewitt said, with
increased severity. "The drawings are gone, and you have stolen
them--you know that well enough. Now attend to me. If you received your
deserts, Mr. Dixon would send for a policeman this moment, and have you
hauled off to the gaol that is your proper place. But, unfortunately,
your accomplice, who calls himself Hunter--but who has other names
beside that, as I happen to know--has the drawings, and it is
absolutely necessary that these should be recovered. I am afraid that
it will be necessary, therefore, to come to some arrangement with this
scoundrel--to square him, in fact. Now, just take that pen and paper,
and write to your confederate as I dictate. You know the alternative if
you cause any difficulty."
Ritter reached tremblingly for the pen.
"Address him in your usual way," Hewitt proceeded. "Say this: '_There
has been an alteration in the plans_.' Have you got that? '_There has
been an alteration in the plans. I shall be alone here at six o'clock.
Please come, without fail._' Have you got it? Very well, sign it,
and address the envelope. He must come here, and then we may arrange
matters. In the meantime, you will remain in the inner office opposite."
The note was written, and Martin Hewitt, without glancing at the
address, thrust it into his pocket. When Ritter was safely in the
inner office, however, he drew it out and read the address. "I see,"
he observed, "he uses the same name, Hunter; 27, Little Carton Street,
Westminster, is the address, and there I shall go at once with the
note. If the man comes here, I think you had better lock him in with
Ritter, and send for a policeman--it may at least frighten him. My
object is, of course, to get the man away, and then, if possible,
to invade his house, in some way or another, and steal or smash his
negatives if they are there and to be found. Stay here, in any case,
till I return. And don't forget to lock up those tracings."
* * * * *
It was about six o'clock when Hewitt returned, alone, but with a
smiling face that told of good fortune at first sight.
"First, Mr. Dixon," he said, as he dropped into an easy chair in the
private room, "let me ease your mind by the information that I have
been most extraordinarily lucky--in fact, I think you have no further
cause for anxiety. Here are the negatives. They were not all quite dry
when I--well, what?--stole them, I suppose I must say; so that they
have stuck together a bit, and probably the films are damaged. But you
don't mind that, I suppose?"
He laid a small parcel, wrapped in newspaper, on the table. The
engineer hastily tore away the paper and took up five or six glass
photographic negatives, of the half-plate size, which were damp, and
stuck together by the gelatine films, in couples. He held them, one
after another, up to the light of the window, and glanced through them.
Then, with a great sigh of relief, he placed them on the hearth and
pounded them to dust and fragments with the poker.
For a few seconds neither spoke. Then Dixon, flinging himself into a
chair, said:--
"Mr. Hewitt, I can't express my obligation to you. What would have
happened if you had failed I prefer not to think of. But what shall we
do with Ritter now? The other man hasn't been here yet, by-the-bye."
"No--the fact is, I didn't deliver the letter. The worthy gentleman
saved me a world of trouble by taking himself out of the way." Hewitt
laughed. "I'm afraid he has rather got himself into a mess by trying
two kinds of theft at once, and you may not be sorry to hear that his
attempt on your torpedo plans is likely to bring him a dose of penal
servitude for something else. I'll tell you what has happened.
"Little Carton Street, Westminster, I found to be a seedy sort of
place--one of those old streets that have seen much better days. A good
many people seem to live in each house--they are fairly large houses,
by the way--and there is quite a company of bell-handles on each
doorpost--all down the side, like organ-stops. A barber had possession
of the ground-floor front of No. 27 for trade purposes, so to him I
went. 'Can you tell me,' I said, 'where in this house I can find Mr.
Hunter?' He looked doubtful, so I went on: 'His friend will do, you
know--I can't think of his name; foreign gentleman, dark, with a bushy
beard.'
"The barber understood at once. 'Oh, that's Mirsky, I expect,' he said.
'Now I come to think of it, he has had letters addressed to Hunter once
or twice--I've took 'em in. Top floor back.'
"This was good, so far. I had got at 'Mr. Hunter's' other alias. So,
by way of possessing him with the idea that I knew all about him, I
determined to ask for him as Mirsky, before handing over the letter
addressed to him as Hunter. A little bluff of that sort is invaluable
at the right time. At the top floor back I stopped at the door and
tried to open it at once, but it was locked. I could hear somebody
scuttling about within, as though carrying things about, and I knocked
again. In a little while the door opened about a foot, and there stood
Mr. Hunter--or Mirsky, as you like--the man who, in the character of a
traveller in steam-packing, came here twice to-day. He was in his shirt
sleeves and cuddled something under his arm, hastily covered with a
spotted pocket-handkerchief.
"'I have called to see M. Mirsky,' I said, 'with a confidential letter
----.'
"'Oh, yas, yas,' he answered, hastily; 'I know--I know. Excuse me one
minute.' And he rushed off downstairs with his parcel.
"Here was a noble chance. For a moment I thought of following him, in
case there might be anything interesting in the parcel. But I had to
decide in a moment, and I decided on trying the room. I slipped inside
the door, and, finding the key on the inside, locked it. It was a
confused sort of room, with a little iron bedstead in one corner and a
sort of rough boarded inclosure in another. This I rightly conjectured
to be the photographic darkroom, and made for it at once.
"There was plenty of light within when the door was left open, and I
made at once for the drying-rack that was fastened over the sink. There
were a number of negatives in it, and I began hastily examining them
one after another. In the middle of this, our friend Mirsky returned
and tried the door. He rattled violently at the handle and pushed. Then
he called.
"At this moment I had come upon the first of the negatives you have
just smashed. The fixing and washing had evidently only lately been
completed, and the negative was drying on the rack. I seized it, of
course, and the others which stood by it.
"'Who are you, there, inside?' Mirsky shouted indignantly from the
landing. 'Why for you go in my room like that? Open this door at once,
or I call the police!'
"I took no notice. I had got the full number of negatives, one for each
drawing, but I was not by any means sure that he had not taken an extra
set; so I went on hunting down the rack. There were no more, so I set
to work to turn out all the undeveloped plates. It was quite possible,
you see, that the other set, if it existed, had not yet been developed.
[Illustration: "I HAVE CALLED TO SEE M. MIRSKY."]
"Mirsky changed his tune. After a little more banging and shouting,
I could hear him kneel down and try the keyhole. I had left the key
there, so that he could see nothing. But he began talking softly and
rapidly through the hole in a foreign language. I did not know it in
the least, but I believe it was Russian. What had led him to believe
I understood Russian I could not at the time imagine, though I have
a notion now. I went on ruining his stock of plates. I found several
boxes, apparently of new plates, but, as there was no means of telling
whether they were really unused or were merely undeveloped, but with
the chemical impress of your drawings on them, I dragged every one
ruthlessly from its hiding-place and laid it out in the full glare of
the sunlight--destroying it thereby, of course, whether it was unused
or not.
"Mirsky left off talking, and I heard him quietly sneaking off. Perhaps
his conscience was not sufficiently clear to warrant an appeal to the
police, but it seemed to me rather probable at the time that that was
what he was going for. So I hurried on with my work. I found three dark
slides--the parts that carry the plates in the back of the camera,
you know--one of them fixed in the camera itself. These I opened, and
exposed the plates to ruination as before. I suppose nobody ever did so
much devastation in a photographic studio in ten minutes as I managed.
"I had spoilt every plate I could find and had the developed negatives
safely in my pocket, when I happened to glance at a porcelain
washing-well under the sink. There was one negative in that, and I took
it up. It was _not_ a negative of a drawing of yours, but of a Russian
twenty-rouble note!
[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TALKING SOFTLY AND RAPIDLY."]
"This _was_ a discovery. The only possible reason any man could have
for photographing a bank-note was the manufacture of an etched plate
for the production of forged copies. I was almost as pleased as I had
been at the discovery of _your_ negatives. He might bring the police
now as soon as he liked; I could turn the tables on him completely. I
began to hunt about for anything else relating to this negative.
"I found an inking-roller, some old pieces of blanket (used in printing
from plates), and in a corner on the floor, heaped over with newspapers
and rubbish, a small copying-press. There was also a dish of acid, but
not an etched plate or a printed note to be seen. I was looking at
the press, with the negative in one hand and the inking-roller in the
other, when I became conscious of a shadow across the window. I looked
up quickly, and there was Mirsky, hanging over from some ledge or
projection to the side of the window, and staring straight at me, with
a look of unmistakable terror and apprehension.
"The face vanished immediately. I had to move a table to get at the
window, and by the time I had opened it, there was no sign or sound
of the rightful tenant of the room. I had no doubt now of his reason
for carrying a parcel downstairs. He probably mistook me for another
visitor he was expecting, and, knowing he must take this visitor into
his room, threw the papers and rubbish over the press, and put up his
plates and papers in a bundle and secreted them somewhere downstairs,
lest his occupation should be observed.
"Plainly, my duty now was to communicate with the police. So, by the
help of my friend the barber downstairs, a messenger was found and a
note sent over to Scotland Yard. I awaited, of course, for the arrival
of the police, and occupied the interval in another look round--finding
nothing important, however. When the official detective arrived he
recognised at once the importance of the case. A large number of forged
Russian notes have been put into circulation on the Continent lately,
it seems, and it was suspected that they came from London. The Russian
Government have been sending urgent messages to the police here on the
subject.
"Of course I said nothing about your business; but while I was
talking with the Scotland Yard man a letter was left by a messenger,
addressed to Mirsky. The letter will be examined, of course, by the
proper authorities, but I was not a little interested to perceive
that the envelope bore the Russian Imperial arms above the words,
'Russian Embassy.' Now, why should Mirsky communicate with the Russian
Embassy? Certainly not to let the officials know that he was carrying
on a very extensive and lucrative business in the manufacture of
spurious Russian notes. I think it is rather more than possible that
he wrote--probably before he actually got your drawings--to say that
he could sell information of the highest importance, and that this
letter was a reply. Further, I think it quite possible that, when I
asked for him by his Russian name and spoke of 'a confidential letter,'
he at once concluded that _I_ had come from the Embassy in answer
to his letter. That would account for his addressing me in Russian
through the keyhole; and, of course, an official from the Russian
Embassy would be the very last person in the world whom he would like
to observe any indications of his little etching experiments. But
anyhow, be that as it may," Hewitt concluded, "your drawings are safe
now, and if once Mirsky is caught--and I think it likely, for a man
in his shirt-sleeves, with scarcely any start and, perhaps, no money
about him, hasn't a great chance to get away--if he is caught, I say,
he will probably get something handsome at St. Petersburg in the way
of imprisonment, or Siberia, or what-not; so that you will be amply
avenged."
"Yes, but I don't at all understand this business of the drawings even
now. How in the world were they taken out of the place, and how in the
world did you find it out?"
"Nothing could be simpler; and yet the plan was rather ingenious.
I'll tell you exactly how the thing revealed itself to me. From your
original description of the case, many people would consider that an
impossibility had been performed. Nobody had gone out and nobody had
come in, and yet the drawings had been taken away. But an impossibility
is an impossibility after all, and as drawings don't run away of
themselves, plainly somebody had taken them, unaccountable as it might
seem. Now, as they were in your inner office, the only people who could
have got at them beside yourself were your assistants, so that it was
pretty clear that one of them, at least, had something to do with the
business. You told me that Worsfold was an excellent and intelligent
draughtsman. Well, if such a man as that meditated treachery, he would
probably be able to carry away the design in his head--at any rate,
a little at a time--and would be under no necessity to run the risk
of stealing a set of the drawings. But Ritter, you remarked, was an
inferior sort of man, 'not particularly smart,' I think, were your
words--only a mechanical sort of tracer. _He_ would be unlikely to
be able to carry in his head the complicated details of such designs
as yours, and, being in a subordinate position, and continually
overlooked, he would find it impossible to make copies of the plans in
the office. So that, to begin with, I thought I saw the most probable
path to start on.
"When I looked round the rooms I pushed open the glass door of the
barrier and left the door to the inner office ajar, in order to be able
to see anything that _might_ happen in any part of the place, without
actually expecting any definite development. While we were talking, as
it happened, our friend Mirsky (or Hunter--as you please) came into the
outer office, and my attention was instantly called to him by the first
thing he did. Did you notice anything peculiar yourself?"
"No, really I can't say I did. He seemed to behave much as any
traveller or agent might."
"Well, what I noticed was the fact that as soon as he entered the place
he put his walking-stick into the umbrella stand, over there by the
door, close by where he stood; a most unusual thing for a casual caller
to do, before even knowing whether you were in. This made me watch
him closely. I perceived, with increased interest, that the stick was
exactly of the same kind and pattern as one already standing there;
also a curious thing. I kept my eyes carefully on those sticks, and
was all the more interested and edified to see, when he left, that he
took the _other_ stick--not the one he came with--from the stand, and
carried it away, leaving his own behind. I might have followed him, but
I decided that more could be learnt by staying--as, in fact, proved to
be the case. This, by-the-bye, is the stick he carried away with him.
I took the liberty of fetching it back from Westminster, because I
conceive it to be Ritter's property."
Hewitt produced the stick. It was an ordinary, thick Malacca cane, with
a buckhorn handle and a silver band. Hewitt bent it across his knee,
and laid it on the table.
"Yes," Dixon answered, "that is Ritter's stick. I think I have often
seen it in the stand. But what in the world----"
"One moment; I'll just fetch the stick Mirsky left behind." And Hewitt
stepped across the corridor.
He returned with another stick, apparently an exact facsimile of the
other, and placed it by the side of the other.
"When your assistants went into the inner room, I carried this stick
off for a minute or two. I knew it was not Worsfold's, because there
was an umbrella there with his initial on the handle. Look at this."
Martin Hewitt gave the handle a twist, and rapidly unscrewed it from
the top. Then it was seen that the stick was a mere tube of very thin
metal, painted to appear like a Malacca cane.
"It was plain at once that this was no Malacca cane--it wouldn't bend.
Inside it I found your tracings, rolled up tightly. You can get a
marvellous quantity of thin tracing-paper into a small compass by tight
rolling."
"And this--this was the way they were brought back!" the engineer
exclaimed. "I see that, clearly. But how did they get away? That's as
mysterious as ever."
[Illustration: "HEWITT PRODUCED THE STICK."]
"Not a bit of it. See here. Mirsky gets hold of Ritter, and they
agree to get your drawings and photograph them. Ritter is to let his
confederate have the drawings, and Mirsky is to bring them back as
soon as possible, so that they shan't be missed for a moment. Ritter
habitually carries this Malacca cane, and the cunning of Mirsky at
once suggests that this tube should be made in outward facsimile. This
morning, Mirsky keeps the actual stick and Ritter comes to the office
with the tube. He seizes the first opportunity--probably when you
were in this private room, and Worsfold was talking to you from the
corridor--to get at the tracings, roll them up tightly, and put them in
the tube, putting the tube back into the umbrella stand. At half-past
twelve, or whenever it was, Mirsky turns up for the first time with
the actual stick and exchanges them, just as he afterwards did when he
brought the drawings back."
"Yes, but Mirsky came half an hour after they were--oh, yes, I see.
What a fool I was! I was forgetting. Of course, when I first missed
the tracings they were in this walking-stick, safe enough, and I was
tearing my hair out within arm's reach of them!"
"Precisely. And Mirsky took them away before your very eyes. I expect
Ritter was in a rare funk when he found that the drawings were missed.
He calculated, no doubt, on your not wanting them for the hour or two
they would be out of the office."
"How lucky that it struck me to jot a pencil-note on one of them! I
might easily have made my note somewhere else, and then I should never
have known that they had been away."
"Yes, they didn't give you any too much time to miss them. Well, I
think the rest's pretty clear. I brought the tracings in here, screwed
up the sham stick and put it back. You identified the tracings and
found none missing, and then my course was pretty clear, though it
looked difficult. I knew you would be very naturally indignant with
Ritter, so, as I wanted to manage him myself, I told you nothing of
what he had actually done, for fear that, in your agitated state, you
might burst out with something that would spoil my game. To Ritter I
pretended to know nothing of the return of the drawings or _how_ they
had been stolen--the only things I did know with certainty. But I
_did_ pretend to know all about Mirsky--or Hunter--when, as a matter
of fact, I knew nothing at all, except that he probably went under
more than one name. That put Ritter into my hands completely. When he
found the game was up he began with a lying confession. Believing that
the tracings were still in the stick and that we knew nothing of their
return, he said that they had not been away, and that he would fetch
them--as I had expected he would. I let him go for them alone, and when
he returned, utterly broken up by the discovery that they were not
there, I had him altogether at my mercy. You see, if he had known that
the drawings were all the time behind your book-case, he might have
brazened it out, sworn that the drawings had been there all the time,
and we could have done nothing with him. We couldn't have sufficiently
frightened him by a threat of prosecution for theft, because there the
things were, in your possession, to his knowledge.
"As it was, he answered the helm capitally: gave us Mirsky's address on
the envelope, and wrote the letter that was to have got him out of the
way while I committed burglary, if that disgraceful expedient had not
been rendered unnecessary. On the whole, the case has gone very well."
"It has gone marvellously well, thanks to yourself. But what shall I do
with Ritter?"
"Here's his stick--knock him downstairs with it, if you like. I should
keep the tube, if I were you, as a memento. I don't suppose the
respectable Mirsky will ever call to ask for it. But I should certainly
kick Ritter out of doors--or out of window, if you like--without delay."
[Illustration: "KNOCK HIM DOWNSTAIRS."]
Mirsky was caught, and after two remands at the police-court was
extradited on the charge of forging Russian notes. It came out that he
had written to the Embassy, as Hewitt had surmised, stating that he had
certain valuable information to offer, and the letter which Hewitt had
seen delivered was an acknowledgment, and a request for more definite
particulars. This was what gave rise to the impression that Mirsky had
himself informed the Russian authorities of his forgeries. His real
intent was very different, but was never guessed.
"I wonder," Hewitt has once or twice observed, "whether, after all, it
would not have paid the Russian authorities better on the whole if I
had never investigated Mirsky's little note-factory. The Dixon torpedo
was worth a good many twenty-rouble notes."
_Illustrated Interviews._
XXXIV.--SIR FRANCIS AND LADY JEUNE.
[Illustration: ARLINGTON MANOR
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
It would be difficult indeed to single out a more pleasant method of
passing a couple of days than with Sir Francis Jeune, Lady Jeune,
and their children. It was in the early days of spring that I had
this privilege, when, for a brief time, Sir Francis was free from the
trials and tribulations of the law, and, together with his family, was
enjoying the rest afforded by a short sojourn at his charming house in
Berkshire. About a couple of miles from Newbury--rich in reminiscence
of the troublesome times associated with the Cromwellian _régime_--is
Arlington Manor. It is a substantially-built country mansion--built of
a peculiar species of Bath stone--and no matter from which of its four
sides you view the outlook, it is "as fair as fair can be." From one
side you can here and there catch sight of a streak of blue sky through
a forest of fir trees; from another is a grand stretch of meadows, from
which you may often hear the voice of young Francis Christian Seaforth
Jeune--Sir Francis's son, who had for his godmother the Princess
Christian, and is proud of the fact that he was entered for Harrow
before he was four days old--shouting out "Well hit!" at a particularly
good drive of the ball by the butler, who happens to be a capital
cricketer. Perhaps, however, the view from the veranda is the finest.
The lawn is immediately before you; a little series of valleys and
hills rise and fall until all is lost in the blue line of hills miles
away. It is an ideal spot, and one which must be peculiarly interesting
to Sir Francis, owing to its being in the centre of a piece of country
closely allied with a period of history in which he is so deeply read.
Around the house golf links have been recently laid out. Sir Francis
said that I should have been at Arlington and seen a match between
Sir Evelyn Wood, Mr. Lockwood, and himself. "The General was the best
player," he added, "or, perhaps, I should say, the least bad."
It was on this veranda--with the glorious scene before us--that I
met Sir Francis and Lady Jeune. Lady Jeune's two daughters--Miss
Madeline Stanley and Miss Dorothy Stanley--were enjoying their first
game of croquet of the year. Lady Jeune has been twice married, her
first husband being Mr. John Stanley, a brother of Lord Stanley of
Alderley. After a time the two young girls joined us. I am well aware
that this paper is to be devoted to Sir Francis and Lady Jeune, but
it is impossible to stay one's pen at this point from chronicling
an impression formed regarding two of the brightest of sisters.
It happened that during my stay at Newbury there was a gymnastic
display in the town given by some young women of the class connected
with the People's Palace--young women, doubtless, for the most part
who know what it is to work, and work hard, for their living. They
were entertained to tea at Arlington Manor. The anxiety of the
Misses Stanley to make them happy was intense--nothing was forced
about it, but all heart-born. I judged Lady Jeune's daughters from
the semi-whispered invitations I could not help hearing to many of
these young women to "_Be sure and come and see us in London, won't
you?_"--repeated in one case, I know, half-a-dozen times. It is to be
hoped that this expression will convey the full meaning with which it
struck me.
[Illustration: THE DOGS.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
The interior of Arlington Manor is charmingly comfortable. Entering
from the veranda--you will probably be followed by one of the quartette
of dogs, and even "Randolph," the cat, who has the remarkable
feasting record of thirty chickens in a fortnight to be placed to his
credit!--you are in the billiard-room. Amongst the engravings of more
modern days are those after Sir Joshua Reynolds, Long, and Briton
Riviere; but the most noticeable is certainly a very fine set of
Hogarth's "Marriage à la Mode." Sir Francis Jeune is a great admirer
of Hogarth. Here, too, hangs his card of membership of the Athenæum
Club, forming a perfect collection of autographs of as many of the
most distinguished men of the day as could possibly get their names
on the card which was to "back" Sir Francis's candidature. A huge
volume here may be examined with interest. It contains no fewer than
seven hundred letters of congratulation which its owner received--and
faithfully answered every one--when he was appointed to the judicial
vacancy in the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division occasioned by
the elevation of Sir James Hannen to the House of Lords. A smaller one
is treasured which holds similar letters when Sir Francis was made
President of the Division.
[Illustration: "RANDOLPH".
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
The hall--the entrance to which finds room for a magnificently carved
oak cabinet--is very much like the gangway of a ship which leads to
the saloon cabins. Indeed, it was constructed on this principle. A
former occupier of Arlington Manor being unable to get out of doors,
and being nautically inclined, was wont to walk this hall and imagine
he was on board. The first apartment on the right is the drawing-room.
It is filled with flowers and portrait reminiscences of friends, whilst
its pictures are admirable. There are two very fine pieces of mountain
scenery by Lady Canning, a Prout, Loppe--and the old Dutch school is
represented. Three pictures, however, are specially interesting. One
is a grand Michiel van Mierevelt of Hugo Grotius, and given by him to
Oliver Cromwell. It has only been in three or four hands, and was in
the possession of an uncle of Sir Francis at the age of ninety-four,
and he received it when quite young. It owes its exceptionally fine
state of preservation to the fact that it has never been touched by the
cleaner--it actually hung in one spot for over sixty years. The other
two pictures are over the mantelpieces. One is a copy--the original
being at Brahan Castle--of Lady Jeune's great-great-grandmother a
daughter of Baron D'Aguilars, and, therefore, a Spanish Jewess, and the
other is of Lady Jeune herself, by Miss Thompson.
[Illustration: THE OUTER HALL.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
[Illustration: THE INNER HALL.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
The dining-room is hung with some exquisite tapestry, and in the
centre of the oaken mantel-board is a painting of the late Bishop
of Peterborough, Sir Francis Jeune's father. Sir Francis's own room
upstairs is a very pleasant corner of the house. On a table--in
very official-looking boxes, and, indeed, the only suggestion of
judicial duties about the place--are the various patents granted to
the President, and also those belonging to his father--who was Dean
of Jersey, as well as filling the Episcopal See of Peterborough. Sir
Francis merrily points out that the writ accompanying the patent making
him a judge expresses in legal phraseology an invitation to pretermit
all other business and go to Parliament.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"But they wouldn't let me in if I went there," he said.
There are a number of beautiful studies by Raphael here. Near the
window is a book-case containing many of the prizes Sir Francis won
at school and college. We look at them together. Sir Francis takes
down from one of the shelves a small volume of "Dodd's Beauties of
Shakespeare." It was given to him by Sir George Cornwall Lewis on the
occasion of his tenth birthday.
"I value it," said Sir Francis, "because good nature is not a quality
generally attributed to Sir George Cornwall Lewis."
There is much, very much, more to look at inside Arlington Manor--and
one would like to refer at greater length to its many interior
beauties; but the desire to take full advantage of the pleasant
opportunity of having a talk with Sir Francis Jeune--and later on
with Lady Jeune--leads one to hurry away from the apartments within
and settle down in one of the wicker chairs on the veranda and listen
to the quietly told story, and the impressive observations of the
President of the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division--at his
country home.
Sir Francis Jeune is tall--his bearing is erect and stately. His hair
is just turning grey--there is never a pleasant twinkle missing out
of the immediate vicinity of his eyes. To watch Sir Francis in his
court and to observe him in his home results in a conviction that
his geniality and justness are as thorough and thoughtful in the
one place as in the other. His temperament never seems to alter--he
is always kind. He talks enthusiastically and generously about
others--particularly his court officials--and quietly and modestly
about himself. He has ideas, strong ideas, regarding the law's true
administration and the best means of adapting it to the benefit of the
public. But all his views are submitted gracefully--he never seeks to
cram you with them or to say: "That's it, who can dispute what I say?"
I have sat in his court and listened--I have occupied one of the wicker
chairs on the veranda in front of the Hampshire Downs and listened,
too. It has all amounted to the same thing. He is thoughtful and
kind towards all men, both in his actions towards them and his ideas
regarding them.
His first words to me, when we settled down to talk, were gratifying
indeed.
"I have only been interviewed once before," he said, "and that was only
on a small question."
"It is a big one now, Sir Francis--your life."
"Well, it was whilst my father was Dean of Jersey that I was born--on
the 17th March, 1843. Though my early years were passed in the
atmosphere of the Church, I was never clerically inclined. I was always
intended for the Bar, and perhaps it was owing to my parentage that
I acquired a practice in ecclesiastical law almost as soon as I was
called. My first school was at Mr. Powle's, at Blackheath; then I went
to Mr. Penrose's, at Exmouth. It was a school where most Devonshire
county boys went--Sir Redvers Buller left a year before I went, though
I was there with his brother. We were admirably taught, and this was
the reason why I was placed as high as I could be when I went to
Harrow. There I remained for five years--four of which I passed under
Dr. Vaughan and the other under Dr. Butler.
"Dr. Vaughan was a man with a most gentle manner and a soft, deliberate
voice, and I never saw him agitated. But he was as firm as iron, and a
complete specimen of the pussy cat who could always show its claws when
disturbed. He was polite to a degree--even, I believe, when flogging a
boy!"
Sir Francis went into the house, and returned very shortly with another
volume of letters which he preserves. He turned over the pages, and at
last found the one he wanted. It was on blue paper, and the writing was
very bad, but its contents were good. It was a letter from the great
Lord Brougham to Sir Francis's father, and it told how Brougham had
been to Harrow on Speech Day, and seen one of the best _Shylocks_ on or
off the stage played by the President in embryo.
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS JEUNE'S FATHER.
_From a Painting._]
Young Jeune did well at Harrow, and he is remembered there to-day,
for on every successive advancement in life that has befallen him,
the Harrow boys have had a holiday--and not a few either. Young Jeune
got many prizes, and crowned his Harrow days by winning the Balliol
Scholarship. He matriculated the day on which the Prince Consort was
buried. He was at Balliol when Jowett was in his prime.
"He had very strong characteristics," continued Sir Francis, "and his
extreme love for Boswell's 'Life of Johnson' was remarkable. He knew it
better than any man, and was always quoting it. I remember just before
I went up for my final he asked me if I was nervous. I told him rather
so. He said:--
"'Never mind--you'll do in the schools better than what you think.
Remember the story of Dr. Dodd and Dr. Johnson. When Dr. Dodd was in
prison he preached a very fine sermon on the Sunday before he was
hanged. People went to Johnson and told him they believed he had
written it. 'Depend upon it, sir,' said Johnson to one of them, 'depend
upon it that a man's faculties are considerably quickened when he is
going to be hanged!'"
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
[Illustration: THE STUDY.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
Sir Francis did brilliantly at Oxford, gaining both the Stanhope Prize
and Arnold Prize. The former gave occasion to an intensely interesting
letter from Dean Stanley. Again the volume of letters was consulted,
and a few pages further on from Lord Brougham's note was the missive.
Sir Francis opened his Stanhope essay with Matthew Arnold's words:--
"I rejoice to see it," said Dr. Arnold, as he stood on one of the
arches of the Birmingham railway, and saw the train pass on through the
distant hedgerows--"I rejoice to see it, and to think that feudality is
gone for ever. It is so great a blessing to think that any one evil is
really extinct."
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS JUENE.
_From a Sketch by Harry Furniss._]
And this was a most generous, though undoubtedly well-deserved, tribute
from Stanley--saying that it was he to whom these words of Dr. Arnold
were first addressed.
Here is the letter:--
"June 22nd, 1863.
"6, Grosvenor Crescent, London.
"MY DEAR JEUNE,--Many thanks for your essay. I have read it with much
interest, as I heard those few sentences which you delivered with so
much effect and discretion with much pleasure. There was probably no
one in the theatre to whom your opening sentences came with so much
force as to myself. It is not often that such a good fortune can fall
to anyone as to hear the chance sayings which he remembered thirty
years before falling from the lips of a dear friend, in a solitary walk
through the fields of Warwickshire, repeated with all the energy and
weight of an authoritative maxim before the most magnificent assemblage
that could have been gathered together in England or perhaps in the
world.
"Yours very faithfully,
"A. P. STANLEY."
"I left Oxford when I was twenty-one," said Sir Francis, "and proceeded
to London immediately and began to study law. Acting under the advice
of Lord Westbury, I began by reading in a conveyancer's chambers.
I went to Mr. Ebenezer Charles, brother of the present Mr. Justice
Charles, a most accomplished lawyer; and happily in the same chambers
was Mr. James, afterwards Lord Justice James. James was a brilliant
man--but lazy, physically not intellectually, and the pupils had
full leave to read his briefs, and tell him their contents and the
authorities. His remarks were worth anything to a student. My other
legal masters were the great pleaders, Mr. Bullen and the present Mr.
Justice Wills. I was called to the Bar in 1868, but previous to that I
went for a year into a solicitor's office, the firm of Baxter, Rose,
and Norton. That was worth a great deal to me--the experience gained
there was perfectly invaluable. As soon as I was called I was engaged
in one very big lawsuit that ran into several years; almost all the
great lawyers of the day were connected with it. In that way I not only
had excellent employment during my first four years at the Bar, but
also made the acquaintance of many eminent barristers."
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS JEUNE.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
Sir Francis Jeune was for twenty-three years at the Bar, and, when
made a judge in 1891, was raised to the Bench with a record that he
had been associated with many kinds of legal cases. He participated
in much ecclesiastical work--sometimes on one side, and sometimes on
the other--when "Ritual" raged strong in the land. He had experience
in bankruptcy proceedings, Common Law, Probate and Divorce, and
considerable Parliamentary practice fell to his lot.
He did much Privy Council work.
"I frequently held briefs for the Government of Canada, whose general
retainer I held, and also other briefs from Canada," said Sir Francis,
"and one of these gave rise to a dramatic incident. I was instructed
to apply to the Privy Council for leave to appeal on account of some
technical flaws in a trial for murder in Canada--the man having been
convicted. Whilst I was arguing and hoping to make a good impression on
the Court, a telegram was put into my hands. It read: 'So-and-so (the
criminal) was hanged by order of the Governor-General at nine o'clock
this morning'! It did not seem necessary to continue the argument after
that. I recollect my point: it was that the case had never been sent
before a grand jury!
"Ballantine! Yes. I was on several occasions associated with him.
He was the most brilliant cross-examiner I ever heard--I don't say
the best, for he never knew his brief. But his tact and readiness
were extraordinary. I remember a divorce suit in which the husband
petitioned against the wife. Ballantine and I appeared for the
petitioner. The evidence was very much in favour of the wife as given
by her maid--a very modest, unassuming girl. It came to Ballantine's
turn to cross-examine.
"'What shall I ask her?' he said to me.
"At that moment somebody at the back of the court--I never found out
who--whispered to me: 'She had an illegitimate child while in her late
mistress's service!'
"I whispered this on to Ballantine, adding that I knew of no ground
whatever for the imputation. He got up--and something like the
following took place:
"Ballantine: 'I believe something serious happened whilst you were in
your late mistress's service?'
"Maid: 'Yes, sir.'
"'Something very serious?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'I believe you left?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'When you left, did she mention it to your new mistress?'
"'No, sir.'
"'If she had done so, do you think you would have got your present
situation?'
"'No, sir.'
"'If she were to mention it, do you think your mistress would keep you?'
"'No, sir.'
"Ballantine sat down. Sir John Karslake, for the respondent, thought
it best not to re-examine, and Lord Hannen, in summing up, remarked
that no doubt there might be something in the matter to which Serjeant
Ballantine had referred, which might induce the girl to desire to stand
well with her mistress, and Sir John Karslake had not felt inclined
to re-examine! We won our case. The real truth, I believe, was that
something--some article or the other--had been lost, and the girl was
supposed to have been implicated in it.
[Illustration: LORD BROUGHAM'S LETTER.]
"I have had doubts since whether the tactics were perfectly
defensible--but you see the skill. Absolutely nothing was risked,
because it would have been easy to retreat if the first answer had
been unfavourable. A blundering advocate would have blurted out the
offensive suggestion, got an indignant negative, set the judge and jury
against him, and been considered a brute.
"Now," suddenly exclaimed Sir Francis, "are you good for a walk to
Donnington Castle--we can just do it before luncheon?"
So we started, looking in at the stables on our way, to admire Queen,
a purchase of Lady Jeune's, who, by-the-bye, is a capital judge of
horseflesh; and Cardinal, so named, as it was bought during the run
of "Richelieu" at the Lyceum; the riding ponies of the young ladies,
Sir Francis's cob, and a Devonshire pony, recently given to Sir
Francis's son by Lord Portsmouth. We stood for a moment at the animals'
burying-ground--about a couple of hundred yards from the house. The
greensward round the stones put up to the memory of Fox, a dog who died
on July 2, 1892, and poor old Tim, who breathed her last on April 13,
1893, was covered with primroses. Poor old Tim. She was a favourite
white cat, whom Sir Francis had had for fifteen years. She died very
peacefully in the end. She always waited for her master at the top of
the stairs, and, when her days were numbered, just lay down--under Sir
Francis's chair in the dining-room--and died.
[Illustration: DEAN STANLEY'S LETTER.]
We talked on many things on our way to the famous old castle.
The Ballantine incident led me to ask Sir Francis if he thought counsel
were generally fair. "Yes; emphatically yes," he replied. "I have known
leading counsel, over and over again, resist great pressure to put
forward points they knew were not sound, and to adopt courses of which
they did not approve. You will never get law for nothing. I strongly
suspect it is as cheap now as ever it will be. It is a great thing to
have got rid of technicalities to the extent to which this has been
accomplished. The public owe much to Lord Esher's presidency of the
Court of Appeal in this matter. You ask me if purely family cases could
not be settled at the dining-room table or over the fire. I don't think
it possible. No feelings are so bitter as family feelings, and I think
it is quite impossible that these matters should often be settled
without the decision of a court of law. They often are settled when
the cases get into court, because no litigant ever knows the weakness
and strength of his case or of his opponent's case until it is in his
counsel's hands, when he quickly becomes acquainted with the real
situation."
[Illustration: PETS' BURIAL GROUND.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"And divorce, Sir Francis?"
"The Divorce Court as we have it now has been in existence since 1857,
and in proportion to the population, the number of divorces has not
increased. I see a French legal writer of eminence has recently said
that the French had in five years after their Divorce Act as many
cases as we in thirty after ours. Even allowing for the difference
between the laws of the two countries, it is not unsatisfactory as
a comparison. Divorce in this country is a far easier thing than is
popularly supposed. If a man can prove he does not get a pound a week,
he is entitled to a divorce free, and there are always counsel who are
kind enough to conduct his case for him. If he does not get counsel,
the judge has often to pose as such, which is perhaps rather hard on
the judge. Only about 5 per cent. of the divorce cases come from the
upper classes--the remainder from the middle, lower, and frequently
the pauper classes. The public hear very little of them--they are
only interested in cases where the parties concerned are known and
the interests at stake are big. But, to my mind, every divorce case
in itself is sensational--be they rich or poor concerned--sensational
because it is so severely serious. A divorce court should be and is the
most serious of courts. If a person laughs, it is not so much the usher
who puts it down as the public in the gallery themselves!"
Sir Francis said that he frequently gets through twenty cases of
divorce a day, and sometimes sixty probate and divorce summonses and
motions. He knows the points of each case--more particularly in the
latter--they have been prepared for him by the registrar, and when a
counsel rises and starts what promises to be a long discussion, the
judge courteously stops him and requests him to argue the one main
point. A judge's work is very much misunderstood by the public. When
the Court rises at four, he frequently spends a couple of hours in
getting ready his notes for summing up, which may come at any time if a
case collapses. He must often spend the intervening days between Friday
and Monday in "looking into the case."
"And do you think the present divorce laws are satisfactory?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, thoughtfully, "fairly so. Of course it is said that
men and women should be in exactly the same position, as is the case in
Scotland; but there is much to be said for our law. One matter does, I
think, require alteration. As the law stands, if a woman gets a divorce
from her husband and she is given the custody of the children, the man
need only keep them until they are sixteen. In many classes of society
children require to be educated and maintained till much later, and it
is frequently a great tax on the woman."
"And the Press--would you have divorce cases suppressed in the
newspapers?"
"I am perfectly satisfied with the Press. Their discretion is
admirable, and I have never felt disposed seriously to disapprove of a
newspaper for over-reporting. The Press is the voice of the country.
Justice is a public thing, and the administration of justice should be
given all publicity. If this were not done, how would the public ever
know that litigants were getting their rights? Newspaper reports to-day
are pretty much as they should be."
We arrived at Donnington, and Sir Francis enthusiastically went over
all the part the old pile had played in the long-ago days of rebellion.
We reached the house again, and entered it with a hearty laugh, for Sir
Francis had just told a story which would tend to prove that you will
never shape the divorce laws to suit everybody. A Frenchman applied for
a divorce, but he had no witnesses. He got them the next day, and his
application was granted. A few days afterwards Sir Francis received
a letter from him, asking if it would not be possible to curtail the
necessary six months in order to make the decree absolute, as the
Frenchman had come across a very charming widow with money, and he was
afraid that the lady might not be willing to wait six months.
"He made a strong appeal to my sympathies," said Sir Francis, "and I
did sympathize, but I could not help him."
It was a very happy evening at Arlington Manor after dinner. Lady Jeune
afforded me the opportunity I sought. Few women are better known in the
charitable world than Lady Jeune, but it is only when one has met her
that one realizes how very practical she is in her deeds of kindness.
With a head of perfect silver hair, and keen, bright eyes, she just
fixes them on you and says exactly what she thinks. There is nothing
hesitating about her--she always appears to know what is best and acts
up to it; what will succeed, and it does.
"My childhood," said Lady Jeune, "was passed in Scotland. I was brought
up very homely, in a very strict way, with two sisters and a brother. I
never came to London until I was eighteen. I cannot tell you how I came
to do the things that you suggest I do. I think, perhaps, I drifted
into them--but I have always been deeply interested in my own sex, and
for the last thirteen or fourteen years particularly so."
[Illustration: MISS MADELINE STANLEY. MASTER F. C. S. JEUNE. MISS
DOROTHY STANLEY.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
"And children?" I hinted.
"Yes, and the little ones, too. My Holiday Fund? Oh, yes. It is about
eight years old. Mr. Labouchere had some money given him, and I told
him if he would let me have it I would take up the work. I began with
£500, and have had as much as £1,800 to spend in the summer months. We
board the children out in Essex, Berkshire, Oxfordshire--in fact, in
places within easy distance of London, and where the pure, free air is
sure. I am a manager of two groups of schools in the poorest parts of
London--Shoreditch and Bethnal Green--so that I have a very good choice
of really poor, deserving children, to whom the country meadows is like
a peep into Heaven. I make no distinction as far as denominations go.
Last year I sent away 1,200 children."
Lady Jeune is also interested in factory girls and tired mothers,
whilst her Rescue Home in the North of London contains a large laundry
business.
I gathered much of the greatest interest from Lady Jeune. The "Revolt
of the Daughters" question mystifies her. There is always a certain
proportion of young women who don't get on at home, and an outside
remedy will never be found. It must be found--if it can be found--in
the home itself. The woman of to-day is a very different sort of
person from what she was twenty-five or thirty years ago. The girl of
to-day may be more interesting, but she is certainly not so fresh--she
knows too much, attempts too much. Twenty-five years ago a woman had
no opinions until she was married. Girls of to-day start in their
teens, and Lady Jeune thinks they do themselves more harm than good.
You cannot have enough athletics for Lady Jeune--that is why the girls
of 1894 are so much better grown, taller, and "finer animals," than
were those of years ago; but she questions if their children will be
equally good-looking and physically developed. The rapidity of life and
excitement which many women lead must tell on them. She regards woman's
too great love for amusement as being at the bottom of the cause of so
many unhappy married homes. Why are there not more real friendships
between man and wife? Let that be so, and the home would be home for
both. She is a firm advocate of technical education.
"I believe in bigger girls being taught in class," said Lady Jeune;
"it does a girl good to work with other girls. Boys? Let every
boy be taught a trade at _school_--his father's trade for choice.
Opportunity--as it is to-day--is levelled for all, and whether the
boy is the son of a duke or the son of a working-man--a Board school
boy--their opportunities and chances of real and true success in life
are more equal than formerly."
"Then how would you meet the wants of your surplus boy population, Lady
Jeune," I asked---"the lads of the slums, whose family motto is 'No
work, and plenty of it'?"
"Either by emigration, or by some scheme such as the idea of the Gordon
Boys' Home carried out on a small scale, which would enable them after
training to become soldiers or sailors," replied Lady Jeune.
[Illustration: LADY JEUNE.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
It was during the walk back over the fields from Donnington Castle that
Sir Francis Jeune paid a magnificent tribute to the abilities of the
late Lord Hannen--both as a lawyer and a man. On my return to town the
following evening the newspaper placards had the announcement of Lord
Hannen's death!
HARRY HOW.
_The Queen's Yacht_
BY MRS. M. GRIFFITH.
(_By special permission of Her Majesty the Queen._)
[Illustration: THE "VICTORIA AND ALBERT."
_From a Photo by G. West & Son, Southsea._]
The _Victoria and Albert_ is a paddle vessel of 2,470 tons, built by
Her Majesty's Government and launched from Pembroke Dock in 1855. Her
dimensions are: extreme length, 336ft. 4in.; breadth of deck, 40ft.;
displacement in tons, when deep, 2,390 tons.
Her engines make twenty-one revolutions a minute, and are supplied by
four boilers, with six furnaces to each. It takes about six tons of
coal to get up steam, and about three tons an hour to keep her at full
speed. Highest indicated horse-power, 2,400.
Her Majesty the Queen made her first cruise in her on July 12th, 1855.
What will first strike any visitor going on board the _Victoria and
Albert_ is the utter lack of luxury and magnificence of decoration
and furniture in the Royal apartments. The most perfect simplicity,
combined with good taste, prevails everywhere. It would be well for
those who complain of the cost of our Royal yachts to compare them with
those of other nations, and note the difference.
The deck is covered with linoleum, over which red carpeting is laid
when the Queen is on board; and plenty of lounges and cushions laid
about and many plants, which contrast pleasantly with the white
and gold with which the vessel is painted. She is lit electrically
throughout, having forty-two accumulating cells. She carries two
brass guns (six pounders) for signalling only. There is a pretty
little five o'clock tea cabin on deck, which has a hood coming down
from the doorway, as a protection from the wind. There is also a
miniature armoury, lamp-room, chart-room, and a number of lockers for
signalling-flags.
All the Royal apartments have the floors covered with red and black
Brussels carpet, in small coral pattern; the walls hung with rosebud
chintz, box pleated; the doors of bird's-eye maple, with handles of
iron, and fittings heavily electro-plated. Her Majesty's bedroom has
a brass bedstead screwed into sockets in the floor, bed furniture of
rosebud chintz lined with green silk, canopy to match, green silk
blinds, and plain white muslin curtains with goffered frills, mahogany
furniture, chintz-covered. Dressing-room: mahogany furniture, covered
with green leather, writing and dressing table combined; the walls
covered with maps and charts on spring rollers.
The wardrobe-room, in which Her Majesty's dresser sleeps, is furnished
in a similar style; and here I saw a boat cloak of blue embossed
velvet, lined with scarlet cloth, and another made entirely of scarlet
cloth and with the "Star" on the front, which once belonged to George
IV., but is now sometimes worn by the Queen.
[Illustration: THE DECK.
_From a Photograph._]
In the Princess Royal's room--as it is still called--the furniture is
of maple, an electric light pendant hangs over the toilet table, the
walls are a pale salmon colour, and the cornice a shell pattern in
white and gold, the ceiling done in imitation of plaster.
[Illustration: THE PAVILION.
_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]
The cabin which was formerly occupied by the Prince of Wales and Duke
of Edinburgh contains two little brass bedsteads, maple furniture,
decorated with the Prince of Wales' Feathers; and the Tutor's cabin
opens out of it.
The pavilion, or breakfast-room, has mahogany furniture covered in
leather, and a couple of large saddle-bag easy chairs, a very handsome
painted porcelain stove, and frilled muslin curtains to all the parts.
The dining-room is furnished in a similar way, but the walls are hung
with charts and portraits of the former captains of the vessel, who
were as follows: (1) Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, (2) Sir Joseph Denman,
(3) George Henry Seymour, C.B., (4) His Serene Highness Prince of
Leiningen, (5) Captain Hugh Campbell, and (6) Captain Frank Thompson.
A very handsome candelabrum is of nautical design, and the brass coal
scuttle is fashioned like a nautilus shell; walls, salmon; and cornice,
white and gold, in "Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle" design.
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photograph._]
Her Majesty's drawing-room is 26 ft. by 18 ft. 6 in. The walls
chintz-covered, and hung with portraits of the Royal Family in oval
gilt frames, in the same design as the cornice; the furniture of
bird's-eye maple; the coverings, all of chintz, to match the walls. Two
large sofas, one at each end of the room; two or three easy chairs, the
others high-backed; an "Erard" piano, book-case and cabinet combined,
writing-table, occasional tables, and an oval centre table, comprise
the whole of the furniture. I noticed a very handsome reading-lamp of
copper and brass, for electric light, with a portable connection, so
that it can be used in any part of the room. The bells have also the
same contrivance. The two chandeliers, for six candles each, are of the
same design as the one in the dining-room.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photograph._]
The corridor leading to the Royal apartments is hung with rich green
silk damask curtains, and on the walls are water-colour paintings of
several of Her Majesty's ships, done by the boys of Christ's Hospital.
The staircase is very wide and handsome, of maple, with gold and white
balustrades.
[Illustration: THE CORRIDOR.
_From a Photo by Symonds & Co., Portsmouth._]
The Ladies-in-Waiting have their cabins on the starboard side in the
fore part of the vessel, and the Lords on the port side; they have also
a commodious dining-room, decorated in white and gold. Her Majesty's
servants have twelve cabins, six of them fitted up for two people. In
addition to these there are numerous domestic offices, a dispensary,
the officers' cabins, and accommodation for the crew, which numbers 170.
Her Majesty the Queen is never now longer on board than forty-eight
hours at a time, and the vessel is kept in such perfect order that only
twelve hours' notice is required to prepare her for the reception of
Royalty.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN AND OFFICERS OF THE "VICTORIA AND ALBERT."
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration:
LIGHT
A LONDON IDYLL]
BY E. M. HEWITT.
We lodged in a street together:
You a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
I, a lone she bird of his feather.
I.
Marigold Place is a blind alley turning out of the animal life and
ugliness of the Harrow Road. No. 7 is Mrs. Xerxes'. She was unique
among landladies, never having seen better days. The oldest inhabitant
of the Place had no other recollection of her, girl and matron, than
as a limping slattern with a squint, wearing a sackcloth bib-apron and
a ragged, rusty crape bonnet. Mrs. Xerxes' sole source of income, in
addition to occasional charing, was derived from her lodgers--a colony
of obscure workers, with much shabby tragedy underlying their daily
absences. Little Miss Barberry, the upholsteress, who lived on the
third-floor back, was Mrs. Xerxes' model lodger, or, as she expressed
it, "the only 'let' that does credit to the 'ouse."
Madge Barberry was a very pretty girl, refined in voice, manner, and
appearance, with delicate features, soft, dark eyes, and glossy brown
hair loosely coiled on the top of her head. She always wore black, with
a white apron, and a chatelaine of keys, scissors, and needle-case hung
on a long ribbon at her waist. She lived in one room, poorly furnished,
for which Mrs. Xerxes condescended to accept three-and-sixpence
weekly. It was little more than a garret, hideous with the miserable
appointments and musty atmosphere of the low-life London lodging-house.
But, as for outlook, it was much better off than Paul Vespan's, on
the other side of the landing. Through its grimy windows there was
a glimpse of green Virginia creeper climbing up the dingy walls of
the opposite mews; whereas, the third-floor front only commanded the
depressing prospect of the narrow street. Madge merely knew Mr. Vespan
by sight. They had met on the stairs, passing each other with that
curious blending of shyness and suspicion which characterises the
relation of London fellow-lodgers. Once or twice Paul had heard her
singing; she had a sweet voice.
Mr. Vespan ranked next to Miss Barberry in Mrs. Xerxes' estimation.
"Bookish, but with a good 'eart. Shabby, but quite a gentleman,"
ran the landlady's verdict. Madge chose to take him for a poet. He
was a tall, fair young man, with a pale face and sad, serious eyes.
The little upholsteress, who was not a philosopher, and had never
read Emerson, had, nevertheless, long ago "renounced ideals and
accepted London." Her life had always been hard. Before her birth her
parents had lost their all in one of those financial disasters which
sometimes overtake the most prosperous communities. The father died
broken-hearted. Madge worked bravely for her mother until she, too,
went from her. Then the orphan faced the world with a slender yearly
pittance of twenty pounds. Such lives are too common in London to stand
for romance. She was generally lucky in getting work, and one cannot
starve on a shilling a day.
Paul Vespan, whom Mrs. Xerxes believed to be "something in the
City," was much poorer than Madge; but he had a Hope, which he meant
to convert into money some day. Meanwhile, he carried it about in
the breast-pocket of his shabby coat in the shape of a roll of MS.
The sheets were torn at the edges and blackened with frequent post
marks--the scars of repeated disappointments. But all day long they
nestled near the poet's heart. For the truth of Paul Vespan was what
Madge Barberry had divined, though Mrs. Xerxes also had right on her
side. Her lodger was a sandwich-man. He had not come to London with
that intention, but he had fallen to it. His people, well-to-do,
narrow-minded country folk, took it for granted that he was getting on.
The fact was, he was on the verge of starvation.
II.
It was sultry summer evening in Marigold Place. Madge Barberry, who had
worked far into the twilight, was sitting at her open window with idly
folded hands. Overhead the glassy sky was brilliant with stars. Down in
the mews the lamps flickered fitfully behind their panes. From time to
time the silence was broken by the shrill screams of gutter children
at play, or by the impatient stamp of a horse in its stall. Madge was
singing to herself, but her thoughts were wandering away from the song
to Mr. Vespan. The motherliness in her tender young heart had been
touched by the sight of his wan, weary face, as it passed her on the
stairs that morning. He walked languidly, and seemed paler than usual.
But, then, the heat was very trying. Fierce enough in Marigold Place,
it was worse, no doubt, in the City. Could it have been a mere fancy,
too, that he looked at her, as she hurried by, with timid, pitiful
eyes, that seemed to ask her help? Poor Paul! It would have done him
good to know how much sympathetic interest he was exciting in this
stranger's heart.
Mrs. Xerxes limped upstairs after supper, and found her lodger in the
dark. Madge economized in lights all the summer.
"If you please, Miss Barberry," said Mrs. Xerxes, who brought with her
a strong odour of fried fish, "I've taken the liberty to get a job for
you."
"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Xerxes," smiled Madge.
[Illustration: "THAT IS VERY KIND OF YOU."]
"I 'oped you would take it that way, miss. It's where I was charing
to-day. The young ladies are doin' up their rooms, and they asked me if
I could recommend a respectable young person for upholstery. So I put
in a word for you, thinking that every little helps."
"Indeed, it does, Mrs. Xerxes. Where is the house? And when am I to go?"
"To-morrow, at nine. Here's the address."
Mrs. Xerxes extricated a scrap of dirty paper from her pocket, and
handed it to Madge. Then she went hobbling downstairs again.
A little later, a man who had groped his way up the narrow
stairs stopped on the third-floor landing, gasping for breath.
Madge was singing--her chatelaine jingling, not unmusically, for
accompaniment--as she moved about her room. It was a sweet song, sweet
with hope and promise:--
Sing high. Tho' the red sun dip
There is yet a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea.
But the words fell with pathetic irony on Paul Vespan's ears, that must
shortly be deaf to the sound of all human voices.
Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since have we met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was is yet.
That verse was not for him. The light-hearted singer, no doubt, had
had her love-passages, but she had evidently outlived them. He had no
such memories to console or to detain him. He had lived solitary and
misunderstood. He must die alone. Who would be sorry for him? Not this
heartless singer, certainly. Poor Madge, who had been troubled, even in
her singing, for her poet!
Paul turned into his room, and began to grope about for a match. Then
he felt in his pockets. They were empty. He was poor, indeed. Fate had
not left him so much as a light for his last journey. Nor was this
the only delay. Across the landing a sweet voice called him back with
tender insistence--
There is yet a day for me!
If only he could believe it! He had grown weary waiting for its dawn.
The Poet's day is long in coming.
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea!
If it might be so! Paul staggered out of his dark room into the
darkness beyond, clutching blindly at the air, for he was weak with
long fasting. The song broke off. A woman called across the landing:--
"Who is there?"
"It is I."
"That's a starving man," said Madge to herself, "and it's Mr. Vespan's
voice. What do you want?" she asked, opening her door.
"A light."
[Illustration: "SHE STOOD IN THE DOORWAY."]
"Wait a moment. I will bring you one."
She came out and stood in the doorway, shading a flickering candle with
her hand. The delicate face and slender figure were sharply silhouetted
on Paul Vespan's fading consciousness. If he had meant to live, here
was a woman worth living for. But he had done with possibilities. She
went up to him and looked bravely into his white face.
"You are very ill," she said, gently.
"I shall be better soon."
Madge's quick eyes travelled down to his shaking hand. It had closed
like a vice over some hidden treasure; but not before his good angel
had seen it. Her own face paled as she bent above him.
"Give me that bottle," she said, quietly.
But, as the dark blue phial with its orange label slipped from Paul
Vespan's nerveless fingers to hers, the little upholsteress burst into
tears.
"Don't cry," said the man, hoarsely. "I am not worth it."
"You never meant it. No, my poor boy, no. You were unhappy--tired. It
was all a mistake."
He fell back, gasping, against the wall.
"You had no right----"
"It would have been easier than--did you ever see anyone die
of--starvation----?"
"You are not----"
"Yes, I am."
"Let me get you something."
"Anything--I am so hungry."
What should she do? She had spent her daily shilling. But to-morrow
she would be sure of a dinner: to-morrow's pittance should go to this
starving man.
Her poet was starving! That awful cry, going up hourly from the heart
of the Great City, had never come home to Madge Barberry before. True,
the horror had sometimes seemed imminent in her own life, but her brave
hands, made desperate by love, had always kept it at bay. For the sake
of her dead mother, who had been spared this martyrdom, she must save
Paul Vespan. Quick as thought, she ran downstairs and knocked at the
kitchen door. Mrs. Xerxes came out, wiping her mouth with the back of
her hand.
"Deary me, Miss Barberry, whatever's the matter?"
"Will you come upstairs, Mrs. Xerxes? Mr. Vespan has fainted outside
his door. He looks very ill. Perhaps he's hungry. Would you take this
and buy what he wants until--until he gets better?"
"I always said you were the lady born, Miss Barberry," observed Mrs.
Xerxes, looking down at the silver coin which Madge had pressed into
her grimy hand; "but I don't know that I ought to take this from you.
What would Mr. Vespan say?"
"Please, please don't tell him," cried poor Madge, in an agony of
apprehension. "Let him think it's you."
III.
Madge went to her work next morning at nine, after a sleepless night.
Mrs. Xerxes stopped her on the stairs to whisper that Mr. Vespan was
much better. He had begged her to say to Miss Barberry that he hoped he
had not frightened her, and to thank her for her kindness.
"Mrs. Xerxes! You never told him?"
"Bless you, my dear; he meant his fainting. I was mum about the money."
Madge nodded, much relieved, and resumed her way.
Her destination was within easy reach of Marigold Place. It was
a stately red-brick house, one of a fashionable avenue, the blue
window-boxes gaily crowded with white and scarlet flowers. The
upholsteress was shown into the young ladies' boudoir. Two pretty
girls were standing at a table, looking through a book of patterns in
cretonne. They were twin sisters, and always spoke together. When the
servant announced "The young person from Mrs. Xerxes'," both turned on
Madge.
"Do you think you could upholster a cosy corner for us--Miss Barberry,
isn't it? Then we want curtains to match. Can you make curtains? Which
of these cretonnes will look best? How many yards will it take? May we
stay and watch you work?"
Madge contrived to give lucid answers to all their questions, and
proved invaluable to the sisters, who were delighted with her. They
wasted a whole morning discussing and suggesting; but Madge had her
dinner, and they insisted on her staying to tea also.
She went home at six. Mrs. Xerxes darted out of the kitchen, pointing
mysteriously over her shoulder.
"He's in there."
"Who?"
"Mr. Vespan. I got him downstairs for a change. Suppose you go in and
see him?"
"I?"
"Why not? Where's the harm? But for you, I'd like to know where he'd
be!"
"Hush! He might hear you," whispered Madge.
"Not he. Well, will you come?"
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Xerxes threw open the door of her
sitting-room.
"I've brought Miss Barberry to see you, sir."
Paul Vespan turned his head languidly.
In Mrs. Xerxes' back yard, among battered tins and broken bottles, a
Madonna lily had grown up, tall, and strong, and pure. It reminded the
poet of Madge Barberry, as he saw her then.
"I have much to thank you for," he said, "though you saved a worthless
life."
Madge looked round nervously; but Mrs. Xerxes had disappeared.
"How wicked I must seem to you!" Paul Vespan went on, in his weak,
weary voice; "but if you knew what I have suffered!"
"I think I do know," said Madge, gently. "Life in London is very hard.
And it is hardest for such as you are."
Paul looked at her inquiringly.
"That is----?"
"Perhaps you will laugh at me."
"No, no. Tell me."
"I took you for a poet."
"It is the truth."
"Not really!"
"But it is no use. There is no room for me anywhere. Board-carrying is
more lucrative."
"Board-carrying?"
"Yes. Does it shock you? I am a sandwich-man by profession; a poet by
accident."
"Oh! it can't be true!" cried Madge, passionately. "You--you, a
sandwich-man?"
[Illustration: "I AM A SANDWICH-MAN."]
"One and twopence a day is poor pay; but I assure you it's better than
poetry."
"Some day----"
"Yes. I know. I have heard that so often. But one never comes up with
'some day.' Perhaps you are not ambitious?"
"No."
"How do you escape? It is in the air in London."
"I only have a wish. It is not great enough to be called an ambition."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"Not now. I'm afraid I have let you talk too much as it is."
"No. It has done me good. What a happy face you have!"
"I am not unhappy."
"May you always remain so! Good-bye, then, since you must go. And thank
you once more."
He held out his hand feebly, with a wan smile.
"And now--now, you will be brave, will you not? Try once more. Let me
post your next poem for you. I may bring you luck."
"As you brought me light. I should be a churl to refuse you, to whom
I owe my life. You _shall_ post a poem for me. I have a penny in my
pocket, the last, until I get another job. It shall buy a stamp."
Then she went away, shutting Paul into loneliness once more. But she
had also left a hope behind. He was a braver man for the contact of
that sister-life, his fellow-toiler in the Great City. Her courage
shamed him. She, too, was poor and lonely, but not a coward. He would
be one no longer. Because she had saved his life, he could never again
think meanly of it, nor lightly fling it away. At last his heart could
join in her sunset song:--
There is yet a day for me!
He went up to his poor room presently with a firmer step and a
grateful glance across the landing to the door from which light had
streamed to beckon him back to hope and life. He sat down in the
twilight and began to think. First of all, he must find work or starve.
Meanwhile, how was he living? On whose bounty? Mrs. Xerxes was a poor
woman. She could not afford to be generous. To whom, then, did he owe
it that he was not at this moment a homeless wanderer in the streets?
Surely not to that strong, sweet woman to whom he owed his very life!
His pale face flushed at the wild thought. Impossible, if her resources
ran on anything like the same lines as his. He drew from his pocket
the back of an old envelope, pencilled with figures. Madge Barberry's
balance-sheet, indeed, compared favourably with this. On the credit
side appeared six days' pay at 1s. 2d. per day for board-carrying. The
debit side was made up of seven days' food, 2s. 4d.; lodging, 2s. 4d.;
soap, 1d.; washing, 3d.; boots, 2s.
That was how Paul Vespan lived on seven shillings a week, and but for
Madge Barberry, the record might have run "how he died" instead.
It was a pathetic little story; but, like Madge Barberry's, too
everyday for romance in this city of sharp contrasts.
Then he rummaged amongst the contents of a battered cardboard box for
the best of his poems, which he had promised to lend Madge. In the
search he encountered frequent sharp reminders of past failure. Many
a curt editorial note of rejection had drifted in between the loose
sheets of MSS. Here, one "regretted that the accompanying manuscript
was unsuitable to his pages, and returned it herewith."
Or another "presented his compliments to the writer of the accompanying
article, which he returned with thanks."
But in the strength of the new life which he was facing, these stabs
were pin-pricks. He would try once more, as that sweet voice had urged.
IV.
Madge and her poet did not meet again for several days. Meanwhile, she
posted his letter "for luck." He also left a roll of MS. at her door
with "Paul Vespan's compliments." She read the poems in her leisure
moments, which were few; for she now went daily to the red house in the
avenue. The cosy corner made splendid progress, and the twins were more
than ever enchanted with their upholsteress.
With a rebel thought of the poet thrusting itself between the lines,
Madge read the verses to a finish; and then seized a regretful
opportunity to return them.
She gave them back to him reverently.
"They are all very beautiful," she said: "I wonder no one listens; but
I am sure they will some day."
Dear critic! If she were all he had to fear!
"I am glad you like them," he said.
"Is there any news yet of the other?" she asked.
"Not yet."
But Madge was to hear it first.
The next afternoon when she was at the avenue, a red-faced old
gentleman with white hair put his head in at the door of the work-room,
and then beat a hasty retreat.
"Come in, papa," chorused the twins; "it's only Miss Barberry."
"I'll look in presently. I only came to tell you I've found a poet."
"Papa! Not really! Where is he?"
[Illustration: "HE RUMMAGED AMONGST THE CONTENTS."]
"Marigold Place, Harrow Road, of all localities in the world."
"Why, that's where Mrs. Xerxes lives!" said one of the sisters, and
then she looked at Madge.
"They're a very promising set of verses," went on the editor,
impressively, "but I don't know that I can find room for them."
"Oh, please, please, don't send them back, sir! It will kill him."
"Eh? What? Who's this?" exclaimed the editor, looking severely over his
glasses at Madge, and from her to his daughters. "Do you know this Paul
Vespan, young woman?"
"Yes, sir. He lives in the house where I lodge. And he's starving,
sir. He is, indeed. He has sent his work everywhere, and can't get it
accepted. I posted that poem for him. I hoped it would bring him good
luck."
[Illustration: "HE'S STARVING!"]
"And so it shall!" cried the editor. "You send this young man to me.
What does he do in his spare time?"
"He's a sandwich-man, sir," faltered Madge; "and I think, if you don't
mind," she added, "perhaps it would be better for you to write to him.
He's had so many disappointments, that he'll hardly believe his luck."
"Very good," agreed the editor, "I'll write."
So Paul received his first cheque by the morning's post, "With the
Editor's compliments, and thanks for the contribution entitled 'Love's
Handicraft,'" and a request that he would call at the office.
V.
The sacristan was putting out the lights in St. Ethelreda's after
evening service. The church was cool and still now that the people had
gone. A restful gloaming fell upon the deserted aisles. One sunset
shaft crept aslant the pictured walls, on the Virgin Mother and her
Holy Child. Before the altars, the perpetual lamps swung solemnly. In
this sanctuary of hushed repose, Madge Barberry lingered late and last
of all the worshippers. She was never lonely here. The lines of statued
saints looked down upon her from their niches with tender reminder that
they, too, of old had fought her wars. Victorious, they were no less
her fellow-soldiers. They were still one with that brave world-army of
heroic men and women battling with high tides of poverty and misfortune.
She went regretfully down the shadowy nave. Paul Vespan was waiting for
her in the dark porch.
"I came to meet you," he said; "Mrs. Xerxes told me you were here."
She smiled gratefully as they went out into the dusty street together.
Soon she would have him no more to walk beside her. Great changes had
come to Paul Vespan since that dark night when Madge Barberry's brave
hand snatched him from death to life. The editor, once his friend,
had remained so. After a pleasant probation in his own office, he was
sending him to take charge of a small provincial paper in a cathedral
town.
"You have heard the good news, Madge?" said Paul, thinking of this.
Yes, she had heard it. But to her, it was not good news, though she was
glad for him.
"I hope you will be very happy," she faltered.
"I shall be very lonely. Unless--Madge, will you come with me?"
"I? Oh! no! I should be standing in your light."
"You? What are you saying, Madge? Why, didn't you bring me back to
light? My life will be dark, indeed, without you."
"Then," she said, as they entered Marigold Place, "I will go with you."
Paul Vespan's after-history bears tender witness to the wisdom of his
choice. In the light of his wife's unswerving love, he works bravely.
The rewards which are sure to come will be sweeter because shared by
her. She is his "lady with the lamp," standing no more beside the weary
craven in his hour of tragic necessity, but shoulder to shoulder, heart
to heart, with the valiant world-soldier in the thick of his battle for
fame and fortune.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO
By Arthur Morrison & J.A. Shepherd]
XXIV.--ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE.
"Rodoporcine" is a portmanteau-word. It is not a regular scientific
term, although, as I may claim with modest pride (being its inventor),
it is almost ugly enough to be one. I have invented it largely for the
benefit of the building (it is only one building) which the Zoological
Society numbers six and seven, and divides arbitrarily into "The Swine
House" and "The Rodents' House"; but chiefly I have invented it because
I wanted a title for this Zig-zag. _Rodo_ I gnaw, _porcus_ a pig.
[Illustration]
The Society have old authority for any amount of confusion between
the swine and the rodents. The guinea-pig has long ago established
its right to its name, on the indisputable grounds of being entirely
unconnected with Guinea, and not a pig, but a rodent. The capybara is
also called a water-pig (even in its Greek name) in virtue, doubtless,
of being a rodent. "Porcupine" means a thorny pig; the name being again
found convenient for a rodent, and enunciated with peculiar emphasis by
the wag who wrote:--
Each hair will stand on end upon thy wig,
Like quills upon the frightful porcupig.
Then, by way of pleasant variation, the hedgehog derives its title
from the fact of being neither a hog nor a rodent, but only a prickly
kind of mole. So that confusion among pigs and rodents is an ancient,
time-honoured, and respectable state of affairs, only feebly deferred
to by the Zoological Society in placing the two side by side. Let us
consider them, therefore, in a proper derangement and with a due regard
to confusion.
[Illustration: BOHEMIAN.]
The thoughtless world is disrespectful to the pig. It even uses its
name as a term of reproach. Nobody likes to be called a pig, and yet if
some were to accept the epithet with a good grace, and conscientiously
act up to the character, there would be a deal of improvement in their
manners. Proverbs abuse and slight the pig. "Pigs may whistle, but
they have an ill mouth for it," says one; "Drunk as David's sow,"
says another; "What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?" asks a
third, totally ignoring the existence of such products as bacon, lard,
bristles, and saddle-leather. But then proverbs are always perpetrating
injustices somewhere, until abuse from a proverb has become a sort
of testimonial to the worth of anything--animal, vegetable, or
mineral. The pig eats all it can get, certainly, but that is only a
manifestation of what we are apt to call, in ourselves, prudence and
business acumen. Once thoroughly fed it regards the world with serene
apathy, but that is merely broadmindedness and toleration. The nearest
relatives here to the familiar porker of our native agricultural show
are the wild swine--European and Asiatic--well set-up creatures, of
form and manner not to be considered with disrespect, and carrying with
them no more of traditional piggishness than a certain easy Bohemianism
of manner and irregularity of bristle.
[Illustration: WELL GROOMED.]
[Illustration: SERENE APATHY.]
It is plain to see that whatever may be found of ill account in the pig
is due to the contaminating influence of man. A wiry, well-groomed wild
pig is a decent citizen of the animal community, unpleasantly ready
with his tusks, of course, but clearly dignified and with intelligence.
To me the wart-hog always seems the precise militarist among pigs. His
neat, well-fitting feet, his closely-clad legs, and his high carriage
of head are alone enough, to say nothing of his warlike tusks, and his
mutton-chop side-whiskers, which indeed are only a sort of warts, but
look as much like the real thing as they can manage. But, for all the
other qualities of the grizzled old soldier, it cannot be concealed
that he has a drunken eye.
[Illustration: "IMPROVED."]
From the comparatively noble wild swine (who cannot open his mouth
without an invariable appearance of being about to sneeze) man has, by
long selection and careful breeding, evolved a preposterous cylinder
of locomotive pork. This he calls an "improved" pig--as who should
speak of improving the heavens by casting advertisements thereon from a
magic-lantern. It is a quaint paradox in the pig-fancier's system that
the pig with the greatest number of excellent points is, as a matter of
fact, the pig whose rotundity presents no point anywhere, nor anything
like a point.
[Illustration: MAJOR WART-HOG.]
There is a deal of catholicity of taste in a pig. He is quite prepared
to devour the whole animal and vegetable kingdom, and very little
hunger would persuade him to admit the mineral kingdom, too. Almost
anything will "please the pigs"--which may be the origin of the
proverb, although origin-mongers say differently; and yet the pig's
senses of taste and smell are particularly acute; witness his use as a
beast of chase for the truffle. He has also an acute weather-wisdom, if
countrymen's weather-lore be accepted; for if pigs carry straw in their
mouths it will inevitably rain. Wherefore picnic parties will do well
to remove all straw from the reach of pigs.
[Illustration: GOING TO SNEEZE.]
The capybara--the water-pig which is no pig--is a rudimentary sort of
structure. He presents a kind of rough outline or experimental draft of
a quadruped in its preliminary stages of invention. All the materials
are there--more than enough, in fact--and the rough plan of their
arrangement is sketched out, but there is no detail--nor, indeed, any
other kind of tail--and no finish. The body (and a very liberal body,
too), the hair (also liberal, and thick), the head and legs, have been
put together tentatively with a shovel, and all the fine work has been
omitted; indeed, the operations have never even arrived at the stage at
which the tail is stuck on. The capybara's ideals, notions of life,
wants and aspirations are of the rudimentary character appropriate to
his figure. He has no particular objection to being tame and docile--so
long as he is fed--nor any particular repugnance to being otherwise. He
will eat a piece of cabbage if it is there; otherwise he gets on very
well with a lump of firewood. He has a drink when the idea occurs to
him, and takes it in the ordinary way as a rule, but, sometimes, under
the unwonted stimulus of a brilliantly new conception, he sits in his
drink as he takes it. This would appear to be his notion of humour; it
is the capybara's only joke, and he never varies it in form or spirit.
He is not a communicative beast, and never offers a remark to any human
creature but Church, his keeper, and then it is by way of extracting
something to eat. The remark is a sort of purring rattle--the
rudimentary speech of an animal whose vocal organs have not been tuned.
The redeeming feature in the capybara, in these days of hysteric fad,
is his utter absence of "views" on any subject in the world. And he has
no enthusiasms.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE RUDIMENTARY CAPYBARA.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE GIDDY MALAYAN.]
The tapir is nothing but an ambitious pig--a pig trying to be an
elephant. But the most careful cultivation has not succeeded in
elongating his trunk beyond a few inches, and the biggest of the tapirs
can get no nearer the stature of the elephant than a small donkey.
It is probably this that makes the tapir a melancholy animal, silent
and despondent. There is no gaiety in the composition of the tapir.
In a fatefully unlucky moment he began to try to be an elephant, and
thenceforward happiness forsook him. Like the king in the history-book,
he never smiled again. His life is one cheerless, hopeless, dreary
struggle to be what he can never become. Being a pig, he is obstinate,
or he would have given up the attempt long ago. Elephantine ambition
in particular is not born in the tapir, though ambition of a vague
sort is. The young tapir always begins by trying to be a tiger or a
zebra; breaking out in brilliant stripes and spots; but in due time he
regularly settles down, after the manner of his kind, to achieve rank
as an elephant. He is a melancholy example of discontent in humble
circumstances.
[Illustration: PRUDENT FINANCE.]
[Illustration: RECIPROCAL CONTEMPT.]
Still, there is a deal of human nature in the tapir. Plainly it is
largely Hebrew human nature, notwithstanding his porcine connections.
The ordinary tapir is a grave, respectable, and judicious Israelitish
financier, prudent and careful; but the Malayan tapir here is a giddy
young person who makes the money fly. See his short white covert coat,
with the little black bob-tail visible below it, and note his vacant
eye. How badly he wants a crook-handled stick and a high collar! But
you may despise the tapir, his restless ambition, and his immature
trunk as you please--all your contempt will be reciprocated, and with
interest. He is almost the only animal here who knows that sightseers
don't usually carry about with them his particular sort of food, and
he is, therefore, loftily indifferent to the tenderest blandishments.
He despises you for having neither trunk nor tusks; in his matured
philosophy, only an elephant is admirable; as a baby, he admires the
zebra and tries to be one of them. And so he lives here, in house
number sixty, equidistant between the zebras and the elephants, and as
likely to become one as the other. Though he could ensure his juvenile
stripes being fast colours (which he cannot), the tapir would fail
as a zebra in the hinder end. The docility of the zebra's head he
might easily attain to--indeed, he has it now--but the inconsistent
friskiness of his heels would be beyond him.
[Illustration: THE DOCILE FORE.]
[Illustration: THE FRISKY HIND.]
[Illustration: A GALE.]
[Illustration: WILDELY TAME.]
There are a good many fine points about the porcupine. Church, the
keeper, once got half-a-dozen of them in his calf, and went to bed for
a week to celebrate the occasion. The porcupine is one of those animals
that look pleasantest from the front. There his bristles all lie back
smoothly from his forehead, giving him an aspect as æsthetically and
Wildely tame as may be. But behind--well, you get a view of all his
fine points. A little irritation--a very little--brings up his fine
points in spiky array, as though he were caught from behind in a gale
of wind. There are no Irish porcupines, which is remarkable when you
consider that, in a fight, the porcupine invariably advances backward,
most valorously retreating to the front in pursuit of the enemy to
which he turns his back, and pressing forward courageously to the rear.
That is to say, in a manner less mixed, that the porcupine always
attacks an enemy by springing backward at him, with spines extended.
He has a tremendous set of teeth, like chisels, but these he never
uses except to chew up timber with. He will never fight with his
teeth, being apprehensive of a punch on the nose, where he is tender.
But in his advance to the rear he is formidable, and wonderfully
quick. I have already mentioned Church's experience. The night is the
time of the porcupines' greatest activity, and then they are apt to
fight, springing backward at one another, losing quills and tearing
out specimen lumps of anatomy at a terrific rate. In the daytime the
porcupine is not an active creature. He drags himself clumsily along
with his armament rattling behind him, taking no more trouble than to
glance at Church on the chance of a donation of the adamantine biscuits
and similarly inflexible food that most delights him, and receiving
disappointment or the refreshment with equal equanimity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Stories from the Diary of a Doctor._
_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."
XII.--THE PONSONBY DIAMONDS.
Few cases in their day interested me more than that of Beryl Temple,
and this, not so much from the medical point of view as from the
character of this strong-minded and brave girl.
It was on the occasion of her mother's death that I first became
acquainted with Beryl. She suffered keenly at the time, but her courage
and presence of mind and fine self-suppression aroused my interest,
and when, a month afterwards, she came to me and told me in the simple
manner which always characterized her that she was not only friendless
but without means of support, I eagerly asked in what way I could help
her.
She replied with a blush, and something like tears in her eyes.
"Of all things in the world," she said, "I should like best to
be trained as a hospital nurse--do you think I am suited to the
profession?"
"Admirably," I replied. "You have nerve and self-control; you have also
good health and, although I am sure that you have plenty of heart, you
would never be mawkishly sentimental."
"Oh, no," she answered; "I am glad you approve."
"I cordially approve," I replied. "In many cases the profession of
nursing is best undertaken by women who are not too highly cultivated,
and whose position is below that of the supposed lady--but you, Miss
Temple, will make an admirable nurse. Your peculiar characteristics fit
you for this calling."
[Illustration: "I CORDIALLY APPROVE."]
I saw by the expression on her face that my words pleased her. I helped
her to take the necessary steps to become a probationer at one of the
large hospitals. She entered on her profession with enthusiasm--her
time of training passed without hitch, and in due course I placed her
on my own special staff of nurses.
I had been by no means mistaken in Miss Temple's qualifications--her
nerve was wonderful, her tact perfect. Although slight and rather
delicate looking, she had a great reserve of strength, and I never knew
her to break down or fail in any way, even when the case she had to
attend to was involved in serious difficulties.
For nervous cases in especial, I found Miss Temple invaluable, and it
so happened that she was the first person I applied to in the case of a
very peculiar patient, Lady Violet Dalrymple.
I was sent for to the country to see Lady Violet in the autumn of the
year 1889.
I remember the night when the telegram came to me from her mother,
the Countess of Erstfield. Lady Violet was the only child--a girl of
seventeen. Lady Erstfield had once brought her to see me in town. I
then considered her an overgrown, somewhat nervous girl, had ordered
change, a quiet life, plenty of fresh air, plenty of nourishment,
plenty of congenial occupation, and had felt assured that if these
remedies were systematically followed out, the young girl would quickly
recover from the nervous derangements which were just then interfering
with her health and happiness.
By the tenor of Lady Erstfield's telegram, however, I feared that this
was not the case.
"I am very anxious about Violet. Come without delay," she wired.
I replied by telegram that I would arrive at Beeches by a late train
that evening. I did so. Lady Erstfield was up. I had a long interview
with her, and got all possible information with regard to my patient's
state of health. I did not see Lady Violet herself, however, until the
following morning.
At an early hour that day, I was taken into the pretty boudoir, where
I found my patient lying on a sofa. It was a room furnished with all
that taste, money, and love could suggest. Books, flowers, pictures,
birds in cages, all that was gay and bright, surrounded the lovely girl
who lay pale and languid on a sofa drawn close to the open window.
This window commanded a perfect view of river, wood, and meadow, with
a distant peep of low-lying hills against the horizon. To my eyes,
accustomed to London bustle and noise, this view alone was restful and
delightful.
Drawing a chair forward, I sat down by my patient and entered into a
common-place talk with her. I had purposely asked Lady Erstfield to
leave us, for I knew by experience that in nervous cases the patient
was far more inclined to be confidential and to reply truthfully to
questions when alone with the physician.
Having carefully examined Lady Violet, and made certain that she
was suffering from no organic disease, it only remained for me to
conclude that she was a victim to one of those many ill-defined
and misunderstood nervous disorders, which, by their variety and
complexity, present the greatest difficulty in medical practice.
The treatment I saw at once must be moral, not medical.
"I don't find much the matter with you," I said, cheerfully; "your
disease is more fancy than reality--instead of lying here, you ought to
be having a gallop across those moors yonder."
Lady Violet gazed at me with a look of surprise and even faint
displeasure in her large brown eyes.
"I love riding," she said, in a gentle voice, "but it is long since I
have had the pleasure of a canter over the moors or anywhere else."
"You should not give up riding," I said; "it is a most healthful
exercise and a splendid tonic for the nerves."
"I don't think you can realize how very weak I am," she answered,
something like tears dimming her eyes. "Did not mother explain to you
the strange symptoms from which I suffer?"
[Illustration: "DRAWING A CHAIR FORWARD, I SAT DOWN BY MY PATIENT."]
"The symptoms of which you complain are clearly due to an over-wrought
imagination," I replied. "You must try to curb it by every means in
your power. I assure you I am only telling you the true state of the
case when I say that there is nothing serious the matter with you."
She sighed and looked away from me.
I took her slim hand in mine and felt her pulse. It was weak,
fluttering, and uneven. I bent forward and looked into her eyes--the
pupils were slightly dilated. Still I held firmly to my opinion that
nervous derangement, that most convenient phrase, was at the bottom of
all that was wrong.
"Now," I said, rising as I spoke, "I will prescribe a drive for you
this afternoon, and in a day or two, I have no doubt, you will be
strong enough to get on horseback again. Take no medicines; eat plenty,
and amuse yourself in every way in your power."
Soon afterwards I left the room, and saw Lady Erstfield alone.
"Your daughter is an instance of that all too common condition which we
call neurasthenia," I said. "Although, unlike the name, the disease is
not a coinage of the nineteenth century, still it has greatly increased
of late, and claims for its victims those who have fallen out of the
ranks of the marching army of women, in the advancing education and
culture of their sex."
"I don't understand your placing Violet in that position," said Lady
Erstfield, with reddening cheeks.
"My dear madam," I replied, "your daughter is the undoubted victim of
over-culture and little to do. Were she a farmer's daughter, or were
she obliged in any other way to work for her living, she would be
quite well. The treatment which I prescribe is simply this--healthy
occupation of every muscle and every faculty. Do all in your power to
turn her thoughts outwards, and to arouse an active interest in her
mind for something or someone. I assure you that although I am not
anxious about her present state, yet cases like hers, if allowed to
drift, frequently end in impairment of intellect in some degree, either
small or great."
Lady Erstfield looked intensely unhappy. "Violet is our only child,"
she said; "her father and I are wrapped up in her. Although you seem to
apprehend no danger to her life----"
"There is none," I interrupted.
"Yet you allude to other troubles which fill me with terror. There
is nothing Lord Erstfield and I would not do for our child. Will
you kindly tell me how we are to provide her with the interests and
occupations which are to restore her mind to a healthy condition?"
I thought for a moment.
"Lady Violet is very weak just now," I said, "her whole constitution
has been so enfeebled with imaginary fears and nervous disorders that a
little good nursing would not come amiss for her. I propose, therefore,
to send a nurse to look after your daughter."
Lady Erstfield uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"A hospital nurse!" she exclaimed; "the mere word will terrify Violet
into hysterics."
"Nothing of the kind," I answered. "The nurse I propose to send here
is not an ordinary one. She is a lady--well born and well educated.
She is extremely clever, and is remarkable both for her tact and
gentleness. She thoroughly understands her duties--in this case they
will consist mainly in amusing Lady Violet in the most strengthening
and invigorating manner. Her name is Temple. I will ask you to call
her Miss Temple, and never to speak of her or to her as nurse. She
will soon win her own way with your daughter, and I shall be greatly
surprised if she does not become more or less indispensable to her. She
is just as healthy-minded, as bright, as strong as Lady Violet is the
reverse."
After a little more conversation with Lady Erstfield, it was arranged
that Miss Temple was to be telegraphed for at once.
I wrote her a long letter, giving her full directions with regard to
the patient. This letter I left with Lady Erstfield, and asked her to
deliver it to Miss Temple as soon as ever she arrived. I then went to
bid Lady Violet good-bye.
She looked even more wan and exhausted than when I had seen her in the
morning. I thought it well to let her know about Miss Temple's arrival.
"She is a thoroughly nice girl," I said. "She will nurse you when you
want to be nursed, and amuse you when you wish to be amused, and let
you alone when you want quiet, and you will find her so fresh and
bright and entertaining that you will soon, I am persuaded, be unable
to do without her. Good-bye, now--I hope you will soon be much better,
both for your mother's sake and your own."
Lady Violet raised her brows.
"Is mother unhappy about me?" she asked.
"She loves you," I replied, steadily, "and is getting quite worn out
with anxiety about you. I wish her mind to be relieved as soon as
possible, and I think it is your duty to do what you can towards this
end."
"What can you mean?" asked Lady Violet.
"In your mother's presence," I answered, "you ought to endeavour as
much as possible to overcome the melancholy which has taken such
possession of you. Seem to be gay, even when you don't feel it. Try
to appear well, even when you don't think you are. When you are alone
with Miss Temple, you can do, of course, exactly as you please. But
when with your father and mother, you ought to make a strenuous effort
to overcome the morbid feelings, which are due entirely to the nervous
weakness from which you are suffering."
Lady Violet looked at me intently.
"I love my father and mother," she exclaimed. "I would not willingly
hurt the feelings of either. But, oh! how little you know what I suffer
when you speak of my suppressing my trouble and terrible depression. Am
I not always--always suppressing my fears? Oh, how hateful life is to
me--how distasteful, how hollow. I should like to die beyond anything,
and yet I am such a coward that the near approach of death would
terrify me. Why was I born to be so miserable?"
"You were born to be happy," I answered, "or, at least, to be useful
and contented. Your fear of death is perfectly natural, and I hope
it will be many a long day before you are called upon to resign so
precious a possession as life. Remember, you have only one life--use it
well--you will have to account for it some day; and now, good-bye."
I returned to London, and in about a week's time I received a letter
from Miss Temple. It satisfied me thoroughly. Lady Violet was better.
She went out for a little daily. She read to herself, and allowed Miss
Temple to read to her. She was interested in a fancy fair which was to
be held in the neighbourhood, and was helping Miss Temple to work for
it. The nurse had also discovered that her patient had a love, almost
a passion, for music. Miss Temple was an accomplished pianist before
she took up her present profession, and she and Lady Violet spent a
considerable portion of each day over the piano.
In short, Miss Temple was doing all that I expected her to do for the
young girl whose life was so valuable. Lady Violet was undoubtedly
already acquiring that outward view which means health both of mind and
body.
Miss Temple's first letter was followed in the course of time by
another, which was even more hopeful than the first. Lady Violet was
devotedly attached to her, and could scarcely bear her out of her
presence. The girls rode together, walked together, sketched and
played together. The colour of health was coming back to Lady Violet's
pale cheeks; she would soon, in Miss Temple's opinion, be restored to
perfect health.
[Illustration: "THE GIRLS RODE TOGETHER."]
Lady Erstfield also wrote to me about this time, and spoke in rapture
of the companion whom I had secured for her daughter.
"I cannot tell you what Beryl Temple is to us," she said; "we owe
Violet's recovery to her wonderful tact, her sympathy, her genius.
She is like no girl I ever met before--she fascinates and subjugates
us all--we do not want ever to part with her--as to Violet, it would
almost kill her, I think, were Beryl Temple now to leave us."
About a month after receiving these two letters I was astonished and
much pleased to see an announcement in the _Morning Post_ to the effect
that a matrimonial alliance was arranged between Lady Violet Dalrymple,
only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Erstfield, and Captain
Geoffrey Ponsonby, of the Coldstream Guards, and that the marriage was
likely to take place in December.
On reading this short paragraph I turned to my case-book, and under
Lady Violet's name made the following note:--
"_A case of neurasthenia, in which environment with moral treatment
caused recovery._"
I then dismissed the subject from my mind, with the final reflection
that I should not have much more to do with Lady Violet.
The following circumstances quickly proved my mistake.
On the evening of that same day I had a letter from Miss Temple,
confirming the news of the approaching marriage; telling me that it had
been contemplated for some time by the parents of the young people,
but that a formal engagement had been deferred owing to the state of
Lady Violet's health. Captain Ponsonby had arrived at Beeches about a
fortnight ago, had proposed for Lady Violet, who had accepted him not
without a certain unwillingness, and the marriage was arranged to take
place immediately after Christmas.
"Lady Violet is not as well as I could wish," continued Miss Temple,
towards the close of her letter. "At first she refused absolutely to
engage herself to Captain Ponsonby, but yielded to the entreaties of
both her parents, who are most desirous for the match. She is once
more languid, and inclined to be uninterested in her surroundings. I
am not satisfied about her state, and deeply regret Captain Ponsonby's
arrival--she was really in radiant health when he came to the house
a fortnight ago. Lord and Lady Erstfield quite fail to observe their
daughter's state of depression--they are both in the highest spirits,
and active preparations for the wedding are going forward."
This letter caused me uneasiness--it was followed almost immediately by
a second.
"DEAR DR. HALIFAX," wrote Miss Temple, "I am in great, in dreadful,
trouble--not alone about Lady Violet, whose condition alarms me much,
but on my own account. In short, I am bewildered by the fearful
calamity which has suddenly overtaken me. I have not a soul to confide
in, and greatly long to see you. I know I must not expect you to come
here, and yet it is impossible for me, under existing circumstances, to
ask for a day off duty. God help me; I am the most unhappy girl in the
world!
"Yours sincerely,
"BERYL TEMPLE."
I received this letter by the last post one night. It caused me some
wakeful hours, for I was greatly puzzled how to act. By the morning
I resolved to write a line to Lady Erstfield, telling her that I had
heard from Miss Temple of Lady Violet's altered condition, and offering
to come to see her. That letter was not destined to be written,
however. As I was sitting at breakfast a telegram was put into my hand.
It was from Lord Erstfield, requesting me to go to Beeches immediately.
I started off by an early train and arrived at my destination about
noon. I was shown at once into a reception-room, where Lady Erstfield
awaited me.
"It is good of you to respond so quickly to our telegram," she said.
"We are in terrible trouble here. Violet is in the strangest condition.
She is very feverish; her strength seems completely gone. She lies hour
after hour moaning to herself, and takes little notice of anyone."
"How long has this state of things gone on?" I asked.
"The complete breakdown only took place yesterday, but Miss Temple
assures me that Violet has been failing for some time. Her father and
I noticed on one or two occasions that she seemed pale and languid,
but as there was a good deal to excite her, we put her fatigue down to
that source. Under your judicious treatment and the admirable care Miss
Temple gave her, we considered her perfectly recovered, and it did not
enter into our minds that a recurrence of the old attack was possible."
"When you speak of Lady Violet having much to excite her, you doubtless
allude to her engagement?" I said. "I saw it officially announced in
the _Morning Post_. I judged from it that she had quite recovered."
Lady Erstfield coloured.
"We thought so," she said; "her father and I both thought so. We were
much pleased at the contemplated marriage, and we imagined that our
child was happy, too. Captain Ponsonby is all that anyone can desire."
"And you have reason not to be satisfied now?" I asked.
"The fact is this," said Lady Erstfield, shortly: "Violet is
unhappy--she does not wish the engagement to go on. She told Miss
Temple so this morning. I have seen my dear child on the subject an
hour ago--we cannot account for her caprice in this matter."
"I will see Lady Violet now, if you will permit me," I said. "The
engagement is, doubtless, the cause of this strange breakdown. Will you
take me to her room?"
Lady Erstfield led the way without a word.
I found my patient even worse than her mother had given me to
understand. In addition to much nervous trouble, she had unquestionably
taken a chill of some sort, and symptoms of pneumonia were manifesting
themselves. When I bent over her, I noticed the deep flush on her
cheeks, her eyes were closed--her breathing was short and hurried. Miss
Temple was standing by the bedside--she gave me an earnest glance,
her face was as pale as Lady Violet's was flushed. I noticed that
Lady Erstfield avoided speaking to the nurse, who, on her part, moved
slightly away as she approached. The despair, however, which must have
filled the poor mother's heart as she watched her suffering child might
in itself account for her manner. I was very anxious to see the nurse
alone, and asked Lady Erstfield if I could do so.
"Certainly," she answered; "I will watch here until Miss Temple is able
to resume her duties."
"I will not be long away," answered Beryl. She took me at once into
Lady Violet's pretty little boudoir and shut the door.
"I must be very quick," she said, "my place is with Violet. You think
her very ill?"
"I do," I answered. "Her life is in danger. She is threatened with
pneumonia. If the symptoms grow worse, she will not have strength to
bear up under the attack."
"Oh, then, I must not think of myself--even now I manage to soothe her
as no one else can. Let me go back!"
"Sit down," I answered; "you will not be fit long to nurse anyone
unless you look after yourself. What is the matter with you? You are
greatly changed!"
"Did I not tell you in my letter that I am in great trouble?"
Miss Temple's words were interrupted by a knock at the door of the
boudoir.
She said "Come in," and a manservant entered. He approached Lady
Violet's little writing-table, disturbed a book or two, and finally
retreated with an "A B C" in his hand, apologizing as he did so.
"Do you know who that man is?" asked Miss Temple.
[Illustration: "HE APPROACHED LADY VIOLET'S WRITING-DESK AND DISTURBED
A BOOK OR TWO."]
"One of the servants," I replied; "never mind him--tell me your
trouble as quickly as possible."
"He is connected with it, unfortunately. He is not one of the usual
servants of the house, although he wears the livery. That man is a
detective from Scotland Yard, and he came into the room just now to
watch me. He, or his fellow detective, for there are two here, watch me
wherever I go. On one excuse or another, they enter each room where I
am found."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I will tell you in as few words as possible--can you wonder that I am
changed?"
"I am lost in conjecture as to what you can possibly mean," I answered,
looking at her anxiously.
In truth I had cause for my anxiety.
Her fine face looked absolutely aged and worn. Her eyes were almost
too large--their expression was strained--they had heavy black lines
under them. Her mouth showed extreme dejection. When I remembered the
blooming, healthy girl who had gone to Beeches two months ago, I was
appalled by the change.
"Speak," I said; "I am deeply interested. You know that I will do
everything in my power to help you."
"This is my story," she said: "Lady Violet got quite well--I was much
attached to her, we were very happy--it seemed like the old life back
again, when my mother was alive and I had a luxurious home. Lord and
Lady Erstfield treated me more like a daughter than a nurse; Lady
Violet was my dear sister. Then Captain Ponsonby came. He proposed, and
was accepted. Immediately after the engagement Lady Violet drooped; she
no longer gave me her confidence; she lost her appetite; she became
constrained and silent. Once or twice I caught her crying--she turned
away when I tried to question her. Lord and Lady Erstfield noticed no
change, and Captain Ponsonby came and went as an honoured guest. No one
seemed to notice the efforts Lady Violet made to seem at home in his
society.
"One morning about ten days ago Lady Erstfield, accompanied by Captain
Ponsonby, came into this room, where I was reading aloud to my dear
little patient. I could not imagine why they did not observe her pale
cheeks and her languor. I saw, however, at a glance that Lady Erstfield
was in a high state of excitement and delight. She held a jewel-case
in her hand. She opened it and, bending down, showed its glittering
contents to her daughter. I was startled at the effect on Lady Violet.
She clapped her hands in ecstasy and sat upright on the sofa. Her eyes
had grown suddenly bright, and her cheeks rosy.
"'How I adore diamonds,' she said, 'and what beauties these are: oh,
you lovely creatures! But, mother, why do you show them to me?'
"'They are my present to you, Violet,' said Captain Ponsonby. 'These
diamonds are heirlooms in the family, and are of great value. They will
be yours when we are married.'
"'Come and look at them, Beryl,' exclaimed Lady Violet. 'Are they not
splendid?' As she spoke she lifted a diamond necklace of extraordinary
brilliancy and quaint device out of the case. I knelt down by her and
examined the gems with delight almost equal to her own. I have always
had a great love for jewels, and for diamonds in particular, and these
were quite the most magnificent I had ever seen. The necklace was
accompanied by a tiara and earrings, and the gems were worth, Lady
Erstfield said, from fifteen to twenty thousand pounds.
"We spent some time examining and criticising them. Violet sent for a
looking-glass from one of the bedrooms in order to see the effect of
the jewels round her throat. She insisted on my trying them on as well
as herself. Lady Violet is fair, but, as you know, I am very dark. I
could not help seeing for myself that the jewels suited me. Lady Violet
uttered an exclamation when she saw them on me. 'You look beautiful,
Beryl,' she said.
"I laughed, and was about to answer her, when I met Captain Ponsonby's
eyes. There was something in his expression which I did not quite like.
I unfastened the necklace quickly and laid it back in its velvet bed.
"'Thank you for letting me try it on,' I said. 'I feel as if for one
brief moment I had imprisoned the rainbow.'
"I don't know why I said those words. They did me no good afterwards,
but I was excited at the time. The magnificent diamonds had really cast
a spell over me. Lady Erstfield suggested that Violet should go out for
her usual ride.
"'No, mother; I am too tired,' she replied. 'I will drive instead, and
Beryl shall come with me.'
"'Run and get ready, then,' said Lady Erstfield to me.
"I was leaving the room when she suddenly called me back.
"'My dear,' she said, giving me the case which held the diamonds as
she spoke, 'will you have the goodness to take these to my room, and
lock them up in my jewel safe? Here is the key. You must turn the lock
twice, and when the revolving shutter moves back, use this smaller key
to unlock the inner compartment. Put the case in there, and bring me
back the keys when you have changed your dress.'
[Illustration: "YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL, BERYL!"]
"I promised to obey, and ran off with a light heart.
"The safe where Lady Erstfield kept her jewels was built into the
wall, and was of a very ingenious device. Following her directions
implicitly, I opened it, placed the case within, and locked the safe
carefully again. I then went and changed my dress and returned the keys
to Lady Erstfield. Captain Ponsonby, Lady Violet, and I had a pleasant
drive, and nothing more was said about the diamonds--I really think we
all forgot them.
"The next morning Lady Violet came down to breakfast, looking so
ghastly pale and so depressed, that even her mother uttered an
exclamation of surprise when she saw her.
"'My darling, you look positively ill,' she said, going up and kissing
her.
"Lady Violet gave her a startled and queer look. She made some remark
in a very low voice, and with a pettish movement. She then crossed the
room to my side, and Lady Erstfield did not question her any further.
"Just as we were leaving the breakfast-table, Captain Ponsonby
announced his intention of running up to town for the day, and suddenly
suggested that he should take the diamonds with him in order to give
the jeweller plenty of time to re-set them in the most thorough manner.
"'That is a good thought, Geoffrey,' said Lady Erstfield. Then she
turned to me.
"'You know where the jewels are, Beryl,' she said--'here are my
keys--run, dear, and fetch them. I don't allow even my own maid to
know the secret of my jewel safe,' she continued, looking at Captain
Ponsonby as she spoke.
"I ran away, reached Lady Erstfield's room, unlocked the safe, and put
in my hand to take out the case. It had vanished. I searched for it
at first without any uneasiness, then in bewilderment, then in a sort
of frantic terror. There was the empty spot on the floor of the safe
where I had placed the case--there were the other cases of jewels
pushed aside in some little confusion, but the Ponsonby diamonds had
absolutely vanished.
"The full horror of the situation had not yet burst upon me--I had
not yet even begun to _think_ that anyone would suspect me, but,
nevertheless, I felt sick with a sort of nameless terror.
"I locked the safe and returned to the breakfast-room.
"Lord Erstfield was standing by the hearth, talking to Captain
Ponsonby--Lady Erstfield was reading the _Times_, and Violet was
kneeling on the floor playing with her favourite pug. Their peaceful
faces added to my misery. I know I must have looked wild and
frightened--I know when I spoke that my voice must have shaken.
"'The diamonds are gone,' I said; 'they are not in the safe.'
"It was just as if I had flung a bomb into the midst of the cheerful
party. Lord Erstfield drew himself up with a dazed expression. Captain
Ponsonby turned white, and Lady Erstfield, with a sharp cry, rushed
from the room, snatching the keys from my hand as she did so.
"'There is no use in Lady Erstfield examining the safe,' I said, 'the
diamonds are certainly not there--I have searched all the shelves. The
spot where I placed them yesterday is empty; the case has vanished.'
"'I don't believe it,' said Violet. 'The diamonds must be there. You
must be mistaken, Beryl.'
"I made no reply, but when the others left the room I followed.
"We all now went up in a body to Lady Erstfield's room, and the safe
was carefully examined by Lord Erstfield and Captain Ponsonby. The case
containing the diamonds was indeed missing, but not another jewel, not
even the smallest ring had been touched. There was no mark of the safe
having been tampered with in any way, and as it was made on a perfectly
unique pattern, and there was not supposed to be a key in the world to
fit it, except the special ones made for it, the whole affair seemed
buried in hopeless mystery. No one accused me in any way, and it never
occurred to me, as I stood in that room, to accuse myself. We discussed
the matter in all its bearings. We stood round the open safe and talked
until we were tired. I described the exact position in which I had
placed the case. Lady Erstfield was certain that from the moment I
returned her the keys they had not been out of her possession until she
had again placed them in my hands that morning.
"Finally we left the room in a state of hopeless bewilderment. Violet
and I went away by ourselves, and, sitting down together, discussed the
strange mystery from every point of view. The loss of the jewels had
much excited her. She had regained her colour and her manner was quite
animated.
"'I thought, at least, I should have the diamonds,' she said, with a
queer sort of desolate echo in her voice, 'and I love diamonds: they
seem to comfort me in the strangest way. I feel akin to them. When they
sparkle and leap and glitter, they appear to me to be alive; they tell
me secrets of the strange things they have witnessed in the course of
their long existence. Think, if the Ponsonby diamonds could speak, what
stories they could tell of the queer, queer things they have seen and
heard; eh, Beryl?'
"I tried to turn the conversation--Lady Violet was always worse after
indulging in wild talk of this sort.
"'We have now to consider how to get the Ponsonby diamonds back,' I
said. 'Who can have stolen them?'
"We talked the matter threadbare, arriving, of course, at no conclusion.
"At lunch we were surprised to find that Captain Ponsonby had not gone
to London. When the servants withdrew, we were told that the affair of
the diamonds had been put not only into the hands of the local police,
but that the authorities in Scotland Yard had been communicated with,
and that in all probability a couple of detectives would be sent to
Beeches that night.
"'We have decided,' said Lord Erstfield, 'not to say anything of our
loss to the servants. The person who stole those diamonds is quite
clever enough to hide them if the least alarm is raised. Our best
chance of recovering the treasure is through detectives, who will come
here, of course, in plain clothes. We are expecting several fresh
guests to-morrow, and in consequence the servants have heard that two
new men-servants from London are coming here to help them. We have
communicated this fact to Scotland Yard, and the men will be provided
with the house livery.'
"After making this statement, which he did very briefly, Lord Erstfield
left the room.
"The early part of the afternoon passed listlessly. Lady Violet was
once more pale, deadly tired, and too languid to care to do anything. I
persuaded her to lie down, and offered to read her to sleep.
"'No,' she answered; 'I don't want anyone to read to me. I will shut
my eyes and think of the diamonds. Go and take a walk, Beryl; you look
pale and tired yourself.'
"I saw she did not want me, and, putting on my hat, I went out for a
stroll. I had gone a little way from the house when I heard footsteps
behind me. I turned and saw, to my surprise, that Captain Ponsonby was
following me.
"'I noticed that you had gone out,' he said, 'and took the liberty of
coming after you.' He grew red as he spoke. 'I want to say something to
you,' he said; 'something of importance. Can we go somewhere where we
can be alone?'
"I told him that I was going to walk through the shrubbery, and that he
might, if he pleased, accompany me there; 'but,' I added, 'I shall not
be out long, for I am anxious about Lady Violet and want to return to
her.'
"We entered the shrubbery as I spoke. He did not speak at all for a
moment; then he said, with a sort of abruptness which surprised me:--
"'I will not keep you long. I am glad of this opportunity.' Here he
paused, and, turning, looked me full in the face.
"'If you will give me back the diamonds,' he said, 'I will faithfully
promise to arrange matters so that not a breath of suspicion shall rest
upon you.'
"I felt as if I were shot. His words took me so completely by surprise
that I could not find either breath or speech for a moment.
"'Do you really think,' I said then, in a choking voice--'is it
possible that you think, really, that I--I have stolen the diamonds?'
"I suppose my agitation confirmed his suspicions.
"He looked at me with a queer sort of pity.
[Illustration: "I FELT AS IF I WERE SHOT!"]
"'I could see yesterday how struck you were with their beauty,' he
said. 'Do you remember what you said about imprisoning the rainbow? The
opportunity to take the diamonds was put into your hands. You could
not resist the sudden temptation, but I am sure you are sorry now, and
would return them if it were possible. I believe I can manage this for
you, if you will confide in me.'
"I turned quickly; my face was hot; my heart was beating so fast I
thought it would burst.
"'Come with me at once to Lady Erstfield,' I said; 'say those words
again in her presence. She shall search all my possessions. Come, don't
delay a moment.'
"'You must be mad,' he said. 'For Heaven's sake don't inculpate
yourself in that manner. As far as I am aware, I am the only person
who, at present, suspects you. It has never, I know, even entered into
Violet's head that you could have had anything to do with the robbery,
and Lord and Lady Erstfield, I am sure, think you as innocent as
themselves--they are the most loyal people in the world--they believe,
and rightly, that they owe Violet's life to you. I don't think they
could harbour an unkind thought of you. Lord Erstfield and I have
talked over the loss for a couple of hours this morning, and your name
has not once been mentioned in connection with it--I alone ----.'
"'You alone,' I interrupted, 'entertain this horrible doubt against a
defenceless girl?'
"'I am very sorry,' he replied, in a steady voice, 'but it is not even
a doubt.' Here he looked full at me. 'In my mind it takes the form of
a certainty. It is absolutely impossible that anyone else could have
taken the diamonds. They are gone--you were last seen with them--you
put them into the safe. You returned the keys to Lady Erstfield, who
did not let them out of her possession until she gave them to you again
this morning. You must see for yourself what the logical conclusion
is--you are the culprit.'
"'No one else has come to that logical conclusion,' I answered.
"'I am a man of the world,' he replied.
"I stood perfectly still for a moment. His cool assurance seemed to
deprive me almost of the power of thought. I turned to walk towards the
house, but he barred my path.
"'What can I do to induce you to be guided by my common-sense?' he
said. 'I can understand the sudden temptation--if you return the jewels
to me, not a shadow of suspicion shall ever rest upon you from any
other quarter.'
"'I think,' I said, in a trembling voice, 'that the only thing for me
to do will be to adhere to my first resolution, to see Lady Erstfield
in your presence--to ask you to accuse me of the theft before her--to
insist upon having all my possessions searched, and then to leave
Beeches immediately.'
"'You won't screen yourself by any such plan,' said Captain
Ponsonby--'nay, your wish to leave Beeches will seem to all interested
as a certain proof of your guilt. I wish I could get you to understand
that I do not feel unkindly to you--that I am sincerely anxious to be
your friend in this matter. I _know you to be guilty_. If you protested
from now until Doomsday, the firm conviction in my mind would still
be unshaken. May I state the case very briefly to you? Will you try
and listen as if I were telling you about some other girl? You took
the diamonds in a moment of acute temptation. You are, I presume, a
penniless girl. You admired the gems, not only for themselves but also
for the effect they produced when they shone like so many suns round
your warm, white throat. The price of these jewels was named in your
presence. If you could sell them, you would be rich--if you could keep
them and wear them, you would be beautiful enough to turn any man's
head. Yes, I understand--I pity, and I am most anxious to screen you.
No one else suspects you at present at Beeches, but that state of
things will not continue there much longer. As soon as the detectives
from London arrive, their suspicions will naturally be fastened on you.
Your youth and apparent innocence will in no way deceive them. They
will whisper doubts into the minds of Lord and Lady Erstfield, and into
the mind also of Lady Violet. The Ponsonby diamonds are of immense
historical importance--they have been mixed up with the fortunes of the
family for a couple of centuries, and it is absolutely impossible that
a girl like you can hide them successfully. Go where you will, you will
never be able to sell that necklace and pendant. Each diamond has a
story, and can be traced by experts into whatever hands it falls. You
can never sell the necklace, nor would you ever dare to wear it, except
in the privacy of your own room. I beg of you, therefore, to let me
have it back, and I solemnly swear that the secret shall never pass my
lips.'
"I listened to Captain Ponsonby's speech with great attention. The
buzzing in my ears and the great tumult round my heart had now to a
considerable extent subsided. I was able to bring my common-sense to
bear upon the matter, and to absolutely force myself to look the facts
in the face as they were presented to me from Captain Ponsonby's point
of view. Strange as it may seem, my whole nature became subjected to a
sort of revulsion, and far now from being angry with Captain Ponsonby
for his accusations, I could not but admire something chivalrous in him
which made him come as he thought to my assistance. My only wonder now
was, that the Erstfields and Lady Violet were not also convinced of my
guilt.
"I remained silent, therefore, for a couple of minutes before I replied.
"'I understand,' I said then, slowly, 'you have explained the position
of affairs. I see plainly how very black the circumstantial evidence
is against me. I am not surprised at your suspicions, and my wonder is
that they are not shared by the rest of the family. As it happens, I am
not the thief you imagine me.'
"When I said this, he sighed heavily, shook his head, and, turning,
began to walk slowly back with me towards the house.
"'I am not a thief,' I continued, 'for the simple reason that the
temptation you spoke about did not exist. The beauty of the gems
attracted me yesterday, and I looked at them with pleasure, as I like
to look at all lovely things, but I never coveted them; the thought
never even occurred to me to wish to possess them. I am not as other
girls--my life is consecrated--consecrated to the cause of suffering
and pain. I live to help people who are obliged to keep on the shady
side of life. My whole mind and heart are occupied with these people
and their concerns. I do not want money, for my profession supplies me
with plenty, and if I had diamonds ten times as beautiful, when, as a
professional nurse, could I wear them? I have listened to your side
of the affair--I must beg of you to listen to mine. You must see for
yourself that, the temptation not existing, it could not be acted upon.
I believe you mean kindly by all that you have said, and I thank you
for the kindness. Now I will go indoors.'
"I left him--he did not say another word, but I saw by the expression
of his face that I had only puzzled without convincing him.
"I went straight up to my own room, and sitting down, thought over the
queer turn of events. The horror of the thing grew greater and greater
the more I thought it over. I felt torn in two--longing one moment to
rush to Lady Erstfield and tell her everything, and the next being kept
back by the thought that by so doing I might only put a suspicion into
her head which did not exist.
"I was presently sent for to attend to Violet. She had awakened after
a bad dream and was in a very uncomfortable and depressed condition.
Notwithstanding my own great unhappiness, I could see that she had
something on her mind, but although I did all in my power to break the
ice, I could not get her to talk to me in a free and natural manner.
[Illustration: "I FELT TORN IN TWO."]
"That evening the detectives arrived from London, and the next day
several visitors came to the house. Everything went on with outward
smoothness, and the subject of the diamonds was by mutual consent never
alluded to. Lady Violet grew worse, and the gay house party dispersed
sooner than was intended. Captain Ponsonby stayed on, however. I met
him occasionally, but we scarcely exchanged a word. I could see that he
was anxious and haggard, but I set this down to his fears with regard
to Lady Violet, who steadily refused to see him, and never left her
bedroom and boudoir. I spent almost all my time with her, but as the
days wore on I could not but feel the horror of my position more and
more. I saw plainly that the suspicion which Captain Ponsonby harboured
was shared by the two detectives, and also, in process of time, the
poisonous thought was communicated to Lord and Lady Erstfield. Lady
Erstfield's manner to me completely altered. Instead of treating me
with almost the affection of a mother, she was cold and distant; she
avoided meeting my eyes, and never spoke to me on any subject except
what related to Violet's health. That is the position of affairs
to-day, Dr. Halifax. I am suspected of the most horrible theft, and
have not a chance of clearing myself. Lady Violet alone loves me as of
old. She is my dear sister, and for her sake I----"
Here the poor girl completely broke down, and, covering her face with
her hands, sobbed aloud.
"Take courage," I said to her. "I have, at least, one bit of comfort
for you: I also fully believe in you. You no more stole the diamonds
than I did."
"Oh, thank you--that is like you," she said. "God bless you for those
words."
"I am glad I have come here, for every reason," I continued. "My
presence here is necessary not only on account of Lady Violet, but also
on your account. I introduced you to this house, and am responsible for
your conduct; I shall therefore not leave a stone unturned to clear
you, and now you must go back to your work with as brave a heart as you
can."
She rose at once, wiping her eyes and trying to look cheerful.
"One word before you return to Lady Violet," I said. "Is it true that
she has broken off her engagement?"
"Yes."
"Lady Erstfield told me that she gave you her confidence in this
matter."
"Yes, she spoke to me this morning."
"Do you mind telling me what she said?"
"She was very weak and had a difficulty in using her voice, but she
whispered to me. Her words were something like these:--
"'Tell my father and mother that I do not love Captain Ponsonby, and
will never marry him. From the first he never attracted me, and now
there is no inducement--not even the diamonds!'"
"Did she really say 'not even the diamonds'?"
[Illustration: "I BEG OF YOU NOT TO GO."]
"Yes, she certainly did. I thought it strange at the time."
"It was undoubtedly strange. Now go back to your patient and keep up
all the courage you can. I shall remain at Beeches until to-morrow, and
even longer if necessary. I wish to take care of Lady Violet myself
to-night, in order to give you rest."
Miss Temple left the room, and after thinking matters over I went
downstairs. Captain Ponsonby was still in the house. When I abruptly
entered one of the drawing-rooms, I found him talking with Lady
Erstfield.
"Can I speak to you?" I said to the lady.
"Certainly," she replied, starting up. "Is Violet worse? What is the
matter?"
"There is no change in Lady Violet's condition," I replied. "What I
have to speak about refers to Miss Temple."
Captain Ponsonby rose when I said this and prepared to leave the room.
I interrupted this movement.
"I beg of you not to go," I said. "I particularly want you to hear what
I have come to say."
He turned and walked slowly back to one of the windows. I could see
by the expression of his face that he was a good deal annoyed. He was
a handsome, soldierly-looking man, of at least five-and-thirty years
of age, with a somewhat overbearing manner. I could understand a child
like Lady Violet shrinking from him in possible fear, and yet there
was nothing underhand about him. I could see that he was scrupulously
honourable, although his tact would probably not be of the finest.
"I should like you to hear what I have got to say," I continued, "for
you seem to be mixed up in the matter. I refer to the loss of the
diamonds."
"Oh, the diamonds!" exclaimed Lady Erstfield. "Do you suppose we, any
of us, care about them in an hour of terrible sorrow like this?"
"Pardon me," I continued, "there is one person who cares a great deal
about them. A young girl, who came here at my recommendation--I allude
to Miss Temple. It seems that you, sir,"--here I turned to Captain
Ponsonby--"have accused Miss Temple in the most unmistakable manner
of having stolen the diamonds. You accused her of the theft nearly
ten days ago, and since then she has reason to believe that you, Lady
Erstfield, share the suspicion."
Lady Erstfield's face grew pale and troubled.
"Beryl has told you," she exclaimed. "Poor child, I feared that she
would not fail to see the alteration in my manner. Try hard as I would
to hide my feelings, I could not treat her as I did before.
"Well," she continued, "I am sorry, deeply sorry, to say that we all,
with the exception of Violet, suspect her now. She alone had access to
the safe--not a breath of suspicion falls on anyone else. Miss Temple
has managed to hide the diamonds with wonderful skill for the time
being--but in the end she must betray herself. We wish if possible to
avoid having her arrested; she is closely watched, however, for there
can be little doubt of her guilt."
"And believing this," I said, in a stern voice, "you allow this girl to
continue to nurse your daughter?"
"Certainly," replied Lady Erstfield; "in Violet's present condition it
would kill her to part with Miss Temple."
I had some difficulty in controlling my anger.
"I am glad I have come," I said, after a pause, "and that not only on
Lady Violet's account. I cannot leave Beeches until this matter is
satisfactorily cleared up. It is my firm conviction that Miss Temple no
more stole the diamonds than you did, Lady Erstfield."
Lady Erstfield murmured something which I could not quite hear.
"I can say with the utmost truth that we are all only too anxious to
clear Miss Temple from this horrible suspicion if it can be done,"
remarked Captain Ponsonby.
"Oh, certainly--most certainly," added Lady Erstfield. "Anything you
can suggest, Dr. Halifax----"
Her words were interrupted--there came a hurried message from the
sick room. Lady Violet had awakened in a high state of delirium. Lady
Erstfield and I both hurried to her side. I saw that the case was truly
one of life or death, and nothing further was said about the diamonds
for the present.
Towards evening the sick girl seemed to grow a little easier; she sank
into another heavy slumber, and I saw, with satisfaction, that the
remedies I had employed were already getting the pneumonia under. I now
arranged that Miss Temple was to have a night's rest, and that Lady
Erstfield and I should watch by the patient for the night.
Lady Erstfield lay down on a sofa at the far end of the spacious
bedroom, and I sat by Lady Violet. Her sleep was frequently broken by
sharp cries of pain and distress, but I generally managed by a firm
word or touch to control her wild fits of delirium. She did not know
me, however, although she submitted immediately when I spoke to her. I
had many anxious thoughts to occupy me during the night watches. These
were chiefly centred round Beryl Temple. I could not help seeing that
there was abundant ground for the suspicion which attached to her. She
was, I knew well, innocent; but unless the diamonds were discovered,
grave doubts would always arise when her name was mentioned. I did not
think the Erstfields would prosecute her, but I almost wished them to
do so, in order to bring the matter to an issue.
As the night wore on, I fell for a few moments into an uneasy sleep.
In my sleep I dreamt of the diamonds. I saw them sparkling round the
neck of Lady Violet, whose eyes shone with a strange, fierce fire,
which made them look almost as bright as the glittering gems. I awoke
with certain words on my lips. Lady Violet had said to Miss Temple:
"Now there is no inducement to my marriage--not even the diamonds." I
thought the words queer at the time--I pondered over them now.
Rising from my chair, I went over to the bed and looked at the sick
girl. She was breathing more quietly. I laid my hand on her forehead,
and knew at once that her temperature was less high.
I went across the room to Lady Erstfield. She had been asleep, but woke
when I approached her.
"I think my patient is a shade easier," I said. The poor mother uttered
a thankful exclamation.
"I will go and sit by her now for an hour or two," she answered.
"I have had a long sleep and am refreshed. Won't you lie down, Dr.
Halifax?--I will call you if Violet requires anything."
I told her that I would go into the outer room and lie on the sofa. I
was by habit a light sleeper, and the least word from Lady Erstfield
would bring me back to my patient. I lay down, and in a moment was
asleep.
I had not slept long when the sound of conversation in the sick room
aroused me.
I sprang to my feet, and went back there at once. Lady Erstfield did
not hear me. She was standing, facing the bed. Lady Violet was sitting
up and speaking in an eager voice.
"I am better," she said; "mother, I want the diamonds--mother, get them
for me--I want to feel them and to look at them--they will comfort
me--mother, do get them for me at once--the Ponsonby diamonds, you know
what I mean--_do_, mother, dear, fetch me the Ponsonby diamonds."
"You must lie down," I said, going to the other side of the bed; "here,
let me cover you up."
She turned to look at me. I forced her back on her pillow and put the
bedclothes over her.
"Who are you?" she inquired, gazing at me with her bright, too bright,
eyes.
"Your friend and doctor--my name is Halifax."
"Oh, have you come back again, Dr. Halifax? I like you very much. Thank
you for sending me Beryl. I love Beryl. Where is she now?"
"Lying down, tired out; you must not disturb her: your mother and I
will do anything for you that you want. Now you must not talk any more.
Let me give you this drink."
She allowed me to put my hand under her head to raise her, and drank a
little milk and soda-water, with a sigh of relief.
"That is nice," she said; "I am so thirsty."
"Turn on your side now and go to sleep," I said.
"I cannot; I cannot. Are you there, mother? Mother, don't leave me.
Mother, won't you give me the diamonds? I shall sleep sound, very
sound, if I may wear them round my neck! Do, mother, dear, give me the
Ponsonby diamonds--you don't know how I long for them."
"My darling," said Lady Erstfield, falling suddenly on her knees by the
bedside, and bursting into tears, "I would give them to you if I could;
but they are lost, Violet, dear--the Ponsonby diamonds are lost."
[Illustration: "THEY ARE LOST, VIOLET, DEAR."]
"Oh! no, they aren't, mother," replied the girl, in a voice of
astonishment; "they are in my jewel-case--in the lower drawer. The
case which holds the diamonds just fits into the lower drawer of my
jewel-case. You will find my keys on the dressing-table. Do, do fetch
the diamonds, mother."
Lady Erstfield sprang to her feet and looked with a kind of horrified
consternation at her child.
"No, my love," she said then, in a soothing voice, "you are
dreaming--you are not well and have had a bad dream. Go to sleep, my
sweet darling, go to sleep."
"But I am not dreaming," said Lady Violet--"the Ponsonby diamonds are
in my dressing-case. I remember putting them there quite well--I had
forgotten, but I remember now quite well. Dr. Halifax, won't you fetch
them?"
"Certainly," I replied. "Lady Erstfield, will you direct me to Lady
Violet's jewel-case?"
"Yes," replied Lady Erstfield.
The poor woman staggered rather than walked across the room. She
gave me the key of the jewel-case. I opened it and lifted out the
several compartments until I came to the bottom drawer. There lay an
old-fashioned morocco case. I opened it, and the Ponsonby jewels in all
their magnificence lay before me.
"My God, what does this mean?" gasped Lady Erstfield.
"Hush," I said, "don't say anything--take them to her."
"You must do it, I cannot," she moaned.
I took the case up to the bedside. Lady Violet gave a little cry of
rapture when she saw it. In a twinkling, she had lifted the necklace
from its bed of ruby velvet and had clasped it round her white throat.
"Oh, my beautiful, sparkling treasures!" she exclaimed; "how I love
you--how you comfort me!"
She lay down at once and closed her eyes. In a moment she was in sound
and dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
The case was one, without any doubt, of sudden and acute kleptomania.
This strange nervous disorder had in all probability been developed
in Lady Violet by the depression caused by her uncongenial engagement
to Captain Ponsonby. The whole thing was now clear as daylight--poor
Lady Violet was the unconscious thief. She had stolen the diamonds and
then forgotten all about her theft. In her delirium memory returned
to her, and in her desire to possess the gems she recalled where she
had placed them. How she secured the keys of the safe was an unsolved
mystery for some time, but Lady Erstfield, in thinking matters over,
remembered how close Violet had sat by her side on the sofa in one of
the drawing-rooms the evening before the loss was discovered.
"She was often fond of putting her hand into my pocket in play," said
the lady; "it was a trick of hers as a child, and I used to be quite
cross about it, sometimes. She must have transferred the keys from
my pocket to her own on that occasion, gone upstairs and removed the
diamonds from my jewel safe to her own jewel-case, and then once more
slipped the keys back into my pocket."
This explanation seemed sufficiently likely to satisfy people; anyhow,
no other was ever forthcoming. Poor Beryl was, of course, restored to
higher favour than ever: indeed, Lord and Lady Erstfield felt that they
could not possibly make enough of her. The finding of the diamonds was
the turning-point in Lady Violet's illness. She slept for many hours
with the sparkling gems round her neck, and when she awoke it was to
consciousness and recovery.
The diamonds were returned to Captain Ponsonby on the following day,
and the engagement between him and Lady Violet was at an end. There is
only one strange thing to add to this strange story. Lady Violet has
never, from the moment of her awakening to now, alluded to the Ponsonby
diamonds. It is my belief that she has forgotten all about them, and,
as far as I can tell, I do not think she will ever be visited by
another attack of kleptomania.
_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._
SIR CHARLES TUPPER.
BORN 1821.
[Illustration: AGE 17.
_From a Painting by Valentine._]
[Illustration: AGE 43.
_From a Photo by Notman, Montreal._]
[Illustration: AGE 50.
_From a Photo by Notman, Montreal._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by Notman, Montreal._]
THE HON. SIR CHARLES TUPPER, BART., G.C.M.G., K.C.M.G., C.B., M.D.,
L.R.C.S., LL.D., was a member of the Executive Council and Provincial
Secretary of Nova Scotia from 1857 to 1860 and from 1863 to 1867, and
Prime Minister of that province until he retired from office, with his
Government, on the Union Act coming into force, on the 1st of July,
1867. He holds patent of rank and precedence from Her Majesty as an
Executive Councillor of Nova Scotia; was sworn as a Privy Councillor of
Canada, June, 1870; and was President of that body from that date until
the 1st July, 1872. Sir Charles represented the county of Cumberland,
Nova Scotia, in Parliament for thirty-two years. He was created a
baronet in 1888.
DR. G. W. LEITNER.
[Illustration: AGE 15.
_From a Photograph._
(Chief Interpreter during the Russian War.)]
[Illustration: AGE 21.
_From a Photograph._
(Professor at King's College, London.)]
[Illustration: AGE 26.
_From a Photograph._
(As a Maulvi when exploring Dardistan.)]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by W. & D. Downey._]
DR. G. W. LEITNER, Ph.D., LL.D., D.O.L., etc., probably the greatest
linguist of this or any age, was born at Pesth on the 14th October,
1840. At the early age of fifteen he obtained a chief-interpretership,
with the rank of colonel, in Her Majesty's commissariat during the
Russian War in 1855; was Professor of Arabic with Mohammedan Law at
King's College, London, where he founded the Oriental Section in 1861;
has founded eighty-one institutions, including the Punjab University
and the Oriental University Institute, Mosque, and Museum (containing
unique collections) at Woking; discovered the countries, languages, and
races of Dardistan (between Kabul, Badakhshan, and Kashmir) in 1866;
excavated and named "Græco-Buddhistic" sculptures in 1870; originated
and popularized Her Majesty's title of "Kaisar-i-Hind"; has written
works on education, ethnography, etc., in many languages; is commander
of several high foreign orders, etc. He retired from the Indian service
in 1886; held a brilliant International Oriental congress in London
in 1891, and is now engaged in elaborating his Central Asian material
and in editing the numerous publications of the Oriental University
Institute.
MADAME CANZIANI
(MISS LOUISA STARR).
[Illustration: AGE 8.
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: AGE 20.
_From a Photo by M. Bowness, Ambleside._]
[Illustration: AGE 27.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]
MADAME CANZIANI, better known in the early days of her career as Miss
Louisa Starr, became a student of the Academy at an unusually early
age, and, making quick progress, she took, first, the silver medal for
the best copy of Murillo's "Beggar Boys." This was the first time any
woman had taken a medal of the Royal Academy. The following year she
took the highest honour possible for an Academy student, namely, the
gold medal for historical painting, it being awarded to her, together
with a scholarship of £50. Since this date, works by Madame Canziani
have been seen every year on the walls of the Royal Academy, this
year's being "Roses" and "Dorothy Belleville."
A. E. STODDART.
BORN 1864.
[Illustration: AGE 3.
_From a Photo by J. H. Haggitt, South Shields._]
[Illustration: AGE 13.
_From a Photo by R. L. Graham, Leamington._]
[Illustration: AGE 21.
_From a Photo by Geo. F. Dew, Coventry._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by Bradshaw, Newgate Street._]
MR. ANDREW ERNEST STODDART is a native of Durham. His cricket career,
which is most brilliant, practically commenced when he joined the
Hampstead Club in 1885. He made no fewer than five centuries for that
club in July and August of that year. In the following year he hit up
the highest individual innings (485) for Hampstead _v._ Stoics, and
three days later made 207 for the same club. As a batsman he has great
strength, and plays very hard. He is also a fair change bowler, and
an excellent field anywhere. He has gained the highest honours on the
football field, and made his first appearance in International football
in the season of 1884-85. Mr. Stoddart went to Australia with Lord
Sheffield's cricketers 1891-92, for whom he did brilliant work. Last
year he became one of the holders of the rare record of two hundreds in
a match.
SIR JOHN ASTLEY.
BORN 1823.
[Illustration: AGE 6.
_From a Water-Colour by Lady Astley._]
[Illustration: AGE 10.
_From a Water-Colour by Lady Astley._]
[Illustration: AGE 30.
_From a Miniature._]
[Illustration: AGE 50.
_From a Photo by Dickinson, New Bond Street._]
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]
SIR JOHN DUGDALE ASTLEY, BART., is the son of the late Sir Francis
Dugdale. He was educated at Eton and Oxford. As a boy, he developed
the first genius that in after years made him famous, and, as far as
athletics are concerned, there is no better authority than "Jolly
Sir John." He served through the Crimean Campaign, and was awarded
the medal with two clasps--Alma and Sebastopol--and the Order of the
Medjidieh. Even during the campaign Sir John encouraged athletics,
not only in his regiment--the Scots Fusilier Guards--but in the
whole English Army. His men adored him, and would go anywhere and do
anything for him. On his retirement from the Army, he was elected
member for North Lincolnshire in the Conservative interest, and sat
in the House till 1880. On the Turf, of which Sir John was for a long
time a well-known and generous supporter, his success was anything but
encouraging, but he bore his losses like a gentleman and a sportsman.
Sir John is issuing "Fifty Years of My Life," which is to be a record
of the principal events in his interesting career.
_Crimes and Criminals._
No. IV.--FORGERS AND BEGGING-LETTER WRITERS.
The doings of forgers, if properly chronicled, would fill sufficient
volumes to stock the library of any average mansion with as sensational
a series of works as could be found--indeed, so would the operations
of begging-letter writers, for the matter of that. The previous
papers under the heading of "Crimes and Criminals" have particularly
dealt with the relics at New Scotland Yard, and although it must be
admitted that the mementos here of this particular branch of punishable
professions are not peculiarly extensive, yet they are unquestionably
highly instructive and interesting, and it is not proposed to deviate
from the pivot round which our previous observations have been made.
One glass case is practically given up to them. It is a "creepy" case.
It contains the last clothes worn by a famous forger, whose action
set the whole world talking for weeks--his silk hat, travelling cap
with ear laps, pocket-handkerchief, collar, etc. It is not considered
politic to mention his name. Close by is a poisoner's pill case,
whose nefarious deeds in a neighbourhood "over the water," and in the
immediate vicinity of Waterloo Bridge, made one shudder only a year or
so ago. Then we come to the relics which call for more minute attention.
[Illustration: PLATE USED FOR PRINTING FORGED RUSSIAN ROUBLE NOTES.]
Here are the plates for printing, gelatine moulds, and specimens of
notes, which form the relics of the case known as the "Forged Russian
Rouble Notes," which had a run between the years 1868 and 1876. A
glance at a frame containing samples of notes purporting to be for
one, three, ten, twenty-five roubles, etc., will at once convince the
observer that the Russian Consulate spoke truly when, at the hearing of
the persons arrested, at the police-court, he said: "They are really
splendid specimens of forgeries of the actual legitimate notes." In
company with these are treasures associated with what is known as the
"Ti Kroner Case." They consist of a cigar-box converted into what is
generally believed to be a photographic camera, a negative--broken
fortunately--of a Ti Kroner note, a note photographed on a piece of
substantial box-wood, several specimens of forged notes, and a note
pasted on to a piece of paper with three circles cut out of it. This
is peculiarly interesting, for "the operator" has pencilled in the
centre disc, "£10 clock here," in the left-hand disc, "£10 watch here,"
and in the right-hand circular space, "watch here." The excuse of the
person on whose premises these were found was that he intended to use
the Ti Kroner notes as a novel form of advertisement for clock and
watch makers!--to distribute these notes, drop one or two carelessly
in the streets, or leave them on the cushions of railway carriages;
and when the thinkingly lucky finder hastily picked one up, popped it
in his pocket, and waited until he got home to examine it, he found it
was only, after all, an advertisement for Brown, the watchmaker, or
Tompkins, the clock manufacturer!
Strangely enough, these relics were never brought as silent witnesses
against the person who at one time owned them. He was voted by a
thoughtful judge a perfectly fit and proper individual to partake of
Her Majesty's hospitality for the comfortable period of twenty years
for quite a different offence. He used to send notes--not forged ones,
but nice, delicate little note-paper notes--to old ladies, threatening
them that if they did not send him money he would, at the earliest
opportunity, place dynamite on their door-mats, so that the first time
they rubbed their boots or goloshes on the cocoa-nut fibre, they would
be--well, he wouldn't venture to say where they would be blown to! Our
Ti Kroner forger must have been a very versatile genius.
The simplicity which is characteristic of not a few of the inhabitants
of Britain and the readiness with which some people are taken in are
well illustrated by New Scotland Yard's collection of flash notes.
Flash notes are generally carried by the members of that fraternity who
delight in showing you what is known as the three-card trick, or by
persons who wish, for some particular reasons of their own, to inspire
your confidence in them, and lead you to trust in their keeping for
half an hour or so your money, watch, or what not.
[Illustration: MOULD USED FOR FORGED RUSSIAN ROUBLE NOTES.]
There are several hundreds of these notes at New Scotland Yard. It is
not a punishable offence, by-the-bye, to have them in your possession,
or even to print them, but it would go badly with you should you try to
pass one as a real note. Now, it is a certain fact that in the case of
many of these notes, they were never intended for any wrong purpose,
but were merely brought out as a novel and attractive advertisement. It
is to be hoped that the writer does not convey the smallest impression
to the reader that these notes were in the first place originally
issued for anything but a proper and legitimate cause. But your
confidence-man, your cardsharper, should any perchance happen to fall
in his hands, uses them to suit his own game. They are crisp--just
like real bank-notes, and when rustled in the palm of the hand make
that delicious sound which cheers the heart and wreathes the face in
smiles: they are very nearly the same size, too, of a real "fiver." So
they are used for a purpose for which they were never intended, and the
confidence-man pulls out of his trousers pocket a handful of--what?
Bank-notes? Nothing of the kind. But they look like them. Of course
they do. But if you get hold of them yourself you would see that this
crisp piece of paper with a big TEN in the left-hand corner was only:
"Bank of Engraving. I Promise to Engrave and Print in Letter-press,
etc., on Demand for the Sum of Ten Pounds in the First Style of the Art
or forfeit the above sum. London, 29 April, 1840. For Self & Co., Bank
of Engraving, J. Duck, Fitzroy Square. £ _Ten_."
[Illustration: FORGED RUSSIAN ROUBLE NOTE--FRONT AND BACK.]
Another of these is in reality a capital advertisement for a well-known
circus, stating that it has been "Entirely redecorated and renovated at
the cost of One Thousand Pounds"--a big One Thousand Pounds appearing
in the left hand corner. Indeed, your cardsharper and confidence-man
knows how easily gulled some folk are, that he has even included in
his stock-in-trade a note-advertisement emanating from a Parisian firm
of dentists, stating that they will gladly supply you with a new false
tooth for the modest sum of five francs!
These and many more are in a frame at New Scotland Yard--a good supply
of American notes being noticeable. Amongst them is one which, at the
moment of writing, is peculiarly interesting. It has, at some time or
the other, formed part of the "monetary" luggage of somebody engaged in
the confidence trick. Kossuth, the great Hungarian patriot, gave orders
to a firm of lithographic printers for the printing of several million
notes, which he intended for circulation in Hungary. The Austrian
Government, however, objected to this, went to law, and the case was
decided in their favour. The notes were to be destroyed, and so great
was their number that several waggons were loaded with them. One of
these identical notes is to be found framed at New Scotland Yard!
Whilst on this subject, a good story may be told, which will well
illustrate the ingenuity of some to take advantage and make profit of a
"forgery" scare.
Some time ago considerable consternation was created in France owing to
the circulation of forged 500 franc notes. An individual--always on the
look-out for the adaptation of his genius to circumstances--exhibited
one of these sham notes and netted a neat little sum by charging a
franc a head.
"Beautiful imitation," said one, "but not good enough to take me in."
"Very clever," remarked another, "but not quite clever enough to catch
me."
"Ha! Ha!" exclaimed a third, "I should have known it as a bad 'un at
once!"
The exhibitor smiled and said nothing. They had been looking at a
_real_ note all the time!
The particular glass case at New Scotland Yard to which we have
been devoting our attention also contains substantial mementos of a
gentleman who was closely associated with the great forged will and
next-of-kin swindle of 1885. Charles Howard was this worthy's name,
and he died within the walls of Holloway Prison, on the 25th November,
1893, whilst under remand.
[Illustration: TI KRONER NOTE PHOTOGRAPHED ON WOOD BLOCK.]
Old Howard--for he was over seventy years of age--was a colossal
swindler. He played for high stakes in the highest quarters.
No twopenny-halfpenny swindles would appease his criminal
appetite--thousands, and nothing short, was his game, and more often
than not he bagged them. His operations extended all over the civilized
world. His portrait has followed him all round Europe. On the Continent
he posed as the Count Von Howard and Count Hovardi. The writer has had
an opportunity of looking at his picture--a more benevolent-looking old
fellow never faced a camera. His plausibility was simply delicious--his
impudence at facing a thing out, in spite of immense odds against him,
was undeniably tremendous. He had received a good education--indeed,
it is believed at an important public school--and furthermore, came
of good family. In order to give some idea of his monumental "cheek,"
almost his last exploit was to pose as the friend of a mythical
Australian heiress, to whom he was prepared--subject, of course, to
some monetary consideration--to introduce such gentlemen as were
matrimonially inclined. When one of these sought to expose him, Howard
immediately wrote to a number of leading journals in a feigned name,
stating that he was a retired Indian officer, and that he was prepared
to vouch for the accuracy and _bona fides_ of the whole affair. This
letter was actually published.
[Illustration: CAMERA MADE OUT OF A CIGAR-BOX.]
His _modus operandi_ in the forged will case was both simple and
elaborate. Its simplicity lies in the fact that it merely took the form
of an advertisement in the newspapers, stating that a Mr. Clark had
died leaving many thousands. Applications from persons of that name
were invited. It was a taking bait, and hundreds nibbled at it, as is
proved by a perusal of the papers preserved as relics of this case at
"The Yard." Howard was magnificently artful. He did not choose the name
of Smith, Brown, or even Jones--but one almost as common. A person
would write in answer to the advertisement. Howard would reply, asking
for fifty shillings, prepaid, to cover inquiry fees, and holding
out further bait by stating that only the first thirty-five "Clarks"
would receive a share; that the money could not go to persons of
affluence, but to people of small means; that he could only correspond
with principals, and that "James Hill Cooper Clark" had left the
highly respectable sum of £105,000. Who would not be one of the happy
thirty-five for fifty shillings!
[Illustration: A "FLASH" NOTE.]
Howard and his works might be dilated on from cover to cover of this
Magazine, but to show how perfectly he played his "clients" we will
give two extracts from the scores of documentary proofs we have
examined. One is a death certificate, and it reads:--
"In memory of William Clark, of----, who departed this life, April----,
18----." Then follows: "I hereby declare that the above is a true copy
from the tombstone of W. Clark, of----."
The suggestion to copy the tombstone could not have been evolved
from any mind but that of the late Charles Howard. The other is from
a confiding person who writes--Howard has evidently asked for a
commission--"I am willing to have ten per cent. _reducted_," and the
bad-spelling simpleton plaintively adds: "_Please to get the thing
through as soon as possible_."
[Illustration: ADDRESS BOOKS, MEMORANDA, ETC., OF A PROFESSIONAL
BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.]
Your true begging-letter writer is certainly entitled to join the
family circle of forgers, though in most cases only as a distant
cousin. What a begging-letter writer Howard would have made! But there
are men and women whose talents in this peculiar art are just as fine
if not so varied. It is only when a man attains to position that he
becomes aware of what a number of boys used to play marbles with him at
school. Your begging-letter writer at once marks him for his own, he
has "got him on the list."
It would be quite impossible, in a short paper such as this, to place
on record anything more than a few of the methods of your modern
begging-letter writer; of the old soldier who sends a line to some Army
man at his club; of the ardent but hard-up politician who addresses
some M.P.; of the real truth regarding that hurriedly pencilled note
addressed to the City merchant and stating that "years ago" the
applicant was once "on the market himself," etc., and would you oblige
with five shillings, "which I faithfully promise, dear sir, to pay you
back in a fortnight's time." Have you ever met the good woman--perhaps
you have heard from her--who is a widow with two children, her husband
is lying dangerously ill at home, and she wants a few shillings to
purchase necessaries. As a proof of her honesty she incloses the
receipt for her last month's rent. A certain society can show you a
bundle of some forty of these letters, and every one of them contains
a receipt for that same month's rent. The common lodging-house is the
_depôt_ for every fraud under the sun, and there are scores of men
who frequent them who will write you the most touching appeal for
threepence or fourpence, and find the note-paper into the bargain.
[Illustration: A PROFESSIONAL BEGGING-LETTER WRITER--SPECIMEN OF
MEMORANDUM.]
The memory of the greatest genius the begging-letter world has ever
known is kept green at New Scotland Yard. He is believed to be
dead--for if he were out of prison London would soon hear of him. We
will hide his identity--for the sake of his friends and relations who
may have survived him--under the unassuming name of Brown. Brown was
an old fellow, with a glorious white head of hair, and always dressed
in black cloth. His great _forte_ was his ability to write in assumed
hands--he could write in a hundred different ways, for which purpose
he was aided by a variety of pen-nibs and various coloured inks. He
was so systematic. Just examine some of his books--usually those
familiar little red rent-books. Here is one--it contains the names
and addresses of peers, etc., M.P.'s, and widows in North and South
Wales. A second is devoted to peers and M.P.'s in England, another
to Scotland, and a third to those resident in Ireland. There are a
dozen books of this kind, and were the writer to publish some of the
"notes" in these begging volumes they would provide some interesting
reading. Then he would divide London--particularly the West-end--into
districts. So we have books given up to such happy hunting grounds for
the begging-letter writer as Belgravia, Knightsbridge, Onslow Square,
Queen's Gate, Portman Square, Berkeley Square, Grosvenor Square, etc.
He never addressed anybody without acquainting himself with their
history and particularly finding out their age, whether they have
reached those years when they are generally supposed to be sympathetic,
or if they were in the prime of life and inclined to be cynical. How
much is conveyed on a small slip of paper, bearing the name of the
Marchioness of Westminster and the words, "She is ninety-one years of
age and a widow nineteen years"!
Brown used to supply beggars with letters, and several samples of them
are preserved. His favourite theme was the poor widow, and the plea put
forth was the same in nearly all cases save that the names were altered
and the locality different. Here is one of these "appeals," accompanied
by a letter on black-edged paper purporting to be from a clergyman in
the same parish:--
"Parish of Streatham,
"County of Surrey.
"These are to certify that Mrs. Anne Clarke (widow) carried on business
as laundress in this parish for several years, and has hitherto
supported a large family in respectability.
"On the afternoon of Saturday, the 14th day of December instant, while
Mrs. Clarke was delivering clean linen with her horse and van near the
Streatham Railway Station, the horse took fright at the whistle of a
passing train and started off at a furious pace, and coming in contact
with a coal-waggon the horse was killed, the van dashed to pieces, and
her eldest son 16 years of age was thrown from the van, and received
such injury as caused compound fracture of the right thigh, and now
lies in St. Thomas's Hospital in a dangerous state, whereby Mrs. Clarke
has sustained a severe loss, estimated at £45.
"Knowing Mrs. Clarke, a respectable and industrious widow with a family
of five children depending on her for support, I beg to recommend her
case to the notice of a few benevolent neighbours, to enable her to
follow her occupation as heretofore, trusting it will come under their
notice with that eye of sympathy it so much merits.
"Vestry Hall, Streatham.
"This 17th day of December, 1889."
[Illustration: "BROWN'S" BEGGING-LETTERS.]
This would be presumably signed--of course in Brown's handwriting--by
the Vestry Clerk with "20s." against his name. This in itself is a
delightful composition--but it did not end here. Our estimable friend
Brown would follow on with a few more signatures giving various sums
of money, but one signature always headed the list--after that of
the Vestry Clerk. It was a coal-waggon which upset poor Mrs. Clarke,
killed her horse and dashed her van to pieces. Hence--written in red
ink--there appears on all these appeals the name of a well-known firm
of London coal merchants, who give Two Pounds.
_Beauties._
[Illustration: _Miss Louie Spencer._
_From a Photo by Walton Adams, Reading._
Mrs Glyndeur Foulkes.
_From a Photo by John Ingham, Sale, near Manchester._
_Miss Mabel Morphett._
_From a Photo by W. Edward Wright, Forest Gate._]
[Illustration: Miss Daisy Baldry
_From a Photo by James Bacon, Newcastle-on-Tyne._
_Miss Irene Vanbrugh._
_From a Photo by Russell & Sons, 17, Baker Street, W._
MISS FRANKS
_From a Photo by A. Weston, 84, Newgate Street, E.C._]
_Count Ferdinand de Lesseps._
BY HIS GOD-DAUGHTER.
The name of De Lesseps has been on the lips of many people, both French
and English, within the past two years; some speaking of him in terms
of reproach, others of admiration, for his past services to his country
and the world at large, and commiseration for his present sad position,
and the failure of his last great scheme, the cutting of the Isthmus
of Panama. This record of his life, therefore, by one who, from her
childhood, has known the "Grand Français," may be found interesting at
this moment.
Ferdinand de Lesseps was born at Versailles on the 19th November, 1805.
At first, and for many years, he was engaged in the French diplomatic
service at Lisbon, Barcelona, and the East. Count Ferdinand de Lesseps
was married, first in December, 1838, to Mlle. Delamalle, by whom he
had five sons. His three elder children died at an early age, and his
surviving sons by this marriage are Charles and Victor de Lesseps.
Charles, the former, of whom the world has heard so much lately, took
an active part in the works both at Suez and Panama, and was the able
assistant of his father.
When the events of 1851 and 1852 placed the third Napoleon on the
Imperial throne of France, and the Emperor, in January, 1853, married
Mlle. de Montijo, who was the cousin of De Lesseps, his influence at
the French Court was assured. It was in 1854, when in Egypt on a visit
to H.H. Mohamed Saïd Pasha, that the project of cutting the Isthmus
of Suez was first broached by him. He discussed the scheme with Saïd
Pasha, and as a result his "Percement de l'Isthme de Suez" was drawn
up. He obtained a concession in 1856 from the Viceroy Saïd Pasha, who
himself took a large share in the venture, and granted De Lesseps an
extraordinary privilege in the shape of forced labour.
Count de Lesseps then left for France to obtain the necessary capital
for his works, and returned to Egypt in 1860. The preliminary works
were commenced in this year, and proceeded with, notwithstanding great
opposition, especially from the British Government. Another great
difficulty presented itself, for during the progress of the works Saïd
Pasha died, and was succeeded by his brother Ismaïl.
Ismaïl was alarmed at the magnitude and uncertainty of the grants to
the Canal Company, and was anxious to retire from the obligation of
finding forced labour for the construction of the works. He therefore
refused to ratify or agree to the concession granted by his brother.
For a time the whole works of the Canal were stopped, but eventually
the question in dispute, together with the objection which had been
raised as to the necessity of obtaining the Sultan's confirmation of
the original concession, was referred to the arbitration of the Emperor
of the French.
In the result Napoleon III. awarded the sum of £3,800,000, to be paid
by the Viceroy of Egypt to the Canal Company as an indemnity for the
loss they had sustained by the withdrawal of forced labour. This sum
was applied by the Company to the prosecution of the works of the Canal.
In 1865 a small channel was made, with sufficient water to admit
the passage of very small vessels. By the year 1867, the bed of the
Canal was so far enlarged as to admit the passage of small ships and
schooners. In August, 1869, the waters of the Mediterranean were
mingled with those of the Red Sea.
[Illustration: AGE 55.
_From a Photo by Reutlinger, Paris._
(Date of commencement of Suez Canal.)]
On November the 17th, 1869, the Canal was formally opened at Port Said,
amid a series of fêtes, which culminated in the famous ball given at
Ismailia, by Ismaïl Pasha, which combined all the extravagance of the
East with the civilization of the West. The ball was opened by Count
de Lesseps with the Empress Eugénie as his partner. The Emperor of
Austria, the Crown Prince of Prussia, and many other Royal personages
were included amongst the Viceroy's guests. Ismaïl Pasha was at this
time in the height of his glory, and he lavished his hospitality
broadcast.
[Illustration: AGE 64.
_From a Photo by A. Liébert, Paris._
(Date of completion of Suez Canal.)]
A few days after this great triumph, Count de Lesseps married a
young Creole--Mlle. Autard de Bragard. A little romance is told of
his first meeting with Mlle. de Bragard, on the voyage from France
to Egypt. Count de Lesseps had gathered in Palestine some roses near
the Dead Sea, called the roses of Sheron. They are a genus of dried
flowers, which, when placed in water, open and present an appearance of
blooming. He explained the peculiar characteristic of this flower, and
remarked it was similar to his old heart when nurtured. Thus was the
proposal made and, as is known, accepted.
By this marriage he had twelve children, six boys and six girls:
Mathieu, born 12th October, 1870; Ismaïl, born 27th November, 1871;
Ferdinande, his eldest daughter, born 3rd December, 1872, and who
has married the Count Ferdinand de Goutant Biron; Eugénie, born 1st
January, 1874, died 19th May, 1874; Consuelo and Bertrand, twins, born
3rd February, 1875; Helene, born 8th July, 1876; Solange, born 18th
September, 1877; Paul, born 13th April, 1880; Robert, born 23rd May,
1882; Jacques, born 5th July, 1883; Giselle, born 16th December, 1885.
We give here three photographs of Count de Lesseps and his family. The
first shows the "Grand Français," with seven children; the next, Count
and Countess de Lesseps, with nine children; and the third, the two
parents and their whole family.
After the success of Suez, he was appointed by Napoleon III. to the
rank of Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, and was created by Her
Majesty Queen Victoria an Honorary Knight Grand Commander of the Order
of the Star of India, and in July, 1870, the freedom of the City of
London was presented to him.
[Illustration: AGE 74.
_From a Photo by Nadar, Paris._
(Date of commencement of Panama Canal.)]
About ten years after the triumph of Suez, his restless spirit prompted
him to undertake a stupendous task, which even then filled his friends
and advisers with anxiety. He had long conceived the idea of uniting
the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, as he had already done the Red Sea
and the Mediterranean. He convened a Congress of all the European and
American Powers to decide as to the routes to be selected for the
construction of a canal--whether _viâ_ Panama, Tehuantepec, Nicaragua,
or Darien. Although opinion was greatly divided at the Congress as
to the route, he favoured that _viâ_ Panama, and, ultimately, carried
his opinion. This fatal step was the origin of all the troubles of his
declining life. His glory seemed like to wane before the disasters that
befell his project, and his title of "Le Grand Français" appeared to
have been forgotten.
[Illustration: COUNT DE LESSEPS AND GROUP OF SEVEN CHILDREN.
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: COUNT AND COUNTESS DE LESSEPS AND GROUP OF NINE CHILDREN.
_From a Photo by Nadar, Paris._]
He formed his Company in 1881 with a capital of £24,000,000, which did
not last long. Between 1883 and 1887 further moneys were obtained by
means of several loans and lotteries, and these funds were supplied
to the fatal abyss, until the amount reached the enormous sum of
£60,000,000. This sum was also spent and squandered. His staff showed
a want of foresight, and a want of something which is better left
unexplained. The Panama scandals in Paris revealed enough to the world
to allow everyone to judge for himself. But Count Ferdinand de Lesseps
was ignorant of all the vicious stratagems employed, and was in no way
responsible. He, however, with his son Charles, had to bear the brunt
of the catastrophe and atone for others.
[Illustration: COUNT AND COUNTESS DE LESSEPS AND GROUP OF ELEVEN
CHILDREN.
_From a Photo by Nadar, Paris._]
The works were stopped in 1887 for want of funds. The Canal at that
time was only partly cut. The machinery, houses, barracks, huts,
sheds, were all deserted. From being once the scene of active life
and the centre of 20,000 living beings, the Isthmus of Panama is now
forsaken, and the sepulchre of the hard-earned savings of many a French
peasant. The weight of such a grave responsibility as the loss of over
£60,000,000, subscribed principally from the purses of the French
thrifty, together with the prosecution of his son, has increased his
age tenfold. He was strong and hopeful at eighty; he is senile and weak
at eighty-nine.
The accompanying photographs show Count de Lesseps at the commencement
of his fatal task in Panama, and at the present day.
[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.
_From a Photo by V. Daireaux, Paris._]
Death would have been a consolation to his many troubles, and would
have ended a life full of success and glory up to its zenith, and now
fast ebbing amidst the smouldering ruins of a disastrous enterprise.
The concession granted by the Republic of Colombia for the construction
of the Panama Canal elapses in 1895. The Colombian Government may
extend it, but will this avail? Some great engineer must answer this
question.
_Some Interesting Pictures._
The modern processes of photographic reproduction for the illustration
of books and periodicals have given us one great advantage at
least, irrespective of their rapidity of execution and comparative
inexpensiveness: the pictures as printed are absolute facsimiles
of the originals. Thus it is possible to present a scientifically
accurate reproduction of any especially interesting document, drawing,
plan, or picture, unimpaired by the interference of any other hand
than that of the original writer or draughtsman; and one may, for all
practical purposes, examine an autograph which, in its actual self,
is inaccessible. The facsimiles which are here produced are all of an
extremely interesting, though entirely diverse, character.
[Illustration: A CHINESE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."
THE PILGRIMS ESCAPING FROM DOUBTING CASTLE.]
"The Pilgrim's Progress," illustrated by a Chinese artist, in drawings
conveying the Chinese conception of Christian's adventures, cannot
fail to be, at least, curious. Such a series of drawings was made and
printed, not very long ago, in Canton. There is no text beyond the
title printed at one of the top corners of each illustration. Three
of these illustrations are here reproduced, representing respectively
Christian's combat with Apollyon, Christian and Faithful escaping
from Doubting Castle and Giant Despair, and the Shining One releasing
Christian and Faithful from the Flatterer's Net. The absolute fidelity
in detail of these pictures to the narrative is no less to be remarked
than the very Chinese characteristics of those details.
[Illustration: A CHINESE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."
THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON.]
Next we have a facsimile of a very different character from the last.
This is a sketch, drawn by Nelson with his left hand, after he had
lost his right, by way of explanation of his tactics at the battle of
Aboukir (the Nile). The particulars of the occasion are inscribed by a
witness in the left-hand bottom corner of the sketch. The sketch itself
is naturally of the roughest description, as, indeed, would be the case
with one drawn by the right hand if the sketcher were explaining his
meaning by word of mouth as he went along. At the left, a very rough
figure, intended to represent an arrow-head, indicates the direction of
the wind. The horizontal line of oval figures in the middle represents
the French fleet as it lay at anchor in the bay. The line marked "track
of the English fleet" shows the direction in which Nelson approached,
and the broken scorings in the middle of the French line show where
part of the English fleet broke that line. The dotted line between half
of the French fleet and the shoals just off shore marks the position
taken up by one half of the English fleet, while the other half
attacked the same ships on the opposite side, thus annihilating half
of the enemy to begin with, while the other half were helplessly to
leeward and unable to give assistance; afterwards working down the line
and finishing off the rest, with the exception of the few ships that
escaped.
[Illustration: A CHINESE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."
THE SHINING ONE RELEASING THE PILGRIMS FROM THE FLATTERER'S NET.]
[Illustration: PLAN OF THE BATTLE OF ABOUKIR. DRAWN BY LORD NELSON WITH
HIS LEFT HAND.]
[Illustration: THE BANDIT'S REVENGE. BY W. M. THACKERAY.]
Between this and our next pair of facsimiles there is every possible
difference. Thackeray's fondness of and facility in sketching, and
his ungratified ambition to excel as an artist, are well known. Great
numbers of his earlier sketches have been unearthed and published,
but we have here some that have never before been printed--and some
by no means of the worst. They exist in a sketch-book, and appear to
have been made in the year 1832, when Thackeray was just of age. There
are five sheets of sketches (of which we here present two), embodying
a burlesque melodrama, entitled "The Bandit's Revenge; or, the Fatal
Sword." In the beginning we see the hero, Vivaldi, escaping from
the Bandit's castle. Next there is an exhibition of the consequent
rage of the Bandit chief. The cask labelled "gunpowder" is provided
with a suspicious-looking tap, and the carelessness with which the
Bandit has placed his torch on the cask-head hints that perhaps he
keeps something more internally grateful than gunpowder in that cask.
But Vivaldi's escape is only temporary, for in the next sketch he is
captured, and being dragged back to the robber's stronghold; and in
the last sketch of the first sheet his pitiable and starved condition
in the "deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat" is well set forth.
This completes Act I. Act II. begins with contrition on the part of
the gaoler, who assists his escape by the loan of a mule, mounted on
which the emaciated hero is taken, by the country folk, for Death on
his Pale Horse. The Bandit's anger at this second escape culminates
in a pyramid of heads, with the traitorous gaoler's on top; while the
liberated Vivaldi, forgetful of his changed appearance, essays to jump
his mule in at his Bertha's window, sending that lady into a very
excusable swoon. This concludes Act II. In the next sketch (for which,
unfortunately, and for those succeeding it, we have not room) Vivaldi,
under the benign influence of good living, has grown comparatively fat,
and converses lovingly with his Bertha. But the Bandit chief is not
done with yet, and he waits in ambush with his retainers, variously
armed, to attack the marriage train, which is seen approaching in
the distance, bishops, dancers, and all complete. Next we see the
fatal effect of the Bandit's attack. Bridesmaids, croziers, and
ecclesiastical functionaries lie in a heap on the ground, but Vivaldi
stands unharmed and defies his foes, while Bertha swoons comfortably
against his back. Then with a lunge of his mighty sword (which has
suddenly lengthened out to about fifteen feet) Vivaldi transfixes the
whole robber band of six as they stand in convenient single file,
driving his point also through a stout tree standing behind. The drama
finishes with an "emblematic vision," wherein Vivaldi and Bertha,
some years older, take hands in the centre under the shelter of that
interminable sword, while on each side stand half-a-dozen children of
various ages. The last sketch represents the manager addressing "the
fullest house ever known in this theatre," consisting of four persons
besides the orchestra, and thanking them for their approval. Finally
follow two sheets of manuscript, purporting to be extracts from the
rival local papers, taking opposite views of the performance and
bullying each other. One comes out with some lines to the leading lady,
lines with many of the characteristics of the local paper. The first
verse runs as follows:--
I saw thee, and my feelings gushed
In one tumultuous tide;
My eye was dim, my ear was hushed
To everything beside.
I thought my heart was withered,
But from out its mould'ring cinders
A mighty flame there gathered
For thee, my love, my Flinders.
These verses are, of course, abused violently by the opposition paper.
Those who are curious to examine those of this set of drawings not here
presented, together with facsimiles of the two pages of manuscript, are
referred to _The Picture Magazine_ of this month, in which the whole of
the pictures here produced appear, with many others of equal interest.
Among the rest there are nine more of the Chinese illustrations to "The
Pilgrim's Progress."
[Illustration: THE BANDIT'S REVENGE. BY W. M. THACKERAY.]
"Variety is the spice of life," somebody once said, and here we have
the facsimile of the horoscope cast for John Milton's birth, by
Gadbury, the astrological contemporary of Lilly--a thing as little like
what has gone before as may be. With the exception, perhaps, of the
inscription in the centre, the whole affair is about as intelligible to
the average person as any side of Cleopatra's Needle. An astrologer,
however, reads it all as easily as if it were a bill of fare, and a
modern practitioner (Mr. Alan Leo, of _The Astrologer's Magazine_)
informs us that the indications set forth on this hieroglyphic tell
a tale curiously in keeping with the actual facts of Milton's life.
His pleasures, it seems, were to take a serious turn; he was to have
a versatile genius in literature, but with a chief bent to serious
work. His first marriage was to be a failure in consequence of some
vagary on the part of certain moons, but he was to marry again. Mars so
interfered with the Sun that it was evident that he would be blind in
his forty-fifth year; and there are other prophecies, almost equally
exact, and all very wonderful.
[Illustration: _Facsimile of a Horoscope set on the Nativity
of MILTON the POET:
by John Gadbury the Astrologer_]
A facsimile of a photograph closes our present list. The photograph is
that of an Indian fakir--one of the most celebrated in India at the
present moment, if not actually the most celebrated. He is seventy
years of age, and has worn the immense mass of iron chains shown
in the photograph continuously, without a moment's cessation, for
the past ten years. The weight of the iron is 670lb., and as may be
seen, the "Jingling Fakir," as he is called, is by no means a man of
muscular build--certainly not of the build best fitted to adopt such an
amusement as the continual carriage of considerably more than a quarter
of a ton of iron chain.
[Illustration: THE JINGLING FAKIR.]
In addition to these, as has already been remarked, several other
interesting pictures are to be seen in the present issue of _The
Picture Magazine_, as, indeed, is usual every month. It needs but to
see these to understand that a book of pictures alone may be something
a great deal more important and interesting than a book for children
merely.
_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._
XV.
(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)
[Sidenote: DRESS IN THE IRISH PARLIAMENT.]
Fortuitously at a time when the re-establishment of an Irish Parliament
at Dublin was within measurable distance, there has been brought to
light a suit of clothes described as the Court garments of a member of
the Irish Parliament who represented County Cavan in the year 1774.
It has, of course, turned up in the United States, and is now on view
in a shop in Chicago. The suit is described as being of a deep maroon
broadcloth, embroidered with heavy solid gold bullion, with the figure
of a harp surrounded by a wreath of shamrock, and a vine of the same
extending around the skirt. The breeches are of a deep yellow plush,
and the three-cornered cocked hat is of black beaver, covered with
gold lace. From this it would appear that when Ireland had her own
Parliament her sons spared neither money nor taste in the effort to
live up to it in the matter of clothes. The suit, on the whole, seems
almost to suggest the presence of a State coachman. Taken in the mass,
it must have been very effective.
[Illustration: "EM I TO UNDERSTAND?"]
One can imagine how naturally Mr. Field would take to a revival of
this uniform. In the Saxon Parliament he represents the St. Patrick's
Division of Dublin City. He sits below the gangway, and on summer
afternoons distinctly endows that portion of the House with a haze of
reflective light. It is from his shirt-front, which in the matter of
displayed area is, at any time before the dinner-hour, remarkable,
whilst its glossiness is almost dazzling. With this snowy expanse
cunningly set-off by contrast with a black necktie reposing under a
turned-down collar, and with his long hair haughtily brushed back
behind his ears, Mr. Field might be anything in the high art line, from
a poet to a harpist. Actually he is, apart from politics, something
in the victualling business. He is great at question time, and is a
terror to the Chief Secretary. Having put his question and received
his answer, he invariably rises, and, expanding his chest and throwing
out his right arm with impressive gesture, slowly says: "Em I to
understand that the right honourable gentleman means----" Here follows
a supplementary question of expanse proportionate to the shirt-front.
As a rule, it turns out that he is not to understand anything of the
kind. But he has had his fling, and let St. Patrick know that William
Field, M.P., is on the look-out tower.
[Sidenote: SEVENTY YEARS AGO.]
I have an engraving showing a view of the interior of the House of
Commons during the Session of 1821-3. It is the old House of Commons,
illumined by candles alight below the ventilator, a recess wherein
ladies found their only opportunity of being present at a debate. It
was, as I mentioned some time ago, out of a chink in this part of the
roof that Mr. Gladstone once in the middle of an exciting debate saw a
bracelet fall. It was not the habit of the House of Commons to assemble
in anything like uniform, but the dress of the gentlemen of the day was
much more picturesque than ours. On this night, in a Session more than
seventy years dead, every member of the House wears a coat buttoned
across his chest, with deep collar rising, in some cases, up to his
ears. Some display shirt collars of the kind Mr. Gladstone sports to
this day. They are in a few cases sustained by a black stock, more
frequently by a white scarf loosely tied, in which is set a pin. For
the most part the coats are cut away at the hip, the trousers are
preternaturally tight, and, where top-boots are not worn outside, are
strapped under the instep.
[Illustration: OLD STYLE.]
This was the Long Parliament under the Premiership of Lord Liverpool.
Summoned on the 9th June, 1812, it was dissolved on the 24th April,
1827, having lasted the almost unprecedented period of fourteen years
319 days. Eldon was Lord Chancellor for the fourth and last time. F.
J. Robinson and Vansittart succeeded each other at the Exchequer. Sir
Robert Peel was sometime Home Secretary, sometime Irish Secretary.
Castlereagh and Canning shared between them, in succession, the office
of Foreign Secretary. All their portraits, with the exception of Lord
Eldon's, are shown in this engraving, being the careful work of one
Robert Bowyer. In pictures of the House of Commons done in these later
times, a majority of members are shown wearing their hats, as is the
custom in the House. Whether for artistic purposes, or because seventy
years ago it was not the thing to wear the hat in the presence of the
Speaker, no hats are shown in this old engraving. This circumstance
brings into fuller notice the greater average age of members of
Parliament in those days. On all the closely packed seats one finds
only here and there a face that looks as young as thirty.
[Sidenote: DRESS IN THE COMMONS.]
Up to recent times, the unwritten law of the House of Commons with
respect to dress was severe. There was a wholesome impression that a
man setting out for Westminster should array himself very much as if
he were going to church. Twenty years ago no member would have thought
of entering the precincts of the House wearing anything other than
the consecrated stove-pipe hat. It was the Irish members who broke
down this ancient custom, as they are responsible for changing the
manners of Parliament in more important respects. John Martin was, as
far as I remember, the first member who crossed the Lobby of the House
in a low-crowned hat. But he shrank from obtruding it on the notice
of the Speaker. He carried it in his hand, stowing it away out of
sight during a debate. Even this modest demeanour led to an interview
with the Speaker. Mr. Brand was then in the Chair. He sent for Mr.
Martin, courteously but firmly explained to him that he was breaking
an unwritten law of Parliament, and asked him to provide himself with
head-gear more usually seen at Westminster. Mr. Martin at once obeyed
the injunction, a conclusion of the story which shows how far we have
marched in the last eighteen years.
[Illustration: MR. JOSEPH COWEN.]
Mr. Martin belonged to the Irish party, parliamentary _sapeurs_ to
whom nothing is sacred. Of English members, the first to break the
traditions of the House in this matter was Mr. Joseph Cowen. In the
course of an already distinguished career, he had never possessed a
top-hat, and even the honour of representing Newcastle in Parliament
could not drive him to alter the fashion of his head-gear. But like
John Martin, he, whilst pleasing his own fancy, was careful not
to offend the prejudices of others. He always entered the House
bareheaded, and so sat throughout a debate, his broad-brimmed, soft
felt hat not being donned till he had passed the doors. At this day the
Speaker looking round a moderately full House will see half-a-dozen
top-hats of various ages and shades of colour fearlessly worn. Mr. Keir
Hardie, desiring to go one better in the effort to flout "the classes,"
was obliged to come down in a greasy tweed cap.
[Sidenote: KAMARBANDS.]
The exceptionally hot summer of last year gave opportunity for fresh
lapse from the decent gravity of dress in the House of Commons. It
was Lord Wolmer who first flashed a kamarband within sight of the
astonished Mace, a circumstance that made resistance hopeless. Had the
fashion been adventured by some frisky but inconsiderable new member,
it might have been frowned down before it had time to spread. But when
the thing was seen round the moderately slim waist of the son, not only
of an ex-Lord Chancellor, but of the gravest-mannered peer in the House
of Lords, all was lost. Mr. Austen Chamberlain promptly followed suit;
Mr. McArthur seized the opportunity to display an arrangement in silk
of the Maori colours. The Irish members, determined that ordinarily
slighted Ireland should not lag behind, met in Committee Room No. 15,
and subscribed a shilling each to purchase a brilliant green kamarband
for their Whip, Sir Thomas Esmonde. The fashion spread till, looked
upon at question time of a summer afternoon, the House in the aggregate
presented something of the appearance of a crazy quilt. The Front
Opposition Bench had already succumbed to the epidemic. Every day when
the House met members turned instinctively towards the Treasury Bench
to see if Sir William Harcourt and the Solicitor-General had yielded
to the prevailing influence. Happily before that befell the weather
changed, the thermometer fell, and waistcoats were worn again.
[Illustration: LORD WOLMER'S KAMARBAND.]
[Sidenote: THE HOUSE OF LORDS.]
Whilst members of the House of Commons have no special dress even
for gala days, the House of Lords cherishes the immemorial custom of
wearing robes on State occasions. Whenever a new peer takes his seat,
not only is he robed himself, but is the cause of robing in others.
The peers who introduce him are clad in raiment of scarlet cloth,
slashed with ermine in varying fashion, indicating their rank in the
Peerage. With them comes Garter King-at-Arms, the Royal Arms of England
embroidered on his back.
[Illustration: GARTER KING-AT-ARMS AND NEW PEER.]
The only time the Lords sit robed _en masse_ is on the occasions,
now rare, when the Queen opens Parliament in person. That is one of
the stateliest scenes in the pageantry of English public life. In
modern times its most effective rendering was seen on the day when Mr.
Disraeli, just made Earl of Beaconsfield, escorted his Sovereign to the
throne, holding before him the sword of State. When "Dizzy" was yet a
young man pushing his way to the front, he used to write almost daily
to his sister, giving her a piquant account of scenes in which he had
taken part. Of all his published works this, perhaps the least known,
is the most charming. On the day when Vivian Grey, having realized the
dream of his youth and become Lord Beaconsfield, marched into the House
of Lords escorting his Sovereign, the sister was dead, and for "Dizzy"
the opportunity and habit of writing familiar letters had passed away.
A pity this, for an account of the scene and of the impressions made on
his mind, written in the sprightly style of Disraeli the Younger, would
be invaluable.
Years have passed since the event, but I can see, as if it had stridden
past this morning, the familiar figure, looking taller by reason of the
flowing robe that encircled it, the wrinkled face with eyes reverently
bent down, and over all an air of supernatural solemnity.
[Sidenote: "BAKER PASHA."]
There is no one like Sir Patrick O'Brien left to the present House
of Commons, neither is there anyone who resembles Mr. Biggar or Mr.
Dawson, sometime Lord Mayor of Dublin, a patriot with fuller allowance
of spirit than of inches. It was he who, during debate on a provision
of the Peace Preservation Bill, sternly regarding the bulky form of
Mr. Forster, then Chief Secretary, warned him that if, armed with
the powers of this infamous Act, he were to approach the bedside of
Mrs. Dawson in the dead of the night it should be over his (the Lord
Mayor's) body. "Baker Pasha," as he was called in recognition of his
commercial pursuits before drawn into the vortex of politics, went back
to his shop, his early rolls, and his household bread, and soon after
flitted to still another scene.
[Illustration: MR. FORSTER.]
[Sidenote: "PAM'S" COUNSELLOR.]
Captain Stacpoole was not much known to the reader of Parliamentary
reports, but was long a familiar figure in the House. He had sat in it
whilst Palmerston was leader, and his intimate friends had reason to
believe that he had more to do with the direction of that statesman's
policy and the destinies of the world than met the eye in contemporary
records. It was Captain Stacpoole's custom of an afternoon to stand in
the Lobby with his hat pressed on the back of his head, his legs apart,
his hands thrust in his trousers pockets--with the exception of his
little fingers, for occult State reasons always left outside. In this
attitude, swinging backwards and forwards on heel and toe, he told at
length what he had said to "Pam" on occasion, and what "Pam" had said
to him.
He did not often interpose in debate, his best remembered appearance
on the scene not being altogether successful. It happened, I think, in
the year 1877, in debate on the Irish Sunday Closing Bill. The Captain
joined a minority of some dozen of the Irish Nationalist members in
opposing the measure. Mr. Macartney, father of the member for South
Antrim, who at this day worthily maintains the Parliamentary prestige
of the family, observed that of this group of members there was not one
who was not connected with the liquor trade. Hereupon Captain Stacpoole
jumped up, and, falling into his favourite position, shouted out, "I
deny that. I have no connection with the trade."
"I beg the hon. member's pardon," said Mr. Macartney, "he is the one
exception to the rule. He is not a producer, he is only a consumer," a
hit at the Captain's convivial habits much appreciated by the Committee.
[Sidenote: MAJOR O'GORMAN.]
Captain Stacpoole has gone to rejoin his old friend and pupil, "Pam."
Gone, too, are the O'Gorman Mahon, Mr. Delahunty, Mr. Ronayne, and
Major O'Gorman, noblest Roman of them all. The Major had physical
advantages which placed him head and shoulders above all contemporary
humorists, conscious or unconscious. Whether he sailed up the House
like an overladen East Indiaman; whether he sat on the bench with the
tips of his fingers meeting across his corpulence, whilst his mouth
twitched sideways as if he were trying to catch a fly; or whether he
stood on his feet addressing the House apparently through a speaking
trumpet, the Major irresistibly moved to laughter.
I suppose no man was so genuinely surprised as he when his maiden
speech was received with shouts of laughter, members literally rolling
about in their seats, holding with both hands their pained sides.
The occasion was Mr. Newdegate's annual motion for the inspection
of convents. The Major, not only a chivalrous gentleman but a good
Catholic, was shocked at the threat of desecration of the privacy
of Irish ladies by Commissioners armed with the authority of the
law. He had devoted much care and research to the preparation of a
speech opposing Mr. Newdegate's motion. The choicest part of it, to
which everything led up, was the picture of some historic nun, boldly
facing the Commissioners, with a verbatim report of her remarks on
the occasion. It was understood that the nun in question was of Royal
birth, who, either wearied of pomp and vanity, or driven from her high
estate by cruel man, had betaken herself to a nunnery.
The House had with difficulty kept merriment within bounds up to the
moment when the Royal recluse faced the wicked Commissioners. Thereupon
the Major, having to speak the nun's part, with dramatic instinct
assumed a plaintive, almost a piping, voice. The nun was supposed
to give a summary of her personal history to the Commissioners. But
the Major never got beyond the detail, "I had a sister, her name was
Sophia----." Even Disraeli, accustomed to sit sphinx-like on the
Treasury Bench, joined in the shout of laughter that greeted this
effort, and brought the Major's address to incoherent conclusion. This
speech lifted the Major into a favoured position occupied by him till,
cut off by the relentless command of Mr. Parnell, who had no sympathy
with this kind of thing, he exchanged the Senate for the Board Room of
the Waterford Poor Law Guardians.
[Illustration: THE SPHINX SMILES.]
Possibly there is no place in the present Parliament for a Major
O'Gorman. Certainly there was no one returned at the last General
Election who could fill it.
[Sidenote: BALLOTING FOR PLACES.]
Among the not least substantial reforms effected in the present Session
is that whereby, on the opening day, the process of balloting for
places for private motions was relegated to an upper chamber. When,
last year, the House of Commons, fresh from the polls, met on the eve
of a memorable Session, two full hours of its precious time were wasted
by a process that would not be tolerated in any other business assembly
of the world. Out of a total of 670 members, 400 came down inflamed
with desire to set somebody or something right. This they proposed
to do either by moving a resolution or introducing a Bill. The House
of Commons, whose order of procedure dates back to the Commonwealth,
has ever been accustomed to this human weakness. It provided for it
by the regulation that private members so possessed should ballot for
precedence. Ministers, who also have a Bill or two to bring in, being
masters of the situation, forthwith fix the day upon which they will
take action. Private members must take the chances of the ballot.
That was all very well in former times, when at the opening of a new
Session ten, twenty, or at most thirty members struggled for "an early
day." On Tuesday, the 1st of February, 1893, the day which marked the
doom of an ancient practice, over four hundred members desired to give
notice of motion. Whilst preliminary business was going forward, the
stranger in the Gallery would see a long line of members slowly making
their way between the table and the Front Opposition Bench, to the
great inconvenience of right hon. gentlemen seated thereon. Arrived by
the clerk's desk, each man wrote his name on a sheet of foolscap, and
passed gloomily on, making himself a fresh nuisance by returning to his
seat along the crowded back benches. Each line of the foolscap on which
a name was written was numbered. The clerk at the table prepared slips
of paper carrying corresponding numbers, which he twisted up and threw
into the box before him.
When the House presumably sat down to business, the Speaker took in
hand the sheets of foolscap containing the list of members desiring to
give notice. The clerk at the table tossed together the folded pieces
of paper in the box, as if he were making a salad with his fingers.
Then he took one out and called aloud the figure printed on it. Say it
was 380. The Speaker, turning over his sheaf of papers, found that on
the line 380 was written the name of Mr. Weir or Dr. Macgregor, and
in sonorous voice recited it. That meant that the member in question
had secured first place for his motion, and was at liberty to select
what with due regard to all circumstances he looked upon as the most
favourable day.
Suppose Mr. Weir were the happy man. He would rise, glance slowly
round the House, produce his _pince-nez_, place it on his nose with
solemn gesture, and in thrilling voice observe: "Mr. Speaker, Sir--I
beg to give notice that on such and such a day I shall ask leave to
bring in a Bill authorizing the local authorities at Ardmurchan Point
to remove the village pump three yards and a half to the west of the
point at which it now stands." What French reporters call _mouvement_
consequent upon this announcement having subsided, Mr. Milman, most
patient and long-suffering of men, dived once more into the lucky box
and fished out, with ostentatious integrity, another chance missive.
The Speaker consulted his list again; possession of the second place
was determined--and so on to the melancholy end.
[Sidenote: A PARLIAMENTARY PARLOUR GAME.]
Regarded as a parlour game, this performance has recommendations at
least equal to Consequences, or Cross Questions and Crooked Answers.
There is the excitement amongst members whose names have been written
down as to who may be concerned in the fateful figure just drawn. Then
there is the sort of book-keeping by double entry that must needs go
on throughout the process. When the chances of the ballot have given
away the best day, the next best day must be ticked off, and members
yet uncalled must be ready to spring up when their time comes and claim
it. For the general body of members there is the joke, endeared by long
acquaintance, of the member who has written his name first on the list,
having his number turn up, as it usually does, at the end of the first
hour and a half of the process.
[Illustration: MR. WEIR: "MR. SPEAKER, SIR."]
Even regarded as a parlour game, it palls upon one after the first
hour and a half. Writing about it in the _Daily News_, of the 2nd of
February in last year, I ventured to describe it as "a mechanical
performance which might well be added to the useful labours of the
Committee clerks, leaving the Speaker and the House of Commons
opportunity for devoting their energies to more delicate duties."
Twelve months later, Mr. Gladstone, incited by a question on the paper,
privily brought the subject under the notice of the Speaker, who, with
that courage which enables him from time to time to rise superior to
effete traditions--and such courage when displayed in the Chair of the
House of Commons is heroic--undertook to make an end of the absurdity.
When the House of Commons met for the new Session in March last, the
process of balloting for places was quietly and effectively carried
on by private members in one of the Committee rooms, and two hours of
time, with much vexation of spirit, was saved to the House of Commons.
[Sidenote: IN DEBATE ON THE ADDRESS.]
Now this absurdity has been boldly grappled with there is hope that
another anachronism may be relegated to its appropriate limbo. It is
quite time the House of Commons, if it is to vindicate its claim to
be a business assembly, should make an end of the whole machinery of
the Address in reply to the Speech from the Throne. This, also, was
well enough in the days of Old Sarum. It is now, for all practical
purposes, as archaic as the hunt for traces of Guy Fawkes, which to
this day precedes the opening of each Session, and it is not nearly so
picturesque.
The object with which debate on the Address was originally devised
was to provide convenient opportunity of challenging the existence of
the Government, or at least of seriously debating some crucial line
of their policy. It was a full-dress affair, chiefly confined to the
giants of debate. If business were not meant, the conversation was
usually brought to a conclusion before the dinner-hour on the opening
night of the Session. It was confined to the mover and seconder of the
Address, the Leader of the Opposition who criticised the Ministerial
programme, and the Leader of the House who replied. There, as a
rule, was an end of it. Even if fighting were meant and a division
contemplated, it was only on rare occasions that the combat was carried
over a single night. The House cheerfully sat till one or two in the
morning to reach a conclusion of the matter.
The last time the House of Commons completed the debate on the Address
at a single sitting was in the first Session of the Parliament elected
in 1874. That same Parliament saw the birth of a party which, in a
few years, changed many things in the ordinary procedure of the House
of Commons. It was the Irish members, with Mr. Parnell and Mr. Biggar
just coming to the front, who discovered the opportunities latent in
the ceremony of debate on the Address for obstructing business and
embarrassing the Ministry. The lesson was quickly assimilated by other
factions, and of late years it has come to be a matter of course that
debate on the Address shall be extended beyond a week. Last year ten
of the freshest days of the young Session were thus wasted. If the
Address were the only opportunity presented for raising miscellaneous
questions of public interest, the procedure would be defensible, even
commendable. What happens is, that on the Address prolonged preliminary
conversations take place round subjects which already stand upon the
agenda of business, and will, in due course, be discussed again at
further length, upon a notice of motion or the introduction of a Bill.
[Illustration: MR. FENWICK.]
The House of Commons framing its Rules of Procedure, and anxious above
all things to provide even overlapping opportunities for speech-making,
supplies a final illimitable opportunity on the Appropriation Bill.
This is brought in at the close of a Session, and upon its second
reading members may discuss any subject under the sun. Any speech a
member may have prepared at an earlier period of the Session, upon any
subject whatsoever, may, failing the first legitimate opportunity, be
worked off on the Appropriation Bill. This measure plays the part of
the seven baskets in the parable. All the elocutionary or disputatious
fragments that remain after the feast of the Session are picked up and
crammed within its ample folds.
That is bad enough. But since discovery was made of potentialities of
debate on the Address, that occasion has been utilized in analogous
fashion. Now we have an Appropriation Bill debate at the beginning of
the Session, with pleasing prospect of another at its close.
[Sidenote: INNOVATION.]
The present Session will be memorable in the long record, since it
witnessed an innovation that is probably the beginning of the end of an
absurd custom. From time immemorial it has been ordained that members
moving and seconding the Address in reply to the Speech from the Throne
shall array themselves in uniform if they have the right to wear it.
Failing that, they must strut in the velvet and ruffles of Court dress.
This Session Mr. Fenwick was selected to second the Address. The member
for the Wansbeck Division of Northumberland is one of the most highly
esteemed members of the House of Commons, a man of modest mien and
great capacity, an excellent speaker, who has the priceless gift of
conveying to an audience conviction that he knows what he is talking
about and means what he says.
[Illustration: MOVER AND SECONDER.]
Mr. Fenwick, as he has proudly recorded in the pages of "Dod," began
his career as a working collier, and when, in 1885, elected to a
seat in the House of Commons, he threw down his pick in the Bebside
Colliery as a preliminary to having a good wash, changing his clothes,
and going up to Westminster. Court dress is, of course, not common at
Bebside, neither is the crimson and gold lace of the dauntless Colonel
of Militia, or the epaulettes and tightly-buttoned frock-coat of the
Rear-Admiral. If Mr. Fenwick had been inclined to act up to the spirit
of the ordinance, he might have appeared in his old collier's garb.
With pick and spade under his arm, and lantern in his hand, he would
have made a picturesque figure. That, however, did not seem to occur
to him, and he had the good sense to break through the tradition by
appearing in his ordinary Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, leaving his
colleague who moved the Address to dazzle the House with sight of the
uniform of the 4th Oxfordshire Light Infantry.
[Sidenote: THE HORSE GUARDS' GATE.]
A member of Parliament may at this day send from the House of Commons,
post free, a certain number of copies of Parliamentary papers. This
is a poor relic of the privilege of franking, long since abolished.
Ministers still have the privilege of sending their letters post
free. This is done by the medium of the stamp that marks an envelope
"Official: Paid." Presumably this limits the privilege to official
correspondence. But the line is, as a rule, not too closely drawn.
When is added the fact, only recently established, and, I believe,
not widely known in the House, that members may obtain from the
post-office in the Lobby packets of excellent envelopes at the bare
cost of the postage-stamps with which they are embossed, the list of
special privileges pertaining to the estate of a member of the British
Parliament corresponding with those enjoyed by foreign legislatures is
completed.
There is one privilege much coveted by members domiciled in the
neighbourhood of the House of Commons. It is the opportunity of
approaching the West-end by driving through the Horse Guards' entrance
by Whitehall. A supporter of the late Government who lived in Whitehall
Gardens, and to whom this avenue would have been a particular
convenience, used all his influence to obtain the coveted permission.
In reply to his importunate demands, significantly addressed to the
Chief Whip of his party, then in power, he received for answer: "My
dear fellow, if you like I'll get you made an Irish Peer. But not being
on the list, you may not ride or drive through the Horse Guards."
The thing has, nevertheless, been done. A popular Q.C. is accustomed to
ride every morning along the Embankment to the Courts. One day, taking
the upper ride skirting St. James's Park, he came out on the Horse
Guards' Parade, and thought he would try the sentinelled passage into
Whitehall. Walking his horse through, he was challenged by the sentry.
"Don't you know me?" he sternly said. "I am one of Her Majesty's
Counsel."
The soldier saluted, and Mr. Frank Lockwood gravely rode on.
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
THE IRON CASKET
FROM THE GERMAN
A STORY FOR CHILDREN.]
In Bagdad, in the little lane by the Golden Bridge, lived, ages ago, a
merchant named Kalif. He was a quiet, retiring man, who sat early and
late in his little shop, and went but once a year to Mosul or Shiraz,
where he bought embroidered robes in exchange for otto of roses.
On one of these journeys, chancing to have fallen a little in the rear
of his caravan, he heard roarings and trampling of horses' hoofs in
the thicket close by the roadside. Drawing his sword, which he wore
on account of thieves, he entered the thicket. On a little green,
surrounded by trees, he saw a horseman in a light blue mantle and a
turban, fastened by a flashing diamond. The horse, an Arab of purest
blood, seemed to have lost its senses. Rearing upright with a piercing
neigh, it struggled vainly to dislodge an enormous panther which had
fixed its great claws in the horse's flanks. The rider had lost all
control over it; blood and foam poured from its mouth and nostrils.
Kalif sprang boldly out, and with a mighty stroke split the panther's
skull, and flinging away his sword, ran to the horse's head, thereby
enabling the rider to dismount. Having calmed the trembling animal, the
horseman begged his rescuer to follow him.
"I had lost my way in the chase," he said, "and should have fallen
a victim to the panther if Allah had not sent you to my aid. I will
reward you well for your bravery. Come! let us seek my companions;
there, behind that wood, my camp must be."
"I did what any other would have done in my place," answered Kalif,
simply, "and expect no reward. But, if you so will it, I will accompany
you to your tents."
The stranger took his horse by the rein and walked in silence at the
merchant's side till they arrived at an opening in the trees. Here,
surrounded by several smaller ones, stood one large tent of purple
linen. A number of richly clad men threw themselves on their faces
before the new comer. Then Kalif knew whom he had saved: it was the
Shah himself! He was about to fall at his feet, but the Shah seized his
hand and led him into the tent. Inside, standing on five stools, were
five caskets, the first of gold set with jewels, the second of gold
alone, the third silver, the fourth copper, and the fifth of iron.
"Choose one of these caskets," said the Shah.
Kalif hesitated. At length he said:--
"What I did is not worthy of any reward, but if you will it, oh! King
of Kings, I will take one of these caskets to remind me of the day when
my eyes were permitted to behold the Light of Asia."
He stooped and took the iron casket.
The Shah started. "Stranger," he said, "your modesty has met with its
own reward. You have chosen the most valuable casket, for, look! the
others are empty; but this one contains two jewels which possess the
magic gift of bestowing undreamed-of power to their owner." He raised
the lid and showed the wondering Kalif the two stones. "This one,"
he said, "is a lapis lazuli. Whosoever winds it in the folds of his
turban, to him everything is known that has happened since the world
began, and no secret can be hidden from him. But this stone," and he
took a diamond the size of a dove's egg from the casket, "this stone
brings all the riches he can think of to its owner. He has but to rub
the stone and repeat his wish aloud." He replaced the stones in the
casket, closed the lid, and handed it to the merchant, who thanked the
Shah, hid the treasure in his robes, and hastened to rejoin his caravan.
Once more in his own house he often looked at the princely gift, and
one day as he was rubbing the lid he noticed an inscription upon it
that had hitherto been unseen. It ran:--
'Tis Allah's will that to him who cherishes
The precious gift that never perishes,
The East shall erstwhile all bow down,
So far the date on palm is grown.
[Illustration: "THE ELDEST SON PROPOSED THAT THEY SHOULD DRAW LOTS."]
He never spoke of his adventure in the Kalaat Mountains, neither could
he ever make up his mind to test the virtue of the stones, being a
frugal man on the one hand, and unwilling to surpass his neighbours
in wisdom on the other. But at length the news of the Shah's rescue
by the merchant reached even Bagdad, together with the account of the
Royal reward, and people jostled one another to call on the merchant
and see with their own eyes the wonderful casket. In consequence Kalif
had more customers in one day than he generally had in ten years, and
his daily receipts testified to the worth of the casket. For many years
he enjoyed the reward of his bravery, and at his death Ali Haitam, the
eldest son, proposed that they should draw lots for the magic stones.
He had great ideas of his own cleverness, and hoped from the bottom of
his heart to win the lapis lazuli. Ali Hassuf, the second son, whose
sole failing was insatiable greed, was quite agreeable. (In secret he
was revolving in his own mind how to obtain the diamond in case it
fell into the hands of the youngest son.) But just as they were about
to draw, Abdul Kassim, the youngest son, said: "Dear brothers, we are
three, and there are but two stones. It would be better, therefore,
for one to renounce his claim in order that no dispute may arise in our
hitherto peace-loving family. I am the youngest, and therefore can have
least claim on the stones. Throw to decide which stone shall fall to
each. I resign!"
The other two were delighted, and as it happened each got the stone he
desired.
"But in order that I may have a keepsake of my dear father," continued
Abdul Kassim, "permit me to take home the casket. It will be of no use
to you since you have divided the contents."
Ali Hassuf hesitated at first, but finally agreed to Kassim's wish.
The three brothers left the empty house, and went each to seek his
fortune in his own way.
Ali Haitam bought a piece of muslin, folded it into a turban, sewed the
lapis lazuli inside, and fixed it firmly on his head. Then he went to
the bazaar and waited for an influx of wisdom. And see! The power of
the stone set to work and his mind was filled with knowledge! He knew
the origin of all things, and his eyes could see through walls five
feet thick! He passed the Caliph's palace, and he could see that in
the recesses of the cellars were hidden 9,000 sacks of gold, and that
Fatma, the daughter of the Caliph, was the most lovely maiden in the
East; and an idea occurred to him that dazzled him. "How would it be,"
he thought, "if I placed my wisdom at the Caliph's disposal, became his
first adviser, and finally married the lovely Fatma?" But together with
this dream came the longing to display to an admiring crowd some proofs
of his wisdom.
He hurried back to the bazaar, mounted the highest steps at the gates,
and cried: "You people of Bagdad, who believe that the sun moves round
the earth, you are ignorant fools and sons of fools! Hear now what I
preach to you. The sun stands still, but the earth moves!"
He intended to continue, but the cries of the bystanders interrupted
him.
"Ali Haitam has gone mad," they cried; "listen to the nonsense he is
talking. Come, let us hold him head first under the lion's mouth at the
spring; that will restore him to reason!"
[Illustration: "THE JUICY FRUIT KNOCKED THE TURBAN FROM ALI'S HEAD."]
And one, a fruit dealer, took an orange, and crying, "Ali Haitam is
right, the sun moves just as little as this orange!" flung the orange
at the philosopher on the steps. The juicy fruit knocked the turban
from Ali's head. He stooped to regain it, but in vain. The fruit
dealer's throw was the signal for a general onslaught, so that he was
obliged to take to his heels and fly for home. Dirty and panting he
reached his hut, deeply grieved at the loss of his precious stone,
and furious at the stupidity of the people who showed so little
understanding of the first principles of science.
The second brother started more cautiously. Since he had but seldom
been further than the end of the narrow street, by the Golden Bridge,
he was not in a position to think of anything very precious to wish
for; he therefore first visited the bazaar and asked the price of
everything he saw. At last he found something that, on account of its
high price, made a great impression on him. It was a Turkish sword that
a cunning jeweller had studded thickly with diamonds on handle and
sheath. The dealer asked 1,500 golden coins for it, and the bystanders
stared with open eyes at the man who dared to bargain for such costly
possessions. Just as Ali Hassuf was weighing the precious sword in his
hand, a palanquin was borne through the crowd. He turned, and through
the drawn curtains caught sight of a maiden of wondrous beauty. When he
heard that she was the Caliph's daughter, the desire awoke in his soul
to marry this lovely creature, and it seemed to him not unlikely that
the Caliph would give his daughter to a man of such note as he would
become as the possessor of the magic diamond. He decided to buy the
sword, and, armed with the same, to visit the Caliph the very next day.
"I shall come again the very first thing to-morrow morning," he said
to the dealer. "I have not quite enough money with me now, but I shall
procure it this evening. I had quite expected," he added, boastingly,
"that the sword would be expensive."
[Illustration: "HE OPENED ONE, AND FELT INSIDE."]
He turned and went home, where he saddled the thin ass and hung across
its back two large panniers. When it grew dark he softly drove the
beast through the yard and led it out into the desert. For about an
hour he walked, and in imagination saw himself in possession of all
the glories the talisman would bring him. He never noticed that he was
followed by three dark forms, who had never lost sight of him since his
visit to the bazaar. He halted by a group of stunted palms, spread out
a large cloth, and with trembling fingers began to rub the diamond,
crying at the same time: "Spirit of the Stone! send me at once twenty
shekels of golden coins!" He waited a moment, and listened into the
darkness, thinking he heard whispering voices. But as all was silent he
repeated his wish for the second and third time. He heard a noise as
of the falling of soft, heavy weights, and, on stooping, found twenty
well-filled sacks. He opened one, and felt inside. And, truly! it was
really gold in bright new coins! With feverish haste he slung the sacks
on the ass's back, and turned its head homewards. Suddenly he heard
once more the same mysterious whisperings, this time in his immediate
neighbourhood. He stood still and listened with bated breath. He felt
himself seized by heavy hands and thrown to the ground, and saw another
form seize the ass. Two men with blackened faces tore off his turban
and robe and left him lying half naked by the roadside, after having
warned him to keep quiet as to this attack unless he wished to lose his
life. Trembling with fright and rage, he saw the robbers disappear with
his ass in the direction of the mountains. What pained him most was the
loss of his diamond, which he had concealed in his robe. He reached
home, where he lay hidden for weeks, too ashamed to show himself in
the streets or at the bazaar. But once as he sat on the Golden Bridge
fishing, to try and provide himself with a frugal meal, the weapon
dealer passed him by, and said: "Well, Ali Hassuf, when are you coming
for your sword?"
But sword and Princess were for ever lost to Ali Hassuf.
In the meantime, as the two elder brothers sat mourning their losses,
Abdul Kassim, the youngest, sat at home in his little house by the
gardens, thinking with regret of his father, and wondering what he
should do to earn himself his daily bread. Before him, on a little
stool, stood the iron casket. There came a knock at the door, and
Micha ben Jahzeel, the Jew, who had lent him money a month or two ago,
walked in. Micha looked grave and said: "Abdul Kassim, times are bad,
and ready money gets scarcer and scarcer. You know I lent you ten
golden coins, and I have come to ask"--his eyes fell on the casket and
he started, but collecting himself, went on: "I have come to tell you
that I am not in an immediate hurry for the return of the loan. If you
like you can keep it, or as it is hardly worth mentioning, keep it for
some months, or even years if you like. I only wanted to tell you you
needn't trouble about it, there is no hurry at all." He bowed low to
his debtor and withdrew.
Abdul Kassim marvelled at the change in the Jew's manner, but as he
thought of the looks he had cast at the casket he couldn't help smiling.
On the same evening came his neighbour, the clothes dealer, who had
not visited him for years. "Dear friend," he said, and placed a bundle
on the floor before Kassim, "I have come to entreat your pardon that
my horse should have splashed your robe with mud the other day; he
is a young thing, and is not yet properly broken. I have brought you
a new robe to replace it, which I hope will please you." Then he
withdrew. The young man could not recollect having been splashed by his
neighbour's horse, still less could he account for the generosity of
one who was celebrated for his meanness in presenting him with such an
elaborately embroidered robe.
Next morning, just as he had put on his new robe, a distant relation
arrived, bringing a magnificently caparisoned horse.
"Dear cousin," he said--formerly he had not even noticed him--"your
appearance grieves me. I feared you were giving way too much to grief
at the loss of your father, and it would give me great pleasure to
cheer you a little. I have ventured to bring you this horse, which is
overcrowding my stable; do me the favour to accept this little gift!"
Abdul Kassim would have refused, but the cousin had hurried away. There
he stood holding the beautiful animal by the bridle. He could not
resist the temptation to mount him. He swung himself into the saddle
and rode into the town. Everyone bowed to him, and many stood still,
saying: "There, I told you so! Abdul Kassim was always the favourite
son, and he has inherited the casket!"
Next morning, as the barber sharpened his razor and began to shave
the Caliph, the latter asked him: "Well, Harmos, what are my subjects
talking about just now?"
The barber bowed to the ground and said: "What should they speak of,
oh, King of the Faithful, if not of your goodness and wisdom?"
"Of your idiotcy, son of a she ass," shouted the Caliph, bored by the
eternal flatteries of the barber. "Tell me, what are the people talking
about?"
"They talk," began Harmos, hesitatingly; "they talk of the luck of your
servant, Abdul Kassim, whom they call the wisest and richest of your
subjects."
"Abdul Kassim? I don't even know his name," said the Caliph.
"He is the son and heir of Kalif," continued the barber, more
courageously, "the same Kalif whom the Shah once rewarded with a magic
casket."
He related at length all about the magic stones. The Caliph listened
attentively, dismissed the barber, and sent a message to the Grand
Vizier to come at once. The Vizier came and confirmed the barber's
tale. "Abdul Kassim," he said, "knows everything that goes on in the
world, and whenever he has a wish, all he has to do to fulfil it is to
rub the diamond and say what he wants."
The Caliph grew serious. "Do you think, Vizier, that this man could
usurp my throne? How would it be if I gave him a palace and raised him
to be the husband of my daughter?"
The Grand Vizier agreed to the proposal of his ruler, and undertook
himself to convey to the astounded Abdul Kassim the tidings that the
Commander of the Faithful had given him a palace and awaited his visit.
The same evening the new favourite of the Caliph packed all his few
belongings on the horse's back, took the iron casket under his arm and,
amid the cheers of the crowd, entered the palace.
A troop of negroes received him and threw themselves at his feet.
An especially gorgeously arrayed slave led him into a room, where a
banquet awaited him. Abdul Kassim had never fared so well in his life.
But he did not forget to praise Allah for his goodness. Next morning
he put on his gorgeous robe, bound on the magnificent sword he found
in the great hall, and rode, accompanied by the negroes, to visit the
Caliph.
[Illustration: "'SON OF A SHE ASS', SHOUTED THE CALIPH."]
The Commander of the Faithful sat on the throne and awaited his
subject, who, when he appeared, was about to throw himself in the dust
at the ruler's feet, but the Caliph descended the three steps of the
throne, and took the young man's hand.
"Are you Abdul Kassim," he said, "son of Kalif, the merchant who lived
by the Golden Bridge?"
"I am he, Caliph," answered Abdul; "permit me to express my thanks for
the palace with which you have endowed your most humble servant."
"I have heard much good of you," said the Caliph, when he had ordered
his suite to retire; "and pray you to show me the magic jewels that
help you to such power and wisdom."
"Of which jewels are you speaking?" asked Abdul Kassim, amazed.
"Well," smiled the Caliph, "which jewels should I mean but those you
have inherited from your father?"
The young man stared. So the Caliph, too, took him for the possessor of
the magic stones? Without reserve he confessed that, to avoid disputes,
he had voluntarily retired and left the stones to his brothers.
"But," said the Caliph, "Micha ben Jahzeel, the Jew, saw the casket in
your house!"
"The casket he may have seen," answered Abdul Kassim; "I begged it of
my brothers in memory of my father."
The Caliph seemed still in doubt. He sent a slave to Abdul Kassim's
palace to bring the casket. The messenger brought it, gave it to the
Caliph, and retired. The Caliph opened the lid and looked inside. It
was in truth empty! His gaze fell on the inscription:--
'Tis Allah's will that to him who cherishes
The precious gift that never perishes,
The East shall erstwhile all bow down,
So far the date on palm is grown.
He read the verse and looked at the youth. "Abdul Kassim," he said,
"you have jewels in your heart more precious than all the treasures
of the earth. For love of your brothers you gave up the stones, and
for love of your father you have preserved this seemingly worthless
casket. But Allah has blessed you for your virtues and has, by means
of this humble iron casket, raised you to power and wealth. I dare not
refuse to assist you. I will give you the most priceless gift at my
disposal--the hand of my only daughter."
He called the chief overseer of the harem and bade him lead Fatma to
the throne-room. The maiden had passed the night in weeping, for she
had heard that she was to be given in marriage to a strange man. She
shuddered at the thought, for as only child of the Caliph she had been
thoroughly spoilt, and hated the idea of leaving her father's roof.
Abdul Kassim, who until now had been struck utterly dumb with
astonishment, could not refrain from a cry of admiration at the sight
of the lovely Fatma. She seemed to him a hundred times more beautiful
than any description he had heard of her in Bagdad.
In the midst of her grief Fatma retained her woman's curiosity, and on
hearing the youth's voice, cast one glance at him over her father's
shoulder. The first impression seemed not unfavourable. She eyed his
slender form as he stood leaning on his sword, and gradually ceased her
sobbing. She even raised herself and took hold of the Caliph's arm.
"Father," she said, "do with me what you will; not without cause do the
people call you 'The Wise One.'"
[Illustration: "'FATHER,' SHE SAID, 'DO WITH ME WHAT YOU WILL.'"]
So Fatma was married to Abdul. But neither she nor any other ever knew
that the iron casket connected with her young lord's rise and power
was empty. The Caliph advised his son-in-law to maintain the deepest
silence as to the absence of the magic jewels.
In the fifth year of their wedded life the Caliph, feeling the weight
of advancing years, abdicated in Abdul Kassim's favour, so the verse
on the casket lid was fulfilled, and Abdul Kassim reigned many, many
years over Bagdad, the best and wisest ruler who had ever ascended the
throne. Allah's name be praised!
_The Queer Side of Things._
[Illustration:
THE BEAUTY-COLLEGE TOY.]
"Mother! _Have_ you seen this?" exclaimed Genevieve. "_Do_ listen what
the paper says:--
"'_The latest American notion is the recently instituted College of
Beauty in New York. The College course knows nothing of dyes, or
cosmetics, or powders.... One branch of study deals with the features
of the face. The most enchanting beauty of expression will result from
the methods adopted in the College. The effect of music on the features
receives great attention; the eyes are to be enlarged by Verdi's music;
the air of intelligence heightened by Chopin's; and various other
ameliorations brought about by other composers, and poets, and so
forth._' Just fancy, mother!"
Genevieve was wrapped in silent musing for some minutes; then she arose
and crossed over to the mirror and gazed critically into it.
"Of course, it's all nonsense, mother, eh?" she said.
"Most absurd nonsense, my love--most absurd!" replied Mother.
Then Genevieve opened the piano abstractedly and began passing her
fingers mechanically over the keys, which, strange to say, gave forth
an air by Verdi. The mirror was right opposite Genevieve as she sat at
the piano, and she looked casually at it many times.
When tea-time came, two hours and a half later, she was still
strumming--strumming a little thing by Verdi, as it happened. Mother
sat and smiled upon her indulgently.
* * * * *
That night, when Genevieve had retired to rest, she heard the faint
sounds of the piano from the drawing-room; it was playing an air from
Verdi. Mother was the only person downstairs who could play the piano.
"Mother," said Genevieve, next day, "of course that _must_ be all
nonsense about the College of Beauty, eh? Of course, it would be quite
impossible to make oneself more beautiful by----"
"Of course, Jenny, of course--sheer nonsense!" said Mother.
"Ye-es, of course," said Jenny. "But I've often thought I _should_ so
love to see New York--haven't you?"
"New York is--no doubt--a--a very interesting place," said Mother.
"_Do_ let's go--just to see New York!" said Genevieve.
"Er--well; I'll speak to papa about it. You _do_ want a change," said
Mother.
There was a ring.
"Oh, mother, here's Miss Cloot just getting out of her victoria," said
Genevieve. "Now, the College of Beauty _would_ be a godsend to _her_!
You must really tell her about it--it would be a charity!"
Miss Cloot was the ugliest old maid in London and its environs within a
radius of twenty miles; she was really dreadful--that's the only word
for it. She was comfortably off, yet she was still a spinster at forty.
She was a remarkable woman, was Miss Cloot--you'll see.
During a lull in the conversation, Mother introduced the subject of
the College of Beauty--as a charity. At first Miss Cloot listened
with somewhat feeble interest; but after a few moments there suddenly
appeared in her eye a remarkable light; beyond that, there was little
perceptible change in her manner; but anyone who knew her well would
have known that that light in her eye meant _something_.
"Dear me, yes, very interesting--an excellent notion," said Miss Cloot,
blandly.
[Illustration: "'AN EXCELLENT NOTION,' SAID MISS CLOOT."]
"But you can't think for an instant that there's anything in it?" said
Mother.
"Dear me, why not?" said Miss Cloot. "I have no doubt there's a
great deal in it. Why _shouldn't_ there be?--'_Too wonderful to be
true!_'--well, but, are Edison's inventions too wonderful to be true?
Oh, dear me, no! Not a bit too wonderful. You may be sure there's
something in it."
"Do--er--do _you_ propose to----?" began Mother: and then it suddenly
occurred to her that she had better not ask _that_ question; so she
turned it off to--"get any new things this spring?"
Miss Cloot went straight home with that remarkable light in her eye
all the time; and when she got in she straightway sat down and wrote
a dozen letters. Miss Cloot numbered among her extensive acquaintance
twelve old maids, all comfortably off, and all plain--though falling
short of her own attainments in the latter respect.
On the evening of the following day there was a tea party at Miss
Cloot's--it consisted of those twelve other old maids of her
acquaintance. It was more of a board meeting than an ordinary tea
party, for they took their seats round a table at the head of which sat
their hostess.
"Ladies!" said Miss Cloot (who really _was_ a remarkable woman--the
more I reflect upon her, the more I am impressed by this fact), "I
have asked you here to-day to discuss a very important matter--very
important to us. Possibly you may have seen this paragraph in the
newspaper?" and she handed round the cutting which she had taken from
Genevieve's paper.
The twelve old maids read it, and did not seem to see much in it. Miss
Cloot's keen intuition perceived this.
"I did not expect you to. We can't _all_ be of brilliant intellect, of
course," she said. "Pray don't think I _blame_ you for any deficiencies
in that respect; we none of us can radically alter the intelligence--or
want of it--which has been vouchsafed to us."
"But this is a hoax, of course, Celina?" said Miss Wheevyl. "Quite
absurd and impossible!"
[Illustration: "THERE WAS A TEA PARTY AT MISS CLOOT'S."]
"Not in the least!" replied Miss Cloot, emphatically. "Neither
absurd nor impossible. That's where you show your ignorance, Jane.
Pray understand, my friends, that I am not proposing that you should
all rush out to that College in New York (although Heaven knows you
all need its assistance); no, you will do better by remaining where
you are. Now, concerning this College. I know what you are going to
say--'It doesn't exist!' Very well; what _I_ have to say is, if it
doesn't exist, why----"
[Illustration: "DO LISTEN!"]
At this moment, unfortunately, the door of the council-chamber was
suddenly shut, and we heard no more.
"Mother!" said Genevieve, a week or so after, "there's a whole
page of advertisement of that College of Beauty in New York! _Do_
listen: 'Ladies desirous of enrolling themselves as students at the
College of Beauty are requested to send in their names at once to the
secretaress, Madame Brown. The first hundred ladies will be received
at the following reduced fees: Facial-Beauty Curriculum (including
Eye-Enlarging, Gaze-Softening, Dimple, Ethereal-Expression, Piquancy,
and other classes), 100dols. per term of twelve months.... The system
having now been perfected and exhaustively tested, testimonials from
LADIES WELL KNOWN IN SOCIETY, who have been rescued from VARIOUS
DEGREES OF HOMELINESS and developed into BEAUTIES OF THE FIRST WATER,
will be sent to all applicants. The leading transatlantic steamship
companies have made special arrangements for the conveyance of parties
of ladies proceeding to the College of Beauty, New York.'
"Of course, it _can't_ be true, can it, mother?" said Genevieve.
"Oh, dear, no, my love," said Mother.
"But we will go and have a look at New York; won't we?"
"Yes, I think we may as well."
The booming of the College of Beauty re-echoed deafeningly from end to
end of the London Press. The subject was dragged into every paragraph
about everything. It was the universal topic.
* * * * *
Some weeks after this Jenkinson looked up Wiffler in the evening, and
threw himself down in a chair with an exclamation of disgust.
"Hanged if they haven't gone!" he grunted.
[Illustration: "HANGED IF THEY HAVEN'T GONE!"]
"Gone? Who?" said Wiffler, passing the tobacco-jar.
"Why, Mrs. Jenkinson and Genevieve have gone to New York--for a change,
they said; but they can't hoodwink _me_. They've gone to that College
of Beauty--_that's_ where _they've_ gone! Nice state of things for me!
Left all alone, as if I didn't happen to have such articles as a wife
and daughter.... Where's _your_ wife? Theatre--opera?"
"Not a bit of it!" replied Wiffler, gloomily. "_Gone to New York_, my
friend; and _now_ I see _why_ they were so mad to go that way, although
Matilda hates the sea and always gets frightfully ill. _Now_ I see!"
At that moment Gradbury burst in melodramatically, the image of despair.
"Hullo, Gradbury!" said the other two, "what's wrong with _you_?"
"Ugh! Everything!" growled Gradbury. "Nice game for a man's wife and
three daughters and niece to go off all at once to----"
"New York?" cried Wiffler and Jenkinson, in a breath.
"Ah!--that's the very place!" shrieked Gradbury. "And I'll tell you
what--I've my suspicions that----"
"Your suspicions are well founded," said Jenkinson, in a hollow voice.
"That _was_ their object."
Then those three miserable men went off to the club; and the hubbub
as they entered the smoke-room told them that something was amiss.
Frodwell was standing on the hearthrug declaiming about the right
place for a wife being by her husband's side instead of frivolling
off to crack-brained colleges holding out all manner of insane and
impracticable ----.
About twenty other clubbites stood round and grunted approval.
Anger and gloom were the dominant principles of that smoke-room.
"_Your_ wife gone over? Oh, no, of course, you haven't got a wife,"
said Jenkinson to young Flabtree.
"No; and what's more, I'm not likely to have one now. My best girl's
gone over to New York--for three years she thinks. Hanged if I know how
_she_ can be improved by that fool of a college--for _that's_ where
_she's_ off to, you bet! Her fringe keeps frizzy in wet weather, and
she has a little dimple each side of her nose; so what more _can_ she
want?"
"All _my_ best girls have gone!" said poor young Grownder, sinking into
a settee and covering his face with his hands.
[Illustration: "POSTERS."]
It was the same sad story at every club you entered; bereaved married
men and deserted bachelors stood mopingly on the hearthrugs or flopped
in limp despair on the big chairs. Every day the papers had been
filled with advertisements and "pars" and articles about the College
of Beauty; flaring posters, with pictures of a lady, before and after
a course of the College, covered London: the before lady had wild red
hair, a pug-nose, a heavy squint, one immense front tooth, lips like a
negro's, and the figure of a sack of potatoes; the after lady--supposed
to be the same person--had a Grecian nose, great blue eyes, wavy brown
hair, and an ideal figure. Every day the crisis became more grave; the
great transatlantic lines had hired extra ships to fill with ladies
proceeding to New York: it had been made "worth the while" of several
eminent London physicians to prescribe a course of "New York." The
sight of a lady in the London streets was becoming more and more rare.
Men in a hopeless state of dejection, even of melancholy insanity,
roved aimlessly about the pavements. The club-houses had to hire extra
accommodation for men whose homes, bereft of the feminine element, had
become loathsome and abhorrent to them.
Beautiful suburban villas were left deserted, the dust growing visibly
upon the furniture; domestic life among the upper and middle classes
had ceased to exist. The milliners' shops were closed; suburban
tradesmen were becoming bankrupt; feminine parts at the theatres were
played by youths as in old times, while the stalls and dress-circle
presented an unbroken line of wretched men, clad in tweed suits,
dressing-gowns--anything; so demoralized does man become the instant
the refining influence of woman is withdrawn.
There was another board-meeting of the spinsters at Miss Cloot's. Their
number was reduced by two recalcitrants, who had been unable to resist
the New York fever and had deserted the ranks.
"Idiots!" said Miss Cloot.
Miss Cloot rose at the head of the table and said:--
"Ladies, I need hardly tell you that the operations of our society
have been, and are, a complete success. In the course of another week
there will not be a woman of any position, except ourselves, in the
Metropolitan area. Our secretary, Miss McSwinger, will read to you the
numbers of embarcations for New York for the week ending yesterday; and
Miss Gorgonia V. Nickerbocker, our New York factotum, is now present
among us, and will set before you the statistics of the hiring and
fitting up of new annexes of the College of Beauty, which at present
accommodates four million seven hundred thousand and odd ladies.
"You will recall to mind how, at our first and preliminary meeting, I
said to you: 'What I have to say is, that if this College of Beauty,
set forth in this newspaper cutting, does not exist, why, it _shall_
exist; and we will create it.' Whether the original College ever did
exist I do not know, but _ours_ does. Ladies, it was an idea such as
has seldom occurred to woman since the beginning of time. You came
wisely forward and threw in your money with mine to set this great work
on foot; our money has now gone; but, by reason of the term-fees paid
by the pupils, the College is now entirely self-supporting.
[Illustration: "THE LAYING-IN OF JAPANESE FANS."]
"_Now_, ladies, is your time! All the pretty women have gone to New
York; every month a certain number of men in this vast Metropolis
suddenly decide to marry; for the last five months the deciders have
lacked the item indispensable to the carrying out of their object--a
woman to marry. The domestic arrangement which they calculated upon,
and had prepared for, in many cases even to the laying-in of Japanese
fans, scent-cases, hanging wardrobes, and other articles of furniture,
has been hopelessly postponed.
"The aggregate of outstanding matrimonial decisions has, owing to
the absence of a helpmate to join the board after allotment, become
enormous.
[Illustration: "WRETCHED MEN."]
"Ladies, those men _must_ marry someone, or the scent-cases and
wardrobes will lose their freshness: and they must marry US, or none.
It may surprise you when I say that they will prefer even _you_ to
_none_: but you will find it is so!
"Ladies!" she continued, "we have triumphed! Do you hear the murmur
without--the murmur of multitudes like the ocean? It is the men! They
know that eleven eligible spinsters--not to speak of our excellent
factotum, Miss McSwinger--are assembled in this room. Look!"
In two strides she had reached the window-curtains. She threw them
back. Without, the whole square and adjacent streets were packed with a
surging mass of stove-pipe hats.
As the curtains separated there arose a vast and deafening shout, while
ten thousand hands simultaneously held aloft ten thousand wedding rings.
[Illustration: "MISS CLOOT STEPPED OUT UPON THE BALCONY."]
Miss Cloot opened the window, and stepped out upon the balcony.
"Gentlemen!" she said, "I must entreat you to be patient and maintain
order. It is impossible for us to accept all of you: I regret to inform
you that twelve only amid your vast and imposing throng can be made
happy. If you will disperse in an orderly way, you can obtain Offer of
Marriage forms, which I will ask you to fill up with particulars of
your stations in life, incomes, characters, and other details. I have
made arrangements so that the forms can be obtained of any respectable
chemist, bookseller, tobacconist, or house agent, or at the Army and
Navy or Civil Service Stores.
"All applications will be considered, and the acceptations printed in
the _Times_, _Pink 'Un_, _Matrimonial News_, and _Exchange and Mart_.
"I will now entreat you to disperse quietly, without any demonstration.
Good-day."
* * * * *
Three weeks from that time the twelve spinsters were married at St.
George's. Miss Cloot had accepted a duke, seven other ladies earls,
one a wealthy brewer, two pill millionaires, and the remaining one
a poet-laureate. Some time after, the ladies began to return from
New York; whether they are any lovelier, I cannot say. Can woman be
lovelier than she is? Never mind, I don't want a series of letters
about it.
At any rate, those twelve ladies married at St. George's are all
very, very happy; which shows that, although beauty and goodness are
inestimable gifts, wits are worth having.
J. F. SULLIVAN.
[Illustration: Watches]
[Illustration: of All Times]
[Illustration:
PAL'S PUZZLE PAGE.]
INDEX.
PAGE.
ACTORS' MAKE-UP 149
(_Illustrations_ by HORACE MOREHAM.)
ANARCHIST, AN. From the French of EUGÉNE MORET 339
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
ANTONIO'S ENGLISHMAN. By W. L. ALDEN 451
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
ARTISTS' CLUB, A BOHEMIAN. By ALFRED T. STORY 488
(_Illustrations_ by G. G. KILBURNE, W. H.
PIKE, ROBT. SAUBER, J. FINNEMORE,
W. A. BREAKSPEAR, C. CATTERMOLE, CARL
HAAG, and W. D. ALMOND, and from Photographs by
SCOTT & SONS, EXETER, and RUSSELL & SONS.)
BEAUTIES:--
XIII.--CHILDREN: MISS EDITH MARGUERITE
DICKINSON, MISS DOROTHY BIRCH DONE, MISS
EVELYN MARY DOWDELL, MISS MADGE ERSKINE,
MISS WINNIFRED EMMA HEALE, MISS KATHLEEN
KEYSE, MISS NELLY M. MORRIS, MISS ALIGANDER
SMITH, MISS MYRTA VIVIENNE STUBBS 77
XIV.--LADIES: MISS CHRISTINE BEAUCLERC,
MRS. W. H. COOK, MISS CROKER, MRS.
GARDNER, MISS MAUD GONNE, MISS
HAMILTON, MISS JAMESON, MISS EVELYN
MILLARD, LADY HELEN VINCENT 186
XV.--CHILDREN: MISS MAY BARNES,
MISS DORIS MAMIE BUTLER, MISS DORIS G.
CLEGG, MASTERS CUTHBERT, EUSTACE,
MICHAEL, and CYRIL COX, MISS GRACIE
DODDS, MISS GLADYS HUDDART, MISS GLADYS
LILIAN TANSLEY, MISS MURIEL GLANVILLE TAYLOR 270
XVI.--LADIES: MISS BARNETT, MISS ANNIE
O'DEANE, MISS NANCY NOEL, MISS AGNES C.
STEVENSON, MISS NORA WILLIAMSON 426
XVII.--CHILDREN: MISSES DOROTHY and
MARJORIE HOLMES, MISS PHYLLIS LOTT,
MISS KATIE MARTINDALE, MISS MARGOT AMY CECIL
RUSSELL, MISS WINIFRED MARY WINTER 538
XVIII.--LADIES: MISS DAISY BALDRY, MRS.
GLYNDEUR FOULKES, MISS FRANKS, MISS MABEL
MORPHETT, MISS LOUIE SPENCER, MISS IRENE
VANBRUGH 634
BETWEEN THE ACTS. From the French of M. BLOWITZ 115
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
BLIZZARD, LOST IN A. By G. H. LEES 285
(_Illustrations_ by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)
BRITISH EMBASSY AT PARIS, THE. By MARY SPENCER-WARREN 289
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. GUNN &
STUART, RICHMOND.)
BURDETT-COUTTS, THE BARONESS. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED
INTERVIEWS") 348
CAMBRIDGE UNION SOCIETIES, OXFORD AND 502
CLARK, PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF SIR ANDREW. By E. H.
PITCAIRN 65
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. MAYOR &
MEREDITH, BASSANO, and WYRALL; and
from a Painting by G. F. WATTS, R.A.)
COMPOSERS WORK, HOW. By F. A. JONES.
Part I.--With facsimiles of the MSS. of SIR JOSEPH
BARNBY, JOHN F. BARNETT, JACQUES
BLUMENTHAL, F. H. COWEN, ALFRED R.
GAUL, CHARLES GOUNOD, EDWARD GRIEG,
and CHAS. H. LLOYD 206
Part II.--With facsimiles of the MSS. of MEYER LUTZ,
A. C. MACKENZIE, TITO MATTEL, HUBERT
PARRY, EBENEZER PROUT, RUBINSTEIN,
SAINT-SAËNS, STANFORD, STRAUSS,
BERTHOLD TOURS, and P. TSCHAÏKOWSKY 428
COOPER, R.A., THOMAS SIDNEY. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED
INTERVIEWS") 227
CRIMES AND CRIMINALS:--
I.--DYNAMITE AND DYNAMITERS 119
II.--BURGLARS AND BURGLING 273
III.--COINERS AND COINING 416
IV.--FORGERS AND BEGGING-LETTER WRITERS 627
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs and Drawings.)
DIARY OF A DOCTOR, STORIES FROM THE. By the Authors of "The
Medicine Lady."
VII.--THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE 3
VIII.--TEN YEARS' OBLIVION 159
IX.--AN OAK COFFIN 255
X.--WITHOUT WITNESSES 394
XI.--TRAPPED 465
XII.--THE PONSONBY DIAMONDS 606
(_Illustrations_ by A. PEARSE.)
DICKENS, THE SIGNATURES OF CHARLES. By J. HOLT SCHOOLING 80
(_Illustrations_ from facsimiles.)
DIVING-DRESS, MY. BY ONE WHO HAS DONE WITH IT 383
(_Illustrations_ by HAROLD PIFFARD.)
FAMILY NAME, THE. From the French of HENRI MALIN 99
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
FULLER, LÖIE. THE INVENTOR OF THE SERPENTINE DANCE.
By MRS. M. GRIFFITH 540
(_Illustrations_ by SARONY, NEW YORK; MORA, NEW
YORK; ELDER, IOWA; REUTLINGER, PARIS;
and RIDERS, CHICAGO.)
GIOVANNI. By J. D. SYMON 133
(_Illustrations_ by J. FINNEMORE.)
HANDCUFFS 94
(_Written_ and _Illustrated_ by INSPECTOR MOSER.)
HELMET, THE. From the French of FERDINAND BEISSIER 41
(_Illustrations_ by JEAN DE PALEOLOGUE.)
HOLLAND, THE QUEEN OF. By MARY SPENCER-WARREN 17
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. GUNN &
STUART, RICHMOND, and W. G. KUIJER, AMSTERDAM.)
ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.
XXX.--MR. EDWARD LLOYD. By HARRY HOW 175
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT &
FRY.)
XXXI.--MR. THOMAS SIDNEY COOPER, R.A. By HARRY
HOW 227
(_Illustrations_ from Drawings and a Painting by Mr. T.
S. COOPER, R.A., and from Photographs by Messrs.
ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XXXII.--THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS. By MARY
SPENCER-WARREN 348
(_Illustrations_ by WARNE BROWNE, SIR EDMUND
HENDERSON, EDMUND CALDWELL, and from
Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)
XXXIII.--MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM. By HARRY HOW 513
(_Illustrations_ from a Painting by JOHN PETTIE,
R.A.; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY;
LONDON STEREOSCOPIC CO.; FALK, NEW YORK;
BARRAUD; and MR. JOHN F. ROBERTS.)
XXXIV.--SIR FRANCIS AND LADY JEUNE. By HARRY
HOW 575
(_Illustrations_ from a Drawing by Mr. HARRY
FURNISS, and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT &
FRY.)
IRON CASKET, THE. From the German 653
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
JEUNE, SIR FRANCIS AND LADY. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED
INTERVIEWS") 575
LAND OF YOUTH, THE. A STORY FOR CHILDREN. A SCANDINAVIAN
POPULAR TALE 212
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
LESSEPS, COUNT FERDINAND DE. By His God-daughter 636
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by NADAR, REUTLINGER,
LIÉBERT, AND DAIREAUX, PARIS.)
LIGHT: A LONDON IDYLL. by E. M. HEWITT 591
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
LLOYD, MR. EDWARD. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS") 175
MARTIN HEWITT, INVESTIGATOR. By A. G. MORRISON.
I.--THE LENTON CROFT ROBBERIES 305
II.--THE LOSS OF SAMMY CROCKETT 361
III.--THE CASE OF MR. FOGGATT 526
IV.--THE CASE OF THE DIXON TORPEDO 563
(_Illustrations_ by SIDNEY PAGET.)
MIRROR, THE. From the French of GEORGE JAPY 90
(_Illustrations_ by ALAN WRIGHT.)
MUSIC OF NATURE, THE. By T. CAMDEN PRATT. PART II. 46
(_Illustrations_ by ADOLPH G. DÖRING.)
OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE UNION SOCIETIES, THE.
I.--OXFORD. By J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND 502
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by C. COURT COLE &
GILLMAN, OXFORD.)
II.--CAMBRIDGE. By ST. J. BASIL WYNNE
WILLSON, M.A. 507
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by STEARN, CAMBRIDGE;
LONDON STEREOSCOPIC COMPANY; and BEAUFORT,
BIRMINGHAM.)
PALACE OF VANITY, A. From the French of MME. EMILE DE
GIRARDIN 322
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
PICTURES, SOME INTERESTING 640
(_Illustrations_ by a CHINESE ARTIST, LORD
NELSON, W. M. THACKERAY, JOHN GADBURY,
and from a Photograph.)
PORTRAITS OF CELEBRITIES AT DIFFERENT TIMES OF THEIR LIVES:--
ASTLEY, SIR JOHN, BART 626
BANNERMAN, MR. CAMPBELL, M.P. 415
BURTON, LADY 157
CANZIANI, MADAME (MISS LOUISA STARR) 624
COLE, MADAME BELLE 51
DILKE, SIR CHARLES, M.P. 500
DILKE, LADY 501
DUMAS, ALEXANDRE, FILS 158
GODFREY, DAN 305
HESSE, THE GRAND DUKE OF 412
IBSEN, HENRIK 156
KENNEDY, MR. JUSTICE 304
LEITNER, DR. G. W. 623
LICHFIELD, THE BISHOP OF 155
LOCH, SIR HENRY 50
LOPES, LORD JUSTICE 411
MACKENZIE, DR. 154
PETERBOROUGH, THE BISHOP OF 52
ROSEBURY, LORD 498
RUSSIA, CZAR OF 302
SAXE-COBURG, PRINCESS VICTORIA MELITA OF 413
SCOTT-HOLLAND, REV. CANON 497
STODDART, A. E. 625
TEMPLE, SIR RICHARD, M.P. 54
TUPPER, SIR CHARLES 622
WANTAGE, LORD 53
WELLINGTON, DUKE OF 303
WILLS, MR. JUSTICE 499
WINCHESTER, BISHOP OF 301
WORCESTER, BISHOP OF 414
QUEEN'S YACHT, THE 587
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by G. WEST & SON,
SOUTHSEA; and SYMONDS & CO., PORTSMOUTH.)
QUEER SIDE OF THINGS, THE:--
BEAUTY COLLEGE COMPANY, THE 660
LAMPS OF ALL KINDS AND TIMES 110
MASTER OF GRANGE, THE 330
MAJOR MICROBE 104
MR. HAY 553
OFF TO THE STATION 560
PAL'S PUZZLES 224, 448, 668
THINNER-OUT, THE 218
TWO STYLES, THE 112
UNBELIEVERS' CLUB, THE 440
SINGING BOB. By ALICE MAUD MEADOWS 197
(_Illustrations_ by W. C. SYMONS.)
SMILE, THE BIRTH OF A 306
(_Illustrations_ from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT &
FRY.)
SPEAKER'S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE. By HENRY W. LUCY 189, 388, 481, 645
(_Illustrations_ by F. C. GOULD.)
TERRIBLE NEW YEAR'S EVE, A. By KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON 55
(_Illustrations_ by W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)
THAT STOUT GERMAN. By F. BAYFORD HARRISON 242
(_Illustrations_ by PAUL HARDY.)
THREE GOLD HAIRS OF OLD VSEVEDE, THE. A STORY FOR
CHILDREN 546
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
WATCHES OF ALL TIMES 666
WYNDHAM, MR. CHARLES. (_See_ "ILLUSTRATED
INTERVIEWS") 513
ZEALOUS SENTINEL, A. AN INCIDENT OF THE SIEGE OF PARIS 435
(_Illustrations_ by H. R. MILLAR.)
ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO. By A. G. MORRISON.
XIX.--ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN 33
XX.--ZIG-ZAG DASYPIDIAN 141
XXI.--ZIG-ZAG SCANSORIAL 246
XXII.--ZIG-ZAG SAURIAN 374
XXIII.--ZIG-ZAG SIMIAN 457
XXIV.--ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE 590
(_Illustrations_ by J. A. SHEPHERD.)
GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, 8, 9, 10, AND 11, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND
EXETER STREET, STRAND, W.C.
Transcriber's Notes:
Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were
silently corrected.
Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed.
Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.
Title page added by transcriber.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume VII, Issue
42, June, 1894, by Various
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRAND MAGAZINE, JUNE, 1894 ***
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