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THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_


                        EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
                          Vol VII., Issue 41.
                               May, 1894

[Illustration: "HE RUSHED THROUGH THE POOL OF BLAZING OIL."

(_See page 456._)]

[Illustration:




ANTONIO'S ENGLISHMAN]


Antonio was young, handsome, and a gondolier. He lacked but two
things; a gondola of his own, and an Englishman. He was too poor to
buy a gondola, and though he occasionally hired an old and extremely
dilapidated one, and trusted to his handsome face to enable him to
capture a party of foreign ladies, his profits had to be divided
with the owner of the gondola, and were thus painfully small. The
_traghetto_ brought him in a few francs per month, and he picked up
other small sums by serving as second oar, whenever tourists could
be convinced that a second oar was necessary. Still, Antonio was
desperately poor, and he and his young wife were often uncomfortably
hungry.

Now, if the Madonna would only send him an Englishman, even if it were
only for a single year, Antonio could easily save enough money to buy
himself a beautiful gondola, besides living in the lap of luxury. His
brother Spiro had owned an Englishman for only seven months and a half,
and already he was a capitalist, with his own gondola, and, figure it
to yourself!--with four hundred francs in the savings bank! And Spiro
had done nothing to deserve this blessing, for he was notoriously an
unbeliever, and never went inside a church except when he was escorting
English ladies, when, of course, he prayed with fervour at the most
conspicuous shrine, which was worth at least ten extra soldi of _buona
mano_. Whereas, Antonio was deeply religious, and at least once a year
gave a wax candle to the Blessed Virgin of Santa Maria Zobenigo. "But
patience!" said Antonio daily to himself. "Some day the Madonna will
grow weary, and will say, 'Give that Antonio an Englishman, so that
I can have a little peace and quiet.' And then the Englishman will
appear, and Antonio's fortune will be made."

Of course Antonio knew of every foreigner who came to Venice with the
intention of making a prolonged stay. There is no detective police in
the world that can be compared with the Venetian gondolier in learning
the ways and purposes of tourists. To know all about the foreigner
is at once his business and his capital. The Englishman who comes to
Venice and determines to spend six months or a year in that enchanted
city, may reach this decision on a Saturday night and mention it to no
living soul. Yet by the following Monday morning all the gondoliers in
Venice know that there is an Englishman to be striven for, and they
have even settled in their own minds precisely what apartment he will
probably hire. How they arrive at this knowledge it is not for me to
say. There are mysteries in the Venice of to-day, as there were in the
Venice of the Ten and of the Three.

Now, it fell out that one day Antonio learned that an Englishman and
his wife, a young couple, who had every appearance of sweet temper
and scant knowledge of the world, had arrived at the Albergo Luna,
and had told the porter that they intended to take a house and live
forever in Venice. The porter was an intimate friend of Antonio, and
had been promised a handsome commission on any foreigner whom he might
place in Antonio's hands. Within an hour after receiving the precious
information, Antonio had put on his best shirt, had said ten Aves at
lightning speed, had promised the Blessed Virgin two half-pound wax
candles in case he should land this desirable Englishman, and was back
again at the Luna and waiting to waylay his prey.

[Illustration: "THE PORTER PRESENTED ANTONIO."]

The porter presented Antonio, and asserted that, as a combination of
professional skill and moral beauty, Antonio was simply unique. Mr.
Mildmay, the Englishman in question, was pleased with Antonio's clean
shirt, and Mrs. Mildmay was captivated by his chestnut curls, and the
frank, innocent expression of the young fellow's face. He was hired
on the spot, with the new gondola which he professed to own, for 150
francs per month, including his board. He was to bring his gondola
and his recommendations to the hotel to be inspected that afternoon,
and was to begin his duties on the following day, the Mildmays having
already secured an apartment in advance of their arrival in Venice.

The long-hoped-for fortune had arrived at last. "He is a man of
excellent heart, the _paron_," said Antonio to the porter. "He will
be as wax in my hands: already I love him and the sweet _parona_. You
shall have your share of him, my Zuane. No one can say that I am not a
just man."

Antonio hurried at once from the hotel with a note from the porter to
a dealer in gondolas, certifying that the bearer had secured a most
eligible Englishman. He had to pay a heavy price for the hire by the
month of a nearly new gondola, but the payments were to form part of
the purchase-money, and Antonio did not grudge the price. Then he
stopped at his house to show the new gondola to his wife, and tell her
the blessed news, and then, armed with his baptismal certificate, and
an old letter from a notary, informing him that the funeral expenses
of his father must be paid or serious consequences would follow, he
returned to the hotel.

The Mildmays were satisfied with the gondola, and with Antonio's
recommendations; for they could not read Italian handwriting, and when
Antonio informed them that the notary's letter was a certificate that
he was the most honest man in Venice, and that it had been given him
by a German Prince whom he had served ten years, they were not in a
position to contradict the assertion. Moreover, they were already half
in love with the handsome and happy face of their gondolier, and would
have taken him without any recommendation at all, sooner than have
taken an old and ugly gondolier with the recommendation of the British
Consul and the resident chaplain. The next day Antonio entered upon his
duties, and began the joyous task of making hay while the sun of the
Englishman shone on him.

[Illustration: "HE SHOWED THE NEW GONDOLA TO HIS WIFE."]

The gondolier in private service in Venice does many things wholly
unconnected with his boat. He usually waits on his master's table;
he polishes the concrete floors, and he is sent on every variety
of errand. Antonio was tireless, respectful, and cheerful, and the
Mildmays agreed that he was an ideal servant. Of course they responded
to his suggestion that he needed a livery, and he was soon furnished at
their expense with a handsome suit of heavy blue cloth, a picturesque
hat, a silk sash, and an overcoat. He looked very handsome in his new
dress, and the difference between what he paid the tailor and what he
charged his master provided his wife and his little boy with their
entire wardrobe for the coming winter.

Venice is a cold city after the winter fogs begin, and when Antonio
advised the Mildmays to lay in their entire stock of firewood in
September instead of waiting until the price should be higher, they
said to one another what a comfort it was to have a servant who
really looked after their interests. So Antonio was commissioned to
buy the wood, and he bought it. He made a handsome commission on the
transaction, and, in addition, he had about one-fifth of the whole
amount of wood delivered at his own residence. It is true that this was
not quite enough to provide him fuel for the entire winter, but the
deficiency could easily be remedied by simply carrying home three or
four sticks under his coat every night, and Antonio was not a man who
shrank from any honest labour when the good of his family was in view.

About ten days after the arrival of his Englishman, Antonio informed
him that the gondola needed to go to the _squero_ to have its bottom
cleaned, at a cost of ten francs. This, however, he insisted upon
paying out of his own pocket, because the foulness of the bottom had
been incurred before he entered Mr. Mildmay's service. This scrupulous
display of honesty still further convinced the Englishman that he had
the pearl of gondoliers, and when the next day Antonio asked him to
give him as a loan, to be deducted from his future wages, fifty francs,
wherewith to make certain essential but wholly unintelligible repairs
to the gondola, Mr. Mildmay was of his wife's opinion that it would be
a shame to require the poor man ever to repay it.

The first thing that shook the Mildmays' confidence in Antonio was a
little incident in connection with a chicken. They had had a pair of
roast fowls for dinner and had eaten only one, intending to have the
other served cold for luncheon the next day. When late in the evening
Mrs. Mildmay accidentally discovered Antonio in the act of going out
of the house with the cold fowl stuffed under his coat, she demanded
an explanation. "It is true, _parona_," said Antonio, "that I took the
fowl. And why? Because all the evening I had seen you and the _paron_
sitting together in such love and happiness that my heart bled for poor
Antonio, who has no happy fireside at which to sit. And so I said to
myself, 'Antonio! surely you deserve a little happiness as well as
these good and noble people! Take the cold fowl, and eat it with love
and gratitude in your heart!'"

[Illustration: "TAKE THE COLD FOWL, AND EAT IT."]

Mrs. Mildmay could not scold him after this defence, and she simply
contented herself with telling him that he might keep the fowl for this
time, but that such a method of equalizing the benefits of fortune
must not occur again. Antonio promised both her and himself that it
should not, and though he continued to keep his wife's table fully
supplied from that of the Mildmays, the latter never again found him in
possession of surreptitious chickens.

One day Antonio found a gold piece, twenty francs in fact, on the floor
of his gondola. He knew it must have been dropped by the _paron_, and
he promptly brought it to him. "How wrong I was," said Mrs. Mildmay,
"to doubt the poor fellow because of that affair of the chicken. No one
would ever have been the wiser if he had kept that twenty-franc piece,
but he brought it to us like an honest man." For once she was right in
believing Antonio to be honest. Nothing could have induced him to sully
his soul and hands by unlawfully detaining his master's money. He was
determined to make all the money out of his providential Englishman
that he could make in ways that every gondolier knows to be perfectly
legitimate, but he was no thief, and Mr. Mildmay could fearlessly have
trusted him with all the money in his purse.

Antonio was now one of the happiest men in Venice, but one morning he
came to Mr. Mildmay with a face of pathetic sadness, and asked for a
day's holiday. "It is not for pleasure that I ask it," he said; "my
only pleasure is to serve the best of masters. But my little boy is
dead, and is to be buried to-day. I should like to go with the coffin
to San Michele."

Mr. Mildmay was unspeakably touched by the man's sorrow and the quiet
heroism with which he bore it. He gave him the day's holiday and fifty
francs towards the funeral expenses of his child. When Antonio appeared
in the morning, quiet, sad, but scrupulously anxious to do his whole
duty, the Mildmays felt that they really loved the silent and stricken
man.

Misfortune seemed suddenly to have run amuck at Antonio. A week after
the death of his child, he announced in his usual quiet way that his
wife was dead. It was very sudden, so he said. He did not know exactly
what was the disease, but he thought it was rheumatism. The Mildmays
thought it strange that rheumatism should have carried off a woman only
twenty-two years old, but strange things happen in Venice, and the
climate is unquestionably damp. Antonio only asked for half a holiday
to attend the funeral, and he added that unless the _paron_ could
advance him two hundred francs of his wages, he should be unable to
save his wife from being buried in the common ditch. Of course, this
could never be permitted, and Antonio received the two hundred francs,
and Mrs. Mildmay told her husband that if he should think of deducting
it from the unhappy man's wages, she could never respect him again.

For a time the darts of death spared the household of Antonio. The
gondola made its alleged monthly visit to the _squero_ to have its
bottom cleaned at Mr. Mildmay's expense, and the amount of repairs and
paint which it needed did seem unexpectedly large. But Antonio was
not foolishly grasping. So long as he doubled his wages by tradesmen's
commissions, and by little devices connected with the keeping of the
gondola, he felt that he was combining thrift with prudence. He made,
however, one serious mistake, of which he afterwards repented when
it was too late. Instead of giving the Madonna the two wax candles
which he had promised her, he gave her two stearine candles, trusting
that she would not notice the difference. It was not in keeping with
his honest and religious character, and there were times when the
recollection of it made him feel uneasy.

As the winter wore on Antonio's devotion to his employers never
slackened. Beyond the commissions which it is but just and right that
the faithful gondolier should exact from those dogs of tradesmen,
even if they did charge the same commissions in his master's bills,
he was tireless in protecting the Mildmays from imposition. He was
never too tired to do anything that he was asked to do, and although,
when his brother Spiro was temporarily out of employment, Antonio
discovered that there was nearly always too much wind to render it
safe to take the gondola out with a single oarsman, and that he would
therefore furnish a second oarsman in the person of Spiro at his
master's expense, he never intimated that he was not ready to row hour
after hour while the Mildmays explored the city and the lagoon. Mr.
Mildmay was fascinated by the narrow Venetian streets, and spent hours
exploring alone every part of the city. He was probably perfectly safe
in so doing, for highway robbery and crimes of violence are almost
unknown in Venice; but for all that he was always, though without his
knowledge, accompanied on his walking excursions by the stealthy and
unsuspected Antonio, who kept out of sight, but in readiness to come to
his assistance should the necessity arise.

Toward spring Antonio thought it best to have his wife's mother die,
but to his surprise Mr. Mildmay did not offer to pay the old lady's
funeral expenses. He drew the line at mothers-in-law, and Antonio
received only his half-holiday to accompany the corpse to the cemetery.
This miscarriage made Antonio think more than ever of that failure to
keep his promise to the Madonna in the matter of the wax candles, and
he sometimes wondered if she were capable of carrying her resentment so
far as to take his Englishman from him.

[Illustration: "ANTONIO WONDERED."]

There is gas in Venice, but the judicious householder does not use it,
save when he desires to enshroud his rooms in a twilight gloom. If he
wishes a light strong enough to read by, he burns petroleum. It was, of
course, Antonio who supplied the petroleum to the Mildmay household,
and equally of course, he bought the poorest quality and charged for
the dearest. Now, in spite of all the care which a timid person may
lavish on a lamp burning cheap petroleum, it is nearly certain sooner
or later to accomplish its mission of setting somebody or something on
fire, and Antonio's petroleum, which was rather more explosive than
gunpowder, unaccountably spared the inmates of the _casa_ Mildmay until
late in the month of March, when it suddenly asserted itself.

It happened in this way. One evening Mrs. Mildmay took a lamp in
her hand, and started to cross the wide and slippery floor of her
drawing-room. The rug on which she trod moved under her, and she came
near falling. In the effort to save herself she dropped the lamp. It
broke, and in an instant she was in a blaze.

Antonio was in the ante-room. The door was open and he saw the
accident. He sprang to Mrs. Mildmay's assistance. He did not attempt
to avoid the flames, but rushed directly through the pool of blazing
oil, burning his feet and ankles horribly. He seized Mrs. Mildmay, and
tore away her dress with his bare hands. He had nothing to wrap around
her, for he was wearing no coat at the time, but he clasped her close
in his arms, and smothered the flames that had caught her petticoat by
pressing her against his bosom. She escaped with nothing worse than
a slightly burned finger, but Antonio's hands, arms, feet and ankles
were burned to the bone. By this time Mr. Mildmay, who had been in his
study, heard his wife calling for help, and made his appearance.

Antonio asked the _parona's_ permission to sit down for a moment, and
then fainted away. The cook was called and sent for the doctor. She
met Antonio's brother in the _calle_, close to the house, and sent him
upstairs. With his help Antonio was carried to Mrs. Mildmay's bedroom,
and laid on the bed, and before the doctor came the wounded man had
regained consciousness, and had thanked the Mildmays for their care of
him.

The doctor, after dressing the wounds, said that the man might very
probably recover. But Antonio announced that he was about to die, on
hearing which decision the doctor changed his mind.

"When a Venetian of the lower class gives up, and says he is going to
die," said the doctor, "no medical science can save him. Your man will
die before morning, if he has really lost all hope. There! he says he
wants a priest; you might as well order his coffin at once. I can do
nothing to save him."

"_Paron_," said Antonio, presently, "would you, in your great goodness,
permit my wife to come to see me for the last time?"

"You shall have anything you want, my brave fellow," replied Mr.
Mildmay, "but I thought your wife was dead."

"I was mistaken about it," said Antonio. "It was her twin sister who
died, and they were so much alike that their own mother could not tell
them apart. No, my poor wife is still alive. May she bring my little
boy with her?"

"Tell her to bring anybody you may want to see," replied his master,
"but I certainly thought your little boy was buried last January."

"The _paron_ is mistaken, if he will pardon me for saying so. It was my
little girl who died. Was it not so, Spiro?"

Spiro confirmed Antonio's statement, like a loyal brother who is afraid
of no fraternal lie, and Mr. Mildmay had not the heart to trouble the
sufferer with any more suggested doubts of his veracity.

Antonio was duly confessed, and received absolution. "Did you tell the
father about the candles?" whispered Spiro after the priest had gone.

"I thought," answered Antonio, "that perhaps the Madonna had not yet
noticed that they were not wax, and that it would not be wise to tell
her of it, just as one is going where she is."

In the early morning Antonio died. His family, and Mr. and Mrs.
Mildmay, were at his bedside. He died bravely, with the smile of an
innocent little child on his face. "I have served the dear _paron_
faithfully," he said, just as he died. "I know he will take care of my
wife and child. And he will take Spiro as his gondolier."

Mr. Mildmay religiously carried out Antonio's dying request. He
installed Spiro in the place of the dead man, and he settled an annuity
on Zanze, the disconsolate widow. He gave Antonio a grave all to
himself in San Michele, and a beautiful white marble tombstone, with
the epitaph, "Brave, Faithful, and Honest." He came to know somewhat
later how Antonio had enriched himself at his expense, but he said to
his wife: "After all, my dear, Antonio was strictly honest according
to his own code. I think I have known some Englishmen of unblemished
reputation, whose honesty, according to the English code, could not be
compared with that of the poor boy who gave his life for yours."

                                                            W. L. ALDEN.

[Illustration:




ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO


By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd]


XXIII.--ZIG-ZAG SIMIAN.

Whence has arisen the notion that monkeys are happy creatures? Probably
from the inadequate fact that they pull one another's tails and
run away. But a being may be mischievous without being happy. Many
mischievous boys are never happy: possibly because the laws of Nature
won't permit of half the mischief they are anxious to accomplish.
Still, the monkey, at any rate in a state of freedom, is looked
upon as a typically happy creature. "And watch the gay monkey on
high," says Bret Harte; and Mr. Kipling addresses the monkey as "a
gleesome, fleasome thou," which latter looks like an attempt to make
an admissible adjective pass in an unwarranted brother. I have seen
monkeys fleasome, treesome, freesome, keysome (opposite adjectives
these, you will perceive on reflection), and disagreesome, but cannot
call to mind one that looked in the least gleesome. Everything that
runs up a fence or swings on a rope is not necessarily jolly, much as
the action would appear to justify the belief. Many a human creature
has stormed a fence with a lively desire to attain the dogless side,
but no noticeable amount of jollity; and a man escaping from fire
by a rope wastes no time in unseasonable hilarity, dangle he never
so quaintly. Look at their faces; look also at the monkey's face.
If a monkey grin, it is with rage; his more ordinary expression of
countenance is one of melancholy reflection--of sad anxiety. His most
waggish tricks are performed with an air of hopeless dejection. Now,
this may be due to any one of three causes, or even to a mixture of
them. It may be that, like the boy, he dolorously reflects that, after
all, mischief has its limits; that you cannot, so to speak, snatch the
wig of the man in the moon, upset the Milky Way, or pull the tail of
the Great Bear. Or it may be that a constant life of practical jokes,
and of watchfulness to avert them, is a wearying and a saddening thing
after all. Or it may be that every ape, meditating on his latest
iniquity, tries for ever to look as though it were the other monkey.

[Illustration: RATHER SHY.]

With many people, to speak of the Zoo monkeys is to speak of Sally.
Poor Sally! Who would not weep for Sally? For Sally is dead and
hath not left her peer. A perversion of Milton is excusable in the
circumstances. Why is there no memorial of Sally? "Is the spot marked
with no colossal bust?" as they say on invitations to bachelor
small-hour revels. There should, at least, be a memorial inscription to
Sally.

Sally, when first she came here in 1883, was a modest and, indeed,
rather a shy chimpanzee. A few years of elementary education, however,
quite changed Sally's character, for she learnt to count up to five,
and to be rather impudent. Wonderfully uniform are the results of
elementary education.

[Illustration: SALLY ON A BUST.]

The chimpanzees, orang-outangs, and such near relatives of humanity
are kept, when they are alive to keep, in the sloths' house. Such as
are there chiefly occupy their time in dying. It seems to be the only
really serious pursuit they ever take to. Sudden death is so popular
among them, that it is quite impossible to know how many are there
at any particular time without having them all under the eye at the
moment. A favourite "sell" among them is for a chimpanzee or orang to
become a little educated and interesting, then wait till some regular
visitor invites all his friends to inspect the phenomenon, and die just
before they arrive at the door. This appears to be considered a most
amusing practical joke by the dead monkey, and is much persevered in.

[Illustration: A STAGE IRISHMAN.]

Sally was a black-faced chimpanzee. The white-faced kind is more
common, and in the days of its extreme youth much more like a stage
Irishman, except that his black hair gives him the appearance of
wearing dress trousers very much frayed at the ankles.

[Illustration: A DECEPTIVE BRAIN-PAN.]

[Illustration: WHAT WILL HE BECOME?]

The orang-outang is less intellectual as a rule than the chimpanzee;
but he has a deceptive appearance of brain-pan--an illusory height
of forehead--that earns undeserved respect. Many a man has conducted
a successful business with credit on the strength of a reputation as
easily earned. With the orang as with the chimpanzee, it is in infancy
that he presents the most decently human appearance. But even then
he is a low, blackguard sort of baby--worse than the precocious baby
of the Bab Ballad could possibly have been. He should have a pipe
for a feeding-bottle and a betting-book to learn his letters from.
These anthropoid apes come with such suddenness and die with such
uncertainty that I cannot say whether there are any in the Zoo now or
not--I haven't been there since yesterday. But wanderoos there are, I
feel safe in saying, and Gibbons. The wanderoo is a pretty monkey, and
usually gentle. He has a grave, learned, and reverend aspect as viewed
from the front, and this is doubtless why, in India, his is supposed
to be a higher caste, respected and feared by other monkeys. That same
wig, however, that looks so venerable in the forefront view, is but
a slatternly tangle in profile, like unto the _chevelure_ of a dowdy
kitchenmaid. But a wanderoo, well taught, and of good-temper, is as
clean and quaint a pet as you may desire, and as delicate as the poet's
gazelle, with its incurable habit of dying. The same may be said of the
Gibbon. In this climate he Declines and Falls on the smallest excuse,
although, perhaps, not quite so readily as the chimpanzee, who may
almost be said to Decline and Fall professionally, like Mr. Wegg.

[Illustration: GRAVE AND LEARNED.]

The Diana monkey, too, makes a pleasant pet, and is not so confirmed a
dier as some. The Diana monkey here is over in the large monkey-house,
in the middle of the Gardens. Her name is Jessie, and her beard is
most venerable and patriarchal. But just outside the eastern door of
the big house, John, the Tcheli monkey, occupies his separate mansion.
John is a notable and a choleric character. He dislikes being made
the object of vulgar curiosity, and is apt to repel an inspection of
his premises with a handful of sawdust. Any unflattering remark on
his personal appearance will provoke a wild dance about his cage and
a threatening spar through the wires. But once threaten him with a
policeman--do as much as mention the word, in fact--and John becomes a
furious Bedlamite, with the activity of a cracker and the intentions
of dynamite. Against floor, walls, ceiling, and wires he bounces
incontinent, flinging sawdust and language that Professor Garner would
probably translate with hyphens and asterisks. John is the most easily
provoked monkey I know, and the quaintest in his rage. He is also the
hardiest monkey in the world, being capable of enjoying a temperature
of ten degrees below zero; but there is a suitable penalty provided in
the by-laws for any person so lost to decency as to suggest that this
Tcheli monkey is a very Tcheli monkey indeed. For John's benefit I
would suggest an extra heap of sawdust on Bank Holidays. On an occasion
of that sort it is little less than cruelty to keep him short of
ammunition.

[Illustration: DOWDY.]

[Illustration: THE DIANA.]

Of the big monkey-house, who remembers more than a nightmare of tails,
paws, and chatterings? Here are monkeys with beards, monkeys with
none, big monkeys, little monkeys, monkeys with blue faces, monkeys
who would appear to have escaped into the grounds at some time and
to have sat on freshly painted seats; all thieving from visitors and
each other, pulling tails, swinging, turning somersaults, with faces
expressive of unutterable dolor and weariness of the world. The wizen,
careworn face of the average monkey appeals to me as does that of the
elderly and rheumatic circus-clown, when his paint has washed off. The
monkey, I am convinced, is as sick of his regulation jokes as is the
clown of his. But he has a comic reputation to keep up, and he does it,
though every mechanical joke is a weariness and a sorrow to the flesh.
"There is somebody's tail hanging from a perch," reflects the monkey,
looking lugubriously across the cage. "I am a joker, and several human
creatures are looking at me, and preparing to laugh; consequently,
I must pull that tail, though I would prefer to stay where I am,
especially as it belongs to a big monkey, who will do something
unpleasant if he catches me." And with an inward groan he executes the
time-honoured joke and bolts for his life. It is a sad affliction to be
born a wag by virtue of species. There is one monkey here who for some
weeks displayed a most astonishing reluctance to snatch things through
the wires, and a total disinclination to assist or share in the thefts
of his friends by "passing on" or dividing. For some time I supposed
him to be a moral monkey strayed from a Sunday-school book, and
afflicted with an uncomfortable virtue. But afterwards I found that his
conscientiousness was wholly due to his having recently grabbed a cigar
by the hot end, and imbibed thereby a suspicion of the temperature of
everything. Beware especially, in this house, of the paws of Marie,
the Barbary ape. She has a long reach, and quickness enough to catch
a bullet shot Poole-fashion--softly. Only Jungbluth, her keeper, can
venture on familiarities, and him she takes by the eyebrows, gently
stroking and smoothing them.

[Illustration: IS IT CONSCIENTIOUSNESS?]

[Illustration: SOMETHING LIKE A MOUSTACHE.]

Behind the large room Jungbluth keeps sick monkeys, delicate monkeys,
tiny monkeys, and curious monkeys, who have no room outside. Here is a
beautiful moustache monkey, segregated because of a slight cold, and
at liberty to train his moustache without interference, if only it
would grow sufficiently long. Watch the light fur under the chin of a
moustache monkey; it is tinted with a delicate cobalt blue, a colour
that would seem impossible, except in feathers.

[Illustration: NERVES.]

But the little marmosets and the Pinche monkey, all in a cage together,
are chiefly interesting here. The Pinche monkey is badly afflicted
with nerves, and, as he is undisputed chief of the community, the
marmosets have to be careful how they sneeze, or cough, or blink,
or his indignation may be aroused. So that the whole performance in
this cage is a sort of eccentric knockabout act, by the celebrated
Marmosetti Eccentric Quartette. Marmoset No. 1 ventures on a gentle
twitter, and the rest join in the song. Promptly the irritated Pinche
bounds from his inmost lair, and the songsters are scattered. Everybody
doesn't know, by-the-bye, that the marmoset is consumed with an eternal
ambition to be a singing bird, and practises his notes with hopeless
perseverance. Another thing that many seem to be ignorant of, even some
who keep marmosets as pets, is that a marmoset's chief food should
consist of insects. In a state of freedom he also eats small birds; but
for a pet, cockroaches and bluebottles will probably be found, as a
dietary, preferable in some respects to humming-birds and canaries.

[Illustration: ENTER.]

[Illustration: ENTER ALSO.]

[Illustration: THE MARMOSETTI TROUP.]

[Illustration: EXIT.]

[Illustration: SOLILOQUY.]

Among the sick in this place is a spider monkey. Mind, I say he _is_
there. To-morrow, or in five minutes, he will probably be somewhere
else, for that is the nature of a monkey. Sickening, recovering,
dying, snatching, jumping, tail-pulling, bonnet-despoiling, everything
a monkey does is done in a hurry. This particular spider monkey has
two or three names, as Jerry, Tops, and Billy, whereunto he answers
indifferently; but I prefer to call him Coincidence, because of his
long arms, and he answers as well to that name as to another. He came
in here because of a severe attack of horizontal bar in the stomach. I
have never seen a monkey fall, and, for that reason, wish I had seen
the attack, as a curiosity. For, by some accident, unparalleled in
monkey history, Coincidence managed to miss his hold, and fell on his
digestive department across a perch. He is a long, thread-papery sort
of monkey, and it took a little time to convince him that he wasn't
broken in half. When at last he understood that there was still only
one of him, he set himself to such a doleful groaning and rubbing and
turning up of the eyes, that Jungbluth put him on the sick list at
once. But it took a very few hours to make him forget his troubles;
and, indeed, I have some suspicion that the whole thing was a dodge to
secure a comfortable holiday in hospital. That certainly is the opinion
of Coincidence's friend, the <DW64> monkey, as his face will tell you,
if you but ask him the question. It may interest those who already know
that Coincidence has a long arm, to know also that he has but four
fingers to each hand and no thumb; it is a part of his system. His tail
is another part of his system, and you mustn't touch it. There is no
more affable and friendly monkey alive than Coincidence, although he is
a little timid; but once touch his tail (it is long, like everything
else belonging to Coincidence), and you lose his friendship for ever.
He instantly complains to Jungbluth, and points you out unmistakably
for expulsion.

[Illustration: COINCIDENCE.]

[Illustration: SPIDERS.]

[Illustration: ON THE SICK LIST.]

[Illustration: "COINCIDENCE? HE'S ALL RIGHT."]

It is this house that witnesses most excitement on Bank Holidays. Who
would be a monkey in a cage set in the midst of a Bank Holiday crowd?
I wouldn't, certainly, if there were a respectable situation available
as a slug in some distant flower pot, or a lobster at the bottom of the
sea. Is a monkey morally responsible for anything he may do under the
provocation of a Bank Holiday crowd? Is he not rather justified in the
possession of all the bonnets and ostrich feathers he can grab by way
of solatium? Bank Holiday is the _dies iræ_ of these monkeys, and then
is Professor Garner avenged. The Professor shut himself in an aluminium
cage, and the cage littered about Africa for some time, an object of
interest to independent monkeys--a sort of free freak show. Here the
monkeys, secure in _their_ cage, study the exterior freaks, collecting
specimens of their plumage, whiskers, spectacles, and back hair. But it
is hard work--and savage.

[Illustration: RECOVERING.]

It takes even a cageful of monkeys a few days to recover from a Bank
Holiday, and for those few days trade is slack indeed. At such times it
is possible to observe the singular natural phenomenon of a monkey in a
state of comparative rest. But he is more doleful than ever.

[Illustration: DIES IRÆ.]




_Stories From the Diary of a Doctor._


_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."


XI.--TRAPPED.

On a certain evening in the winter of the year before last, I was sent
for in a hurry to see a young man at a private hotel in the vicinity of
Harley Street. I found my patient to be suffering from a violent attack
of delirium tremens. He was very ill, and for a day or two his life was
in danger. I engaged good nurses to attend him, and sat up with him
myself for the greater part of two nights. The terrible malady took a
favourable turn, the well-known painful symptoms abated. I persevered
with the usual remedies to insure sleep, and saw that he was given
plenty of nourishment, and about a week after his seizure Tollemache
was fairly convalescent. I went to visit him one evening before he left
his room. He was seated in a great armchair before the fire, his pipe
was near him on the mantelpiece, and a number of _Harper's Magazine_
lay open, and face downwards, on a table by his side. He had not yet
parted with his nurse, but the man left the room when I appeared.

"I wish you'd give me the pleasure of your company for half an hour or
so," said Tollemache, in a wistful sort of voice.

I found I could spare the time, and sat down willingly in a chair
at the side of the hearth. He looked at me with a faint dawning of
pleasure in his sunken eyes.

"What can I order for you?" he asked. "Brandy-and-soda and cigars? I'll
join you in a weed, if you like."

I declined either to smoke or drink, and tried to draw the young man
into a light conversation.

As I did so, finding my efforts, I must confess, but poorly responded
to, I watched my patient closely. Hitherto he had merely been my
patient. My mission had been to drag him back by cart-ropes if
necessary from the edge of the valley of death. He was now completely
out of danger, and although indulgence in the vice to which he was
addicted would undoubtedly cause a repetition of the attack, there was
at present nothing to render me medically anxious about him. For the
first time, therefore, I gave Wilfred Tollemache the critical attention
which it was my wont to bestow on those who were to be my friends.

He was not more than twenty-three or twenty-four years of age--a big,
rather bony fellow, loosely built. He had heavy brows, his eyes were
deeply set, his lips were a little tremulous and wanting in firmness,
his skin was flabby. He had a very sweet and pleasant smile, however,
and notwithstanding the weakness caused by his terrible infirmity, I
saw at once that there were enough good points in him to make it worth
any man's while to try to set him on his legs once more.

I drew the conversation round to his personal history, and found that
he was willing enough to confide in me.

He was an American by birth, but had spent so much time in Europe, and
in England in particular, that no very strong traces of his nationality
were apparent in his bearing and manner. He was an only son, and had
unlimited wealth at his command.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Twenty-three, my last birthday."

"In short," I said, rising as I spoke, standing before the hearth, and
looking down at him, "no man has brighter prospects than you--you have
youth, money, and I doubt not, from the build of your head, an abundant
supply of brains. In short, you can do anything you like with your
life."

He gave a hollow sort of laugh, and poking the ashes out of his pipe,
prepared to fill it again.

"I wouldn't talk cant, if I were you," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, that sort of speech of yours would befit a parson."

"Pardon me," I rejoined, "I but express the sentiments of any man who
values moral worth, and looks upon life as a great responsibility to be
accounted for."

He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. He was in no mood for any further
advice, and I prepared to leave him.

"You will be well enough to go out to-morrow," I said, as I bade him
good-bye.

He scarcely replied to me. I saw that he was in the depths of that
depression which generally follows attacks like his. I said a word or
two to the nurse at leaving, and went away.

It seemed unlikely that I should see much more of Tollemache; he would
be well in a few days and able to go where he pleased; one more visit
would probably be the last I should be obliged to make to him. He
evidently did not respond to my overtures in the direction of moral
suasion, and, much occupied with other matters, I had almost passed him
from my mind. Two days after that evening, however, I received a short
note from him; it ran as follows:--

"Will you come and see me as a friend? I'm like a bear with a sore
head, but I promise not to be uncivil.

"Yours sincerely,

                                                  "WILFRED TOLLEMACHE."

I sent a reply by my man to say that I would have much pleasure in
visiting him about nine o'clock that evening. I arrived at Mercer's
Hotel at the hour named. Tollemache received me in a private
sitting-room. Bottles containing wines and liqueurs were on the table.
There was a box of cigars and pipes.

[Illustration: "I BADE HIM GOOD-BYE."]

"You have not begun that again?" I could not help saying, glancing
significantly at the spirits as I spoke.

"No," he said, with a grim sort of smile, "I have no craving at
present--if I had, I should indulge. These refreshments are at your
service. At present I drink nothing stronger or more harmful than
soda-water."

"That is right," I said, heartily. Then I seated myself in a chair and
lit a cigar, while Tollemache filled a pipe.

"It is very good of you to give up some of your valuable time to a
worthless chap like me," he said.

There was a strange mingling of gratitude and despair in the words
which aroused my sympathy.

"It was good of you to send for me," I rejoined. "Frankly, I take an
interest in you, but I thought I had scared you the other night. Well,
I promise not to transgress again."

"But I want you to transgress again," said Tollemache. "The fact is,
I have sent for you to-night to give you my confidence. You know the
condition you found me in?"

I nodded.

"I was in a bad way, wasn't I?"

"Very bad."

"Near death--eh?"

"Yes."

"The next attack will prove fatal most likely?"

"Most likely."

Tollemache applied a match to his pipe--he leant back in his chair and
inhaled the narcotic deeply--a thin curl of blue smoke ascended into
the air. He suddenly removed the pipe from his mouth.

"Twenty-three years of age," he said, aloud, "the only son of a
millionaire--a dipsomaniac! Craving comes on about every three to four
months. Have had delirium tremens twice--doctor says third attack will
kill. A gloomy prospect mine, eh, Halifax?"

"You must not sentimentalize over it," I said; "you have got to face
it and trample on the enemy. No man of twenty-three with a frame like
yours and a brain like yours need be conquered by a vice."

"You know nothing about it," he responded, roughly. "When it comes
on me it has the strength of a demon. It shakes my life to the
foundations. My strength goes. I am like Samson shorn of his locks."

"There is not the least doubt," I replied, "that the next time the
attack comes on, you will have to make a desperate fight to conquer
it. You must be helped from outside, for the fearful craving for drink
which men like you possess is a form of disease, and is closely allied
to insanity. How often do you say the craving seizes you?"

"From three to four times a year--in the intervals I don't care if I
never touch a drop of strong drink."

"You ought never to touch wine, or strong drink of any kind; your frame
does not need it, and with your peculiar bias it only acts as fuel to
the hidden fire."

"You want me to be a teetotaler?" responded Tollemache. "I never will.
I'll take no obligatory vow. Fifty vows would not keep me from rushing
over the precipice when the demon is on me."

"I don't want you to take a vow against drink," I said, "as you say
you would break it when the attack comes on. But if you are willing to
fight the thing next time, I wish to say that all the medical skill
I possess is at your service. I have a spare room in my house. Will
you be my guest shortly before the time comes? You are warned of its
approach, surely, by certain symptoms?"

"Yes, I have bad dreams; I am restless and nervous; I am consumed by
thirst. These are but the preliminary symptoms. The full passion, as a
rule, wakens up suddenly, and I am, in short, as a man possessed."

Tollemache looked deeply excited as he spoke. He had forgotten his
pipe, which lay on the table near. Now he sprang to his feet.

"Halifax," he said; "I am the wretched victim of a demon--I often wish
that I were dead!"

[Illustration: "I AM THE WRETCHED VICTIM OF A DEMON."]

"You must fight the thing next time," I said. "It will be an awful
struggle, I don't pretend to deny that; but I believe that you and I
together will be a match for the enemy."

"It's awfully good of you to take me up--'pon my word it is."

"Well, is it a bargain?" I said.

"If you'll have it so."

"You must consider yourself my patient," I continued, "and obey me
implicitly from this moment. It is most important that in the intervals
of the attacks your health should be built up. I should recommend you
to go to Switzerland, to take a sea voyage, or to do anything else
which will completely brace the system. You should also cultivate your
intellectual qualities, by really arduous study for a couple of hours
daily."

"The thing I like best is music."

"Very well, study the theory of music. Don't weaken yourself over the
sentimental parts. If you are really musical, and have taken it up as
a pastime, work at the drudgery part for the next couple of months as
if your bread depended on it. This exercise will put your brain into a
healthy condition, and help to banish morbid thoughts. Then you must
take plenty of exercise. If you go to Switzerland, you must do all the
walking and the tobogganing which the weather will permit. If you go
into the country, you must ride for so many hours daily. In short, it
is your duty to get your body into training condition in order to fight
your deadly enemy with any chance of success."

I spoke purposely in a light, matter-of-fact tone, and saw to my
satisfaction that Tollemache was impressed by my words--he seemed
interested, a shadow of hope flitted across his face, and his view of
his own position was undoubtedly more healthy.

"Above all things, cultivate faith in your own self," I continued.

"No man had ever a stronger reason for wishing to conquer the foe," he
said, suddenly. "Let me show you this."

He took a morocco case out of his pocket, opened it, and put it into my
hand. It contained, as I expected, the photograph of a girl. She was
dark-eyed, young, with a bright, expectant, noble type of face.

"She is waiting for me in New York," he said. "I won't tell you her
name. I have not dared to look at the face for weeks and weeks. She has
promised to marry me when I have abstained for a year. I am not worthy
of her. I shall never win her. Give me the case." He shut it up without
glancing once at the picture, and replaced it in his breast pocket.

"Now you know everything," he said.

"Yes."

Soon afterwards I left him.

Tollemache obeyed my directions. The very next evening a note in his
handwriting was given to me. It contained the simple information that
he was off to Switzerland by the night mail, and would not be back in
England for a couple of months.

I did not forget him during his absence. His face, with its curious
mingling of weakness and power, of pathetic soul-longings and strong
animalism, often rose before me.

One evening towards the end of March I was in my consulting-room
looking up some notes when Tollemache was announced. He came in,
looking fresh and bronzed. There was brightness in his eyes and a
healthy firmness round his lips. He held himself erect. He certainly
was a very fine-looking young fellow.

"Well," he said, "here I am--I promised to come back, and I have kept
my word. Are you ready for me?"

"Quite ready, as a friend," I replied, giving him a hearty shake of the
hand; "but surely you don't need me as a doctor? Why, my dear fellow,
you are in splendid case."

He sat down in the nearest chair.

"Granted," he replied. "Your prescription worked wonders. I can sleep
well, and eat well. I am a good climber. My muscles are in first-class
order. I used to be a famous boxer in New York, and I should not be
afraid to indulge in that pastime now. Yes, I am in capital health;
nevertheless," here he dropped his voice to a whisper, "the premonitory
symptoms of the next attack have begun."

I could not help starting.

"They have begun," he continued: "the thirst, the sense of uneasiness,
the bad dreams."

"Well," I replied, as cheerfully as I could, "you are just in the
condition to make a brave and successful fight. I have carefully
studied cases like yours in your absence, and I am equipped to help you
at all points. You must expect a bad fortnight. At the end of that time
you will be on _terra firma_ and will be practically safe. Now, will
you come and stay with me?--you know I have placed a bedroom at your
disposal."

"Thanks, but it is not necessary for me to do that yet. I will go to my
old quarters at Mercer's Hotel, and will give you my word of honour to
come here the first moment that I feel my self-control quite going."

"I would rather you came here at once."

"It is not necessary, I assure you. These symptoms may vanish again
completely for a time, and although they will inevitably return, and
the deadly thing must be fought out to the bitter end, yet a long
interval may elapse before this takes place. I promised you to come to
England the moment the first unpropitious symptom appeared. I shall
be in your vicinity at Mercer's, and can get your assistance at any
moment; but it is unfair to take possession of your spare room at this
early date."

I could not urge the matter any farther. Helpful as I wished to be to
this young man, I knew that he must virtually cure himself. I could not
take his free will from him. I gave him some directions, therefore,
which I hoped might be useful: begged of him to fill up all his time
with work and amusement, and promised to go to him the first moment he
sent for me.

He said he would call me in as soon as ever he found his symptoms
growing worse, and went away with a look of courage and resolution on
his face.

I felt sure that he was thinking of the girl whose photograph he
held near his heart. Was he ever likely to win her? She was not a
milk-and-water maiden, I felt convinced. There was steel as well as
fire in those eyes. If she ever consented to become Tollemache's wife,
she would undoubtedly keep him straight--but she was no fool. She knew
the uselessness of throwing herself away on a drunkard.

Tollemache came to see me on the Monday of a certain week. On the
following Thursday morning, just after I had finished seeing the last
of my patients, my servant brought me a letter from him.

"This should have been handed to you yesterday," he said. "It had
slipped under a paper in the letter-box. The housemaid has only just
discovered it."

I opened it quickly. It contained these words:--

"DEAR HALIFAX,--The demon gains ascendency over me, but I still hold
him in check. Can you dine with me to-night at half-past seven? "Yours
sincerely,

                                                  "WILFRED TOLLEMACHE."

The letter was dated Wednesday morning. I should have received it
twenty-four hours ago. Smothering a vexed exclamation, I rushed off to
Mercer's Hotel.

I asked for Tollemache, but was told by one of the waiters that he was
out. I reflected for a moment and then inquired for the manager.

He came out into the entrance-hall in answer to my wish to see him, and
invited me to come with him into his private sitting-room.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Halifax?" he asked.

"Well, not much," I answered, "unless you can give me some particulars
with regard to Mr. Tollemache."

"He is not in, doctor. He went out last night, between nine and ten
o'clock, and has not yet returned."

"I am anxious about him," I said. "I don't think he is quite well."

"As you mention the fact, doctor, I am bound to agree with you. Mr.
Tollemache came in between six and seven last night in a very excited
condition. He ran up to his rooms, where he had ordered dinner for two,
and then came down to the bureau to know if any note or message had
been left for him. I gathered from him that he expected to hear from
you, sir."

[Illustration: "IN A VERY EXCITED CONDITION."]

"I am more vexed than I can express," I replied. "He wrote yesterday
morning asking me to dine with him, and through a mistake the letter
never got into my possession until twenty-four hours after it was
written."

"Poor young gentleman," replied the manager, "then that accounts for
the worry he seemed to be in. He couldn't rest, but was up and down,
watching, as I gather now, for your arrival, doctor. He left the house
soon after nine o'clock without touching his dinner, and has not since
returned."

"Have you the least idea where he is?" I asked.

"No, sir, not the faintest; Mr. Tollemache has left all his things
about and has not paid his bill, so of course he's safe to come back,
and may do so at any moment. Shall I send you word when he arrives?"

"Yes, pray do," I answered. "Let me know the moment you get any tidings
about him."

I then went away.

The manager had strict orders to give me the earliest information with
regard to the poor fellow, and there was now nothing whatever for me to
do but to try to banish him from my mind.

The next morning I went at an early hour to Mercer's to make inquiries.
The manager came himself into the entrance-hall to see me.

"There's been no news, sir," he said, shaking his head: "not a line
or a message of any sort. I hope no harm has happened to the poor
gentleman. It seems a pity you shouldn't have got the letter, doctor,
he seemed in a cruel way about your not turning up."

"Yes, it was a sad mistake," I answered, "but we must trust that no
disaster has occurred. If Mr. Tollemache were quite well, I should not,
of course, trouble my head over the matter."

"He was far from being that," said a waiter who came up at this moment.
"Did you tell the doctor, sir, about the lady who called yesterday?"
continued the man, addressing the manager.

"No, I had almost forgotten," he replied. "A lady in deep
mourning--young, I should say, but she kept her veil down--arrived here
last evening about eight o'clock and asked for Mr. Tollemache. I said
he was out, and asked if she would wish her name to be left. She seemed
to think for a moment and then said 'No,' that it didn't matter. She
said she would come again, when she hoped to see him."

In his intercourse with me, Tollemache had never spoken of any lady
but one, and her photograph he kept in his breast pocket. I wondered
if this girl could possibly have been to see him, and, acting on the
conjecture that the visitor might be she, I spoke.

"If the lady happens to call again," I said, "you may mention to her
that I am Mr. Tollemache's medical man, and that I will see her with
pleasure if she likes to come to my house in Harley Street." I then
further impressed upon the manager the necessity of letting me know the
moment any tidings came of Tollemache, and went away.

Nothing fresh occurred that evening, but the next morning, just when I
had seen the last of my patients, a lady's card was put into my hand.
I read the name on it, "Miss Beatrice Sinclair." A kind of premonition
told me that Beatrice Sinclair had something to do with Tollemache. I
desired my servant to admit her at once.

The next moment a tall girl, in very deep mourning, with a crape veil
over her face, entered the room. She bowed to me, but did not speak
for nearly half a minute. I motioned her to seat herself. She did so,
putting up her hand at the same moment to remove her veil. I could not
help starting when I saw her face. I bent suddenly forward and said,
impulsively:--

"I know what you have come about--you are anxious about Wilfred
Tollemache."

She looked at me in unfeigned surprise, and a flood of colour rushed
to her pale cheeks. She was a handsome girl--her eyes were dark, her
mouth tender and beautiful. There was strength about her face--her
chin was very firm. Yes, I had seen those features before--or, rather,
a faithful representation of them. Beatrice Sinclair had a face not
easily forgotten.

"If this girl is Tollemache's good angel, there is undoubtedly hope for
him," I murmured.

[Illustration: "I COULD NOT HELP STARTING WHEN I SAW HER FACE."]

Meanwhile, the astonished look on her face gave way to speech.

"How can you possibly know me?" she said. "I have never seen you until
this moment."

"I am Tollemache's doctor, and once he told me about you," I said. "On
that occasion, too, he showed me your photograph."

Miss Sinclair rose in excitement from her seat. She had all the
indescribable grace of a well-bred American girl.

"The fact of your knowing something about me makes matters much
easier," she said. "May I tell you my story in a very few words?"

"Certainly."

"My name, as you know, is Beatrice Sinclair. I am an American, and have
spent the greater part of my life in New York. I am an only child,
and my father, who was a general in the American army, died only a
week ago. It is three years since I engaged myself provisionally to
Wilfred Tollemache. We had known each other from childhood. He spoke
of his attachment to me; he also told me"--here she hesitated and her
voice trembled--"of," she continued, raising her eyes, "a fearful vice
which was gaining the mastery over him. You know to what I allude.
Wilfred was fast becoming a dipsomaniac. I would not give him up,
but neither would I marry a man addicted to so terrible a failing. I
talked to my father about it, and we agreed that if Wilfred abstained
from drink for a year, I might marry him. He left us--that is three
years ago. He has not written to me since, nor have I heard of him. I
grew restless at last, for I--I have never ceased to love him. I have
had bad dreams about him, and it seems to me that his redemption has
been placed in my hands. I induced my father to bring me to Europe and
finally to London. We arrived in London three weeks ago, and took up
our quarters at the Métrôpole. We employed a clever detective to find
out Wilfred Tollemache's whereabouts. A week ago this man brought us
the information that he had rooms at Mercer's Hotel. Alas! on that
day, also, my father died suddenly. I am now alone in the world. Two
evenings ago I went to Mercer's Hotel to inquire for Mr. Tollemache.
He was not in, and I went away. I returned to the hotel again this
morning. Your message was given to me, and I came on to you at once.
The manager of the hotel told me that you were Mr. Tollemache's medical
man. If he needed the services of a doctor he must have been ill. Has
he been ill? Can you tell me anything about him?"

"I can tell you a good deal about him. Won't you sit down?"

She dropped into a chair immediately, clasping her hands in her lap;
her eyes were fixed on my face.

"You are right in your conjecture," I said. "Tollemache has been ill."

"Is he alive?"

"As far as I can tell, yes."

Her lips quivered.

"Don't you know where he is now?" she asked.

"I deeply regret that I do not," I answered.

She looked at me again with great eagerness.

"I know that you will tell me the truth," she continued, almost in a
whisper. "I owe it to my dead father not to go against his wishes now.
What was the nature of Mr. Tollemache's illness?"

"Delirium tremens," I replied, firmly.

Miss Sinclair's face grew the colour of death.

"I might have guessed it," she said. "I hoped, but my hope was vain. He
has not fought--he has not struggled--he has not conquered."

"You are mistaken," I answered; "Tollemache has both fought and
struggled, but up to the present he has certainly won no victory. Let
me tell you what I know about him."

I then briefly related the story of our acquaintance. I concealed
nothing, dwelling fully on the terrible nature of poor Tollemache's
malady. I described to Miss Sinclair the depression, the despair, the
overpowering moral weakness which accompanies the indulgence in this
fearful vice. In short, I lifted the curtain, as I felt it was my duty
to do, and showed the poor girl a true picture of the man to whom she
had given her heart.

"Is there no hope for him?" she asked, when I had finished speaking.

"You are the only hope," I replied. "The last rock to which he clings
is your affection for him. He was prepared to make a desperate fight
when the next craving for drink assailed him. You were the motive which
made him willing to undergo the agony of such a struggle. I look upon
the passion for drink as a distinct disease: in short, as a species of
insanity. I was prepared to see Tollemache through the next attack.
If he endured the torture without once giving way to the craving for
drink, he would certainly be on the high road to recovery. I meant to
have him in my own house. In short, hopeless as his case seemed, I had
every hope of him."

I paused here.

"Yes?" said Miss Sinclair. "I see that you are good and kind. Why do
you stop? Why isn't Wilfred Tollemache here?"

"My dear young lady," I replied, "the best-laid plans are liable to
mishap. Three days ago, Tollemache wrote to me telling me that he was
in the grip of the enemy, and asking me to come to him at once. Most
unfortunately, that letter was not put into my hands until twenty-four
hours after it should have been delivered. I was not able to keep the
appointment which Tollemache had made with me, as I knew nothing about
it until long after the appointed hour. The poor fellow left the hotel
that night, and has not since returned."

[Illustration: "IS THERE NO HOPE?"]

"And you know nothing about him?"

"Nothing."

I rose as I spoke. Miss Sinclair looked at me.

"Have you no plan to suggest?" she asked.

"No," I said, "there is nothing for us to do but to wait. I will not
conceal from you that I am anxious, but at the same time my anxiety may
be groundless. Tollemache may return to Mercer's at any moment. As soon
as ever he does, you may be sure that I will communicate with you."

I had scarcely said these words before my servant came in with a note.

"From Mercer's Hotel, sir," he said, "and the messenger is waiting."

"I will send an answer in a moment," I said.

The man withdrew--Miss Sinclair came close to me.

"Open that letter quickly," she said, in an imperative voice. "It is
from the hotel. He may be there even now."

I tore open the envelope. There was a line from the manager within.

"DEAR SIR,--I send you the enclosed. I propose to forward the
dressing-case at once by a commissionaire."

The enclosed was a telegram. The following were its brief contents:--

"Send me my dressing-case immediately by a private messenger.--Wilfred
Tollemache."

An address was given in full beneath:--

"The Cedars, 110, Harvey Road, Balham."

I knew that Miss Sinclair was looking over my shoulder as I read. I
turned and faced her.

Her eyes were blazing with a curious mixture of joy, excitement, and
fear.

"Let us go to him," she exclaimed; "let us go to him at once. Let us
take him the dressing-case."

I folded up the telegram and put it into my pocket.

Then I crossed the room and rang the bell. When my servant appeared, I
gave him the following message:--

"Tell the messenger from Mercer's," I said, "that I will be round
immediately, and tell him to ask the manager to do nothing until I
come."

My servant withdrew and Miss Sinclair moved impatiently towards the
door.

"Let us go," she said: "there is not a moment to lose. Let us take the
dressing-case ourselves."

"I will take it," I replied; "you must not come."

"Why?" she asked, keen remonstrance in her tone.

"Because I can do better without you," I replied, firmly.

"I do not believe it," she answered.

"I cannot allow you to come with me," I said. "You must accept this
decision as final. You have had patience for three years; exercise it
a little longer, and--God knows, perhaps you may be rewarded. Anyhow,
you must trust me to do the best I can for Tollemache. Go back to the
Métrôpole. I will let you know as soon as I have any news. You will, I
am sure, trust me?"

"Oh, fully," she replied, tears suddenly filling her lovely eyes. "But
remember that I love him--I love him with a very deep love."

There was something noble in the way she made this emphatic statement.
I took her hand and led her from the room. A moment later she had left
me, and I was hurrying on foot to Mercer's Hotel.

The manager was waiting for me in the hall. He had the dressing-case in
his hand.

"Shall I send this by a commissionaire?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "I should prefer to take it myself. Tell the porter to
call a hansom for me immediately."

The man looked immensely relieved.

"That is good of you, doctor," he said; "the fact is, I don't like the
sound of that address."

"Nor do I," I replied.

"Do you know, Dr. Halifax, that the young lady--Miss Sinclair, she
called herself--came here again this morning?"

"I have just seen her," I answered.

The hall porter now came to tell me that the hansom was at the door. A
moment later I was driving to Balham, the dressing-case on my knee.

[Illustration: "A MOMENT LATER I WAS DRIVING TO BALHAM."]

From Mercer's Hotel to this suburb is a distance of several miles, but
fortunately the horse was fresh and we got over the ground quickly. As
I drove along my meditations were full of strange apprehensions.

Tollemache had now been absent from Mercer's Hotel for two days and
three nights. What kind of place was Harvey Road? What kind of house
was 110? Why did Tollemache want his dressing-case? And why, if he did
want it, could not he fetch it himself? The case had been a favourite
of his--it had been a present from his mother, who was now dead. He had
shown it to me one evening, and had expatiated with pride on its unique
character. It was a sort of _multum in parvo_, containing many pockets
and drawers not ordinarily found in a dressing-case. I recalled to mind
the evening when Tollemache had brought it out of his adjacent bedroom
and opened it for my benefit. All its accoutrements were heavily
mounted in richly embossed silver. There was a special flap into which
his cheque-book fitted admirably. Under the flap was a drawer, which
he pulled open and regaled my astonished eyes with a quantity of loose
diamonds and rubies which lay in the bottom.

"I picked up the diamonds in Cape Town," he said, "and the rubies in
Ceylon. One or two of the latter are, I know, of exceptional value, and
when I bought them I hoped that they might be of use----"

Here he broke off abruptly, , sighed, and slipped the drawer
back into its place.

It was easy to guess where his thoughts were.

Now that I had seen Miss Sinclair, I felt that I could better
understand poor Tollemache. Such a girl was worth a hard fight to win.
No wonder Tollemache hated himself when he felt his own want of moral
strength, and knew that the prize of such a love as hers might never be
his.

I knew well that the delay in the delivery of the note was terribly
against the poor fellow's chance of recovery, and as I drove quickly to
Balham, my uneasiness grew greater and greater. Was he already in the
clutches of his foe when he sent that telegram? I felt sure that he was
not in immediate need of cash, as he had mentioned to me incidentally
in our last interview that he had drawn a large sum from his bank as
soon as ever he arrived in England.

We arrived at Balham in about an hour, but my driver had some
difficulty in finding Harvey Road.

At last, after skirting Tooting Bee Common we met a policeman who was
able to acquaint us with its locality. We entered a long, straggling,
slummy-looking road, and after a time pulled up at 110. It was a tall
house, with broken and dirty Venetian blinds. The hall door was almost
destitute of paint. A balcony ran round the windows of the first floor.

I did not like the look of the house, and it suddenly occurred to me
that I would not run the risk of bringing the dressing-case into it.

I had noticed the name of a respectable chemist over a shop in the High
Street, a good mile away, and desired the driver to go back there at
once.

He did so. I entered the shop, carrying the case in my hand. I gave the
chemist my card, and asked him if he would oblige me by taking care of
the dressing-case for an hour. He promised civilly to do what I asked,
and I stepped once more into the hansom and told the man to drive back
as fast as he could to 110, Harvey Road.

He obeyed my instructions. The moment the hansom drew up at the door, I
sprang out and spoke to the driver.

"I want you to remain here," I said. "Don't on any account leave this
door until I come out. I don't like the look of the house."

The man gave it a glance of quick interrogation. He did not say
anything, but the expression of his eyes showed me plainly that he
confirmed my opinion.

"I think you understand me," I said. "Stay here until you see me again,
and if I require you to fetch a policeman, be as quick about it as you
can."

The man nodded, and I ran up the broken steps of 110.

The door possessed no knocker, but there was a bell at the side.

I had to pull it twice before it was answered; then a slatternly and
tawdrily dressed servant put in an appearance. Her face was dirty. She
had pinned a cap in hot haste on her frowzy head of red hair, and was
struggling to tie an apron as she opened the door.

"Is Mr. Tollemache in?" I asked. "I wish to see him at once."

The girl's face became watchful and secretive--she placed herself
between me and the hall.

"There's a gentleman upstairs," she said; "but you can't see him, he's
ill."

"Oh, yes, I can," I answered. "I am his doctor--let me pass, please.
Mr. Tollemache has telegraphed for his dressing-case, and I have
replied to the telegram."

"Oh, if you have brought the parcel, you can go up," she said, in a
voice of great relief. "I know they're expecting a parcel. You'll find
'em all on the first floor. Door just opposite the stairs--you can't
miss it."

I pushed past her and ran up the stairs. They were narrow and dark. The
carpet on which I trod felt greasy.

I flung open the door the girl had indicated, and found myself in a
good-sized sitting-room. It faced the street, and the window had a
balcony outside it.

Seated by a centre table drawn rather near this window were three men,
with the most diabolical faces I have ever looked at. One of them was
busily engaged trying to copy poor Tollemache's signature, which was
scrawled on a half sheet of paper in front of him--the other two were
eagerly watching his attempts. Tollemache himself lay in a dead drunken
sleep on the sofa behind them.

My entrance was so unexpected that none of the men were prepared for
me. I stepped straight up to the table, quickly grabbed the two sheets
of paper, crushed them up in my hand, and thrust them into my pocket.

"I have come to fetch Mr. Tollemache away," I said.

The men were so absolutely astonished at my action and my words, that
they did not speak at all for a moment. They all three jumped from
their seats at the table and stood facing me. The noise they made
pushing back their chairs aroused Tollemache, who, seeing me, tottered
to his feet and came towards me with a shambling, uneasy gait.

"Hullo, Halifax, old man, how are you?" he gasped, with a drunken
smile. "What are you doing here? We're all having a ripping time: lots
of champagne; but I've lost my watch and chain and all my money--three
hundred pounds--I've telegraphed for my cheque-book, though. Glad
you've come, old boy--'pon my word I am. Want to go away with you,
although we have had a ripping time, yes, _awfully_ ripping."

"You shall come," I said. "Sit down first for a moment."

I pushed him back with some force on to the sofa and turned to one of
the men, who now came up and asked me my business.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired. "We don't want you--you had
better get out of this as fast as you can. You have no business here,
so get out."

"Yes, I have business here," I replied. "I have come for this man,"
here I went up to Tollemache and laid my hand on his shoulder. "I am
his doctor and he is under my charge. I don't leave here without him,
and, what is more," I added, "I don't leave here without his property
either. You must give me back his watch and chain and the three hundred
pounds you have robbed him of. Now you understand what I want?"

"We'll see about that," said one of the men, significantly. He left the
room as he spoke.

During his absence, the other men stood perfectly quiet, eyeing me with
furtive and stealthy glances.

Poor Tollemache sat upright on the sofa, blinking with his heavy eyes.
Sometimes he tried to rise, but always sank back again on his seat.
During the whole time he kept muttering to himself:--

"Yes, good fellows these: jolly time, champagne, all the rest, but _I'm
robbed_; this is a thieves' den. Don't leave me alone, Halifax. Want to
go. You undershtand. Watch and chain gone, and _all my money_; three
hundred in notes and gold. Yes, three hundred. Won't let me go till I
give 'em my cheque-book; telegraphed for cheque-book in dressing-case.
You undershtand, yes. Don't leave me, old boy."

"It will be all right," I said. "Stay quiet."

The position was one of extreme danger for both of us. There was
nothing whatever for it but to carry matters with a cool hand and not
to show a vestige of fear. I glanced round me and observed the position
of the room. The sofa on which Tollemache was sitting was close to the
window. This window had French doors, which opened on to the balcony. I
edged close to it.

I did not do this a moment too soon. The man who had left the room now
returned with a ruffian of gigantic build, who came up to me at once
with a menacing attitude.

[Illustration: "WHO ARE YOU?"]

"Who are you?" he said, shaking his brawny fist in my face. "We don't
want _you_ here--get out of this room at once, or it will be the worse
for you. We won't 'ave you a-interfering with our friends. This gent
'ave come 'ere of _his own free will_. We like him, and 'e's 'eartily
welcome to stay as long as 'e wants to. You'd best go, ef you value
your life."

While he was speaking I suddenly flung my hand behind me, and turning
the handle of the French window threw it open.

I stepped on to the balcony and called to the cabman: "Stay where you
are," I said, "I may want you in a moment." Then I entered the room
again.

"I don't wish to waste words on you," I said, addressing the burly man.
"I have come for Mr. Tollemache, and I don't mean to leave the house
without him. He comes away with me the moment you return his watch and
chain, and the three hundred pounds you have stolen from him. If you
don't fetch that watch and chain, and that money, I shall send the
cabman who is waiting for me outside, and who knows me, for the police.
You are best acquainted with what sort of house this is, and with what
sort of game you are up to. It is for you to say how near the wind you
are sailing. If you wish the police to find out, they can be here in
a minute or two. If not, give me the money and the watch and chain. I
give you two minutes to make your choice."

Here I took out my watch and looked at it steadily.

I stepped again on to the balcony.

"Cabby," I shouted, "if I am not with you in _three minutes from now_,
go and bring a couple of policemen here as quickly as ever you can."

The cabman did not speak, but he took out his watch and looked at it.

I re-entered the room.

"Now you know my mind," I said. "I give you two minutes to decide how
to act. If Mr. Tollemache and I are not standing on the pavement in
three minutes from now, the police will come and search this house. It
is for you to decide whether you wish them to do so or not."

I was glad to see that my words had an effect upon the biggest of
the ruffians. He looked at his companions, who glanced back at him
apprehensively. One of them edged near me and tried to peer over my
shoulder to see if the cabman were really there.

Tollemache went on mumbling and muttering on the sofa. I stood with my
back to the window, my watch in my hand, marking the time.

"Time's up," I said, suddenly replacing the watch. "Now, what do you
mean to do?"

"We'd best oblige the gent, don't yer think so, Bill?" said one of the
men to his chief.

"We'll see about that," said the chief. He came close to me again.

"Now, look you 'ere," he said, "you'd best go out quiet, and no
mischief will come. The gent 'ere 'e give us the watch and chain and
the money, being old pals of his as he picked up in New York City."

"That's a lie," shouted Tollemache.

"Stay quiet," I said to him.

Then I turned to the ruffian, whose hot breath I felt on my cheek.

"We do not leave here," I said, "without the watch and chain and the
money. My mind is quite made up. When I go, this gentleman goes, and we
neither of us go without his property."

These words of mine were almost drowned by the heavy noise of an
approaching dray. It lumbered past the window. As it did so, I stepped
on to the balcony to acquaint the cabman with the fact that the three
minutes were up.

I looked down into the street, and could not help starting--the cab had
vanished.

I turned round quickly.

The big man had also stepped upon the balcony--he gave me an evil
glance. Suddenly seizing me by the collar, he dragged me back into the
room.

"You ere a humbug, you ere," he said, "wid yer bloomin' cabs--there
ain't no cab there--no, nor never wor. Ef you don't go in one way you
go in another. It ain't our fault ef things ain't quite agreeable. Come
along, Sam, lend a 'and."

The next moment the ruffian had laid me flat on my back on the floor,
and was kneeling on my chest.

Tollemache tottered from the sofa, and made a vain struggle to get the
brute away.

"You get out of this," the fellow thundered at him. "I'll make an end
of you, too, ef you don't look out."

He fumbled in his pocket and took out a huge clasp-knife.

I closed my eyes, feeling sure that my last hour had come. At this
moment, however, the rapidly approaching sound of cab wheels was
distinctly audible. A cab drove frantically up and stopped at the door.

The four ruffians who were clustered round me all heard it, and the big
man took his knee off my chest.

Quick as thought I found my feet again, and before anyone could prevent
me, leaped out on to the balcony. Two policemen were standing on the
steps of the house--one of them had the bell-pull in his hand and was
just about to sound a thundering peal.

"Stop," I shouted to him; "don't ring for a moment--stay where you
are." Then I turned and faced the group in the room.

[Illustration: "I FELT SURE THAT MY LAST HOUR HAD COME."]

"It is not too late," I said; "I give you one minute's grace. Return
this gentleman's watch and chain and the three hundred pounds you have
stolen from him, and I say nothing to the two policemen who are now
waiting on the steps. If I have not the money back within a minute, the
police enter your house--now you can choose."

I saw by the expression on the face of the bully who had knocked me
down that he was only too eager to accede to my request.

"Come on, Bill," he said to one of his pals, "I suppose there ain't
nothing for it but to do what the gen'leman says. Yes, yes, you be
quiet, sir, and you'll have all the swag--lor', we only pulled you down
by way of a joke, and as to the money and the other waluables, we was
_keeping_ 'em for the gent. Who'd want to rob a poor innercent like
that? You promise not to peach on us, sir?"

"Be quick," I shouted. "I give you a minute, no more--give me the money
and the watch and chain. You had better hurry up."

They did hurry up with a vengeance. The big man was as great a coward
as he was a ruffian. As he thrust his hands deep into his trousers
pockets, I saw that he was absolutely shaking with fright. Tollemache's
magnificent watch and chain were laid on the table, and all four men
turned their pockets out and deposited gold and notes by the side of
the other property. I stepped up to the table and reckoned the money.
Two hundred and eighty pounds and the watch and chain were returned to
me. The remaining twenty pounds were, I plainly saw, hopelessly gone.
It was not worth fighting for them. I put the gold and notes and the
watch and chain into my pocket, and going up to Tollemache took his arm.

"Come," I said, "we can go now."

The terror which must have seized him when he saw me struggling on
the floor had partly sobered him, but now he had returned to the most
imbecile stage of his horrible vice. He struggled to his feet and
clutched hold of me.

"Want my pipe," he muttered. "I say, old boy, won't go without my
pipe."

I had hard work to keep my patience. He was a big man, and I could not
control him against his will. We were by no means yet out of the wood.
The four ruffians were eyeing us as if they would only too gladly kill
us both by slow torture. Never before had I encountered eight such
diabolical eyes as those which they fixed upon me. And there stood
Tollemache, with an idiotic smile on his face, and imagining that he
was doing a wonderful and clever thing when he refused to stir without
his pipe.

"Don't be a fool," I said, sternly, to him. "Come, now, I'll get you
your pipe to-morrow."

To my relief he seemed satisfied with this assurance, and suffered me
to drag him across the room.

When we reached the door the big ruffian came up and intercepted us.

"We have your word not to peach?" he said.

"Yes," I replied--"let me pass."

He did so, and I helped Tollemache as best I could downstairs.

The four men watched our descent over the banisters.

As soon as I had got my patient out on the steps, one of the policemen
came up to me.

"What's the trouble, sir?" he demanded. "Can we help you?"

"This gentleman is hopelessly drunk," I replied--"I thought it possible
I might need your assistance in getting him from the house. You will
oblige me much by helping me now to put him in the cab."

"No other trouble in there, sir?" asked the man, meaningly.

"None," I answered. "Will you kindly take the gentleman's other arm?"

The policeman did so--his eyes were full of significance. He guessed,
of course, that I was hiding something, but it was not for him to make
any further remarks.

I took Tollemache straight back to my own house, and for the next week
I had once again to lend him what aid I could in fighting the terrible
demons who attack the victims of delirium tremens. I engaged two
skilful men to nurse him, and, between us, we managed to drag the poor
fellow away from the shores of death.

All this time I was in daily communication with Beatrice Sinclair. I
got to know her well during these dark days. She was a girl to win the
respect and admiration of any man, and she undoubtedly won mine. There
was something grandly simple and unconventional about her.

"I am alone in the world," she said to me many times; "my mission in
life is to save Wilfred Tollemache."

"You will not save him by marrying him in his present state," I
answered her.

She raised her brows and looked at me in some slight surprise.

"I have no intention of marrying him at present," she said. "Nothing
would induce me to unite my lot with that of a drunkard--besides, I
promised my father. I will marry Wilfred when he has abstained from
drink for a year--not before."

"If he abstains for a year he will be cured," I replied.

There came an evening when Tollemache was sufficiently convalescent
to come downstairs. I had not yet said anything to him about Miss
Sinclair, but as I knew she was impatient to see him, I wondered if it
might be safe for me to break the news of her arrival on the scene to
him that evening. He sat in my consulting-room huddled up by the fire.
The evening was a warm one in April, but he looked chilly and depressed.

I drew a chair near him and sat down.

He looked at me with languid eyes out of a cadaverous face.

"I can't make out why you are so good to me," he said. "I am not worth
the thought of a man like you."

I did not reply for a moment. Then I said, tersely:--

"It would be a great victory to save you, and I believe it can be done."

"I have a sort of memory," said Tollemache, "of your having already
saved my life at the risk of your own."

"That is true," I answered.

"How can I pay you back?" he asked. "Will money----?"

"No," I interrupted, harshly, springing to my feet as I spoke--"money
won't. I want you to become a man again: that is my reward."

He seemed to shrink into himself; there was not a scrap of fibre about
him at present.

"Will you tell me," I said, "how you got into that den?"

He roused himself a little at this, and some animation came into his
eyes.

"That was partly your fault," he said. "You did not keep your word;
you never came to me when I wrote to you. I told you that I was losing
self-control----"

I interrupted him to explain why I had not received his letter.

"Well," he said, "I spent a day of fearful torture. I knew I was on
the brink of a precipice, and that unless you pulled me back, against
my will, over I must go. I returned to Mercer's in the evening and
looked eagerly for your note. None had arrived. I waited for you until
nine o'clock, and then in a sort of frenzy went out. I had a very stiff
brandy-and-soda, which pulled me together for a bit, and seeing a
music-hall in Oxford Street, I went in. There I was supplied with fresh
drink, and while I was indulging, a man of the name of Hawker, who had
once seen me in a drunken condition in New York, came up and claimed
acquaintance. I knew, the moment I looked at the fellow, that the demon
had got the upper hand. Hawker talked, and supplied me with fresh
drink. He introduced me to a companion as low as himself. I have a dim
remembrance of driving away with these men and of spending the night
over cards and unlimited drink. In the morning I wanted to leave, but
the fellows threatened me, and in my drunken state I was no match for
them. Hawker sat down near me and asked a lot of questions, to which I
replied as readily as if I were a baby. I don't know how that day or
the next passed. I gave Hawker the address of the hotel where I was
staying, and told him about my dressing-case and its valuable contents.
Hawker filled in a telegram to the manager of the hotel, which he made
me sign. When it was sent off, he gave me a sheet of paper and desired
me to write my signature on it. I did so--the men then sat round a
table and began to copy it. The horrors of delirium tremens were
already upon me, and my mind became filled with all manner of terrible
imaginings. I closed my eyes and dozed off. When next I opened them,
you were standing in the room."

[Illustration: "CAME UP AND CLAIMED ACQUAINTANCE."]

"You were practically out of your mind," I replied; "but the thing is
over, and well over. By the way, have you ever thought, during the last
terrible fortnight, of the photograph which you were good enough to
show me?"

Tollemache started and clenched his nerveless hand.

"Don't speak of it," he said. "The one thing left to me to be thankful
for, is that she has not linked her life with mine."

"You have undoubtedly much cause to be thankful," I replied. "The wife
of a drunkard is the most miserable woman on God's earth. Please pardon
me, however, if I pain you a little by speaking about the girl whose
photograph you showed me. Do you mind telling me her name?"

"Beatrice Sinclair."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty--there is really no use in this catechism, Halifax."

"I am sorry to pain you," I replied, briefly; "but the fact is, I was
struck with Miss Sinclair's face--there is a great deal of strength in
it. If you conquered your fault, she would be the woman of all others
to keep you straight. She is, I am certain, attached to you. To win a
girl like Beatrice Sinclair ought to be a motive strong enough to make
any man conquer a vice like yours."

Tollemache was now intensely agitated. He sprang to his feet.

"I tell you," he said, "she has forgotten all about me. It is three
years since she has heard my name. She has in all probability married
another man long ere this."

"I am sure she has not," I answered.

He thrust his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out the case which
contained the photograph.

"Many a time I have wanted to put this into the fire," he said. "I dare
not part with it, and yet I dare not look at it."

"Keep it," I said: "there is hope for you while you have it."

"There isn't a ghost of hope for me," he said. He threw himself back
again into his chair, and covered his face.

My servant came into the room and brought me a message.

"Tollemache," I said, "a lady has called who wishes to see me. Will you
forgive me if I leave you for a minute or two?"

He growled out some reply which was scarcely intelligible, and I left
the room.

I went into my library, where Beatrice Sinclair was waiting for me.

"Well," she said, coming up to me eagerly, "is he ready for me?"

"He thinks you have forgotten him," I said, "and that in all
probability you are married to another."

"What a cruel thought!"

"But he keeps your photograph in his breast pocket."

"Does he, indeed?" Her eyes blazed with sudden joy.

"He is tempted often to throw it into the fire," I continued, "for he
feels himself unworthy of you; but he neither dares to throw it away
nor to look at it."

"He shall look at me instead. Take me to him at once."

"You will see the wreck of the Tollemache you used to know."

"He shall not be a wreck long. I have vowed to save him. My life is at
his service."

"Remember your promise to your father."

"I remember it. I will not break it. Now take me to him."

She came up to me and held out her hand. I took it and went with her to
the door of the next room, opened it, and motioned to her to enter.

When she did so, I closed it softly and came away.

I had a firm conviction that with such unexpected aid, Tollemache would
have moral strength to overcome the vice which was ruining him.

Subsequent events proved that I was right.




_From Behind the Speaker's Chair_.


XIV.

                       (VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

[Sidenote: THE QUEEN'S SPEECH.]

There is something gravely comical in the manner the London morning
newspapers deal with the Queen's Speech on the morning preceding its
communication to Parliament. They know all about it, and, as the event
proves, are able to forecast it paragraph by paragraph. Yet, withal,
they shrink from any assumption of positive knowledge, or even of
attempt to foretell what will take place. "Her Majesty," they write,
"must of necessity allude to the progress of events in Central Africa
and on the East of that dark but interesting continent." You learn half
a day in advance of the opening of Parliament exactly what Ministers
have resolved to say on this particular topic. Other events of current
interest at home and abroad are introduced in the same casual manner,
and are dealt with in similar detail. Mr. Wemmick had carefully studied
this style, and had successfully assimilated it with his ordinary
conversation and methods of transacting business.

The general impression is that editors of the principal London papers
receive a copy of the Queen's Speech on the night before the Session
opens, with the understanding that they are to treat it gingerly, and,
above all, to safeguard Ministers from suspicion of collusion in the
premature publication. To adopt the consecrated style, I may observe
that this will probably be found to be a misapprehension. Doubtless
what happens is that the editor of the morning paper meets at his club
a Cabinet Minister of his acquaintance, who, following immemorial
usage, feels at liberty to give his friend a conversational summary of
the points of the Speech. Or it may happen that an appointment is made
with the Whip authorized to make such communication. Certainly it will,
upon investigation, appear that there is no foundation for the fiction
of a written copy of the Speech being supplied for editorial use. Years
ago the editor, either of the _Times_ or the _Morning Chronicle_,
profiting by personal acquaintance, was able on the morning of the
meeting of Parliament to forecast the Queen's Speech. He invented, as
desirable in the circumstances, the roundabout style of communication
alluded to. The following year other papers, working the oracle on
the same lines, adopted the same primly mysterious style. There is
no reason why this should now be done; but done it is, as the eve of
the Session, still young, testified. New journalism has been a potent
agency in varying Press usages. It has not yet ventured to attack this
decrepit old farce.

[Illustration: "LOUNGING IN."]

[Sidenote: BEFORE DINNER AND AFTER.]

The only copy of the Queen's Speech which passes outside the
Ministerial ken before the Session opens is that forwarded, with
the compliments of the Leader of the House, to the Leader of the
Opposition. This is an act of grace and courtesy, happily and
accurately illustrating the spirit in which controversy is carried
on in English politics. Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone maintained
no social relations outside the House of Commons. But that was an
exception to the ordinary course of things. At this day the stranger
in the gallery hearing Mr. Chamberlain pouring contumely and scorn on
Sir William Harcourt, and observing the Chancellor of the Exchequer
almost savagely retorting, may be forgiven if he supposes the cleavage
in political relations has severed personal friendships. That is
certainly not the fact in respect of these two former colleagues, or
of other more or less prominent combatants in the Parliamentary arena.
It frequently happens, in the course of the Session, that two members
who, between the hours of five and seven-thirty, have been engaged in
fiercest controversy in the House of Commons, will be found at eight
o'clock sitting at the same dinner-table, discussing the situation
from quite another point of view. This is a condition of affairs which
does not exist, certainly not to equal extent, in any other political
battlefield, whether at home or abroad.

[Sidenote: THE FOURTH PARTY AND THE QUEEN'S SPEECH.]

When the Fourth Party was in the plenitude of its power, it pleased its
members to assume all the customs of those larger political factions
of which it was the microcosm. Since Ministers and the Leaders of the
regular Opposition were in the habit of meeting together on the eve
of a new Session, dining, and thereafter reviewing the situation and
settling their policy, the Fourth Party had their pre-Sessional dinner.
Lord Randolph Churchill tells me of a charming incident connected with
this custom. Meeting on the eve of the Session of 1881, they solemnly
agreed that they, as a Party, were at a disadvantage inasmuch as
they had not before them a copy of the Queen's Speech. Lord Randolph
accordingly wrote a formal letter, addressed to Lord Richard Grosvenor,
then Ministerial Whip, asking him to be so good as to favour him
and his colleagues with a copy of Her Majesty's gracious Speech, in
accordance with custom when the Leaders of Her Majesty's Opposition
were in conference on the eve of a Session. I do not know whether Lord
Richard, in the fashion of his reply, rose to the sublime height of
this joke. But the copy of the Speech was not forthcoming.

The Fourth Party at the beginning of their career went a step further
than the regular Leaders of the Opposition whom they, only half in
jest, affected to supersede. Her Majesty's Ministers, in accordance
with custom, went down to Greenwich for a whitebait dinner at the end
of the Session, the Leaders of the Opposition being content with a
festive gathering on the eve of the opening of Parliament. The Fourth
Party, equal to both occasions, not only convivially foregathered
at the opening of the Session, but had their whitebait dinner at
the end. In 1880, the year of their birth, they, never afraid of
creating a precedent, invited an outsider to join the feast. This was
Mr. Labouchere, Mr. Bradlaugh's standard-bearer, whom they had been
fighting hand to hand all through the turbulent Session.

But it is a poor heart that never rejoices, and in their young days the
Fourth Party were merry grigs.

[Sidenote: COUNTY GUY.]

Some time ago inquiry was made in the columns of a country paper
as to the origin of the cognomen "County Guy," as attached to Lord
Hartington. I happen to know that the phrase, much in vogue seventeen
or eighteen years ago, appeared in the series of papers entitled "Under
the Clock," published weekly in the _World_. It was suggested by Sir
Walter Scott's well-known lines:--

    Bird, breeze, and flower proclaim the hour:
    But where is County Guy?

Lord Hartington was at the time Leader of the Opposition, vice Mr.
Gladstone, convinced that "at my time of life"--he was sixty-five when
he wrote--his public work was finished, and he had earned the right to
spend his declining years in the comparative leisure of his library.
Even the eminence of the position, and the hitherto unbroken habit of
the Leader of a party being in his place when questions began, did not
overcome Lord Hartington's constitutional inability to come up to time.
It was characteristic of him that he scorned the opportunity provided
for quietly dropping into his place, without fixing attention upon his
delayed arrival. He might have entered from behind the Speaker's Chair
and taken his seat without any but those in the immediate neighbourhood
noting the moment of his appearance on the scene. He always walked in
from the doorway under the clock, in full view of the House, usually
with one hand in his pocket, his hat swinging in the other hand,
lounging towards his seat as if he were rather five minutes too soon
than half an hour too late. When, in the last Parliament, he returned
to the Front Opposition Bench as Leader of the Liberal Unionists, he
observed precisely the same custom. He was invariably late, even at
critical epochs, and always walked in by the front door.

On one occasion he arrived very early in the morning, but that was
an accident due to misunderstanding. It was during the passage of
the Coercion Act of the Salisbury Parliament. The Irish members had
kept things going all night. At five o'clock in the morning, Lord
Hartington, in common with other absentees of his party, received a
telegram to the following effect:--

"_Been on duty all night. Only us two here. Come down to relieve us._

                                                 (Signed) "CHAMBERLAIN,
                                                             "RUSSELL."

This was enough to make even Lord Hartington hurry up. The picture of
Mr. Chamberlain standing by the Government all night, warring with
the common enemy, whilst the Leader was comfortably in his bed, was a
reflection not pleasant to dwell upon. Hurrying on his clothes he made
his way down to the House, one of a steady stream of Liberal Unionists
like himself, abashed to think they had left Mr. Chamberlain in the
lurch. Entering the House, they came upon Mr. T. W. Russell and Mr.
Richard Chamberlain, keeping guard on the heights where the Liberal
Unionists encamp. It was all right, of course. But it was not Mr.
Richard Chamberlain who was in their mind when they hurried down in
obedience to the imperative command.

[Sidenote: THE PRIVILEGES OF M.P.'S.]

Apart from the question of wages members of the British House of
Commons do not condescend to acceptance of the various smaller
privileges which ameliorate the condition of legislators in other
countries. In some of the Continental Legislatures, and in most of the
Colonies, M. P.'s travel free on the railways. For the British member,
more especially for the Irish representative, the cost of locomotion
when going about the country's business is a serious item. Not to
speak of the occasional discomforts of the voyage, it costs an Irish
member over £5 to journey to and from Westminster. For many Dublin is
merely the starting point for a more or less prolonged trip over the
highly-priced and not conveniently-arranged home railways.

At Washington, members of the House of Representatives, in addition
to a fixed salary and liberal allowance for railway fares, have
various little pickings, in the way, for example, of stationery, which
is supplied _ad libitum_ for their private use. Another privilege,
indispensable to the due performance of their labours, is a bath.
Attached to the Legislative Chamber is one of the most luxurious
bathing establishments in the world. Anything, from the ordinary
cold tub to the most elaborate Turkish bath, is at the disposal of
members. The prospect of being able to retire from a heated debate
and enjoy the long luxury of a Turkish bath is sufficient to make a
British M. P.'s mouth water. Of course, there is the difficulty about
the imminence of divisions. The sound of the division bell, suddenly
clanging through the various chambers of a Turkish bath, would cause
dire consternation. But daily use would suggest a means of minimizing
possible inconvenience. There might, for example, come into existence
such a thing as a bath pair, corresponding with the present dinner pair.

[Illustration: "KEEPING GUARD."]

[Sidenote: A DRESSING-ROOM TRAGEDY.]

It will appear scarcely credible that the House of Commons, though
widely known as the best club in the world, lacks the accommodation,
common to an ordinary club, of dressing-rooms where members may change
their clothes for dinner. The convenience of such an arrangement is
particularly obvious in the case of a body of men, the majority of whom
dine out during the Session, and are frequently, by the imminence of
a division, kept waiting about to within a quarter of an hour of the
time at which they are due for dinner. Ministers have their private
room. But for this purpose it is of less use to them than to the
private member. They are not supposed to dine out whilst the House is
in Session, and if they, greatly daring, dine, they avail themselves of
the privilege of presenting themselves in morning dress. Occasionally
one lends his room to a private friend, hard pressed to keep a dinner
engagement, possible only if he can save the time involved in going
home to dress.

A few Sessions ago, a well-known Q.C. had an exciting adventure
consequent upon changing his dress at the House. He had arranged with a
friend in the Ministry, who had a chamber near the top of the staircase
leading into Palace Yard, to use it as a dressing-room. He anxiously
watched the course of the debate as it proceeded over seven o'clock,
hoping it would conclude in time for him to run into his friend's
room, and slip into his dinner-dress in time to keep his appointment.
At half-past seven things began to look bad. A member, usually good
for at least half an hour, had risen to continue the debate. On second
thoughts, here was a chance. Suppose he were to retire now, change his
clothes, and be ready to drive off as soon as the division lobby was
cleared?

He acted on the idea with characteristic promptitude, and had reached
an exceedingly critical stage in the change of raiment, when the
division bell rang. The member in possession of the House when he left
it had been unexpectedly merciful, had brought his remarks within the
limits of ten minutes, and the division was called. Only three minutes
elapse between the clearing of the House for a division and the putting
of the question. Supposing the Q.C. to be fully dressed, there was only
time comfortably to reach the House from the Minister's room. He was
certainly not dressed, and it was a nice question whether it would be
a shorter process to go back to the chrysalis state of morning dress,
or proceed to complete the butterfly development upon which he had
embarked when almost paralyzed by the sound of the division bell. One
thing was clear, he must take part in the division. An issue depended
on it which would not incline the Whips to accept frivolous excuse for
abstention.

Again a happy thought occurred to him. Suppose he were to put on an
overcoat and so hide his collarless condition? But his overcoat was
in the cloak-room, a flight lower down. The spectacle of a learned
and somewhat adipose Q.C. rushing downstairs in shirt and trousers
might lead to misapprehension. There was, however, nothing else to be
done, and the flight was successfully accomplished. The hon. member
safely reached the cloak-room, was helped on with his coat, and, with
collar turned up closely buttoned at the throat, he passed through the
Division Lobby, an object of much sympathy to his friends, who thought
his cold must be bad indeed to justify this extreme precaution on a
summer night.

[Sidenote: PRIVILEGE.]

It is a well-known fact, much appreciated in quarters personally
concerned, that no action for libel may be based upon words spoken
in the House of Commons. This understanding has been confirmed by an
action to which Mr. Arthur Balfour was an involuntary party. In the
course of debate, in which he took part as Chief Secretary, he had
spoken disrespectfully of a midwife in the south of Ireland. The lady's
friends rallied round her, and guaranteed funds to cover the expenses
of a civil action for damages brought against the Chief Secretary.
Had the case come before a Cork jury, as was inevitable if it went to
trial, it would doubtless have proved a profitable transaction for the
plaintiff. Mr. Balfour appealed to a higher Court, on the ground that
the words spoken in Parliamentary debate are privileged. The Court
sustained this view, and the trial was set aside.

I have high judicial authority for the statement that in spite of this
rule the position of a member of Parliament in the matter of libel is
not impregnable. He is quite safe, not only as far as words spoken in
the House are concerned, but is not responsible for their publication
in the newspapers, or their subsequent appearance in "Hansard."
"Hansard," however, is accustomed to send to each member a report of
his speech, leaving to him the option of revision. If the proof be not
returned within a few days it is assumed that no correction is desired,
and the speech goes down to posterity in the form it was handed in
by the reporter. When a member has revised his speech the fact is
intimated by a star.

It is herein the distinction in the matter of legal liability is
established. A member having voluntarily revised his speech is assumed,
by the fresh and independent action taken outside the House of Commons,
to have assumed a liability he would otherwise have escaped. An action
would lie against him, not for the speech delivered in Parliament,
but for the publication of the libel under his revision, and upon his
authority, in a widely circulated periodical. _Verb. sap._

[Sidenote: A PRECIOUS VOLUME.]

A glance over any volume of "Hansard" shows that it is only the new
or inconsiderable member, whose speeches are not likely to become the
texts of subsequent debate, who is at pains to revise reports of his
Parliamentary utterances. Old Parliamentary hands like Mr. Gladstone,
Mr. Balfour, and Mr. Chamberlain are, in the first place, too busy,
and, in the second, too wise, to commit themselves to the task.

Mr. Chamberlain once suffered from yielding to the temptation to
secure an accurate report of his deliverances on important political
questions. In 1885, on the precipice below which unexpectedly lay the
fissure in the Liberal Party, Messrs. Routledge brought out a series
of volumes containing reports of the speeches of some six or eight
statesmen on questions of the day. It was an "authorized" edition,
the various contributors revising their speeches. At this epoch Mr.
Chamberlain was the risen hope of the Radical Party. His vigorous
argument and incisive invective were directed against the Conservative
Party, its history, ancient and modern. It is from this little volume
that Mr. Gladstone, in his speech at Edinburgh just before the Winter
Session, drew the citation of Mr. Chamberlain's indictment of the House
of Lords. It was not the first time it had been remembered. But Mr.
Gladstone's joyous discovery sent it trumpet-tongued throughout the
English-speaking world. It is this compilation that rescued from the
obscurity of daily newspaper reports the happily conceived, perfectly
phrased, and now classical similitude drawn between Mr. Gladstone and a
mountain.

"Sometimes I think," Mr. Chamberlain said in a passage the perfect
literary form of which tempts to quotation, "that great men are like
mountains, and that we do not appreciate their magnitude while we are
still close to them. You have to go to a distance to see which peak it
is that towers above its fellows; and it may be that we shall have to
put between us and Mr. Gladstone a space of time before we shall know
how much greater he has been than any of his competitors for fame and
power. I am certain that justice will be done to him in the future,
and I am not less certain that there will be a signal condemnation
of the men who, moved by motives of party spite, in their eagerness
for office, have not hesitated to treat with insult and indignity the
greatest statesman of our time--who have not allowed even his age,
which entitles him to their respect, or his high personal character,
or his long services to his Queen and his country, to shield him from
the vulgar affronts and the lying accusations of which he has nightly
been made the subject in the House of Commons. He, with his great
magnanimity, can afford to forget and forgive these things. Those whom
he has served so long it behoves to remember them, to resent them, and
to punish them."

The speech in which this gem lies entombed was delivered at Birmingham,
on the 4th June, 1885. In the intervening nine years Mr. Chamberlain
has had opportunities of regarding the mountain from other points of
view, and has discovered quite new aspects.

This volume of Mr. Chamberlain's speeches has long been out of print.
The shilling edition and the half-crown edition command considerably
enhanced prices on the rare occasions when they come upon the market.
There is one precious copy in the Library in the House of Commons,
the condition of which testifies to the frequency of reference. The
existence of such a record may be occasionally embarrassing to the
politician, but if Mr. Chamberlain were vain, it must be gratifying
to the man. It is only a strong personality that could evoke such
testimony of eager interest.

[Sidenote: LORDS IN THE COMMONS.]

It is pretty to note the deathless attraction the House of Commons has
for members who have left it to take their seats in another place. They
may be peers privileged to sit in the stately Chamber at the other side
of the Octagon Hall. But their hearts, untravelled, fondly turn to the
plainer Chamber in which is set the Speaker's Chair. Even the Duke of
Devonshire has not been able wholly to resist the spell. Whilst he was
still member for Rossendale, it was only a heroic, predominant sense
of duty that brought him down to the Commons. Since he became a peer
scarcely an evening passes in the Session that he does not look in,
chatting with friends in the Lobby, sometimes sitting out an hour of
debate, watched from the gallery over the clock. Lord Rowton never had
a seat in the Commons other than that under the gallery allotted to
the Private Secretary of the Leader of the House. But in earlier days
he had much business in the Lobby of the House of Commons, and when
in town and in attendance on the House of Lords, he rarely misses the
opportunity of revisiting his old haunts.

[Illustration: "A CHAT WITH SIR HENRY JAMES."]

It is many years since Lord Morris was "the boy for Galway,"
representing the county through several Sessions. Through that avenue
he joked his way, first to be Solicitor-General, then Attorney-General,
next Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, and finally Lord of Appeal,
with a life peerage. During the debates in the Commons last Session
on the Home Rule Bill he was in constant attendance. Even when the
subject-matter of debate is not one that touches the heart of a
patriot, the ex-member for Galway is regularly seen in the Lobby of the
House of Commons, his presence being indicated by a ripple of laughter
in the group surrounding him.

For some Sessions after the House of Commons suffered the irreparable
loss of the counsel of Sir Richard Cross, the Lobby was occasionally
suffused by the air of wisdom and respectability inseparable from the
presence of Lord Cross. Last Session he intermitted this habit, the
Lobby becoming in his absence almost a resort for the frivolous. Lord
Monk-Bretton is another old Commoner who has not entirely overcome
the habit of strolling into the Lobby of the House in whose Chair
of Committees he once sat. Lord Playfair, another ex-Chairman of
Committees, is often seen there. The Earl of Aberdeen, before Canada
claimed him, was almost nightly in the Lobby and corridors of the House
of Commons, albeit he was not drawn thither by personal recollections
of former memberships. Dukes, except his Grace of Devonshire, rarely
descend on the level of the Lobby, and no Bishop has been seen there
since the Bishop of London, looking in surplice and bands after debate
in the House of Lords, was accosted by Mr. McClure and genially invited
to take a glass of sherry and bitters.

[Illustration: MR. JOHN M'CLURE.]

[Sidenote: OLD WHIPS AND NEW.]

Lord Battersea has rather cut the place in which he long lingered
as a Whip, and Lord Dartmouth is not often seen in the place where
through many Sessions Lord Lewisham used to walk about, Whips' book
in hand, endeavouring to keep a House through the dinner hour. Lord
Kensington is a regular frequenter of the Lobby, and instinctively
takes his stand near the door leading to the staircase where through
many Sessions he kept guard, barring the passage of unpaired members.
Lord Kensington is not a man of supercilious manner, but there was
something of unmistakable scorn in his eyes when they first alighted
on the screen which his successors in the Ministerial Whips' seat last
Session introduced. Certainly a searching wind creeps up the staircase
from Palace Yard when it is wintry weather. But Lord Kensington sat
there from 1880 to 1885 without so much as a rug on his knees. A more
degenerate race are inconsolable without some contrivance for warding
off the draught. In ordinary circumstances this object might easily
be attained. A screen of fair proportions flanking the bench by the
Whips' side would be fully effective. But this is the main entrance
to the Lobby. A full-sized screen would be impossible. Accordingly, a
something has been made considerably too tall for the base upon which
it stands. The consequence is embarrassing, sometimes appalling. Either
the Thing falls outward when the glass door is opened, scaring the new
arrival, or it flops inward, threatening to crush Mr. Causton, and cut
off, in its flower, a useful life.

[Illustration: LORD DENMAN AND MR. FARMER-ATKINSON.]

[Sidenote: LORD DENMAN AND MR. ATKINSON.]

Lord Cranbrook has long got over the habit once dominant of revisiting
the scenes in which his political fortunes were established. Lord
Denman never had a seat in the Commons, but his sad, grey figure,
crowned with the purple smoking cap, was familiar in the Lobby in
the last Parliament. The attraction for him was removed when Mr.
Farmer-Atkinson retired from the political stage. In the former member
for Boston, Lord Denman found a kindred spirit. They made a pact
together whereby the peer was to take charge of the Commoner's Bills
when they reached the Upper House, Mr. Atkinson performing a kindred
service for his noble friend when his Woman's Suffrage Bill had run
the gauntlet of the Lords. It came to pass that opportunity was not
forthcoming on either side for fulfilment of this pledge. The Peers
would not pass Lord Denman's Bill, nor did the Commons encourage Mr.
Atkinson's legislative efforts. Still, they took counsel together,
prepared for emergencies. Sometimes they would be found in consultation
by the big brass gates that shut off the House of Lords from common
people. Oftener Lord Denman, having fuller leisure, sought Mr. Atkinson
in the Lobby of the Commons. Beyond particular measures for the good of
the country in which they were interested, they cherished a dream of
a combination between really sensible men of both Houses, who, rising
above party purposes and prejudices, should devote themselves heart and
soul to placing the empire on a sounder foundation.

The development of this plan was interrupted by officious friends
placing some restraint on the movements of Mr. Farmer-Atkinson, and his
(only temporary it is to be hoped) withdrawal from public life.

[Illustration: LORD HERSCHELL.]

[Sidenote: TWO UMBRELLAS.]

Lord Herschell, once a regular frequenter of the Lobby, does not often
find time to look in now that he is Lord Chancellor, and in addition
to the ordinary weighty calls of his office, has in hand the revision
of the Commission of the Peace. Another peer, once a constant visitor,
who has abandoned the place, is the Earl of Ravensworth. He was long
known in the House of Commons as Lord Eslington, a representative of
the highest type of county member. When he succeeded to the peerage he
spent more time in the Lobby of the Commons than on the red benches of
the House of Lords. Whatever the season of the year or the prospect of
the weather, he brought his umbrella with him, a heavily constructed
article, capable of sustaining the weight of a properly tall man when
he leaned upon it, whilst he conversed with a circle of friends.

The only member whose faithful attachment to his umbrella equalled Lord
Ravensworth's was the late Mr. Tom Collins. Judging from the shade of
the gingham, the determination of the bulge in the middle where it was
tied round with a piece of tape, and the worn condition of the ferrule,
the umbrella dated back to the epoch of the Great Exhibition. So dear
was it to the heart of its owner that he would not risk accident or
loss by leaving it to take its chance with the miscellaneous multitude
in the cloak-room. Like Lord Ravensworth, he carried it with him in
all weathers, and before entering the House to take part in the solemn
institution of prayers, he reverently deposited it behind the chair
of the principal doorkeeper. Mr. Collins was not a man of abnormally
suspicious nature. All his colleagues in the House of Commons were
honourable men. Still, human nature is weak. To see an umbrella like
that hanging loosely on a peg, or to find it ready to hand mixed up
with a lot of ordinary articles, might prove too strong a temptation
for a weak brother. Mr. Collins spared many a possible pang by placing
his umbrella out of range of casual sight in personal charge of the
doorkeeper.

[Illustration: LORD SPENCER.]

[Sidenote: SOME OTHER PEERS.]

I never saw Lord Salisbury in the Lobby, and do not recall any time
when his burly figure was seen looking down from the gallery on the
arena in which the first Lord Robert Cecil played a lively part. Earl
Spencer comes over occasionally for consultation with his colleagues.
Lord Rosebery, with the cares of the Empire on his shoulders, finds
time occasionally to look in at the House, for a seat in which, as he
has sometimes hinted, he would gladly barter his coronet.




_A Bohemian Artists' Club._


                          BY ALFRED T. STORY.

London numbers many societies for artists; but there is not another so
quaint in its style and so characteristic in all its methods as the
Langham Sketching Club, or, as it is called in brief parlance, and,
in fact, more correctly, "The Langham," for the Sketching Club is in
reality only a part of the whole. It is a very modest and retiring
body, and does not make much ado, or call public attention to itself by
the usual and popular methods of gaining notoriety.

These have always been its leading characteristics. It thought so
little of itself, indeed, in the first instance that it allowed itself
to be ushered into existence in a lowly shed at the bottom of a mews,
or in a stonemason's yard, as some say. This humble abode was situated
in Clipstone Street, Fitzroy Square, and the society's nativity took
place what time the Sailor King ruled the land, some eight years before
Her present Gracious Majesty ascended the throne.

It was started by eight men, who wished by co-operation and emulation
to improve themselves and each other in the art which they had adopted
as their profession; and it is significant of the oddity which has ever
characterized the society and its proceedings that, no sooner had the
resolution been carried confining its membership to the eight founders,
than it admitted a ninth. These nine original members were: W. Kidd, F.
Gary, J. C. Zeitter, A. M. Huffam, John Knight, William Purser, William
Derby, J. Mimpriss, and William Brough, the latter being the honorary
secretary.

According to the rules they framed for their governance, the society
was to be "for the study of artistic human figures." It was to meet
three times a week, in the evening, and work for a couple of hours.
Each member on joining was called upon to subscribe ten shillings;
after which, his contribution consisted in paying his share of the
expenses. These were totted up at the end of the week, and then and
there settled. Fines were imposed for non-attendance, unless the
absentee were able to produce good and sufficient reason for his
non-appearance; and for a long time to come the chief business of the
committee appears to have been to impose these fines, then remit them,
or discuss the means of enforcing their payment upon men who were
generally light-hearted, except when weighed down by the lightness of
their pockets. Peace be to their souls! If there were not many Michael
Angelos among them, there was an infinite amount of good-fellowship.

The actual date of this simple and democratic constitution was March 9,
1830; but it had no sooner been framed than--as in the case of another
and more famous constitution--it was found necessary to go to work and
tinker it into shape and usability. Hence, between then and now, it has
undergone many changes, albeit nothing has been done to detract from
its broad fundamental characteristics. The club (for such, in fact, it
is) may be said to combine the greatest amount of good-fellowship with
the least possible restraint by rule and regulation.

A year after the society's foundation a somewhat radical change took
place. It had quickly been found impossible to confine its membership
to the original nine founders, and the number was gradually increased
to fifteen. Now it was decided to divide the society into members and
subscribers; the former paying a pound a quarter and constituting the
governing body; while the latter paid twenty-seven shillings and had no
part whatever in the management--in this also following the example of
our national Constitution as it then was.

At first members and subscribers were alike ten in number; but in
course of time the members were increased to fifteen, and a larger
proportion of subscribers admitted. This rule still obtains. A still
further development took place a month or two later, when it was
decided to elect a president, the first gentleman to be accorded the
honour being Mr. Knight.

Curiously enough, until this time it had never occurred to the
members that their society was without a name. The fact having been
accidentally discovered, it was resolved to adopt as style and title,
"The Artists' Society for the Study of Historical, Poetic, and Rustic
Figures."

From time to time the number of evenings devoted to study was
gradually increased, until every week-day evening was occupied.
Further developments had in the meantime taken place. In 1841, on
the suggestion of William J. Müller, the study of the antique was
included in what we may call the curriculum. This involved the renting
of another room (the society was still in its mews) at a cost of £25
a year. About the same time the study of the nude was introduced, and
became henceforth a leading feature of the society. In 1838 an attempt
had been made to form a society for ladies, in conjunction with the
Artists' Society, "for the study of costume and the draped figure,"
but although started with some _éclat_, it appears before long to have
ended without regret a brief and forlorn existence.

We soon begin to come across historical names. In 1835 Haydon presents
the society with a drawing of "The Gate Beautiful," by Raphael, made
by his pupil, C. Landseer. Mr. D. V. Riviere is elected, also a Mr. F.
Cruikshank, though he appears never to have attended. Two years later
Mr. E. Corbould becomes a subscriber, and in the year following, the
well-known watercolourist, Frank W. Topham, and Mr. W. Riviere. In 1839
Dodgson and Lee were elected subscribers; and the same year the veteran
Louis Haghe, still living, was made president.

[Illustration: JOHN ABSOLON.

_From the Picture by G. G. Kilbourne_]

During these early years courses of lectures on various subjects
connected with art were given by competent gentlemen. Mr. W. R. Toase,
F.L.S., discoursed on "Anatomy," illustrated by living models; Mr.
Benjamin R. Green lectured on "Perspective"; Mr. C. H. Smith, on the
"Importance of Trifles in Historical Design"; Mr. George Foggo, on
"Pictorial Composition"; and last, though not least, a Mr. R. Cull (one
fancies there should have been an "s" to this name), on "Phrenology
as Applicable to Art." At that time phrenology was in high favour,
was patronized by the great and the learned, and generally regarded
as going to do wonders. Many artists in those days, Blake and Linnell
among the number, devoted some attention to it; but now, with the
exception of one leading Academician, it would be difficult to find
any artist who had given so much as a passing glance at the science:
if they had, we should at least have been spared the sight of such
monstrosities of heads as we now see.

In 1841, under the presidency of John Absolon, another veteran member
who is still amongst us, it was decided to elect a certain number
of honorary members, and Mr. James R. Planché, the dramatist and
authority on costume and heraldry, was the first gentleman chosen. In
honour of this election a conversazione was held, to which a number of
distinguished guests were invited. This was the first entertainment of
the kind given by the society. Since then it has become noted for its
gatherings of a similar nature.

At one time the rule was to hold one every quarter. This was when the
treasury was in good order. When funds were low it was necessary to be
satisfied with two, or even one, a year. They were--and are still--the
very simplest of affairs, and Bohemian to the last degree. For this
reason it is that they are so much enjoyed by those who have the luck
to get an invitation. The invariable fare is bread and cheese and
salad--_au naturel_--with ale and stout _ad lib._, or, as a facetious
member once put it, _ad lip_. Anything of the nature of ceremony is
altogether dispensed with; and as there is always a crush, the feast
generally assumes the form of a scramble. City magnates have been known
to take part in these _sans façon_ regales, and to confess afterwards
that they found them more amusing and enjoyable than a Guildhall
banquet; while fashionable R. A.'s and A. R. A.'s have been seen to
retire into a corner with a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand and a
pot of porter in the other, and set to like costers--showing that we
are all built much on the same mould, under the clothes.

[Illustration: A CONVERSAZIONE SUPPER.

_Drawn by W. H. Pike_.]

On these occasions the members exhibit their works--sketches that have
been done in the classroom, or pictures destined for one or other of
the exhibitions--and receive the useful, and generally very generous,
criticisms of their friends. Then, to round off the evening, there
are singing, music, and recitations, or it may be a bit of character
acting. Once we had the pleasure of seeing a well-known A. R. A. and
another equally clever artist dress up from the club wardrobe (which
is a rich and varied one) as "Black Sall" and "Dusty Jim," and give an
improvised dance, to the infinite delight alike of members and guests.

But--to go back a little--in 1842 the most characteristic feature of
all in connection with the society had its beginning, namely, the
Sketching Club. This is, in reality, quite distinct from the society,
although members may belong to it; but its membership is recruited
chiefly from outside, and is practically unlimited. The club meets
every Friday evening, a subject--or, perhaps, two--is given, and each
artist realizes it as best he can. The sketch has to be completed in
two hours, and when the time is up, there is a general examination of
work, with free criticism, suggestion, and so forth. They may be done
in any manner--in oil, water-colours, black and white, or modelled in
clay. It is a capital school; every man is put on his mettle, and, of
course, does his best. Not a few pictures, now celebrated, had their
beginnings on these evenings.

Work being done, supper is discussed; the fare consisting of a cold
joint, bread and cheese, with, of course, ale and stout to wash them
down. It is at this time that new members are elected. Before a
candidate can be chosen he has to submit a sketch. This is carried
round by the honorary secretary and shown to each member in turn, his
vote for or against the candidate being thus taken.

These suppers are always interesting, and sometimes very amusing, as
they can hardly help being when so many men of varied talent, and some
of absolute genius, are constantly meeting together and exchanging
views. Sometimes, while the others are talking, or "chaffing," one
member will be quietly jotting down some characteristic faces in his
sketch-book, or taking a sly note on his cuff. At other times the fun
becomes a little uproarious, and the wildest pranks are indulged in.

[Illustration: "MUSIC AND SONG."

_Drawn by Robt. Sauber._]

On one occasion the late Charles Keene and Mr. Stacy Marks, both of
whom were members for many years, had a jumping match. A rod was laid
lightly from the rail round which the members work to a box at a
height of about three and a half feet from the ground. Marks cleared
the rod with ease at a standing jump. Keene, though he tried several
times, could not quite accomplish the feat. When he seemed to be on the
point of giving up the contest an artist named Wingfield, "a fellow
of infinite jest," and a great character to boot, said, very quietly,
"Take a pinch of snuff, Mr. Keene; that will enable you to do it." The
suggestion was given with such placid _sangfroid_ that it convulsed the
room. Keene, however, did not take the hint.

Keene was elected a full member of the society in 1853, though he had
already been a subscribing member for several years. He was one of the
quietest of men, and seldom had much to say for himself; howbeit, he
did occasionally come out with a dry, caustic remark, that told like
one of the sly, humorous touches of his pencil; as, for instance, when
he bade an old woman who was castigating her ill-mannered donkey,
hired for the evening as a model, that she might spare the rod there,
as none of them minded his behaviour, because they were not any more
thin-skinned than her "moke."

Tenniel, Keene's coadjutor on _Punch_, was president of the society so
far back as 1849.

Among other distinguished or notable men who have been, or still are,
members, may be mentioned Mr. Poole, R.A., some of whose sketches
are as grand as many of his finished pictures are weak. He was a
fellow-member with H. B. Pyne and James Müller. The latter was
president in 1844, and died during his year of office, killed, as it
was thought at the time, by the scant justice done to him by the
Academy; his works, now so highly esteemed, being invariably "skied."
While his pictures now fetch thousands, he died in debt to the society.
Alfred Fripp, the watercolour painter, and Fred Goodall became members
about the same time. Between 1846 and 1848, Stanfield, junr., W.
Goodall, W. Dyce, H. J. Boddington, and A. J. Lewis joined the society,
and J. P. Knight, R.A., was elected an honorary member. A little while
previously the same honour had been conferred upon Mr. G. Field, the
colour manufacturer, and Mr. J. H. Rogers, lecturer on anatomy.

[Illustration: CHARACTER DANCE BY ARTISTS.

_Drawn by J. Finnemore._]

In 1860 the society removed from the quarters it occupied in Clipstone
Street to its present abode in the Langham Chambers, Portland Place.
Of the men who were then members not many are left, but we may name
Charles Cattermole, nephew of the famous George Cattermole, and for
many years hon. secretary of the society, and J. A. Fitzgerald, son
of Byron's "hoarse" Fitzgerald,[1] and almost as noted as his father
for his histrionic gifts. Several who were then members have since
left, notably Mr. Lawlor, the sculptor, the late Vicat Cole, R.A., and
F. Weekes. A. J. Stark also was a member at that time. G. Kilburne
joined the society shortly after it removed to Langham Chambers; B. W.
Leader, R.A., Henry Telbin, the scene painter, and C. Armitage joined
a year later; while between then and 1865, Robert Landells, a man of
great ability, who went through the Franco-German War as artist for the
_Illustrated London News_, E. T. Coleman, J. T. Watson, F. Lawson, W.
M. Wyllie, G. G. Kilburne, E. Law, the engraver, James Gow, and Fred
Barnard became members or subscribers. Later, Sir James Linton joined
the society, the late Mr. C. B. Birch, A.R.A., and William Linnell, son
of the famous Linnell, and himself a distinguished painter.

[1] See "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers":

    Still must I hear? Shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
    His creaking couplets in a tavern hall?



There is generally, just before "sending-in day," a special
conversazione, at which members exhibit their pictures before
forwarding them to the Academy to be accepted or rejected. In many
cases, of course, this is the only "show" they get; but not a few
famous pictures have there been submitted to public criticism for the
first time. At one such conversazione Mr. Stacy Marks exhibited his
famous "Gargoyle" before it went to the Royal Academy. Mr. Calderon,
R.A., thus exhibited his "Coming of Age," and Fred Walker his
celebrated "Philip in Church," the picture which was the beginning of
his fame. Calderon was a member of the Sketching Club; as was also Mr.
Poynter, R.A. Fred Walker was a regular member of the society. At one
time Mr. W. Gilbert, since become famous in another line of art, was
a member, though not for long. He had not yet found his true _forte_,
and so was trying his hand with the brush. What he did was chiefly in
the comic vein. He was an amusing companion, however, and noted as a
_raconteur_.

[Illustration: A TWO-HOURS' SKETCH BY CHAS. CATTERMOLE.]

An amusing story is told in this connection, albeit not of Mr. Gilbert:
At one of the Friday night suppers there was present an artist who had
been abroad for some time in connection with one of the illustrated
papers. He had been half round the world, and was, naturally, expected
to have much to say about his travels. But, no; not a word. "What
did you see in China, Mr. Ixe? What in Japan? Did you like the
Assyrian maidens, or the _Vrows_ of Batavia?" Thus was he questioned
on every side. But, like the needy knife-grinder, he had no story to
tell. Meanwhile, at the other end of the table was an artist who had
that afternoon been as far as Bedford Park, and was bursting with
adventures. "Fitz could make a better book of travels out of a walk up
Hammersmith Broadway than Ixe from a tour round the world," remarked
one of the wits of the club.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF J. D. WINGFIELD.

_From the Picture by Carl Haug_.]

This is the time to hear from the artists' own lips their varied
experiences--often highly amusing--in the pursuit of their profession.
One, who has a supreme hatred of dealers, tells how he once had one
delivered completely into his hands, _and he did not drown him_. He
and three others had taken a walk up the Wharfe to enjoy its beauties,
one of them being a dealer. The dealer and another eventually found
themselves on the wrong side of the stream, far from a bridge, and
it was necessary, in order to avoid a long détour, to wade across.
The dealer was no longer young, was unused to the water, except as
a beverage, being a teetotaler, and feared all sorts of evils as
the result of wetting his feet. He managed to get across in safety,
however.

"He reached our side of the river all right," continued the narrator;
"but as the bank was steep, he had to appeal to me to give him a hand
up; and I weakly did so, instead of putting a mop on him. I could
easily have done so, the water being quite deep enough to put him out
of his misery. But I didn't do it. Of course, I felt considerable
chagrin when I had let him escape. Then, to make matters worse, he
asked me for some of my whisky: he knew I carried a little in a
bottle--'for my stomach's sake.' Naturally, having been so weak as to
let him get out of the water, I could not refuse the whisky. And what
do you think he did? He washed his feet with it to prevent him catching
cold! I implore of you, should it fall to the lot of any of you to have
your enemy delivered into your hands in that way, do not do as I did,
but _put a mop on him_."

It is only needful to begin storytelling in this way to bring out
an endless variety. The mention of the Wharfe reminded one man of a
deep pool below a waterfall on a northern stream, where he had a most
gruesome experience. He had planted his easel, and was beginning to
work upon the scene--the waterfall, the black pool, dark surrounding
trees, and a blurred and reddening evening sky--when suddenly he
perceived a dark object bobbing up and down just in front of the fall.
Up and down it danced with the motion of the water, gyrating slowly
at the same time. At first he thought it must be a dead dog; then it
dawned upon him--and the thought produced an uncanny feeling--that
it might be a man's head. Suddenly a stronger wave, a more violent
gyration, and there was no longer any doubt. A man's face, with its
dead, glassy eyes and streaming hair, was presented to his gaze--and he
instantly sprang to his feet and ran, leaving easel, canvas, palette,
and brushes to take care of themselves.

Another man tells how, when he was busy upon a choice bit of landscape,
a couple of yokels approached, and, after watching for a short time,
moved off, remarking that it was a pity such a broad-shouldered fellow
could not find something better to do than waste his time like that.

[Illustration: POSING THE MODEL.

_Drawn by W. A. Breakspear._]

Naturally, there are some stock anecdotes told of fellow-members, which
never cease to create a laugh. One hears of the sculptor who, having
been too deep in his potations, made his way home late at night with
a large codfish under one arm and a lobster under the other, and who
found them lying in bed beside him when he awoke in the morning.

[Illustration: J. A. FITZGERALD.

_Drawn by Robert Sauber._]

Another artist, presumably in a similar condition of benignity,
arriving home very late, softly unlocks the street door, goes up
stairs, very softly enters his bedroom, and undresses--very softly, so
as not to disturb his wife, and finally creeps into bed--likewise very
softly and gently; to be startled by his better half asking him--very
softly and gently, no doubt--if he is aware that he has got into bed
with his top-hat on!

One member always raises a hearty laugh by his imitation of a
brother member--a man of the greatest good humour, but of third-rate
ability--who, debating with another artist on the great Whistler
question, thus sums the matter up: "If Whistler is right, then you, and
me, and Michael Angelo are all wrong."

Sometimes in this way one may pick up some interesting anecdotes of the
men of a past generation. Holland, the famous landscape painter, who
was once a member, used to have many anecdotes about Turner. On one
occasion he was sitting near to him at dinner, when a lady observed to
him that she admired his pictures very much, although she could not say
that she understood them. "Don't you wish you had the brains to do so?"
replied Turner--a little rudely, it must be confessed.

[Illustration: THE LIFE CLASS.

_Drawn by W. Douglas Almond._]

Members take it in turns to "set" the models, who generally pose for an
hour, then take a short rest, and afterwards sit for another hour. They
are placed on a raised platform under a top light, the artists being
ranged in a semicircle facing them. No one is allowed to speak to the
model except the member whose duty it is to set him or her, and the
utmost silence is enjoined. Some of the models take great interest in
the work of the artists, and like to see what they have made them look
like. Many curious characters are found amongst them, and the stories
of their humours and oddities are endless and infinitely diverting.

Not the least amusing is that of the man who had posed for apostles and
saints so long that he could not be induced to sit for a common coster.

"It would be such a come-down, sir," he said, with a rueful
countenance. There is also a story--possibly apocryphal--of a model who
had got beyond sitting deploring his changed estate, in that he who had
sat for "lords and cardinals" was reduced to "wet-nursing a kangaroo"
(having obtained employment at the Zoo).

But perhaps the best story of a model is one that used to be told by
Sir Edwin Landseer. It concerned a man named Bishop, a man who will be
remembered by nearly all the older generation of artists. Bishop was a
bit of a favourite with Landseer, and often sat for him. Once when so
employed he thus addressed the famous animal painter: "Sir Ed'n," said
he, "I sees from the papers as you of'n dines with Her Gracious Majesty
at Buckingham Palace, and as you gets on very well wi' her. Now, Sir
Ed'n, I've been a-thinking--if you wouldn't mind the trouble--you might
do me and my misses a very good turn--a very good turn, you might. You
know, Sir Ed'n, my misses is a rare good washer, and if, next time you
dines with Her Majesty--just when you gets cosy like, arter dinner--if
you would just pervail on her to give my misses her washing, it would
set us up, it would. Now, Sir Ed'n, you'll pard'n me for a-mentionin'
of it, but if you could do that for us, we'd take it very kind like."

It is not stated whether the request was ever put to Her Majesty.

[Illustration: E. C. CLIFFORD (SECRETARY AND LIBRARIAN).

_From a Photo by Scott & Sons, Exeter._]

It would be unpardonable to conclude without making mention of some
of the artists who are at present members, many of whose names
are doubtless familiar to readers of the illustrated papers and
periodicals, or from their pictures in the exhibitions. Among the
number may be noted W. Breakspear, Dudley Hardy, Robert Sauber,
George C. Haité (president of the Sketching Club), Bernard Evans, J.
Finnemore, W. Pike, Edward C. Clifford, and W. Douglas Almond--the
last two holding the positions respectively of honorary secretary and
curator of the society.

[Illustration: W. DOUGLAS ALMOND (CURATOR).

_From a Photo by Russell & Sons._]

     _All the artists whose drawings have been used to illustrate
        the above article are members of the Society or of the
                       Sketching Club, or both._




_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._


THE REVEREND CANON H. SCOTT HOLLAND.

                              BORN 1847.

[Illustration: AGE 11.

_From a Daguerrotype._]

[Illustration: AGE 20.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 32.

_From a Photo, by Sutcliffe, Whitby._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The Rev. Canon Henry Scott Holland was born at Ledbury, Herefordshire,
and was educated at Eton and Balliol College, Oxford. He was ordained
at Cuddesdon in 1872, and was afterwards Theological Tutor at Christ
Church. In 1882 he was appointed Canon of Truro and Examining Chaplain
to the Bishop, and in 1884 was made Canon of St. Paul's. Canon Holland
has published several volumes of sermons, an article on "Justin Martyr"
in the "Dictionary of Christian Biography," and an essay in "Lux
Mundi."


LORD ROSEBERY.

                              BORN 1847.

[Illustration: AGE 17.

_From a Photo by Hills and Saunders._]

[Illustration: AGE 21.

_From a Photo by Hills & Saunders, Eton._]

[Illustration: AGE 38.

_From a Photo by Russell & Sons, Baker Street._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The right Hon. Archibald Philip Primrose, Earl of Rosebery, LL.D.,
P.C., was born in London, and received his education at Eton, our first
portrait showing him at that time. He was appointed Under-Secretary
of State for the Home Department in August, 1881. He resigned the
Under-Secretaryship in 1883 and became First Commissioner of Works.
In 1886 he was appointed Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and
succeeded Mr. Gladstone as Prime Minister in March of this year.


MR. JUSTICE WILLS.

                              BORN 1828.

[Illustration: AGE 25.

_From a Photo by Maull & Fox._]

[Illustration: AGE 33.

_From a Photo by Disderi, Paris._]

[Illustration: AGE 48.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 55.

_From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock, Birmingham._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The Hon. Sir Alfred Wills entered the Middle Temple, by which Inn
he was called to the Bar in 1851. He was made a Q.C. in 1872, and
was appointed Judge in 1884. He was made President of the Railway
Commission in 1888. Mr. Justice Wills was one of the founders, and is
one of the six remaining original members, of the Alpine Club, and
nearly all the happiest recollections of his life are connected with
the Alps, and more especially with his own Alpine home.


SIR CHARLES DILKE, M.P.

                              BORN 1843.

[Illustration: AGE 12.

_From a Daguerreotype by Antoine Claudet, 107, Regent Street, W._]

[Illustration: AGE 17.

_From a Photo by Antoine Claudet, 107, Regent Street, W._]

[Illustration: AGE 37.

_From a Photo by John Watkins, Parliament Street, W._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Dickinson, 114, New Bond Street, W._]

The Right Hon. Sir Chas. Wentworth Dilke, Bart., was born at Chelsea
September 4, 1843, being a grandson of Charles Wentworth Dilke, the
critic. He was educated at Trinity Hall, Cambridge; he graduated as
senior legalist in January, 1866. In the same year he was called to the
Bar at the Middle Temple. In 1868 he published a book in two vols.,
"Greater Britain: A Record of Travel in English-speaking Countries
During 1866-67," which deals with his observations during his travels
round the world. In 1868 he was elected as Radical member for Chelsea.
Among his many legislative achievements was the creation of School
Boards directly elected by the ratepayers. In December, 1882, he was
made President of the Local Government Board, with a seat in the
Cabinet. In 1885 he married Mrs. Mark Pattison. In 1887 he published
"The Present Position of European Politics"; in 1888, "The British
Army," and in 1890, "Problems of Greater Britain." In the General
Election of 1892 he was returned M.P. for Forest of Dean.


LADY DILKE.

[Illustration: AGE 2.

_From a Painting by Miss Atkins._]

[Illustration: AGE 10.

_From a Painting by W. B. Scott._]

[Illustration: AGE 25.

_From a Painting by Victor Pollet._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

Lady Dilke (_née_ Emilia Frances Strong), daughter of Major Henry
Strong, H.E.I.C.S., was born at Ilfracombe in 1842. She was educated by
Miss Bodwick, sister of the celebrated African traveller, and received
much friendly teaching in drawing from Mr. Mulready, R.A. She married
first, in 1862, the Rev. Mark Pattison, Rector of Lincoln College,
Oxford (who died on July 30th, 1884); and secondly, in 1885, the Right
Hon. Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, Bart. Lady Dilke was long a writer
in the _Saturday_ and _Westminster Reviews_, and afterwards, on the
foundation of the _Academy_, she edited the Art section for one or two
years, and also supplied original articles during that time. In 1879,
Lady Dilke published a work in two volumes illustrated by herself,
and entitled "The Renaissance of Art in France." In 1881 she wrote a
biography of Sir Frederick Leighton for the series of "Modern Artists,"
edited by Mr. Dumas; and in 1882 she lectured at the Birmingham and
Midland Institute on "The Industrial Policy of Colbert." In 1884 she
published in French, through the Librairie de l'Art, a monograph on
Claude. Lady Dilke subsequently published "The Shrine of Death," a
volume of stories, in 1886, and "Art in the Modern State," in 1888.
In subsequent years she contributed several stories to the _Universal
Review_, and wrote in the _Fortnightly Review_ and the _New Review_ on
Trade Unions for Women, in which she takes a deep interest.




_The Oxford and Cambridge Union Societies._


I.--OXFORD.

                        BY J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND.

The Oxford Union Society is one of the two most important debating
clubs in England, the other being the sister Society at Cambridge. It
has been estimated that nearly a fifth of the present House of Commons,
and a very considerable number of the House of Lords, have aired their
early efforts in the great debating hall in New Inn Hall Street. It
might not be uninteresting to our readers to know something of the
school in which so many distinguished speakers have been trained.

As the United Debating Society, its foundation dates from 1823; but in
1825 it was broken up to exclude turbulent members, and reconstituted
under its present name. It is nominally a social club, with reading,
writing, billiard, dining, and smoking rooms, and a good library of
25,000 volumes. But its true importance lies in the debates which are
held once a week in term time.

[Illustration: THE DEBATING HALL--OXFORD UNION.

_From a Photo by C. Court Cole, Oxford._]

The new debating hall is an exceedingly fine room, lit with the
electric light, and decorated with the portraits of the distinguished
men who have filled the President's chair, and presented by themselves.
There are two of Mr. Gladstone, one as the "rising hope of those stern
and unbending Tories," and one as the great leader of the Liberals of
England.

At one end of the hall three chairs of carved oak are raised on a
daïs, the central one higher than either of the others. Here sits the
President, with the Treasurer and Librarian on either side of him, and
the Secretary at a table at his feet. An electric bell is fixed to the
President's chair, with which he warns speakers that their allotted
time is drawing to a close. Members have been known to speak for twenty
minutes without launching into their subject, so the bell is not
without its use.

The gallery is reserved for visitors, chiefly ladies, and is crowded on
the night of an important debate. It has a reputation of being unsafe,
and whenever it is unusually full, someone is sure to rise in private
business and ask if any steps have been taken to strengthen it. The
alarm of the fair occupants is only allayed by the assurance of its
complete stability.

The Society consists of over 900 subscribing and 20,000 life members.
Its officers are elected by ballot, and canvassing is strictly
forbidden on pain of a heavy fine. It seems, however, to be a disputed
point as to what constitutes canvassing. There is considerable keenness
at election time, which occurs every term. The Librarian and Junior
Treasurer hold office for a year; the President, Secretary, and
members of Standing and Library Committees, for a term only.

[Illustration: THE LARGE LIBRARY--OXFORD UNION.

_From a Photo by C. Court Cole, Oxford._]

As the money which the Society receives and spends is no small sum, it
has been thought advisable to have as a permanent Senior Treasurer one
who does not come and go as undergraduates do. So the £3,000 odd, which
comes in yearly to the funds, is watched over by a Don. He is, however,
only a servant of the Society, and has no power of himself. Nominally
politics have nothing to do with the voting, and the officers are often
men of different views, but in reality the political clubs of the
'Varsity exercise no mean influence on the ballot. However, popularity
and distinction are still of the most weight, though it was said that
one club "ran" the elections for several years, and it is curious to
note that the last-elected President, Librarian, and Junior Treasurer
all belong to the same club.

The conduct of debates is as follows: The names of four members,
generally speakers who are known to have some ability, are printed on
the bills that are posted throughout the 'Varsity. It is etiquette for
these four and also for the officers of the Society to wear evening
dress. Only these four have a certainty of a place in the debate. The
first two may speak for twenty-five minutes, and the other two for
twenty minutes apiece. Those who follow have only fifteen minutes, and
have to jump to their feet to catch the President's eye. Some who have
prepared speeches never get a chance of firing them off.

[Illustration: MR. F. E. SMITH, President Lent Term, 1894.

_From a Photo, by Gillman, Oxford._]

Before the true work of the evening begins, private business is
discussed. This is the recognised hour of amusement, and members can
achieve no small reputation by excellence in the asking of ridiculous
questions. Many of these are personal. A young earl, who occupies
the President's throne, is chaffed about a certain celebrated pill
because the maker's name resembles his own. The Treasurer is worried
about new billiard balls, accommodation for dogs, and his portrait in
the _Lady's Pictorial_ when he came of age; the Librarian about the
contents of some strange book; the Secretary about his handwriting.
Lately the World's Fair at Chicago asked the Union to send two of its
members to the Show, but stipulated that they must be of the "highest
moral and social standing." The discussion lasted several evenings as
to who was fit, what the delegates would be required to do, and what
they would be paid. It was finally decided that no one person could
combine the two qualities. Such discussions as these occupy the lighter
moments of the Society.

[Illustration]

Then the debate of the evening begins: sometimes it is good, sometimes
bad--more often indifferent. Occasionally there is an orator of
unusual brilliance and power, and then the hall is crowded; but as the
evening wears on members drop out one by one, and someone moves that
the question be now put.

[Illustration]

Occasionally distinguished visitors are asked to speak, and then more
than ordinary interest is shown. Last year, Lord Winchilsea joined in
a debate on the state of agriculture, and spoke for over an hour. He
met with hearty support, but also candid criticism, and he defended
his scheme with great good humour and ability. Thus the undergraduates
have all the advantage of discussing leading questions with recognised
authorities on the subject, and the speaker has the opportunity of
influencing an audience that is larger than it looks, and which
is certainly one of more than average intellect. It is, moreover,
considered to be no small honour to be invited to speak at the Oxford
Union. And politicians find it a profitable way of spreading their
views. The undergraduates disperse and influence many districts, and
many, in a few years, will be themselves members of Parliament. We are
able to give a reduced facsimile of two pages of signatures of old
members who met for the 50th Anniversary Dinner, among which we find
many of the most famous men now living.

[Illustration: PAGE FROM THE MINUTE-BOOK, IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR.
GLADSTONE.]

Almost every subject under the sun has been dissected in this Society.
The Home Rule Bill met with the fate it was afterwards destined to
receive at the hands of the Lords. In some ways the result of the
voting in the Union is not entirely without importance. It shows the
current of thought among the future politicians of England.

The style of oratory has been condemned by outsiders as unsound. Great
importance is attached to brilliant epigrams and incisive phraseology.
Mere solidity and strength of argument produce more yawns than
applause. So it is said that the real object of debate is lost sight
of, and that flashy oratory takes the place of sound reasoning. There
is some truth in this, and probably the most popular speakers at the
Union will not become the leaders of Parliament. But, after all, it is
in speaking and not in thinking that young men need practice. When they
are older they will think more and speak less.

The Presidency is one of the most highly-prized distinctions at the
'Varsity, and one which a man may well be proud of in after life. And
this is not to be wondered at when we find among the list of those who
have held the office the names of Mr. Gladstone, Cardinal Manning,
Archbishop Tait, Lord Selborne, the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava,
the late Dukes of Cleveland and Newcastle, the late Earl Beauchamp,
Viscount Sherbrooke, Lord Coleridge, Mr. Goschen, the Right Hon. H.
Asquith, Samuel Wilberforce, the late Bishop of Durham, the Bishops of
Peterborough and Chichester, and a host of lesser celebrities, such
as deans, Under Secretaries of State, heads of colleges and public
schools, judges, etc. Such a list of ex-Presidents could hardly be
found in any debating society in the world. The Oxford Union Society is
justly proud of them.

[Illustration]

The preceding page from the minute-book kept by Mr. Gladstone when
Secretary is extremely interesting. It will be noted that the motion
was introduced by Mr. Gladstone himself and carried by a majority of
one vote, Mr. Gladstone being careful to note that the circumstance was
greeted with "tremendous cheering" and "repeated cheers."


II.--CAMBRIDGE.

                  BY ST. J. BASIL WYNNE WILLSON, M.A.

In 1886, in a speech made at the opening of the new buildings, the
late Duke of Clarence said: "The Union affords, not only opportunities
for social intercourse, but it is of great service for reading and
study, and in many cases has given the first lessons to men who
have afterwards ranked among our greatest orators." It is largely a
comfortable club, but primarily it is a debating society, and it is as
such that its history is of interest.

To discover the origin of the institution we must go far back to the
year 1815, when, in the big room of the Lion Hotel in Petty Cury,
three earlier societies combined in one Union. The large, bare room,
with its tables dinted by the "firing" of glasses at many a Masonic
dinner, forms a striking contrast to the fine buildings with handsome
apartments and club-land luxuries in which the present generation
revels. Founded by men known afterwards as Lord Langdale, the Hon. Sir
E. Hall Alderson, the Right Hon. Sir F. Pollock, and the Hon. and Very
Rev. H. Pakenham, the Society was happy in its early auspices, and
often since in the Presidential chair have sat men who shed on it such
lustre that they now draw some light therefrom.

[Illustration: THE DEBATING HALL--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

After a short sojourn at the Lion, the Society moved to the present
A. D. C. Theatre, and in 1850 migrated again to a disused Wesleyan
chapel in Green Street, where now is heard the click of billiard balls
instead of the voice of preacher or orator. In thrifty years a Building
Fund was amassed, and in 1866, Charles W. Dilke being President, the
bulk of the present buildings was erected at a cost of £10,700. Since
that time there have been added the laboratory block in 1882, and the
north wing, containing the library, in 1885. The illustrations must be
left to describe the appearance and size of the chief rooms, of which
successive Vice-Presidents have increased the comfort and splendour,
electric light and a luncheon-room being amongst the latest additions.

The library contains 25,000 volumes, covering a large range of
literature, but omitting three of Zola's works. However, "to provide a
library and reading-room" is only the secondary object of the Union:
its chief design always has been and is "to hold debates," and it is
for oratorical merit that the President, Vice-President, Secretary, and
Committee of six are terminally elected. It is as a debating society
that it has a claim to fame. That the elect of the Union are often also
the elect of the outer world, the following account will, I think, show.

[Illustration: THE SMOKING ROOM--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo, by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

In 1816 W. Whewell, a late Master of Trinity, was President. His was a
stirring reign on account of the strained relations between the Union
and the University authorities, who seem to have maintained a paternal
government in those days, looking with suspicious eyes on the young
innovators who met once a week to discuss men and manners. During a
debate, on March 24th, 1817, on the condition of the Army, a dramatic
and almost tragic event took place. Enter on a sudden the Proctors,
attended by bull-dogs: dim light, slow music and many excursions and
alarums, whilst the President in a stern voice bids strangers withdraw.
The intruders demand the dispersion of the meeting and the termination
of discussions. The result was that a deputation was sent to the
Vice-Chancellor to bear him a remonstrance, "consistently with perfect
obedience to University discipline." The deputation "believed that
the Vice-Chancellor interfered, owing to the circumstance of having
received a letter from one of the members, stating that the studies
of himself and of his friends had been checked and their prospects
blighted by attention to the Society." The Vice-Chancellor curtly
replied: "I do not think it necessary or, perhaps, proper to return any
answer to this statement. I had considered the matter fully in my own
mind."

Thus the Society was crushed for a time, but in 1821 re-asserted
itself, on the understanding that no questions of theology or of
politics except of a date previous to 1800 should be discussed. The
result was that contemporary politics were debated under a thin
disguise of similar circumstances in the past.

Macaulay and Praed were frequent speakers. The former upheld Hampden,
Burke, and the study of fiction; whilst the latter opposed him on the
subject of Burke, but showed admiration for the conduct of Napoleon--of
course, "previous to 1800." They both declared against armed
interference in France in 1792, Charles Austin and Alex. Cockburn being
on the other side. On this occasion Macaulay made a speech, of which
the late Lord Lytton wrote:--

"The greatest display of eloquence that I ever witnessed at that
club was made by a man some years our senior, the now renowned
Lord Macaulay, and it still lingers in my recollection as the most
heart-stirring effort of that true oratory that it has ever been my
lot to hear, saving perhaps a speech delivered by Mr. O'Connell to an
immense crowd in the open air. Macaulay, in point of power, passion,
and effect, never equalled that speech in his best days in the House of
Commons."

E. Strutt (Lord Belper), Macaulay, and Cockburn all supported the
reform of the Commons at the end of the last century. Cockburn and
Lytton prevailed on the House to carry a motion "that a systematic
opposition to the measures of an administration is beneficial to the
country." A great debate of this period had for its subject "that the
Constitution of America is more favourable to the liberties of the
people than that of England." Macaulay, Praed, and Cockburn approved,
and were carrying the House with them, when up rose Lytton so eloquent
and persuasive that he won his case for England by 109 votes to 37.
In Mr. Skipper's pamphlet may be found the following interesting
description of the Society in "an unpublished squib," written at this
time by Praed:--

    The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,
      Was held at the Red Lion Inn;
    And there never was lion so perfectly tame,
      Or who made such a musical din.
    'Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,
        When the Chairman does nothing in state;
    But 'tis Heaven, 'tis Heaven, to waken at seven,
      And pray for a noisy debate.

The question is Reform, and after the opener has addressed the House,
Lytton's rising is thus described:--

    Then the Church shakes her rattle and sends forth to battle
      The terror of <DW7> and sinner,
    Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,
      And asks all the poets to dinner.

After one speaker has intervened, Macaulay rises:--

    But the favourite comes with his trumpet and drums
      And his arms and his metaphors crossed,
    And the audience, O dear! vociferate Hear!
      Till they're half of them deaf as a post.

Macaulay's speech is thus summarized:--

              Oratoric,
              Metaphoric
    Similes of wondrous length.
    Illustration--conflagration,
    Ancient Romans, House of Commons,
    Clever Uriel and Ithuriel,
    Good old king, everything.

And Charles Austin rises:--

    Then up gets the glory of us and our story,
      Who does all by logic and rule,
    Who can tell the true difference 'twixt twopence and threepence,
      And prove Adam Smith quite a fool.

[Illustration: THE MAGAZINE ROOM--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

Passing on, we come to the era of Trench, Sunderland, Monckton Milnes
(late Lord Houghton), S. Walpole, and Arthur Hallam. This is mainly a
literary period. Although Tennyson was a member of the club, he does
not seem to have taken part with his friend in any debates.

Milnes and Hallam both spoke in contention of Wordsworth's superiority
to Byron, but a majority of twenty-seven gave the palm to "Childe
Harold's" author. Trench (Archbishop) propounded the original question:
"Will Mr. Coleridge's Poem of the 'Ancient Mariner' or Mr. Martin's Act
tend most to prevent cruelty to animals?"

There is an episode of this time that has a peculiar interest. It was,
as the late Cardinal Manning described it, "a passage of arms got up by
the Eton men of the two Unions."

[Illustration: SIGNATURES FROM THE MEMBERS' BOOK.]

On March 26th, 1829, Cambridge sent to Oxford a deputation consisting
of Monckton Milnes, Arthur Hallam, and Sunderland, whom Milnes, when
Lord Houghton, once declared to be "the greatest orator I think I ever
heard, who only lives in the memory of his University." The relative
merits of Byron and Shelley were the subject of discussion.

The Cambridge men were entertained by Sir Francis Doyle and "a young
student named Gladstone." S. Wilberforce was in the chair. Our
champions spoke for the claims of Shelley, and so telling was their
oratory that Oxford sat silent and awestruck, until a young man with
a slight, boyish figure arose and turned the whole tide of discussion
by a speech of much grace and eloquence. His name was Manning. He has
himself described the occasion: "I can, however, well remember the
irruption of the three Cambridge orators. We Oxford men were precise,
orderly, and morbidly afraid of excess in word or manner. The Cambridge
oratory came in like a flood into a mill-pond. Both Monckton Milnes
and Arthur Hallam took us aback by the boldness and freedom of their
manner. But I remember the effect of Sunderland's declamation and
action to this day. It had never been seen or heard before among us--we
cowered like birds and ran like sheep. I acknowledge that we were
utterly routed." "The Oxford men didn't seem to know who Shelley was;
they thought he was Shenstone," was a remark that Lord Houghton once
made to Mr. Oscar Browning, my informant.

In an interesting little book, called "Conversations in Cambridge,"
published in 1836, there are preserved some criticisms of the Union of
the period.

"The Union--a word requiring no explanation to any member of the
University--reached an elevation in those days which it is not likely
soon to recover. Macaulay with his flashes of vigorous imagination;
Praed with his graceful irony and poetical fancy; and many others whose
names live in the memory of their companions, imparted an unusual charm
to its meetings."

But, better still, there are some fragments of speeches made by
Macaulay, in debates on Cromwell, Strafford, and Milton. The following
is an extract from the speech on the Protector:--

"I stand not here, sir, to-night, as the advocate or panegyrist of that
melancholy domestic tragedy, which was presented before this afflicted
nation in that tempestuous season. But, sir, I would ask: was there no
provocation, no exaction, no insult to the dignity of man; no invasion
of the sanctity of a Briton's fireside? Sir, the grave of Hampden has
a voice: let it answer for me! Tyranny had dashed its mailed hand upon
the mouth of every freeman; the lifeblood of the laws was drained out
by unnumbered wounds."

About 1848, Mr. Childers, Sir W. V. Harcourt, and Sir Fitzjames
Stephen were contemporaries. The present Chancellor of the Exchequer
spoke against the ballot, and with Sir Fitzjames Stephen opposed a
motion that asked the House to declare that "Mr. Cobden and his party
represent the rising good sense of the people." In 1855, H. Montague
Butler and J. E. Gorst were respectively President and Treasurer. Gorst
gained the chair in 1857. The next most interesting group of Union
"lights" is that which includes George O. Trevelyan, H. C. Raikes,
Oscar Browning, and H. and A. Sidgwick.

Mr. O. Browning says: "I remember in '56 sitting in the room in Green
Street ('cavernous tavernous' as Lord Houghton called it), thinking
of nothing in particular, when I suddenly awoke and heard a pleasing
voice saying some of the cleverest things I ever heard. It was G. O.
Trevelyan. When his speeches were prepared they were brilliant. He
was the hero of the great 'smoking-room question,' and headed the
opposition to the scheme. In an excited peroration he produced a black
clay pipe in one hand and some red tape in the other, declaring them to
be the symbols of the parties, and then proceeded dramatically to snip
the red tape to pieces. It was Trevelyan who was compelled to move the
suggestion-book temporarily, for at that time it was the receptacle of
homeless jokes, doggerel verses, and scurrilous remarks, of which 'You
rib-nosed baboon,' and 'Why not make Raikes Lord Mayor?' are examples."

In that brilliant periodical of one number, the _Bear_, Trevelyan has
burlesqued one of his own speeches amongst others. The motion is to
repair the Society's clock.

"This is no measure for the purpose of pampering an over-fed clerk,
or stuffing our shelves with Puseyite novels. But let them not think
they have gained the confidence of the House. _Timeo Danaos et dona
ferentes_. (Loud cheers from a Freshman, who seems to recognise the
quotation.) Shall we trust our clock to a committee reeking with
Ruskin? To an embryo architectural society?... Whom shall we dare
trust? There they will sit, grinning at their new clock--(a cry of
'Question'). Question?--(and the speaker turned to the Treasurer,
who was lolling alone on the opposite sofa). There you sit compact,
united--mouthing and blustering about Tennyson and Carlyle, and nobody
cries 'Question'; and if he does, he is snubbed by a partial President.
(Great confusion, and cries of 'Sit down,' 'Chair.')"

[Illustration: MR. CATHREW FISHER, President Lent Term, 1894.

_From a Photo by the London Stereoscopic Co._]

Passing reluctantly over Lord E. Fitzmaurice, A. S. Wilkins, A. W.
Verrall, J. E. C. Welldon, R. C. Lehmann, we come, in 1880, to an
interesting figure--J. K. Stephen, who re-appeared in Union life in
recent years, and scribbled off some of his Calverleian lines whilst
sitting on the Committee bench. On one occasion in his later years he
came into the House when one of many brilliant sons of a brilliant
ex-President had proposed nationalization of land. At the first
opportunity he rose, exclaiming:--

"I have not heard the speech of the honourable proposer, and I am very
glad I have not heard it. All I am come down here to do is to deny that
there can be any connection between his premisses and his conclusions:
conclusions which can only be reached by a total want of knowledge,
based upon an absolute ignorance of facts."

J. K. Stephen made many great speeches shortly before his death, and an
eminent M.P., Q.C., remarked, when he heard him, that after Gladstone
he was the greatest orator in the country.

Another incident of late years is worth recording as evidence of
the dangers of debate. During a big debate on the opium question, a
prominent anti-opiumist was speaking against the traffic to a crowded
House. Whilst discussing the treaties with China, he noticed a man
opposite vehemently dissenting, and at last remarked, "I don't know who
the hon. member is, but I can quote the authority of Sir Thomas Wade,
who made the treaties." After him the "gentleman opposite" arose, and,
revealing himself as Sir Thomas Wade, proceeded to make much mincemeat.

Owing to pressure of space, many well-known ex-Presidents and officers
have been passed by unnoticed: C. Rann Kennedy (Pr. 1832), Lord
Henniker (Pr. 1834), Sir W. F. Pollock (Pr. 1836), Bishop Ellicott (Pr.
1839), Prof. C. Babington (Pr. 1845), Lord R. A. Cross (Pr. 1845), Rev.
Ll. Davies (Pr. 1847), Hon. A. Gordon (Lord Stanmore) (Pr. 1849), Henry
Fawcett (Pr. 1855), Dr. Henry Jackson (Pr. 1864), and a long list of
others, statesmen, clergy, scholars, lawyers, whose early development
it would be interesting to trace.

It may not be out of place here to publish some reminiscences most
kindly sent by a distinguished ex-President, Sir Charles Dilke:--

"If somebody of the time were to talk to me about it (the Union), I
have no doubt my reminiscences would flow. At the present moment, with
the exception of my own disrespectful allusions in Prince Florestan
of Monaco.... I remember nothing except the terrible noises that my
friends used to make over my head when I was President in the old room
in Green Street. I often threatened to have the gallery cleared, but
as I had not the physical force at my command to sweep them out, they
used to sit on the ends of the tables with disastrous effect. The first
speech in the Union which I remember was one when I was a Freshman, by
Mr. George Trevelyan. He declared amid a tremendous storm of cheers,
in reference to the Government of the United States: 'That Union, Mr.
President--that Union has no Building Fund.' The Cambridge Union in
those days possessed a handsome Building Fund, which I forthwith spent,
and the result of the spending of which, and the borrowing of much
more, is visible in the present building."

Another old President (who wishes to be anonymous) says:--

"In '57 or '58 Trevelyan began to make a reputation, and perhaps still
more the American, Everett, with a really remarkable force which he
has still.... Fawcett spoke often; harshly and loud, but very ably.
Vernon Lushington was forcible, but not suave enough. Gorst (now Sir
J.) spoke well, but without much power. Ernest Noel (late member
for Dumfries) once or twice delighted us with a clear and cultured
fluency that we were not accustomed to. It shows the alteration of the
times that a sort of thrill of horror ran round the House when in one
debate he actually mentioned that he was not a member of the Church of
England.... We used _not_ to imitate the ways of the House of Commons
very closely, with the idea that it might be bad taste, and that we had
traditions of our own to be proud of."

[Illustration: MR. OSCAR BROWNING, Treasurer of the Cambridge Union.

_From a Photo by Branfort, Birmingham._]

Forty-five members of the Society are in the House of Lords, including
the Prince of Wales and the two Archbishops, and 58 in the Commons.
Our present-day debates, held once a week, are dignified and orderly.
They last for about two and a half hours, the proposer and opposer
occupying usually an hour between them. The private-business meetings
are generally more scenic, especially when we discuss Zola or finance.
A noticeable feature is the number of Orientals who take part, and a
very able, eloquent part too, in our debates. One has risen to the
Chair. The future historian will be at little trouble for material, for
the _Cambridge Review_ and the _Granta_, in different styles, record
each debate and change. Out of 237 Presidents, Trinity has provided 132
and St. John's 29.

The members of the Society are increasing, and between 400 and 500 new
members are enrolled annually. There is no exclusiveness and all types
of University life are represented.

Our relations with our younger Oxford sister are excellent. From term
to term there is an interchange of speakers between the two clubs.

In conclusion it may be said that, great as the past has been, the
future should be none the less brilliant. The usefulness of such an
institution is obvious. In 1994 it may be that the names that will be
honoured in an article in a flourishing _Strand_ will be those of men
whose promise is now so great, and whose friendship so many of us value
now so highly.

    [In compiling this Article I have drawn much information from
    "A Short History of the Union," by J. F. Skipper, Esq., B.A.,
    ex-President. I would here acknowledge the great courtesy
    of those distinguished old members who have contributed
    reminiscences. Owing to the kind permission of the President,
    Vice-President, and Librarian, I have had access to all the
    documents of the Society. The Chief Clerk has also given me
    much valuable assistance.--St. J. B. W. W.]




_Illustrated Interviews._


No. XXXIII.--MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM.

[Illustration: MANOR HOUSE, ST. JOHN'S WOOD.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

                 AT ST. JOHN'S WOOD. TIME--PRESENT DAY.

                              CHARACTERS:

  The Modern Mathews         MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM.
  Interviewer                HARRY HOW.

                       Coachman, Parrot, Dogs, etc.


SCENE I.--_Entrance-hall leading to corridor. Stained glass windows.
Grandfather's clock ticking away in the corner. Autographed portrait
of Prince of Wales. Pictures of Corney Grain and George Grossmith.
Millais' "Widow's Mite." Liston as "Moll Flannagan" and "Mawworm."
Numerous fine oils, including a sea piece by Weber. David Garrick
by Vandergucht. Fred Barnard's "Garrick." Old armour picturesquely
arranged. Bronzes in cosy niches, etc._

THE MODERN MATHEWS _enters by rushing downstairs. He is tall and
strongly built, character is written on every feature of his face,
his curly hair has not a single silver streak in it, his appearance
suggests all that is genial, good-natured, frank, and thorough.
Speaks deliberately and very rapidly, says much in as few words as
possible--in short, a man who trips through life with a light step, a
happy disposition, and a pleasant way of doing and saying all things._

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_taking last three steps at a bound and
"discovering"_ INTERVIEWER): Ah! there you are! What a foolish remark.
Of course you're there. Have a cigarette? Now, where's my case?
M.C.--my case! Capital way of remembering anything that, eh? See?
M.C.--my case, my cigar, my canary, Master of Ceremonies! I find it
infallible. I've got a shocking memory, so must have some system to
go upon. Where is that cigarette case? Bad memory for simple little
things like that, but I never forget my parts. Now, that's curious. Can
remember a long part, but can't remember where I put that confounded
cigarette case. Will find it yet. Come into the dining-room.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE-HALL.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

_By a special journalistic contrivance--a contrivance which for
rapidity of change of scene has never been approached on the stage_--

[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.

_From the Photo by Elliott & Fry._]


SCENE II.--_Dining-room. Massive and substantial oak furniture. Birch's
statuette of_ THE MODERN MATHEWS _as David Garrick near the window.
The walls are covered with exquisite examples of Reamore, Toulmonche,
Ethoper, &c., views of Spain, Venice, and all places suggestive of
sunshine and dark-eyed maidens, having for companion canvases pictures
of English rural life, Scotch cattle, Welsh valleys, and Irish lakes._

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_aside_): M.C.! M.C.! M.C.!

INTERVIEWER: And you never forget your parts?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Oh! I beg your pardon. Now, if you hadn't spoken I
should have found that case in another minute! No, I've never forgotten
a part since I was dismissed by Mrs. John Wood in New York in 1864.
It was the first time I ever played an important part, and I had a
very long speech to make. This speech always frightened me--it was
a perpetual nightmare. I used to dream about it, breakfast with it,
lunch, tea, dine, and sup with it. When the eventful night came I found
myself only thinking of the words instead of their meaning. I had to
give a glowing description of a young girl's beauty, crying out: "Drunk
with enthusiasm, I exclaimed," etc., etc., etc. I had reached the word
"Drunk," when all became a blank. I repeated the word two or three
times, and finally went for it with "_Drunk_--I exclaimed--happy the
being," etc.! I was dismissed.

                 (_Barking heard off. Dogs rush on._)

THE MODERN MATHEWS: My dogs! Call them after the characters I play.
Come here Davy--that's Garrick. I adopt the same plan with my horses.
I've got a parrot upstairs--Cockie. You should see Davy and Cockie
fight. Cockie's got a prize-fighter's nose--Davy broke it for him. Come
upstairs.

[Illustration: THE SITTING-ROOM.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

_Again by the same arrangement we are transported to_--


SCENE III.--_Sitting-room. Full of pictures of friends, presents, and
pleasant memories._ COCKIE _is in cage on table. Here a most scientific
onslaught between parrot and dog takes place--of course, only playfully
and purely in innocent fun--and owing to the favour with which it is
received, the proper action of a little life-drama is delayed for a
quarter of an hour._

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_suddenly jumping up_): Ha! there it is! there it
is!

INTERVIEWER: Good gracious! Anything wrong?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Wrong, no--everything's right. My cigarette case
(_holds it up gleefully_). Now, then--have a cigarette?

                             (_Lights up!_)

INTERVIEWER (_suggestively_): M.L.! M.L.! M.L.!

THE MODERN MATHEWS: No, I've nothing as I can remember associated with
M.L.

INTERVIEWER: M.L.--my life!

THE MODERN MATHEWS: All right, tell us all about it!

(INTERVIEWER _is not prepared to "gag" back_.)

INTERVIEWER: You were born----

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Oh! I see. Certainly, certainly--but--it's a long
speech--a speech, however, I don't think I shall ever forget. We always
remember ourselves, eh? and forget O.P., which means other people, or
opposite prompter. (_Sits in armchair_ L. _of fireplace_.) I was born
in Liverpool on the 23rd of March, 1841. My father was a doctor--he
only died a year or two ago. My mother gave me my first lessons, until
at ten years of age I was sent to school at Sandgate. There I took a
great liking for drawing--particularly for building castles in the
air! I imbibed a love for the stage before I knew the value of words,
and used to revel in acting to myself before a looking-glass. I left
Sandgate when I was about twelve and went to St. Andrews, and there I
was the cause of public censure, as it was said I was demoralizing all
the boys on account of my strong theatrical tastes. Major Playfair--the
grandfather of Arthur Playfair, the actor--had a private theatre near
my school, and I need hardly say how I used to revel in being permitted
to attend there. But it came to an end at last. I used to write very
bloodthirsty dramas, and myself and companions used to play them in our
bedrooms by candle-light. We were, however, discovered, and the curtain
fell with a thud. I was at St. Andrews for two years. I took a prize
for Latin, and always those for elocution. I ran away from St. Andrews
once, but having no money in my pocket I went back the next day. I
remained there until I was fifteen, when I was sent to Germany--to
Neuwied first, and Bonn afterwards. You would scarcely credit it, but
there I became a very dreamy fellow.

INTERVIEWER: Dreamy?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Yes, I became quite a religious enthusiast, and
founded a Church.

(INTERVIEWER _surprised--but he must save his energies to be more so
later_.)

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_solemnly_): Whilst I used to play with my
companions, I was always much impressed by a long-legged, lanky-looking
fellow, who used to walk up and down the playground with his eyes
on his boots. I got in with him, found he belonged to a well-known
Wesleyan family, and we founded a Church to reform the boys. The
masters lent us a room, and starting with half-a-dozen we ultimately
got twenty-five lads. When my Wesleyan friend left I became head of
the Church. In the college was the son of a celebrated divine in
London--whom we will call B. He was a very bad lot, using very bad
language. One day he asked me to let him join the Church. I hesitated.
Told him I'd take a fortnight to decide. I did. It came to my turn
to preach. B. was present. My sermon was directed to him. After it
was all over he came to me and assured me he was a changed man. I was
delighted. He grasped me by the hand and said he should like to preach
on the following Sunday! I assured him that it was the rule for only
four or five of us to preach. He thought an exception ought to be made
in his case. I would not hear of it. "Look here," he said, "won't you
let me preach?" "No, I could not." "Do you mean it?" he asked. "I do."
"Without a doubt, Wyndham?" "I am immovable." "Then," he said, "go to
----!"

                           (_Quick Curtain!_)

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]


SCENE IV.--_Drawing-room. A beautiful set. By the door is a fine bear's
skin, the animal having been shot by the actor's son on his ranch in
Colorado. The china and articles of vertu are as rare as they are
valuable. The pictures tell of the artistic discrimination of their
possessor. The mementos are many--a harp of roses and forget-me-nots,
with a gold plate inscribed: "Au grand Comédien Charles Wyndham,
Hommage d'Admiration un Parisian, 1889," is given a prominent place.
An exquisite silver sledge was from friends in St. Petersburg, and a
massive silver cup bears the inscription: "To Charles Wyndham, from
Albert Edward Prince of Wales, in remembrance of 'David Garrick,' at
Sandringham, 7th January, 1887."_

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_handling cup_): The Prince is one of the most
perfect stage managers conceivable. He made all the arrangements for
the production of "Davy" at Sandringham. (_Takes up an inkstand in the
shape of horse's hoof._) One of my mares--poor thing! I always kill my
horses when it has come to their last trot, and never sell them when
they are past all work.

INTERVIEWER _inwardly--on behalf of the public--votes_ THE MODERN
MATHEWS _a thoughtful man in all things_.

INTERVIEWER (_insinuatingly_): And you----

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Oh! yes. Germany fifteen months; then to Paris.
Occasional theatre. Had to be home by eight! Locked out one night--one
sou left. Put it on a gingerbread board gamble. My sou on biggest
piece. Round went the spinner--stopped at my piece. Won! Only gamble I
ever won in my life. Walked that night till six in the morning; managed
to get into the school. Met head master whilst creeping upstairs. He
commended me for my early rising! From Paris to King's College as a
medical student. Ha! no sooner there, than able to go to theatre.
Got to Cabinet Theatre, King's Cross, in amateur performances. There
I first met William Blakeley, an admirable comedian, who in those
days was a slim, thin, dashing young fellow. I was not long in making
up my mind. I would go in for tragedy, I was so impressed with Barry
Sullivan; though I fancy on looking back that Charles Mathews attracted
me most, although I never dreamed of becoming a light comedian. What a
voice Charley had, how perfect his every movement! The marvellous charm
of that man was his extreme naturalness. How well I remember waiting
for him at the stage door to watch him come out! No one who ever saw
Charley could forget him. Dear old Mathews!

INTERVIEWER (_noting down the great similarity between the actor's
description of Mathews and himself_): And your first _real_ appearance?

[Illustration: A CAST OF "DEARER THAN LIFE."

_From a Photograph._

"CHARLEY GARNER" (Mr. Chas. Wyndham).

"MRS. GARNER" (Mrs. Dyas).

"MR. KEDGELY" (Mr. John Clayton).

"LUCY" (Miss H. Hodson, Mrs. Labouchere).

"MRS. PELLET" (Miss Everard).

"MICHAEL GARNER" (Mr. J. L. Toole).

"UNCLE BEN" (Mr. Lionel Brough).

"BOB GASSITT" (Mr. Henry Irving).]

THE MODERN MATHEWS: At one of the Ash Wednesday performances by Cole
at the Haymarket Theatre. I played _Captain Murphy Macguire_ in "The
Serious Family," and John Clayton was the _Charles Tarcus_. I often
played with Clayton. He and I were in the cast of "Dearer Than Life,"
at the Queen's Theatre, in 1868, together with Toole, Irving, Lionel
Brough, and Henrietta Hodson (Mrs. Labouchere). I paid a guinea to play
Macguire, and it was worth more to me, for I was soon after playing
with Buckstone, and then made my first dash on at the Royalty at £1 a
week, when Ellen Terry and I used to play lovers. But one of my great
desires was to play _Rover_ in "Wild Oats." I made up my mind to do it
as soon as I saw Phelps in the part at Sadler's Wells. I had £30, and
meeting another young fellow with a similar sum, we began to negotiate
for the Strand Theatre, then under the management of Mr. Payne. But our
hopes were crushed, as a slight barrier cropped up in the way of rent.
Payne wanted £60 a week rent, and three months in advance. By this time
I was ashamed of myself, although I had an offer of twelve shillings
a week at the Theatre Royal, Preston--which, probably, I never should
have got! I wrote to my father. He was somewhat wroth when I told him
my theatrical desires. He said: "Well, take your diploma, and I won't
interfere." I accepted the bargain, finished my medical studentship,
went to Dublin--took my diploma. I had almost abandoned the idea of
going on to the stage, and 1863 found me on my way to America to the
war. I left with £9 in my pocket! It was the dad's suggestion I should
go, but I believe he did it with a breaking heart. Look at that!
(_Takes a massive gold ring set with a single diamond, and passes it
to_ INTERVIEWER.) Why, the old fellow came over to America whilst I
was there. When he was leaving the docks, he threw this, wrapped up
in a piece of paper, on to the quay. My eyes were fixed on my father.
There was he, making frantic gesticulations and pointing. I thought
the piece of paper a greenback, and refused to pick it up. At last he
became almost frantic in his anxiety. I picked up the paper, and there
was that ring in it. The old fellow went away happy. This diamond and
sapphire ring was given to me by the Czar. Not a bad ring, eh? Look at
it. (INTERVIEWER _does so, and unconsciously puts it on finger_!)

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "ROVER."

(Wild Oats.)

_From a Photo by the London Stereoscopic Co._]

(INTERVIEWER _is busy for the next ten minutes in noting small
"asides," thrown in between whiffs of cigarette: "£250 a year as
medical officer." "In several engagements." "Did fairly well." "Have a
cigarette?" "Appeared with Mrs. John Wood in New York." "Six weeks."
"£4 12s. a week." "Dismissed for incompetency." "Came home." "Met
amateur friends again." "Engaged at Royalty." "£4 a week." "Leading
light comedy and stage management." "Offer from Miss Herbert to go to
St. James's. Went. Miss Herbert, Irving, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Mathews,
Stoyle, Ada Cavendish there, and--Oh! that first night."_)

THE MODERN MATHEWS _crosses to table_ L., _and taking up an edition
de luxe of a commemorative volume of the Clover Club, reads the story
which he told ten years ago of that first night. His back is to the
fireplace_ (CENTRE), _the book in one hand leaves the other free for
action. He reads and remembers._

"The piece was an adaptation of Ouida's 'Idalia.' I was playing the
hero, _Hugh Stoneleigh_; a young actor named Charles was _Victor Vane_;
Miss Herbert (long since retired) was _Idalia_; and Henry Irving was
the villain of the play, _Count Falcon_. In those days, by-the-bye,
managers would insist upon casting me for the virtuous heroes, and
Irving for the vicious ones, although our proclivities in no way
justified the selection. But what a charming villain Irving was: the
only actor I have ever seen who has been able to make villainy on
the stage appear as it should appear--lovable. But to resume: The
opening scene was a rocky defile, in which I was suddenly attacked by
Irving, and left for dead. The stage-manager had outshone himself in
the production of a grandly impressive scene, in which the demands
of realism were observed by the introduction of a natural waterfall:
descending from the flies at the side, passing under a massive bridge,
and rushing wildly and obliquely across the stage. It was certainly a
gorgeous scene; an inspiring one, bound to elicit uproarious approval.
Well, on the first night it did, and during the rest of the evening
that waterfall was never forgotten. I told you it was supposed to
dash under a massive bridge (which, by-the-bye, sloped down towards
the footlights, in full view of the audience); but stage-managers
propose, and waterfalls dispose. It was its first appearance on any
stage, and, like most beginners, it wanted to do too much: it not only
dashed under the bridge, but it trickled over the bridge; and, on its
passage across the stage, it oozed from its proper channel, in several
independent little rivulets, down towards the footlights. Wherever
that inexperienced water went, it left the stage slippery. Thunders
of applause greeted the enthusiastic débutant, and all the time the
traitor was preparing for the annihilation of his brother artists.
Gracefully down the bridge came F. Charles. He touched the slippery
part of the bridge, threw his arms out wildly, away went his cloak into
the torrent, and--well, he sat down. With dramatic instinct in every
nerve of his body, firmly entered, half a minute afterwards, Henry
Irving; looked about him warily; then strode down the bridge--you know
the stride--till he also reached the fatal spot, threw his arms wildly
round, and--well, he sat down. Need I tell you that the awe of the
situation was fading? Now came my turn. Standing on a platform behind
the scene from the commencement, I had seen what had happened to my two
friends; so, stepping gingerly down the bridge, I arrived on the stage
without sitting down, had my encounter with the two ruffians, escaped
from them, had run wildly up the bridge again to receive the shot
from _Falcon's_ pistol, and had fallen, according to stage-manager's
instructions, a foot or so below the treacherous spot. On came
_Idalia_--she had heard the shot. 'Ah! a body on the bridge!' She runs
down, recognises me--'Great heavens, 'tis he!'--rushes further down,
reaches the fatal place, away go her arms, and--well, she sat down: the
folds of her dress falling over me and completely hiding me from the
view of the audience. That was the end of the act--it was a powerful
one. We had all done our level best, but the waterfall had scored the
most.

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "PEREGRINE PORTER." (Fourteen Days.)

_From a Photograph._]

"The next scene was a simple drawing-room. The waterfall was gone,
thank Heaven, and we could rely upon ourselves. The act began. It was
interesting and dramatic: a powerful scene between Miss Herbert and
Irving--accusation of murder, defiance, vengeance for my death--all
very startling; sufficiently so to drive for the time the slippery
knave from everybody's mind. A great scene, well acted and well
received; everything going splendidly, and an effect in store bound to
please the audience.

"The hero is not dead, for he suddenly appears; appears, as a
hero always does, at the back of the stage; great applause at his
resuscitation; Miss Herbert backs with joy and surprise right to the
footlights, and I prepare to rush towards her; success is in our grasp;
the audience are in splendid humour; spite of all difficulties, we have
triumphed. Alas, the vanity of human hopes! The waterfall was lying in
wait for me. I told you the scene was a drawing-room; but I did not
tell you that it was an Italian one--consequently, that the carpet
covered only the centre of the stage. Across it I madly rushed towards
my faithful love. '_Idalia_,' I exclaimed, 'I never expected to see you
again!'--reached one of those rivulets, that had trickled in exactly
the same direction I was going--reached it unknowingly--slipped,
and--well, _I_ sat down.

[Illustration: _From a Photo by Falk, New York._

MR. WYNDHAM AS "BOB SACKETT." (Brighton.)]

"Never in the whole course of my life have I heard such a roar as went
up from that auditorium.

"Need I go on? Need I tell you how, in the next scene, when she and I
were supposed to be escaping from the Austrian soldiery, those brave
heroes came on, and, as the first slipped over our general enemy, the
others came tumbling after? How massive rocks were knocked over by the
falling bodies, and how the second act terminated in convulsions on
the part of the audience? Need I tell you that, in the last act, the
actors had become through sheer helplessness as demoralized as the
audience--that I assured my love, in a voice smothered by laughter,
that nothing would shake my firmness of belief in her--that she
chuckled out she believed me--or that Irving came on to die in a white
shirt, a blood-red spot on his breast, and his face all grins, dying
the most facetious death actor ever died? Oh, that night--that night of
horrors!"

                              (_Curtain._)


SCENE V.--_The street. A very, very desirable residence, with
well-laid-out grounds in rear. Brougham waiting. (It is not intended
to attempt to describe the extraordinary mechanical methods employed
to bring about this sensational change of scene, seeing that a journey
is about to be made from St. John's Wood to the Criterion Theatre,
Piccadilly. It is unnecessary and useless, for no theatrical manager,
be he professional or amateur, would attempt it.)_

THE MODERN MATHEWS _leads the way down steps followed by_ INTERVIEWER.

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_aside to_ INTERVIEWER): Have a good look at the
coachman on the quiet. (INTERVIEWER _does so. Both enter brougham._)

[Illustration: "THE GREAT DIVORCE CASE."

_From a Photo by Falk, New York._

  "MR. PILKIE"
  (Mr. William Blakeley).

  "GEOFFREY GORDON"
  (Mr. Chas. Wyndham).]

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Whom do you think he was coachman
to?--(_whispers_)--_Byron_!

INTERVIEWER: What--Henry--Henry J.?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Yes, dear old "Our Boys" Byron. He was with him
for seven years. I've had him since. Poor old Byron! What a wit he
was. He joked to the last--almost his last breath was a joke. He wrote
"Fourteen Days" for me. He was very bad--had a consumptive cough when
the play was finished. He would persist in reading it to me. It was
heartbreaking. When he was dying we used to drop in and sit with him,
and take him little delicacies. Just before he had been doing work for
Hare and Kendal at the St. James's. I went in one day, and there was a
fine hare by his side. "Hare sent it to me," he said. "It's so big that
I thought Kendal was inside!" Dear old Byron!

                              (_A pause._)

[Illustration: "THE GREAT DIVORCE CASE"

_From a Photo by Falk, New York._

  "PARKER"
  (Miss Kate Rorke).

  "G. GORDON"
  (Mr. Wyndham).]

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_with gaiety a trifle forced_): Let me see--where
were we when we left the house? Paradoxical that, eh? Oh! yes--I
remember--of course. Well, after playing about for some years, at last
came a moment when I seemed to be on the horns of a dilemma. I had just
advanced beyond the position of a stock actor, and hadn't achieved any
particular individual reputation--that is, I felt unless I adopted some
special line managers wouldn't offer me engagements. One morning--I was
playing at Brighton--at breakfast I had three telegrams in succession.
One read: "Would you accept an engagement at a West-end theatre to
manage it yourself?" A second--from T. E. Smale: "Would you like a
theatre in London? I can find money for it." And a third from Alexander
Henderson: "Could you open at Criterion in 'Brighton' next Monday?"
This seemed direct. I rushed to town. Henderson said: "Rare chance. If
open next Monday--can have theatre rent free!"

INTERVIEWER: Of course----?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Yes--I went! Played a month. Went to Paris.
Returned at Easter. Opened in "The Great Divorce Case," and I started
with the principle of making it a farcical comedy theatre. Made a
contract with Henderson for seven years. This was in 1--8--7--6.
Always a good memory for dates of that kind. "Pink Dominos!" Forced
on me--absolutely forced on me. "The Great Divorce Case" was free to
anybody to use, and when I produced it I wrote to the authors in Paris
telling them I was prepared to pay them. A week or two after they sent
their agent to me, saying that the same authors had just produced a
piece in Paris and would like me to have it. It very much resembled
"The Great Divorce Case," you know; and, on this basis, I refused it.
They sent three or four times. At last I bought it for a mere song--I
didn't want it--£40 down and £1 a night for a hundred nights!

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "DAVID GARRICK."

_From a painting by John Pettie, R. A._

(_By kind permission of Mr. T. McLean, 7, Haymarket, S. W._)]

(INTERVIEWER _excited. More so when_ THE MODERN MATHEWS _encourages him
to take to playwriting as a profession by remarking, with a glorious
twinkle in both eyes_: My half share of the profits was £15,000!
INTERVIEWER _accepts another much-needed cigarette_!)

INTERVIEWER (_breaking the silence_): "Where's the Cat"?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Very decent spec. Gave £25 for it!

INTERVIEWER: Why, it's all profit!

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_wisely_): But, I have given thousands for plays,
and all turned out no good!

INTERVIEWER: And "David Garrick"?

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_merrily, for he revels in talking about his
favourite character_): Ah! "Davy"! I produced "Davy" in '86. I was
about to produce a farcical comedy, and, as a matter of fact, had got
within two days of the advertised first night--indeed, it came to
within forty-eight hours of the time--when I became convinced that it
was no use. On the Friday I frankly issued an announcement stating that
I had no confidence in the piece. It was a toss-up between "Brighton"
and "Wild Oats." Eventual decision--"Wild Oats." A great success--Miss
Mary Moore and David James secured a big triumph.

INTERVIEWER: And yourself?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Well, I played _Rover_. Up to this moment I had
made up my mind never to play any part of Sotheran's or Charles
Mathews', and when Mr. Calmour suggested my playing "David Garrick," I
told him this. Others suggested "Davy," too, and finally Clement Scott,
one night at supper, talked me into it. I was very nervous of "D.G." on
the first night, because I had altered the intention of the dramatist
in the second act by taking it more seriously. At one time I began
to rehearse it with all the nonsense out of it, but finally decided
to curtail the original "business" so as not to disappoint lovers of
the old version. It ran from November, 1886, to August, 1887. I have
revived it every year since, and so far as paying business goes, "Pink
Dominos" is not in it. Ah! here we are. Come into my cabin.

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "DAVID GARRICK."

_From a Photo by Barraud, London._]

_Brougham stops at theatre._ THE MODERN MATHEWS _and_ INTERVIEWER
_ascend a somewhat steep flight of stairs leading to_--


SCENE VI.--_A cabin. It is really an apartment fitted up exactly like
a cabin on a wealthy man's yacht. Not a detail is missing. Even the
portholes are there, and you peep out on to a sea of carriages, cabs,
vans, and pedestrians. Luxuriously furnished. Table centre: papers
scattered about, designs and estimates for scenes--one at a trifle
above £1,000--huge pile of letters._

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_very busy--here, there, and everywhere_): Excuse
me--M.L.! No, no--not my life--finished with that; my letters! (_Opens
one--reads._) Look at that. (_Hands letter._) Fellow wants two for the
dress circle. Has no claim on the theatre save his "great love for
the drama!" (_Opens another letter._) Ah! nicely scented envelope.
(_Reads_): "Dear sir, will you send us two seats for the matinée on
Saturday? A gentleman friend told us you _always_ give seats away. We
want to come to the afternoon performance, because ma hates theatres,
and won't let us go if she can help it!"

INTERVIEWER: Encouraging!

THE MODERN MATHEWS: D.C., my boy, D.C.!

INTERVIEWER: So you're going to send them?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Send what?

INTERVIEWER: The seats--D.C.--dress circle?

THE MODERN MATHEWS: D.C.--D.C. in this instance is to remind me that
it's deuced cheek! Oh! I give them occasionally. I remember once a
couple of seats I gave to a policeman. When I am studying a part I like
to take long walks in the country--down the lanes. On one occasion I
was learning up my character in Gilbert's play of "Foggerty's Fairy."
In the last act I am supposed to be mad. On the other hand, I maintain
that the keepers appointed over me are mad and not I. I have to
describe a murder I am supposed to have committed, and to go through
all the details of the crime. This I did once in a secluded nook in the
Hampstead Woods--giving it forth at the top of my voice, thoroughly
entering into the spirit of the business. A policeman caught sight of
me. He had evidently been watching me for some time. Suddenly he made
for me, seized me by the collar, and said he should charge me at the
station on my own confession! It took a long time to explain--but
I succeeded eventually in putting matters straight with the aid of a
sovereign and a couple of seats for the first night of "Foggerty"!

[Illustration: SCENE FROM "DAVID GARRICK."

  MISS MARY MOORE.       MR. WYNDHAM.       MR. GIDDENS.

_Taken on the stage of Criterion Theatre at night by Mr. John F.
Roberts._]

_Enter_ CLERK _with more letters_. INTERVIEWER _suggests he shall
return in the evening. Mutual consent. A wait of three hours till_--


SCENE VII.--THE MODERN MATHEWS'S _dressing-room at the Criterion
Theatre. A comfortable little apartment, with speaking-tubes connecting
with all parts and all officials of the theatre. A small window--with a
blind--opens on to the stage, so that its occupant can see exactly what
is going on on the boards, and knows when to prepare to enter._

THE MODERN MATHEWS _discovered_.

                          _Enter_ INTERVIEWER.

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Ah! there you are! Foolish again. Made the same
remark this morning when we met--didn't I? Mustn't say it again.
(_Pencils memory initials on shirt-cuff to this effect._) I've only
just got here. That confounded cigarette case--couldn't find it again,
M.C. stands for too many things: shall have to invent another plan.
I've got it. Always smoke! Eh?--then I shan't have to worry about it!
I'm never here till it's time to walk on. Wigs? Never wear 'em. Never
so good as your own hair. I never wore a wig for "D.G.," always had my
hair dressed. Much better. Excuse me--I'm on.

(_Rushes on to stage. The scenery needed here is somewhat elaborate,
but it is journalistically adjusted particularly for this occasion.
Shouts of laughter. Laughter ceases._ THE MODERN MATHEWS _comes in at
the same rate as he departed_.)

THE MODERN MATHEWS: America! Yes, been there professionally three
times. Wonderfully patient people. One night I was timed to appear
at a certain theatre at eight o'clock. Breakdown on the line. Didn't
get to playhouse until half-past nine. Expected to find the theatre
empty. Audience had waited until nine o'clock without showing a sign of
being fidgety. Manager went before the curtain saying he had received
a telegram from me explaining the circumstances, and stating I should
shortly arrive. So the sufferers held on another half-hour, when they
began to file out of the theatre. We met them all coming out. "Here we
are. Here we are again. Go back! We've arrived!" and go back they did!
Ten minutes afterwards the curtain had gone up on the first act of the
play. Excuse me! M.P. my part!

(_Rapid exit. Rattles off M.P. and returns as merrily as before._)

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "JOHN MILDMAY."

(Still Waters Run Deep.)

_From a Photo by Barraud, London._]

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Americans never grumble. They kept a train waiting
for four hours and a quarter for us one night, and the passengers as
well! But the passengers only grumbled in the right direction. They
thought it a bit too bad, because if they had known the cause of the
long wait, they might have gone to the theatre!

Then their double E's--enormous enterprise. Once we had to wait for
four-and-twenty hours to catch a train. A manager came to see me, and
pressed for a performance, at which the prominent citizens of the town
would be present. I consented. No time to post bills--they sent out
runners. I went down to see the hall. Not a seat in the place! "Don't
you worry about that, you'll find all the chairs there to-night." And
so I did, sure enough. When I arrived in the evening the hall was half
full of chairs of all shapes and sizes. Camp stools, piano stools,
three-legged stools, drawing-room, dining-room, kitchen chairs--in
fact, anything on which one might sit down. I couldn't understand
it. I was informed that it was a rule of the theatre that everybody
who purchased a seat should provide his own! The place at night was
packed--the approaches to the theatre being crowded with contingents
of families entering the place, followed by <DW64> servants carrying
half-a-dozen chairs on their shoulders. I'm wanted on again. What, are
you off?

(INTERVIEWER _takes off his finger the Czar's ring shown to him a few
hours before, and in shaking hands with the actor artfully slips it
into his open palm._)

THE MODERN MATHEWS: Halloa, what's this? Good gracious--my ring! M.R.;
M.R.! I must remember that in future! I thought at first it was a tip
for the interview!

                              _Curtain._

[Illustration: MR. WYNDHAM AS "CHARLES SURFACE."

(School for Scandal.)

_From a Photo by Barraud, London._]




_Martin Hewitt, Investigator._


                          BY ARTHUR MORRISON.


III.--THE CASE OF MR. FOGGATT.

Almost the only dogmatism that Martin Hewitt permitted himself
in regard to his professional methods was one on the matter of
accumulative probabilities. Often when I have remarked upon the
apparently trivial nature of the clues by which he allowed himself
to be guided--sometimes, to all seeming, in the very face of all
likelihood--he has replied that two trivialities, pointing in the same
direction, became at once, by their mere agreement, no trivialities at
all, but enormously important considerations. "If I were in search of
a man," he would say, "of whom I knew nothing but that he squinted,
bore a birthmark on his right hand, and limped, and I observed a
man who answered to the first peculiarity, so far the clue would be
trivial, because thousands of men squint. Now, if that man presently
moved and exhibited a birthmark on his right hand, the value of that
squint and that mark would increase at once a hundred or a thousand
fold. Apart they are little; together much. The weight of evidence
is not doubled merely; it would be only doubled if half the men who
squinted had right-hand birthmarks; whereas, the proportion, if it
could be ascertained, would be perhaps more like one in ten thousand.
The two trivialities, pointing in the same direction, become very
strong evidence. And when the man is seen to walk with a limp,
that limp (another triviality), reinforcing the others, brings the
matter to the rank of a practical certainty. The Bertillon system of
identification--what is it but a summary of trivialities? Thousands
of men are of the same height, thousands of the same length of foot,
thousands of the same girth of head--thousands correspond in any
separate measurement you may name. It is when the measurements are
taken _together_ that you have your man identified for ever. Just
consider how few, if any, of your friends correspond exactly in any
two personal peculiarities." Hewitt's dogma received its illustration
unexpectedly close at home.

[Illustration: MR. FOGGATT.]

The old house wherein my chambers and Hewitt's office were situated
contained, beside my own, two or three more bachelors' dens, in
addition to the offices on the ground and first and second floors.
At the very top of all, at the back, a fat, middle-aged man, named
Foggatt, occupied a set of four rooms. It was only after long
residence, by an accidental remark of the housekeeper's, that I learned
the man's name, which was not painted on his door or displayed, with
all the others, on the wall of the ground-floor porch.

Mr. Foggatt appeared to have few friends, but lived in something as
nearly approaching luxury as an old bachelor in chambers can live. An
ascending case of champagne was a common phenomenon of the staircase,
and I have more than once seen a picture, destined for the top floor,
of a sort that went far to awaken green covetousness in the heart of a
poor journalist.

The man himself was not altogether prepossessing. Fat as he was,
he had a way of carrying his head forward on his extended neck and
gazing widely about with a pair of the roundest and most prominent
eyes I remember to have ever seen, except in a fish. On the whole, his
appearance was rather vulgar, rather arrogant, and rather suspicious,
without any very pronounced quality of any sort. But certainly he
was not pretty. In the end, however, he was found shot dead in his
sitting-room.

It was in this way: Hewitt and I had dined together at my club, and
late in the evening had returned to my rooms to smoke and discuss
whatever came uppermost. I had made a bargain that day with two
speculative odd lots at a book sale, each of which contained a hidden
prize. We sat talking and turning over these books while time went
unperceived, when suddenly we were startled by a loud report. Clearly
it was in the building. We listened for a moment, but heard nothing
else, and then Hewitt expressed his opinion that the report was that
of a gunshot. Gunshots in residential chambers are not common things,
wherefore I got up and went to the landing, looking up the stairs and
down.

At the top of the next flight I saw Mrs. Clayton, the housekeeper. She
appeared to be frightened, and told me that the report came from Mr.
Foggatt's room. She thought he might have had an accident with the
pistol that usually lay on his mantelpiece. We went upstairs with her,
and she knocked at Mr. Foggatt's door.

There was no reply. Through the ventilating fanlight over the door
it could be seen that there were lights within, a sign, Mrs. Clayton
maintained, that Mr. Foggatt was not out. We knocked again, much more
loudly, and called, but still ineffectually. The door was locked,
and an application of the housekeeper's key proved that the tenant's
key had been left in the lock inside. Mrs. Clayton's conviction that
"something had happened" became distressing, and in the end Hewitt
prised open the door with a small poker.

[Illustration: "SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED."]

Something _had_ happened. In the sitting-room Mr. Foggatt sat with his
head bowed over the table, quiet and still. The head was ill to look
at, and by it lay a large revolver, of the full sized Army pattern.
Mrs. Clayton ran back toward the landing with faint screams.

"Run, Brett," said Hewitt; "a doctor and a policeman!"

I bounced down the stairs half a flight at a time. "First," I thought,
"a doctor. He may not be dead." I could think of no doctor in the
immediate neighbourhood, but ran up the street away from the Strand, as
being the more likely direction for the doctor, although less so for
the policeman. It took me a good five minutes to find the medico, after
being led astray by a red lamp at a private hotel, and another five to
get back, with a policeman.

Foggatt was dead, without a doubt. Probably had shot himself, the
doctor thought, from the powder-blackening and other circumstances.
Certainly nobody could have left the room by the door, or he must have
passed my landing, while the fact of the door being found locked from
the inside made the thing impossible. There were two windows to the
room, both of which were shut, one being fastened by the catch, while
the catch of the other was broken--an old fracture. Below these windows
was a sheer drop of 50ft. or more, without a foot or hand-hold near.
The windows in the other rooms were shut and fastened. Certainly it
seemed suicide--unless it were one of those accidents that will occur
to people who fiddle ignorantly with firearms. Soon the rooms were in
possession of the police, and we were turned out.

We looked in at the housekeeper's kitchen, where her daughter was
reviving and calming Mrs. Clayton with gin and water.

"You mustn't upset yourself, Mrs. Clayton," Hewitt said, "or what will
become of us all? The doctor thinks it was an accident."

He took a small bottle of sewing-machine oil from his pocket and handed
it to the daughter, thanking her for the loan.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was little evidence at the inquest. The shot had been heard,
the body had been found--that was the practical sum of the matter. No
friends or relatives of the dead man came forward. The doctor gave
his opinion as to the probability of suicide or an accident, and
the police evidence tended in the same direction. Nothing had been
found to indicate that any other person had been near the dead man's
rooms on the night of the fatality. On the other hand, his papers,
bank-book, etc., proved him to be a man of considerable substance,
with no apparent motive for suicide. The police had been unable to
trace any relatives, or, indeed, any nearer connections than casual
acquaintances, fellow club-men, and so on. The jury found that Mr.
Foggatt had died by accident.

"Well, Brett," Hewitt asked me afterwards, "what do you think of the
verdict?"

I said that it seemed to be the most reasonable one possible, and to
square with the common-sense view of the case.

"Yes," he replied, "perhaps it does. From the point of view of the
jury, and on their information, their verdict was quite reasonable.
Nevertheless, Mr. Foggatt did not shoot himself. He was shot by a
rather tall, active young man, perhaps a sailor, but certainly a
gymnast--a young man whom I think I could identify, if I saw him."

"But how do you know this?"

"By the simplest possible inferences, which you may easily guess, if
you will but think."

"But, then, why didn't you say this at the inquest?"

"My dear fellow, they don't want my inferences and conjectures at an
inquest, they only want evidence. If I had traced the murderer, of
course then I should have communicated with the police. As a matter of
fact, it is quite possible that the police have observed and know as
much as I do--or more. They don't give everything away at an inquest,
you know--it wouldn't do."

"But if you are right, how did the man get away?"

"Come, we are near home now. Let us take a look at the back of the
house. He _couldn't_ have left by Foggatt's landing door, as we know;
and as he _was_ there (I am certain of that), and as the chimney is
out of the question--for there was a good fire in the grate--he must
have gone out by the window. Only one window is possible--that with
the broken catch--for all the others were fastened inside. Out of that
window, then, he went."

"But how? The window is 50ft. up."

"Of course it is. But why _will_ you persist in assuming that the only
way of escape by a window is downward? See, now, look up there. The
window is at the top-floor, and it has a very broad sill. Over the
window is nothing but the flat face of the gable-end; but to the right,
and a foot or two above the level of the top of the window, an iron
gutter ends. Observe, it is not of lead composition, but a strong iron
gutter, supported, just at its end, by an iron bracket. If a tall man
stood on the end of the window-sill, steadying himself by the left hand
and leaning to the right, he could just touch the end of this gutter
with his right hand--the full stretch, toe to finger, is 7ft. 3in.;
I have measured it. An active gymnast, or a sailor, could catch the
gutter with a slight spring, and by it draw himself upon the roof. You
will say he would have to be _very_ active, dexterous, and cool. So he
would. And that very fact helps us, because it narrows the field of
inquiry. We know the sort of man to look for. Because, being certain
(as I am) that the man was in the room, I _know_ that he left in the
way I am telling you. He must have left in some way, and all the other
ways being impossible, this alone remains, difficult as the feat may
seem. The fact of his shutting the window behind him further proves his
coolness and address at so great a height from the ground."

All this was very plain, but the main point was still dark.

"You say you _know_ that another man was in the room," I said; "how do
you know that?"

"As I said, by an obvious inference. Come now, you shall guess how
I arrived at that inference. You often speak of your interest in my
work, and the attention with which you follow it. This shall be a
simple exercise for you. You saw everything in the room as plainly as I
myself. Bring the scene back to your memory, and think over the various
small objects littering about, and how they would affect the case.
Quick observation is the first essential for my work. Did you see a
newspaper, for instance?"

"Yes. There was an evening paper on the floor, but I didn't examine it."

"Anything else?"

"On the table there was a whisky decanter, taken from the tantalus
stand on the sideboard, and one glass. That, by-the-bye," I added,
"looked as though only one person were present."

"So it did, perhaps, although the inference wouldn't be very strong. Go
on."

"There was a fruit-stand on the sideboard, with a plate beside it,
containing a few nutshells, a piece of apple, a pair of nutcrackers,
and, I think, some orange peel. There was, of course, all the ordinary
furniture, but no chair pulled up to the table except that used by
Foggatt himself. That's all I noticed, I think. Stay--there was an
ash-tray on the table, and a partly-burned cigar near it--only one
cigar, though."

"Excellent--excellent, indeed, as far as memory and simple observation
go. You saw everything plainly, and you remember everything. Surely
_now_ you know how I found out that another man had just left?"

"No, I don't; unless there were different kinds of ash in the ash-tray."

"That is a fairly good suggestion, but there were not--there was only a
single ash, corresponding in every way to that on the cigar. Don't you
remember anything that I did as we went downstairs?"

"You returned a bottle of oil to the housekeeper's daughter, I think."

"I did. Doesn't that give you a hint? Come, you surely have it now?"

"I haven't."

[Illustration: "DOESN'T THAT GIVE YOU A HINT?"]

"Then I shan't tell you; you don't deserve it. Think, and don't
mention the subject again till you have at least one guess to make.
The thing stares you in the face--you see it, you remember it, and yet
you _won't_ see it. I won't encourage your slovenliness of thought,
my boy, by telling you what you can know for yourself if you like.
Good-bye--I'm off now. There is a case in hand I can't neglect."

"Don't you propose to go further into this, then?"

Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not a policeman," he said. "The
case is in very good hands. Of course, if anybody comes to me to do
it as a matter of business, I'll take it up. It's very interesting,
but I can't neglect my regular work for it. Naturally, I shall keep my
eyes open and my memory in order. Sometimes these things come into the
hands by themselves, as it were; in that case, of course, I am a loyal
citizen, and ready to help the law. _Au revoir._"

       *       *       *       *       *

I am a busy man myself, and thought little more of Hewitt's conundrum
for some time--indeed, when I did think, I saw no way to the answer.
A week after the inquest I took a holiday (I had written my nightly
leaders regularly every day for the past five years), and saw no
more of Hewitt for six weeks. After my return, with still a few days
of leave to run, one evening we together turned into Luzatti's, off
Coventry Street, for dinner.

"I have been here several times lately," Hewitt said; "they feed you
very well. No, not that table"--he seized my arm as I turned to an
unoccupied corner--"I fancy it's draughty." He led the way to a longer
table where a dark, lithe, and (as well as could be seen) tall young
man already sat, and took chairs opposite him.

We had scarcely seated ourselves before Hewitt broke into a torrent of
conversation on the subject of bicycling. As our previous conversation
had been of a literary sort, and as I had never known Hewitt at any
other time to show the slightest interest in bicycling, this rather
surprised me. I had, however, such a general outsider's grasp of the
subject as is usual in a journalist-of-all-work, and managed to keep
the talk going from my side. As we went on I could see the face of the
young man opposite brighten with interest. He was a rather fine-looking
fellow, with a dark though very clear skin, but had a hard, angry look
of eye, a prominence of cheek-bone, and a squareness of jaw that gave
him a rather uninviting aspect. As Hewitt rattled on, however, our
neighbour's expression became one of pleasant interest merely.

"Of course," Hewitt said, "we've a number of very capital men just now,
but I believe a deal in the forgotten riders of five, ten, and fifteen
years back. Osmond, I believe, was better than any man riding now, and
I think it would puzzle some of them to beat Furnivall as he was at his
best. But poor old Cortis--really, I believe he was as good as anybody.
Nobody ever beat Cortis--except--let me see--I think somebody beat
Cortis once--who was it, now? I can't remember."

"Liles," said the young man opposite, looking up quickly.

"Ah, yes--Liles it was; Charley Liles. Wasn't it a championship?"

"Mile championship, 1880; Cortis won the other three, though."

"Yes, so he did. I saw Cortis when he first broke the old 2.46 mile
record." And straightway Hewitt plunged into a whirl of talk of
bicycles, tricycles, records, racing cyclists, Hillier and Synyer and
Noel Whiting, Taylerson and Appleyard; talk wherein the young man
opposite bore an animated share, while I was left in the cold.

Our new friend, it seemed, had himself been a prominent racing
bicyclist a few years back, and was presently, at Hewitt's request,
exhibiting a neat gold medal that hung at his watch-guard. That was
won, he explained, in the old tall bicycle days, the days of bad
tracks, when every racing cyclist carried cinder scars on his face from
numerous accidents. He pointed to a blue mark on his forehead, which,
he told us, was a track scar, and described a bad fall that had cost
him two teeth, and broken others. The gaps among his teeth were plain
to see as he smiled.

Presently the waiter brought dessert, and the young man opposite took
an apple. Nutcrackers and a fruit-knife lay on our side of the stand,
and Hewitt turned the stand to offer him the knife.

"No, thanks," he said, "I only polish a good apple, never peel it. It's
a mistake except with thick-skinned, foreign ones."

And he began to munch the apple as only a boy or a healthy athlete
can. Presently he turned his head to order coffee. The waiter's back
was turned, and he had to be called twice. To my unutterable amazement
Hewitt reached swiftly across the table, snatched the half-eaten apple
from the young man's plate and pocketed it; gazing immediately, with an
abstracted air, at a painted Cupid on the ceiling.

Our neighbour turned again, looked doubtfully at his plate and the
tablecloth about it, and then shot a keen glance in the direction of
Hewitt. He said nothing, however, but took his coffee and his bill,
deliberately drank the former, gazing quietly at Hewitt as he did it,
paid the latter, and left.

Immediately Hewitt was on his feet and, taking an umbrella which stood
near, followed. Just as he reached the door he met our late neighbour,
who had turned suddenly back.

"Your umbrella, I think?" Hewitt asked, offering it.

"Yes, thanks." But the man's eye had more than its former hardness, and
his jaw-muscles tightened as I looked. He turned and went. Hewitt came
back to me. "Pay the bill," he said, "and go back to your rooms; I will
come on later: I must follow this man--it's the Foggatt case." As he
went out I heard a cab rattle away, and immediately after it another.

[Illustration: "HEWITT REACHED SWIFTLY ACROSS THE TABLE."]

I paid the bill and went home. It was ten o'clock before Hewitt turned
up, calling in at his office below on his way up to me.

"Mr. Sidney Mason," he said, "is the gentleman the police will be
wanting to-morrow, I expect, for the Foggatt murder. He is as smart a
man as I remember ever meeting, and has done me rather neatly twice
this evening."

"You mean the man we sat opposite at Luzatti's, of course?"

"Yes, I got his name, of course, from the reverse of that gold medal
he was good enough to show me. But I fear he has bilked me over the
address. He suspected me, that was plain, and left his umbrella by way
of experiment, to see if I were watching him sharply enough to notice
the circumstance, and to avail myself of it to follow him. I was hasty
and fell into the trap. He cabbed it away from Luzatti's, and I cabbed
it after him. He has led me a pretty dance up and down London to-night,
and two cabbies have made quite a stroke of business out of us. In the
end he entered a house of which, of course, I have taken the address,
but I expect he doesn't live there. He is too smart a man to lead me
to his den; but the police can certainly find something of him at the
house he went in at--and, I expect, left by the back way. By the way,
you never guessed that simple little puzzle as to how I found that this
_was_ a murder, did you? You see it now, of course?"

"Something to do with that apple you stole, I suppose?"

"Something to do with it? I should think so, you worthy innocent. Just
ring your bell--we'll borrow Mrs. Clayton's sewing-machine oil again.
On the night we broke into Foggatt's room you saw the nutshells and the
bitten remains of an apple on the sideboard, and you remembered it;
and yet you couldn't see that in that piece of apple possibly lay an
important piece of evidence. Of course, I never expected you to have
arrived at any conclusion, as I had, because I had ten minutes in which
to examine that apple, and to do what I did with it. But at least you
should have seen the possibility of evidence in it.

"First, now, the apple was white. A bitten apple, as you must have
observed, turns of a reddish-brown colour if left to stand long.
Different kinds of apples brown with different rapidities, and the
browning always begins at the core. This is one of the twenty thousand
tiny things that few people take the trouble to notice, but which it
is useful for a man in my position to know. A russet will brown quite
quickly. The apple on the sideboard was, as near as I could tell, a
Newtown pippin or other apple of that kind, which will brown at the
core in from twenty minutes to half an hour, and in other parts in a
quarter of an hour more. When we saw it, it was white, with barely a
tinge of brown about the exposed core. Inference--somebody had been
eating it fifteen or twenty minutes before--perhaps a little longer;
an inference supported by the fact that it was only partly eaten.

"I examined that apple, and found it bore marks of very irregular
teeth. While you were gone I oiled it over, and, rushing down to my
rooms, where I always have a little plaster of Paris handy for such
work, took a mould of the part where the teeth had left the clearest
marks. I then returned the apple to its place, for the police to use if
they thought fit. Looking at my mould, it was plain that the person who
had bitten that apple had lost two teeth, one at top and one below, not
exactly opposite, but nearly so. The other teeth, although they would
appear to have been fairly sound, were irregular in size and line.
Now the dead man had, as I saw, a very excellent set of false teeth,
regular and sharp, with none missing. Therefore it was plain that
_somebody else_ had been eating that apple. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite. Go on."

"There were other inferences to be made--slighter, but all pointing
the same way. For instance, a man of Foggatt's age does not as a rule
munch an unpeeled apple like a schoolboy--inference, a young man,
and healthy. Why I came to the conclusion that he was tall, active,
a gymnast, and perhaps a sailor, I have already told you, when we
examined the outside of Foggatt's window. It was also pretty clear that
robbery was not the motive, since nothing was disturbed, and that a
friendly conversation had preceded the murder--witness the drinking and
the eating of the apple. Whether or not the police noticed these things
I can't say. If they had had their best men on they certainly would,
I think; but the case, to a rough observer, looked so clearly one of
accident or suicide, that possibly they didn't.

"As I said, after the inquest I was unable to devote any immediate time
to the case, but I resolved to keep my eyes open. The man to look for
was tall, young, strong and active, with a very irregular set of teeth,
a tooth missing from the lower jaw just to the left of the centre, and
another from the upper jaw a little further still toward the left. He
might possibly be a person I had seen about the premises (I have a good
memory for faces), or, of course, he possibly might not.

"Just before you returned from your holiday I noticed a young man at
Luzatti's whom I remembered to have seen somewhere about the offices in
this building. He was tall, young, and so on, but I had a client with
me, and was unable to examine him more narrowly--indeed, as I was not
exactly engaged on the case, and as there are several tall young men
about, I took little trouble. But to-day, finding the same young man
with a vacant seat opposite him, I took the opportunity of making a
closer acquaintance."

"You certainly managed to draw him out."

"Oh, yes--the easiest person in the world to draw out is a cyclist. The
easiest cyclist to draw out is, of course, the novice, but the next
easiest is the veteran. When you see a healthy, well-trained looking
man, who nevertheless has a slight stoop in the shoulders, and, maybe,
a medal on his watch-guard, it is always a safe card to try him first
with a little cycle-racing talk. I soon brought Mr. Mason out of his
shell, read his name on his medal, and had a chance of observing his
teeth--indeed, he spoke of them himself. Now, as I observed just now,
there are several tall, athletic young men about, and also there are
several men who have lost teeth. But now I saw that this tall and
athletic young man had lost exactly _two_ teeth--one from the lower
jaw, just to the left of the centre, and another from the upper jaw,
further still toward the left! Trivialities, pointing in the same
direction, became important considerations. More, his teeth were
irregular throughout, and, as nearly as I could remember it, looked
remarkably like this little plaster mould of mine."

He produced from his pocket an irregular lump of plaster, about three
inches long. On one side of this appeared in relief the likeness of
two irregular rows of six or eight teeth, minus one in each row,
where a deep gap was seen, in the position spoken of by my friend. He
proceeded:--

"This was enough at least to set me after this young man. But he gave
me the greatest chance of all when he turned and left his apple (eaten
unpeeled, remember!--another important triviality) on his plate. I'm
afraid I wasn't at all polite, and I ran the risk of arousing his
suspicions, but I couldn't resist the temptation to steal it. I did, as
you saw, and here it is."

He brought the apple from his coat-pocket. One bitten side, placed
against the upper half of the mould, fitted precisely, a projection of
apple filling exactly the deep gap. The other side similarly fitted the
lower half.

"There's no getting behind that, you see," Hewitt remarked. "Merely
observing the man's teeth was a guide, to some extent, but this is
as plain as his signature or his thumb-impression. You'll never find
two men _bite_ exactly alike, no matter whether they leave distinct
teeth-marks or not. Here, by-the-bye, is Mrs. Clayton's oil. We'll take
another mould from this apple, and compare _them_."

[Illustration: "FITTED PRECISELY."]

He oiled the apple, heaped a little plaster in a newspaper, took my
water-jug and rapidly pulled off a hard mould. The parts corresponding
to the merely broken places in the apple were, of course, dissimilar;
but as to the teeth-marks, the impressions were identical.

"That will do, I think," Hewitt said. "To-morrow morning, Brett, I
shall put up these things in a small parcel, and take them round to Bow
Street."

"But are they sufficient evidence?"

"Quite sufficient for the police purpose. There is the man, and all
the rest--his movements on the day and so forth are simple matters of
inquiry; at any rate, that is police business."

       *       *       *       *       *

I had scarcely sat down to my breakfast on the following morning when
Hewitt came into the room and put a long letter before me.

"From our friend of last night," he said; "read it."

This letter began abruptly, and undated, and was as follows:--

"TO MARTIN HEWITT, ESQ.

"SIR,--I must compliment you on the adroitness you exhibited this
evening in extracting from me my name. The address I was able to
balk you of for the time being, although by the time you read this
you will probably have found it through the _Law List_, as I am an
admitted solicitor. That, however, will be of little use to you, for I
am removing myself, I think, beyond the reach even of your abilities
of search. I knew you well by sight, and was, perhaps, foolish to
allow myself to be drawn as I did. Still, I had no idea that it would
be dangerous, especially after seeing you, as a witness with very
little to say, at the inquest upon the scoundrel I shot. Your somewhat
discourteous seizure of my apple at first amazed me--indeed, I was
a little doubtful as to whether you had really taken it--but it was
my first warning that you might be playing a deep game against me,
incomprehensible as the action was to my mind. I subsequently reflected
that I had been eating an apple, instead of taking the drink he first
offered me, in the dead wretch's rooms on the night he came to his
merited end. From this I assume that your design was in some way to
compare what remained of the two apples--although I do not presume to
fathom the depths of your detective system. Still, I have heard of
many of your cases, and profoundly admire the keenness you exhibit. I
am thought to be a keen man myself, but although I was able, to some
extent, to hold my own to-night, I admit that your acumen in this case
alone is something beyond me.

"I do not know by whom you are commissioned to hunt me, nor to what
extent you may be acquainted with my connection with the creature I
killed. I have sufficient respect for you, however, to wish that you
should not regard me as a vicious criminal, and a couple of hours to
spare in which to offer you an explanation that may persuade you that
such is not altogether the case. A hasty and violent temper I admit
possessing; but even now I cannot regret the one crime it has led me
into--for it is, I suppose, strictly speaking, a crime. For it was
the man Foggatt who made a felon of my father before the eyes of the
world, and killed him with shame. It was he who murdered my mother, and
none the less murdered her because she died of a broken heart. That he
was also a thief and a hypocrite might have concerned me little, but
for that.

"Of my father I remember very little. He must, I fear, have been a weak
and incapable man in many respects. He had no business abilities--in
fact, was quite unable to understand the complicated business matters
in which he largely dealt. Foggatt was a consummate master of all
those arts of financial jugglery that make so many fortunes, and ruin
so many others, in matters of company promoting, stocks and shares.
He was unable to exercise them, however, because of a great financial
disaster in which he had been mixed up a few years before, and which
made his name one to be avoided in future. In these circumstances he
made a sort of secret and informal partnership with my father, who,
ostensibly alone in the business, acted throughout on the directions of
Foggatt, understanding as little of what he did, poor, simple man, as a
schoolboy would have done. The transactions carried on went from small
to large, and, unhappily, from honourable to dishonourable. My father
relied on the superior abilities of Foggatt with an absolute trust,
carrying out each day the directions given him privately the previous
evening, buying, selling, printing prospectuses, signing whatever had
to be signed, all with sole responsibility and as sole partner, while
Foggatt, behind the scenes, absorbed the larger share of the profits.
In brief, my unhappy and foolish father was a mere tool in the hands of
the cunning scoundrel who pulled all the wires of the business, himself
unseen and irresponsible. At last three companies, for the promotion
of which my father was responsible, came to grief in a heap. Fraud
was written large over all their history, and, while Foggatt retired
with his plunder, my father was left to meet ruin, disgrace, and
imprisonment. From beginning to end he, and he only, was responsible.
There was no shred of evidence to connect Foggatt with the matter, and
no means of escape from the net drawn about my father. He lived through
three years of imprisonment and then, entirely abandoned by the man who
had made use of his simplicity, he died--of nothing but shame and a
broken heart.

"Of this I knew nothing at the time. Again and again, as a small boy,
I remember asking of my mother why I had no father at home, as other
boys had--unconscious of the stab I thus inflicted on her gentle heart.
Of her my earliest, as well as my latest, memory is that of a pale,
weeping woman, who grudged to let me out of her sight.

"Little by little I learnt the whole cause of my mother's grief, for
she had no other confidant, and I fear my character developed early,
for my first coherent remembrance of the matter is that of a childish
design to take a table-knife and kill the bad man who had made my
father die in prison and caused my mother to cry.

"One thing, however, I never knew: the name of that bad man. Again
and again, as I grew older, I demanded to know, but my mother always
withheld it from me, with a gentle reminder that vengeance was for a
greater hand than mine.

"I was seventeen years of age when my mother died. I believe that
nothing but her strong attachment to myself and her desire to see
me safely started in life kept her alive so long. Then I found that
through all those years of narrowed means she had contrived to scrape
and save a little money--sufficient, as it afterwards proved, to see
me through the examinations for entrance to my profession, with the
generous assistance of my father's old legal advisers, who gave me my
articles, and who have all along treated me with extreme kindness.

"For most of the succeeding years my life does not concern the matter
in hand. I was a lawyer's clerk in my benefactors' service, and
afterwards a qualified man among their assistants. All through, the
firm were careful, in pursuance of my poor mother's wishes, that I
should not learn the name or whereabouts of the man who had wrecked her
life and my father's. I first met the man himself at the Clifton Club,
where I had gone with an acquaintance who was a member. It was not till
afterwards that I understood his curious awkwardness on that occasion.
A week later I called (as I have frequently done) at the building in
which your office is situated, on business with a solicitor who has an
office on the floor above your own. On the stairs I almost ran against
Mr. Foggatt. He started and turned pale, exhibiting signs of alarm that
I could not understand, and asked me if I wished to see him.

"'No,' I replied; 'I didn't know you lived here. I am after somebody
else just now. Aren't you well?'

"He looked at me rather doubtfully, and said he was _not_ very well.

"I met him twice or thrice after that, and on each occasion his manner
grew more friendly, in a servile, flattering, and mean sort of way--a
thing unpleasant enough in anybody, but doubly so in the intercourse of
a man with another young enough to be his own son. Still, of course,
I treated the man civilly enough. On one occasion he asked me into
his rooms to look at a rather fine picture he had lately bought, and
observed casually, lifting a large revolver from the mantelpiece:--

[Illustration: "YOU SEE I AM PREPARED."]

"'You see I am prepared for any unwelcome visitors to my little den!
He! he!' Conceiving him, of course, to refer to burglars, I could not
help wondering at the forced and hollow character of his laugh. As
we went down the stairs he said, 'I think we know one another pretty
well now, Mr. Mason, eh? And if I could do anything to advance your
professional prospects I should be glad of the chance, of course. I
understand the struggles of a young professional man--he! he!' It was
the forced laugh again, and the man spoke nervously. 'I think,' he
added, 'that if you will drop in to-morrow evening, perhaps I may have
a little proposal to make. Will you?'

"I assented, wondering what this proposal could be. Perhaps this
eccentric old gentleman was a good fellow, after all, anxious to do me
a good turn, and his awkwardness was nothing but a natural delicacy in
breaking the ice. I was not so flush of good friends as to be willing
to lose one. He might be desirous of putting business in my way.

"I went, and was received with a cordiality that even then seemed a
little over-effusive. We sat and talked of one thing and another for a
long while, and I began to wonder when Mr. Foggatt was coming to the
point that most interested me. Several times he invited me to drink and
smoke, but long usage to athletic training has given me a distaste for
both practices, and I declined. At last he began to talk about myself.
He was afraid that my professional prospects in this country were not
great, but he had heard that in some of the Colonies--South Africa, for
example--young lawyers had brilliant opportunities.

"'If you'd like to go there,' he said, 'I've no doubt, with a little
capital, a clever man like you could get a grand practice together very
soon. Or you might buy a share in some good established practice. I
should be glad to let you have five hundred pounds, or even a little
more if that wouldn't satisfy you, and ----.'

"I stood aghast. Why should this man, almost a stranger, offer me five
hundred pounds, or even more--'if that wouldn't satisfy' me? What
claim had I on him? It was very generous of him, of course, but out
of the question. I was at least a gentleman, and had a gentleman's
self-respect. Meanwhile he had gone maundering on, in a halting sort
of way, and presently let slip a sentence that struck me like a blow
between the eyes.

"'I shouldn't like you to bear ill-will because of what has happened
in the past,' he said. 'Your late--your late lamented mother--I'm
afraid--she had unworthy suspicions--I'm sure--it was best for all
parties--your father always appreciated ----.'

[Illustration: "I STOOD ERECT BEFORE HIM."]

"I set back my chair and stood erect before him. This grovelling
wretch, forcing the words through his dry lips, was the thief who had
made another of my father and had brought to miserable ends the lives
of both my parents. Everything was clear. The creature went in fear of
me, never imagining that I did not know him, and sought to buy me off;
to buy me from the remembrance of my dead mother's broken heart for
£500--£500 that he had made my father steal for him. I said not a word.
But the memory of all my mother's bitter years, and a savage sense of
this crowning insult to myself, took a hold upon me, and I was a tiger.
Even then, I verily believe that one word of repentance, one tone of
honest remorse, would have saved him. But he drooped his eyes, snuffled
excuses, and stammered of 'unworthy suspicions' and 'no ill-will.'
I let him stammer. Presently he looked up and saw my face; and fell
back in his chair, sick with terror. I snatched the pistol from the
mantelpiece, and, thrusting it in his face, shot him where he sat.

"My subsequent coolness and quietness surprise me now. I took my hat
and stepped toward the door. But there were voices on the stairs.
The door was locked on the inside, and I left it so. I went back and
quietly opened a window. Below was a clear drop into darkness, and
above was plain wall; but away to one side, where the <DW72> of the
gable sprang from the roof, an iron gutter ended, supported by a
strong bracket. It was the only way. I got upon the sill and carefully
shut the window behind me, for people were already knocking at the
lobby door. From the end of the sill, holding on by the reveal of the
window with one hand, leaning and stretching my utmost, I caught the
gutter, swung myself clear, and scrambled on the roof. I climbed over
many roofs before I found, in an adjoining street, a ladder lashed
perpendicularly against the front of a house in course of repair. This,
to me, was an easy opportunity of descent, notwithstanding the boards
fastened over the face of the ladder, and I availed myself of it.

"I have taken some time and trouble in order that you (so far as I
am aware the only human being beside myself who knows me to be the
author of Foggatt's death) shall have at least the means of appraising
my crime at its just value of culpability. How much you already know
of what I have told you I cannot guess. I am wrong, hardened and
flagitious, I make no doubt, but I speak of the facts as they are. You
see the thing, of course, from your own point of view--I from mine. And
I remember my mother.

"Trusting that you will forgive the odd freak of a man--a criminal, let
us say--who makes a confidant of the man set to hunt him down, I beg
leave to be, Sir, your obedient servant,

"SIDNEY MASON."

I read the singular document through and handed it back to Hewitt.

"How does it strike you?" Hewitt asked.

"Mason would seem to be a man of very marked character," I said.
"Certainly no fool. And, if his tale is true, Foggatt is no great loss
to the world."

"Just so--if the tale is true. Personally, I am disposed to believe it
is."

"Where was the letter posted?"

"It wasn't posted. It was handed in with the others from the front door
letter-box this morning in an unstamped envelope. He must have dropped
it in himself during the night. Paper," Hewitt proceeded, holding it
up to the light, "Turkey mill, ruled foolscap. Envelope, blue official
shape, Pirie's watermark. Both quite ordinary and no special marks."

[Illustration: "TURKEY MILL, RULED FOOLSCAP."]

"Where do you suppose he's gone?"

"Impossible to guess. Some might think he meant suicide by the
expression 'beyond the reach even of your abilities of search,' but
I scarcely think he is the sort of man to do that. No, there is no
telling. Something may be got by inquiring at his late address, of
course; but when such a man tells you he doesn't think you will find
him, you may count upon its being a difficult job. His opinion is not
to be despised."

"What shall you do?"

"Put the letter in the box with the casts for the police. _Fiat
justitia_, you know, without any question of sentiment. As to the
apple--I really think, if the police will let me, I'll make you a
present of it. Keep it somewhere as a souvenir of your absolute
deficiency in reflective observation in this case, and look at it
whenever you feel yourself growing dangerously conceited. It should
cure you."

This is the history of the withered and almost petrified half-apple
that stands in my cabinet among a number of flint implements and one or
two rather fine old Roman vessels. Of Mr. Sidney Mason we never heard
another word. The police did their best, but he had left not a track
behind him. His rooms were left almost undisturbed, and he had gone
without anything in the way of elaborate preparation for his journey,
and yet without leaving a trace of his intentions.




_Beauties:--Children._


[Illustration: Winifred Mary Winter.

_From a Photo by Alfred Ellis, 20, Upper Baker Street, N.W._

Katie Martindale.

_From a Photo by J. H. Hogg, Kendal._]

[Illustration: Phyllis Lott.

_From a Photo by J. H. Killick, Holloway Road, N._

Margot Amy Cecil Russell.

_From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._

Dorothy & Marjorie Holmes.

_From a Photo by Jas. Russell & Sons, Chichester._]




_Löie Fuller--The Inventor of the Serpentine Dance._


                          BY MRS. M. GRIFFITH.

[Illustration: LÖIE FULLER'S BIRTHPLACE.

_From a Photograph._]

La Reine Löie does not claim for _herself_ the distinction of being
the inventor of the graceful evolutions which have made her name
famous all over Europe and America. She says: "I have only revived a
forgotten art, for I have been able to trace some of my dances back
to four thousand years ago: to the time when Miriam and the women of
Israel--filled with religious fervour and rapture--celebrated their
release from Egyptian captivity with 'timbrels and with dances.'"

This is true; but as "there is _nothing_ new under the sun," I contend
that Miss Fuller deserves her title, and also all the tribute and
admiration which those who have seen her dance long to lay at her
feet. For not even the most realistic description, or the most earnest
study of the illustrations which still exist of the girl-dancers of
Herculaneum and Pompeii, who, in mist-like robes, with un-girdled
waists and sandalled feet, with languorous movements and rapturous
uplifted faces, entranced even the most besotted among the revellers
at the notorious bacchanalian orgies of those cities of the past--not
these, not even the most brilliant pen-painting can convey any idea of
La Löie's exquisite dancing. With continuous but gentle movements of
arms, feet, and shapely form, the outline of which is sometimes veiled,
and at other times revealed amid the folds of her gauzy garments of
ever-changing rainbow-like tints, she appears like a supernatural being
sent to teach us the poetry of motion.

Suddenly the scene changes; the dancer, with joyous face, parted
lips, and floating tresses of red gold, to the accompaniment of weird
music, flits here and there: now dreamily floating along the stage,
then rapidly whirling round and round; one moment appearing a blaze
of fire, the next with sombre draperies, every fold seeming incrusted
with jewels, the little feet hardly touching the ground, the pliant
form bending and swaying in the constantly-changing light, like some
gay-plumaged tropical bird, until her audience hold their breath with
admiration.

What a treasure she would have been to the Egyptian and Roman priests
of old, in their temple mysteries and religious festivals. And what
trouble she would have caused in the last century; indeed, in all
probability she would have been burned as a witch; for our ancestors
did not waste time in wondering at or admiring things they did not
understand, but resorted to fire or water to solve their difficulties.

La Löie's early history is as remarkable as her dances: she has
been a reciter, actress, singer, and play-writer, and finally, by a
mere accidental circumstance, success has been thrust upon her as a
dancer. With that delicate sister-feeling which makes us--providing
there is no rivalry--so wondrous kind, I was not curious about Miss
Fuller's _present_ age; for, after all, paltry years count not with us,
providing the heart keeps young; but I felt I could with discretion
inquire at what age she made her first appearance, and learnt to
my great surprise that she made her début, at the early age of two,
at a Sunday-school entertainment at Chicago; where, unheralded and
unannounced, she toddled on to the platform and recited "Mary had a
little lamb," in a sweet, shrill treble which was distinctly audible
throughout the hall. The wee, quaint little maiden who so gravely
contributed her share to the evening's amusement succeeded in charming
the audience, and her services were often in request after this.

[Illustration: LÖIE FULLER'S FATHER.

_From a Photo by Mora, Broadway, New York._]

Two years later she was engaged to play the little boy's part with
Mrs. Chanfrau in "Was She Right?" and astonished everyone with her
self-possession and ability; but she unfortunately had to give up her
part before many months were over, as her parents removed to Monmouth,
Illinois. Little Löie then set up as a temperance lecturer, and her
first attempt brought her in a profit of twenty dollars. Her little
lectures were, of course, taken out of books and newspapers, and
committed to memory, but delivered with such excellent elocutionary
effect and earnestness, that she was soon in great demand all over the
State, and known as the "Western Temperance Prodigy." Only eleven years
of age! yet earning her own living, and doing good work--at least,
doing what she was able and that which was nearest her hand!

She longed for a chance to return to the stage, and before long got her
opportunity, for her parents returned to Chicago to live, and she found
no difficulty in again obtaining engagements. She worked unceasingly,
was gifted with an excellent memory, was always ready and willing
to play any rôle, big or little, that was allotted to her, devoting
herself with ardour to the study of every detail of her work; thus,
before she had reached the age of sixteen, she had won for herself a
reputation that many an experienced actress of twice that age would
have been proud of.

[Illustration: LÖIE FULLER'S MOTHER.

_From a Photo by Elder, Iowa._]

A pianist in Chicago, having heard Miss Fuller sing, was so enraptured
with her beautiful voice, that he offered to give her free tuition for
two years. The offer was accepted, and at the end of that period she
had made such good progress that she was engaged by Mr. J. M. Hill
to go on tour, and later on made her appearance in New York as _Jack
Sheppard_, with a salary of seventy-five dollars a week. Her path was
not always strewn with roses. She climbed her way steadily up the
ladder of fame through many difficulties and discouragements, never
ceased working, hardly ever had a penny to spare, but was always the
same bright, cheery little woman that she now is at the zenith of her
success, and loved as well as admired by all who know her.

[Illustration: MISS LÖIE FULLER.

_From a Photo by Sarony, New York._]

Löie Fuller made a great hit as _Ustane_ in "She," at Niblo's Theatre,
and was also in the cast of "Caprice," in London. After which she
returned to America to take part in "Quack, M.D.," which was being
produced at the Harlem Opera House, and it was while rehearsing her
part for this play that the tide rose which was to bear her to fame and
fortune. It came in the shape of a box sent by a young Indian officer
whom Miss Fuller had only met once when she was in London. With eager
fingers she removed the many wrappers, and found the contents consisted
of a beautiful Eastern gown of soft white silk; the sort of material
that would pass uncreased through a ring, and for texture and exquisite
whiteness might have formed a fitting garment for Titania herself.

Great was her delight at this unexpected gift, and she wore it in
the hypnotic scene in "Quack, M.D." The dainty robe adapted itself
admirably to her supple form, which had never been incased in a corset;
and after the play was over, she tried the effects of it, by dancing a
few steps in front of her cheval glass. The long, sweeping folds lent
themselves to every movement. Hours passed, yet still she flung the
snowy fabric round her, and pirouetted about, registering in her mind
for future reference, the effect of each position and step.

[Illustration: THE WIDOW DANCE.

_From a Photograph._]

That night was born the Serpentine Dance. Much practising added grace
to the figure and flexibility to the limbs, and the dance, even in
its initial stage, took everyone by storm, and La Löie's name became
famous throughout America. Hungering for "other worlds to conquer,"
she came to Europe, the first place she visited being Germany, where
she was very well received. Her next move was to Paris, where she gave
a private rehearsal before the manager of the Folies Bergère, who
instantly engaged her.

[Illustration: GOOD NIGHT.

_From a Photo by Reutlinger, Paris._]

All Paris went mad over her dancing, and the management of the Folies
Bergère, anxious to secure their prize, concluded a three years'
engagement with her, at the largest salary ever paid to a dancer, or
indeed to an actress, namely, £200 a week, and a suite of rooms in the
theatre. This seems enormous, but unfortunately for the present it
does not go into Miss Fuller's pocket--for the year previous to her
Parisian engagement she had signed a contract to go to Russia, but
when on her way there, she received a telegram stating that her mother
was dangerously ill, and, without an instant's delay, she returned and
cancelled her engagement. Her heavy luggage having preceded her to
Russia, it was seized, her dresses confiscated, and an action brought
against her, which she had the misfortune to lose, and was compelled to
pay a heavy indemnity.

[Illustration: THE RAINBOW.

_From a Photo by Sarony, New York._]

The dancing of La Löie has so raised the reputation of the Folies
Bergère that now the most particular Parisian has no hesitation about
taking his wife or lady friends there, and although it was her 300th
appearance on January 6th, her popularity is as great if not greater
than it has ever been.

"La Belle Americaine" has been invited to dance at the smartest houses
in Paris, though for this privilege the Folies Bergère charged £40
for every performance, while the preparatory expenses and light cost
an additional £100. The wife of the American Minister invited her to
give a private performance at her residence in Paris: the necessary
stage and other arrangements took forty men two days and two nights
to complete. La Löie on that occasion surpassed herself, and caused a
perfect _furore_ among the guests.

[Illustration: THE FLOWER DANCE.

_From a Photograph._]

The one dance has become many, among which the principal favourites are
the "Widow Dance"--in black robe and with powdered hair and patches;
the "Rainbow," "Mirror," "Flower," "Butterfly," and "Good Night"
dances, and the dresses for each she has designed herself; their shape
is kept a secret. One of the most beautiful of her gowns--if I may so
designate these mysteriously lovely draperies--was painted on thin
silk in sections, and then the artists engaged on it had no idea what
their work was intended for. Her first dress--the present sent her by
the young Indian--is, although much the worse for wear, her favourite.
As the artiste comes off the stage she is completely enveloped in a
huge cloak by her mother, who is always with her, and I have never
met anyone who has the slightest idea of what her dress is like off
the stage; though, whatever it may be, its effect is bewilderingly
beautiful.

[Illustration: THE BUTTERFLY DANCE.

_From a Photograph._]

The dancer in private is simply a bonnie, blue-eyed little woman, plain
in her dress, and with a sweet frankness of manner and speech which
render her eminently attractive. Her rooms boast of no costly luxuries,
bric-à-brac, or the thousand and one costly trifles which artistes
usually surround themselves with. One thing attracts you as you enter
the little sitting-room, and that is a bust of her, by the great
sculptor Hussin; in her boudoir are also several miniature models of
stages, and it is by all sorts of experiments on these that Miss Fuller
is enabled to judge of the effect of any new dance and lighting. At the
conclusion of your visit you could not help feeling that you had been
privileged to meet not only a great artiste, but also a good woman,
against whose reputation a censorious and jealous world has never
dared to breathe a word.

Needless to say, a host of imitators has arisen, some of whom, not
content with pirating her dances, have tried to copy her dresses and
even to use her name. The complicated lighting apparatus which attracts
so much admiration is managed by the dancer's brothers, who practise
every day with her, and as she is always inventing new dances, their
work is no sinecure.

[Illustration: THE MIRROR DANCE.

_From a Drawing._]

One of her greatest successes has been the "Mirror Dance," in which,
by some mysterious arrangement, eight Löie Fullers appear to be
dancing at the same time, and the whole stage is bathed in a flood
of glorious tints, in which may be seen aerial forms, in cloudlike
vestures, whirling and dancing as if they were the fabled victims of
the Tarantula; the whole forming an artistic spectacular effect that
the world has never seen equalled.

There is only one sad note in the whole history of the clever little
dancer--that is, her delicate health, and more especially the paralysis
of the arms with which she once or twice has been threatened. She works
very hard, and has to train as severely as any jockey. Short as her
performances are, they are very fatiguing and a great physical strain.

[Illustration: _From a Photo by Riders, Chicago._]

A great compliment is now being paid her, the result of which the
next Salon will show, for a clever young American artist has selected
"Löie's Dance" as his subject. It is a large picture and vigorously
treated: only half the dancer is shown, and she appears as if dancing
_out_ of the canvas. Miss Fuller has done wonders in improving the
public taste, and proving that dancing is not an art that degrades,
but, with modestly-draped figure and graceful movements, an educator,
as everything that is beautiful ought to be. Let us hope that the craze
for high kicking, unnatural straining of the muscles, and the hideous
short skirts and scanty bodice will become a thing of the past, and
that a mere display of skill and agility without the elegance or grace
which ought to characterize the Terpsichorean art will die a natural
death. La Belle Löie will visit England about May, and it is to be
hoped that she will be accorded such a welcome as will induce her to
prolong her stay among us. For it may truly be said there is not a
discordant note in her whole performance, or a gesture or movement
which would wound the susceptibilities of the most modest-minded of
British matrons or maidens.

[Illustration:




THE THREE GOLD HAIRS OF OLD VSEVEDE

A STORY FOR CHILDREN FROM THE SERVIAN]


It is related that there was once a King who was passionately fond of
hunting the wild beasts of his forests. On one occasion he chased a
stag so far and so long that he lost his way. Finding himself quite
alone and night coming on, he was glad to fall in with the hut of a
charcoal-burner.

"Will you be so good as to conduct me to the nearest highway? I will
generously reward you for the service."

"I would do it with pleasure," replied the charcoal-burner, "but I have
a wife who is about to become a mother, and I cannot leave her alone.
On the other hand, why cannot you pass the night with me? Go up into
our hay-loft, and rest yourself upon a truss of sweet-smelling hay
which you will find there, and to-morrow I will guide you on your way."

A few minutes later the charcoal-burner's wife brought into the world
an infant son.

The King was unable to sleep. At midnight he noticed lights moving
in the chamber beneath, and, applying his eye to a crack in the
floor, he perceived the charcoal-burner sleeping; his wife lying in a
half-fainting condition; and, lastly, standing by the new-born child,
three old women, dressed in white and holding each a lighted wax
candle, who were conversing.

The first said:--

"To this boy I give courage to dare all dangers."

The second said:--

"I will endow him with the faculty of being able to escape all dangers
and to be long-lived."

The third said:--

"As for me, I will give him the hand of the daughter just born to the
King who is sleeping in the hay-loft over our heads."

With the utterance of the last words, the lights went out and all was
silent again.

The King was as much stunned with sorrow and surprise as if he had
received a sword's point in his breast. Until dawn, without closing an
eye, he lay thinking of how he might prevent the realization of the
witch's prediction.

With the first beams of morning light, the infant began to cry. The
charcoal-burner rose and, going to his wife's side, found that she was
dead.

"Poor little orphan!" he cried, sadly; "what will become of you, bereft
of a mother's care?"

"Confide this child to me," said the King; "I will take care of it, and
it will find itself well off. As to yourself, I will give you so much
money that you shall have no further need to tire yourself by burning
charcoal."

The charcoal-burner gave his consent with pleasure, and the King
departed, promising to send somebody for the infant. The Queen and
the courtiers had, meanwhile, arranged to give the King an agreeable
surprise, by announcing to him the birth of a charming little
Princess, who had come into the world on the night when the King, her
father, saw the three witches. Knitting his brow, the King called one
of his attendants to him and said:--

[Illustration: "HOLDING EACH A LIGHTED WAX CANDLE."]

"Go to such and such a place in the forest, to the hut of a
charcoal-burner, to whom you will give this money in exchange for a
new-born child. Take the brat and, somewhere on your way, drown it.
Only remember that if it be not thoroughly done away with, you yourself
shall take its place."

The servant received the infant in a basket, and, having reached a
footbridge over a wide and deep river, he threw the basket and the
infant into the stream.

"A good journey to you, son-in-law!" cried the King, on hearing the
servant's report of his mission.

The King believed that the child was drowned, but it was neither
drowned nor dead; on the contrary, supported by the basket in which it
was inclosed, the little one floated gently down the river, as in a
cradle, and slept as sweetly as if its mother had sung it to rest.

After awhile the basket came near the hut of a fisherman who, while
busy repairing his nets, caught sight of something floating in the
water in mid-stream. Quickly jumping into his boat, he rowed out to the
object and, having secured it, ran to tell his wife what he had found.

"You have always desired to have a son," he cried; "here is a handsome
one brought to us by the river."

The fisherman's wife received the infant with great joy, and tended
it as if it were her own. They called it Plavacete (the Swimmer),
because it came to them floating on the waters. Years sped, the little
foundling grew up to be a man, and in none of the neighbouring villages
was there a youth to compare with him.

Now, it happened one day, in the summer time, that the King rode out
unattended. The heat was excessive, and he reined in his steed in front
of the fisherman's hut to ask for a glass of cold water. Plavacete
brought it out to him; the King looked at him intently, then, turning
to the fisherman, said:--

"You have a handsome youth there: is he your son?"

"Yes and no," replied the fisherman. "Twenty years ago, I found a tiny
child in a basket floating down the river; I and my wife adopted him."

The King turned pale as death, for he guessed that it was the same
infant that he had condemned to be drowned. Collecting himself, he
dismounted and said:--

"I want to send a message to the castle, and I have nobody with me; can
this youth deliver it?"

"Certainly," replied the fisherman; "your Majesty may rely on his
intelligence."

Thereupon the King sat down and wrote to the Queen these words:--

"The young man who brings you this message is the most dangerous of all
my enemies. As soon as he arrives, have his head chopped off. Do not
delay one moment and have no pity; let him be executed before I return
to the castle."

After carefully folding the letter, he fastened it with the Royal seal.

Plavacete took the letter and set off with it through the forest, which
was so wide and dense that he lost his way in it. Overtaken by night in
the midst of his adventurous journey, he met an old woman.

"Where are you going, Plavacete, where are you going?" she asked.

"I am intrusted with a letter for the Royal castle, but I have lost my
way; can you not, good mother, set me on my right road?"

"To-day, my child, that is impossible. Darkness has come, and you would
not have time to reach the Royal castle," replied the old woman. "Rest
in my dwelling-place to-night--you will not be with a stranger there,
for I am your god-mother."

The young man obeyed, and they entered a charming cottage which seemed
suddenly to rise out of the ground. Now, while Plavacete was sleeping,
the old woman changed his letter for another, running thus:--

"Immediately upon receiving this letter, conduct the bearer to the
Princess, our daughter. This young man is our son-in-law, and I wish
them to be married before my return to the castle. Such is my will."

[Illustration: "HE THREW THE BASKET AND THE INFANT INTO THE STREAM."]

After reading the letter, the Queen gave orders for the preparation of
all that was needed for the celebration of the wedding. Both she and
her daughter were greatly pleased with the behaviour of the young man,
and nothing troubled the happiness of the newly-married pair.

A few days afterwards the King returned to his castle and, having
previously learned what had taken place, began to scold the Queen.

"But you expressly ordered me to have them married before your return:
here is your letter--read it again," replied the Queen.

He carefully examined the epistle, and was obliged to admit that the
paper, the writing, and the seal were all unquestionably authentic. He
thereupon called for his son-in-law, and interrogated him as to the
details of his journey.

Plavacete withheld nothing from his father-in-law, and related how he
had lost his way in the forest and had passed the night there in a
cottage.

"What is this old woman like?" asked the King.

On hearing the description given him by Plavacete, the King was
convinced that it was the identical old woman who, twenty years
previously, had predicted the marriage of the Princess with the
charcoal-burner's son.

After reflecting for awhile, the King went on:--

"What is done is done: only you cannot be my son-in-law on such slight
grounds. For a wedding present, you must bring me three hairs plucked
from the head of Dede-Vsevede, the old man who knows all and sees all."

He thought by this means to get rid of his son-in-law, whose presence
embarrassed him.

Plavecete took leave of his wife departed, saying to himself:--

"I do not know which way to turn my steps; but no matter, my god-mother
will direct them."

He was not deceived. Without difficulty he found the right road, and
pressed forward for a long time over hill and dale and river, until he
reached the shore of the Black Sea, and observed a boat with its one
boatman, to whom he said:--

"Heaven bless you, old boatman!"

"The same to you, young traveller. Where do you want to go?"

"To the castle of Dede-Vsevede, to get three hairs from his head."

"If that is so, welcome! I have long awaited the arrival of such an
envoy as you. For twenty years I have been rowing passengers across,
and not one of them has done anything to deliver me. If you promise me
to ask Dede-Vsevede when I am to have a substitute to free me from my
troubles, I will row you over in my boat."

[Illustration: "PLAVACETE TOOK THE LETTER."]

Plavacete promised, and the boatman rowed him to the opposite shore. He
thence continued his journey, and approached a great city, which was
partially in ruins. Not far from it he saw a funeral procession; the
King of the country followed the coffin of his father, and tears as big
as peas rolled down his cheeks.

"Heaven console you in your distress," said Plavacete.

"Thanks, good traveller. Whither are you going?"

"To the castle of Dede-Vsevede, in search of three hairs from his head."

"You are really going to the castle of Dede-Vsevede? What a pity you
did not come some weeks ago! We have long been waiting such an envoy as
you."

Plavacete was introduced to the Court of the King, who said to him:--

"We have learned that you are bound on a mission to the castle
of Dede-Vsevede: alas! we had here an apple-tree which produced
youth-giving fruit; one only of its apples, as soon as it was eaten,
even by a person at the point of death, instantly cured and rejuvenated
him. But for the last twenty years this tree has not borne either
flower or fruit. Will you promise me to ask the cause of Dede-Vsevede?"

"I promise you."

After that, Plavacete came to a large, beautiful, but silent city. Near
the gate he met an old man, who, staff in hand, was hobbling along with
great difficulty.

"Heaven bless you, good old man!"

"Heaven bless _you_! Whither are you going, handsome traveller?"

"To the castle of Dede-Vsevede, in search of three hairs from his head."

"Ah! you are the very envoy I have so long been expecting. I must
conduct you to my master, the King. Follow me."

As soon as they arrived, the King said to him:--

"I hear that you have come on an embassy to Dede-Vsevede. We had here
a well which used to fill itself, and which was so marvellous in its
effects that sick people were immediately cured on drinking of its
water. A few drops sprinkled upon a corpse sufficed to resuscitate
it. Well, for twenty years past, this well has been dried up. If you
promise to ask Dede-Vsevede how we can re-fill our well, I will reward
you royally."

Plavacete promised, and the King dismissed him graciously.

Continuing his journey, he had to pass through a wide forest, in the
midst of which he perceived a broad, grassy plain, full of beautiful
flowers, in the centre of which stood a castle built of gold.

[Illustration: "THE PALACE OF DEDE-VSEVEDE."]

It was the palace of Dede-Vsevede, radiant with splendour, looking as
if it were made of fire. Plavacete entered it without encountering a
single moving creature, except an old woman, half-hidden in a corner
spinning.

"Welcome, Plavacete! I am glad to see you here."

It was, once more, his god-mother, the same who had offered him shelter
in her forest cottage when he was carrying the King's treacherous
message.

"Tell me what brings you here, from so far off?"

"The King will not have me for his son-in-law without being paid for
it; so he has sent me here to fetch for him three gold hairs from the
head of Dede-Vsevede."

His god-mother burst into laughter, saying:--

"The Dede-Vsevede? Why, I am his mother--he is the shining Sun in
person! Every morning he is a child; at noon he becomes a man; at
evening he withers to the likeness of a decrepit, hundred-year-old man.
But I will contrive to get you three gold hairs from his head, so that
you may know that I am not your god-mother for nothing. For all that,
however, you cannot remain here any longer as you are. My son, the Sun,
is endowed with a charitable soul; but, on returning home, he is always
hungry, and it would not astonish me if, as soon as he comes back, he
ordered you to be roasted for his supper. To hide you I will overturn
this empty box, under which you must creep."

Before obeying, Plavacete begged his god-mother to obtain from
Dede-Vsevede answers to the three questions which he had promised to
get from him.

"I will put the questions to him, but you must carefully listen to the
answers he returns."

Suddenly the wind was unchained without, and, through a window on the
western side of the castle, arrived the Sun--an old man with a head of
gold.

The old man sat down to supper. After the meal was finished, he placed
his head of gold upon his mother's knees and fell asleep.

As soon as she saw that he was sleeping soundly, she plucked from his
head one of his gold hairs and threw it upon the floor: in falling the
hair made a metallic sound, like the string of a guitar when struck.

"What do you want of me, mother?" asked the old man.

"Nothing, my son; I was sleeping and dreaming a strange dream."

"What was it about, mother?"

"I thought I saw a place--I don't know where--where there was a well
supplied with water from a spring, by which sick people were cured, and
even dying persons, after drinking a single mouthful of it; and more
than that, corpses even were resuscitated after having been sprinkled
with a few drops of this marvellous water. But for twenty years this
well has remained dry: what should be done to fill it as of old?"

[Illustration: HE PLACED HIS HEAD OF GOLD UPON HIS MOTHER'S KNEES."]

"The remedy is simple enough: a frog has lodged itself in the opening,
and so prevents the water of the spring entering the well. Let them
kill the frog, and their well will be as full of water as it used to
be."

When the old man was again soundly sleeping, the old woman plucked
another gold hair from his head and threw it upon the floor.

"What do you want of me, mother?"

"Nothing, my son, nothing. While sleeping I had a strange vision.
It seemed to me that the inhabitants of a city--what city I do not
know--had in their garden an apple-tree, the apples of which possessed
the virtue of renewing the youth of whomsoever ate of them. A single
apple eaten by an old man sufficed to give back to him the strength and
freshness of youth. Now, for twenty years, that tree has borne neither
flower nor fruit. By what means can they bring back to it its former
power?"

"The means are not difficult. A viper has hidden itself amongst the
roots of their tree and feeds on its sap; let them kill the viper and
transplant the tree, and they will soon see it covered with fruit as it
used to be."

Thereupon the old man once more went off to sleep soundly. The old
woman plucked from his head the third gold hair.

"Why do you not let me sleep in peace, mother?" cried the old man,
angrily, and trying to rise.

"Lie still, my beloved son, and do not disturb yourself. I am sorry for
having waked you. I was having a strange dream. Fancy! I seemed to see
a boatman, on the shore of the Black Sea, complaining to a traveller
that, for twenty years, nobody had come to replace him: when will that
poor old man be relieved of his task?"

"He is an imbecile, that is all! He has only to put his oar into the
hand of the first person who wants to be rowed and jump ashore. Whoever
receives the oar will replace him as boatman. But leave me in peace,
mother, and do not wake me any more; for I have to be up early, first
to dry the tears of the Princess, the wife of a charcoal-burner's son.
The young creature passes her nights in weeping for her husband, who
has been sent by the King, her father, to fetch him three gold hairs
from my head."

Next morning the winds were heard howling around the palace of
Dede-Vsevede, and instead of an old man, a beautiful child, with hair
of gold, awoke on the old woman's knees: it was the divine Sun, who,
after taking leave of his mother, flew out of the eastern window of
his palace.

The old woman hastened to turn over the box, and said to Plavacete:--

"See! here are the three gold hairs, and you already know the three
answers given by Dede-Vsevede. Now hasten away, and Heaven be with you
on your way. You will never see me again, for you will never again have
need of me."

Plavacete gratefully thanked her and departed.

On reaching the city of the dried-up well, and questioned by the King
as to what good news he was the bearer of, he replied:--

"Have your well carefully cleared out; then kill the frog which
obstructs the incoming of the marvellous water from the spring, and you
will see it flow as freely as ever."

The King followed the direction of Plavacete, and, delighted to see his
well once more filled, made him a present of twelve horses as white as
swans, to which he added as much gold and silver as they could carry.

On arriving at the second city and questioned by the King as to the
news he brought, he replied:--

"The news I bring you is excellent; none could be better, in fact. You
have but to dig up your apple-tree and transplant it, after killing the
reptile which has been living amongst its roots; that done, your tree
will produce you apples as it formerly did."

Indeed, no sooner was the tree transplanted than it became covered with
flowers, as if a shower of roses had fallen upon it. The King, filled
with joy, made him a present of twelve horses as black as ravens, and
loaded them with as much riches as they could bear.

Continuing his journey to the shore of the Black Sea, he found the
boatman, who inquired whether he had learnt for him when the time of
his deliverance would come. Plavacete first made him convey him and his
horses on to the opposite shore: that done, he advised the boatman to
hand his oar to the first traveller who required his services, so that
he might be definitely released from his duty.

The King, Plavacete's father-in-law, could not at first believe his
eyes on seeing him the possessor of the three gold hairs plucked from
the head of Dede-Vsevede. As to the young wife, she shed hot tears, not
of sadness, but of joy, at seeing her beloved back again in safety, and
she said to him:--

"How were you able, dear husband, to acquire so many magnificent horses
laden with riches?"

He replied:--

"All has been purchased with heaviness of heart, with the ready money
of pains and labours, and services rendered by me. For example, to one
King I pointed out the means by which he was able to repossess himself
of the Apples of Youth; to another, I showed the secret of re-opening
the spring whence flows the water which gives health and life."

"Apples of Youth! Water of Life!" interrupted the King, addressing
Plavacete. "I will go in search of those treasures myself! What
happiness! After eating one of those rejuvenating apples, I shall
return restored to youth! Then I will drink a few drops of the water of
immortality--and I shall live for ever!"

Without delaying a moment, the King set off in search of those two
objects--and down to the present day has never been heard of again.




_The Queer Side of Things._


[Illustration:


MR. HAY.]

I have the most severe misgiving about a crucial point of this story;
it involves an announcement which may cause the modern reader to throw
aside the narrative as a preposterous absurdity. Ah! if I only had to
deal with the reader of the Dark Ages, who would swallow anything!
Absolute fear incites me to keep this announcement to myself until
nearing the end of the tale, and then to break the awkward fact very
gently--glossing it over as much as possible; but native outspokenness,
assisted by the fact that such a course would spoil the story,
persuades me to make the risky announcement at once, and chance the
consequences.

Very well, then--Andrew P. Hay was a Centaur--a CENTAUR. He had
descended from the pure blood of the old Greek Centaurs. The race, when
the belief in the Greek mythology had waned before the spreading light
of Christianity, finding the fact of its existence no longer accepted
with the old unquestioning faith, and too proud to longer impose its
presence on a society sceptical of its reality, retired to a remote
island to carry on its existence unseen by mankind; and there its
successive generations had appeared and died, until--a few years before
the present date--the last survivor paced, with downcast hoof,[2] the
deserted paddocks of his sires.[3]

[2] "Downcast hoof," though an unusual, is a good phrase.

[3] "Sires" is a well-chosen word in this connection.

The loneliness of his condition began to prey upon his mind. He had
but a single companion in the secluded upland valleys of that deserted
island where his forefathers had lived during so many centuries; this
companion was his servant, or valet--he also being the sole survivor
of _his_ race, the race of hippopaides, or stable boys; from time
immemorial the bondmen of the Centaurs and their faithful attendants.

The loneliness was becoming unbearable: concealed behind some crag
of the mountains, the two would stand the whole day long watching
for the smoke of the steamers which passed, hull down, to and from
Constantinople and Smyrna. No vessel ever touched at their island.

"Raiboskeles," said Philippos Chortophagos (that was the Centaur's
name, excusable in a Greek), "this won't do! I can't stand it any
longer. Shall we hurl ourselves from yonder pinnacle, you seated on my
back, to fathomless doom, and end it?"

"No, my lord!" said the boy, "I'm scratched for that event anyway; and
what's more, _you_ won't go to the post either if _I_ can stop it!
Think, my lord--what would your stable-companions, now passed away,
have said about a fixture like that?" And the boy's eyes filled with
tears as he mechanically took from his pocket a small curry-comb and
drew it caressingly over the silky hide, while a low continuous hissing
sound from between his lips testified to the depth of his sorrow.

He was a good lad, tinged with the archaic stable-slang of Thessaly,
fostered by constant reading of the _Rhodochroon Hen_, the ancient
sporting-paper of the Centaurs.

For a few moments Chortophagos gazed fixedly out to sea; then he said:--

"Raiboskeles, I cannot stay here. I shall go mad in this solitude.
Let us leave this island and go among men. I know what you are about
to say--they will not believe in my existence. I shall be forced to
suffer the affront of being looked upon as a figment of superstition,
of having my impossibility cast in my teeth--I wager that is what is on
your tongue?"

"No takers!" said the boy, emphatically.

"Nevertheless, I prefer even that to the loneliness of this place.
Besides, I might perhaps manage to conceal the difference in my form
from those of men."

The stable-valet shook his head doubtfully. "Too much handicapped!" he
murmured.

"I might adopt a false name!" cried the Centaur, with a sudden
inspiration.

The idea took the stable-valet unawares. "Ah! there's something in that
tip!" he said, half persuaded.

"I will--I'll find one at once: and that'll break the neck of the whole
difficulty! I have it--I'll call myself Hay--Andrew P. Hay. See?--Hay
retains enough of my ancestral name; the Philip I'll retain as a
reminder of my duty toward my race; while the Andrew will assert the
manhood of part of me--eh?"

"Ye--es," said Raiboskeles, reflecting, "I think I'll befriend that
dodge at commanding prices." This _Rhodochroon Hen_ phraseology was
oppressive at times; but his heart was in the right place.

"Let us hail a steamer somehow," cried the Centaur (whom we will
henceforth call Andrew P. Hay).

The valet stood for a moment plunged in thought, smacking his bare leg
with an olive-twig; then he said:--

"You'll have to travel as a gee. Half a sec!"

[Illustration: "HE SLIPPED IT OVER THE HEAD OF HIS MASTER."]

With incredible dexterity he plaited reeds from an adjacent stream into
the form of a horse's head-and-neck cover; then respectfully slipped it
over the human head and torso of his master. The part where the horse's
nose should have been he had packed with grass: the head of Andrew P.
Hay filled up the crown; while his human body made a fair show, beneath
the covering, of being a horse's neck. The breadth where the man's
shoulders came the valet subsequently explained by stating that he had
placed a collar of osiers there to keep off the rub of the covering.
There seemed an indignity about it which Mr. Hay found it hard to bear;
but he got over it.

Then the valet made a great fire of dry wood and grasses on a pinnacle;
and the great column of smoke attracted the attention of a passing
coaster, which bore down on the island to find out the reason of
it. Bowes (that being the new name which Mr. Hay had found for his
stable-valet) stood on the shore holding his charge with a halter of
twisted grasses. The captain was surprised, but agreed to take them
aboard, provided the horse could swim to the vessel, which could not
get in: so Mr. Hay, with Bowes on his back, promptly took to the water,
and was hoisted aboard in a sling from the davits.

"That's a very remarkable animal!" said the Greek captain to Bowes. His
dialect was atrocious. Bowes could not understand a word; but signs did
just as well.

Mr. Andrew P. Hay had decided to go to London. He knew a fair amount of
English; for several years before a box from a wrecked vessel had been
cast ashore on the island, and it had happened to contain some useful
books and papers--a text of Homer, interlined with Mr. Gladstone's
translation into English, several Greek-English primers, a Liddell and
Scott's lexicon, some Ollendorffs, a Lindley Murray, Webster's American
Dictionary, several issues of the _Times_, and a rhyming dictionary.
Thus had A. P. Hay been enabled to learn the English language.

The journey to England was full of unpleasantness. There were
difficulties, too, about meals; the Centaur having conceived a growing
distaste for hay and beans. The coaster had landed them at Otranto,
where Bowes promptly engaged a private stable for his master. But now
occurred the first difficulty--they had no money. The captain of the
coaster had yet to be paid.

But Bowes contrived to obtain, on credit, a suit of clothes in place of
his tunic of woven grasses.

"There's only one way out of this, sir," said Bowes, after a spell of
thought; "I shall have to sell you!"

"I fail to catch your meaning," said Mr. Hay, loftily pawing the
ground. "Sell _me_?"

"That's it, sir; that's the only plan _I_ can back for a place. You
ought to fetch a good round sum, sir. Why, sir, look at you--there
you stand, 17.1, deep in the girth, lovely clean houghs and pasterns,
sir--look at 'em yourself if you ain't satisfied--sound wind, well
planted, born flier, grand action. Look at your pedigree, that's
enough! No vice--lady could hunt you, sir--oh, I'm not saying it to
flatter you, sir! As for selling you--don't you see," said Bowes,
placing his finger to his nose, "that's just a bit of practice, that's
all. We shall have to sharp 'em. Let me alone to see to that."

"Well, Bowes," said the master, "I have every confidence in you,
although I do not quite grasp your plan. I must only request that you
will do no act calculated to lessen our self-respect or----"

"Get us warned off the course?" said Bowes. "Oh, that'll be all square."

"But you forget that no one will buy me without seeing my head! If I
show that, all is lost!"

Bowes merely winked, and went out. Otranto was a most unpromising place
for selling a fine horse; but Bowes made inquiries, and discovered that
a rich Englishman, much given to horses--a gentleman-jockey--whose
yacht was cruising in those parts, happened to be in the town. So Bowes
fetched out Mr. Hay, mounted him, and caracoled him all over the place
where a horse could manage to go; and presently he caught the eye of
the gentleman-jockey. The latter had never seen such a picture of a
horse in his life, and yearned to own Mr. Hay.

Bowes explained that he wasn't for sale; that, in fact, he was half
sold already to an American millionaire. (Bowes had picked up a
considerable smattering of English from his master, you see.)

"Look here," said the gentleman-jockey, "I must have him. On his back I
could win every steeplechase in the kingdom. I'll give you £1,000 for
him."

"Down?" said Bowes.

"Yes," replied the other. "I'll put off to my yacht and fetch it."

In an hour the £1,000 in gold and Italian paper was in Bowes's
possession. Bowes had explained how it would be unwise to unwrap Mr.
Hay's head and neck then, as a cold wind was blowing, and the horse had
caught a slight cold on his voyage. The jockey was so overcome by the
magnificence of the visible parts of Mr. Hay, and so convinced of the
wonderful bargain he had made, that he was content to take the head and
neck for granted rather than let him go to the American millionaire;
so Mr. Hay was put back in the stable for the night, and one of the
yacht's crew left there to see to his safety.

Shortly after dark Bowes picked the lock and crept in. Silently he
placed a newly-acquired saddle on Mr. Hay's back.

[Illustration: "I'LL GIVE YOU £1,000 FOR HIM."]

"What now?" whispered Andrew P. Hay.

"We must be off at once and cover as many miles as we can before
daylight," whispered Bowes.

"But," objected Mr. Hay, "this is immoral!"

All the refined morality of the ancient Centaurs welled up in him.

"Pooh!" whispered Bowes. "Meaning no offence, sir; but it's got to be
done!"

At this moment the sailor woke and rose to see what was going on.
Now, gentleman and man of honour as Mr. Hay was down to the waist,
the instinct of battle and self-preservation in his equine portion
instantly gained the ascendency in those moments when action was called
for; and it was with feelings of the most unfeigned horror and regret
that he felt himself backing toward the unhappy sailor and taking up a
favourable position for an effective kick.

"Bowes!" he said, in an agony of apprehension. "Quick! Don't you see
what I'm doing? For Heaven's sake give me a cut over the quarters!
Here--pull my head up, so that I can't lash out!"

But it was too late; the equine nature situated in the hind-quarters
had prevailed: there was an end of the sailor: Andrew P. Hay hid his
face in his hands with a bitter sob, and suffered himself to be led out
and mounted in silence.

"You won't mind my presumption in wearing spurs, sir?" he said,
apologetically. "We might want 'em when you get tired."

Andrew P. Hay hardly heard the remark; his thoughts were absorbed by
the regrettable incident of the sailor; at a touch of the spur he broke
mechanically into a gallop, which he continued unbrokenly far into the
night. Suddenly he pulled up.

"Bowes," he said, "I'm famishing ----. I _must_ have a meal; I've eaten
nothing since the day before yesterday!"

"All right, sir," replied Bowes, as he prepared to strap on a nose-bag
filled with chaff and locust beans; "you shall have a bran-mash as soon
as ever we reach----"

"Take away this stuff!" said Mr. Hay, impatiently. "Do you hear? I've
taken a dislike to hay and beans and bran-mashes; they're undignified
food for a gentleman to eat, and I've done with them. I want a biftek
aux pommes frites!"

"Can't get it here, sir," said Bowes, touching his cap. "Oh; why, I've
got some sandwiches and a bottle of Marsala in the bag. But, if I may
make so bold, the beans would have more stay in 'em----"

"For the equine portion, no doubt. Confound my equine portion, Bowes!
It's in disgrace; I'm disgusted with it, and I'll starve it!"

"Let's wait till we get home, sir, for that--if I might make bold to
advise. It's just the hossey parts you require on the road."

"Hum! there's something in that," said Mr. Hay; "well, give me the
disgusting nose-bag; and when I've finished the confounded beans I will
have a sandwich and a glass of Marsala to remove the taste.... This
Marsala is a coarse wine, Bowes; was this the best thing you could
get?"

They set off again at a gallop; and Mr. Hay soon perceived the wisdom
of having temporarily refreshed his horse-part. But his aversion of,
and anger against, it grew steadily. As he galloped he continued to
brood upon the unjustifiable deed it had so lately committed; and he
speculated with an oppressing anxiety on the acts it might commit in
the future; realizing, as he did, that he had no control over that
portion of him.

In spite of mountains, and the necessity for occasional rest, they
reached Naples in two days. Here Bowes, having changed to a new and
horsey suit of clothes, and provided Mr. Hay with new and handsome
horse-clothing (so that they were unrecognisable), engaged a horse-box
to Calais.

No mere horse could have covered the distance in the time; so they had
eluded pursuit.

       *       *       *       *       *

They reached London at last, and Bowes took a secluded villa, with
stable, in St. John's Wood. The stable was merely a necessary artifice.
With a sigh of relief Andrew P. Hay threw himself down on the hearthrug
in the drawing-room; but the bitterness of association with that
hateful horse-part was always with him. His dislike of it had grown
to a positive loathing. His conduct when that part of him was in
question was really most unreasonable. He would snatch up Bowes's
riding-whip--the poker--anything, and belabour that horse-portion until
it lashed out at the tables and chairs and smashed them to atoms. These
scenes were most painful to Bowes.

[Illustration: "LASHED OUT AT THE TABLES AND CHAIRS."]

Andrew P. Hay was possessed of remarkable aptitude, and, as the £1,000
so fraudulently acquired by Bowes was fast running out, it became
necessary to cast about for employment. Now, his knowledge of the
archaic Greek tongue, history, and antiquities, gained from direct
tradition, was considerable; and he wrote to the authorities of the
British Museum, the Society of Antiquaries, the Kernoozers' Club, and
various other learned bodies, offering himself as correspondent and
referee at a reasonable salary.

After some correspondence his services were eagerly accepted; and for
a time all worked well. Dr. Schliemann considered him invaluable, and
much light was thrown upon the question of early Greek inscriptions,
and the true site of Troy, and of the Garden of the Hesperides; while
much interesting tittle-tattle, from authentic sources, added to the
knowledge of the private character and daily life of Ajax, Achilles,
the Muses, Hercules, and others. All this had been communicated by
letter; but one calamitous day a learned official from the British
Museum called, and, before it could be prevented, had penetrated to the
presence of Mr. Hay.

The meeting was most painful. Mr. Hay, attired in a loose morning coat
and white waistcoat, was writing a paper on the differences between the
Sapphic and Pindaric harps; while his equine part was fraying out the
carpet with its hoofs and flicking away flies with its tail. Mr. Hay
made a desperate effort to conceal the equine portion with the tails
of his coat, but in vain. The official was deeply shocked and pained.

"A--a--ahem! A Centaur, I believe?" he gasped.

Prevarication was useless. Andrew P. Hay bowed stiffly, and motioned
the visitor to a chair.

"I--I must confess that I--er--hardly anticipated this--er ----. I
was under the impression that we had been dealing with an ordinary
human being if you'll excuse my saying so: but, forgive me--I fear the
authorities to whom I am answerable will hardly approve of my obtaining
information from a--er--a fabulous monster."

"A _what_, sir?" cried A. P. Hay: and he felt that equine part
beginning to edge round for a kick, while his ears were lying back
close to his head--the only equine idiosyncrasy of his human part; but
one which distressed him greatly. He shouted for Bowes to catch hold
of his head; he seized the poker and hammered at his flanks; but all
in vain--those terrible hind-legs lashed out: and the official of the
British Museum was no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a terrible affair: everything came out. Poor Mr. Hay was
arrested and taken to Bow Street, where he was locked up in the
green-yard stables.

The horse-part resisted violently, nearly killing three policemen, and
attempting to gallop off; while Mr. Hay begged them to throw him and
sit on his head, and subsequently apologized most sincerely.

The gaoler was very considerate, giving him his choice of oats or the
usual fare.

The magistrate was greatly surprised; but, of course, sent the case for
trial. At the trial, although the facts were clearly proved, the jury
were divided, some bringing in a verdict of deliberate murder against
Andrew Philip Hay; some considering him not guilty, but recommending
the destruction of the horse-portion as a dangerous animal. The judge,
animadverting in the severest terms on the conduct of the prisoner,
declared that, although the jury had not been able to agree as to a
verdict, society could not exonerate the perpetrator of such a deed;
and exhorted the prisoner to reflect deeply upon his conduct, and make
such atonement as remorse and contrition would suggest.

He then proceeded to comment upon the injudiciousness of the prisoner,
who (although apparently guiltless of any desire to sacrifice human
life) was, nevertheless, greatly to blame for his recklessness in
keeping so dangerous an animal.

His Lordship asked whether prisoner would consent to have the animal
destroyed. Prisoner was understood to reply that that was impossible
for physical reasons which none could regret more deeply than himself.

Great excitement was created at this point by prisoner kicking out the
back and sides of the dock, and hurling the usher into the gallery;
prisoner, however, having apologized and expressed his belief that the
incident had been occasioned by a horsefly, the matter was allowed to
drop.

[Illustration: "KICKING THE USHER INTO THE GALLERY."]

The judge, having retired for an hour to consider his action in the
matter, stated that he considered it his duty, while severely deploring
the murderous proclivities of the prisoner and regretting that the
disagreement of the jury prevented him passing the capital sentence,
to exonerate the accused from any intention to permit the animal to do
grievous bodily harm, and recommended the keeping of it under proper
surveillance.

Prisoner having undertaken to lash his equine-part within an inch
of its life, his lordship remarked that he could not sanction any
proceedings involving cruelty to the lower animals. Prisoner was then
discharged.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andrew P. Hay was plunged in profound misery. The disgrace and exposure
of the whole proceedings, the degradation of his self-respect, cast
over him a hopeless gloom. For hours he sat on his haunches, his face
hidden in his hands, while scalding tears trickled between his fingers:
then he suddenly arose, and kicked the villa to fragments.

At length his calmness returned, and he sat down to think the thing
out. The exposure had come--why should he not turn it to good account?

"Bowes!" he called. Poor Bowes dragged his bruised remains from among
the ruined brickwork.

"Bowes, my pride has gone. I intend to make a fortune by lecturing all
over the country about Greek antiquities, and my recent trial. Pack my
portmanteau, and then go round and engage halls."

The lectures created a _furore_. The public did not care two straws
about Greek antiquities; but they crushed to hear a real live Centaur
lecture about a murder case. At the end of a year he had amassed wealth
B.D.A.

       *       *       *       *       *

Andrew Philip, Lord Hippstable, Baron Hay, is now one of the best
known and most highly respected--er--men in society. He was lately
presented with a massive service of plate by the Meltonshire Hunt, in
acknowledgment of his valued services as master of the hounds; he is
the most famous steeplechase--ah--rider of the day; and the last five
Derby winners have hailed from his stable--in fact, he entered for one
Derby himself, but was disqualified on purely technical grounds; and
there is some talk in well-informed circles of his probable succession
to the posts of President of the Jockey Club and Equerry to the Prince
of Wales.

                                                         J. F. SULLIVAN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:




Off to the Station


HULLOA! Who's this running?

To the TRAINS

Confound you Sir 10 minutes to wait!

J.A.S]




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
41, May, 1894, by Various

*** 