[Pg 121]
[Pg 122]

Table of Contents

Round the Fire.
The Story of Cleopatra’s Needle.
Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer.
In Nature’s Workshop.
From Behind the Speaker’s Chair.
Drawing a Badger.
A Common Crystal.
A Peep into “Punch.”
Miss Cayley’s Adventures.
A Town in the Tree-Tops.
Aunt Sarah’s Brooch.
A Record of 1811.
Animal Actualities.
The Memory-Saver.
Curiosities.

[Pg 123]

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Vol. xvii.      FEBRUARY, 1899.      No. 98.

Round the Fire.

IX.—THE STORY OF THE JEW’S BREAST-PLATE.

By A. Conan Doyle.

y particular friend Ward Mortimer
was one of the best men
of his day at everything connected
with Oriental archæology.
He had written
largely upon the subject, he
had lived two years in a tomb at Thebes,
while he had excavated in the Valley of the
Kings, and finally he had created a considerable
sensation by his exhumation of the
alleged mummy of Cleopatra in the inner
room of the Temple of Horus, at Philæ.
With such a record at the age of thirty-one,
it was felt that a considerable career lay
before him, and no one was surprised when
he was elected to the curatorship of the
Belmore Street Museum, which carries with
it the lectureship at the Oriental College, and
an income which has sunk with the fall in
land, but which still remains at that ideal
sum which is large enough to encourage an
investigator, and not so large as to enervate
him.

There was only one reason which made
Ward Mortimer’s position a little difficult at
the Belmore Street Museum, and that was
the extreme eminence of the man whom he
had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a
profound scholar and a man of European
reputation. His lectures were frequented by
students from every part of the world, and
his admirable management of the collection
intrusted to his care was a common-place in
all learned societies. There was, therefore,
considerable surprise when, at the age of
fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position
and retired from those duties which had been
both his livelihood and his pleasure. He
and his daughter left the comfortable suite
of rooms which had formed his official
residence in connection with the museum,
and my friend, Mortimer, who was a bachelor,
took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer’s appointment
Professor Andreas had written him a very
kindly and flattering congratulatory letter, but
I was actually present at their first meeting, and
I went with Mortimer round the museum when
the Professor showed us the admirable collection
which he had cherished so long. The Professor’s
beautiful daughter and a young man,
Captain Wilson, who was, as I understood,
soon to be her husband, accompanied us in
our inspection. There were fifteen rooms in all,
but the Babylonian, the Syrian, and the central
hall, which contained the Jewish and Egyptian
collection, were the finest of all. Professor
Andreas was a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a
clean-shaven face and an impassive manner,
but his dark eyes sparkled and his features
quickened into enthusiastic life as he pointed
out to us the rarity and the beauty of some
of his specimens. His hand lingered so
fondly over them, that one could read his
pride in them and the grief in his heart now
that they were passing from his care into that
of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies,
his papyri, his rare scarabs, his inscriptions,
his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the
famous seven-branched candlestick of the
Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be
lying at this instant in the bed of the Tiber.
Then he approached a case which stood in
the very centre of the hall, and he looked
down through the glass with reverence in his
attitude and manner.

“This is no novelty to an expert like yourself,
Mr. Mortimer,” said he; “but I daresay
that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be
interested to see it.”

Leaning over the case I saw an object,
some five inches square, which consisted of
twelve precious stones in a framework of
gold, with golden hooks at two of the corners.
The stones were all varying in sort and
colour, but they were of the same size.[Pg 124]
Their shapes, arrangement, and gradation of
tint made me think of a box of water-colour
paints. Each stone had some hieroglyphic
scratched upon its surface.

“You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the
urim and thummim?”

I had heard the term, but my idea of its
meaning was exceedingly vague.

“The urim and thummim was a name
given to the jewelled plate which lay upon
the breast of the high priest of the Jews.
They had a very special feeling of reverence
for it—something of the feeling which an
ancient Roman might have for the Sibylline
books in the Capitol. There are, as you see,
twelve magnificent stones, inscribed with
mystical characters. Counting from the left-hand
top corner, the stones are carnelian,
peridot, emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx,
sapphire, agate, amethyst, topaz, beryl, and
jasper.”

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of
the stones.

“Has the breast-plate any particular
history?” I asked.

“It is of great age and of immense
value,” said Professor Andreas. “Without
being able to make an absolute assertion, we
have many reasons to think that it is possible
that it may be the original urim and
thummim of Solomon’s Temple. There is
certainly nothing so fine in any collection in
Europe. My friend, Captain Wilson here,
is a practical authority upon precious stones,
and he would tell you how pure these are.”

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard,
incisive face, was standing beside his fiancée
at the other side of the case.

“Yes,” said he, curtly, “I have never
seen finer stones.”

“And the gold-work is also worthy of
attention. The ancients excelled in——”—he
was apparently about to indicate the
setting of the stones, when Captain Wilson
interrupted him.

“You will see a finer example of their
gold-work in this candlestick,” said he,
turning to another table, and we all joined
him in his admiration of its embossed stem
and delicately ornamented branches. Altogether
it was an interesting and a novel
experience to have objects of such rarity
explained by so great an expert; and when,
finally, Professor Andreas finished our inspection
by formally
handing over the precious
collection to the
care of my friend, I
could not help pitying
him and envying his
successor whose life was
to pass in so pleasant
a duty. Within a week,
Ward Mortimer was
duly installed in his
new set of rooms, and
had become the autocrat
of the Belmore
Street Museum.

About a fortnight
afterwards my friend
gave a small dinner to
half-a-dozen bachelor
friends to celebrate his
promotion. When his
guests were departing
he pulled my sleeve
and signalled to me
that he wished me to
remain.

“You have only a
few hundred yards to
go,” said he—I was
living in chambers in
the Albany. “You
may as well stay and[Pg 125]
have a quiet cigar with me. I very much
want your advice.”

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one
of his excellent Matronas. When he had
returned from seeing the last of his guests
out, he drew a letter from his dress-jacket and
sat down opposite to me.

“This is an anonymous letter which I
received this morning,” said he. “I want to
read it to you and to have your advice.”

“You are very welcome to it for what it is
worth.”

“This is how the note runs: ‘Sir,—I
should strongly advise you to keep a very
careful watch over the many valuable things
which are committed to your charge. I do
not think that the present system of a single
watchman is sufficient. Be upon your guard,
or an irreparable misfortune may occur.'”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all.”

“Well,” said I, “it is at
least obvious that it was
written by one of the limited
number of people who are
aware that you have only one
watchman at night.”

Ward Mortimer handed
me the note, with a curious
smile. “Have you an eye
for handwriting?” said he.
“Now, look at this!” He
put another letter in front
of me. “Look at the c in
‘congratulate’ and the c in
‘committed.’ Look at the
capital I. Look at the trick
of putting in a dash instead
of a stop!”

“They are undoubtedly
from the same hand—with
some attempt at disguise in
the case of this first one.”

“The second,” said Ward
Mortimer, “is the letter of
congratulation which was
written to me by Professor
Andreas upon my obtaining
my appointment.”

I stared at him in amazement.
Then I turned over the letter in my
hand, and there, sure enough, was “Martin
Andreas” signed upon the other side. There
could be no doubt, in the mind of anyone
who had the slightest knowledge of the
science of graphology, that the Professor
had written an anonymous letter, warning his
successor against thieves. It was inexplicable,
but it was certain.

“Why should he do it?” I asked.

“Precisely what I should wish to ask you.
If he had any such misgivings, why could he
not come and tell me direct?”

“Will you speak to him about it?”

“There again I am in doubt. He might
choose to deny that he wrote it.”

“At any rate,” said I, “this warning is
meant in a friendly spirit, and I should
certainly act upon it. Are the present precautions
enough to insure you against
robbery?”

“I should have thought so. The public
are only admitted from ten till five, and there
is a guardian to every two rooms. He stands
at the door between them, and so commands
them both.”

“But at night?”

“When the public are gone, we at once
put up the great iron shutters, which are
absolutely burglar-proof. The watchman is
a capable fellow. He sits in the lodge, but
he walks round every three hours. We keep
one electric light burning in each room all
night.”

“It is difficult to suggest anything more—short
of keeping your day watchers all night.”

“We could not afford that.”

[Pg 126]

“At least, I should communicate with the
police, and have a special constable put on
outside in Belmore Street,” said I. “As to
the letter, if the writer wishes to be anonymous,
I think he has a right to remain so.
We must trust to the future to show some
reason for the curious course which he has
adopted.”

So we dismissed the subject, but all that
night after my return to my chambers I was
puzzling my brain as to what possible motive
Professor Andreas could have for writing an
anonymous warning letter to his successor—for
that the writing was his was as certain to
me as if I had seen him actually doing it.
He foresaw some danger to the collection.
Was it because he foresaw it that he abandoned
his charge of it? But if so, why
should he hesitate to warn Mortimer in
his own name? I puzzled and puzzled
until at last I fell into a troubled sleep,
which carried me beyond my usual hour of
rising.

I was aroused in a singular and effective
method, for about nine o’clock my friend
Mortimer rushed into my room with an
expression of consternation upon his face.
He was usually one of the most tidy men of
my acquaintance, but now his collar was
undone at one end, his tie was flying, and
his hat at the back of his head. I read his
whole story in his frantic eyes.

“The museum has been robbed!” I
cried, springing up in bed.

“I fear so! Those jewels! The jewels
of the urim and thummim!” he gasped, for
he was out of breath with running. “I’m
going on to the police-station. Come to
the museum as soon as you can, Jackson!
Good-bye!” He rushed distractedly out of
the room, and I heard him clatter down
the stairs.

I was not long in following his directions,
but I found when I arrived that he had
already returned with a police inspector, and
another elderly gentleman, who proved to be
Mr. Purvis, one of the partners of Morson
and Company, the well-known diamond
merchants. As an expert in stones he was
always prepared to advise the police. They
were grouped round the case in which the
breast-plate of the Jewish priest had been
exposed. The plate had been taken out and
laid upon the glass top of the case, and the
three heads were bent over it.

“It is obvious that it has been tampered
with,” said Mortimer. “It caught my eye
the moment that I passed through the room
this morning. I examined it yesterday evening,
so that it is certain that this has happened
during the night.”

It was, as he had said, obvious that someone
had been at work upon it. The settings
of the uppermost row of four stones—the
carnelian, peridot, emerald, and ruby—were
rough and jagged as if someone had scraped
all round them. The stones were in their
places, but the beautiful gold work which we
had admired only a few days before had been
very clumsily pulled about.

“It looks to me,” said the police inspector,
“as if someone had been trying to take out
the stones.”

“My fear is,” said Mortimer, “that he
not only tried, but succeeded. I believe
these four stones to be skilful imitations
which have been put in the place of the
originals.”

The same suspicion had evidently been in
the mind of the expert, for he had been carefully
examining the four stones with the
aid of a lens. He now submitted them to
several tests, and finally turned cheerfully to
Mortimer.

“I congratulate you, sir,” said he, heartily.
“I will pledge my reputation that all four of
these stones are genuine, and of a most unusual
degree of purity.”

The colour began to come back to my
poor friend’s frightened face, and he drew a
long breath of relief.

“Thank God!” he cried, “Then what
in the world did the thief want?”

“Probably he meant to take the stones,
but was interrupted.”

“In that case one would expect him to
take them out one at a time, but the setting
of each of these has been loosened, and
yet the stones are all here.”

“It is certainly most extraordinary,” said
the inspector. “I never remember a case
like it. Let us see the watchman.”

The commissionaire was called—a soldierly,
honest-faced man, who seemed as
concerned as Ward Mortimer at the incident.

“No, sir, I never heard a sound,” he
answered, in reply to the questions of the
inspector. “I made my rounds four times,
as usual, but I saw nothing suspicious. I’ve
been in my position ten years, but nothing of
the kind has ever occurred before.”

“No thief could have come through the
windows?”

“Impossible, sir.”

“Or passed you at the door?”

“No, sir; I never left my post except
when I walked my rounds.”

[Pg 127]

“What other openings are there into the
museum?”

“There is the door into Mr. Ward Mortimer’s
private rooms.”

“That is locked at night,” my friend
explained, “and in order to reach it anyone
from the street would have to open the outside
door as well.”

“Your servants?”

“Their quarters are entirely separate.”

“Well, well,” said the inspector, “this is
certainly very obscure. However, there has
been no harm done, according to Mr.
Purvis.”

“I will swear that those stones are
genuine.”

“So that the case appears to be merely
one of malicious damage. But none the less,
I should be very glad to go carefully round
the premises, and to see if we can find any
trace to show us who your visitor may have
been.”

His investigation, which lasted all the
morning, was careful and intelligent, but it
led in the end to nothing. He pointed out
to us that there were two possible entrances
to the museum which we had not considered.
The one was from the cellars by a trap-door
opening in the passage. The other through
a skylight from the lumber-room, overlooking
that very chamber to which the intruder had
penetrated. As neither the cellar nor the
lumber-room could be entered unless the
thief was already within the locked doors,
the matter was not of any practical importance,
and the dust of cellar and attic assured
us that no one had used either one or the
other. Finally, we ended as we began, without
the slightest clue as to how, why, or by
whom the setting of these four jewels had
been tampered with.

There remained one course for Mortimer
to take, and he took it. Leaving the police
to continue their fruitless researches, he
asked me to accompany him that afternoon
in a visit to Professor Andreas.
He took with him the two
letters, and it was his intention
to openly tax his predecessor
with having written
the anonymous warning, and
to ask him to explain the fact
that he should have anticipated
so exactly that which
had actually occurred. The
Professor was living in a small
villa in Upper Norwood, but
we were informed by the
servant that he was away
from home. Seeing our disappointment,
she asked us if
we should like to see Miss
Andreas, and showed us
into the modest drawing-room.

I have mentioned incidentally
that the Professor’s
daughter was a
very beautiful girl. She
was a blonde, tall and
graceful, with a skin of
that delicate tint which
the French call “mat,”
the colour of old ivory
or of the lighter petals
of the sulphur rose. I
was shocked, however, as she entered the
room to see how much she had changed in
the last fortnight. Her young face was
haggard and her bright eyes heavy with
trouble.

“Father has gone to Scotland,” she
said. “He seems to be tired, and has had
a good deal to worry him. He only left
us yesterday.”

“You look a little tired yourself, Miss
Andreas,” said my friend.

[Pg 128]

“I have been so anxious about father.”

“Can you give me his Scotch address?”

“Yes, he is with his brother, the Rev.
David Andreas, 1, Arran Villas, Ardrossan.”

Ward Mortimer made a note of the
address, and we left without saying anything
as to the object of our visit. We found ourselves
in Belmore Street in the evening in
exactly the same position in which we had
been in the morning. Our only clue was
the Professor’s letter, and my friend had
made up his mind to start for Ardrossan
next day, and to get to the bottom of the
anonymous letter, when a new development
came to alter our plans.

Very early upon the following morning
I was aroused from my sleep by a tap upon
my bedroom door. It was a messenger with
a note from Mortimer.

“Do come round,” it said; “the matter is
becoming more and more extraordinary.”

When I obeyed his summons I found him
pacing excitedly up and down the central
room, while the old soldier who guarded the
premises stood with military stiffness in a
corner.

“My dear Jackson,”
he cried, “I am so
delighted that you have
come, for this is a
most inexplicable business.”

“What has happened,
then?”

He waved his hand
towards the case which
contained the breast-plate.

“Look at it,” said
he.

I did so, and could
not restrain a cry of
surprise. The setting
of the middle row of
precious stones had
been profaned in the
same manner as the
upper ones. Of the
twelve jewels, eight had
been now tampered
with in this singular
fashion. The setting
of the lower four was
still neat and smooth.
The others jagged and
irregular.

“Have the stones
been altered?” I
asked.

“No, I am certain that these upper four
are the same which the expert pronounced
to be genuine, for I observed yesterday that
little discoloration on the edge of the
emerald. Since they have not extracted the
upper stones, there is no reason to think that
the lower have been transposed. You say
that you heard nothing, Simpson?”

“No, sir,” the commissionaire answered.
“But when I made my round after daylight
I had a special look at these stones, and I
saw at once that someone had been meddling
with them. Then I called you, sir, and told
you. I was backwards and forwards all the
night, and I never saw a soul or heard a
sound.”

“Come up and have some breakfast with
me,” said Mortimer, and he took me into his
own chambers.

“Now, what do you think of this, Jackson?”
he asked.

“It is the most objectless, futile, idiotic
business that ever I heard of. It can only
be the work of a monomaniac.”

“Can you put forward any theory?”

[Pg 129]

A curious idea came into my head. “This
object is a Jewish relic of great antiquity
and sanctity,” said I. “How about the
anti-Semitic movement? Could one conceive
that a fanatic of that way of thinking might
desecrate——”

“No, no, no!” cried Mortimer. “That
will never do! Such a man might push his
lunacy to the length of destroying a Jewish
relic, but why on earth should he nibble
round every stone so carefully that he can
only do four stones in a night? We must
have a better solution than that, and we must
find it for ourselves, for I do not think that
our inspector is likely to help us. First of
all, what do you think of Simpson, the
porter?”

“Have you any reason to suspect him?”

“Only that he is the one person on the
premises.”

“But why should he indulge in such
wanton destruction? Nothing has been
taken away. He has no motive.”

“Mania?”

“No, I will swear to his sanity.”

“Have you any other theory?”

“Well, yourself, for example. You are not
a somnambulist, by any chance?”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you.”

“Then I give it up.”

“But I don’t—and I have a plan by
which we will make it all clear.”

“To visit Professor Andreas?”

“No, we shall find our solution nearer
than Scotland. I will tell you what we shall
do. You know that skylight which overlooks
the central hall? We will leave the
electric lights in the hall, and we will keep
watch in the lumber-room, you and I, and
solve the mystery for ourselves. If our
mysterious visitor is doing four stones at a
time, he has four still to do, and there is
every reason to think that he will return to-night
and complete the job.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

“We shall keep our own secret, and say
nothing either to the police or to Simpson.
Will you join me?”

“With the utmost pleasure,” said I, and so
it was agreed.

It was ten o’clock that night when I returned
to the Belmore Street Museum.
Mortimer was, as I could see, in a state of
suppressed nervous excitement, but it was still
too early to begin our vigil, so we remained
for an hour or so in his chambers, discussing
all the possibilities of the singular business
which we had met to solve. At last the
roaring stream of hansom cabs and the rush
of hurrying feet became lower and more
intermittent as the pleasure-seekers passed
on their way to their stations or their homes.
It was nearly twelve when Mortimer led the
way to the lumber-room which overlooked
the central hall of the museum.

He had visited it during the day, and had
spread some sacking so that we could lie at
our ease, and look straight down into the
museum. The skylight was of unfrosted
glass, but was so covered with dust that it
would be impossible for anyone looking up
from below to detect that he was overlooked.
We cleared a small piece at each corner,
which gave us a complete view of the room
beneath us. In the cold, white light of the
electric lamps everything stood out hard and
clear, and I could see the smallest detail of
the contents of the various cases.

Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since
one has no choice but to look hard at those
objects which we usually pass with such half-hearted
interest. Through my little peep-hole
I employed the hours in studying every
specimen, from the huge mummy-case which
leaned against the wall to those very
jewels which had brought us there, which
gleamed and sparkled in their glass case
immediately beneath us. There was much
precious gold-work and many valuable stones
scattered through the numerous cases, but
those wonderful twelve which made up the
urim and thummim glowed and burned
with a radiance which far eclipsed the others.
I studied in turn the tomb-pictures of Sicara,
the friezes from Karnak, the statues of
Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes,
but my eyes would always come back to that
wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to the
singular mystery which surrounded it. I was
lost in the thought of it when my companion
suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and
seized my arm in a convulsive grip. At the
same instant I saw what it was which had
excited him.

I have said that against the wall—on the
right-hand side of the doorway (the right-hand
side as we looked at it, but the left as
one entered)—there stood a large mummy-case.
To our unutterable amazement it was
slowly opening. Gradually, gradually, the lid
was swinging back, and the black slit which
marked the opening was becoming wider and
wider. So gently and carefully was it done
that the movement was quite imperceptible.
Then, as we breathlessly watched it, a white,
thin hand appeared at the opening, pushing
back the painted lid, then another hand, and
finally a face—a face which was familiar to[Pg 130]
us both, that of Professor Andreas. Stealthily
he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning
incessantly to left and to right, stepping,
then pausing, then stepping again, the very
image of craft and of caution. Once some
sound in the street struck him motionless,
and he stood listening, with his ear turned,
ready to dart back to the shelter behind him.
Then he crept onwards again upon tiptoe,
very, very softly and slowly, until he had
reached the case in the centre of the room.
Then he took a bunch of keys from his
pocket, unlocked
the case, took out
the Jewish breast-plate,
and, laying it
upon the glass in
front of him, began
to work upon it
with some sort of
small, glistening
tool. He was so
directly underneath
us that his bent
head covered his
work, but we could
guess from the
movement of his
hand that he was
engaged in finishing
the strange disfigurement
which he had
begun.

I could realize
from the heavy
breathing of my
companion, and the
twitchings of the
hand which still
clutched my wrist,
the furious indignation
which filled his
heart as he saw
this vandalism in
the very quarter of
all others where he
could least have expected
it. He, the
very man who a
fortnight before had
reverently bent over
this unique relic,
and who had impressed its antiquity and its
sanctity upon us, was now engaged in this
outrageous profanation. It was impossible,
unthinkable—and yet there, in the white
glare of the electric light beneath us, was that
dark figure with the bent, grey head, and the
twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy,
what hateful depth of malice against his successor
must underlie these sinister nocturnal
labours. It was painful to think of and
dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of
the acute feelings of a virtuoso, could not
bear to look on and see this deliberate
mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a
relief to me when my companion tugged at
my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow
him as he softly crept out of the room. It
was not until we were within his own quarters
that he opened his lips, and then I saw by
his agitated face
how deep was his
consternation.

“The abominable
Goth!” he
cried. “Could you
have believed it?”

“It is amazing.”

“He is a villain
or a lunatic—one
or the other. We
shall very soon see
which. Come with
me, Jackson, and
we shall get to the
bottom of this black
business.”

A door opened
out of the passage
which was the private
entrance from
his rooms into the
museum. This he
opened softly with
his key, having first
kicked off his shoes,
an example which
I followed. We
crept together
through room after
room, until the large
hall lay before us,
with that dark
figure still stooping
and working at the
central case. With
an advance as
cautious as his own
we closed in upon
him, but softly as
we went we could not take him entirely
unawares. We were still a dozen yards from
him when he looked round with a start, and
uttering a husky cry of terror, ran frantically
down the museum.

“Simpson! Simpson!” roared Mortimer,[Pg 131]
and far away down the vista of electric-lighted
doors we saw the stiff figure of the
old soldier suddenly appear. Professor
Andreas saw him also, and stopped running,
with a gesture of despair. At the same
instant we each laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, gentlemen,” he panted, “I will
come with you. To your room, Mr. Ward
Mortimer, if you please! I feel that I owe
you an explanation.”

My companion’s indignation was so great
that I could see that he dared not trust
himself to reply. We walked on each side
of the old Professor, the astonished commissionaire
bringing up the rear. When we
reached the violated case, Mortimer stopped
and examined the breast-plate. Already one
of the stones of the lower row had had its
setting turned back in the same manner as
the others. My friend held it up and
glanced furiously at his prisoner.

“How could you!” he cried. “How
could you!”

“It is horrible—horrible!” said the
Professor. “I don’t wonder at your feelings.
Take me to your room.”

“But this shall not be left exposed!”
cried Mortimer. He picked the breast-plate
up and carried it tenderly in his hand,
while I walked beside the Professor, like a
policeman with a malefactor. We passed
into Mortimer’s chambers,
leaving the amazed
old soldier to understand
matters as best he could.
The Professor sat down
in Mortimer’s arm-chair,
and turned so ghastly
a colour that, for the
instant, all our resentment
was changed to
concern. A stiff glass of
brandy brought the life
back to him once more.

“There, I am better
now!” said he. “These
last few days have been
too much for me. I am
convinced that I could
not stand it any longer.
It is a nightmare—a
horrible nightmare—that
I should be arrested as a
burglar in what has been
for so long my own
museum. And yet I
cannot blame you. You
could not have done
otherwise. My hope
always was that I should get it all over
before I was detected. This would have
been my last night’s work.”

“How did you get in?” asked Mortimer.

“By taking a very great liberty with your
private door. But the object justified it.
The object justified everything. You will
not be angry when you know everything—at
least, you will not be angry with me. I had
a key to your side door and also to the
museum door. I did not give them up
when I left. And so you see it was not
difficult for me to let myself into the museum.
I used to come in early before the crowd
had cleared from the street. Then I hid
myself in the mummy-case, and took refuge
there whenever Simpson came round. I
could always hear him coming. I used to
leave in the same way as I came.”

“You ran a risk.”

“I had to.”

“But why? What on earth was your
object—you to do a thing like that!”
Mortimer pointed reproachfully at the plate
which lay before him on the table.

“I could devise no other means. I
thought and thought, but there was no alternative[Pg 132]
except a hideous public scandal,
and a private sorrow which would have
clouded our lives. I acted for the best,
incredible as it may seem to you, and I
only ask your attention to enable me to
prove it.”

“I will hear what you have to say before
I take any further steps,” said Mortimer,
grimly.

“I am determined to hold back nothing,
and to take you both completely into my
confidence. I will leave it to your own
generosity how far you will use the facts
with which I supply you.”

“We have the essential facts already.”

“And yet you understand nothing. Let
me go back to what passed a few weeks
ago, and I will make it all clear to you.
Believe me that what I say is the absolute
and exact truth.

“You have met the person who calls himself
Captain Wilson. I say ‘calls himself’
because I have reason now to believe that
it is not his correct name. It would take
me too long if I were to describe all the
means by which he obtained an introduction
to me and ingratiated himself into my friendship
and the affection of my daughter. He
brought letters from foreign colleagues which
compelled me to show him some attention.
And then, by his own attainments, which are
considerable, he succeeded in making himself
a very welcome visitor at my rooms.
When I learned that my daughter’s affections
had been gained by him, I may have thought
it premature, but I certainly was not surprised,
for he had a charm of manner and of
conversation which would have made him
conspicuous in any society.

“He was much interested in Oriental antiquities,
and his knowledge of the subject
justified his interest. Often when he spent
the evening with us he would ask permission
to go down into the museum and have an
opportunity of privately inspecting the various
specimens. You can imagine that I, as an
enthusiast, was in sympathy with such a
request, and that I felt no surprise at the
constancy of his visits. After his actual
engagement to Elise, there was hardly an
evening which he did not pass with us,
an hour or two were generally devoted to the
museum. He had the free run of the place,
and when I have been away for the evening
I had no objection to his doing whatever he
wished here. This state of things was only
terminated by the fact of my resignation of
my official duties and my retirement to
Norwood where I hoped to have the leisure
to write a considerable work which I had planned.

“It was immediately after this—within a
week or so—that I first realized the true
nature and character of the man whom I had
so imprudently introduced into my family.
The discovery came to me through letters
from my friends abroad, which showed me
that his introductions to me had been
forgeries. Aghast at the revelation, I
asked myself what motive this man could
originally have had in practising this elaborate
deception upon me. I was too poor a
man for any fortune-hunter to have marked
me down. Why, then, had he come? I
remembered that some of the most precious
gems in Europe had been under my charge,
and I remembered also the ingenious excuses
by which this man had made himself familiar
with the cases in which they were kept. He
was a rascal who was planning some gigantic
robbery. How could I, without striking my
own daughter, who was infatuated about him,
prevent him from carrying out any plan which
he might have formed? My device was a
clumsy one, and yet I could think of nothing
more effective. If I had written a letter
under my own name, you would naturally
have turned to me for details which I did
not wish to give. I resorted to an anonymous
letter begging you to be upon your
guard.

“I may tell you that my change from Belmore
Street to Norwood had not affected the
visits of this man, who had, I believe, a real
and overpowering affection for my daughter.
As to her, I could not have believed that any
woman could be so completely under the
influence of a man as she was. His stronger
nature seemed to entirely dominate her. I
had not realized how far this was the case,
or the extent of the confidence which existed
between them, until that very evening when
his true character for the first time was made
clear to me. I had given orders that when
he called he should be shown into my study
instead of to the drawing-room. There I told
him bluntly that I knew all about him, that I
had taken steps to defeat his designs, and
that neither I nor my daughter desired ever
and to see him again. I added that I thanked
God that I had found him out before he had
time to harm those precious objects which
had been the work of my life-time to
protect.

“He was certainly a man of iron nerve. He
took my remarks without a sign either of
surprise or of defiance, but listened gravely
and attentively until I had finished. Then[Pg 133]
he walked across the room without a word
and struck the bell.

“‘Ask Miss Andreas to be so kind as to
step this way,’ said he to the servant.

“My daughter entered, and the man closed
the door behind her. Then he took her
hand in his.

“‘Elise,’ said he, ‘your father has just
discovered that I am a villain. He knows
now what you knew before.’

“She stood in silence, listening.

“‘He says that we are to part for ever,’
said he.

“She did not withdraw her hand.

“‘Will you be true to me, or will you remove
the last good
influence which is ever
likely to come into my
life?’

“‘John,’ she cried,
passionately, ‘I will
never abandon you!
Never, never, not if
the whole world were
against you.’

“In vain I argued
and pleaded with her.
It was absolutely useless.
Her whole life
was bound up in this
man before me. My
daughter, gentlemen, is
all that I have left to
love, and it filled me
with agony when I saw
how powerless I was
to save her from her
ruin. My helplessness
seemed to touch this
man who was the cause
of my trouble.

“‘It may not be as
bad as you think, sir,’
said he, in his quiet,
inflexible way. ‘I love
Elise with a love which
is strong enough to
rescue even one who has such a record as I
have. It was but yesterday that I promised
her that never again in my whole life would
I do a thing of which she should be ashamed.
I have made up my mind to it, and never yet
did I make up my mind to a thing which I
did not do.’

“He spoke with an air which carried conviction
with it. As he concluded he put his
hand into his pocket and he drew out a small
cardboard box.

“‘I am about to give you a proof of my
determination,’ said he. ‘This, Elise, shall
be the first-fruits of your redeeming influence
over me. You are right, sir, in thinking that
I had designs upon the jewels in your
possession. Such ventures have had a
charm for me, which depended as much
upon the risk run as upon the value of the
prize. Those famous and antique stones
of the Jewish priest were a challenge to my
daring and my ingenuity. I determined to
get them.’

“‘I guessed as much.’

“‘There was only one thing that you did
not guess.’

“‘And what is that?’

“‘That I got them. They are in this box.’

“He opened the box, and tilted out the
contents upon the corner of my desk. My
hair rose and my flesh grew cold as I looked.
There were twelve magnificent square stones
engraved with mystical characters. There
could be no doubt that they were the jewels
of the urim and thummim.

“‘Good God!’ I cried. ‘How have you
escaped discovery?’

“‘By the substitution of twelve others,
made especially to my order, in which the[Pg 134]
originals are so carefully imitated that I defy
the eye to detect the difference.’

“‘Then the present stones are false?’ I
cried.

“‘They have been for some weeks.’

“We all stood in silence, my daughter white
with emotion, but still holding this man by
the hand.

“‘You see what I am capable of, Elise,’
said he.

“‘I see that you are capable of repentance
and restitution,’ she answered.

“‘Yes, thanks to your influence! I leave
the stones in your hands, sir. Do what you
like about it. But remember that whatever
you do against me, is done against the future
husband of your only daughter. You will
hear from me soon again, Elise. It is the
last time that I will ever cause pain to your
tender heart,’ and with these words he left
both the room and the house.

“My position was a dreadful one. Here I
was with these precious relics in my possession,
and how could I return them without a
scandal and an exposure? I knew the depth
of my daughter’s nature too well to suppose
that I would ever be able to detach her from
this man now that she had entirely given
him her heart. I was not even sure how far
it was right to detach her if she had such an
ameliorating influence over him. How could
I expose him without injuring her—and how
far was I justified in exposing him when he
had voluntarily put himself into my power?
I thought and thought, until at last I formed
a resolution which may seem to you to be a
foolish one, and yet, if I had to do it again,
I believe it would be the best course open to
me.

“My idea was to return the stones without
anyone being the wiser. With my keys I
could get into the museum at any time, and
I was confident that I could avoid Simpson,
whose hours and methods were familiar to
me. I determined to take no one into my
confidence—not even my daughter—whom I
told that I was about to visit my brother in
Scotland. I wanted a free hand for a few
nights, without inquiry as to my comings and
goings. To this end I took a room in
Harding Street that very night, with an intimation
that I was a Pressman, and that I
should keep very late hours.

“That night I made my way into the
museum, and I replaced four of the stones.
It was hard work, and took me all night.
When Simpson came round I always heard
his footsteps, and concealed myself in the
mummy-case. I had some knowledge of
gold-work, but was far less skilful than the
thief had been. He had replaced the setting
so exactly that I defy anyone to see the
difference. My work was rude and clumsy.
However, I hoped that the plate might not
be carefully examined, or the roughness of the
setting observed, until my task was done.
Next night I replaced four more stones. And
to-night I should have finished my task had
it not been for the unfortunate circumstance
which has caused me to reveal so much which
I should have wished to keep concealed. I
appeal to you, gentlemen, to your sense of
honour and of compassion, whether what I
have told you should go any farther or not.
My own happiness, my daughter’s future,
the hopes of this man’s regeneration, all depend
upon your decision.”

“Which is,” said my friend, “that all is
well that ends well, and that the whole matter
ends here and at once. To-morrow the loose
settings shall be tightened by an expert goldsmith,
and so passes the greatest danger to
which, since the destruction of the Temple,
the urim and thummim have been exposed.
Here is my hand, Professor Andreas, and I
can only hope that under such difficult
circumstances I should have carried myself
as unselfishly and as well.”

Just one footnote to this narrative.
Within a month Elise Andreas was married
to a man whose name, had I the indiscretion
to mention it, would appeal to my readers as
one who is now widely and deservedly
honoured. But if the truth were known, that
honour is due not to him but to the gentle
girl who plucked him back when he had
gone so far down that dark road along which
few return.

[Pg 135]

The Story of Cleopatra’s Needle.

FROM SYRENE TO LONDON.

By Susie Esplen.

n London, on the embankment
of the Thames, standing
majestic in its great height
and solidity, is that wonderful
column of red granite known
to all as Cleopatra’s Needle.
What a history is attached to the obelisk,
a history which is as wonderful and strange
as the Needle itself is antique, for its age
dates back as far as 1,500 years before the
Christian Era. We are told that “the
child Moses may have played around the
foot of this pillar; the Israelites looking
citywards from the brickfields saw the sunlight
glittering on its tapering point; the
plague of darkness clothed it as with a
garment; the plague of frogs croaked and
squatted on its pediment; the plague of
locusts dashed themselves in flights against
it, and unto its likeness the heart of Pharaoh
was hardened. The sight of it takes us
back to a time when the Pisgah—sight of
Canaan—was but a promise with a desert and
forty years between.” Connecting the history
of the pillar with such ancient Biblical facts
as these, we realize how really aged the
Needle is; but we have still to remember
that it had been witness to events which
took place many hundreds of years even
before the days of Moses.

When Thothmes III., called Egypt’s greatest
King, was in power he gave command for
another pair of obelisks to be cut out of the
quarries at Syrene and erected by the side
of those already standing, which Rameses
had set up before one of the many temples
of the Sun which were in Heliopolis.

Gazing thoughtlessly at the column one is
prone to overlook the fact that this tremendous
pillar is unlike other equally high
columns in our land, as this one was not
built up to its present height by stone being
laid upon stone or block being placed upon
block, until the desired height and form
were attained, but from the first this was
hewn out of its place in the quarry in one
enormous mass. We can, therefore, understand
the difficult undertaking it would be
to remove such a weight of granite from
one place to the other in the days when
steam was not in use. The quarries of
Syrene were seven hundred miles from
Heliopolis. In an interesting book on this
subject written by the Rev. James King
(and to him I am indebted for much of this
information), we have an account of how in[Pg 136]
those early times the task of cutting out and
removing this column was effected.

He tells us that in an old quarry at Syrene
there is to be seen an obelisk upon which the
workmen were busy, when for some reason
they were obliged to leave it only partially
cut out. From this it appears that when
the quarrymen wished to abstract a huge
mass, such as the Needle would be, they
marked out the form by cutting a deep groove,
in which, at intervals, they made oblong
holes. Into these holes they firmly wedged
blocks of timber, and then, filling the grooves
with water, the wood in time swelled and thus
the granite cracked along the outline from
wedge to wedge. Next came the difficulty
of taking the Needle on its first journey,
seven hundred miles up the river to the
City of Heliopolis. When it lay ready for
removal in the quarry, rollers made of palm
trees were laid so that the column could be
placed on them, and by this means it could
be pushed down to the edge of the river,
and there a raft was built round it. When
the Nile overflowed its banks, this raft and
its burden floated, and the stone was conveyed
to the nearest and most suitable point
from which it could again be conveyed on
rollers as before to the pedestal which
was prepared for it to stand upon, and
by the help of ropes and levers made
from the date palm it was placed in
position. So faultless was the work done by
those men of old that, when the column was
erected on the pedestal, both had been so
accurately levelled,
where the one
fitted on the other,
that the Needle
when standing was
perfectly true in
the perpendicular.

Mr. King continues
to inform
us that in a grotto
at El-Bershch is
a representation
showing the removal
of a gigantic
figure. The statue
is placed on a
sledge, and men
are represented
going before it
pouring oil in
grooves, along
which the sledge
slides, and by
means of ropes
four rows of men drag the figure along. And
from this we learn the method of the
column’s first removal. Once erected in
Heliopolis before one of the many temples
of the Sun, the Needle was allowed to
remain there with its companion one for
fourteen centuries.

Twenty-three years before Christ, Augustus
Cæsar ordered the removal of them from
Heliopolis to Alexandria, and so the Needle
came to be taken on its second journey. In
Alexandria was a gorgeous palace of the
Cæsars, and before the palace the columns
were set up. They are called Cleopatra’s
Needles, but in reality Cleopatra had no
connection with their history. She may
have helped to design the magnificent building
the front of which these obelisks adorned,
and her devoted subjects wishing to give
honour to the memory of their much-loved
Queen gave the pillars her name.

For fifteen centuries they were left to
stand in this last-named position, which was
close to the Port of Alexandria; and many
years after the grand building of the Cæsars
had fallen in ruins, these two columns still
stood. With years the sea had advanced to
the base of the one in which we are more
especially interested, and with the ever-advancing
and receding waters the foundation
of the Needle became so worn that
three hundred years ago it fell to the ground
unbroken and unharmed.

In 1801 the French and English fought,
and the latter, under Sir Ralph Abercrombie,[Pg 137]
were victorious. The battle having taken
place within sight of the Needle, the English
soldiers conceived the desire to possess and
take to England the fallen obelisk as a
trophy of their success. So anxious were
they to have this idea carried out, that they
willingly gave up some of their payment, and
collected £7,000 towards the expense of its
removal.

The plan they adopted for its conveyance
to England on this occasion was to build a
pier seaward, and then, taking the Needle
to the end of it,
proposed putting
it through the
stern of an old
French frigate
which had been
raised for the purpose.
When the
pier was partially
built a great storm
washed it away,
and very soon
after that the
soldiers were
ordered to leave
Egypt, and the
idea could not be
carried out. However,
the Needle
was removed a
few feet, and a
brass tablet was
inserted bearing
a record of the
British victory.
From this time
the mind of the
people appeared
to be in a state of
unrest concerning
the Needle—an
unrest which was
not quieted until
the column was
brought to England
and erected
where it now
stands.

When George
IV. was reigning
in England, Mehemet
Ali was
ruling in Egypt,
and he offered as
a gift to the King
this obelisk.
George IV. for
some reason did not accept the gift. When
William IV. came to the throne it was again
offered, with an additional favour, for he also
promised to pay the cost for its transportation.
King William, like his predecessor,
King George, thought it best to excuse
himself from accepting the obelisk, so he
also refused it.

In 1849 the question was brought before
the House of Commons, that the offer made
by Mehemet Ali should be re-considered and
the obelisk brought to England, but an[Pg 138]
opposition party opposed the suggestion, considering
that the Needle would have become
so defaced as to be not worth the risk and
expense of removing it.

Many years after, when the great Hyde
Park Demonstration was being held, it was
again suggested that the obelisk should be
transported, in honour of the Prince Consort,
for his anxiety in trying to make the exhibition
a success, but the idea again fell through.
When the Sydenham Palace Company were
planning their great pavilion they wished to
have the Needle to place in the Egyptian
department of the building, of course intending
to pay for its transit. But it was against
order to give a
private company
any gift which
really belonged to
the nation.

The Needle all
these years was
still lying where
the British Army
left it, on the
shore of the Bay
of Alexandria.
The ground on
which it lay was
sold, and a Greek
merchant who
had bought the
land was anxious
to have the
column taken
away. The Khedive
advised the
English to remove it if they really valued
its possession, otherwise they ran the risk
of losing it altogether. In 1867 Sir James
E. Alexander was attracted by the beauty
of the column which was also presented
by Mehemet Ali to the French, and stands
now in La Place de la Concorde. Remembering
that the one belonging to the
English was lying unheeded on the shores of
Alexandria, he desired to have it brought
over to England, and accordingly went to
Egypt, gained an interview with the Khedive,
and with him discussed its possession and
removal. For ten years he was unwearying
in his watch over the monument, arranging[Pg 139]
from time to time with the owner of the land
to allow it to remain where it was, hoping
meanwhile to be able to make some arrangements
concerning it so that it might be
preserved for the English.

He came to the opinion that if ever the
obelisk was to be brought to England it
would not be at the expense of the nation’s
purse, but would need to be paid for by
private donations. With one or two friends,
anxious like himself for the protection of the
Needle, he intended to try and raise funds in
the City. However, first meeting his friend,
Professor Erasmus
Wilson, and
explaining all to
him, the Professor
generously
offered to pay the
sum of £10,000,
which was deemed
sufficient for
the purpose.

In July of 1877
workmen were
once more busy
in connection
with this column
which already
had experienced
such a history.
The sand was
removed from
about it, and to
the delight of
those most interested
it was found
to be in an excellent
state of preservation.
Next
came the anxious
task of removing
it, something
more being necessary
than the raft,
as of old, for the
long sea voyage
which lay before
it.

A paper might
be written on the
different methods
and numerous
plans invented
and suggested for
the transportation
of the Needle. Sir
James Alexander
had made the
acquaintance of Mr. John Dixon, a civil
engineer, and he, too, was interested in the
monolith. Professor Erasmus Wilson and
Mr. Dixon were introduced and discussed
the subject together, with the result that Mr.
Dixon undertook the responsibility of the
conveyance of the column to England,
Professor Wilson arranging to pay the
£10,000 on its erection in London. A
construction was therefore carefully designed
in England for encasing the Needle, so
that it would be a sea craft of itself, and
this was sent out to Egypt in pieces.

[Pg 140]

One of the principal considerations when
making their designs was that the Needle
when encased required to be launched by
being rolled into the water, instead of being
sent off in the usual way. Another of the
chief difficulties to contend with in the
removal of the obelisk was that the bay near
which it was lying was unsafe for ships to
anchor in, as it was exposed to severe gales
and the ground was covered with shoals.
The Needle was raised some feet above the
ground, the smaller end swung round to be
parallel with the sea, and when in this position
the work of encasing it was done.

When in this
act of turning it,
the ground appeared
to be
giving way under
it, and, on examination
being
made, it was
found to be resting
on a small
vault, which was
6ft. long by 3ft.
wide and 4ft.
high. It was
evidently an
ancient tomb,
for two human
skeletons and
some small jars
were found in
the cavity. The
skulls were preserved
and put
on board the pontoon,
when ready
for sea, but after
the storm in the
bay they were
never seen again,
and the sailors,
being foreign, are
supposed to have
thrown them
overboard,
through superstition.

The Needle
whilst raised and
ready for encasing
had the plates
riveted in place
round it, the
inside was packed
with elastic timber
cushions to
preserve the stone when being rolled into
the water, or in case of any deflection in the
vessel’s length, which might occur through
the waves. The casing was made water-tight,
and the greatest care had to be taken to have
the column quite in the centre of the cylinder,
where it was fastened in position.

For the purpose of getting it into the
water, large wooden wheels, 16-1/2ft. in
diameter, were put on either end, and planks
were laid for it to roll down. From heavy
lighters lying in the bay, wire ropes were
taken and wrapped many times round the
cylinder. Also from the land side ropes[Pg 141]
were secured to it, in case, when set in
motion, it went off at too great a speed, and
thus the ropes could check that fault. On
August 28th, 1877, all was ready for the
launch. Unfortunately, the morning commenced
with a thick fog, which only cleared
away as the day wore on.

A great crowd of people gathered to
witness the interesting event. All being in
readiness, the winches on board the lighters
worked the ropes connected with the encased
Needle, and it commenced to gradually move
towards the water,
but the movement
was so slow that
it could scarcely
be detected. After
some hours it
had only made
one complete turn
on its wheels. It
was then proved
that the vessels
from which the
wire ropes were
worked were not
able to hold their
ground against the
strain, but were
dragging their
anchors. Two tugs
which had been
standing by in
readiness to give
help if required
were called into
service, and being
connected with the cylinder towed it until she
moved a little farther into the water, but
although the tugs steamed at full power they
could not move the heavy weight at any
great speed. The planking ended by an
incline into the water, and divers had been
previously employed in removing shoals from
the intended course to prevent any mishap.
When the cylinder was brought to the edge
of the railway, so to call it, the idea was that
it would roll down the incline and slip off
easily into the water.

[Pg 142]

All the first day was employed in bringing
it to the foot of the incline, and at night it
was left in no greater depth of water than
3ft. Next morning the tugs again were at
work trying to move it into deep water, but
after making one full revolution it stuck, and
although the tugs continued to tow all day
it remained immovable.

On the third day divers discovered that a
hidden stone weighing half a ton had pierced
the plates, and making a hole had allowed
the water to rush in and fill the cylinder. It
took some days to repair the damage made
by the rock, but after that was done it was
successfully floated and towed round to the
harbour, where final arrangements were made
for the sea voyage. A cabin house and rail
were fixed on top, two bilge keels 40ft. long
were riveted one on either side, a mast and
rudder placed, and twenty tons of iron ballast
were put in her. It was manned by a crew
of five Maltese and an English captain.[Pg 143]
The time occupied from beginning to encase
it until the completion was about three and
a half months.

A suitable steamer of sufficient size and
power was found in the ss. Olga, belonging
to Messrs. Wm. Johnson and Co., of Liverpool.
The craft, which was named the
Cleopatra, was now ready for sea. It was
designed not to travel faster than five or
six knots an hour, as greater speed might
be disastrous. The Olga, towing the Cleopatra,
set sail
from Alexandria
on the 21st September,
1877.

For the first
twenty days all
was prosperous
and uneventful,
but on the morning
of Sunday,
the 14th October,
when in the
Bay of Biscay,
a squall arose,
which towards
noon developed
into a gale. The
Cleopatra, however,
stood the
gale well, not
shipping enough
water to do any
serious harm
until about six
o’clock on the
evening of the
same day, when
a big sea caught
her, turning her
completely on
her beam ends
and carrying
away her mast.

A desperate effort was made to right her,
but without success; a small boat was
lowered, but to no purpose, and the captain
of the Olga at this point, seeing the danger
all were in, thought it wisest to disconnect
the two vessels, and so the cylinder was cut
adrift. A little later, the wind having fallen,
the Cleopatra signalled for assistance, and the
crew of the Olga, pitying the distress of their
fellow-sailors, volunteered to put off in a boat
and go to their rescue. The captain, thinking
it would be a fruitless effort, advised them
against it, saying: “A boat could not live in
such a sea.” The second officer, who had
all along taken a keen interest in the welfare
of the Cleopatra, replied: “We can’t leave
the poor fellows to drown; and now, lads,
who will go with me?” He found five fine
able-bodied men, in the prime of life, were
willing to share the risk, and a boat was
launched and put off; but before they could
render any assistance a great wave washed
them away, and they were thus drowned in
endeavouring to save others.

After a time a line was thrown from the
Olga over the Cleopatra, and by means of
it a boat was
hauled from the
one vessel to
the other, and
the sailors on
the Needle were
saved. After
spending some
hours in searching
for signs of
the lost boat
and the Cleopatra,
the captain
of the Olga
set sail for Falmouth,
with the
sad news of the
enforced abandonment
in the
Bay and the
supposed loss of
the Needle and
men.

When the
news was heard
in England, Mr.
Dixon was of
opinion that the
Needle would
not sink when
cast off, but
would float, the
only danger
being that she might be destroyed on rocks.
His surmising was correct in reference to
it floating, for a telegram was received sixty
days after the news of its loss saying that the
ss. Fitzmaurice, bound for Valencia from
Middlesbrough, had found and captured it
ninety miles north of Ferrol, and had towed
it into Vigo in Spain, and it remained in
that harbour about three months.

Sir James Ashbury, M.P., kindly offered
the loan of his yacht, the Eothen, to tow it
home, but arrangements were finally made
for the Anglia to do the work, and she
arrived in England with the obelisk in tow
on the 20th January, 1878.

[Pg 144]

Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer.

By Mark Eastwood.

he Prince threw the reins to
his servant and sprang from
the sledge.

“Where is he?” demanded
he.

The Muzhik in the doorway
of the hut stood bowing to the ground.
He did not presume to lift his eyes to the
High Noble, but they had flashed up like
signal-fires at the words. Yet he affected not
to understand.

“Is it the old man, Ivan Ivanovitch, the
High Noble would honour with his commands?”
he began. “His servant is full
of regret——”

“Bother Ivan Ivanovitch!” interrupted
the Prince, impatiently. “What do I want
with your father? It is Ivanka, your son, I
come to see—the little one who slew the
wolf. At least,” he added quickly, with a
shrug, “so they say, but I do not believe it.
Why, it is impossible! A child—a mere
puppy!”

The Muzhik had thrown out his hands.
He could contain himself no longer. “The
High Noble does not believe?” he cried,
wildly. Then he rushed into the house to
return in a moment brandishing in one hand
a knife, and in the other holding aloft a
shaggy hide.

“The Noble Prince does not believe?”
he repeated, and his eyes seemed to emit
sparks. “Let him behold the proofs.
Ivanka, my little one, slew the wolf, in very
truth! Alone—alone he slew it!”

As though a flash of electric fire had flown[Pg 145]
from the man’s lips direct to the hearts of
his listeners, the faces of both flamed up.
The man in the sledge lifted his cap and
crossed himself with fervent mutterings. He
passed the cuff of his coat across his wet,
shining eyes.

The Prince took the knife in his hand.
Such a thing it was! You can buy the like
for twenty copeks (about sixpence) at any
Russian fair. One of the sort used by the
Russian peasant to cut forage, having a
crooked blade and horn handle. It was
stained, both blade and hilt, with blood.

“I have bought another for use,” observed
the peasant.

“It is wonderful,” murmured the Prince,
as he turned the knife about in his hands.

At this juncture a pair of excited black
eyes, surmounted by a huge baranka, peered
round the corner of the hut, and as quickly
vanished.

Presently the Prince looked up. “But
the boy!” he cried. “Let us see this wonderful
child and hear the story from his own
lips.”

The peasant looked sharply round.

“He was here even when the High Noble
drew up. There is the hatchet and the wood
he was chopping. Ivanka! Ivanka! He
has hidden himself, the rascal.”

The Prince laughed.

“Ivanka Ivanka!” almost shrieked the
peasant. “I will teach you to run and hide
when the High Nobility come from far and
near to see you! By all the saints, if you
do not instantly come forth from your hiding-hole
and relate the whole occurrence to the
Noble Prince, I will break every bone in
your body!”

Then it was that a coat of sheep’s skin
that just cleared the ground emerged from
behind the hut and moved slowly over the
trodden snow to within a few paces of the
Prince. You could only tell by the shining
eyes and the tip of a small red nose that
peeped between the high stand-up collar that
inside of it was a small boy.

Where he stood the blood-red sun bathed
him in heroic glory. Yet, in spite of all,
Ivanka the Wolf-Slayer had the mien of a
fruit-stealing culprit before the Chinovnik.
The Prince regarded him with mock
severity.

“What is this I hear of you, Ivanka?” he
began. “They say that you have slain a
wolf!”

Ivanka would have hung his head but that
his collar prevented it. So he dropped
his eyes in guilty silence. The peasant,
behind the Prince’s back, rubbed his hands
and chuckled.

“Come here,” commanded the Prince, his
moustached lip twitching with a whimsical
smile.

The coat moved to the Prince’s feet.
Then the small boy inside it felt himself
caught up in strong arms and borne into the
hut.

Now, though it was a ruddy winter sunset
outside, in the hut it was quite gloomy.
The window was very small. A dull yellow
glow, like a big bull’s-eye, came from the
open door of the stove, and a glimmer like a
glow-worm from the tiny lamp that burned
before the Holy Image. The dim outline of
a woman with a child in her arms could be
discerned by the stove. She came forward
as the Prince entered, and bending low
raised the hem of his fur mantle to her lips
and silently returned to her seat.

The Prince sat by the window, and Ivanka
stood between his knees where he had been
placed. He trembled inside his sheep’s skin.
Yet it was a gentle hand that lifted the
baranka from his curly head and raised his
chin.

“How old are you, Ivanka?” inquired the
Prince.

“Ten years, Noble Prince,” faltered the
boy. But his eyes meeting those of the
Prince at that moment he ceased to
tremble. And the longer he looked the
more comfortable he felt.

“And you have slain a wolf?” continued
the Prince.

“Yes, Noble Prince.”

“And what had the wolf done to you,
Ivanka, that you should have taken his life?”

“He had seized our little Minka and
would have eaten her up.” Ivanka drew a
sharp breath.

“How terrible!” exclaimed the Prince.
“But you—midge! How did you dare to
tackle such a foe? It is incredible! Come,
tell me all about it. Begin at the beginning,
Ivanka.”

Ivanka gazed at the ground in silence.
He twisted one leg round the other, cracked
all his knuckles in succession, but the words
would not come.

“Speak, Ivanka, do,” came a woman’s
coaxing voice from the gloom. “Tell his
High Nobility how it happened.”

Another pause, and at length in a shy,
hesitating voice, Ivanka began:—

“Mother had gone to the town in the
sledge, and father lay asleep on the top of
the stove. It was afternoon. I was minding[Pg 146]
Minka, and we played at having a shop with
the bits of pot from the mug Minka broke.
Then I remembered it was time to cut the
fodder and feed the beasts, which I can do
as well as father now. So I took the fodder
knife and stole out. I left the door open a
bit—not enough to let the cold in on father,
but enough to hear Minka if she cried. I
had fed the cows in the byre and had got to
the corner of the house coming back, when
I heard Minka scream.”

As Ivanka uttered the last word his breath
came fast. He tossed back his locks with a
sudden jerk of the head. Like a gladiator
preparing for combat, he threw out his chest,
setting his teeth, whilst his small, muscular
fingers contracted, doubling in like the claws
of a falcon. Forgotten was the princely
presence with that piteous appeal smiting
his ears.

“I sprang forward,” he continued, “and
saw Minka. She was on the ground just
outside the door. And over her hung a
monster, grim and terrible. His wicked eyes
gleamed red, and his cruel teeth were long
and sharp. I saw them as he lifted his
bristling lip to seize her in his jowl.”

A dry sob rose in Ivanka’s throat and
made him pause. He coughed it impatiently
away.

“It seemed to me then—just for a
moment of horror—as though my limbs were
bound and I could not move, until the beast
began to drag Minka away. At the sight
strength came to me, and with a yell I threw
myself upon him.”

“You were not afraid?” put in the Prince,
who had never taken his eyes off the boy
since he began to speak.

“I did not think of fear,” replied Ivanka,
“I thought of my poor little Minka, and oh,
how fiercely I hated the monster. Hate kills
fear,” he added, reflectively.

“And then?” inquired the Prince.

“Oh, then he dropped Minka, and over
and over we rolled in the snow, he snarling
and worrying my sheep’s skin. He would
soon have made an end of me but for my
sheep’s skin.” And the boy patted his breast
and looked himself over complacently.

“And after?” the Prince again recalled
him.

“After that he shook me until my bones
rattled in my skin. Then I was under him
and my mouth was full of his hair, and I was
so spent that I would have let him finish me.
But Minka cried, ‘Ivanka! Ivanka!’ and it
seemed too hard to leave her. It was that
moment I remembered that I still grasped
the knife.

“How I struggled round between his
mighty paws until my arm was free to plunge
the weapon in his throat I know not, but I
felt the blood gush out over my face. And
then—and then, Minka’s voice went farther
and farther away and I seemed to be falling
as a star falls through the air.”

As Ivanka ceased speaking, a half-stifled[Pg 147]
sob was heard from the interior of the room.
The Prince had covered his eyes with his
hand as though dazzled. Yet the sun had
gone down and the place was more gloomy
than ever. The peasant stepped forward out
of the shadows and stood before the Prince
in the dim light of the window. He took up
the tale.

“It was the screams of the little one that
awoke me, your High Nobility, and I ran
out. Ah, never shall I forget the sight that
met my eyes! There lay my little son,
dabbled in blood, and beside him the wolf
on its back, kicking in death convulsions.
When I picked up my Ivanka I thought him
dead, and my heart would have broken had
he not at once opened his eyes.

“‘Minka,’ he whispered, ‘is she hurt?’

“‘My darling, no,’ I answered. ‘She
screams too lustily to be hurt.’

“‘And the wolf?’ He raised his head
from my shoulder and looked wildly
around.

“‘He is dead. You have slain him, my
hero,’ I assured him.

“Then he shut his eyes with a great sigh.

“‘Let me sleep, father,’ he murmured.
‘I am so tired.'”

The peasant chuckled. “He was played
out, my little wolf-slayer. The Noble Prince
should have seen how he lay like a sack,
and slept and slept!”

Meanwhile Ivanka had grown shy again
and gazed wistfully towards the door. But
the Prince still held him between his
knees. Even when he rose to go, the
High Noble detained the boy with a hand
on his head.

“Give him to me,” he said to the peasant.
“Let me take him with me when I go to
Petersburg. I will make a great man of him.
He shall be a soldier and fight for the
Czar.”

There was dead silence. The peasant’s
face had gone crimson. His eyes flew to his
son and held him in jealous regard.

“Will you go with me, Ivanka, you wolf-slayer,
to help keep the human wolves from
invading the dominions of the Czar? You
shall be taught with the sons of the highest
in the land, and shall wear the uniform of an
Imperial cadet.”

Ivanka raised solemn eyes to the face that
was bent towards him. It was a noble face,
handsome and benign, and imposing against
the swelling sable of the high collar.

“He is great and good and beautiful, like
my patron saint, Ivan,” he thought. Something
stirred in the gloom of the hut, and quickly
Ivanka turned to where his mother sat with
the sleeping Minka in her lap. His lip began
to quiver.

The peasant found his tongue. “Give
him time, Noble Prince,” he faltered, huskily,
and he too looked towards the crouching
figure by the stove. “It is a great thing the
High Noble offers, but the boy is very
young.”

[Pg 148]

“Take your time,” replied the Prince.
“In the spring I shall return. Then, since
you are sensible people, he will be ready
to go.”

With these words the great man stooped
and kissed Ivanka, pressing a roll of notes
into his hand. From the door Ivanka
watched the Prince depart. He gazed after
the fine sledge with its prancing horses as they
sped, swift as the wind, towards the wonderful,
mysterious city of the Great Czar. When
it had disappeared and the merry jingle of
the silver bells no longer reached his ear it
was to him as though a bright noontide sun
had suddenly dropped from the heavens.
And there and then a feeling of longing after
greater things crept into his valiant little
heart.

“You shall decide for yourself, my son,”
said the peasant. And the mother hid her
grief because she wished Ivanka to be a
great man.

Thus it was that when the spring came to
stir the sap in the trees and release the ice-bound
brooks, at the return of the Prince,
Ivanka was ready to go.

[Pg 149]

In Nature’s Workshop.
II.—FALSE PRETENCES.

By Grant Allen.

uman life and especially
human warfare are rich in
deceptions, wiles, and stratagems.
We dig pitfalls for
wild beasts, carefully concealed
by grass and branches; we
take in the unsuspecting fish with artificial
flies, or catch them with worms which conceal
a hook treacherously barbed for their
surer destruction. The savage paints his
face and sticks feathers in his hair so that he
may look more terrifying to his expected
enemy; civilized men mask their batteries,
and sometimes even paint muzzles of imaginary
guns in the spaces between the gaping
mouths of the real ones. Chevaux de frise
block the way to points liable to attack; real
troops lie in ambush and dart out unexpectedly
in the rear of the assailants. Trade in like
manner is full of shams—a fact which I need
hardly impress by means of special examples.
But Nature we are usually accustomed to
consider as innocent and truthful. Alas, too
trustfully: for Nature too is a gay deceiver.
There is hardly a device invented by man
which she has not anticipated: hardly a
trick or ruse in his stock of wiles which she
did not find out for herself long before he
showed her.

I propose in this paper to examine a few
cases of such natural deceptions—not indeed
the most striking or typical, but such as
occur among fairly well-known English plants
and animals. And I shall begin with our
familiar and unsavoury old friend, the Devil’s
Coach-horse.

In order fully to understand his mode of
procedure, however, I must first call your
attention to another animal which really is
what the Devil’s Coach-horse mendaciously
pretends to be: and that is the common
scorpion. His mode of fighting is well
known to most of us. In illustration No. 1
Mr. Enock has given us a delineation of
a frantic death-struggle between such a
scorpion and a large and powerful southern
spider. The venomous creature with the
stinging tail is on the left; the spider is on
the right. As far as mere size goes, the
antagonists are fairly well matched: but the
scorpion is the best armed, both with offensive
and defensive armour. His lobster-like
or crab-like claws enable him to hold his
enemy’s limbs in his grip as in a vice:
then, at the critical moment, he bends
over his tail, in the extremity of which
his sting is situated, and plunges it with
force through the comparatively slight skin
of the spider’s body or thorax, injecting
at the same moment a pungent drop of his
deadly poison. This characteristic action
of the scorpion in curving its tail over its
body and raising its sting in a menacing
attitude is well known to birds and other[Pg 150]
enemies of the species: often the mere
threat of a thrust is a sufficient deterrent:
the dangerous beast just elevates its
poisonous appendage or assumes an angry
mien, and the inquisitive intruder is
frightened away immediately.
It is the
same with ourselves.
The bare sight of
that uplifted sting suffices to repel us.
Even a child who
saw a scorpion once
arch its back and
prepare to strike with
its reversed tail
would instinctively
understand that there
was danger ahead,
and would withdraw
its hand before the
venomous creature
had time to pounce
upon it.

Owing to these
unamiable personal
traits of the scorpion
race, it is not popular among other animals.
But to be feared is to be respected; and
scorpions for the most part are left
severely alone, under the stones where they
love to lurk, by the various denizens of
the districts they inhabit. Now, it is a fact
in nature as in human life that to be successful
is to have many imitators. Thus a number
of harmless flies dress up like wasps in black
and yellow bands, and so escape the too
pressing attentions of insect-eating birds and
other enemies. They have no stings, to be
sure, but they look so like the wasps, and
flaunt about so fearlessly in their borrowed
uniform, that they are universally taken for
the insects they mimic; even the cautious
entomologist himself stares at them twice
and makes quite sure of his specimen before
he ventures to lay
hands on any such
doubtful masquerader.
I hope in a
future article to
give some further
account (with illustrations)
of these
facts of mimicry, as
it is called: for the
present we will
stick close to our
text, the Devil’s
Coach-horse. For
this familiar English beetle is an imitator of
the scorpion, and obtains immunity from the
attack of enemies to a great extent by pretending
to powers which are not his in reality.

In No. 2 we have a portrait of the Coach-horse
in his hours
of ease, seen from
above, engaged in
doing nothing in particular.
He does not
look like a flying
insect, but he is. He
has a long pair of
wings tucked away in
folds under his horny
wing-cases, and he
can use them with
great effect, for he is
one of our swiftest
and strongest fliers—the
long-distance
champion, I almost
fancy, among the
beetles of England,
unless indeed the
tiger-beetle be pitted
against him. But
when crawling on the ground, and attacked
or menaced, he does not take to flight
or show the white feather: being a pugnacious
and spirited little beast, he bridles
up at once, and endeavours incontinently
to terrify his assailant. In No. 2 you
see him from above when he is merely
engaged in crawling along the ground, looking
as mild as milk, and as gentle as any sucking
dove: you would hardly suppose he could
show fight or raise his hand—I mean his
antennæ—to injure anyone. But in No. 3
he is represented in his favourite act of
attacking a caterpillar: for he is really a
very voracious and courageous carnivore.
In the autumn, when Devil’s Coach-horses
are usually most abundant, you can easily
catch them by putting a piece of meat or a
dead frog under an
empty flower-pot,
and then tilting the
edge up with a
stone, so that the
beetles can crawl
in and get at the
food thus temptingly
laid out for
them.

If you disturb
the Coach-horse,
however, while he
is engaged in eating[Pg 151]
his quiet meal, or even when he is walking
at leisure along a country road, he
puts himself at once into his “terrifying”
attitude, and imitates the scorpion. No. 4
exhibits him in this military character,
cocking up his tail and pretending he
can sting—which is only his brag: he
just does it to frighten you. But the
attitude is so exactly like that of the scorpion,
that it almost always produces an
immediate effect: hardly anybody likes to
molest a Devil’s Coach-horse. If you put
down your hand to touch him, and he rears
in response, ten to one you will withdraw it
in alarm at sight of him. In England these
beetles often enough find their way into
larders or cellars, seeking whom or what they
may devour; and when the servants light
upon them, they
almost invariably
decline to touch
them: there is a
general opinion
about that the ugly
and threatening
black beasts are uncanny
and poisonous,
or else why
should they turn up
their tails at you in
such an insulting
fashion?

“But,” you may
object, “there are
no scorpions in England:
how then can
the Devil’s Coach-horse
be benefited
by imitating an
animal which he has
never seen, and of whose very existence he
has not been able to read in pretty picture
books?” Your objection has some force—though
not so much as you imagine. It is
quite true that there are no scorpions in
England; but then, there are Devil’s Coach-horses
in many other countries, and the habit
of tail-cocking need not necessarily have been
acquired in these islands of Britain. That is
not all, however: it suffices the beetle if the
tactics it adopts happen to frighten and repel
its enemies, no matter why. Now, in the
first place, many of our migratory birds go in
winter to Southern Europe and Africa—especially
the insect-eaters, which can find
no food in frozen weather. The hard-billed
seed-eaters and fruit-eaters remain with us,
but the soft-billed kinds retire to warmer
climates, where food is plentiful. Of course,
however, it is just these insect-eating birds
that the Devil’s Coach-horse has most to fear
from. The birds must be quite familiar with
the habits and manners of scorpions in their
southern homes; and they are not likely to
inquire closely whether the dangerous beast
they know on the Mediterranean has, or has
not been scheduled in Britain. We all of
us dislike and distrust any insect that
resembles a bee or wasp, and that buzzes or
hums in a hostile manner: we give all such
creatures a wide berth, wherever found, on
the bare off-chance that they may turn out
to be venomous—be hornets or so
forth. Just in the same way, a bird,
when it sees an unknown black beastie
cock up its tail and assume a threatening
attitude, is not likely to inquire too curiously
whether or not it
is really a scorpion:
the bare suspicion
of a sting is quite
enough to warn it
off from interfering
with any doubtful
customer. Moreover,
in the second
place, even those
birds or men who
have never seen a
scorpion at all are
yet sure to be
alarmed when an
insect sticks up its
forked tail menacingly,
and shows
fight, instead of
skulking or flying
away. As a general
rule, if any animal
makes signs of resistance, we take it for
granted he has adequate arms or weapons
to resist with: and so this mere dumb-show
of being a sort of scorpion proves quite
sufficient to protect the Devil’s Coach-horse
from the majority of his enemies.

I ought to add that while our beetle thus
frightens larger enemies, he is actively and
offensively objectionable to small ones. The
main use of his tail, indeed, is for folding
away his wings, much as the earwig folds
hers by aid of her pincers. But the Devil’s
Coach-horse makes it serve a double purpose.
For he has a couple of yellow scent-glands in
his tail, which secrete an unpleasant and
acrid aromatic substance. These scent-glands
are protruded in No. 4: you can just
see them at the tip of the tail; and if the
annoyance to which the beetle is subjected[Pg 152]
seems to call for their intervention, a drop
of the volatile body they distil is set free,
and is at once discharged in the face of the
enemy. Such a manœuvre is in essence like
that of the skunk: it is defence by means of
a nasty odour, and it occurs not only in the
Coach-horse’s case, but also among a number
of beetles and other insects.

The odd little creatures known as Bombardier
Beetles are still quainter in their
habits: they carry the last-mentioned mode
of defence to an even greater pitch of perfection.
For, like miniature artillery-men,
they actually fire off a regular volley of
explosive gas in the faces of their pursuers.
The gas is secreted as a liquid; but it is very
volatile, and it vaporizes at once on contact
with the air, so as to form a small, white
cloud of pungent smoke, resembling in its
effects nitric acid. Our native English
species of Bombardier roams about in large
flocks or regiments: and when one member
of a clan is disturbed, all the other beetles
of the company let off their artillery at once,
so that the scattered volley has something
the appearance of platoon firing. The
chief enemy of the Bombardiers is a
much larger and very handsome carnivorous
beetle known as Calosoma. When this
insect tiger hunts down a single Bombardier,
and has almost caught him, the fugitive waits
till his pursuer is quite close, and then salutes
him with a discharge of fire-arms: the
pungent gas gets into the Calosoma’s eyes
and mouth and distracts him for a moment;
and the Bombardier escapes in the midst of
the confusion thus caused, under cover of
the cloud he himself has exploded. That is
the most highly evolved mode of defence of
which I know among the British insects.

There are few creatures, again, which one
would so little suspect of any attempt to
bully and bluff others as the soft-bodied
caterpillars. They are as a rule so plump
and squashy and defenceless: a mere peck
from a bird’s beak is enough to kill them, for
when once their tight, thin skin is broken,
were it but with a pin-prick, all the flabby
contents burst out at once in the messiest
fashion. Yet even caterpillars, strange to say,
have their tricks of terrifying. They pretend
to be dangerous characters. I will set
out with some of the simplest and least
developed cases, and then pass on to a more
complex and wily class of deceivers.

To begin with, I must premise that two
sets of caterpillars have two different ways of
evading the unpleasant notice of birds and
other insect-eaters. One way is that adopted
by the common “woolly-bear,” a great hairy
caterpillar, frequent in gardens, and covered
from head to tail with long needles or bristles.
These prickly points make the creature into
a sort of insect hedgehog; birds refuse to
touch him, because the serried spikes, which
to us are mere hairs, seem to them perfect
spines or thorns, sticking into their tongues
and throats, or clogging their gizzards.
Protected caterpillars like the woolly-bears
live quite openly, exposed on the leaves and
branches of their food-plant; they are not
afraid of being seen: nay, they rather court
observation than shun it, because they know
nobody will attack them. The porcupine
has no need to run away like the rabbit.
Similar tactics are also adopted by many
nasty-tasting caterpillars, in whose bodies
natural selection has developed bitter or
unpleasant juices. These caterpillars are
rejected by birds and lizards—the great
enemies of the race—and therefore they find
it worth while to clothe themselves in gaudy
and conspicuous red or yellow bands, so as to
advertise all comers of their inedible qualities.
Whenever you see such brilliantly-attired
grubs (like those of the Magpie Moth, so
common on gooseberry-bushes—a striking
creature tricked out in belts of black and
orange), you may be sure of two things:
first, they live openly and undisguisedly on
the leaves of their food-plant, without any
attempt at mean concealment; and second,
they are nasty to the taste, and therefore
rejected as food by insect-eating animals.
Now and then a young and inexperienced
bird may eat one, to be sure; but it never
tries twice, and the solitary martyr is sacrificed
for the good of the race. Their bright
colours and gaudy bands are just advertisements,
as it were, of their inedible qualities.
For, of course, nasty taste would do a caterpillar
no good if the bird had always to
sample it before rejecting it; the broken skin
alone would be enough to kill it. Hence
almost all uneatable caterpillars have acquired
bright colours by natural selection—that is
to say, by the less bright being continuously
devoured or killed; and birds on their side
have learned to know (after one trial, or,
perhaps, even before it by inherited instinct)
that red or yellow bands and belts in caterpillars
are the outward and visible sign of
uneatableness.

The second group or set of caterpillars is
edible and tasty: it, therefore, governs itself
accordingly, and has recourse to the exactly
opposite tactics. Caterpillars of this class
are smooth and naked: they never have the[Pg 153]
brilliant “warning colours” of the nasty-tasted
kinds: and they show a marked
absence of the beautiful metallic sheen, the
strange melting iridescent hues and spots
which add beauty to the charms of so many
among the uneatable species. Such fat and
smooth-skinned edible caterpillars are, of
course, very tempting juicy morsels to birds
and other insect-eating animals. Their
motions, like those of all grubs, are slow;
and if they lived exposed on their food-plants,
after the fashion of the protected
hairy and bitter kinds, they would all he
eaten up before they had time to turn into
moths or butterflies. Here, therefore,
natural selection has produced the contrary
result from that which it produces
among protected kinds. Caterpillars of this
edible type which showed themselves too
openly and imprudently have got picked off
by birds, like sentries and pickets who make
themselves too conspicuous to the enemy’s
sharpshooters. Only the
most prudent, modest,
and retiring grubs have
survived to become moths
or butterflies, and so be
the parents of future
generations, to whom
they hand on their own
peculiarities. In this way
the edible caterpillars
have acquired at last a
fixed hereditary instinct
of lurking under leaves,
or in dark spots, and
never showing themselves
openly. The larvæ of
the butterfly group as a
whole thus fall into two
great classes (as far as
regards habits alone, I
mean): the protected,
which are either hairy or
nasty, and which flaunt
themselves openly; and
the unprotected, which
lurk and skulk, endeavouring
to escape notice as
sedulously as their rivals
the protected endeavour
to attract it.

Nor is that all. It
would clearly be useless
for a bright red or yellow caterpillar to hide
under a green leaf, and then suppose by that
simple device he was going to escape observation.
Birds are always looking out for
insects under leaves. The consequence is
that skulking or lurking caterpillars are soon
found out by sharp-eyed and hungry enemies,
unless they closely resemble the foliage or
stems upon which they lie. From generation
to generation, accordingly, the less imitative
insects get eaten, and the more imitative
spared: so that nowadays, most unarmed
caterpillars are green like the leaves or grey
like the stems, and are even provided with
markings of light and shade upon their skins
which mimic the distribution of light and shade
among the ribs and veins of the surrounding
foliage. Such deceptive leaf-like caterpillars
are always very difficult to find: so that careless
observers as a rule know only those of
the other type, the great hairy “woolly-bears”
and the brilliant red and yellow-banded bitter
kinds; they never observe the unobtrusive
green and brown sorts, which harmonize so
admirably with their native tree in colour
and markings.

Many greenish caterpillars, however, when
discovered and disturbed,
fall back on their second
line of defence: they
endeavour to frighten
their enemies by devices
closely similar to those
of the Devil’s Coach-horse.
The caterpillar of
the Broad-bordered Bee-hawk,
for example, forms
a good instance of a very
simple stage in the
development of such
brazen-faced “terrifying”
tactics. This warlike grub
is shown in No. 5, trying
on its simple little attempt
to make itself alarming.
Though by no means an
uncanny-looking or appalling
insect, it will rear
itself up on its haunches
(so to speak) when
attacked, raising the fore
part of its body erect
with a sudden jerk, and
holding its head high, as
if it meant to bite or
sting, so as to give itself
as formidable an aspect
as possible. The mild
ruse succeeds, too; for
birds will eye the harmless creature askance
when it attempts this evolution, putting their
heads on one side, and ruffling their crests in
evident terror. The attitude is all a simple
piece of bluff, to be sure, but it pays; indeed,[Pg 154]
bluff in warfare is often more than half the
battle. If you put on a bold face in a row,
and seem able to take care of yourself,
people are apt to think you have a knife up
your sleeve, and therefore to refrain from
unnecessarily annoying you.

The cunning caterpillar which finally
develops into the Privet Hawk-moth has a
slightly more evolved mode of purely theatrical
frightening. You see him in No. 6, a
full-fed specimen, just ready to turn at once
into a chrysalis. This grub feeds usually on
the vivid leaves of the
privet; he is therefore
protectively coloured a
bright green, like that
of the foliage about him.
“But why those great
purple stripes on his
sides?” you will ask.
“Surely they must make
him an easy mark for
birds?” Not at all:
please notice that they
run obliquely. There
is method in that obliquity.
When the caterpillar
is smaller, he lurks
unseen on the under-side
of the leaves, and
this pattern of oblique
purplish lines exactly
imitates the general
effect of the shadows
cast by the ribs—so
much so, that if you
look for him on a
privet-tree in spring, I
doubt whether you will
find him till I point
him out to you. Even
when he waxes fat and
full fed, the purple
stripes still aid him more
or less by breaking up
the large green surface
into smaller areas, as Professor Poulton has
well noticed. He harmonizes better so with
the broken masses of the leaves about him.
Then again, when the time arrives for him to
turn into a chrysalis, he descends to the
ground, which, under a thickly-leaved privet
bush, is most often brown. So, just as he is
coming of age and reaching the proper
moment for migration, his back all at once
begins to turn brown, in order that he may
be less observed as he walks about on the
stem; while by the time he is quite ready to
take to the earth he has grown brown all
over, thus matching the soil in which he has
next to bury himself. You could hardly have
a better example of the sort of colour-change
which often accompanies altered habits of
living.

In the illustration, however, you see this
really harmless and undefended grub in the
act of trying to pretend he is poisonous. He
is now mature, and the stripes on his sides
stand out conspicuously as he walks on the
stem. A sparrow threatens him. He retorts
by showing fight—fallaciously and
deceptively, for he has
nothing to fight with.
He lifts his head with
an aggressive air, and
throws himself about
from side to side, as if
he knew he could bite,
and meant to do it. He
also lashes his tail in
pretended anger—”I
would have you to
know, Sir Bird, I am
not to be trifled with!”
The empty demonstration
usually succeeds:
the sparrow gets alarmed
and believes he means
it. This policy is, in
essence, that commonly
known as “spirited”: it
consists in trying to
frighten your enemy instead
of fighting him.

The oddly-marked
caterpillar of the Puss
Moth carries the same
plan of campaign to a
much more artistic pitch.
This very quaint insect
is common on willows
and poplars in England,
and is on the whole protectively
coloured. Black
at first, it looks like a
mere speck or spot on the leaf; as it grows, it
becomes gradually greener, relieved with broad
purple patches on the back, which produce the
effect of lines and shadows. When quite full-grown,
as seen in No. 7, the adult caterpillar
generally rests at ease on the twigs of the
willow-tree. Our illustration shows it in this
final stage of its larval life, just taking alarm
and humping its back at the approach of
some bird or other enemy. If the alarm
continues, it goes through a most curious
series of evolutions, admirably shown by
Mr. Enock in No. 8. Here, the little[Pg 155]
beast is altogether on the defensive: it
withdraws its head into the first ring
of the body, and inflates the margin,
which is bright red in colour. Two black
spots, which are not really eyes, but which
look absurdly eye-like, now give it a
grotesque and terrifying appearance. In
fact, the inflated ring resembles a hideous
grinning mask, and gives the impression of a
face with eyes, nose,
and mouth, like that of
some uncanny creeping
creature. But the
apparent face is not a
face at all: it is artfully
made up of lines
and spots on the skin
of the body. At the
same time that the
caterpillar thus assumes
its mask, it stands on
its eight hind legs as
erect as it can, and
whips out two pink
bristles or tentacles
from the forked prongs
at the end of its tail—you
can see them in
the picture. It then bends forward the tail,
and brandishes or waves about these pink
bristles over its false head, so as to present
altogether a most gruesome aspect. Indeed,
even Mr. Enock’s vigorous sketch of the
little brute in its tragic moments does
not quite convey the full effect of its
acting in the absence of colour: for the
bright red margin and the swishing pink
switches add not a little to the telling smirk
and black goggle-eyes of the mask-like face
thus produced in terrorem.

That is not all, either. The Puss Moth
caterpillar has a rapid trick of facing about
abruptly in the direction of the enemy as if
it meant to bite: and this trick is always
most disconcerting. If ever so lightly
touched, it instantly assumes the terrifying
attitude, and presents its pretended face to
the astonished aggressor. From a harmless
caterpillar it becomes all at once a raging
bulldog. Touch it on the other side,
and it faces round like lightning in
the opposite direction. Professor Poulton
tried the effect of its grimace on a
marmoset, and found the marmoset was
afraid to touch the mysterious creature. We
are not marmosets, but I notice that most
human beings recoil instinctively from a Puss
Moth caterpillar when it assumes its mask.
Even if you know it is harmless, there is
something very alarming in its rapid twists
and turns, and in the persistent way in which
it grins and spits at you.

Really spits, too; for the insect has a gland
in its head which ejects, at need, an irritating
fluid. If this fluid gets into your eyes, they
smart most unpleasantly. It contains formic
acid, and is strong enough to be exceedingly
stinging and painful. The discharge repels
lizards, and probably also birds, who are
among the chief enemies of this as of other
caterpillars.

The deadliest foe of the Puss Moth larva,
however, is the ichneumon-fly, a parasitic[Pg 156]
creature, which lays its eggs in living caterpillars,
and lets its grubs hatch out inside
them, so as to devour the host from within
in the most ruthless fashion. There are
many kinds of ichneumon-fly, some of them
very minute: the one which attacks the
Puss Moth in its larval stage is a comparatively
big one. The fly lays its eggs behind
the caterpillar’s head, where the victim is
powerless to dislodge them. In all probability
the defensive attitude and the shower
of formic acid are chiefly of use against
these parasitic foes: for when an ichneumon-fly
appears, the caterpillar assumes his
“terrifying” attitude the moment it touches
him, and faces full
round to the foe
with his false mask
inflated. A very
small quantity of
the formic acid
Professor Poulton
found sufficient to
kill an ichneumon:
and there can be
little doubt that
this is its main
object.

The last of these
“bluffing” caterpillars
with which I
shall deal here is
that of the Lobster
Moth. In No. 9
you see a couple
of these quaint and
unwieldy creatures
“demonstrating”
before an enemy,
as if he were the
Sultan. The Lobster
Moth in its larval
stage frequents
beech-trees, and
you will see in the illustration that the two
represented are on a twig of beech. When
at rest, the caterpillar resembles a curled and
withered beech-leaf, and by this unconscious
mimicry escapes detection. But when discovered
and roused to battle, oh, then he
imitates the action of the spider. He holds
up his short front legs in a menacing attitude,
so as to suggest a pair of frightful gaping
jaws: the four long legs behind these he
keeps wide apart and makes them quiver
with rage in the most alarming pantomimic
indignation. His tail he turns topsy-turvy
over his head like a scorpion; while
the forked appendages at its end seem
like frightful stings, with which he is just
about to inflict condign punishment on whoever
has dared to disturb his quiet. But it is
all mere brag, though the whole effect is
extremely terrifying. The performance does
not, indeed, mimic any particular venomous
beast, but it suggests most appalling and
paralyzing possibilities. Many of these queer
attitudes, indeed, owe their impressiveness
just to their grotesque simulation of one
knows not quite what: they are not definite
and special, they are worse than that; they
appeal to the imagination. And if only you
reflect how afraid we often feel of the
most harmless insects, merely because they
look frightful, you
will readily understand
that such
vague appeals to
the imagination
may be far more
effectual than any
real sting could
ever be. We dread
the unknown even
more than the
painful.

The funniest of
all these false
pretences, however,
is one which Hermann
Müller, I
believe, was the first
to point out in this
same Lobster Moth
caterpillar. When
very much bothered
by ichneumon-flies
(to whose attacks
it is particularly
exposed), this bristling
beast displays,
for the first time,
two black patches
on its side, till then concealed by a triangular
flap. Now, these patches closely resemble
the sort of wound made by the
ichneumon when it deposits its eggs, so
it is probable that they serve to take
in the assailant, who is thus led to think
that another fly of her own kind has been
before her, and, therefore, that it is no
use laying her eggs where a previous parasite
is already in possession. There would not
be enough Lobster Moth to feed two hungry
ichneumon families. In fact, the caterpillar
first begins by bluffing, and says, “If you
touch me, I bite!” then, finding the bluff
unsuccessful, it further pretends to throw up[Pg 157]
the sponge, and cries out with a bounce:
“Oh, if egg-laying is your game, that’s no
good: I’m already occupied!” For a combination
of wiles, this crafty double game
probably “licks creation.”

If the defenders are so cunning, however,
the attackers can sometimes turn the tables
upon them. Animals that hunt often disguise
themselves, in order to avoid the
notice of the prey, and so steal unobserved
upon their victims. Such tactics are like
those of the Kaffirs, who cut bits of bush, and
then creep up slowly, slowly behind them,
under cover of the branches, upon the gnus
or antelopes which they wish to slaughter. In
No. 10 we have one example of this method
of hunting or stalking, as pursued by the
intelligent English grass-spider. All spiders,
of course, have eight legs, four on each side;
but in most of the class, the various pairs of
legs are evenly distributed, so as to lie about
the body in a rough circle or something like
it. The grass-spider, however, has his own
views on this important matter. His form
and attitude are quite peculiar. He lies
in wait for his prey on the open, crouched
against a stem of grass, with his two front
pairs of legs extended
before him, and his
back pair behind, in
an arrangement which
is rather linear than
circular. This position
makes him almost invisible—much
more
invisible in real life,
indeed, than you see
him in the drawing;
for if he were represented
as inconspicuous
as he looks you would
say there was no spider
there at all, only a
naked grass-stem. The
delusion is heightened
by his lines and colours:
he is mostly green or
greenish, with narrow
black or brown stripes
which run more or less
up and down his body,
instead of cross-wise as
usual, so that they harmonize
beautifully with
the up-and-down lines
of the blades and stem
in the tuft which he
inhabits. When he is
pressed close against a
bent of grass, on the look-out for flies, it is
almost impossible for the quickest eye to distinguish
him. Flies come near, never suspecting
the presence of their hereditary foe; as
soon as they are close to him, the grass-spider
rushes out with a dash and secures
them. His jaws are among the most
terrible in all his terrible race: they are
large and wide-spreading, with two rows of
teeth on either side, and a pair of long fangs
of truly formidable proportions.

In other ways, also, this particular spider
is a clever fellow, for he lives near water;
but when the rains are heavy and there is
likely to be a flood, he shifts his quarters
higher up the ground, and so escapes impending
inundation.

Deceptions and false pretences of this sort
are somewhat less common among plants
than among animals; but still, they occur,
and that not infrequently. “What? Plants
deceive?” you cry. “The innocent little
flowers? How can they do it? Surely that
is impossible!” By no means. I have
watched plant life pretty closely for a good
many years now, and every year the conviction
is forced upon me more and
more profoundly that
whatever animals do,
plants do almost
equally. There is no
vile trick or ruse or
stratagem that they cannot
imitate: no base
deception that they will
not practise. They lie
and steal with the worst;
they hold out false baits
for deluded insects, and
hide real fly-traps with
honeyed words and
sweet secretions.

As a good illustration
among English
plants, look at the Grass
of Parnassus, that
beautiful, dishonest
bog-herb, with glossy-green
leaves and pure
white blossoms, which
is considered the
especial guerdon of
poets. I found a whole
nest of it once in a
swamp near Cromer,
and carried off a bunch
of the lovely flowers as
an appropriate offering
to Mr. Swinburne who[Pg 158]
was stopping
at Sidestrand.
Yet this poet’s
flower, dainty
and delicate as
it is—you see
in No. 11 its
counterfeit presentment—is
not ashamed
to deceive the
poor bees and
flies in a way
which the
Heathen Chinee
would have
considered unsportsmanlike.
It is a sham, a
commercial
sham of the
worst type. It
lives for the
most part on
wet moors
among mountains,
or else in
the boggy hollows
between
blown sand-hills
by the sea:
and when its
milk-white
flowers star the
ground in such
spots, it forms
one of the loveliest ornaments of our
English flora. But trust it not, oh butterfly:
it is fooling thee! From a distance,
it looks as if it were full of honey; it
advertises well: but at close quarters ’tis
a wooden nutmeg; it turns out to be
nothing better than an arrant humbug.

The deception is managed
in this disgraceful
fashion. Inside each petal
lies a curious ten or twelve-fingered
organ, which is in
reality an abortive stamen.
No. 12 shows you one such
petal removed, with the
false honey-glands drawn
on a larger scale than in
the other illustration. The
ten-fingered stamen bears
at its tip a number of
translucent yellow drops,
which look like pure nectar.
But they are nothing of
the kind; I
regret to say,
they are solid—solid—a
commercial
falsehood.
They glisten
like drops: but
they are mere
glassy imitations;
and they
are put there
with intent to
deceive, in
order to attract
flies and other
insects, which
come to quaff
the supposed
nectar, and so
unwittingly fertilize
the seeds,
while they are
muddling
about perplexed
among
the pretended
honey-glands,
without getting
paid one sip for
their toil and
trouble. This
is, of course, a
flagrant case of
obtaining services
under
false pretences; it deserves fourteen days’
without the option of a fine. As a rule,
in similar cases, the flies are rewarded
for their kind offices as carriers by the
merited wage of a drop of honey. But the
Grass of Parnassus, mendacious herb, pretends
to be purveying a specially fine quantity
and quality of nectar, while
in reality it offers only a
hard, glassy knob with
nothing in it. This pays
the plant, of course, because
the blossoms do not have
to go on producing honey
fresh and fresh; a mere
inexpensive show does just
as well as the real article:
“Our customers like it!”
but the language of the
flies when they discover
the fraud is something just
awful.

Nor is this by any means[Pg 159]
a solitary example of plant depravity. The
whole group of pitcher-plants, for instance,
cruelly manure themselves by means of
living insects in the most treacherous fashion.
These lovely and wicked plants live, without
exception, in wet and boggy soil, where they
cannot get enough animal matter for manure
in the ordinary way by the roots: so they
lay themselves out instead to capture and
absorb the tissues of insects. For this
horrid purpose, they twist their leaves into
deep pitchers which catch and hold the rain
water, and so form reservoirs to drown their
prey. Then they entice insects by bright
colours to their traps, and allure them to
enter by secreting honey at the top of the
pitcher. Hairs point downward inside; these
allow the flies to walk on to their fate,
bribed as they go by lines of nectar: but if
they try to return, ah, then they find their
mistake: the hairs prevent them, after the
fashion of a lobster-pot. Thus they walk on
and on till they reach the water, when they
are swamped and clotted in a decaying mass,
from which the treacherous plant draws
manure at last for its own purposes. The
pitchers are thus at once traps to catch
animals, and stomachs to digest them.

Another and still odder case of deceptiveness
in plants is shown by a curious
group of South African flowers, the
Hydaoras and Stapelias. These queer
and malodorous herbs have very large and
rather handsome but fleshy blossoms, an
inch or two across, dappled and spotted
just like decaying meat. They live in the
dry and almost desert region, where carrion-flies
abound. Such flies lay their eggs and
hatch out their grubs for the most part in
half-eaten carcasses of antelopes or smaller
animals killed and in part devoured by lions
and other beasts of prey. So the flowers
have taken to imitating dead meat. They
are a lurid red in colour, with livid livery
patches, and they have a strong and unpleasant
smell of decaying animal matter.
The flies, deceived by the scent, flock to
them to lay their eggs, and in so doing carry
out the real object of the plant by fertilizing
the blossoms. But, of course, the whole
thing is a vile sham; for when the maggots
hatch out, the flower has died, and
there is no food for them, so they perish
of starvation. Dr. Blackmore, of Salisbury,
once gave me some of these curious plants
and flowers: I noticed that in the sunlight,
where they smelt just like decomposing meat,
they attracted dozens of bluebottle flies and
other carrion insects.

Protective resemblance also occurs among
plants: for in the same dry South African
region, where every green thing gets nibbled
down in the rainless season, certain ice-plants
and milk-weeds have acquired the
trick of forming tubers or stems exactly like
the pebbles among which they grow: so that
when the leaves die down in the dry
weather, the tuber is not distinguishable
from the stones all round it. Such
tubers are really reservoirs of living
material destined to carry the life of the
plant over the dead season: as soon as
rain comes again, they put forth fresh green
leaves at once, and grow on after their sleep
as if nothing had happened. Even terrifying
attitudes are not unknown in the
vegetable world: for one of the uses of the
movements in the Sensitive Plant is almost
certainly to frighten animals. Browsing
creatures that come near the bushes in their
native woods see the leaves shrink back and
curl up when touched, and are afraid to eat
a tree that has so evidently a spirit in it.
The Squirting Cucumber of the Mediterranean,
again, alarms goats and cattle by
discharging its ripe fruits explosively in their
faces the moment the stem is touched. In
this case the primary object is no doubt the
dispersal of the seeds, which squirt out
elastically as the fruit jumps off; but to
frighten browsing enemies is a secondary
advantage. There can be no question as to
the reality of the plant’s hostile intention,
because the fruits also contain a pungent
juice, which discharges itself at the same
instant into the eyes of the assailant. As I
have received a volley of this irritating liquid
more than once in my own face (in the
pursuit of science) I can testify personally on
the best of evidence that it is distinctly
painful. The tactics of the Squirting
Cucumber in first frightening you, and
then injecting acrid juice into your eyes,
are thus exactly similar to the plan of
action pursued by the angry larva of the
Puss Moth.

[Pg 160]

From Behind the Speaker’s Chair.
XLVIII.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

THE SEARCH FOR
GUY FAWKES.

he proceedings
at the opening of
the forthcoming
Session, the fifth
in the fourteenth
Parliament of
Queen Victoria,
will be fully reported
in the
morning papers.
There is a proceeding
preliminary
to the
Speaker’s taking
the Chair which,
from its history
and character, is
of necessity conducted
in secret. It is the search through
the underground chambers and passages of
the House with design to frustrate any
schemes in the direction of a dissolution
of Parliament that descendants or disciples
of Guy Fawkes may have in hand. The
present generation has seen, more especially
when a Conservative Government have been
in power, some revolutionary changes in
Parliamentary procedure. The solemn search
underneath the Houses of Parliament, preceding
the opening of the revolving Sessions
ever since Gunpowder Plot, is still observed
with all the pomp and circumstance attached
to it three hundred years ago.

The investigation is conducted under the
personal direction of the Lord Great
Chamberlain, who is answerable with his
head for any miscarriage. When a peer
comes newly to the office he makes a point
of personally accompanying the expedition.
But, though picturesque, and essential to the
working of the British Constitution, it palls in
time, and the Lord Great Chamberlain,
relying upon the discretion, presence of
mind, and resource of his Secretary,
usually leaves it to him. Oddly enough,
the House of Commons is not officially
represented at the performance, the avowed
object of which is not, primarily, to secure
the safety of the Lords and Commons,
but to avert the conclusion aimed at by Guy
Fawkes—namely, to blow up the Sovereign.
It is as the personal representative of the
Queen that the Lord Great Chamberlain
takes the business in hand.

To this day the result of the inquiry is
directly communicated to Her Majesty. Up
to a period dating back less than fifty years,
as soon as the search was over, the Lord Great
Chamberlain dispatched a messenger on
horseback to the Sovereign, informing him
(or her) that all was well, and that Majesty
might safely repair to Westminster to open
the new Session. To-day the telegraph
wires carry the assurance to the Queen
wherever she may chance to be in residence
on the day before the opening of
Parliament.

THE
SEARCH
PARTY.

Whilst the Commons take no
official part in the performance,
the peers are represented either
by Black Rod or by his deputy,
the Yeoman Usher, who is accompanied by
half-a-dozen stalwart doorkeepers and messengers,
handy in case of a fray. The Board
of Works are represented by the Chief Surveyor
of the London District, accompanied
by the Clerk of Works to the Houses of
Parliament. The Chief Engineer of the
House of Commons, who is responsible for
all the underground workings of the building,
leads the party, the Chief Inspector of Police
boldly marching on his left hand.

These are details prosaic enough. The
nineteenth century has engrafted them on
the sixteenth. The picturesqueness of the[Pg 161]
scene comes in with the appearance of the
armed contingent. This is made up of some
fourteen or sixteen of the
Yeomen of the Guard,
who arrive at the place of
rendezvous armed with
halberds and swords. The
halberds look well, but
this search is, above all, a
business undertaking. It
is recognised that for close
combat in the vaults and
narrow passages of the
building halberds would be
a little unwieldy. They
are accordingly stacked in
the Prince’s Chamber, the
Yeomen fearlessly marching
on armed with nothing but
their swords. Clad in their
fifteenth century costume,
they are commanded by
an officer who wears a
scarlet swallow-tailed coat,
cocked hat, and feathers,
gilt spurs shining at his martial heel. The
spurs are not likely to be needed. But the
British officer knows how to prepare for any
emergency.

Following the Yeomen of the Guard stride
half-a-dozen martial men in costumes dating
from the early part of the present century.
They wear swallow-tail coats, truncated cone
caps, with the base of the cone uppermost.
They are armed with
short, serviceable
cutlasses and bâtons,
such as undertakers’
men carry, suggesting
that they have
come to bury Guy
Fawkes, not to catch
him.

Most of the underground
chambers
and passages of the
Houses of Parliament
are lit by electricity.
Failing that,
they are flooded with
gas. When search
for Guy Fawkes was
first ordered, the
uses of gas had not
been discovered,
much less the possibilities
of electricity. Lanterns were the
only thing, so lanterns are still used. As the
dauntless company of men-at-arms tramp
along the subterranean passages, it is pretty to
see the tallow dips in the swinging lanterns
shamed by the wanton light
that beats from the electric
lamps.

PARLIAMENTARY
CAVES.

Her Majesty’s
Ministers meeting
Parliament
at the opening
of their fifth Session remain
happy in the reflection that
their position is not endangered
by any mines dug
within the limits of their
own escarpment. It is
different in the opposite
camp. The first thing good
Liberals do as soon as
their own party comes into
power is to commence a
series of manœuvres designed
to thrust it forth.
Sometimes they are called
“caves,” occasionally “tearoom
cabals.” But, as Mr.
Gladstone learned in the 1868-74 Parliament,
in that of 1880-85, and, with tragic
force, in the Parliament which made an end
of what Mr. Chamberlain called “The Stop-Gap
Government,” they all mean the same
thing. Lord Rosebery when he came to
the Premiership found the habit was not
eradicated.

The condition of men and things in the
House of Commons
when Parliament
met after the General
Election in July,
1895, was rarely
favourable to the formation
of “caves”
on the Ministerial
side. To begin
with, the Government
had such an
overwhelming
majority that the
game of playing at
being independent
was so safe that its
enjoyment was not
forbidden to the
most loyal Unionist.
Given that condition,
there were
existent personal
circumstances that supplied abundant material
for cave-making. The necessity
imposed on Lord Salisbury of finding[Pg 162]
place in his Ministry for gentlemen outside
the Conservative camp made it impossible
not only to satisfy reasonable
aspirations on the part of new men of his
own party, but even to reinstate some ex-Ministers.
Some, like Baron de Worms,
were shelved with a peerage. Others, overlooked,
were left to find places on back
benches above or below the gangway. Of
men who held office in Lord Salisbury’s
former Administration, Mr. Jackson, Sir
James Fergusson, Sir W. Hart-Dyke, and
Sir E. Ashmead-Bartlett were left out in the
cold. Whilst most of the leading members of
the Liberal Unionist wing, including Mr.
Jesse Collings and Mr. Powell Williams,
were provided with office, Mr. Courtney’s
claims were ignored, and Sir John Lubbock’s
were probably never considered.

AN OLD
PARLIAMENTARY
HAND.

Amongst Conservative members
who had not been in office but
were not alone in their belief
that they were well fitted for it
were Mr. Gibson Bowles and
Mr. George Wyndham—the latter since
deservedly provided for. Moreover, to
a corner seat below the gangway returned
Mr. James Lowther, thought good enough
in Disraeli’s time to be Under-Secretary
for the Colonies and Chief Secretary
for Ireland. Since the death of Lord
Beaconsfield kings had arisen in Egypt who
knew not “Jemmy,” or, at least, forgot his
existence at a time when Ministerial offices
were dispensed. The member for East
Thanet, first returned for York in the summer
of 1865, is not only personally popular
in the House, but has high standing as an old
Parliamentary hand. If he had liked to turn
rusty, he might have done the Conservative
Party at least as much harm as Mr. Horsman
when in the same mood wrought to the party
with which, to the last, he ranked himself.
From time to time Mr. Lowther has vindicated
his independence of Ministerial discipline
by dividing the House on the question
of the futility of reading, at the commencement
of recurring Sessions, the standing order[Pg 163]
forbidding peers to interfere with elections.
He has not gone beyond that, and whenever
attempt has been made from the Opposition
side to inflict damage on the best of all
Governments, he has ranged himself on the
side of Ministers.

OVERLOOKED.

Sir W. Hart-Dyke, Sir James
Fergusson, and the late Sir W.
Forwood, instead of openly resenting
neglect, on more than
one occasion went out of their way to
defend the colleagues of the Prime Minister
who slighted them. Mr. Wyndham was
last Session not less generously loyal. Mr.
Tommy Bowles, it is true, has been on
occasion fractious. As for Sir E. Ashmead-Bartlett,
when he recovered from the shock
of realization that Lord Salisbury had not
only formed a Ministry without including
him in its membership, but looked as if he
would be able to carry it on, he showed signs
of resentment. Through successive Sessions
he has sedulously
endeavoured to
embarrass an unappreciative
Premier
by cunningly
devised questions
addressed to the
Colonial Secretary
or to the Under-Secretary
for
Foreign Affairs.
Mr. Chamberlain
and Mr. Curzon
alike proved able
to hold their own,
and the Sheffield
Knight coming out
to kick has found
himself fulfilling the humble function of
the football.

MR.
YERBURGH.

A more serious defection was
threatened last Session as the
result of the distrust and discontent
in Ministerial circles
of Lord Salisbury’s foreign policy. Mr.
Yerburgh, moved by apprehension that the
interests of the British Empire in the Far
East were at stake, instituted a series of
weekly dinners at the Junior Carlton, where
matters were talked over. The dinners
were excellent, the wines choice, and Mr.
Yerburgh has a delicate taste in cigars.
This meeting at dinner instead of at tea, as
was the fashion in the Liberal camp at the
time of Mr. Gladstone’s trouble over the
Irish University Bill in 1873, seemed to indicate
manlier purpose. But nothing came of
it, except a distinct advancement of Mr.
Yerburgh’s position in the House of Commons.
He, as spokesman of the malcontents,
found opportunity to display a complete
mastery of an intricate geographical and
political position, combined with capacity for
forcibly and clearly stating his case.

Thus Lord Salisbury remained master of
himself though China fell. Had Mr. Gladstone
been in his position, under precisely
similar circumstances, it would have been
Her Majesty’s Ministry that would have
fallen to pieces.

JOINED
THE
MAJORITY.

As usual the recess has seen the
final going over to the majority
of old members of the House of
Commons. Two who have died
since the prorogation were distinct types of
utterly divergent classes. There was nothing
in common between the Earl of Winchilsea
and Mr. T. B. Potter, except that they both
sat in the 1880 Parliament, saw the rise of
the Fourth Party,
and the crumbling
away of Mr. Gladstone’s
magnificent
majority. Mr.
Potter was by far
the older member,
having taken his
seat for Rochdale
on the death of
Mr. Cobden in
1865. Except
physically, he did
not fill a large
place in the House,
but was much esteemed
on both
sides for his honest
purpose and his genial good temper.

This last was imperturbable. It was not
to be disturbed even by a double misfortune
that accompanied one of the Cobden Club’s
annual dining expeditions to Greenwich. On
the voyage out, passing Temple Pier, one of
the guests fell overboard. At the start on
the return journey, another guest, a distinguished
Frenchman, stepping aboard as he
thought, fell into the gurgling river, and was
fished out with a boat-hook. Yet Mr. Potter,
President of the Club, largely responsible for
the success of the outing, did not on either
occasion intermit his beaming smile.

A BUFFER
STATE.

He was always ready to be of
service in whatsoever unobtrusive
manner. The House cherishes
tender memories of a scene in
1890. The fight in Committee Room[Pg 164]
No. 15 had recently closed. Its memories
still seared the breasts of the Irish
members. Members were never certain that
at any moment active hostilities might not
commence even under the eye of the
Speaker. One night a motion by Mr. John
Morley raising the Irish question brought
a large muster of the contending forces.
Mr. Parnell, who had temporarily withdrawn
from the scene, put in
an appearance with the
rest. He happened to
seat himself on the same
bench as Mr. Justin
McCarthy, whom the
majority of the Irish
members had elected to
succeed him in the leadership.
Only a narrow
space divided the twain.
The most apprehensive
did not anticipate militant
action on the part of Mr.
McCarthy. But, looking
at Mr. Parnell’s pale, stern
face, knowing from report
of proceedings in Committee
Room No. 15 what
passion smouldered
beneath that mild exterior,
timid members thought of
what might happen, supposing
the two rose together
diversely claiming the ear of the House as
Leader of the Irish Party.

At this moment Mr. T. B. Potter entered
and moved slowly up the House like a
Thames barge slipping down the river with
the tide. He made his way to the bench
where the severed Irish Leaders sat,
and planted himself out between them,
they perforce moving to right and left to
make room. Seeing him there, his white
waistcoat shimmering in the evening light
like the mainsail of an East Indiaman, the
House felt that all was well. Mr. Parnell
was a long-armed man;
but, under whatsoever
stress of passion, he could
not get at Mr. McCarthy
across the broad space of
the member for Rochdale.

A
PROMISING
START.

Lord Winchilsea
sat in this
same Parliament
as Mr.
Finch-Hatton. He early
made his mark by a maiden
speech delivered on one
of the interminable debates
on Egypt. He was content
to leave it there,
never, as far as I remember,
again taking part
in set debate. His appearance
was striking. Many
years after, when he had
succeeded to the earldom,
I happened to be present
when he rose from the
luncheon-table at Haverholme Priory to
acknowledge the toast of his health. By
accident or design he stood under a contemporary
portrait of his great ancestor,[Pg 165]
Christopher Hatton, Queen Elizabeth’s
Lord Chancellor. The likeness between
the founder of the family and a scion
separated by the space of more than three
hundred years was almost startling.

Lord Winchilsea aged rapidly. When he
made his maiden speech in the House of
Commons he had not advanced beyond
the stage of the young dandy. His face
was a shade of ivory, the pallor made more
striking by the coal-black hair. His attitude,
like his dress and everything about him, was
carefully studied. His left hand, rigidly
extended, lightly rested behind his back.
His right hand, when not in action, hid his
finger-tips in the breast of a closely-buttoned
frock-coat. Occasionally, he withdrew his
hand and made stiff gestures in the air as if
he were writing hieroglyphs. Occasionally,
he emphasized a point by slightly bowing to
the amused audience.

The matter of his speech was excellent, its
form, occasionally, as extravagant as his getup.
The House roared with laughter when
Mr. Finch-Hatton, pointing stiff finger-tips
at Mr. Gladstone smiling on the Treasury
Bench, invited members to visit the Premier
on his uneasy couch and watch him moaning
and tossing as the long procession of his
pallid victims passed before him. This
reminiscence of a scene from “Richard III.”
was a great success, though not quite in the
manner Mr. Hatton, working it out in his
study, had forecast.

A man of great natural capacity, wide
culture, and, as was shown in his later connection
with agriculture, of indomitable
industry, he would, having lived down his
extravagancies, have made a career in the
Commons. Called thence by early doom he
went to the Lords, and was promptly and
finally extinguished.

MUSTERED
AT J. J.
COLMAN’S.

Another old member of the
House who died in the recess is
Mr. Colman. The great mustard
manufacturer, whose name was
carried on tin boxes to the uttermost ends
of the earth, never made his mark in the
House of Commons. I doubt whether he
ever got so far as to work off his maiden
speech. A quiet, kindly, shrewd man of
business, he was content to look on whilst
others fought and talked. He came too late
to the House to be ever thoroughly at one
with it, and took an early opportunity of
retiring.

Mr. Gladstone had a high respect for him,
and occasionally visited his beautiful home
in Norfolk. One of these occasions became
historic by reason of Mr. Gladstone unwittingly
making a little joke. Coming down
to breakfast one morning, and finding the
house-party already gathered in the room,
Mr. Gladstone cheerily remarked, “What,
are we all mustered?”

He never knew why this innocent observation
had such remarkable success with
Mr. J. J. Colman’s guests.

MR. GLADSTONE’S
TABLE-TALK.

A few more recollections of Mr.
Gladstone whilst still in harness.
I remember meeting him at a
well-known house during the
Midlothian campaign of 1885. He came in
to luncheon half an hour late, and was
rallied by the host upon his unpunctuality.
“You know,” he said, “only the other day
you lectured us upon the grace of punctuality
at luncheon-time.”

Mr. Gladstone took up this charge with
energy familiar at the time in the House of
Commons when repelling one of Lord
Randolph Churchill’s random attacks.
Finally, he drew from the host humble
confession that he had been in error, that
so far from recommending punctuality at
luncheon-time he had urged the desirability
of absence of formality at the meal. “Anyone,”
he said, “should drop in at luncheon
when they please and sit where they
please.”

Through the meal he was in the liveliest
humour, talking in his rich, musical voice.
After luncheon we adjourned to the library,
a room full of old furniture and precious
memorials, chiefly belonging to the Stuart
times. On the shelves were a multitude
of rare books. Mr. Gladstone picked up
one, and sitting on a broad window seat,
began reading and discoursing about it.
Setting out for a walk, he was got up in
a most extraordinary style. He wore a
narrow-skirted square-cut tail-coat, made,
I should say, in the same year as the
Reform Bill. Over his shoulders hung an
inadequate cape, of rough hairy cloth, once
in vogue but now little seen. On his head
was a white soft felt hat. The back view
as he trudged off at four-mile-an-hour pace
was irresistible.

Mrs. Gladstone watched over him like a
hen with its first chicken. She was always
pulling up his collar, fastening a button, or
putting him to sit in some particular chair
out of a draught. These little attentions Mr.
Gladstone accepted without remark, with
much the placid air a small and good-tempered
babe wears when it is being tucked in its
cot.

[Pg 166]

AN OLD
LONDON
HOUSE.

In the Session of 1890, Mr.
Gladstone rented a house in
St. James’s Square, a big, roomy,
gloomy mansion, built when
George I. was King. On the pillars of
the porch stand in admirable preservation
two of the wrought iron extinguishers,
in which in those days
the link-boys used to
thrust their torches when
they had brought master
or mistress home, or
convoyed a dinner
guest. Inside hideous
light-absorbing flock
wall-papers prevailed.
One gained an idea,
opportunity rare in
these days, of the murkiness
amid which our
grandfathers dwelt.

Dining there one
night, I found the host
made up for all household
shortcomings. He
talked with unbroken
flow of spirits, always
having more to say on
any subject that turned
up, and saying it
better, than any expert
present. His memory
was as amazing as his
opportunities of acquiring
knowledge had
been unique.

MEMORIES
OF
CHILDHOOD.

As we sat at table he, in his
eighty-first year, recalled, as if
it had happened the day before,
an incident that befell when
he was eighteen months old. Prowling
about the nursery on all-fours, there suddenly
flashed upon him consciousness of
the existence of his nurse, as she towered
above him. He remembered her voice and
the very pattern of the frock she wore.
This was his earliest recollection, his first
clear consciousness of existence. His
memory of Canning when he stood for
Liverpool in 1812 was perfectly clear;
indeed, he was then nearly three years old,
and took an intelligent interest in public
affairs.

Of later date was his recollection of Parliamentary
Elections, and the strange processes
by which in the good old days they were
accomplished. The poll at Liverpool was kept
open sometimes for weeks, and the custom
was for voters to be shut up in pens ten at a
time. At the proper moment they were led
out of these inclosures and conducted to the
polling-booths, where
they recorded their
votes. These musters
were called “tallies,”
and the reckoning up
of them was a matter
watched with breathless
interest in the constituency.

DOCTORING
A TALLY.

It was a
point of
keen competition
which side should first
land a “tally” at the
polling-booth. Mr.
Gladstone told with
great gusto of an accident
that befell one in
the first quarter of the
century. The poll
opened at eight o’clock
in the morning. The
Liberals, determined to
make a favourable start,
marshalled ten voters,
and as early as four in
the morning filled the
pen by the polling-booth.
To all appearances the Conservatives
were beaten in this first move. But
their defeat was only apparent. Shortly after
seven o’clock a barrel of beer, conveniently
tapped, with mugs handy, was rolled up
within hand-reach of the pen, where time
hung heavy on the hands of the expectant
voters. They naturally regarded this as a
delicate attention on the part of their
friends, and did full justice to their hospitable
forethought. After a while, consternation
fell upon them. Man after man hastily
withdrew till the pen was empty, and ten
Conservatives, waiting in reserve, rushed in
and took possession of the place.

“The beer,” said Mr. Gladstone, laughing
till the tears came into his eyes, “had been
heavily jalaped.”

[Pg 167]

DRAWING
A
BADGER

t was a sleepy little town, far
from the busy world, almost
hidden away in the backwoods.
During the long
summer days, small boys—and
sometimes grown-up
folks as well—hardly knew what to do to
pass the time. It was an event of some
importance, therefore, when one afternoon
Grizzly Jim, the trapper, brought to the
only hostelry the settlement could boast
a live badger. He carried it in a big
bag, and shook it out over the half-door
into the empty
stable, that the hotel-keeper
and his
friends might have
a look at the shy
and rarely-seen
animal. At that
hour there were
not many people
about, so when the
other half of the
stable door was
drawn to, and the
captive left alone,
the news of its
arrival was as yet
known only to a few.

Among these few,
however, was the
hotel-keeper’s son
Dick, a youngster
about twelve years
old, who had inspected
the badger
with keenest interest and a critical eye. He
had also listened to every word of the conversation
between Grizzly Jim and his father,
and had gathered that they were going to
pack up the beast in a box and send it off
next day by the railroad to a city, some
hundreds of miles distant, where all manner
of strange creatures were kept in cages in
a Zoo. So the badger would be lodged in
the hotel for one night only, and Dick
reflected that if any fun was to be got out
of “the comical cuss,” as he called it, there
was no time to be lost.

After a quarter of an hour’s solid thinking,
Dick went out into the stable yard and
dragged forth an old dog-kennel, which for a
long time had lain
disused in the wood-shed.
He rubbed
it up a bit, plentifully
littered it with
fresh straw, and then
set it down right in
the middle of the
yard. To the big
chain he attached
an old rusted iron
kettle, which he
pushed back into
the kennel among
the straw as far
as his arms could
reach. These
preparations
completed,
Dick thrust
his hands into
his trouser
pockets, and
set off down
the main
street, whistling
a tune.

[Pg 168]

At a little distance he met his most intimate
chum, Billy Green, the wheelwright’s son.

“Say, Billy,” said Dick, “heard the
noos?”

“What noos?”

“Grizzly Jim’s bin an’ trapped a badger.”

“Wal, that don’t count for much. Ain’t
anythink very ‘xtrord’n’ry in his trappin’ a
badger, is there? Comes reg’lar in his day’s
work, I reckon. Now, if it’d bin an
elephant or a gi-raffe”—the speaker paused
to give full effect to his grin of sarcasm.

“Oh! bother yer elephants and yer
gi-raffes,” interrupted Dick, with impatience;
“I tell ye it’s a real live badger.”

“A live one?” asked Billy, his interest
slightly stimulated.

“Yes, a live one. I see’d it shaken out of
a bag. And it’s up now this very minute at
father’s.”

“Jee-whizz!” cried Billy, all on the hop
now with excitement. “Then I s’pose they’re
goin’ to have a badger fight?”

“A badger fight! Who’re ye gettin’ at?”
retorted Dick, ironically.

“Why, ther’ll be a badger fight with dogs,
of course. Don’t ye know, Dick, that a
badger, when his dander’s fairly riz, can fight
like a whole sackful of wild cats? It’s rare
sport, badger-baitin’, I can tell ye, an’ jest the
real thing to try the stuff young dogs is made
of.”

“Better’n rats?” asked Dick, in turn
growing excited at the vista of unexpected
possibilities opening out before him.

“Rats ain’t in it with badgers,” replied
Billy, disdainfully.

“Then I ‘spect Grizzly Jim’s gone down
town to hunt up some dogs,” suggested Dick.

“Certain sure.”

“Wal, hadn’t you best come to our place
right now, an’ have a good look at the critter
‘fore the crowd begins to roll up?”

“I guess there’s some sense in that. Let’s
skoot along, Dick.”

So the two boys set off at a quick pace
towards the hotel. And as they walked
Dick described the badger’s points.

“He’s got short stumpy legs, Billy, but
terrible claws. Rip a dog open like winkin’.”

“And pooty sharp teeth too, I reckon?”

“I should jest say. Wouldn’t like ‘m try
’em in my leg.”

“See you’ve got ‘m in the old dog-kennel,”
remarked Billy, as they came in sight of the
stable yard.

“It’s a strong chain that, you know,”
replied Dick, evasively. “Bruno, the old
boarhound that died, couldn’t break it.”

“Guess the chain’ll hold the badger all
right. But I can’t see nothink of ‘m in that
there dog-hutch. I’ll want ter have ‘m out,
Dick, in the open.”

“You’d best take care, Billy,” cried Dick,
as his companion laid hold of the chain.
“Remember his claws.”

“Oh! I’m not ‘feard, you bet,” replied
Billy, loftily. “It needs somethin’ more’n a
badger to skeer me. Besides, he can’t
scratch or bite much through my leggin’s.”

“Mind, Billy,” continued Dick, with an
intensely anxious look on his face. “I’ve
warned ye. Don’t ye come a hollerin’ an’ a
blamin’ me, if he takes a bit out of yer
leg.”

“Poof! You keep back if ye’r fright’ned.
Let me alone. I’ll soon yank ‘m inter daylight.”
And Billy made ready to haul at the
chain. “Come out o’ that, ye brute,” he
cried. “Yo! ho! out ye come!” And he
pulled with all his might.

There was a fine old clatter as the iron
kettle came clinkety-clink-clank on to the
cobble stones; and Dick just lay down on
the ground, fairly doubled up with laughing.

“Look out, Billy,” he yelled amidst his
convulsions of glee, “look out. That badger’ll
bite ye through yer leggin’s.”

For a minute Billy was speechless. He
felt so sick and faint-hearted that ordinary
common-place language would have been an
insult to his feelings. “You tarnation fraud!”
he at last managed to gasp, as he glanced
from the battered kettle at his feet towards
his spluttering friend.

But merriment is infectious, and the
supreme ridiculousness of his position
appealed to Billy’s sense of humour. So the
flushed, angry look passed by imperceptible
degrees into a sickly smile, and the smile at
last became transformed into a broad grin.
Then Billy sat down on the kettle, and
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

All of a sudden Dick recovered his gravity.
“Quick, Billy,” he cried, “shove the kettle
back. Here’s the schoolmaster comin’ ‘long
the street.”

With a more rapid flash of understanding
than he had ever shown for a new rule in
arithmetic, Billy grasped the situation, and
pushed the kettle into the kennel out of
sight. The boys stood together, just as
smug and quiet as if they were setting out
for Sunday-school.

“Billy,” said Dick, wishful to put matters
right now that the victim of his joke had
become his confederate for future operations,
“I didn’t tell a lie. There’s a live badger in[Pg 169]
the stable as true as I’m standin’ here. But
I never said ’twas in the kennel.”

Billy, however, was intent only on the
business in hand. The prospect of sport
caused the personal humiliation of a minute
ago to be forgotten. There was no need,
nor time, for explanations.

“Whish! Stow all that,” he whispered,
eagerly. “Let’s meet ‘m at the gate.”

The two conspirators sauntered towards
the entrance to the yard, as the schoolmaster,
an elderly, grave-faced man, drew near to the
stable buildings.

“Good day, sir,” said Billy, as both
youngsters jerked their hands towards their
caps awkwardly, but none the less deferentially.

“Ah! how do you do, boys?” responded
the teacher, coming to a halt and bestowing
a pleasant nod of recognition on his pupils.
“I hope you are enjoying your holidays?”

“Yes, sir, first class,” replied Dick. Then
Billy boldly opened the campaign. “Please,
Mr. Brown, do you know the difference
between a mountain badger and a prairie
badger?”

“I fancy I do, my lad. The one’s darker
than the other.”

“Well, sir, Dick’s father’s had a live badger
brought to him by Grizzly Jim, and we don’t
know which kind it is.” Billy skated very
cleverly on the thin ice of truth.

“Just let me have a sight of the animal,”
said the schoolmaster. At the same moment
he followed the direction of Dick’s look,
and there and then fell unsuspectingly into
the trap prepared for him. “Ah! I see
you’ve got him chained up in the kennel,”
he remarked, as he stepped into the stable
yard.

“Do badgers bite?” asked Dick, evading
the issue with splendidly assumed innocence.

“Oh! they don’t show their teeth much,
unless they’re badgered,” replied Mr. Brown,
with a laugh, thoroughly pleased with himself
at having been able to perpetrate a little
joke. “Let’s have him out, boys. I’ll soon
tell whether he’s a mountain badger or a
prairie badger.”

Dick and Billy hung back, apparently
fearful of approaching too near to the kennel.

“Don’t be afraid, my lads,” continued the
master, in an encouraging way. “He’s all
safe at the end of a chain. See: I’ll pull
him out for you. Ya! hoop! Out you come,
my fine fellow.”

And the schoolmaster lugged at the
chain; and clinkety-clink-clank came the
iron kettle on to the cobble stones.

No respect for either age or authority
could restrain the boys from going off
into a fit of laughter. Their teacher’s
face was a study; its look of blank
amazement would have made a wooden
totem-pole hilarious. But they were
relieved in mind, all the same, when a
smile, even though a grim one, stole over
the stern, pallid features of the man who
had it in his power to make the lives of
wayward boys utterly miserable.

“It’s lucky for you young rascals that
this is holiday time,” remarked the schoolmaster,
drily. “I’ve got a tawse in my
desk that can bite a good deal sharper
than this badger.” Then, in spite of a
momentary feeling of resentment, he
joined in the laugh against himself.

“Please, sir,” explained Dick, partly in
a spirit of penitence, but mainly with a
view to mitigate the offence, “the live
badger that Grizzly Jim brought father is in
the stable right enough. It was you yourself
that went straight for the kennel.”

“That’s so,” replied the schoolmaster,
stroking his beard meditatively. “I should
have remembered the maxim of the copybooks,
‘Think before you leap.’ Well, we’re
all liable to make mistakes, I suppose—even
parsons,” he added, after a pause, and sinking
his voice almost to a whisper. He was
gazing now down the street, with a far-away
look in his countenance.

The boys shot a quick glance in the same[Pg 170]
direction. A stout, pompous-looking little
man, with black coat and white collar, was
in sight.

“The parson’s an erudite Doctor of
Divinity,” continued the schoolmaster, speaking
low, and in an absent-minded fashion.
“He’s had all the advantages of a college
education—a fact which he knows, and
takes care to let other people know. A
man of learning is the parson, and a great
authority on natural history.”

The boys did not hear, nor exactly understand,
every word spoken; but the last
sentence fell clearly on their ears, and the
looks they exchanged indicated the dawning
of intelligence.

“Yes; I wonder,” murmured the pedagogue,
reflectively, “I really wonder, now,
whether the parson could tell the difference
between a mountain badger and a prairie
badger.”

“By golly!” screamed Billy, in frantic
excitement at the full flash of comprehension.
“Jam the kettle back into the kennel,
Dick. Don’t say a word, Mr. Brown; please
don’t. Leave him to us.”

The schoolmaster, chuckling to himself,
began to examine a rose-bush growing against
the wall. Soon the parson was at the gate.

“Good evening, Mr. Brown,” he called
out.

“Good evening,” mumbled the teacher,
hardly daring to look up from the roses.

“What have we here?” continued the
clergyman, observing the unwonted position
of the kennel, and also noticing the flurried
look on the boys’ faces. “What have we
here?” he repeated, coming forward into the
yard.

“Please, sir,” began Dick, a dig in the ribs
from Billy having warned him that it was his
turn to open fire. “Grizzly Jim’s brought
father a real live badger.”

“A badger, and a live one! Well?”

“And schoolmaster don’t seem to be able
to tell whether it’s a mountain badger or a
prairie badger,” added Dick, with a grin,
adroitly bringing the third confederate into
the field of action.

“Didn’t you examine the teeth, Mr.
Brown?” asked the parson. “The colour
of the fur is no real test, you know.”

“I can’t say I’ve looked at its teeth,”
replied the teacher, with a somewhat ghastly
smile. He had not bargained for being anything
more than a passive witness of the
parson’s discomfiture, but here he was now,
by Dick’s act of unblushing treachery, thrust
into the position of an active accomplice.

“Well, we must ascertain the animal’s
dentition. You see, in a mountain badger,
which is more carnivorous than the prairie
variety, the canine teeth are more fully
developed.” As the schoolmaster had said,
the parson was assuredly a learned man, and
an authority on natural history, to have all
this information so readily at his command.

“But how are you going to look at his
teeth?” asked Billy, practically. “I reckon
badgers bite.”

“I’ll soon show you, my boy,” replied the
parson, with a patronizing smile. “He’s in
this kennel, is he?”

Billy’s only response was a smile of satisfaction
like that worn by the cat when he
spied that the door of the canary’s cage had
been left open. But the clergyman did not
wait for an answer, for, turning directly to
Dick, he asked the boy whether he could find
him some such thing as a piece of sacking.

“I guess I can,” responded Dick, darting
off like a shot towards the stables. Within
the minute he was back with an old corn-bag.
The parson was in the act of turning up his
coat-sleeves, and was still discoursing learnedly
upon the carnivorous and frugivorous tastes
of the different species of the plantigrade
family. The schoolmaster was listening
attentively, speaking not one word: his
attitude was a deferential one, or a guilty one,
according to the observer’s point of view.

“That will do first class, my boy,” said the
minister, taking the sack from Dick’s hands.
“Now, you two lads, pull the chain gently,
and I’ll get this round the badger as he
emerges from the kennel. We must look
out for his claws, you know, as well as for his
teeth; because the badger, being a burrowing
animal, is armed with long sharp claws, which
he also adapts to purposes of self-defence,
using them with great courage and effect
when attacked. Slowly now, boys; cautious
does it. Here he comes! There you are!
I have him all safe!”

And the parson, as a heap of accumulating
straw began to appear at the mouth of the
kennel, pushed in the sack, and wrapped it
tightly round the black object beyond.

“Pull now again, boys; gently. That’s
right. Now he’s out.”

Then the parson paused, and looked a bit
puzzled. “This badger must have been
injured, surely. He doesn’t show much
fight.” Saying these words, he proceeded to
cautiously raise one corner of the sacking.
“Whoa! now; steady. No snapping, you
brute,” continued the parson, in a purring,
conciliatory voice, as he slowly lifted the bag.

[Pg 171]

The spout of the iron kettle met his dumfoundered
foundered gaze!

Dick and Billy were by this time hiding
behind the water-barrel, stuffing handkerchiefs
into their mouths. The schoolmaster looked
down with a gleeful
grin it was
impossible to repress.

“What is the
meaning of this,
Mr. Brown?”
sputtered the
parson, rising to
his feet. The
flush on his face
was due less to
resentment than
to wounded pride.

“It just means,
Mr. Blinkers, that
these young
scamps first fooled
me, and for the
life of me I can’t
deny but I’ve enjoyed
their passing
the joke on
to you.”

The schoolmaster laughed outright, but
the parson still looked painfully self-conscious.

“The miserable little prevaricators!” he
muttered.

“No,” said the teacher, “you can’t call
them that. The boys haven’t spoken a word
that’s untrue, because the badger, I believe,
is actually in the stable over there. In
taking it for granted that the beast was in
this kennel, we rushed to conclusions, and
have had to pay the penalty.”

The mortified expression on the parson’s
face became somewhat softened. He gazed
in a half-rueful, half-amused way at the old iron
kettle, still partially covered by the sacking.

“To think that I was led into talking
about the dentition of that—that—infernal
thing,” he sighed. “Oh! it would need a
layman to express my feelings,” he added,
clenching his fists as if in impotent despair,
while with a feeble smile he glanced at the
schoolmaster.

“Well,” laughed the latter, “strong language
isn’t in my line any more than yours,
Mr. Blinkers, so I’m afraid I can’t oblige. I
fancy, however, that if ever again anyone
asks you or me the difference between
a mountain badger and a prairie badger we’ll
be just a trifle shy at answering—eh, my
friend?”

The parson laughed outright: the fit
of dudgeon was finally past. And when
the two men left the stable yard arm-in-arm,
the mischief-makers, who still remained
discreetly invisible, could see the backs and
shoulders of both
of them fairly
shaking with
laughter.

Round the
corner, the
schoolmaster and
the minister met
the hotel-keeper
standing at the
front door of his
hostelry; and with
the greatest good
humour in the
world they told
him the story.
The joke was
really too excellent
to keep;
moreover, it was
sure to go the
round of the
whole town before
the world was
many hours older, so that the victims consulted
their own personal comfort best by
leading off the inevitable laugh, and so, in a
measure at least, disarming ridicule.

“The whipper-snappers!” said the burly
host, hardly knowing at first whether to
condole with the dignitaries of church and
school or to indulge the merriment that was
bubbling up within him.

“Boys will be boys,” remarked the parson,
condescendingly.

“And the trick was cleverly done,” added
the schoolmaster, appreciatively. He was
in reality too overjoyed at his own success
in having hauled the parson into the
pillory alongside of him to feel any resentment.

“Oh! well, we do need a laugh sometimes
in this dull place,” replied the hotel-keeper,
allowing the broad smile hitherto repressed
to suffuse his rubicund countenance. But
he kept his mirth within moderate bounds so
long as the others were in hearing. When
they were gone, however, loud and long was
his laughter.

“Dick, the little cuss!” he cried, slapping
his thigh. “And Billy, that young varmint!
It’ll tickle his dad to death when he hears it.
To fool the schoolmaster showed a bit of
pluck. But to take down the passon—oh,[Pg 172]
lor!” And the jolly innkeeper laughed till
his sides ached.

After a little time Grizzly Jim slouched
into the bar, and the story was retailed for
his benefit. The old trapper laughed heartily,
although in the silent way his profession had
taught him.

“Blame my skin!” he exclaimed, “if it
ain’t the foxiest thing in the snarin’ line I’ve
struck for a long time. But I reckon, boss,
I’ll take a hand now in this ‘ere game.
You fix up an excuse to git the youngsters
out of the yard for ten minutes, and I
reckon I’ll make ’em skin their eyes with
‘mazement next time they yank out that
badger.”

Jim sauntered round the front of the
house, while the host went direct to the
stable yard. He found the two boys in close
confabulation near the dog-kennel; and he
also quietly observed that the kettle was again
inside, so that the trap was clearly baited for
the next victim that might chance to come
around.

“Halloa, Billy!” cried the hotel-keeper,
apparently unobservant of the fact that the
kennel was not in its usual place, and quite
ignorant of the game that was being played;
“can you help Dick eat some apples?”

“Can a duck swim?” asked the youngster,
perkily, by way of reply. Every urchin in
the place was on terms of easy familiarity
with mine host of the inn.

“Then round you come, the pair of you,
to the orchard.” And for the next quarter
of an hour the boys’ game was changed—badgers
were out and apples were in.

Meanwhile Grizzly Jim was losing no time.
When he saw the coast clear, he walked up
the yard and entered the stable. There he
dexterously caught the badger by the nape
of the neck; it was not a full-grown animal,
and the experienced trapper had no difficulty
in handling it. He carried it out at arm’s
length, the beast clawing the air vigorously
but vainly. Reaching the kennel, Jim quickly
substituted the badger for the kettle at the
end of the chain. Then, when the captive
had retreated to the furthest recess of its new
quarters, he carefully re-arranged the straw
litter; and, tossing the discarded kettle into
the wood-shed, sauntered away with a sardonic
grin on his sun-dried countenance.
He crossed the street to the grocery store
opposite, whence he could command a view
of the yard.

A few minutes later the boys, their pockets
stuffed full of apples, returned to the scene
of their exploits, followed at a little distance
by the hotel-keeper. The latter wore a look
of good-humoured expectancy; for, although
he did not know precisely what the trapper’s
plans were, he felt sure that there was fun in
near prospect. Dick was busy munching an
apple and cogitating how it would be possible
to victimize his father, when his eye caught
sight of Grizzly Jim crossing the street from
the grocery store with a big box on his
shoulders.

“I guess, dad, here’s Jim a-comin’ to take
that badger away,” remarked the boy, indicating
by means of the half-eaten apple in his
hand the lanky figure of the trapper.

“Most likely,” answered his father, with a
merry twinkle in his eye.

Billy, however, had at once seen the possibilities
of this new development, and his face
lit up instantly with all the keen excitement
of a fox-terrier in the act of pouncing on a
rat. “We must take a rise out o’ Grizzly
Jim,” he whispered eagerly to his comrade in
mischief.

As for Jim, he seemed to play right into
the young rascals’ hands, for the first remark
he made was this: “The schoolmaster has
jest bin sayin’, boys, that you’ve got my
badger in that ‘ere dog-kennel.”

“Wal, and what if we have?” asked Billy,
boldly.

“Oh! I’m makin’ no complaint. But
here’s his box for the railroad, and I think
we’d best put him in it right now. P’raps
you’ll lend me a hand, youngsters?”

“Right you are, Jim,” cried both boys
with alacrity, advancing towards the kennel.

“Did jevver know sich luck?” asked Billy,
in a whisper, nudging his companion with
his elbow.

“It’s ‘nough to make a feller die with
laughin’,” chuckled Dick, under his breath.

“Guess, then, yer not afeared o’ badgers,
you boys?” drawled Jim, setting down the
box.

“Not badgers of this sort,” replied Billy,
with a grimace.

“So you’ve found out this ‘un’s only a
babby?” continued the trapper; “hasn’t got
all his teeth yet, eh, an’ couldn’t scratch very
hard if he tried?” As Jim spoke he picked
up the slack of the chain, to the boys’ intense
delight.

“I reckon the badger at the end o’ that
chain won’t hurt us much,” responded Billy,
airily. But Dick had to turn his face away
to hide the laughter with which he was now
almost bursting.

“Wal, boys, if I pull ‘m out, you’ll ketch
‘m, will ye, an’ shove ‘m in the box?”

[Pg 173]

“Right you are, Jim. You jest pull, and
we’ll grab.”

“But p’r’aps you’d be safer to let me come
an’ help ye hold the critter,” added the
trapper, shaking his head doubtfully.

“Help be blowed,” cried Billy. “I reckon
we don’t need no help to manage this ‘ere
outfit, eh, Dick?” And the boys laughed in
each other’s faces, as they carried the box
close up to the kennel, and opened the lid
in readiness.

“Right ye are, sonnies,” replied Jim.
“Have yer own way. But don’t ye forget I
gave ye fair warnin’.”

“We can look after ourselves, you bet,”
answered Billy, impatiently. “Jest you
haul away.”

“Wal, here we go,” said Jim, a faint smile
showing on his thin lips. “Grip him the
moment he shows his nose. Don’t be
frightened at the sight of his claws.”

The lads were stooping ready to grab at
the old iron kettle the moment it should
make its appearance. Both were chuckling
with glee. And the best of the joke was that
Grizzly Jim had brought the whole thing
right upon himself!

“Hoop, la!” cried Jim, and with a pull
that would have dragged a camel off its legs,
he jerked the occupant of the kennel into
the open.

In their eagerness as to who should hold
aloft the spurious badger before the astonished
eyes of Grizzly Jim, the boys fairly
flung themselves upon the black object at
the end of the chain.

Then there followed, oh! such a yelling
and a screeching, such a snapping and a
snarling! Dick rolled over Billy, and boys
and badger were mixed up in a squirming
heap.

“Shall I come and help ye hold the
critter?” called out the trapper, cheerfully.

“No, but come and help us let him go,”
screamed Dick.

“My sakes!” roared Billy; “he’s got me
by the leg.”

But at this stage Grizzly Jim came to the
rescue. The young badger was quickly
caught, and popped into the box, while the
disconcerted and crestfallen urchins struggled
to their feet.

“Guess badgers are kind o’ more savage
beasties than ye reckoned on,” remarked the
trapper, with dry sarcasm.

“No wonder the schoolmaster and the
passon were skeered,” laughed the hotel-keeper,
who had enjoyed the whole scene
from a little distance.

Then it dawned upon the youngsters how
neatly the tables had been turned on them;
so, in spite of torn clothes and scratched
skins, they did their best like true sportsmen
to grin and look pleasant. But it will be
some time before they try to take another rise
out of Grizzly Jim.

[Pg 174]

A Common Crystal.

By John R. Watkins.

ard to believe, but true. The
locomotive shown in the illustration
below rests and runs
upon a lake of salt—a surface
almost as solid as the road-bed
of a great passenger
system. The engine puffs to and fro all day
long on the snow-like crust, while a score of
steam-ploughs make progress with a rattling,
rasping noise, dividing the lake into long and
glittering mounds of salt, which are shovelled
by busy Indians on to the waiting cars. The
sun shines with almost overwhelming
power, and the dazzling carpet of salt
stretches away to the horizon, where it
disappears.

The scene is in Salton, in far-off Southern
California. Two months ago we described
a wonderful city of salt which for centuries
has existed below the surface of the earth.
Here in Salton, striking sights may be
seen in the full light of day. One gets
some little idea of them from the photographs,
but the general effect of this huge
natural store-house of commercial salt, its
enormous crystal lake, and its massive
pyramids of white awaiting shipment, can be
but partially conceived from our pictures.

To enter into a complete description of
the remarkable industry which transfers a
common crystal from a lake of brine to
the working-man’s table would be beyond
the limits of our magazine. It would
involve a discussion of chemical symbols
and formulæ which would make the printed
page a cryptograph. Better is it, briefly, to
say that much of the salt found in the
domestic salt-cellar comes from the water of
the sea, which, by evaporation, is turned
from liquid into snowy powder. In Salton[Pg 175]
Lake, which lies 280ft. below the sea level;
the brine rises in the bottom of the marsh
from numerous springs in the neighbouring
foot-hills, and, quickly evaporating, leaves
deposits of almost pure salt, varying from
10in. to 20in. in thickness, and thus forming
a substantial crust. The temperature ranges
from 120 to 150 degrees, and all the labour
is performed by Coahuilla Indians, who work
ten hours a day, and seem not in the least
to mind the enervating heat. In fact, these
Indians are so inured to the fatiguing work
that they are not affected by the dazzling
sunlight, which distresses the eyes of those
unaccustomed to it, and compels the use of
coloured glasses. One of these Indians may
be seen sitting on the steam-plough shown
on this page. He is one of a tribe of
large and well-developed men—peaceable,
civilized, sober, and industrious, living in
comfortable houses built by the New Liverpool
Salt Works, with tables, chairs, forks,
spoons, and many of the necessary articles of
domestic civilization. He guides his plough
over the long stretches of salt, running lightly
at first over the surface to remove any
vestiges of desert sand blown from far
away, and then setting the blade to run 6in.
deep in furrows 8ft. wide. Each plough
harvests daily over 700 tons of pure salt,
which is then taken to the mill to be ground
and placed in sacks. Scores of men assist
in the harvest by loading small “dump-cars,”
or trollies, on portable rails, the cargo being
finally dumped on the large train or else
carried direct to the manufactory.

The interesting history of the salt industry
in California is largely associated with the
name of Plummer Brothers, who in 1864, in the
person of the late Mr. J. A. Plummer, made
the first genuine attempt to produce a first-class
domestic salt. The extensive and striking
premises of this noted firm in Centreville, California,
are shown in the two illustrations on
the next page. Situated as the district is close
to the bay, the industry is dependent to a certain
extent upon the tides. The early spring
tides have little effect in drawing away the
impurities which the river-floods bring into
the bay; but the tides of June and July,
rising as they do to a height of 6ft. or 7ft.,
fill the marshes with a water fairly pure.
The salt-makers have prepared for this influx
of water by making reservoirs in large clay-bottomed
tracts of marsh land, and have
cleared them of weeds and grass. The
water flows in and fills the reservoirs to a
depth of from 15in. to 18in., and the gates
are then closed.

Like a large family, descending in size
from father to youngest son, the six or seven
evaporating ponds of a salt works appear.
The large reservoir, being the father of this
series of ponds, contains the gross amount of
brine, the last two or three being called lime-ponds,
owing to the amount of gypsum, lime,
etc., precipitated at this stage of evaporation.
Not to go too deeply into chemistry, it may
be said that the brine lingers in the last of
these ponds until a density of 106 degrees is
obtained. The surface of the liquid is now
dotted by small patches of white which[Pg 176]
accumulate into streaks of drift-salt. This
interesting development is shown in the illustration
above, the streaks of salt looking like
patches of surf on the sands of the sea-shore.
The liquid is now run into crystallizing vats,
where it remains until the salt crystals have
formed at the bottom. It sometimes takes two
months for a crop of salt to develop. In harvesting,
the workman, donning large, flat sandals
of wood, enters the vat with a galvanized[Pg 177]
[Pg 178]
shovel, and marks off on the
surface of the salt a series of
parallel lines. This process
enables the labourers to toss the
lumps into uniform piles. A
strict examination is made of
every shovelful, in order that
impurities may be eliminated.
Our illustrations show these conical
mounds of salt, and the
transfer of the salt by means of
barrels to large platforms, where
the crystal product is thrown
into huge pyramids, sometimes
25ft. high. Here it remains,
bleaching and solidifying for a
year. It is, indeed, a picturesque
sight to see these ghost-like
pyramids grow in their might
from day to day.

Into the processes by which
these massive mounds of hardened
salt are crushed and distributed
to the markets, we need not
enter; nor need we name the
varieties of salt which are so
distributed. We find something
more interesting in turning from
California to Central India, where
in Rajputana a tremendous
industry in salt is carried on,
and where we may see the same
little piles of salt that we have
noted in the previous illustrations.

In the background of the
large full-page picture, which
we have just passed, may be
seen colossal heaps of salt, and
in the foreground scores of men,
women, and children wading in
the vat of sluggish brine, from
which, by dint of constant effort,
emerge the little cones of white.
The overseers stand by to direct,
and the scene is one of tremendous
interest and activity, punctuated
by babble of voices. We
get a closer view of these cones
in our last illustration, in which
we find the coolies measuring
the height of the cones. One
thing we miss in these vistas of
barren whiteness—the sight of
the labour-saving machinery so
noticeable in our early illustrations.
Is it an object-lesson in
the differences between East and
West?

[Pg 179]

A Peep into “Punch.”

By J. Holt Schooling.

[The Proprietors of “Punch” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch’s famous pages.]

Part II.—1850 to 1854.

ome while ago, in the pantomime
“Ali Baba and the
Forty Thieves,” Ali Baba’s
brother, who had found his
way into the secret cave, ran
about in a most ludicrous
manner eagerly picking from the floor
diamonds, rubies, and emeralds as big as
ostrich-eggs: as fast as he picked up another
gem he let one fall from his already loaded
arms. I laughed at Ali Baba’s brother, but
did not feel sympathetic.

Now, I do not laugh, and I do feel sympathetic
with A. B.’s brother—for in choosing
these pictures from Punch, one no sooner
picks out a gem, with an “I’ll have you,”
than on the turn of a page a better picture
comes, and the other has to be dropped.
It goes as much against my grain to leave
such a host of good things hidden in Punch
as it went against the covetous desires of
Ali Baba’s wicked brother to leave so many
fine big gems behind him in the richly-stored
cave. However, Mr. Punch’s whole store of
riches is, after all, accessible to anyone whose
Open Sesame! is a little cheque, and so
one has some consolation for being able
to show here only a very small selection from
Mr. Punch’s famous gallery of wit and art
which that discerning connoisseur has been
collecting during the last sixty years.

The year 1850 was a notable one for
Punch, for then John Tenniel joined the
famous band of Punchites. His first contribution
is shown in No. 1, the beautiful initial
letter L with the accompanying sketch,
which, although it is nearly fifty years old,
and is here in a reduced size, yet distinctly
shows even to the non-expert eye the touch
of that same wonderful hand which in this
week’s Punch (November 26th, 1898) drew
the cartoon showing Britannia and the
United States as two blue-jackets in jovial
comradeship under the sign of the “Two
Cross Flags,” with jolly old landlord Punch
saying to them, “Fill up, my hearties! It
looks like ‘dirty weather’ ahead, but you
two—John and Johnathan—will see it
through—together!”

Glancing at Nos. 2 and 3—Leech’s sketch
in No. 3 is, by the way, a truthfully graphic
reminder to the writer of the first time[Pg 180]
he [unexpecting] heard and saw a strong
Cornish cock-pheasant get up close at his
feet—we come to No. 4, which
represents the British Lion (as
taxpayer) looking askance at the
Prince of Wales, aged nine, on
whose behalf application had
just been made for the purchase
of Marlborough House as a residence
for the Prince. The
portly man in the picture on
the wall is a former Prince of
Wales, the Regent who became
George IV. in 1820, and who
is here seen walking by the
Pavilion at Brighton, built in
1784-87 as a residence for this
Prince of Wales.

No. 5 is very funny, and it
is one of the many Punch jokes
which are periodically served up
afresh in other periodicals. I
have read this joke somewhere
quite lately, although it came
out in Punch nearly fifty years
ago.

On this score, does anyone
know if the following is a Punch
joke? It was lately told to me
as a new joke, but I was afraid
to send it to Mr. Punch:—

Two London street-Arabs.
One is eating an apple, the
other gazes enviously, and says,
“Gi’e us a bite, Bill.” “Sha’n’t,”
says the apple-eater. “Gi’e us
the core, then,” entreats the
non-apple-eater. “There ain’t
goin’ to be no core!” stolidly
replies the other, out of his
stolidly munching jaws.

The very clever drawing
No. 6 is by Richard Doyle;
it was published in 1850,
and at the close of that
year Doyle left Punch
owing to Punch’s vigorous
attack on “Popery”—the
Popery scare got hold of
the public mind in 1849,
and for some while Punch
published scathing cartoons
against Roman Catholicism.
Doyle being of that
faith resigned his position
and a good income through
purely conscientious motives.
Although Doyle left
in 1850 his work was seen
in Punch as lately as 1864, for when he resigned
some of his work was then unpublished.[Pg 181]
This funny illustration of “A meeting to
discuss the principles of Protection and Free
Trade” was an outcome of the intensely
bitter feeling between the partisans of both
sides which marked the carrying-on by Lord
John Russell of the system established by
Sir Robert Peel in 1846 for throwing open our
market-doors to free trade with foreign nations.

No. 7 is one of the minor hits at “Papal
Aggression” made by Punch fifty years ago,
and it is irresistibly funny.

[Pg 182]

Sir John Tenniel’s
first cartoon
is shown in No. 8.
It represents Lord
John Russell as
David, backed by
Mr. Punch and by
John Bull, attacking
Cardinal Wiseman
as Goliath,
who is at the head
of a host of Roman
Catholic archbishops
and
bishops. A very
interesting mention
is made by
Mr. Spielmann, in
his “History of
Punch,” of the circumstances
which
caused Tenniel to
join Punch, and
to become the
greatest cartoonist
the world has produced:—

Thus we may say that
the “Popish Scare” of fifty
years ago was a main cause
of the Tenniel cartoons in
the Punch of to-day.

The picture in No. 9,[Pg 183]
“The New Siamese Twins,”
celebrates the successful
laying of the submarine
cable between Dover and
Calais, November 13, 1851:
the closing prices of the
Paris Bourse were known
within business hours of the
same day on the London
Stock Exchange. The use
by Leech of the words in
the title, “Siamese Twins,”
refers to the visit to this
country of a Barnum-like
natural monstrosity—a
pair of twins whose bodies
were joined—a freak that
was also the origin of a toy sold in later
years with the same title. In the year 1851
Punch secured another of its most famous
artists—Charles Keene—whose first contribution
is shown in No. 10.

This sketch has little of a joke in it—the
shakiness of drawing is intentional
[see the description given
in No. 10], and the following
account of this poor little picture,
so interesting as the first
by Keene, is given by Mr. G.
S. Layard in his “Life and
Letters of Charles Samuel
Keene”:—

Pictures 11 to
13 bring us to
No. 14, which
contains small facsimile
reproductions
of the six
designs on the
front of the Punch-wrapper,
which
preceded the well-known
design by
Richard Doyle,
now used every
week. These little
pictures have
been made direct
from the original
Punch-wrappers
in my possession,
as it was found
impossible to get
satisfactory prints
in so small a size
as these from the
much larger
blocks that
Messrs. Cassell
and Company[Pg 185]
very kindly lent to me,
impressions from which
can be seen by readers
who may like to study
the detail of these designs
in Mr. Spielmann’s
“History of Punch,”
which contains a full
account of them. Incidentally,
it is interesting
to note that when these
designs were made it
would have been impossible
to obtain from
them the excellent reduced
facsimiles now
shown, which, by the
way, have only now been
obtained after several
attempts—as each of
these pretty little pictures
has been reduced
from the full size of the
ordinary Punch-page.

The first design was
made in 1841 by A. S. Henning, Mr. Punch’s
first cartoonist. In the early years of Punch
the design for the wrapper was changed for
each half-yearly volume, and early in 1842
the second design was
adopted: this was drawn
by Hablot K. Browne
(“Phiz”), who worked for
Punch during 1842-1844,
leaving Punch in 1844,
because the paper could
not at that time stand the
financial strain of the two
big guns, Leech and
“Phiz”. H. K. Browne
went back to Mr. Punch
in later years, and Mr.
Spielmann has recorded
that this “brave worker,
who would not admit his
stroke of paralysis, but
called it rheumatism, could
still draw when the pencil
was tied to his fingers and
answered the swaying of
his body.”

The third wrapper is by
William Harvey, and was
used for Vol. III. of Punch
in the latter part of 1842.
The artist “spread consternation
in the office by
sending in a charge of
twelve guineas” for this
third wrapper—twelve
guineas being, by the
way, nearly one-half of
the total capital with
which Punch was started
in 1841.

The fourth wrapper
was designed by Sir
John Gilbert, whose
work for Punch, although
greatly intermittent, and
small in quantity, was
spread over a longer
period than that of any
other Punch artist—save
Sir John Tenniel. This
wrapper covered the first
part of 1843, and it was
used until recent years
as the pink cover of
Punch’s monthly parts.

The fifth wrapper is
by Kenny Meadows—you
can just see his
signature on the lower
rim of the drum—and it was used in the
latter part of 1843. Then, in January, 1844,
Richard Doyle, Mr. Punch’s latest recruit,
was employed to design the new wrapper—the
sixth of our illustration
No. 14. This design
was used until January,
1849, and then Doyle
made the alterations which
distinguish this sixth wrapper
from the one now in
use and which has been
used ever since.

A little boy’s advice to
his grandfather is illustrated
by Leech in No. 15,
and No. 16 suggests an
added horror of war. The
humorous prospectus in
No. 17 concludes with
the words:—

By the way, when Mr.
Punch wrote this skit
about “Gold in England,”
he and his public were[Pg 186]
alike unaware
that gold is
really in this
country—gold
ore worth
£15,000 was
dug up in 1894
out of this
country: 1894
being the most
recent year for
which I have
the official return
of mining.

No. 18 depicts
a moment
of half-delightful,
half-awe-stricken,
anticipation by the amateur clown, pantaloon,
and columbine of the exact result that will follow the
application of the (real) red-hot poker to the old
gentleman’s
legs.

No. 19 is
Mr. Punch’s
tribute to
the Duke of
Wellington
which, a
week later
(October
2nd, 1852),
was followed
by a cartoon
by Tenniel
containing in
a mournful
pose one of
Tenniel’s
splendid British
lions that
have intermittently
during
so many years
been a prominent
feature of
his cartoons.

No. 20 is by
“Cuthbert
Bede” [the
Reverend Edward
Bradley],
the author of[Pg 187]
“Verdant Green,” and this is one of four caricature
illustrations of the then novel art of
photography, which Mr. Bradley did for
Punch in the year 1853. We read just now
how we are indirectly indebted to a Pope
[Pius IX.] for Sir John Tenniel’s cartoons,
and in connection with the Rev. Edward
Bradley’s picture in No. 20, it may be noted
that six clergymen, at the least, have contributed
to Mr. Punch’s pages.

No. 21 shows
Punch’s “Medal
for a Peace Assurance
Society,” a
pictorialization in
1853 of the still
true old saying:
“To secure peace
be prepared for
war.” An unhappy
necessity, as some
people think, but
without doubt the
only practical way
to assure peace,
and, as usual, Mr.
Punch puts the
thing in a nutshell
with his two
mottoes on the
medal: “Attention”
and “Ready,
aye Ready.” Our
“attention” and
“readiness” of
1853 did not,
however, keep us out of the Crimean
War, which began in the spring of 1854,
despite the efforts of the Peace Society and
of John Bright, who are caricatured in
No. 22. But modern authorities generally
believe that the Crimean War might have
been prevented by a more vigorous policy
than that of Lord Aberdeen, whose Administration
is chiefly remembered by what is now
thought to have been a gross blunder. This[Pg 188]
No. 22 is also interesting as a forerunner of
Mr. E. T. Reed’s remarkably witty modern
designs, “Ready-made coats (-of-arms); or,
giving ’em fits.”

“I wish the British Lion were dead outright,”
said John Bright, at Edinburgh, in
1853, and Mr. Punch’s comment on these
words was the funny “Improvement” of the
Royal Arms depicted in No. 22.

With a glance of sympathy at the belated
traveller in No. 23, we pass to No. 24, which
shows the “Bursting of the Russian Bubble.”
This was published in Punch,
October 14th, 1854, after the
Battle of the Alma had been
fought and badly lost by Russia
and part of the Russian fleet
sunk at Sebastopol. Leech
here shows very graphically the
shattering of the “irresistible
power” and of the “unlimited
means” which were to have
led the Emperor Nicholas I. of
Russia to an easy victory over the
British and French allied forces.

No. 25 is another of the
caricatures of photography in
its early days by “Cuthbert
Bede,” and very funny it is.

The next picture, No. 26, is
one of Punch’s classics. It is
that well-known joke illustrating
manners in the mining
districts in the early fifties:—

By the way, speaking of Mr.
Punch’s jokes which have become
classic, the one which is the
best known is the following:—

[Pg 189]

This famous mot appeared in Punch’s
Almanac for 1845, and Mr. Spielmann states
that it was “based upon the ingenious wording
of an advertisement widely put forth by
Eamonson & Co., well-known house furnishers
of the day.”

As regards the source of this famous joke,
Mr. Spielmann, with characteristic thoroughness,
gives a long account of the many
claims to its paternity, and finally makes
this statement:—

No. 27 is a very clever drawing by Leech—they
are all clever of course, but this seems[Pg 190]
specially good. The youth [on
Westminster Bridge—time, two
on a foggy morning] white with
fear walks on perfectly straight
without taking any notice of the
rough who asks: “Did you want
to buy a good razor?”—but he
is taking a lot of notice though.
The youth walks exactly like one
does walk when a beggar pesters
as he slouches alongside just
behind one, but here the frightened
youth has good cause
indeed for the shaking fear that
Leech has by some magic put
into these strokes of his pencil.
The “Reduced Tradesman”
too is exactly good—but let
the picture speak for itself, it
wants no words of mine.

There is an amusing “Russian”
account, in No. 28, of our
troubles at home during the
Crimean War; and No. 29
shows a street-Arab asking the
Queen’s coachman, “I say,
Coachy, are you engaged?”

Glancing at Nos. 30 and 31,
we see in No. 32 Leech’s picture
of the heroic charge at the
Battle of Balaclava, on October
25, 1854, with Lord Cardigan
leading his famous Light Brigade
of Cavalry. Here are
Mr. Punch’s lines on this gallant
charge, which was subsequently
immortalized by Tennyson in
his “Charge of the Light
Brigade”:—

THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA.

[Nine verses, on the battle generally, precede the lines below, which
refer to the charge of the Light Brigade, illustrated by Leech, in No. 32.—J. H. S.]

(To be continued.)

[Pg 191]

Miss Cayley’s Adventures.
XII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE UNPROFESSIONAL DETECTIVE.

By Grant Allen.

“s Lady Georgina at home?”

The discreet man-servant
in sober black clothes eyed
me suspiciously. “No, miss,”
he answered. “That is to
say—no, ma’am. Her ladyship
is still at Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s—the
late Mr. Marmaduke Ashurst’s, I mean—in
Park Lane North. You know the
number, ma’am?”

“Yes, I know it,” I replied, with a gasp;
for this was indeed a triumph. My one
fear had been lest Lord Southminster should
already have taken possession—why, you will
see hereafter; and it relieved me to learn
that Lady Georgina was still at hand to guard
my husband’s interests. She had been living
at the house, practically, since her brother’s
death. I drove round with all speed, and
flung myself into my dear old lady’s arms.

“Kiss me,” I cried, flushed. “I am your
niece!” But she knew it already, for our
movements had been fully reported by this
time (with picturesque additions) in the
morning papers. Imagination, ill-developed
in the English race, seems to concentrate
itself in the lower order of journalists.

She kissed me on both cheeks with unwonted
tenderness. “Lois,” she cried, with
tears in her eyes, “you’re a brick!” It was
not exactly poetical at such a moment, but
from her it meant more than much gushing
phraseology.

“And you’re here in possession!” I
murmured.

The Cantankerous Old Lady nodded. She
was in her element, I must admit. She
dearly loved a row—above all, a family row;
but to be in the thick of a family row, and
to feel herself in the right, with the law
against her—that was joy such as Lady
Georgina had seldom before experienced.
“Yes, dear,” she burst out volubly, “I’m in
possession, thank Heaven. And what’s more,
they won’t oust me without a legal process.
I’ve been here, off and on, you know, ever
since poor dear Marmy died, looking after
things for Harold; and I shall look after
them still, till Bertie Southminster succeeds
in ejecting me, which won’t be easy. Oh,
I’ve held the fort by main force, I can tell
you; held it like a Trojan. Bertie’s in a
precious great hurry to move in, I can
see; but I won’t allow him. He’s been[Pg 192]
down here this morning, fatuously blustering,
and trying to carry the post by storm, with
a couple of policemen.”

“Policemen!” I cried. “To turn you
out?”

“Yes, my dear, policemen: but (the Lord
be praised) I was too much for him. There
are legal formalities to fulfil yet; and I won’t
budge an inch, Lois, not one inch, my dear,
till he’s fulfilled every one of them. Mark
my words, child, that boy’s up to some
devilry.”

“He is,” I answered.

“Yes, he wouldn’t be in such a rampaging
hurry to get in—being as lazy as he’s empty-headed—takes
after Gwendoline in that—if
he hadn’t some excellent reason for wishing
to take possession: and depend upon it, the
reason is that he wants to get hold of something
or other that’s Harold’s. But he sha’n’t
if I can help it; and thank my stars, I’m a
dour woman to reckon with. If he comes,
he comes over my old bones, child. I’ve
been overhauling everything of Marmy’s,
I can tell you, to checkmate the boy if
I can; but I’ve found nothing yet, and till
I’ve satisfied myself on that point, I’ll hold
the fort still, if I have to barricade that pasty-faced
scoundrel of a nephew of mine out by
piling the furniture against the front door—I
will as sure as my name’s Georgina Fawley!”

“I know you will, dear,” I assented, kissing
her, “and so I shall venture to leave you,
while I go out to institute another little
inquiry.”

“What inquiry?”

I shook my head. “It’s only a surmise,”
I said, hesitating, “I’ll tell you about it
later. I’ve had time to think while I’ve been
coming back in the train, and I’ve thought
of many things. Mount guard till I return,
and mind you don’t let Lord Southminster
have access to anything.”

“I’ll shoot him first, dear.” And I believe
she meant it.

I drove on in the same cab to Harold’s
solicitor. There I laid my fresh doubts at
once before him. He rubbed his bony
hands. “You’ve hit it!” he cried, charmed.
“My dear madam, you’ve hit it! I never
did like that will. I never did like the
signatures, the witnesses, the look of it.
But what could I do? Mr. Tillington propounded
it. Of course it wasn’t my business
to go dead against my own client.”

“Then you doubted Harold’s honour, Mr.
Hayes?” I cried, flushing.

“Never!” he answered. “Never! I felt
sure there must be some mistake somewhere,
but not any trickery on—your husband’s
part. Now, you supply the right clue. We
must look into this, immediately.”

[Pg 193]

He hurried round with me at once in the
same cab to the court. The incriminated
will had been “impounded,” as they call it;
but, under certain restrictions, and subject to
the closest surveillance, I was allowed to
examine it with my husband’s solicitor,
before the eyes of the authorities. I looked
at it long with the naked eye and also with a
small pocket lens. The paper, as I had
noted before, was the same kind of foolscap
as that which I had been in the habit of
using at my office in Florence; and the typewriting—was
it mine? The longer I looked
at it, the more I doubted it.

After a careful examination I turned round
to our solicitor. “Mr. Hayes,” I said, firmly,
having arrived at my conclusion, “this is not
the document I type-wrote at Florence.”

“How do you know?” he asked. “A
different machine? Some small peculiarity
in the shape of the letters?”

“No, the rogue who typed this will was
too cunning for that. He didn’t allow himself
to be foiled by such a scholar’s mate.
It is written with a Spread Eagle, the same
sort of machine precisely as my own. I
know the type perfectly. But——” I
hesitated.

“But what?”

“Well, it is difficult to explain. There is
character in typewriting, just as there is in
handwriting, only, of course, not quite so
much of it. Every operator is liable to his
own peculiar tricks and blunders. If I had
some of my own typewritten manuscript
here to show you, I could soon make that
evident.”

“I can easily believe it. Individuality
runs through all we do, however seemingly
mechanical. But are the points of a sort
that you could make clear in court to the
satisfaction of a jury?”

“I think so. Look here, for example.
Certain letters get habitually mixed up in
typewriting; c and v stand next one another
on the keyboard of the machine, and the
person who typed this draft sometimes strikes
a c instead of a v, or vice versâ. I never do
that. The letters I tend to confuse are s and
w, or else e and r, which also come very
near one another in the arbitrary arrangement.
Besides, when I type-wrote the original of
this will, I made no errors at all; I took
such very great pains about it.”

“And this person did make errors?”

“Yes; struck the wrong letter first, and
then corrected it often by striking another
rather hard on top of it. See, this was a
v to begin with, and he turned it into a c.
Besides, the hand that wrote this will is
heavier than mine: it comes down thump,
thump, thump, while mine glides lightly.
And the hyphens are used with a space
between them, and the character of the
punctuation is not exactly as I make it.”

“Still,” Mr. Hayes objected, “we have
nothing but your word. I’m afraid, in such
a case, we could never induce a jury to
accept your unsupported evidence.”

“I don’t want them to accept it,” I
answered. “I am looking this up for my
own satisfaction. I want to know, first, who
wrote this will. And of one thing I am
quite clear: it is not the document I drew
up for Mr. Ashurst. Just look at that x.
The x alone is conclusive. My typewriter
had the upper right-hand stroke of the small
x badly formed, or broken, while this one is
perfect. I remember it well, because I
used always to improve all my lower-case
x‘s with a pen when I re-read and
corrected. I see their dodge clearly now.
It is a most diabolical conspiracy. Instead
of forging a will in Lord Southminster’s favour,
they have substituted a forgery for the real
will, and then managed to make my poor
Harold prove it.”

“In that case, no doubt, they have destroyed
the real one, the original,” Mr. Hayes
put in.

“I don’t think so,” I answered, after a
moment’s deliberation. “From what I
know of Mr. Ashurst, I don’t believe it is
likely he would have left his will about carelessly
anywhere. He was a secretive man,
fond of mysteries and mystifications. He
would be sure to conceal it. Besides, Lady
Georgina and Harold have been taking care
of everything in the house ever since he
died.”

“But,” Mr. Hayes objected, “the forger
of this document, supposing it to be forged,
must have had access to the original, since
you say the terms of the two are identical;
only the signatures are forgeries. And if he
saw and copied it, why might he not also
have destroyed it?”

A light flashed across me all at once.
“The forger did see the original,” I cried,
“but not the fair copy. I have it all now!
I detect their trick! It comes back to me
vividly! When I had finished typing the
copy at Florence from my first rough draft,
which I had taken down on the machine
before Mr. Ashurst’s eyes, I remember now
that I threw the original into the waste-paper
basket. It must have been there that evening
when Higginson called and asked for the[Pg 194]
will to take it back to Mr. Ashurst. He
called for it, no doubt, hoping to open the
packet before he delivered it and make a
copy of the document for this very purpose.
But I refused to let him have it. Before he
saw me, however, he had been left by himself
for ten minutes in the office; for I
remember coming out to him and finding
him there alone: and during that ten minutes,
being what he is, you may be sure he fished
out the rough draft and appropriated it!”

“That is more than likely,” my solicitor
nodded. “You are tracking him to his lair.
We shall have him in our power.”

I grew more and more excited as the whole
cunning plot unravelled itself mentally step
by step before me. “He must then have
gone to Lord Southminster,” I went on,
“and told him of the legacy he expected
from Mr. Ashurst. It was five hundred pounds—a
mere trifle to Higginson, who plays for
thousands. So he must have offered to
arrange matters for Lord Southminster if
Southminster would consent to make
good that sum and a great deal more
to him. That odious little cad told
me himself on the Jumna they were
engaged in pulling off ‘a big coup‘ between
them. He thought then I would marry him,
and that he would so secure my connivance
in his plans; but who would marry such a
piece of moist clay? Besides, I could never
have taken anyone but Harold.” Then
another clue came home to me. “Mr.
Hayes,” I cried, jumping at it, “Higginson,
who forged this will, never saw the real
document itself at all; he saw only the draft:
for Mr. Ashurst altered one word viva voce in
the original at the last moment, and I made
a pencil note of it on my cuff at the time:
and see, it isn’t here, though I inserted it in
the final clean copy of the will—the word
‘especially.’ It grows upon me more and
more each minute that the real instrument is
hidden somewhere in Mr. Ashurst’s house—Harold’s
house—our house; and that because
it is there, Lord Southminster is so indecently
anxious to oust his aunt and take instant
possession.”

“In that case,” Mr. Hayes remarked, “we
had better go back to Lady Georgina without
one minute’s delay, and, while she still holds
the house, institute a thorough search for it.”

No sooner said than done. We jumped
again into our cab and started. As we drove
back, Mr. Hayes asked me where I thought
we were most likely to find it.

“In a secret drawer in Mr. Ashurst’s
desk,” I answered, by a flash of instinct,
without a second’s hesitation.

[Pg 195]

“How do you know there’s a secret
drawer?”

“I don’t know it. I infer it from my
general knowledge of Mr. Ashurst’s character.
He loved secret drawers, ciphers, cryptograms,
mystery-mongering.”

“But it was in that desk that your husband
found the forged document,” the lawyer
objected.

Once more I had a flash of inspiration or
intuition. “Because White, Mr. Ashurst’s
valet, had it in readiness in his possession,” I
answered, “and hid it there, in the most
obvious and unconcealed place he could
find, as soon as the breath was out of his
master’s body. I remember now Lord Southminster
gave himself away to some extent in
that matter. The hateful little creature isn’t
really clever enough, for all his cunning—and
with Higginson to back him—to
mix himself up in such tricks as forgery.
He told me at Aden he had had a telegram
from ‘Marmy’s valet,’ to report
progress; and he received another, the
night Mr. Ashurst died, at Moozuffernuggar.
Depend upon it, White was more or less
in this plot; Higginson left him the forged
will when they started for India; and as soon
as Mr. Ashurst died White hid it where
Harold was bound to find it.”

“If so,” Mr. Hayes answered, “that’s
well; we have something to go upon. The
more of them, the better. There is safety
in numbers—for the honest folk. I never
knew three rogues hold long together,
especially when threatened with a criminal
prosecution. Their confederacy breaks down
before the chance of punishment. Each
tries to screen himself by betraying the
others.”

“Higginson was the soul of this plot,” I
went on. “Of that you may be sure.
He’s a wily old fox, but we’ll run him to
earth yet. The more I think of it, the
more I feel sure, from what I know of
Mr. Ashurst’s character, he would never have
put that will in so exposed a place as the one
where Harold says he found it.”

We drew up at the door of the disputed
house just in time for the siege. Mr. Hayes
and I walked in. We found Lady Georgina
face to face with Lord Southminster. The
opposing forces were still at the stage of
preliminaries of warfare.

“Look heah,” the pea-green young man
was observing, in his drawling voice, as we
entered; “it’s no use your talking, deah
Georgey. This house is mine, and I won’t
have you meddling with it.”

“This house is not yours, you odious little
scamp,” his aunt retorted, raising her shrill
voice some notes higher than usual; “and
while I can hold a stick you shall not come
inside it.”

“Very well, then; you drive me to hostilities,
don’t yah know. I’m sorry to show
disrespect to your grey hairs—if any—but I
shall be obliged to call in the police to eject
yah.”

“Call them in if you like,” I answered,
interposing between them. “Go out and
get them! Mr. Hayes, while he’s gone, send
for a carpenter to break open the back of
Mr. Ashurst’s escritoire.”

“A carpentah?” he cried, turning several
degrees whiter than his pasty wont. “What
for? A carpentah?”

I spoke distinctly. “Because we have
reason to believe Mr. Ashurst’s real will is
concealed in this house in a secret drawer,
and because the keys were in the possession
of White, whom we believe to be your
accomplice in this shallow conspiracy.”

He gasped and looked alarmed. “No,
you don’t,” he cried, stepping briskly forward.
“You don’t, I tell yah! Break open
Marmy’s desk! Why, hang it all, it’s my
property.”

“We shall see about that after we’ve
broken it open,” I answered, grimly. “Here,
this screw-driver will do. The back’s not
strong. Now, your help, Mr. Hayes—one,
two, three; we can prise it apart between
us.”

Lord Southminster rushed up and tried to
prevent us. But Lady Georgina, seizing
both wrists, held him tight as in a vice with
her dear skinny old hands. He writhed and
struggled, all in vain: he could not escape
her. “I’ve often spanked you, Bertie,” she
cried, “and if you attempt to interfere, I’ll
spank you again; that’s the long and the
short of it!”

He broke from her and rushed out, to call
the police, I believe, and prevent our desecration
of poor Marmy’s property.

Inside the first shell were several locked
drawers, and two or three open ones, out of
one of which Harold had fished the false
will. Instinct taught me somehow that the
central drawer on the left-hand side was the
compartment behind which lay the secret
receptacle. I prised it apart and peered
about inside it. Presently, I saw a slip-panel,
which I touched with one finger. The
pigeon-hole flew open and disclosed a narrow
slit. I clutched at something—the will!
Ho, victory! the will! I raised it aloft with[Pg 196]
a wild shout. Not a doubt of it! The real,
the genuine document!

We turned it over and read it. It was my
own fair copy, written at Florence, and bearing
all the small marks of authenticity about
it which I had pointed out to Mr. Hayes as
wanting to the forged
and impounded document.
Fortunately,
Lady Georgina and
four of the servants
had stood by throughout
this scene, and had
watched our demeanour,
as well as Lord
Southminster’s.

We turned next to
the signatures. The
principal one was clearly
Mr. Ashurst’s—I knew
it at once—his legible
fat hand, “Marmaduke
Courtney Ashurst.”
And then the witnesses?
They fairly took our
breath away.

“Why, Higginson’s
sister isn’t one of them
at all,” Mr. Hayes
cried, astonished.

A flush of remorse
came over me. I saw
it all now. I had
misjudged that poor
woman! She had the
misfortune to be a
rogue’s sister, but, as
Harold had said, was
herself a most respectable
and blameless
person. Higginson
must have forged her name to the document;
that was all; and she had naturally
sworn that she never signed it. He knew her
honesty. It was a master-stroke of rascality.

“The other one isn’t here, either,” I exclaimed,
growing more puzzled. “The waiter
at the hotel! Why, that’s another forgery!
Higginson must have waited till the man was
safely dead, and then used him similarly. It
was all very clever. Now, who are these
people who really witnessed it?”

“The first one,” Mr. Hayes said, examining
the handwriting, “is Sir Roger Bland,
the Dorsetshire baronet: he’s dead, poor
fellow; but he was at Florence at the time,
and I can answer for his signature. He was
a client of mine, and died at Mentone. The
second is Captain Richards, of the Mounted
Police: he’s living still, but he’s away in
South Africa.”

“Then they risked his turning up?”

“If they knew who the real witnesses were
at all—which is doubtful. You see, as you
say, they may have seen the rough draft
only.”

“Higginson would
know,” I answered.
“He was with Mr.
Ashurst at Florence at
the time, and he would
take good care to keep
a watch upon his movements.
In my belief,
it was he who suggested
this whole plot to Lord
Southminster.”

“Of course it was,”
Lady Georgina put in.
“That’s absolutely
certain. Bertie’s
a rogue as well as a
fool: but he’s too great
a fool to invent a clever
roguery, and too great
a knave not to join in
it foolishly when anybody
else takes the
pains to invent it.”

“And it was a clever
roguery,” Mr. Hayes
interposed. “An
ordinary rascal would
have forged a later will
in Lord Southminster’s
favour, and run the risk
of detection: Higginson
had the acuteness
to forge a will exactly
like the real one, and
to let your husband bear the burden of the
forgery. It was as sagacious as it was
ruthless.”

“The next point,” I said, “will be for us
to prove it.”

At that moment the bell rang, and one of
the house-servants—all puzzled by this
conflict of interests—came in with a telegram,
which he handed me on a salver. I broke it
open, without glancing at the envelope. Its
contents baffled me: “My address is Hotel
Bristol, Paris; name as usual. Send me a
thousand pounds on account at once. I
can’t afford to wait. No shillyshallying.”

The message was unsigned. For a moment,
I couldn’t imagine who sent it, or what it
was driving at.

Then I took up the envelope. “Viscount[Pg 197]
Southminster, 24, Park Lane North,
London.”

My heart gave a jump. I saw in a second
that chance or Providence had delivered the
conspirators into my hands that day. The
telegram was from Higginson! I had opened
it by accident.

It was obvious what had happened. Lord
Southminster must have written to him on
the result of the trial, and told him he meant
to take possession of his uncle’s house
immediately. Higginson had acted on that
hint, and addressed his telegram where he
thought it likely Lord Southminster would
receive it earliest. I had opened it in error,
and that, too, was fortunate, for even in
dealing with such a pack of scoundrels, it
would never have occurred to me to violate
somebody else’s correspondence had I not
thought it was addressed to me. But having
arrived at the truth thus unintentionally, I
had, of course, no scruples about making full
use of my information.

I showed the despatch at once to Lady
Georgina and Mr. Hayes. They recognised
its importance. “What next?” I inquired.
“Time presses. At half-past three Harold
comes up for examination at Bow Street.”

Mr. Hayes was ready with an apt expedient.
“Ring the bell for Mr. Ashurst’s
valet,” he said, quietly. “The moment has
now arrived when we can begin to set these
conspirators by the ears. As soon as they
learn that we know all, they will be eager to
inform upon one another.”

I rang the bell. “Send up White,” I
said. “We wish to speak to him.”

The valet stole up, self-accused, a timid,
servile creature, rubbing his hands nervously,
and suspecting mischief. He was a rat in
trouble. He had thin brown hair, neatly
brushed and plastered down, so as to make
it look still thinner, and his face was the
average narrow cunning face of the dishonest
man-servant. It had an ounce of wile in it
to a pound or two of servility. He seemed
just the sort of rogue meanly to join in an
underhand conspiracy, and then meanly to
back out of it. You could read at a glance
that his principle in life was to save his own
bacon.

He advanced, fumbling his hands all the
time, and smiling and fawning. “You wished
to see me, sir?” he murmured, in a deprecatory
voice, looking sideways at Lady
Georgina and me, but addressing the lawyer.

“Yes, White, I wished to see you. I have
a question to ask you. Who put the forged
will in Mr. Ashurst’s desk? Was it you, or
some other person?”

[Pg 198]

The question terrified him. He changed
colour and gasped. But he rubbed his
hands harder than ever and affected a sickly
smile. “Oh, sir, how should I know, sir?
I had nothing to do with it. I suppose—it
was Mr. Tillington.”

Our lawyer pounced upon him like a hawk
on a titmouse. “Don’t prevaricate with me,
sir,” he said, sternly. “If you do, it may
be worse for you. This case has assumed
quite another aspect. It is you and your
associates who will be placed in the dock,
not Mr. Tillington. You had better speak
the truth; it is your one chance, I warn you.
Lie to me, and instead of calling you as a
witness for our case, I shall include you in
the indictment.”

White looked down uneasily at his shoes,
and cowered. “Oh, sir, I don’t understand
you.”

“Yes, you do. You understand me, and
you know I mean it. Wriggling is useless;
we intend to prosecute. We have unravelled
this vile plot. We know the whole truth.
Higginson and Lord Southminster forged a
will between them——”

“Oh, sir, not Lord Southminster! His
lordship, I’m sure——”

Mr. Hayes’s keen eye had noted the subtle
shade of distinction and admission. But he
said nothing openly. “Well, then, Higginson
forged, and Lord Southminster accepted,
a false will, which purported to be Mr.
Marmaduke Ashurst’s. Now, follow me
clearly. That will could not have been put
into the escritoire during Mr. Ashurst’s life, for
there would have been risk of his discovering
it. It must, therefore, have been put there
afterward. The moment he was dead, you,
or somebody else with your consent and connivance,
slipped it into the escritoire; and
you afterwards showed Mr. Tillington the
place where you had set it or seen it set,
leading him to believe it was Mr. Ashurst’s
will, and so involved him in all this trouble.
Note that that was a felonious act. We
accuse you of felony. Do you mean to confess,
and give evidence on our behalf, or will
you force me to send for a policeman to
arrest you?”

The cur hesitated still. “Oh, sir,” drawing
back, and fumbling his hands on his
breast, “you don’t mean it.”

Mr. Hayes was prompt. “Hesslegrave,
go for a policeman.”

That curt sentence brought the rogue on his
marrow-bones at once. He clasped his hands
and debated inwardly. “If I tell you all I
know,” he said, at last, looking about him
with an air of abject terror, as if he thought
Lord Southminster or Higginson would hear
him, “will you promise not to prosecute
me?” His tone became insinuating. “For
a hundred pounds, I could find the real will
for you. You’d better close with me. To-day
is the last chance. As soon as his lordship
comes in, he’ll hunt it up and destroy
it.”

I flourished it before him, and pointed
with one hand to the broken desk, which he
had not yet observed in his craven agitation.

“We do not need your aid,” I answered.
“We have found the will, ourselves. Thanks
to Lady Georgina, it is safe till this minute.”

“And to me,” he put in, cringing, and
trying, after his kind, to curry favour with
the winners at the last moment. “It’s all
my doing, my lady! I wouldn’t destroy it.
His lordship offered me a hundred pounds
more to break open the back of the desk at
night, while your ladyship was asleep, and
burn the thing quietly. But I told him he
might do his own dirty work if he wanted it
done. It wasn’t good enough while your
ladyship was here in possession. Besides, I
wanted the right will preserved, for I thought
things might turn up so; and I wouldn’t
stand by and see a gentleman like Mr. Tillington,
as has always behaved well to me,
deprived of his inheritance.”

“Which is why you conspired with Lord
Southminster to rob him of it, and to send
him to prison for Higginson’s crime,” I interposed,
calmly.

“Then you confess you put the forged
will there?” Mr. Hayes said, getting to
business.

White looked about him helplessly. He
missed his headpiece, the instigator of the
plot. “Well, it was like this, my lady,” he
began, turning to Lady Georgina, and
wriggling to gain time. “You see, his lordship
and Mr. Higginson——” he twirled his
thumbs and tried to invent something
plausible.

Lady Georgina swooped. “No rigmarole!”
she said, sharply. “Do you confess you put
it there or do you not—reptile?” Her
vehemence startled him.

“Yes, I confess I put it there,” he said at
last, blinking. “As soon as the breath was
out of Mr. Ashurst’s body I put it there.”
He began to whimper. “I’m a poor man
with a wife and family, sir,” he went on,
“though in Mr. Ashurst’s time I always kep’
that quiet; and his lordship offered to pay
me well for the job; and when you’re paid
well for a job yourself, sir——.”

[Pg 199]

Mr. Hayes waved him off with one imperious
hand. “Sit down in the corner
there, man, and don’t move or utter another
word,” he said, sternly, “until I order you.
You will be in time still for me to produce
at Bow Street.”

Just at that moment, Lord Southminster
swaggered back, accompanied by a couple
of unwilling policemen. “Oh, I say,” he
cried, bursting in and staring around him,
jubilant. “Look heah, Georgey, are you
going quietly, or must I ask these coppahs to
evict you?” He was wreathed in smiles
now, and had evidently been fortifying himself
with brandies and soda.

Lady Georgina rose in her wrath. “Yes,
I’ll go if you wish it, Bertie,” she answered,
with calm irony. “I’ll leave the house as
soon as you like—for the present—till we
come back again with Harold and his policemen
to evict you. This house is Harold’s.
Your game is played, boy.” She spoke
slowly. “We have found the other will—we
have discovered Higginson’s present address
in Paris—and we know from White how he
and you arranged this little conspiracy.”

She rapped out each clause in this last
accusing sentence with deliberate effect, like
so many pistol-shots. Each bullet hit home.
The pea-green young man, drawing back and
staring, stroked his shadowy moustache with
feeble fingers in undisguised astonishment.
Then he dropped into a chair and fixed his
gaze blankly on Lady Georgina. “Well,
this is a fair knock-out,” he ejaculated,
fatuously disconcerted. “I wish Higginson
was heah. I really don’t quite know what
to do without him. That fellah had squared
it all up so neatly, don’t yah know, that I
thought there couldn’t be any sort of hitch
in the proceedings.”

“You reckoned without Lois,” Lady
Georgina said, calmly.

“Ah, Miss Cayley—that’s true. I mean,
Mrs. Tillington. Yaas, yaas, I know, she’s
a doosid clevah person for a woman, now
isn’t she?”

It was impossible to take this flabby
creature seriously, even as a criminal. Lady
Georgina’s lips relaxed. “Doosid clever”
she admitted, looking at me almost tenderly.

“But not quite so clevah, don’t yah know,
as Higginson!”

“There you make your blooming little
erraw,” Mr. Hayes burst in, adopting one of
Lord Southminster’s favourite witticisms—the
sort of witticism that improves, like poetry,
by frequent repetition. “Policemen, you may
go into the next room and wait: this is a
family affair; we have no immediate need of
you.”

“Oh, certainly,” Lord Southminster
echoed, much relieved. “Very propah
sentiment! Most undesirable that the
constables should mix themselves up in a
family mattah like this. Not the place for
inferiahs!”

“Then why introduce them?” Lady
Georgina burst out, turning on him.

He smiled his fatuous smile. “That’s
just what I say,” he answered. “Why the
jooce introduce them? But don’t snap my
head off!”

The policemen withdrew respectfully, glad[Pg 200]
to be relieved of this unpleasant business,
where they could gain no credit, and might
possibly involve themselves in a charge of
assault. Lord Southminster rose with a
benevolent grin, and looked about him
pleasantly. The brandies and soda had
endowed him with irrepressible cheerfulness.

“Well?” Lady Georgina murmured.

“Well, I think I’ll leave now, Georgey.
You’ve trumped my ace, yah know. Nasty
trick of White to go and round on a fellah.
I don’t like the turn this business is taking.
Seems to me, the only way I have left to
get out of it is—to turn Queen’s evidence.”

Lady Georgina planted herself firmly
against the door. “Bertie,” she cried, “no,
you don’t—not till we’ve got what we want
out of you!”

He gazed at her blandly. His face broke
once more into an imbecile smile. “You
were always a rough ‘un, Georgey. Your
hand did sting! Well, what do you want
now? We’ve each played our cards, and you
needn’t cut up rusty over it—especially when
you’re winning! Hang it all, I wish I had
Higginson heah to tackle you!”

“If you go to see the Treasury people, or
the Solicitor-General, or the Public Prosecutor,
or whoever else it may be,” Lady Georgina
said, stoutly, “Mr. Hayes must go with you.
We’ve trumped your ace, as you say, and we
mean to take advantage of it. And then you
must trundle yourself down to Bow Street
afterwards, confess the whole truth, and set
Harold at liberty.”

“Oh, I say now, Georgey! The whole
truth! the whole blooming truth! That’s
really what I call humiliating a fellah!”

“If you don’t, we arrest you this minute—fourteen
years’ imprisonment!”

“Fourteen yeahs?” He wiped his forehead.
“Oh, I say. How doosid uncomfortable. I
was nevah much good at doing
anything by the sweat of my brow. I ought
to have lived in the Garden of Eden.
Georgey, you’re hard on a chap when he’s
down on his luck. It would be confounded
cruel to send me to fourteen yeahs at Portland.”

“You would have sent my husband to it,”
I broke in, angrily, confronting him.

“What? You too, Miss Cayley?—I mean
Mrs. Tillington. Don’t look at me like that.
Tigahs aren’t in it.”

His jauntiness disarmed us. However
wicked he might be, one felt it would be
ridiculous to imprison this schoolboy. A
sound flogging and a month’s deprivation
of wine and cigarettes was the obvious
punishment designed for him by nature.

“You must go down to the police-court
and confess this whole conspiracy,” Lady
Georgina went on after a pause, as sternly as
she was able. “I prefer, if we can, to save
the family—even you, Bertie. But I can’t
any longer save the family honour—I can
only save Harold’s. You must help me
to do that; and then, you must give me
your solemn promise—in writing—to leave
England for ever, and go to live in South
Africa.”

He stroked the invisible moustache more
nervously than before. That penalty came
home to him. “What, leave England for
evah? Newmarket—Ascot—the club—the
music-halls!”

“Or fourteen years’ imprisonment!”

“Georgey, you spank as hard as evah!”

“Decide at once, or we arrest you!”

He glanced about him feebly. I could
see he was longing for his lost confederate.
“Well, I’ll go,” he said at last, sobering
down; “and your solicitaw can trot round
with me. I’ll do all that you wish, though I
call it most unfriendly. Hang it all, fourteen
yeahs would be so beastly unpleasant!”

We drove forthwith to the proper authorities,
who, on hearing the facts, at once
arranged to accept Lord Southminster and
White as Queen’s evidence, neither being
the actual forger. We also telegraphed to
Paris to have Higginson arrested, Lord
Southminster giving us up his assumed name
with the utmost cheerfulness, and without
one moment’s compunction. Mr. Hayes was
quite right: each conspirator was only too
ready to save himself by betraying his
fellows. Then we drove on to Bow Street
(Lord Southminster consoling himself with a
cigarette on the way), just in time for
Harold’s case, which was to be taken, by
special arrangement, at 3.30.

A very few minutes sufficed to turn the
tables completely on the conspirators.
Harold was discharged, and a warrant was
issued for the arrest of Higginson, the actual
forger. He had drawn up the false will and
signed it with Mr. Ashurst’s name, after
which he had presented it for Lord Southminster’s
approval. The pea-green young
man told his tale with engaging frankness.
“Bertie’s a simple Simon,” Lady Georgina
commented to me; “but he’s also a rogue;
and Higginson saw his way to make excellent
capital of him in both capacities—first
use him as a catspaw, and then blackmail
him.”

[Pg 201]

On the steps of the police-court, as we
emerged triumphant, Lord Southminster met
us—still radiant as ever. He seemed wholly
unaware of the depths of his iniquity: a fresh
dose of brandy had restored his composure.
“Look heah,” he said, “Harold, your wife
has bested me! Jolly good thing for you
that you managed to get hold of such a
clevah woman! If you hadn’t, deah boy,
you’d have found yourself in Queeah Street!
But, I say, Lois—I call yah Lois because
you’re my cousin now, yah know—you were
backing the wrong man aftah all, as I told
yah. For if you’d backed me, all this
wouldn’t have come out; you’d have got the
tin and been a countess as well, aftah the
governah’s dead and gone, don’t yah see.
You’d have landed the double event. So
you’d have pulled off a bettah thing for yourself
in the end, as I said, if you’d laid your
bottom dollah on me for winnah!”

Higginson is now doing fourteen years at
Portland; Harold and I are happy in the
sweetest place in Gloucestershire; and Lord
Southminster, blissfully unaware of the contempt
with which the rest of the world
regards him, is shooting big game among his
“boys” in South Africa. Indeed, he bears
so little malice that he sent us a present of a
trophy of horns for our hall last winter.

[Pg 202]

A Town in the Tree-Tops.

By Ellsworth Douglass.

verybody at the pension
had heard it, but Bayly has a
circumstantial and picturesque
manner of narration, which
gives old stories a new
interest.

“Wasn’t it your American millionaire, Mr.
Waldorf Astor,” he said, addressing me, “who
made a wager that he would comfortably seat
thirty-two guests around the stump of a California
big tree? And didn’t he do it?
Brought a slice off the tree-stump more than
6,000 miles, and had a grand dinner on it in
London?”

“I must say I like your big tree stories
better than your big tree wines,” put in
Gaillet, a dashing young Frenchman, who
spoke English fluently; “but I don’t think
all that is so wonderful. I can show you a
place, within less than an hour of Paris,
where more than thirty-two persons can dine
around comfortable tables high up in the
branches of a single tree!”

“That sounds interesting, Gaillet; to me
it smells like ‘good copy.’ Eating up in
trees might make some novel photographs;
what do you say, Bayly?”

I purposely touched the young Englishman
on his hobby. He was an amateur photographer
of the virulent and persistent type,
and had recently infected me with the
contagion.

“If the sun looks promising we will ride
down there on our wheels to-morrow and
have a look at them,” he replied. “Can you
go with us and show us the way, Gaillet?”

And so, early the next morning, we went.
It was a delightful two hours on the wheel
in early October. Just as the country began
to grow more broken and interesting, and
chestnut trees began to strew the paths with
prickly burrs, we wheeled up a slight hill into
a quaint village, and dismounting, Gaillet
exclaimed:—

“Here we are at home with Robinson
Crusoe!”

Had he told me that Robinson Crusoe
really lived in the flesh and, after returning
from his lonely adventures, founded this little
village, and here attempted to bring into
fashion his old habit of eating in the trees,
I would have believed it. For here is the
village bearing his name to this day; here
also, as seen in our first photograph, is his
effigy in the principal street, under his rough,
thatched umbrella, and with his parrot seated[Pg 203]
upon his shoulder, as every schoolboy knows
him. Here, likewise, are a number of great
trees, with two or three rustic dining-huts
built far up on the limbs of each; and, as
Gaillet assured us, here, for the last fifty years,
men and their families have eaten in the trees
like squirrels.

As Bayly prepared to take the first photograph,
he noticed that the highest dining-stage
in the tip-top of the biggest tree had
curtains drawn around it, which he asked to
have pulled back. A waiter informed him
that this rustic hut was engaged by a party.

“Yes, I telephoned
down
yesterday afternoon,
and reserved
it for us,”
put in Gaillet.
“I also ordered
the déjeuner. I
hope you will
like it: sole au
gratin and chateaubriand
aux
champignons.”

At that moment
the wind
left the leaves
and boughs at
rest, and Bayly
snapped the
shutter, regardless
of the curtains.
I made reply
to Gaillet:—

“I never heard
of Crusoe’s fare
being quite so
pretentious as all
that. He must
have learned
cookery since he
came to France.”

“It is M.
Gueusquin aîné
who claims the
credit for applying the tree idea to modern
dining. Doubtless he does it better than
Crusoe could have done. At any rate, he
has made a large fortune out of the idea—far
more than Defoe made out of his story.
It was just fifty years ago,” continued Gaillet,
“that the father of the present proprietor here
was struck with the clever idea, bought this
picturesque plot of ground with large trees
on it, and built rustic dining-rooms on the
strongest branches. He called his lonely
little country place Robinson, after the Swiss
family which figures in the French version of
the romance, and invited the patronage of the
fun-loving Parisians who delight in fanciful
ideas of ibis sort. At that time it was
a long coach ride from the city, but it
soon became the popular rendezvous for a
day’s outing. Since then Kings have dined
here; thousands of wedding parties have
seen life rosy from the tree-tops, and nearly
every Parisian boy who reads the story of
Robinson’s adventures is taken to this
quaint little village as a realistic sequel. M.
Gueusquin’s success tempted others into
similar ventures
here, so that now
nearly every large
tree is utilized,
and Robinson
has grown into
quite a respectable
village, whose
name will always
be associated in
the French mind
with breezy dinners,
family picnics,
donkey-riding,
bracing
country air, and
charming scenery.
The Ligne
de Sceaux long
ago built a branch
line terminating
here, and a journey
of forty
minutes by train
brings one down
from the Luxembourg
Station in
Paris.”

Bayly evidently
cared
little for these
facts, for he had
busied himself
getting a focus
on the largest tree, which M. Gueusquin
proudly advertises as “Le Vrai Arbre de
Robinson.” You may see the result in
the accompanying photograph. Its massive
trunk has not much increased in size since
the stairway was built around it half a century
ago. There is one thatched hut built at the
first branch of the tree; another well out on
a higher limb on the other side of the trunk;
and the third and most desirable in the very
tip-top, from which one sees an enchanting
view of all the pretty country lying towards[Pg 204]
Paris. A stairway connects all these rustic
huts with each other, and in the busy season
a waiter is stationed at each dining stage,
and the wines and cooked foods are hauled
up to him from the ground by means of a
rope and basket running to each stage, as
will be seen in most of the photographs.
At wedding parties these
same baskets have more than once
served to lower away some bibulous
guest whose frequent toasts to the
bride have ended in a decided disinclination
to attempt the giddy and
precipitous stairway.

Bayly went next to inspect a
larger and more modern dining-room
built between two young trees, and
I have caught him on the stairway
in the photograph above. But I was
anxious to climb to some height and
get a good view of the nest in the
tree-top where we were to breakfast.
I heard someone laughing at my first
futile attempts at climbing, but at last
I gained a point of vantage which
gave a view over the tops of the
trees to the indefinite stretch of
pretty valley beyond.

While breakfast was preparing we
visited the neighbouring inns to
photograph the trees. Just across
the road we found one which claims
the distinction of being the tallest in
Robinson. As will be seen in the
photograph, it has three dining stages
one directly above another, so that
the same basket
may serve them
all. A waiter can
be seen in the top
stage of this thrifty,
sturdy chestnut, in
which many generations
may yet
dine.

Farther down
the road is a place
called the Maison
Robin, possibly in
the hope that the
kind public will
believe that the
“true Robinson”
was this Robin’s
son. Here is the
“Great Chestnut,”
which truly looks
as if it might antedate
Robinson
Crusoe by centuries. Yet it still showers its
plenteous fruit upon the ground, and as we
kicked about its bushels of bursting burrs we
wondered how “marron glacé” could be so
expensive in Paris. The next photograph
shows how the walks were sprinkled with[Pg 205]
ripe nuts; and also some pretty samples of
the vine or ivy-covered bosquets for those
who prefer to dine on terra firma. These are
numerous, and charmingly pretty in
the gardens of most of the inns here.

Another great feature of Robinson
is the family picnic, but the French
love ease and comfort too much to
dine on the grass under the trees.
They prefer to sit properly at a table,
and many of the inns recognise the
right of visitors to bring their own
provisions, and are content with
serving them wines, coffee, and the
like. When you go to Robinson,
you are sure to recognise this place
at the turning of the road before
reaching the great trees.

I returned to our second stage with
Gaillet, and found the table laid, but
not a scrap of food to be seen. The
waiter was trotting up the stairs with
a heavily-loaded tray, on which was
an enormous plate of sole au gratin.
Gaillet remarked that it looked as if
the people in the top hut had not
only captured our place, but our
breakfast as well. He begged the
waiter to hurry our order, and then
asked me what I thought might be
going on up there behind the
curtains. It was very near us, and
perhaps for this reason the young
ladies refrained from audible conversation.
They only whispered
among themselves and laughed at intervals,
but Gaillet
thought he surprised
one or two
attempts to peep
around the curtain
at us. I was ravenously
hungry, and
when the waiter
next went past up
to the top story I
seized a yard of
bread from his tray.
Looking down at
Bayly, who was
focusing below, I
cried out: “Lancelot,
if you are hungry,
get a photograph
of the only
morsel of food I
have been able to
secure before I devour
it!” And our
last illustration bears witness that he did so.
This detailed view of a thatched, rustic hut
perched upon a big limb finished his work.

[Pg 206]

Aunt Sarah’s Brooch.

 am afraid to face my Aunt
Sarah. Though how I am to
get out of it I don’t quite see.

At any rate, I will never
again undertake the work of a
private detective; though that
would have been a more useful resolve a
fortnight ago. The mischief is done now.

The main bitterness lies in the reflection
that it is all Aunt Sarah’s fault. Such a
muddlesome old——but, there, losing my
temper won’t mend it. A few weeks ago I
was Clement Simpson, with very considerable
expectations from my Aunt Sarah and no
particular troubles on my mind, and I was
engaged to my cousin, Honoria Prescott.
Now I am still Clement Simpson (although
sometimes I almost doubt even that), but my
expectations from my Aunt Sarah are of the
most uncomfortable, and my troubles overwhelm
me. As for Honoria Prescott——but
read and learn it all.

My aunt is a maiden lady of sixty-five,
though there is something about her appearance
at variance with the popular notion of
a spinster, insomuch that it is the way of
tradesmen to speak of her as “Mrs.” Simpson,
and to send their little bills thus addressed.
She is a very positive old lady, and she
measures, I should judge, about five feet
round the waist. She is constantly attended
by a doctor, and from time to time, in her
sadder moments, it has been her habit to
assure me that she shall not live long, and that
very soon I shall find myself well provided
for; though for an invalid she always ate
rather well: about as much, I should judge,
as a fairly healthy navvy. She had a great
idea of her importance in the family—in fact,
she was important—and she had—has now,
indeed—a way of directing the movements of
all its members, who submit with a becoming
humility. It is well to submit humbly to the
caprice of a rich elderly aunt, and it has
always been my own practice. It was because
of Aunt Sarah’s autocratic reign in the family
that Honoria Prescott and I refrained from
telling her of our engagement; for Aunt Sarah
had conceived vast matrimonial ambitions
on behalf of each of us. We were each to
make an exceedingly good marriage; there
was even a suggestion of a title for Honoria,
though what title, and how it was to be
captured, I never heard. And for me, I
understood there would be nothing less than
a brewer’s daughter, or even a company-promoter’s.
And so we feared that Aunt Sarah
might look upon a union between us not only
as a flat defiance of her wishes, but as a
deplorable mésalliance on both sides. So,
for the time the engagement lasted (not very
long, alas!), we feared to reveal it. Now
there is no engagement to reveal. But this
is anticipating.