THE STRAND MAGAZINE

An Illustrated Monthly

EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES

Vol VII., Issue 37.
January, 1894

Contents.

• Stories from the Diary of a Doctor. By the Authors of
  “The Medicine Lady.”
  • VII.—The Horror of Studley Grange.
• The Queen of Holland. By Mary Spencer-Warren.
• Zig-Zags at the Zoo. By A. G. Morrison.
  • XIX.—Zig-Zag Batrachian.
• The Helmet. From the French of Ferdinand
  Beissier
• The Music of Nature. By T. Camden Pratt.
  • Part II.
• Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their
  Lives.
  • Sir Henry Loch.
  • Madame Belle Cole.
  • The Lord Bishop of Peterborough.
  • Lord Wantage.
  • Sir Richard Temple, M.P.
• A Terrible New Year’s Eve. By Kathleen
  Huddleston.
• Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark. By E. H.
  Pitcairn.
• Beauties:
  • XIII.—Children.
• The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with Portraits).
  By J. Holt Schooling.
• The Mirror. From the French of George Japy.
• Handcuffs. By Inspector Moser.
• The Family Name. From the French of Henri
  Malin.
• The Queer Side of Things—
  • Among the Freaks.—Major Microbe.
  • Lamps of all Kinds and Times.
  • The Two Styles.

Stories from the Diary of a Doctor.

By the Authors of “THE MEDICINE LADY.”

VII.—THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE.

“THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE.”

I was in my consulting-room one morning, and had just said good-bye to the last
of my patients, when my servant came in and told me that a lady had called who
pressed very earnestly for an interview with me.

“I told her that you were just going out, sir,” said the man, “and she saw the
carriage at the door; but she begged to see you, if only for two minutes. This is
her card.”

I read the words, “Lady Studley.”

“Show her in,” I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall, slightly-made,
fair-haired girl entered the room.

She looked very young, scarcely more than twenty, and I could hardly believe
that she was, what her card indicated, a married woman.

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I motioned her
to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her.

“Oh, you can help me,” she said, clasping her hands and speaking in a slightly
theatrical manner. “My husband, Sir Henry Studley, is very unwell, and I want you
to come to see him—can you?—will you?”

“With pleasure,” I replied. “Where do you live?”

“At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don’t you know our place?”

“I daresay I ought to know it,” I replied, “although at the present moment I
can’t recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband. I presume you wish
me to have a consultation with his medical attendant?”

“No, no, not at all. The fact is, Sir Henry has not got a medical attendant. He
dislikes doctors, and won’t see one. I want you to come and stay with us for a week
or so. I have heard of you through mutual friends—the Onslows. I know you can
effect remarkable cures, and you have a great deal of tact. But you can’t possibly
do anything for my husband unless you are willing to stay in the house and to
notice his symptoms.”

Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long, slender hands
were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her gloves and was bending forward
in her chair. Her big, childish, and somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed
imploringly on my face.

“I love my husband,” she said, tears suddenly filling them—”and it is
dreadful, dreadful, to see him suffer as he does. He will die unless someone comes
to his aid. Oh, I know I am asking an immense thing, when I beg of you to leave all
your patients and come to the country. But we can pay. Money is no object whatever
to us. We can, we will, gladly pay you for your services.”

“I must think the matter over,” I said. “You flatter me by wishing for me, and
by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take a step of this
kind in a hurry. I will write to you by to-night’s post if you will give me your
address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some of the symptoms of Sir Henry’s
malady.”

“I fear it is a malady of the mind,” she answered immediately, “but it is of so
vivid and so startling a character, that unless relief is soon obtained, the body
must give way under the strain. You see that I am very young, Dr. Halifax. Perhaps
I look younger than I am—my age is twenty-two. My husband is twenty years my
senior. He would, however, be considered by most people still a young man. He is a
great scholar, and has always had more or less the habits of a recluse. He is fond
of living in his library, and likes nothing better than to be surrounded by books
of all sorts. Every modern book worth reading is forwarded to him by its publisher.
He is a very interesting man and a brilliant conversationalist. Perhaps I ought to
put all this in the past tense, for now he scarcely ever speaks—he reads next
to nothing—it is difficult to persuade him to eat—he will not leave the
house—he used to have a rather ruddy complexion—he is now deadly pale
and terribly emaciated. He sighs in the most heartrending manner, and seems to be
in a state of extreme nervous tension. In short, he is very ill, and yet he seems
to have no bodily disease. His eyes have a terribly startled expression in
them—his hand trembles so that he can scarcely raise a cup of tea to his
lips. In short, he looks like a man who has seen a ghost.”

“When did these symptoms begin to appear?” I asked.

“It is mid-winter now,” said Lady Studley. “The queer symptoms began to show
themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse and worse. In
short, I can stand them no longer,” she continued, giving way to a short,
hysterical sob. “I felt I must come to someone—I have heard of you. Do, do
come and save us. Do come and find out what is the matter with my wretched
husband.”

“I will write to you to-night,” I said, in as kind a voice as I could muster,
for the pretty, anxious wife interested me already. “It may not be possible for me
to stay at Studley Grange for a week, but in any case I can promise to come and see
the patient. One visit will probably be sufficient—what your husband wants
is, no doubt, complete change.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” she replied, standing up now. “I have said so scores of times,
but Sir Henry won’t stir from Studley—nothing will induce him to go away. He
won’t even leave his own special bedroom, although I expect he has dreadful
nights.” Two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks as she spoke. I looked at her
attentively.

“You will forgive me for speaking,” I said, “but you do not look at all well
yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as your husband.”

“Thank you,” she answered, “I am not very strong. I never have been, but that is
nothing—I mean that my health is not a thing of consequence at present. Well,
I must not take up any more of your time. I shall expect to get a letter from you
to-morrow morning. Please address it to Lady Studley, Grosvenor Hotel,
Victoria.”

She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left the
room.

I thought her very ill, and was sure that if I could see my way to spending a
week at Studley Grange, I should have two patients instead of one. It is always
difficult for a busy doctor to leave home, but after carefully thinking matters
over, I resolved to comply with Lady Studley’s request.

Accordingly, two days later saw me on my way to Wiltshire, and to Studley
Grange. A brougham with two smart horses was waiting at the station. To my surprise
I saw that Lady Studley had come herself to fetch me.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, giving me a feverish clasp of her
hand. “Your visit fills me with hope—I believe that you will discover what is
really wrong. Home!” she said, giving a quick, imperious direction to the footman
who appeared at the window of the carriage.

We bowled forward at a rapid pace, and she continued:—

“I came to meet you to-day to tell you that I have used a little guile with
regard to your visit. I have not told Sir Henry that you are coming here in the
capacity of a doctor.”

Here she paused and gave me one of her restless glances.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

“What have you said about me to Sir Henry?” I inquired.

“That you are a great friend of the Onslows, and that I have asked you here for
a week’s change,” she answered immediately.

“As a guest, my husband will be polite and delightful to you—as a doctor,
he would treat you with scant civility, and would probably give you little or none
of his confidence.”

I was quite silent for a moment after Lady Studley had told me this. Then I
said:—

“Had I known that I was not to come to your house in the capacity of a medical
man, I might have re-considered my earnest desire to help you.”

She turned very pale when I said this, and tears filled her eyes.

“Never mind,” I said now, for I could not but be touched by her extremely
pathetic and suffering face, by the look of great illness which was manifested in
every glance. “Never mind now; I am glad you have told me exactly the terms on
which you wish me to approach your husband; but I think that I can so put matters
to Sir Henry that he will be glad to consult me in my medical capacity.”

“Oh, but he does not even know that I suspect his illness. It would never do for
him to know. I suspect! I see! I fear! but I say nothing. Sir Henry would be much
more miserable than he is now, if he thought that I guessed that there is anything
wrong with him.”

“It is impossible for me to come to the Grange except as a medical man,” I
answered, firmly. “I will tell Sir Henry that you have seen some changes in him,
and have asked me to visit him as a doctor. Please trust me. Nothing will be said
to your husband that can make matters at all uncomfortable for you.”

Lady Studley did not venture any further remonstrance, and we now approached the
old Grange. It was an irregular pile, built evidently according to the wants of the
different families who had lived in it. The building was long and rambling, with
rows of windows filled up with panes of latticed glass. In front of the house was a
sweeping lawn, which, even at this time of the year, presented a velvety and
well-kept appearance. We drove rapidly round to the entrance door, and a moment
later I found myself in the presence of my host and patient. Sir Henry Studley was
a tall man with a very slight stoop, and an aquiline and rather noble face. His
eyes were dark, and his forehead inclined to be bald. There was a courtly,
old-world sort of look about him. He greeted me with extreme friendliness, and we
went into the hall, a very large and lofty apartment, to tea.

Lady Studley was vivacious and lively in the extreme. While she talked, the
hectic spots came out again on her cheeks. My uneasiness about her increased as I
noticed these symptoms. I felt certain that she was not only consumptive, but in
all probability she was even now the victim of an advanced stage of phthisis. I
felt far more anxious about her than about her husband, who appeared to me at that
moment to be nothing more than a somewhat nervous and hypochondriacal person. This
state of things seemed easy to account for in a scholar and a man of sedentary
habits.

I remarked about the age of the house, and my host became interested, and told
me one or two stories of the old inhabitants of the Grange. He said that to-morrow
he would have much pleasure in taking me over the building.

“Have you a ghost here?” I asked, with a laugh.

I don’t know what prompted me to ask the question. The moment I did so, Sir
Henry turned white to his lips, and Lady Studley held up a warning finger to me to
intimate that I was on dangerous ground. I felt that I was, and hastened to divert
the conversation into safer channels. Inadvertently I had touched on a sore spot. I
scarcely regretted having done so, as the flash in the baronet’s troubled eyes, and
the extreme agitation of his face, showed me plainly that Lady Studley was right
when she spoke of his nerves being in a very irritable condition. Of course, I did
not believe in ghosts, and wondered that a man of Sir Henry’s calibre could be at
all under the influence of this old-world fear.

“I am sorry that we have no one to meet you,” he said, after a few remarks of a
commonplace character had divided us from the ghost question. “But to-morrow
several friends are coming, and we hope you will have a pleasant time. Are you fond
of hunting?”

I answered that I used to be in the old days, before medicine and patients
occupied all my thoughts.

“If this open weather continues, I can probably give you some of your favourite
pastime,” rejoined Sir Henry; “and now perhaps you would like to be shown to your
room.”

My bedroom was in a modern wing of the house, and looked as cheerful and as
unghostlike as it was possible for a room to be. I did not rejoin my host and
hostess until dinner-time. We had a sociable little meal, at which nothing of any
importance occurred, and shortly after the servants withdrew, Lady Studley left Sir
Henry and me to ourselves. She gave me another warning glance as she left the room.
I had already quite made up my mind, however, to tell Sir Henry the motive of my
visit.

The moment the door closed behind his wife, he started up and asked me if I
would mind coming with him into his library.

“The fact is.” he said, “I am particularly glad you have come down. I want to
have a talk with you about my wife. She is extremely unwell.”

I signified my willingness to listen to anything Sir Henry might say, and in a
few minutes we found ourselves comfortably established in a splendid old room,
completely clothed with books from ceiling to floor.

“These are my treasures,” said the baronet, waving his hand in the direction of
an old bookcase, which contained, I saw at a glance, some very rare and precious
first editions.

“These are my friends, the companions of my hours of solitude. Now sit down, Dr.
Halifax; make yourself at home. You have come here as a guest, but I have heard of
you before, and am inclined to confide in you. I must frankly say that I hate your
profession as a rule. I don’t believe in the omniscience of medical men, but
moments come in the lives of all men when it is necessary to unburden the mind to
another. May I give you my confidence?”

“One moment first,” I said. “I can’t deceive you, Sir Henry. I have come here,
not in the capacity of a guest, but as your wife’s medical man. She has been
anxious about you, and she begged of me to come and stay here for a few days in
order to render you any medical assistance within my power. I only knew, on my way
here to-day, that she had not acquainted you with the nature of my visit.”

While I was speaking, Sir Henry’s face became extremely watchful, eager, and
tense.

“This is remarkable,” he said. “So Lucilla is anxious about me? I was not aware
that I ever gave her the least clue to the fact that I am not—in perfect
health. This is very strange—it troubles me.”

He looked agitated. He placed one long, thin hand on the little table which
stood near, and pouring out a glass of wine, drank it off. I noticed as he did so
the nervous trembling of his hand. I glanced at his face, and saw that it was thin
to emaciation.

“Well,” he said, “I am obliged to you for being perfectly frank with me. My wife
scarcely did well to conceal the object of your visit. But now that you have come,
I shall make use of you both for myself and for her.”

“Then you are not well?” I asked.

“Well!” he answered, with almost a shout. “Good God, no! I think that I am going
mad. I know—I know that unless relief soon comes I shall die or become a
raving maniac.”

“No, nothing of the kind,” I answered, soothingly; “you probably want change.
This is a fine old house, but dull, no doubt, in winter. Why don’t you go
away?—to the Riviera, or some other place where there is plenty of sunshine?
Why do you stay here? The air of this place is too damp to be good for either you
or your wife.”

Sir Henry sat silent for a moment, then he said, in a terse voice:—

“Perhaps you will advise me what to do after you know the nature of the malady
which afflicts me. First of all, however, I wish to speak of my wife.”

“I am ready to listen,” I replied.

“You see,” he continued, “that she is very delicate?”

“Yes,” I replied; “to be frank with you, I should say that Lady Studley was
consumptive.”

He started when I said this, and pressed his lips firmly together. After a
moment he spoke.

“You are right,” he replied. “I had her examined by a medical man—Sir
Joseph Dunbar—when I was last in London; he said her lungs were considerably
affected, and that, in short, she was far from well.”

“Did he not order you to winter abroad?”

“He did, but Lady Studley opposed the idea so strenuously that I was obliged to
yield to her entreaties. Consumption does not seem to take quite the ordinary form
with her. She is restless, she longs for cool air, she goes out on quite cold days,
in a closed carriage, it is true. Still, except at night, she does not regard
herself in any sense as an invalid. She has immense spirit—I think she will
keep up until she dies.”

“You speak of her being an invalid at night,” I replied. “What are her
symptoms?”

Sir Henry shuddered quite visibly.

“Oh, those awful nights!” he answered. “How happy would many poor mortals be,
but for the terrible time of darkness. Lady Studley has had dreadful nights for
some time: perspirations, cough, restlessness, bad dreams, and all the rest of it.
But I must hasten to tell you my story quite briefly. In the beginning of October
we saw Sir Joseph Dunbar. I should then, by his advice, have taken Lady Studley to
the Riviera, but she opposed the idea with such passion and distress, that I
abandoned it.”

Sir Henry paused here, and I looked at him attentively. I remembered at that
moment what Lady Studley had said about her husband refusing to leave the Grange
under any circumstances. What a strange game of cross-purposes these two were
playing. How was it possible for me to get at the truth?

“At my wife’s earnest request,” continued Sir Henry, “we returned to the Grange.
She declared her firm intention of remaining here until she died.

“Soon after our return she suggested that we should occupy separate rooms at
night, reminding me, when she made the request, of the infectious nature of
consumption. I complied with her wish on condition that I slept in the room next
hers, and that on the smallest emergency I should be summoned to her aid. This
arrangement was made, and her room opens into mine. I have sometimes heard her
moving about at night—I have often heard her cough, and I have often heard
her sigh. But she has never once sent for me, or given me to understand that she
required my aid. She does not think herself very ill, and nothing worries her more
than to have her malady spoken about. That is the part of the story which relates
to my wife.”

“She is very ill,” I said. “But I will speak of that presently. Now will you
favour me with an account of your own symptoms, Sir Henry?”

He started again when I said this, and going across the room, locked the door
and put the key in his pocket.

“Perhaps you will laugh at me,” he said, “but it is no laughing matter, I assure
you. The most terrible, the most awful affliction has come to me. In short, I am
visited nightly by an appalling apparition. You don’t believe in ghosts, I judge
that by your face. Few scientific men do.”

“Frankly, I do not,” I replied. “So-called ghosts can generally be accounted
for. At the most they are only the figments of an over-excited or diseased
brain.”

“Be that as it may,” said Sir Henry, “the diseased brain can give such torture
to its victim that death is preferable. All my life I have been what I consider a
healthy minded man. I have plenty of money, and have never been troubled with the
cares which torture men of commerce, or of small means. When I married, three years
ago, I considered myself the most lucky and the happiest of mortals.”

“Forgive a personal question,” I interrupted. “Has your marriage disappointed
you?”

“No, no; far from it,” he replied with fervour. “I love my dear wife better and
more deeply even than the day when I took her as a bride to my arms. It is true
that I am weighed down with sorrow about her, but that is entirely owing to the
state of her health.”

“It is strange,” I said, “that she should be weighed down with sorrow about you
for the same cause. Have you told her of the thing which terrifies you?”

“Never, never. I have never spoken of it to mortal. It is remarkable that my
wife should have told you that I looked like a man who has seen a ghost. Alas!
alas! But let me tell you the cause of my shattered nerves, my agony, and failing
health.”

“Pray do, I shall listen attentively,” I replied.

“Oh, doctor, that I could make you feel the horror of it!” said Sir Henry,
bending forward and looking into my eyes. “Three months ago I no more believed in
visitations, in apparitions, in so-called ghosts, than you do. Were you tried as I
am, your scepticism would receive a severe shock. Now let me tell you what occurs.
Night after night Lady Studley and I retire to rest at the same hour. We say
good-night, and lay our heads on our separate pillows. The door of communication
between us is shut. She has a night-light in her room—I prefer darkness. I
close my eyes and prepare for slumber. As a rule I fall asleep. My sleep is of
short duration. I awake with beads of perspiration standing on my forehead, with my
heart thumping heavily and with every nerve wide awake, and waiting for the horror
which will come. Sometimes I wait half an hour—sometimes longer. Then I know
by a faint, ticking sound in the darkness that the Thing, for I can clothe it with
no name, is about to visit me. In a certain spot of the room, always in the same
spot, a bright light suddenly flashes; out of its midst there gleams a
preternaturally large eye, which looks fixedly at me with a diabolical expression.
As time goes, it does not remain long; but as agony counts, it seems to take years
of my life away with it. It fades as suddenly into grey mist and nothingness as it
comes, and, wet with perspiration, and struggling to keep back screams of mad
terror, I bury my head in the bed-clothes.”

“But have you never tried to investigate this thing?” I said.

“I did at first. The first night I saw it, I rushed out of bed and made for the
spot. It disappeared at once. I struck a light—there was nothing whatever in
the room.”

“Why do you sleep in that room?”

“I must not go away from Lady Studley. My terror is that she should know
anything of this—my greater terror is that the apparition, failing me, may
visit her. I daresay you think I’m a fool, Halifax; but the fact is, this thing is
killing me, brave man as I consider myself.”

“Do you see it every night?” I asked.

“Not quite every night, but sometimes on the same night it comes twice.
Sometimes it will not come at all for two nights, or even three. It is the most
ghastly, the most horrible form of torture that could hurry a sane man into his
grave or into a madhouse.”

“I have not the least shadow of doubt,” I said, after a pause, “that the thing
can be accounted for.”

Sir Henry shook his head. “No, no,” he replied, “it is either as you suggest, a
figment of my own diseased brain, and therefore just as horrible as a real
apparition; or it is a supernatural visitation. Whether it exists or not, it is
reality to me and in no way a dream. The full horror of it is present with me in my
waking moments.”

“Do you think anyone is playing an awful practical joke?” I suggested.

“Certainly not. What object can anyone have in scaring me to death? Besides,
there is no one in the room, that I can swear. My outer door is locked, Lady
Studley’s outer door is locked. It is impossible that there can be any trickery in
the matter.”

I said nothing for a moment. I no more believed in ghosts than I ever did, but I
felt certain that there was grave mischief at work. Sir Henry must be the victim of
a hallucination. This might only be caused by functional disturbance of the brain,
but it was quite serious enough to call for immediate attention. The first thing to
do was to find out whether the apparition could be accounted for in any material
way, or if it were due to the state of Sir Henry’s nerves. I began to ask him
certain questions, going fully into the case in all its bearings. I then examined
his eyes with the ophthalmoscope. The result of all this was to assure me beyond
doubt that Sir Henry Studley was in a highly nervous condition, although I could
detect no trace of brain disease.

“Do you mind taking me to your room?” I said.

“Not to-night,” he answered. “It is late, and Lady Studley might express
surprise. The object of my life is to conceal this horror from her. When she is out
to-morrow you shall come to the room and judge for yourself.”

“Well,” I said, “I shall have an interview with your wife to-morrow, and urge
her most strongly to consent to leave the Grange and go away with you.”

Shortly afterwards we retired to rest, or what went by the name of rest in that
sad house, with its troubled inmates. I must confess that, comfortable as my room
was, I slept very little. Sir Henry’s story stayed with me all through the hours of
darkness. I am neither nervous nor imaginative, but I could not help seeing that
terrible eye, even in my dreams.

I met my host and hostess at an early breakfast. Sir Henry proposed that as the
day was warm and fine, I should ride to a neighbouring meet. I was not in the
humour for this, however, and said frankly that I should prefer remaining at the
Grange. One glance into the faces of my host and hostess told me only too plainly
that I had two very serious patients on my hands. Lady Studley looked terribly weak
and excited—the hectic spots on her cheeks, the gleaming glitter of her eyes,
the parched lips, the long, white, emaciated hands, all showed only too plainly the
strides the malady under which she was suffering was making.

“After all, I cannot urge that poor girl to go abroad,” I said to myself. “She
is hastening rapidly to her grave, and no power on earth can save her. She looks as
if there were extensive disease of the lungs. How restless her eyes are, too! I
would much rather testify to Sir Henry’s sanity than to hers.”

Sir Henry Studley also bore traces of a sleepless night—his face was
bloodless; he averted his eyes from mine; he ate next to nothing.

Immediately after breakfast, I followed Lady Studley into her morning-room. I
had already made up my mind how to act. Her husband should have my full
confidence—she only my partial view of the situation.

“Well,” I said, “I have seen your husband and talked to him. I hope he will soon
be better. I don’t think you need be seriously alarmed about him. Now for yourself,
Lady Studley. I am anxious to examine your lungs. Will you allow me to do so?”

“I suppose Henry has told you I am consumptive?”

“He says you are not well,” I answered. “I don’t need his word to assure me of
that fact—I can see it with my own eyes. Please let me examine your chest
with my stethoscope.”

She hesitated for a moment, looking something like a wild creature brought to
bay. Then she sank into a chair, and with trembling fingers unfastened her dress.
Poor soul, she was almost a walking skeleton—her beautiful face was all that
was beautiful about her. A brief examination told me that she was in the last stage
of phthisis—in short, that her days were numbered.

“What do you think of me?” she asked, when the brief examination was over.

“You are ill,” I replied.

“How soon shall I die?”

“God only knows that, my dear lady,” I answered.

“Oh, you needn’t hide your thoughts,” she said. “I know that my days are very
few. Oh, if only, if only my husband could come with me! I am so afraid to go
alone, and I am fond of him, very fond of him.”

I soothed her as well as I could.

“You ought to have someone to sleep in your room at night,” I said. “You ought
not to be left by yourself.”

“Henry is near me—in the next room,” she replied. “I would not have a
nurse for the world—I hate and detest nurses.”

Soon afterwards she left me. She was very erratic, and before she left the room
she had quite got over her depression. The sun shone out, and with the gleam of
brightness her volatile spirits rose.

“I am going for a drive,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

“Not this morning,” I replied. “If you ask me to-morrow, I shall be pleased to
accompany you.”

“Well, go to Henry,” she answered. “Talk to him—find out what ails him,
order tonics for him. Cheer him in every way in your power. You say he is not
ill—not seriously ill—I know better. My impression is that if my days
are numbered, so are his.”

She went away, and I sought her husband. As soon as the wheels of her brougham
were heard bowling away over the gravel sweep, we went up together to his room.

“That eye came twice last night,” he said in an awestruck whisper to me. “I am a
doomed man—a doomed man. I cannot bear this any longer.”

We were standing in the room as he said the words. Even in broad daylight, I
could see that he glanced round him with apprehension. He was shaking quite
visibly. The room was decidedly old-fashioned, but the greater part of the
furniture was modern. The bed was an Albert one with a spring mattress, and light,
cheerful dimity hangings. The windows were French—they were wide open, and
let in the soft, pleasant air, for the day was truly a spring one in winter. The
paper on the walls was light.

“This is a quaint old wardrobe,” I said. “It looks out of place with the rest of
the furniture. Why don’t you have it removed?”

“Hush,” he said, with a gasp. “Don’t go near it—I dread it, I have locked
it. It is always in that direction that the apparition appears. The apparition
seems to grow out of the glass of the wardrobe. It always appears in that one
spot.”

“I see,” I answered. “The wardrobe is built into the wall. That is the reason it
cannot be removed. Have you got the key about you?”

He fumbled in his pocket, and presently produced a bunch of keys.

“I wish you wouldn’t open the wardrobe,” he said. “I frankly admit that I
dislike having it touched.”

“All right,” I replied. “I will not examine it while you are in the room. You
will perhaps allow me to keep the key?”

“Certainly! You can take it from the bunch, if you wish. This is it. I shall be
only too glad to have it well out of my own keeping.”

“We will go downstairs,” I said.

We returned to Sir Henry’s library. It was my turn now to lock the door.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“Because I wish to be quite certain that no one overhears our conversation.”

“What have you got to say?”

“I have a plan to propose to you.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to change bedrooms with me to-night.”

“What can you mean?—what will Lady Studley say?”

“Lady Studley must know nothing whatever about the arrangement. I think it very
likely that the apparition which troubles you will be discovered to have a material
foundation. In short, I am determined to get to the bottom of this horror. You have
seen it often, and your nerves are much shattered. I have never seen it, and my
nerves are, I think, in tolerable order. If I sleep in your room
to-night—”

“It may not visit you.”

“It may not, but on the other hand it may. I have a curiosity to lie on that bed
and to face that wardrobe in the wall. You must yield to my wishes, Sir Henry.”

“But how can the knowledge of this arrangement be kept from my wife?”

“Easily enough. You will both go to your rooms as usual. You will bid her
good-night as usual, and after the doors of communication are closed I will enter
the room and you will go to mine, or to any other that you like to occupy. You say
your wife never comes into your room during the hours of the night?”

“She has never yet done so.”

“She will not to-night. Should she by any chance call for assistance, I will
immediately summon you.”

It was very evident that Sir Henry did not like this arrangement. He yielded,
however, to my very strong persuasions, which almost took the form of commands, for
I saw that I could do nothing unless I got complete mastery over the man.

Lady Studley returned from her drive just as our arrangements were fully made. I
had not a moment during all the day to examine the interior of the wardrobe. The
sick woman’s restlessness grew greater as the hours advanced. She did not care to
leave her husband’s side. She sat with him as he examined his books. She followed
him from room to room. In the afternoon, to the relief of everyone, some fresh
guests arrived. In consequence we had a cheerful evening. Lady Studley came down to
dinner in white from top to toe. Her dress was ethereal in texture and largely
composed of lace. I cannot describe woman’s dress, but with her shadowy figure and
worn, but still lovely face, she looked spiritual. The gleam in her large blue eyes
was pathetic. Her love for her husband was touching to behold. How soon, how very
soon, they must part from each other! Only I as a doctor knew how impossible it was
to keep the lamp of life much longer burning in the poor girl’s frame.

We retired as usual to rest. Sir Henry bade me a cheerful good-night. Lady
Studley nodded to me as she left the room.

“Sleep well,” she said, in a gay voice.

It was late the next morning when we all met round the breakfast table. Sir
Henry looked better, but Lady Studley many degrees worse, than the night before. I
wondered at her courage in retaining her post at the head of her table. The
visitors, who came in at intervals and took their seats at the table, looked at her
with wonder and compassion.

“Surely my hostess is very ill?” said a guest who sat next my side.

“Yes, but take no notice of it,” I answered.

Soon after breakfast I sought Sir Henry.

“Well—well?” he said, as he grasped my hand. “Halifax, you have seen it. I
know you have by the expression of your face.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I have.”

“How quietly you speak. Has not the horror of the thing seized you?”

“No,” I said, with a brief laugh. “I told you yesterday that my nerves were in
tolerable order. I think my surmise was correct, and that the apparition has
tangible form and can be traced to its foundation.”

An unbelieving look swept over Sir Henry’s face.

“Ah,” he said, “doctors are very hard to convince. Everything must be brought
down to a cold material level to satisfy them; but several nights in that room
would shatter even your nerves, my friend.”

“You are quite right,” I answered. “I should be very sorry to spend several
nights in that room. Now I will tell you briefly what occurred.”

We were standing in the library. Sir Henry went to the door, locked it, and put
the key in his pocket.

“Can I come in?” said a voice outside.

The voice was Lady Studley’s.

“In a minute, my darling,” answered her husband. “I am engaged with Halifax just
at present.”

“Medically, I suppose?” she answered.

“Yes, medically,” he responded.

She went away at once, and Sir Henry returned to my side.

“Now speak,” he said. “Be quick. She is sure to return, and I don’t like her to
fancy that we are talking secrets.”

“This is my story,” I said. “I went into your room, put out all the lights, and
sat on the edge of the bed.”

“You did not get into bed, then?”

“No, I preferred to be up and to be ready for immediate action should the
apparition, the horror, or whatever you call it, appear.”

“Good God, it is a horror, Halifax!”

“It is, Sir Henry. A more diabolical contrivance for frightening a man into his
grave could scarcely have been contrived. I can comfort you on one point, however.
The terrible thing you saw is not a figment of your brain. There is no likelihood
of a lunatic asylum in your case. Someone is playing you a trick.”

“I cannot agree with you—but proceed,” said the baronet, impatiently.

“I sat for about an hour on the edge of the bed,” I continued. “When I entered
the room it was twelve o’clock—one had sounded before there was the least
stir or appearance of anything, then the ticking noise you have described was
distinctly audible. This was followed by a sudden bright light, which seemed to
proceed out of the recesses of the wardrobe.”

“What did you feel when you saw that light?”

“Too excited to be nervous,” I answered, briefly. “Out of the circle of light
the horrible eye looked at me.”

“What did you do then? Did you faint?”

“No, I went noiselessly across the carpet up to the door of the wardrobe and
looked in.”

“Heavens! you are daring. I wonder you are alive to tell this tale.”

“I saw a shadowy form,” I replied—”dark and tall—the one brilliant
eye kept on looking past me, straight into the room. I made a very slight noise; it
immediately disappeared. I waited for some time—nothing more happened. I got
into your bed, Sir Henry, and slept. I can’t say that I had a comfortable night,
but I slept, and was not disturbed by anything extraordinary for the remaining
hours of the night.”

“Now what do you mean to do? You say you can trace this thing to its foundation.
It seems to me that all you have seen only supports my firm belief that a horrible
apparition visits that room.”

“A material one,” I responded. “The shadowy form had substance, of that I am
convinced. Sir Henry, I intend to sleep in that room again to-night.”

“Lady Studley will find out.”

“She will not. I sleep in the haunted room again to-night, and during the day
you must so contrive matters that I have plenty of time to examine the wardrobe. I
did not do so yesterday because I had not an opportunity. You must contrive to get
Lady Studley out of the way, either this morning or afternoon, and so manage
matters for me that I can be some little time alone in your room.”

“Henry, Henry, how awestruck you look!” said a gay voice at the window. Lady
Studley had come out, had come round to the library window, and, holding up her
long, dark-blue velvet dress, was looking at us with a peculiar smile.

“Well, my love,” replied the baronet. He went to the window and flung it open.
“Lucilla,” he exclaimed, “you are mad to stand on the damp grass.”

“Oh, no, not mad,” she answered. “I have come to that stage when nothing
matters. Is not that so, Dr. Halifax?”

“You are very imprudent,” I replied.

She shook her finger at me playfully, and turned to her husband.

“Henry,” she said, “have you taken my keys? I cannot find them anywhere.”

“I will go up and look for them,” said Sir Henry. He left the room, and Lady
Studley entered the library through one of the French windows.

“What do you think of my husband this morning?” she asked.

“He is a little better,” I replied. “I am confident that he will soon be quite
well again.”

She gave a deep sigh when I said this, her lips trembled, and she turned away. I
thought my news would make her happy, and her depression surprised me.

At this moment Sir Henry came into the room.

“Here are your keys,” he said to his wife. He gave her the same bunch he had
given me the night before. I hoped she would not notice that the key of the
wardrobe was missing.

“And now I want you to come for a drive with me,” said Sir Henry.

He did not often accompany her, and the pleasure of this unlooked-for indulgence
evidently tempted her.

“Very well,” she answered. “Is Dr. Halifax coming?”

“No, he wants to have a ride.”

“If he rides, can he not follow the carriage?”

“Will you do that, Halifax?” asked my host.

“No, thank you,” I answered; “I must write some letters before I go anywhere. I
will ride to the nearest town and post them presently, if I may.” I left the room
as I spoke.

Shortly afterwards I saw from a window Sir Henry and his wife drive away. They
drove in a large open landau, and two girls who were staying in the house
accompanied them. My hour had come, and I went up at once to Sir Henry’s bedroom.
Lady Studley’s room opened directly into that of her husband, but both rooms had
separate entrances.

I locked the two outer doors now, and then began my investigations. I had the
key of the wardrobe in my pocket.

It was troublesome to unlock, because the key was a little rusty, and it was
more than evident that the heavy doors had not been opened for some time. Both
these doors were made of glass. When shut, they resembled in shape and appearance
an ordinary old-fashioned window. The glass was set in deep mullions. It was thick,
was of a peculiar shade of light blue, and was evidently of great antiquity. I
opened the doors and went inside. The wardrobe was so roomy that I could stand
upright with perfect comfort. It was empty, and was lined through and through with
solid oak. I struck a light and began to examine the interior with care. After a
great deal of patient investigation I came across a notch in the wood. I pressed my
finger on this, and immediately a little panel slid back, which revealed underneath
a small button. I turned the button and a door at the back of the wardrobe flew
open. A flood of sunlight poured in, and stepping out, I found myself in another
room. I looked around me in astonishment. This was a lady’s chamber. Good heavens!
what had happened? I was in Lady Studley’s room. Shutting the mysterious door of
the wardrobe very carefully, I found that all trace of its existence immediately
vanished.

There was no furniture against this part of the wall. It looked absolutely bare
and smooth. No picture ornamented it. The light paper which covered it gave the
appearance of a perfectly unbroken pattern. Of course, there must be a concealed
spring somewhere, and I lost no time in feeling for it. I pressed my hand and the
tips of my fingers in every direction along the wall. Try as I would, however, I
could not find the spring, and I had at last to leave Lady Studley’s room and go
back to the one occupied by her husband, by the ordinary door.

Once more I re-entered the wardrobe and deliberately broke off the button which
opened the secret door from within. Anyone who now entered the wardrobe by this
door, and shut it behind him, would find it impossible to retreat. The apparition,
if it had material foundation, would thus find itself trapped in its own net.

What could this thing portend?

I had already convinced myself that if Sir Henry were the subject of a
hallucination, I also shared it. As this was impossible, I felt certain that the
apparition had a material foundation. Who was the person who glided night after
night into Lady Studley’s room, who knew the trick of the secret spring in the
wall, who entered the old wardrobe, and performed this ghastly, this appalling
trick on Sir Henry Studley? I resolved that I would say nothing to Sir Henry of my
fresh discovery until after I had spent another night in the haunted room.

Accordingly, I slipped the key of the wardrobe once more into my pocket and went
downstairs.

I had my way again that night. Once more I found myself the sole occupant of the
haunted room. I put out the light, sat on the edge of the bed, and waited the issue
of events. At first there was silence and complete darkness, but soon after one
o’clock I heard the very slight but unmistakable tick-tick, which told me that the
apparition was about to appear. The ticking noise resembled the quaint sound made
by the death spider. There was no other noise of any sort, but a quickening of my
pulses, a sensation which I could not call fear, but which was exciting to the
point of pain, braced me up for an unusual and horrible sight. The light appeared
in the dim recess of the wardrobe. It grew clear and steady, and quickly resolved
itself into one intensely bright circle. Out of this circle the eye looked at me.
The eye was unnaturally large—it was clear, almost transparent, its
expression was full of menace and warning. Into the circle of light presently a
shadowy and ethereal hand intruded itself. The fingers beckoned me to approach,
while the eye looked fixedly at me. I sat motionless on the side of the bed. I am
stoical by nature and my nerves are well seasoned, but I am not ashamed to say that
I should be very sorry to be often subjected to that menace and that invitation.
The look in that eye, the beckoning power in those long, shadowy fingers would soon
work havoc even in the stoutest nerves. My heart beat uncomfortably fast, and I had
to say over and over to myself, “This is nothing more than a ghastly trick.” I had
also to remind myself that I in my turn had prepared a trap for the apparition. The
time while the eye looked and the hand beckoned might in reality have been counted
by seconds; to me it seemed like eternity. I felt the cold dew on my forehead
before the rapidly waning light assured me that the apparition was about to vanish.
Making an effort I now left the bed and approached the wardrobe. I listened
intently. For a moment there was perfect silence. Then a fumbling noise was
distinctly audible. It was followed by a muffled cry, a crash, and a heavy fall. I
struck a light instantly, and taking the key of the wardrobe from my pocket, opened
it. Never shall I forget the sight that met my gaze.

There, huddled up on the floor, lay the prostrate and unconscious form of Lady
Studley. A black cloak in which she had wrapped herself partly covered her face,
but I knew her by her long, fair hair. I pulled back the cloak, and saw that the
unhappy girl had broken a blood-vessel, and even as I lifted her up I knew that she
was in a dying condition.

I carried her at once into her own room and laid her on the bed. I then returned
and shut the wardrobe door, and slipped the key into my pocket. My next deed was to
summon Sir Henry.

“What is it?” he asked, springing upright in bed.

“Come at once,” I said, “your wife is very ill.”

“Dying?” he asked, in an agonized whisper.

I nodded my head. I could not speak.

My one effort now was to keep the knowledge of the ghastly discovery I had made
from the unhappy husband.

He followed me to his wife’s room. He forgot even to question me about the
apparition, so horrified was he at the sight which met his view.

I administered restoratives to the dying woman, and did what I could to check
the haemorrhage. After a time Lady Studley opened her dim eyes.

“Oh, Henry!” she said, stretching out a feeble hand to him, “come with me, come
with me. I am afraid to go alone.”

“My poor Lucilla,” he said. He smoothed her cold forehead, and tried to comfort
her by every means in his power.

After a time he left the room. When he did so she beckoned me to approach. “I
have failed,” she said, in the most thrilling voice of horror I have ever listened
to. “I must go alone. He will not come with me.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She could scarcely speak, but at intervals the following words dropped slowly
from her lips:—

“I was the apparition. I did not want my husband to live after me. Perhaps I was
a little insane. I cannot quite say. When I was told by Sir Joseph Dunbar that
there was no hope of my life, a most appalling and frightful jealousy took
possession of me. I pictured my husband with another wife. Stoop down.”

Her voice was very faint. I could scarcely hear her muttered words. Her eyes
were glazing fast, death was claiming her, and yet hatred against some unknown
person thrilled in her feeble voice.

“Before my husband married me, he loved another woman,” she continued. “That
woman is now a widow. I felt certain that immediately after my death he would seek
her out and marry her. I could not bear the thought—it possessed me day and
night. That, and the terror of dying alone, worked such a havoc within me that I
believe I was scarcely responsible for my own actions. A mad desire took possession
of me to take my husband with me, and so to keep him from her, and also to have his
company when I passed the barriers of life. I told you that my brother was a
doctor. In his medical-student days the sort of trick I have been playing on Sir
Henry was enacted by some of his fellow-students for his benefit, and almost scared
him into fever. One day my brother described the trick to me, and I asked him to
show me how it was done. I used a small electric lamp and a very strong
reflector.”

“How did you find out the secret door of the wardrobe?” I asked.

“Quite by chance. I was putting some dresses into the wardrobe one day and
accidentally touched the secret panel. I saw at once that here was my
opportunity.”

“You must have been alarmed at your success,” I said, after a pause. “And now I
have one more question to ask: Why did you summon me to the Grange?”

She made a faint, impatient movement.

“I wanted to be certain that my husband was really very ill,” she said. “I
wanted you to talk to him—I guessed he would confide in you; I thought it
most probable that you would tell him that he was a victim of brain hallucinations.
This would frighten him and would suit my purpose exactly. I also sent for you as a
blind. I felt sure that under these circumstances neither you nor my husband could
possibly suspect me.”

She was silent again, panting from exhaustion.

“I have failed,” she said, after a long pause. “You have discovered the truth.
It never occurred to me for a moment that you would go into the room. He will
recover now.”

She paused; a fresh attack of haemorrhage came on. Her breath came quickly. Her
end was very near. Her dim eyes could scarcely see.

Groping feebly with her hand she took mine.

“Dr. Halifax—promise.”

“What?” I asked.

“I have failed, but let me keep his love, what little love he has for me, before
he marries that other woman. Promise that you will never tell him.”

“Rest easy,” I answered, “I will never tell him.”

Sir Henry entered the room.

I made way for him to kneel by his wife’s side.

As the grey morning broke Lady Studley died.

Before my departure from the Grange I avoided Sir Henry as much as possible.
Once he spoke of the apparition and asked if I had seen it. “Yes,” I replied.

Before I could say anything further, he continued:—

“I know now why it came; it was to warn me of my unhappy wife’s death.” He said
no more. I could not enlighten him, and he is unlikely now ever to learn the
truth.

The following day I left Studley Grange. I took with me, without asking leave of
any-one, a certain long black cloak, a small electric lamp, and a magnifying glass
of considerable power.

It may be of interest to explain how Lady Studley in her unhealthy condition of
mind and body performed the extraordinary trick by which she hoped to undermine her
husband’s health, and ultimately cause his death.

I experimented with the materials which I carried away with me, and succeeded,
so my friends told me, in producing a most ghastly effect.

I did it in this way. I attached the mirror of a laryngoscope to my forehead in
such a manner as to enable it to throw a strong reflection into one of my eyes. In
the centre of the bright side of the laryngoscope a small electric lamp was fitted.
This was connected with a battery which I carried in my hand. The battery was
similar to those used by the ballet girls in Drury Lane Theatre, and could be
brought into force by a touch and extinguished by the removal of the pressure. The
eye which was thus brilliantly illumined looked through a lens of some power. All
the rest of the face and figure was completely covered by the black cloak. Thus the
brightest possible light was thrown on the magnified eye, while there was
corresponding increased gloom around.

When last I heard of Studley Grange it was let for a term of years and Sir Henry
had gone abroad. I have not heard that he has married again, but he probably will,
sooner or later.

The Queen of Holland.

BY MARY SPENCER-WARREN.

Her Majesty the Queen-Regent of Holland has graciously accorded special
permission to the writer of the following article to visit the Royal Palaces of
Amsterdam and The Hague to obtain photographs for publication in this Magazine: a
privilege of the greatest value, which is now accorded for the first time, the
palaces never before having been photographed.

THE ROYAL PALACE, AMSTERDAM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

“I know a city, whose inhabitants dwell on the tops of trees like rooks.” Thus
spake Erasmus; and this literal fact makes Amsterdam a most curious as well as a
most interesting place.

Were I writing of any one of Queen Victoria’s Palaces, I should have no need to
speak of its situation: but, travellers though we are, we do not all see these
quaint Dutch cities, so a few introductory words may not come amiss.

A walk round the city reminds one of Paris with its Boulevards planted with
trees, and Venice with its all-present canals; indeed, it is actually divided up
into nearly one hundred islands, connected by over three hundred bridges. A curious
thing is, that its inhabitants are really living below the level of the sea, which
is stoutly dammed out. Thus, if necessary, water could be made its protection from
any invasion.

To go back to the commencement, everything, streets, houses, and bridges are all
built upon wooden piles driven into the ground. This is absolutely necessary, as
the natural soil is such that no permanent structure can be put up otherwise. On
how many piles this city stands it is impossible to form an accurate idea; one
building—the Royal Palace (Het Paleis)—resting on some 13,659. This is
situated on the Dam, the highest point of the city. It is 282ft. long; the height,
with tower, being 187ft. It was built from 1648-1655 for a town hall, and only
became a Royal Palace in 1808, when Napoleon first abode in it. As such, it has a
great drawback, the want of a suitable entrance.

I enter now at the rear of the building, which—situated in the Gedempte
Voorburgwal—is the entrance used by their Majesties. In spite of its civic
associations, when once inside there is much of the state and grandeur inseparable
from Royalty, and I soon determine that Holland can almost equal England for its
palatial contents and embellishments. The staircases and corridors are severe to
simplicity, but when I look round the first apartment I intend inspecting, I am
struck with the immensity and the exceeding beauty of its appearance. This is known
as the Hall or Reception-Room, and is said to be the finest in Europe. Its
proportions are certainly magnificent, 125ft. by 55ft.—a special feature
being a remarkably fine roof, 100ft. in height, with entire absence of columns or
other support. Roof, walls, and the hall entire are lined with white Italian
marble, the floor having an inlaid copper centre representative of the Firmament.
The large flag you see drooping from the roof is commemorative of the siege of
Antwerp, being the one used by General Chassé on that occasion, the various
groups of smaller ones being reminiscences of the eighty years’ Spanish war and of
Indian foes. Some very beautiful examples of the sculptor’s art are manifest, the
photographic work here introduced giving some idea of the exquisite detail and most
remarkable execution of Artus Quellin and his able assistants.

Here you will observe an allegorical group denoting Plenty, Wisdom, and
Strength, typical of the City of Amsterdam. We had a little adventure in securing
views of this hall. At one end is a small gallery, used as the mainstay for the
temporary orchestra, which is erected on festal occasions. Thinking our work could
be better shown from that point, we proceeded to it by a dark and winding staircase
in the rear.

All went well for a time, but during a period of watchful quietude our artist
was suddenly and unexpectedly confronted with a gathering of rats of anything but
peaceable aspect. It was too much for him! He made a wild rush for the staircase,
which, being narrow and treacherous, resulted in a too rapid descent, a very
forcible alighting at the foot, and a much bruised and shaken body.

For a few minutes we thought our photographic work would be closed for a season;
but when spirits and energies revived, we began to think of the camera and the very
long exposure plate up at the top; so up we went again with much clattering
commotion to warn our enemies of our approach, and thus you have a view that one of
our party will ever regard as dearly obtained.

Note the extremely delicate crystal chandeliers, for these are quite a feature
in the Dutch Palaces; so graceful and handsome, and so unlike the generality of
heavily-constructed appendages one is accustomed to behold. The other end of the
hall has also some choice sculptured marble, but unfortunately part of it is hidden
by the before-mentioned gallery. Could you obtain a clear view, you would see a
figure of Justice, with Ignorance and Quarrelsomeness crouched at her feet: on one
side a skeleton, and on the other Punishment. Above all is the figure of Atlas
supporting the globe.

Here I am given a full description of the appearance of this hall when laid for
the State banquet on the occasion of the somewhat recent visit of the German
Emperor. Splendid, indeed, must have been the effect of the hundreds of lights
gleaming upon the pure marble, the rare exotics, the massive plate, the State
dresses, and the rich liveries; and I am not surprised at the enthusiasm of the
narrator as he dilates on the grandeur displayed.

THE THRONE ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

Passing through the doorway immediately under Atlas, I am at once in the Throne
Room. This is a fine apartment; its ceiling in alternate painted panels and arms in
relief, Marble columns stand out from the rich oaken walls, rich draperies giving
colour to the whole. I hear of a rare old painting and a fine chimney-piece hidden
away behind the throne, but have no opportunity of seeing, so perforce turn my
attention elsewhere. On either side are some glass fronted cases containing quite a
collection of ragged and venerable regimental colours of unmistakable Spanish
origin. Had I time to linger, I should hear of many fierce struggles and much
gallant conduct ere these trophies were taken; but all this is of the past, and so
I leave them, silent tokens of national pride.

The chandeliers here are of very unique and costly appearance: Royal Arms and
crowns in ormolu, with pendants of curious device in pure crystal; three hundred
and sixty-four lights are here displayed.

While I have been looking round, attentive servitors have been busily engaged in
uncovering the throne and canopy for my inspection, and the crown which surmounts
the chair is fetched from its safe keeping place, screwed on, and I am at liberty
to thoroughly examine the most important piece of furniture in the kingdom.

It is essentially new looking; and really is so, only having been fitted
up some three years since, on the death of the late King and the consequent
accession of Wilhelmina, the present child-Queen. Virtually this seat is
unoccupied, as five years must elapse ere the coming of age and coronation of her
youthful Majesty. Meanwhile her mother is Queen-Regent, governing wisely and well,
and endearing herself to the people in every way; but more especially in the care
she manifests in the training of their future ruler to the proper regard of the
important position she will have to fill, and the faithful observance of duties
appertaining to such a position.

Accomplishments are imparted as a matter of course, but very much attention is
given to formation of character, and many stories reached me of the wise method
displayed, and the already promising result, giving much hope for a bright future.
As most of my readers are aware, the Queen Regent and our Duchess of Albany are
sisters, and all who know anything of the sweet-faced widow of our beloved Queen’s
youngest son will at once comprehend much of the sister whom she so nearly
resembles.

Perhaps you would like a description of the throne. The chair is beautifully
burnished, covered with ruby velvet, and edged with ruby and gold fringe; the back
is surmounted by a crown containing sapphires, with lions in support; another crown
and the letter W being wrought on the velvet immediately underneath. In front of
the chair is a footstool to match. The canopy is curtained in ruby velvet, with
lining of cream silk—in token of the youth of its future occupant—with
fringe, cord, and tassels of gold. It is surmounted by crowns and ostrich plumes,
on the inner centre being worked the Royal Arms, with the motto “Je Maintiendrai”
standing out in bold relief. On either side the canopy may be noted the floral
wreaths containing the “Zuid Holland” and “Noord Holland” respectively. The
room—as are the major part of them—is richly carpeted with hand-made
“Deventers” of artistic design and colour blend.

THE QUEEN’S SITTING-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stewart, Richmond.

Leaving here, I pass on to a room which is of much importance, namely, the
sitting-room of Her Majesty the Queen. In the lifetime of the late King it was his
habit to pass very much of his time here; thus, this was really His Majesty’s
audience chamber. Here he would have his little daughter of whom he was
passionately fond—taking a great delight in listening to her merry prattle,
and her amusing remarks on whatever attracted her attention. The windows of the
room look out on to the Dam, a large square, which is quite the busiest part of the
city. The view from these windows is a never-ending source of interest to the
little Princess, and here she is wont to station herself, the inhabitants
continually congregating and greeting her with hearty cheering.

The room has an artistic ceiling by Holsteyn, and on the walls are some
paintings rich in detail, and of much historic interest. One of Flinck’s largest
works—”Marcus Curius Dentatus”—is at one end: at the other, one of
Ferdinand Bol’s—”Fabricius in the Camp of Pyrrhus.” Facing the windows is one
by Wappers and Eeckhout: one that irresistibly appeals to the hearts of all
Hollanders. It is called the “Self-Sacrifice of Van Speyk,” and depicts the brave
admiral of that name blowing up his vessel rather than surrender.

Van Speyk was educated in one of the public schools for which Amsterdam is
famous. Quite early in life he entered the navy, where his career was brilliant and
his promotion rapid, but never did he so gain the devoted admiration of his
countrymen as when he had nothing before him but death or defeat, and chose the
former, calling on his men to jump and swim, if they cared to; if not, to remain
and share his fate. Only one jumped: the others stood by their commander, faced
death calmly, and won a never-dying renown for their heroism.

There is a wonderful chandelier from the ceiling centre, made of copper and
ormolu, burning seventy-two lights, and of such enormous size that one wonders how
many floors it would crash through if it were to give way; then I learn that it is
supported by concealed cross-beams hidden away under the ceiling. After that
information, it is a great deal more comfortable to walk about under it than
hitherto, as the men in uncovering it had moved it, and it was still swinging
backwards and forwards in anything but a reassuring manner. Some fine marble
columns and a sculptured chimney-piece are worth attention, as are the costly
hangings and carpet. Here I may say that the greater part of the furniture in this
Palace is “First Empire” style, and of the costliest description.

What will, no doubt, greatly interest you is the accompanying photograph of
small furniture specially made for her youthful Majesty, and used exclusively by
her. The frames are of the finest over-burnish, the plush upholstery being
decorated with the rarest specimens of art needlework. On one of the little tables
you will note a battledore and shuttlecock, with another thrown upon the floor, as
though the player had been suddenly interrupted in the midst of her play. Very
ordinary make and shape are these toys, such as you may see in any middle-class
English home, and each of them looking like favourites—judging from the signs
of much use they present.

Play-days are not yet over for the Queen, and doubtless she does not wish to
hasten their departure, for children are children all the world over, whether born
in palace or cottage. This particular one is not to be envied by those of lower
station, who have not the responsibility of position ever looming in front of
them—for she is shut away from many youthful pleasures, and denied the
constant companionship of those suited to her age.

I heard a story that on one occasion, in playing with her dolls, she was thus
heard to speak to a supposed refractory one: “Now, be good and quiet, because if
you don’t I will turn you into a Queen, and then you will not have anyone to play
with at all.” That is sufficiently pathetic to speak volumes of what it is to be
born in the purple, as was Wilhelmina of the Netherlands.

PAINTED FRIEZE ON MANTEL-PIECE IN DINING-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

The Hall of the Mosé is the next place I visit, used as the small dining
room of the Royal Family. Unfortunately, this is just undergoing partial
restoration, so no proper picture or description can be obtained. I observe a
painted ceiling, some marble columns of the Ionic order, blue and gold furniture
and hangings; and then some costly and rare paintings, three in number.

Facing the windows is a masterpiece of Jakob de Wit, “Moses Choosing the Seventy
Elders.” The figures are life-size, the painting—extending the entire length
of the room—said to be the largest in Europe. There are marble fireplaces at
either end, over one “Solomon’s Prayer,” by G. Flinck, and over the other
“Jethro Counselling Moses to Appoint Judges from the People,” by Bronkhorst. Quite
a feature of this room is the wonderful deceptive painting by this master over each
door, and on a continuous frieze. All of this is such an exact representation of
sculptured relief, that it is almost necessary to touch it ere one can be convinced
of its really level surface. I was told that this is the only known example of this
truly wonderful work.

THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

Continuing my way through the aides-de-camps’ waiting-room—stopping merely
to note one of Jan Livensz’ works—I go on to the Vierschaar. Here the walls
are lined entirely with white marble, and present a fine sculptured frieze
representing Disgrace and Punishment, with reliefs emblematical of Wisdom and
Justice. The one here presented is Wisdom, as shown in the Judgment of Solomon.

In the large dining-room may also be seen more of the matchless white marble
ornamentation, and I should much like to linger and admire, but as Her Majesty the
Queen-Regent has graciously promised me the entrée of other of her
Royal Palaces, I am obliged rather to curtail my work in Amsterdam.

Just now their Majesties are not at this particular Palace, so I see nothing of
State dinners, receptions, and other functions, but although I do not see them, I
hear very much; and it would seem that when they are here, the Palace is a
sort of open house, and festivity is the order of the day. To all appearance the
etiquette is not quite so rigid as at our Court, the Sovereign being more
accessible to the people. Persons wishing to pay their respects call at the Palace
about five days previous, write their name in a book kept for the purpose, then
they are admitted on the specified day, provided no good reason exists for their
exclusion. The people are eminently loyal, and speak of the little Queen in tones
of warmest affection, an affection which is also extended to the Queen-Regent, who
has evidently made herself a firm position in the country.

The Palace at Den Haag is before me now, but first perhaps you would like to
know something of the Palace at the Loo, a place I had the privilege of seeing;
though, as their Majesties were actually in residence there, photographic work was
not possible.

The Loo is near Apeldoorn, and some considerable distance from Amsterdam. I have
only the one day to spare, so am off early in the morning. Steaming out of the
Central Station, I soon find myself speeding along in such comfortable, well-warmed
carriages as would rejoice the unfortunate winter traveller in this country, who is
all but dependent on his ability to pay for the not very useful foot-warmer.

The country is pretty but flat, dykes instead of hedges, windmills without
number; hundreds of cows in the fields, very fine cattle, but they do look
comical, for the majority of them are wearing coats!

At frequent intervals along the line are road crossings, each with their little
gatehouse, and each kept by a woman, who turns out as we pass, dressed in her long
blue coat with scarlet facings, quaint, tall shiny hat, and in her hand the
signal-flag.

At length I reach Apeldoorn, and there a difficulty presents itself. That the
Palace is some distance away I am aware, but how far I do not know, or in
which direction, and while I am parleying and gesticulating in a mixture of French,
English, and a few words of Dutch, the only conveyance obtainable takes
itself off, and I am left to tramp through the woods with a jargon of Dutch
directions ringing in my ears, and a very faint idea of longitude or latitude in my
mind.

The first part lay through a long, straggling village leading right into a
beautiful forest. Given a fine day, and a certainty of route, it would have been
simply grand; but as it soon poured in torrents, my situation was anything but
enviable—in fact, I was almost in despair, when a huge cart laden with trunks
of trees came slowly from a turning near.

Making the man in charge understand that I wanted the “Paleis,” I found he was
bound in the same direction. By this time the rutty roads were almost ankle deep in
mud, so when I was invited to ride, I gladly scrambled to the top of the pile, and
so jogged along; my good-natured guide trudging at the side, pipe in mouth,
regardless of the weather. In such stately style, then, I at length sighted the
Palace, but was careful to make a descent before getting too near, as THE
STRAND MAGAZINE must make a more dignified appearance at a Royal residence than a
wood-cart and a smock-frocked driver can impart.

Four or five men in State liveries bow profoundly as I enter, one of whom
conducts me to an ante-room, and, after a short interval, through some long
corridors, up some stairs and into the presence of one of Her Majesty’s Gentlemen
of the Household. A courteous interview with him, and I am asked to wait for Her
Majesty’s Private Secretary, who, out at present, will see me on his return.

THE ROYAL PALACE AT DEN HAAG.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

Of course I make the best use of the interval and see all I can of the Palace. A
fine-looking and imposing building it is, standing back in a large quadrangle, the
latter being gay with flowers. The outer rails are literally on the edge of the
wood, and no more secluded spot can be imagined than this—the favourite
residence of their Majesties. His Majesty the late King also preferred this
residence to those more immediately near or in towns, and it was here he breathed
his last.

What I see of the interior is superbly grand, but it is more to the purpose that
I have the honour of seeing their Majesties during the day, and the opportunity of
some observation. The youthful Queen seems a most pleasing and intelligent-looking
child, and is eminently child-like and unaffected in her manner and movements.
Readers may be interested in knowing that, in addition to masters provided for Her
Majesty’s training, she has an English governess, under whose charge she is more
immediately placed.

The Queen-Regent, as I have already said, much resembles her sister; not so
tall, rather stouter, but with much the same gentle and rather sad expression of
countenance. Strange that these two sisters should both become widows at an early
age. One comfort they have, there is no very great distance between them; and
though, of course, the Queen-Regent cannot leave her country much, there is nothing
to prevent the Duchess of Albany going there; so a suite of apartments is kept for
her at each Palace.

My interview with Her Majesty’s Private Secretary is of the most pleasant, and I
cannot but record my grateful appreciation of this gentleman’s kindness and
courtesy extended towards me throughout my stay in Holland; such courteous
attention much facilitating my work.

Back again to Amsterdam; and the next day off in quite an opposite direction to
Den Haag, one of the cleanest and most picturesque places I have ever seen.

Here the Palace was built by William II. It is in the Grecian style, and stands
on the site of a former hunting-lodge, dating back to the 9th century. Facing the
principal entrance is an equestrian statue of William II., at the back of which you
note the church attended by the family. The entrance hall and staircase are lined
with marble, the stairs themselves being of the same. Before proceeding up them,
however, we go through to the pretty and well-kept garden and take a view from the
lawn. In the right wing of the building as it faces you, the Queen’s private
apartments are situated, the left wing containing the rooms occupied by the Duchess
of Albany when at The Hague.

Now we pass up the grand staircase, where I pause to note the Ionic columns, the
ormolu and porcelain candelabra, a Siberian vase from the Emperor Nicholas, five
immense vases from the Emperor of China, a painting of William IV., and one of
Maria of Stockholm and family.

THE LATE KING’S RECEPTION-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

Leaving here, the first room I enter is the King’s reception-room. This is a
very bright looking and expensively fitted apartment, furnished in electric blue
and gold, massive gold-framed panels, and a ceiling decorated in relief with arms
and mottoes in gold and white. The chimney-piece is purest marble, the frescoes
showing crowns, arms, etc. The candelabra are over-burnished brass and Dresden
china, some being Japanese.

THE QUEEN’S BALL-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

The next room is most interesting, for it is a small ball-room, the ball-room in
fact of Her Majesty the Queen. It has a beautiful inlaid floor, a white ceiling
worked in relief, crimson and gold curtains, and furniture of the First Empire,
some of it upholstered in gold silk, with a variety of colours intermixed. Here are
shown some priceless Sèvres china, and a present of vases from the Emperor
Napoleon. Also I note a fine marble vase from the King’s Palace in Luxemburg. On
the wall are some handsome gold-framed mirrors, and from the ceiling costly
chandeliers with two hundred and twenty lights. The mantel is exquisitely carved
marble, with an ormolu frieze. On one side you will note a small piano; it is a
French one, of very clear and fine tone, and beautifully finished in every respect.
In this room Her Majesty the Queen may be imagined enjoying the balls given to the
youthful aristocracy, something different to the State dances in the larger room;
and, doubtless, by a long way, much more enjoyable. By the time the Queen can
command the State balls, she will have commenced to feel the cares of her position;
and will look back with real regret to the assemblies here, when she had merely to
enjoy herself, a devoted mother observing the graver duties, her own greatest
trouble, perhaps, being the acquirement of the tasks assigned by the governess and
masters.

The large dining-room has some fine family portraits on its walls. The first you
will notice is that of William II., on horseback, leading an attack; the artist
(Keirzer) has produced a first-rate work of both man and horse. Underneath this
picture stands the favourite horse of William II., one which carried him through
numerous engagements, and earned from his Royal master a gratitude and affection
that caused him to wish for his preservation in a position where he would
constantly be reminded of him.

The ceiling of this room shows some beautiful relief carving of fruit and
flowers, also some fine fresco work; the chandeliers here are massive, as is the
furniture and other appointments. The room is long and of not much width, but lofty
and well-lighted.

The buffet adjoining the dining-room has some very costly and, at the same time,
some very interesting contents. The Empire furniture is draped in rich crimson
silk, the walls being covered with silk brocade of the same colour. The
chimney-piece of sculptured marble, with an ormolu frieze, holds some choice
antique porcelain vases and a valuable Roman timepiece. A massive chandelier hangs
from the centre of a ceiling wrought with the arms of the house—this
chandelier being solid silver. It was presented by the inhabitants of Amsterdam,
while two silver lustres at the sides of the fireplace were presented by Rotterdam.
Two exquisite statues stand in front of the windows, one of Venus, the other Diana,
midway between which is an immense porcelain vase on a pedestal. This you will note
in the view given of the room. It has special interest just now, as it was given by
Marshal MacMahon, whose death recently occurred, and whose funeral—a State
military one—I had the opportunity of witnessing a few weeks ago in
Paris.

The windows are of very fine stained glass, the different panes giving portraits
of Kings and Princes, under each being depicted battles they had fought. Note this
rare Florentine mosaic table with pedestal of ormolu; then we will pass on to the
crystal room, an ante-room to the ball-room. Some immense candelabra of purest
crystal at once attracted my attention; not only were they of the largest I had
ever seen, but they were absolutely unique in composition: the pedestals in support
were ormolu and marble.

The appointments here are again in the First Empire style. The view here shown
is looking into the small dining-room, the private dining-room of their Majesties.
In it there is to be seen a costly collection of miniatures, nearly a hundred and
twenty in number, every one of them from the hand of Dutch masters. They are all
beautifully framed in groups. In the photograph you will observe a finely carved
side-board with some of these miniatures showing on either side. Also in this room
you will find several specimens of engraving on brass and some Russian productions
in malachite.

THE STATE BALL-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

Now to the State ball-room—a nobly proportioned room, but of somewhat
severe aspect Some good relief carving is shown and a splendid parquetry floor;
also some costly furniture, over-burnished and upholstered in crimson with floral
devices. No doubt it has a very imposing and gay appearance when lighted up and
filled with guests. Nearly seven hundred lights are displayed, which would
naturally cause a most brilliant effect. Somehow ball-rooms are never satisfactory
when viewed in the day-time, unless you have an eye for proportions only; in that
case this one could not fail to please, as it cannot be less than 90ft. long and is
of magnificent height, added to by a glass concave roof.

THE QUEEN’S RECEPTION-ROOM.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

The Queen’s reception-room is prettily hung in crimson with designs depicting
art and music; the furniture bright and handsome in crimson and cream. On either
side of the fireplace stand some crimson velvet screens in burnished frames, the
crown and arms worked on the velvet in characters of gold. In the accompanying view
you will observe a large album on a stand; this was given to the Queen-Regent by
the ladies of Holland. It is of leather, with ormolu mounts, on the covers being
painted panels and flowers worked in silk, these flowers being surrounded with
rubies and pearls; and at either corner is a large sapphire. The interior shows
pages of vellum, with names of subscribers beautifully inscribed.

This room will, of course, be the one where the young Queen will receive when
she commences to reign.

From here I went to view a suite of apartments, formerly the property of Queen
Sophia, the first Consort of the late King. These rooms are still in the same
condition as when Her Majesty died; they are very fine rooms, and contain a vast
number of curios of every description. They are lined entirely from floor to
ceiling with mahogany; the furniture, which is massive, antique, and beautifully
carved, being also of mahogany and tulip wood. I find one of Erard’s grand pianos
standing in the boudoir, and am told that it was a favourite instrument of the late
Queen. There are some fine specimens of vases: one an “Adam and Eve,” some of Swiss
make, and others of Dresden. Also I note an exquisite model of a ship, an inlaid
Empire mirror, and other treasures too numerous to particularize.

The tea-room is another that I must make brief mention of. It contains some
valuable souvenirs in the form of vases, some from the Emperor Napoleon (these are
jewelled), some from William IV. of Germany, and some from the Emperor Frederick.
Then there are others from Berlin and Potsdam, and still others of Sèvres.
On the marble mantel is a very intricate French timepiece, and over it an exquisite
silver-framed mirror. An inlaid mosaic table is a feature here. The worth of it
must be fabulous; the design is marvellously executed. Pope Pius IX. was the donor.
This room is really the tea-room for the Royal ladies when in residence. Music is
again to the fore, and here Steinway is the favourite, one of his grand pianos
occupying the place of honour.

Now I go downstairs for a brief survey of the private apartments of the late
King. I shall not attempt to describe them in detail, but content myself with
mention of one or two things I specially noticed. I started with the billiard-room,
a good-sized room and well fitted; but obscured by the covers denoting non-usage.
One curious article I must note. It is a clock and musical-box combined, giving out
a variety of twenty-seven tunes. The visible part of it is a pure alabaster
representation of the tomb of our Henry II, supported by lions couchant. Rather a
strange model for a musical-box containing lively airs, is it not?

Then I pass on through the King’s dining-room, a stately and richly-appointed
apartment. On through the Ministers’ room, and so into His Majesty’s private
sitting-room. Here I cannot but linger, there are so many treasures rich and rare,
the chief of which consists in the elaborate cabinets and other furniture, all of
tortoiseshell and silver, quite the best I have seen of its kind. Some of it looks
as though crammed with secret drawers, and I stand before it wondering whether
Queen Wilhelmina will be as anxious to discover and overhaul them as I
should be.

I could tell you a deal more of what I saw at this Palace at Den Haag, but,
doubtless, have said enough to show you something of its wealth of appointments and
costly treasures. One cannot help thinking what a sum all this has cost, and what
it must take to keep up so many places; but the Royal Family of the Netherlands
have well-lined coffers, as it is not only their own country that owns their
supremacy, but they have also many dependencies in the Indies, bringing in enormous
revenues.

“T’HUIS IN’T BOSCH,” NEAR DEN HAAG.
From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond.

I have mentioned three Palaces; I know of five; but will close with just a few
words respecting a fourth, and a view of the same, which is charmingly pretty. This
Palace is called “T’Huis in’t Bosch,” and is just a nice carriage drive from the
town of Den Haag. It stands right in the midst of a beautiful park, with herds of
deer and hundreds of gay-plumaged birds—a park that far and away surpasses
even our vaunted Richmond Park—magnificent timber, dense undergrowth, wild
flowers in profusion, and now and again winding lakes and streams, crossed by
rustic bridges, and such views over hill and dale as would delight either an artist
or an admirer of Nature. The above view of the house will give a good idea of its
outside appearance. I have no time for interiors, or should be tempted to prolong
this indefinitely. We have had a peep at the Palaces of Holland, and many of us
will know more of the country and its reigning family for the visit.

Holland, with its youthful Queen, has a future we cannot wot of, but we all hope
it is a prosperous and bright one, and we all agree in thanking Her Majesty the
Queen-Regent for the opportunity of gaining this information, and wish for her
daughter all the happiness and wisdom that she—the Royal mother—could
desire for her.

[The Illustrated Interviews will be continued as usual next month.]

Zig-Zags at the Zoo.

XIX. ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN.

The frog and the toad suffer, in this world of injustice, from a deprival of the
respect and esteem that is certainly their due. In the case of the frog this may be
due largely to the animal’s headlong and harlequin-like character, but the toad is
a steady personage, whose solemnity of deportment, not to speak of his stoutness,
entitles him to high consideration in a world where grave dulness and personal
circumference always attract reverence. The opening lines of a certain famous poem
have without a doubt done much to damage the dignity of the frog. “The frog he
would a-wooing go” is not, perhaps, disrespectful, although flippant; but “whether
his mother would let him or no” is a gross insult. Of course, it is a matter upon
which no self-respecting frog ever consults his mother; but the absurd jingle is
immortal, and the frog’s dignity suffers by it. Then there is a certain pot-bellied
smugness of appearance about the frog that provokes a smile in the irreverent.
Still, the frog has received some consideration in his time. The great Homer
himself did not disdain to sing the mighty battle of the frogs and mice; and
Aristophanes gave the frogs a most important chorus in one of his comedies;
moreover, calling the whole comedy “The Frogs,” although he had his choice of
title-names among many very notable characters—Æschylus, Euripides,
Bacchus, Pluto, Proserpine, and other leaders of society. Still, in every way the
frog and the toad are underesteemed—as though such a thing as a worthy family
frog or an honourable toad of business were in Nature impossible. It is not as
though they were useless. The frog’s hind legs make an excellent dish for those who
like it, as well as a joke for those who don’t. Powdered toad held in the palm is a
fine thing to stop the nose bleeding—or, at any rate, it was a couple of
hundred years ago, according to a dear old almanac I have. On the same
unimpeachable authority I may fearlessly affirm a smashed frog—smashed on the
proper saint’s day—in conjunction with hair taken from a ram’s forehead and a
nail stolen from a piebald mare’s shoe, to be a certain remedy for ague, worn in a
little leather bag. If it fails it will be because the moon was in the wrong
quarter, or the mare was not sufficiently piebald, or the nail was not stolen with
sufficient dishonesty, or some mistake of that sort.

Personally, I am rather fond of frogs and toads. This, of course, in a strictly
platonic sense, and entirely apart from dinner. A toad I admire even more than a
frog, because of his gentlemanly calm. He never rushes at his food ravenously, as
do so many other creatures. Place a worm near him and you will see. He inspects the
worm casually, first with one eye and then with the other, as who would say:
“Luncheon? Certainly. Delighted, I’m sure.” Then he sits placidly awhile, as though
thinking of something else altogether. Presently he rises slightly on his feet and
looks a little—very little—more attentively at the worm. “Oh, yes,” he
is saying—”luncheon, of course. Whenever you like, you know.” And he becomes
placid again, as though interested in the general conversation. After a little he
suddenly straightens his hind legs and bends down over the worm, like a man saying,
“Ah, and what have we got here now? Oh, worm—ver au
naturel—capital, capital!” After this there is nothing to do but to eat,
and this the toad does without the smallest delay. For leisurely indifference,
followed by a business-like grab, nothing can beat a toad. Almost before the cover
is lifted, figuratively speaking, the worm’s head and tail are wriggling, like a
lively moustache, out of the sides of the toad’s mouth. The head and tail he gently
pats in with his hands, and there is no longer any worm; after which the toad
smiles affably and comfortably, possibly meditating a liqueur. I have an especial
regard for the giant toad in one of the cases against the inner wall of the
reptile-house lobby. There is a pimpliness of countenance and a comfortable
capaciousness of waistcoat about him that always make me wonder what he has done
with his churchwarden and pewter. He has a serene, confidential,
well-old-pal-how-are-you way of regarding Tyrrell, his keeper. Of late (for some
few months, that is) the giant toad has been turning something over in his mind, as
one may perceive from his cogitative demeanour. He is thinking, I am convinced, of
the new Goliath Beetle. The Goliath Beetle, he is thinking, would make rather a fit
supper for the Giant Toad. This because he has never seen the beetle. His mind
might be set at rest by an introduction to Goliath, but the acquaintanceship would
do no good to the beetle’s morals. At present Goliath is a most exemplary
vegetarian and tea-drinker, but evil communications with that pimply, dissipated
toad would wreck his principles.

Why one should speak of the Adorned Ceratophrys when the thing might just as
well be called the Barking Frog, I don’t know. Let us compromise and call him the
Adorned C., in the manner of Mr. Wemmick. I respect the Adorned C. almost as much
as if he were a toad instead of a frog, but chiefly I admire his mouth. A crocodile
has a very respectable mouth—when it separates its jaws it opens its head.
But when the Adorned C. smiles he opens out his entire anatomical bag of
tricks— comes as near bisecting himself indeed as may be; opens, in short,
like a Gladstone bag. From a fat person, of course, you expect a broad, genial
smile; but you are doubly gratified when you find it extending all round him. That,
you feel, is indeed no end of a smile—and that is the smile of the Adorned
C.

But, notwithstanding this smile, the Adorned C. is short of temper. Indeed, you
may only make him bark by practising upon this fact. Tyrrell’s private performance
with the Adorned C. is one that irresistibly reminds the spectator of Lieutenant
Cole’s with his figures, and would scarcely be improved by ventriloquism itself.
The Adorned C. prefers biting to barking, and his bite is worse than his
bark—bites always are, except in the proverb. This is why Tyrrell holds the
Adorned C. pretty tight whenever he touches him. The one aspiration of the Adorned
C. is for a quiet life, and he defends his aspiration with bites and barks.

Tyrrell touches him gently, cautiously, and repeatedly on the back until the
annoyance is no longer to be tolerated, and then the Adorned C. duly barks like a
terrier. Now, the most interesting thing about the Adorned C., after his mouth, is
his bark, and why he should be reluctant to exhibit it except under pressure of
irritation—why he should hide his light under a bushel of ill-temper—I
can’t conceive. It is as though Patti wouldn’t sing till her manager threw an egg
at her, or as though Sir Frederick Leighton would only paint a picture after Mr.
Whistler had broken his studio windows with a brick. Even the whistling oyster of
London tradition would perform without requiring a preliminary insult or personal
assault. But let us account everything good if possible; perhaps the Adorned C.
only suffers from a modest dislike for vain display; although this is scarcely
consistent with the internal exhibition afforded by his smile.

“GOOD NIGHT, TYRRELL!”

With the distinction of residence in the main court of the reptile-house itself,
as also with the knowledge of its rarity, the Smooth-clawed Frog sets no small
value on himself. He lives in water perpetually, and is always bobbing mysteriously
about in it with his four-fingered hands spread out before him. This seems to me to
be nothing but a vulgar manifestation of the Smooth-clawed Frog’s
self-appreciation. He is like a coster conducting a Dutch auction, except that it
is himself that he puts up for the bids of admiring visitors. With his double bunch
of four fingers held eagerly before him he says—or means to
say—”‘Ere—eight! Ain’t that cheap enough? Eight! Going at eight. Who
says eight? Now then—eight; for a noble frog like me!” Presently, he wriggles
a little in the water, as though vexed at the slackness of offers; then he drops
one of the hands and leaves the other outstretched. “‘Ere—four! Anythink to
do business. Four! Nobody say four? Oh, blow this!” and with a jerk of one long
paddle he dives among the weeds. “Them shiny-lookin’ swells ain’t got no money!” is
what I am convinced he reports to his friends.

The Smooth-clawed Frog has lately begun to breed here, a thing before unknown;
so that his rarity and value are in danger of depreciation. But such is his
inordinate conceit of himself that I am convinced he will always begin the bidding
with eight.

If you rejoice in the sight of a really happy, contented frog, you should stand
long before White’s Green Frog, and study his smile. No other frog has a smile like
this; some are wider, perhaps, but that is nothing. A frog is ordained by Nature to
smile much, but the smile seems commonly one of hunger merely, though often one of
stomach-ache. White’s Green Frog smiles broad content and placid felicity.
Maintained in comfort, with no necessity to earn his living, this is probably
natural; still, the bison enjoys the same advantages, although nobody ever saw him
smile; but, then, an animal soon to become extinct can scarcely be expected to
smile. In the smile of White’s Green Frog, however, I fear, a certain smug,
Pecksniffian quality is visible. “I am a Numble individual, my Christian friends,”
he seems to say, “and my wants, which are few and simple, are providentially
supplied. Therefore, I am Truly Happy. It is no great merit in my merely batrachian
nature that I am Truly Happy; a cheerful countenance, my friends, is a duty imposed
on me by an indulgent Providence.” White’s Green Frog may, however, be in reality a
frog of excellent moral worth: and I trust that Green’s White Frog, if ever he is
discovered, will be a moral frog too.

By-the-bye, some green frogs are blue. That is to say, individuals of the green
species have been found of the skyey colour and sold at a good price as rarities.
When it was not easy to find one already blue, the prudent tradesman kept a green
frog in a blue glass vase for a few weeks, and brought it out as blue as you might
wish. The colour stayed long enough, as a rule, to admit of sale at a decent price,
but was liable to fade after. As I think I have said, the toad is distinguished by
a placid calm denied to the frog; therefore it is singular that the ordinary toad’s
Latin name should be Bufo vulgaris—a name suggestive of nothing so
much as a low—disgracefully low—comedian. Bufo vulgaris should
be the name of a very inferior, rowdy clown. The frog is a much nearer
approximation to this character than the toad. The frog comes headlong with a
bound, a bunch of legs and arms, with his “Here we are again! Fine day to-morrow,
wasn’t it?” and goes off with another bound, before the toad, who is gravely
analyzing the metaphysical aspect of nothing in particular, can open his eyes to
look up. The toad has one comic act, however, of infinitely greater humour than the
bouncing buffooneries of the frog. When the toad casts his skin he quietly rolls it
up over his back and head, just as a man skins off a close-fitting jersey. Once
having drawn it well over his nose, however, he immediately proceeds to cram it
down his throat with both hands, and so it finally disappears. Now, this is a
performance of genuine and grotesque humour, which it is worth keeping a toad to
see.

The Helmet.

From the French by Ferdinand Beissier.

“But, uncle—I love my cousin!”

“Get out!”

“Give her to me.”

“Don’t bother me!”

“It will be my death!”

“Nonsense! you’ll console yourself with some other girl.”

“Pray—”

My uncle, whose back had been towards me, whirled round, his face red to
bursting, and brought his closed fist down upon the counter with a heavy thump.

“Never!” he cried; “never: Do you hear what I say?”

And as I looked at him beseechingly and with joined hands, he went
on:—

“A pretty husband you look like!—without a sou, and dreaming of going into
housekeeping! A nice mess I should make of it, by giving you my daughter! It’s no
use your insisting. You know that when I have said ‘No,’ nothing under the sun can
make me say ‘Yes’!”

I ceased to make any further appeal. I knew my uncle—about as headstrong
an old fellow as could be found in a day’s search. I contented myself with giving
vent to a deep sigh, and then went on with the furbishing of a big, double-handed
sword, rusty from point to hilt.

This memorable conversation took place, in fact, in the shop of my maternal
uncle, a well-known dealer in antiquities and objets d’art, No. 53, Rue des
Claquettes, at the sign of the “Maltese Cross”—a perfect museum of
curiosities.

The walls were hung with Marseilles and old Rouen china, facing ancient
cuirasses, sabres, and muskets, and picture frames; below these were ranged old
cabinets, coffers of all sorts, and statues of saints, one-armed or one-legged for
the most part and dilapidated as to their gilding; then, here and there, in glass
cases, hermetically closed and locked, there were knick-knacks in infinite
variety—lachrymatories, tiny urns, rings, precious stones, fragments of
marble, bracelets, crosses, necklaces, medals, and miniature ivory statuettes, the
yellow tints of which, in the sun, took momentarily a flesh-like transparency.

Time out of mind the shop had belonged to the Cornuberts. It passed regularly
from father to son, and my uncle—his neighbours said—could not but be
the possessor of a nice little fortune. Held in esteem by all, a Municipal
Councillor, impressed by the importance and gravity of his office, short, fat,
highly choleric and headstrong, but at bottom not in the least degree an unkind
sort of man—such was my uncle Cornubert, my only living male relative, who,
as soon as I left school, had elevated me to the dignity of chief and only clerk
and shopman of the “Maltese Cross.”

But my uncle was not only a dealer in antiquities and a Municipal Councillor, he
was yet more, and above all, the father of my cousin Rose, with whom I was
naturally in love.

To come back to the point at which I digressed.

Without paying any attention to the sighs which exhaled from my bosom while
scouring the rust from my long, two-handed sword, my uncle, magnifying glass in
hand, was engaged in the examination of a lot of medals which he had purchased that
morning. Suddenly he raised his head; five o’clock was striking.

“The Council!” he cried.

When my uncle pronounced that august word, it made a mouthful; for a pin, he
would have saluted it bare-headed. But, this time, after a moment’s consideration,
he tapped his forehead and added, in a tone of supreme relief:—

“No, the sitting does not take place before to-morrow—and I am forgetting
that I have to go to the railway station to get the consignment of which I was
advised this morning.”

Rising from his seat, and laying down his glass, he called out:—

“Rose, give me my cane and hat!”

Then, turning towards me, he added, in a lowered tone and speaking very
quickly:—

“As to you—don’t forget our conversation. If you think you can make me say
‘yes,’ try!—but I don’t think you’ll succeed. Meanwhile, not a word to Rose,
or, by Saint Barthélemy, my patron of happy memory, I’ll instantly kick you
out of doors!”

At that moment Rose appeared with my uncle’s cane and hat, which she handed to
him. He kissed her on the forehead; then, giving me a last but eloquent look,
hurried from the shop.

I went on scouring my double-handed sword. Rose came quietly towards me.

“What is the matter with my father?” she asked; “he seems to be angry with
you.”

I looked at her—her eyes were so black, her look so kind, her mouth so
rosy, and her teeth so white that I told her all—my love, my suit to her
father, and his rough refusal. I could not help it—after all, it was
his fault! He was not there: I determined to brave his anger. Besides, there
is nobody like timid persons for displaying courage under certain
circumstances.

My cousin said nothing; she only held down her eyes—while her cheeks were
as red as those of cherries in May.

I checked myself.

“Are you angry with me?” I asked, tremblingly. “Are you angry with me,
Rose?”

She held out to me her hand. On that, my heart seething with audacity, my head
on fire, I cried:—

“Rose—I swear it! I will be your husband!” And as she shook her head and
looked at me sadly, I added: “Oh! I well know that my uncle is self-willed, but I
will be more self-willed still; and, since he must be forced to say ‘yes,’ I will
force him to say it!”

“But how?” asked Rose.

Ah! how? That was exactly the difficulty. But, no matter; I would find a way to
surmount it!

At that moment a heavy step resounded in the street. Instinctively we moved away
from each other; I returned to my double-handed sword, and Rose, to keep herself in
countenance, set to dusting, with a corner of her apron, a little statuette in its
faded red velvet case.

My uncle entered. Surprised at finding us together, he stopped short and looked
sharply at us, from one to the other.

We each of us went on rubbing without raising our heads.

“Here, take this,” said my uncle, handing me a bulky parcel from under his arm.
“A splendid purchase, you’ll see.”

The subject did not interest me in the least.

I opened the parcel, and from the enveloping paper emerged a steel
helmet—but not an ordinary helmet, oh, no!—a superb, a monumental
morion, with gorget and pointed visor of strange form. The visor was raised, and I
tried to discover what prevented it from being lowered.

“It will not go down—the hinges have got out of order,” said my uncle;
“but it’s a superb piece, and, when it has been thoroughly cleaned and touched up,
will look well—that shall be your to-morrow’s job.”

“Very good, uncle,” I murmured, not daring to raise my eyes to his.

That night, on reaching my room, I at once went to bed. I was eager to be alone
and able to think at my ease. Night brings counsel, it is said; and I had great
need that the proverb should prove true. But, after lying awake for an hour without
receiving any assistance, I fell off to sleep, and, till next morning, did nothing
but dream the oddest dreams. I saw Rose on her way to church in a strange bridal
costume, a 14th-century cap, three feet high, on her head, but looking prettier
than ever; then suddenly the scene changed to moonlight, in which innumerable
helmets and pieces of old china were dancing a wild farandola, while my uncle, clad
in complete armour and with a formidable halberd in his hand, conducted the
bewildering whirl.

“MY UNCLE SAT SMOKING HIS PIPE AND WATCHING ME.”

The next day—ah, the next day!—I was no nearer. In vain, with
clenched teeth, I scoured the immense helmet brought by my uncle the previous
evening—scoured it with such fury as almost to break the iron; not an idea
came to me. The helmet shone like a sun: my uncle sat smoking his pipe and watching
me; but I could think of nothing, of no way of forcing him to give me his
daughter.

At three o’clock Rose went into the country, whence she was not to return until
dinner-time, in the evening. On the threshold she could only make a sign to me with
her hand; my uncle had not left us alone for a single instant. He was not easy in
his mind; I could see that by his face. No doubt he had not forgotten our
conversation of the previous evening.

I went on rubbing at my helmet.

“You have made it quite bright enough—put it down,” said my uncle.

I put it down. The storm was gathering: I could not do better than allow it to
blow over.

But suddenly, as if overtaken by a strange fancy, my uncle took up the enormous
morion and turned and examined it on all sides.

“A handsome piece of armour, there is no doubt about it; but it must have
weighed pretty heavily on its wearer’s shoulders,” he muttered; and, urged by I
know not what demon, he clapped it on his head and latched the gorget-piece about
his neck.

Struck almost speechless, I watched what he was doing—thinking only how
ugly he looked.

Suddenly there was a sharp sound—as if a spring had
snapped—and—crack!—down fell the visor; and there was my uncle,
with his head in an iron cage, gesticulating and swearing like a pagan!

I could contain myself no longer, and burst into a roar of laughter; for my
uncle, stumpy, fat, and rubicund, presented an irresistibly comic appearance.

Threateningly, he came towards me.

“The hinges!—the hinges, fool!” he yelled.

I could not see his face, but I felt that it was red to bursting.

“When you have done laughing, idiot!” he cried.

But the helmet swayed so oddly on his shoulders, his voice came from out it in
such strange tones, that the more he gesticulated, the more he yelled and
threatened me, the louder I laughed.

At that moment the clock of the Hôtel-de-Ville, striking five, was
heard.

“The Municipal Council!” murmured my uncle, in a stifled voice. “Quick! help me
off with this beast of a machine! We’ll settle our business afterwards!”

But, suddenly likewise, an idea—a wild, extraordinary idea—came into
my head; but then, whoever is madder than a lover? Besides, I had no choice of
means.

“No!” I replied.

My uncle fell back two paces in terror—and again the enormous helmet
wobbled on his shoulders.

“No,” I repeated, firmly, “I’ll not help you out, unless you give me the hand of
my cousin Rose!”

From the depths of the strangely elongated visor came, not an angry exclamation,
but a veritable roar. I had “done it!”—I had burned my ships!

“If you do not consent to do what I ask of you,” I added, “not only will I not
help you off with your helmet, but I will call in all your neighbours, and then go
and find the Municipal Council!”

“You’ll end your days on the scaffold!” cried my uncle.

“The hand of Rose!” I repeated. “You told me that it would only be by force that
you would be made to say ‘yes’—say it, or I will call in the neighbours!”

The clock was still striking; my uncle raised his arms as if to curse me.

“Decide at once,” I cried, “somebody is coming!”

“Well, then—yes!” murmured my uncle. “But make haste!”

“On your word of honour?”

“On my word of honour!”

The visor gave way, the gorget-piece also, and my uncle’s head issued from
durance, red as a poppy.

Just in time. The chemist at the corner, a colleague in the Municipal Council,
entered the shop.

“Are you coming?” he asked; “they will be beginning the business without
us.”

“I’m coming,” replied my uncle.

And without looking at me, he took up his hat and cane and hurried out.

The next moment all my hopes had vanished. My uncle would surely not forgive
me.

At dinner-time I took my place at table on his right hand in low spirits, ate
little, and said nothing.

“It will come with the dessert,” I thought.

Rose looked at me, and I avoided meeting her eyes. As I had expected, the
dessert over, my uncle lit his pipe, raised his head, and then—

“Rose—come here!”

Rose went to him.

“Do you know what that fellow there asked me to do, yesterday?”

I trembled like a leaf, and Rose did the same.

“DO YOU LOVE HIM?”

“To give him your hand,” he added. “Do you love him?”

Rose cast down her eyes.

“Very well,” continued my uncle; “on this side, the case is complete. Come here,
you.”

I approached him.

“Here I am, uncle,” and, in a whisper. I added quickly: “Forgive me!”

He burst into a hearty laugh.

“Marry her, then, donkey—since you love her, and I give her to you!”

“Ah!—uncle!”

“Ah!—dear papa!”

And Rose and I threw ourselves into his arms.

“Very good! very good!” he cried, wiping his eyes. “Be happy, that’s all I
ask.”

And, in turn, he whispered in my ear:—

“I should have given her to you all the same, you big goose; but—keep the
story of the helmet between us two!”

I give you my word that I have never told it but to Rose, my dear little wife.
And, if ever you pass along the Rue des Claquettes, No. 53, at the place of honour
in the old shop, I’ll show you my uncle’s helmet, which we would never sell.

The Music of Nature.

BY A. T. CAMDEN PRATT.

II.

Reference was made at the close of the last article to the voice of the dog, and
his method of making his feelings and desires understood. It is, of course, well
known that this is an acquired habit, or accomplishment. In a state of Nature the
dog does not even bark; he has acquired the art or knowledge from his companionship
with man. Isaiah compares the blind watchman of Israel to dogs, saying, “They are
dumb; they cannot bark.” Again, to quote the argument of Dr. Gardiner: “The dog
indicates his different feelings by different tones.” The following is his yelp
when his foot is trod upon.

DOG YELPING.

Haydn introduces the bark of a dog into the scherzo in his 38th quartette.
Indeed, the tones of the “voice” of the dog are so marked, that more than any other
of the voices of Nature they have been utilized in music. The merest tyro in the
study of dog language can readily distinguish between the bark of joy—the
“deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,” as Byron put it—and the angry
snarl, the yelp of pain, or the accents of fear. Indeed, according to an assertion
in the “Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” the horse knows from the bark of a dog
when he may expect an attack on his heels. Gardiner suggests that it would be worth
while to study the language of the dog. Perhaps Professor Garnier, when he has
reduced the language of the monkey to “A, B, C,” might feel inclined to take up the
matter.

Next to the dog there is no animal in which there is more variation of sound
than in oxen: “Their lowing, though rough and rude, is music to the farmer’s ear
save one who moans the loss of her sportive young; with wandering eye and anxious
look she grieves the livelong day.” It is specially difficult in the case of oxen
to suppose that they have a language; but it is impossible to doubt that the
variations of their lowing are understood of one another, and serve to express
their feelings if not their thoughts.

THE OX.

In the matter of exclamations, one knows how readily these may be imitated upon
the violin, or in the case of the deeper or more guttural sounds, on the
violoncello. The natural effect is greatly aided by the sliding of the finger along
the note, especially in the case of the lowing of cattle; but there are other
exclamations that are readily reduced to music. Gardiner gives one or two
interesting cases, and the common salutation, “How d’ye do?” may be instanced. It
usually starts on B natural, and the voice rising to D ends on C; whereas, the
reply, “Pretty well, thank you,” begins on D, and falling to A, ends again on D.
After a few attempts on the piano, the reader will be able readily to form these
notes for himself.

COW LOWING.

The horse, on the other hand, is rarely heard, and, though having a piercing
whinny which passes through every semitone of the scale, it is scarcely ever
varied.

HORSE NEIGHING.

THE CHIRP OF THE GRASSHOPPER.

The music of the insects has already been alluded to, and everyone will agree
with Gilbert White that “not undelightful is the ceaseless hum, to him who musing
walks at noon.” The entomologist has laboured hard to show us that the insect has
no voice, and that the “drowsy hum” is made by the wings; a fact which, being
beyond all cavil, puts to the blush the old-world story of Plutarch, who tells us
that when Terpander was playing upon the lyre, at the Olympic games, and had
enraptured his audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm a string of his
instrument broke, and a cicada or grasshopper perched on the bridge supplied
by its voice the loss of the string and saved the fame of the musician. To this day
in Surinam the Dutch call them lyre-players. If there is any truth in the story,
the grasshopper then had powers far in advance of his degenerated descendants; for
now the grasshopper—like the cricket—has a chirp consisting of three
notes in rhythm, always forming a triplet in the key of B.

FLY BUZZING.

Gardiner, on the authority of Dr. Primatt, states that, to produce the sound it
makes, the house-fly must make 320 vibrations of its wings in a second; or nearly
20,000 if it continues on the wing a minute. The sound is invariably on the note F
in the first space. The music of a duck’s note is given in the annexed score.

In conclusion, an article on the music of Nature would not be complete without
an allusion to the music of the winds and the storm. Admirers of Beethoven will
recall numerous passages that would serve as illustrations. One particularly might
be mentioned—the chorus in “Judah” (Haydn), “The Lord devoureth them all,”
which is admirably imitative of the reverberations of the cataract and the
thundering of mighty waters. The sounds at sea, ominous of shipwreck, will also
occur to the minds of some. At Land’s End it is not uncommon for storms to be
heralded by weird sounds; and in the northern seas sailors, always a superstitious
race of people, used to be much alarmed by a singular musical effect, which is now
well known to be caused by nothing more fearsome than a whale breathing.

DUCK.

These instances might be still further multiplied, but enough have, perhaps,
been given to excite some general interest in “the Music of Nature.”

Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of
Their Lives.

SIR HENRY LOCH.

BORN 1827.

Sir Henry Brougham Loch, G.C.M.G., K.C.B., whose name has recently been so
prominently before the public in connection with the disturbances in Mashonaland,
is Chief Commissioner at the Cape. In his diplomatic career he was taken prisoner
during the war with China; and, with Mr. Boulby, the Times correspondent,
was carried about in a cage by his captors, and exhibited to the natives. After his
liberation he returned to England, and was appointed Governor of the Isle of Man,
and subsequently Governor of Victoria; and, in 1889, was appointed to succeed Sir
Hercules Robinson as Chief Commissioner at the Cape.

MADAME BELLE COLE.

It was in Jubilee Year that the British public were first charmed by the singing
of this admirable American contralto. She sang in London, and successive audiences
were quick to confirm the judgments of Sir Joseph Barnby and certain other critics
who had heard her only in private. Her advance to the front rank of English singers
was exceedingly rapid, and her position amongst us was long since made secure.
Madame Cole has taken part in nearly all the great musical events in this country
during the past four years. She has sung everywhere in London—with the Royal
Choral Society at the Albert Hall, at the Handel Festival at the Crystal Palace, at
the Ballad Concerts, at the Monday Popular Concerts, at Sir Charles Hallé’s
Concerts, and at Bristol, Chester, Leeds, Birmingham, and other leading towns. As
seems to have been the case with most well-dowered musicians, Madame Cole’s talent
owes something to heredity. Musical ability, greater or less, may at all events be
traced back in her family for a considerable period. Madame Cole’s first distinct
success in public was gained with Mr. Theodore Thomas, during that gentleman’s
first “grand transcontinental tour from ocean to ocean” in 1883.

THE LORD BISHOP OF PETERBOROUGH.

BORN 1843.

Professor the Rev. Mandell Creighton, M.A., was born at Carlisle, and educated
at Durham Grammar School and Merton College, Oxford. He was ordained deacon in 1870
and priest in 1873, and in 1875 accepted the living of Embleton, in Northumberland.
In 1884 he was elected to the newly founded professorship of Ecclesiastical History
in the University of Cambridge. In 1885 he was appointed by the Crown canon
residentiary of Worcester Cathedral. He is the author of several historical works:
“Primer of Roman History,” 1875; “The Age of Elizabeth,” 1876; etc. His principal
work is a “History of the Papacy During the Period of the Reformation.” He was
appointed Bishop of Peterborough in 1891.

LORD WANTAGE.

BORN 1832.

Robert James Loyd-Lindsay, K.C.B., V.C. is the eldest son of the late
Lieut.-General James Lindsay. He was educated at Eton, and at an early age entered
the Army. He served in the Guinea, 1854-5, part of the time as Aide-de-Camp
to the Commander in-Chief. At the battle of Alma, amidst great disorder, he
reformed the line and stood firm with the colours. At Inkerman he distinguished
himself by charging and repulsing a strong body of Russians with a few men; for
which distinctions he was justly awarded the Victoria Cross. Lord Wantage was
Equerry to the Prince of Wales, 1858-9; and has been Extra Equerry to His Royal
Highness since 1874. He is also the Lord Lieutenant and a County Councillor of
Berkshire. He married, in 1858, Harriet Sarah, only child of the first Baron
Overstone.

SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, BART, M.P.

BORN 1826.

Sir Richard Temple, Bart., G.C.S.I., M.P., D.C.L.(Oxon), LL.D. (Cantab), of The
Nash, Kempsey, near Worcester, entered the third class of the Bengal Civil Service
in 1846. He was Secretary to Sir John Lawrence in the Punjab, and eventually was
appointed Chief Commissioner of the Central Provinces, and the Political Resident
at Hyderabad. He was Foreign Secretary to the Governor-General, and Finance
Minister of India, from 1868 to 1874. In January, 1874, he was appointed to
superintend the relief operations in the famine-stricken districts of Bengal. He
became Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal in 1875; was created a Baronet in August,
1876; and was appointed Governor of the Presidency of Bombay in January, 1877,
which office he held till March, 1880. He sits for the Kingston Division of
Surrey.

A Terrible New Year’s Eve.

BY KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON.

In a little Belgian village not many miles from Brussels the winter sun shone
brightly. It shone through the quaint old windows of a little, red-tiled cottage,
and on the figure of a girl who stood in the centre of the kitchen reading a long,
closely written letter. Over the blazing fire, where the “pot au feu” was
simmering, bent an old woman, and the girl’s voice came joyously to her as she
stirred the savoury mess.

“My aunt, Paul has sent for me. At last he has got permanent work. It is nothing
very great at present, but it may lead to better things, and the pay is enough,
with what he has saved, to enable him to rent a little ‘appartement.’ If I can, he
wants me, with our little Pierre, to catch the coach at ‘Les Trois Frères’
to-morrow. We should then reach Brussels by night and spend our New Year
together.”

As Babette spoke, her cheeks all flushed with hope and joy, the eyes of both the
women rested on a cradle that stood in the room. In this, baby Pierre, only a
twelvemonth old, lay sleeping peacefully.

Then said the old woman, sadly, “I shall miss you, dearest, and the baby too.
Still, it is only right you should go. Perhaps in the summer you may return for a
bit. Time passes quickly. A year ago you were weeping over Paul’s departure; and
now, behold, you are going to join him, and lay in his arms the son he has never
seen.”

Babette nodded. She was between tears and smiles. There was grief, true and
deep, at leaving the dear old aunt, who had been so good to her and to her child.
There was joy at the thought of seeing again the brave young husband whom she had
wedded in the little village church two years before, and from whom the parting had
been so bitter, when he left her, just before the birth of their baby boy, to seek
work in the Belgian capital.

But there was no time to waste. After the simple mid-day meal there were many
things to be done, and all through the short winter day they were busy. There was a
bundle of warm wraps to be put together for Babette to take with her. Her little
trunk, with Pierre’s cradle, and some odds and ends of furniture, would follow in a
few days, when her aunt had collected and packed them all. Her little store of
money was counted over. Alas! it was very slender. She must travel quickly and
cheaply if it was to last her till she reached Brussels.

“Jean’s cart will take you as far as ‘Les Trois Frères,'” said the old
lady, cheerfully, after finding that counting the little heap of francs and
half-francs over and over did not increase them. “That will save something. You can
catch the coach that stops there at two, and by six you will be in Brussels. I pray
the little one may not take cold.”

Babette agreed to all her aunt suggested. Jean was a farmer of the village;
well-to-do and good-natured. She knew he would gladly give her a seat in his
waggon, which was going next day to “Les Trois Frères,” an inn six miles
from the village. The coach for Brussels stopped there twice a week, and when once
she had taken her place in it, the worst of her journey would be over.

They went to rest early that night, and by eleven next morning the last good-bye
had been said. Pretty Babette was seated by the side of Farmer Jean, with her baby
boy, wrapped up in numerous shawls, clasped tightly to her, and the great Flemish
horses were plodding, slowly but surely, towards “Les Trois Frères”.

The day was not as bright as the preceding one. Snow had fallen during the
night, and the sky looked heavy, as though there were more to come. Babette
shivered, in spite of her long, warm cloak. The roads were freezing hard, but they
managed to proceed for a mile or two, and then suddenly there came a sway and a
lurch, for one of the horses had slipped and fallen on the snowy road, and the
other was trying to free himself from his struggling companion by frantic kicks and
plunges.

Farmer Jean had a man with him, and between them they got the poor animal up,
while Babette stood in the cold highway, her baby peeping wonderingly from the
folds of her cloak.

The horse was bruised and cut about the knees, but otherwise unhurt, so the men
resumed their places; Babette climbed back to hers, and the heavy cart went jolting
on. The farmer cracked his whip, and whenever the road grew worse he or his man got
down and led the horses. In spite of this, their progress grew slower and
slower.

“I don’t like to say so,” said the master, “but we’ve two more miles to go, and
it is past one o’clock now. My girl, if the coach is gone, I’ll get you back and
drive you in again next time it passes.”

But Babette would not hear of this. Not to see Paul by nightfall! Not to be
clasped in his arms, she and little Pierre together, in one warm embrace! Not to
spend New Year’s Day with him! No! she would not think of it. And yet when, more
than an hour later, they rolled into the yard of “Les Trois Frères,” there
was no sign of the Brussels coach. It had started half an hour before. “Les Trois
Frères” was a quiet, homely inn, little used excepting when the coach
stopped there. Babette, pale and trembling, got down and ran into the bar, where
the landlord stood smiling behind a row of bright pewter taps.

“Am I too late for the coach?” she cried. “Has it gone?” And then, when the man
told her she was indeed too late, all strength and energy left her, and she sank
sobbing on the wooden bench by the door.

There were two other men in the room, who looked at her curiously; she was such
a pretty girl, even in the midst of her grief. One was an old pedlar, with his
well-filled pack on the floor beside him. He had a pleasant, homely face, and thin,
bent figure. The other was a middle-sized, powerful fellow, clean shaven and
beetle-browed, and dressed in shabby, ill-fitting garments. It was hard to tell
what his rank in life might be. He stared once again at Babette, and then handed
his glass to the host to be re-filled. The pedlar was the first to break the
silence.

“‘CHEER UP, MY LASS’, HE SAID KINDLY.”

“Cheer up, my lass,” he said, kindly; “I too have missed the coach, and I too
must reach Brussels to-night. I have two thousand francs in notes and gold in my
pocketbook, which are the savings of a lifetime, and I am going to pay them into
the bank tomorrow. Then I shall give up my trade and start a little shop.”

“I would not talk too much about them in the meantime, friend. In some countries
it might be dangerous, but we are honest in Belgium.”

It was the other man who spoke, and his voice, though rough, was not unpleasant.
He paid the landlord, caught up his stick, and with a curt “Good-day” passed out of
“Les Trois Frères.”

“He, also, perhaps, is going to Brussels. He means to walk, and if he, why not
I?” said the pedlar. He had come in cold and tired, and the landlord’s good ale had
made him slightly loquacious. “Yes, I shall try and walk. The roads are better
walking than driving. It is not so very many miles, and most likely I shall be
overtaken by some cart going the same way.” And he rose as he spoke.

Babette rose also and caught him eagerly by the hand. “I will walk with you,”
she cried. “I am strong, well shod, and the fastest walker in our village. We can
get to Brussels before dark, in spite of my having my boy to carry. Oh! bless you
for thinking of it, for now I shall see Paul before the year is out.”

Nor would she be dissuaded. Farmer Jean came in and said something about snow.
“The sky was darkening for it already.” But Babette was firm. The landlord’s buxom
wife came forth from an inner room and offered her a lodging for the night, and
then, when she could not persuade her, helped her to wrap the baby up afresh, and
finally made her place in her pocket a tiny flask of brandy, “in case,” she said,
“the snow should overtake them.”

So they started. Babette had spoken the truth when she called herself a good
walker. She was but twenty, and was both slight and active. The pedlar too, in
spite of his bent form, got over the ground quickly. They had put four or five good
miles between themselves and “Les Trois Frères” when the snow began to fall.
It came down steadily in thick, heavy flakes. Babette drew her cloak yet closer
round her boy and they plodded on, but walking became more and more difficult, and
they grew both weary and cold. Suddenly, by the roadside, several yards ahead, they
saw a man’s figure. He was coming to meet them, and drew near rapidly, and then
they recognised their friend in the shabby brown clothes, who had left the inn so
shortly before them.

“I saw you coming,” he explained, “so came to meet you. Madame”—with a bow
to Babette, polite for one so uncouth looking—”can go no further to-night;
the storm will not pass off yet. I live not far from here with my mother and
brothers, and if madame likes, we can all take shelter under my humble roof. It is
but a poor place, but you will be welcome, and doubtless we can find two spare
beds.”

They could do nothing but thank him and accept his offer. Even Babette
acknowledged that all hope of reaching Brussels was now over. The New Year would
have dawned before she and her husband met.

The wind had risen and the snow, half turned to sleet, was now beating furiously
into their faces. It was all they could do to keep their feet. They struggled on
after their guide as best they could, till he turned out of the high road into a
lane; and thankful were they when he stopped, and, pushing open a gate that creaked
on rusty hinges, led them up a narrow, gravelled pathway to a small, bare house,
flanked on either side by some dreary bushes of evergreens.

In answer to his peremptory knock, the door was opened by a man slighter and
shorter than himself, but sufficiently like him to be known as his brother, and the
travellers staggered in—the door, with a heavy crash, blowing to behind
them.

Perhaps now for the first time it really struck Babette that she had been
headstrong in persisting in her journey, and in trusting herself and child to the
mercy of utter strangers so far from home. The same thought passed through the old
pedlar’s mind, but it was too late to retreat, so they silently followed their new
host and his brother. They went down a passage and into a room, half kitchen, half
parlour, snugly and even comfortably furnished.

“A MAN AND A WOMAN SAT OVER THE FIRE.”

Heavy wooden shutters dulled the noise of the boisterous gale outside. A thick
red curtain hung over the door, and a cheery log fire burnt in the stove. A man and
woman sat over it; the man, a tall, repulsive-looking creature, with unkempt hair
and matted beard, his age apparently about fifty. The woman looked seventy or more.
She too had once been tall, but now old age gave her a withered, witch-like
appearance, in spite of her great height. She was dressed in limp, faded garments,
with a tattered shawl crossed over her chest, and had a scared, miserable look in
her bleared old eyes. There were a few words of explanation from the man who had
come home, and then, in gruff but not unkindly tones, he bade Babette be seated,
and told his mother to get some supper speedily. She spread a coarse cloth on the
wooden table, and when all was ready, lifted a large black saucepan from the stove
and turned out a smoking, savoury-looking stew. The youngest son produced a bottle
containing the thin acid wine of the country, and another of spirits. As he set
them on the table, Babette noticed that across one of his hands, which were much
smaller and whiter than those of his brothers, there ran a dull red scar that
looked as if he had had a bad cut there. Then they all sat down, excepting the old
mother, who busied herself in waiting on them.

“It’s the last good meal you’ll get for some time, I’m thinking,” she croaked,
as she watched them devouring their supper, “unless you turn to and find more work
than you’ve done lately. The landlord called for his rent again to-day and swore he
would wait no longer, but turn us out if we did not pay in three days’ time.”

“Curse him!” muttered the man who had brought the strangers in, half under his
breath; then aloud he added, “Shut up, good mother: remember, we have visitors; and
one a man of property, who will hardly sympathize with our poverty.”

Babette looked up as he spoke, and intercepted a glance so strange and savage
that passed between the brothers and then rested on her friend the pedlar, that
involuntarily she shuddered and turned pale.

The old man, however, did not appear to notice anything unsatisfactory in the
appearance or manners of his hosts. He had eaten to his liking, and had allowed the
grim-looking eldest brother to fill his glass again and again with “Genievre” till
his face began to flush, and his eyes grew dazed and heavy. Babette felt more and
more uneasy. Oh! to be back at “Les Trois Frères” again, or even out in the
snowy road! Anything would be better than sitting in this lonely house, with those
three forbidding faces glaring on her. She rose hastily and caught up her sleeping
child. “I am very tired, good people,” she said, timidly, “and I must start betimes
in the morning. If I might go to bed now, I should be so thankful.”

In answer to her request, the old woman lighted a candle, and Babette followed
her upstairs into a small, low chamber. There was no superfluous furniture in it,
but the little bed looked clean and inviting, and the curtains that hung in front
of the tiny window were made of light, fresh-looking chintz. Facing the bed was a
door, leading apparently into another room. Babette wondered if it was the one her
friend the pedlar was to occupy, but she was not long left in doubt. The old woman
wished her good-night and left her, and Babette, after hushing her boy to sleep
again, had just sunk wearily into the one chair the room boasted, when she heard a
slow, heavy step ascending, and knew the pedlar was coming to bed. He shut the
outer door behind him, and began arranging his pack.

Babette could hear the pedlar moving backwards and forwards with uncertain,
tired footsteps. There was no sound below, even the wind was hushed. She drew aside
the curtains and looked out, and saw that the snow had ceased to fall, and lay
thick and white on the ground.

Then there came a sudden presentiment upon her. A sense of danger, vague and
undefined, seemed to surround her. It was all the more terrible on account of its
vagueness. She did not know what she feared, yet the terror of something horrible
was strong upon her.

She slipped off her boots, and stole gently up to the door that divided her room
from the pedlar’s.

“Sir,” she whispered, “you are very, very tired, and will sleep heavily. I am so
anxious, I don’t know why; but forgive me and do trust me. Push your pocket-book
that contains your money under the door. See—it does not fit tight! We don’t
know who the people of the house are: they may try to rob you. I will tie it up
inside my baby’s shawls, and will give it back to you as soon as we are out of this
place. Oh, would to God that we had never entered it! Your money will be safe with
me, and they will never think of looking for it here. Will you give it me?”

In answer to her pleadings, a shabby little leather book was pushed into her
room. As she picked it up and proceeded to hide it securely away beneath the baby’s
many wrappings, the pedlar said, in a voice rendered hoarse and indistinct by the
spirits he had partaken of in such unaccustomed quantities: “Here, my dear, take
it. It will, I know, be safe with you. I feel so tired that I don’t think a cannon
would wake me to-night once I get to sleep.” He groped his way to his bed, and
flung himself down on it, dressed as he was. Soon Babette heard him snoring loudly
and regularly, and then she took off her clothes, and rolling her cloak around her,
lay down by the side of her child.

In after years, when she looked on that awful time, she often wondered how,
feeling as she did that she was surrounded by so many unknown perils, she had ever
closed her eyes. Perhaps the long walk and the excitement she had undergone
accounted for the profound sleep into which she fell almost immediately, and from
which she was aroused in the dead of night by a noise in the next room. It was
neither snore nor cry. It was more like a long, shuddering gurgle, and
then—silence! Frightful, terrible silence, broken at last by the sound of
stealthy footsteps and hushed voices. Babette sunk down on her pillow again, her
baby clutched in her arms. A voiceless prayer went up to Heaven for the child’s
safety and her own, for already she heard them approaching her door, and made sure
her last hour was come. Through nearly closed eyelids she watched two of the men
enter; the one who had brought them to the house and his elder brother. They were
muttering curses, low but deep.

“To have risked so much for nothing!” whispered one. “Can she have it, or was
the old fool jesting with us?”

“It’s a jest that has cost him dear,” answered the other, as he watched his
brother search the girl’s clothes and then slip his murderous hands beneath her
pillow. He withdrew them empty.

“Shall we settle her?” he asked, “or let her go? Is it not best to be on the
safe side?”

But the smooth-shaven one said, decisively: “Let her alone; we have enough to
answer for. See, she is sound asleep, and if not, it will be easy to find out
before she reaches Brussels how much she knows. Let her be.”

Babette lay like a log, stirring neither hand nor foot. In that awful moment,
when her life or death was trembling in the balance, her mother love, that divine
instinct implanted in every woman’s breast, came to her and saved her. She knew
that if she moved her baby’s life was gone—her own she hardly cared about
just then. But those little limbs that were nestling so soft and warm against her
own, and that little flaxen head that was cuddled against her arm, for their sake
she was brave.

“SHE LAY MOTIONLESS”

So she lay motionless and listened, fearing that the men would hear even the
quick, heavy throbs of her heart. But they did not. They searched quickly and
systematically amongst all her clothing. They felt under her pillow again, but
never thought of looking at the shawls of the baby who lay so peacefully by her
side; and then at last they crept away and closed the door gently behind them.

The room was in utter darkness. For ages, as it seemed, Babette lay there,
afraid to stir, and listening vainly for some sound; then she sat up, all white and
trembling.

“My God!” she thought. “What awful thing has happened? Oh, give me strength and
courage, for my baby’s sake.”

As an inspiration, there came to her the thought of the little bottle that the
good-natured landlady of “Les Trois Frères” had given her. She felt in the
pocket of her dress and drew it out, taking a long, deep draught of the fiery
spirit. She had been on the verge of fainting, though she knew it not, and the
brandy put new life into her. She listened for a long time and then
gently—very gently—she crept out of bed and drew aside the little
curtain from the window.

Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by a
sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would
not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by
thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible.

As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially
lighted up the room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar’s chamber, and
showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly—slowly from under
it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her
hand into it, and saw that it was blood—her poor old friend’s
life-blood—for she knew now beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for
the sake of his supposed wealth.

She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible,
for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where
probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only
let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they
would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her
next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come.

With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar,
she nerved herself to get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child
against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided
her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman
kept.

At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads
were clean and hard, the sky was blue. If it had not been for that ghastly stain
that had crept across the far end of her room, she might almost have thought that
the events of the night had been but a fearful dream.

Her child awoke, fresh and smiling, and she could hear them stirring in the
living room below. She felt that now, indeed, the hardest part of her task was
still before her. On a little table by the side of her bed there was a small,
cracked looking-glass. When she was dressed she looked into it and saw that it
reflected a face death-like in its pallor, with burning lips and feverish eyes. She
took the bottle from her pocket again and gulped down the rest of its contents. It
sent a flush into her cheeks and steadied the sick trembling that was shaking her
through and through.

Without stopping to think or look round again, she took up her boy and descended
the stairs, and entered the room where they had supped on the previous night.

The old woman was its sole occupant now. She was bending over the fire frying
something for breakfast, and the table in the centre of the room was prepared for
the meal. She looked if possible more untidy and slovenly than when Babette had
last seen her, and greeted the girl with a feeble smile.

Then she poured her out a cup of coffee, and Babette had sat down and begun to
sip it (for she knew she must make a pretence of breakfasting) when the eldest son
came in. There was a very uneasy look upon his evil-looking face.

“How are you?” he asked, sullenly, as he sat down opposite her. “I hope, rested.
Did you sleep well?”

Never afterwards did she know how she found courage to answer him as she did,
quietly and firmly:—

“Yes, very well, thank you. But my friend—he must have over-slept
himself—why is he not down?”

The old woman dropped a plate with a clatter and turned round. The man looked
Babette straight in the face as he replied, and she met his glance with one just as
steady.

“The pedlar is gone,” he said, as he sugared his coffee carefully. “He paid his
bill and was off before seven. You will probably see him in Brussels, for he was
going there.”

“Yes,” repeated Babette, “I shall very likely meet him in Brussels, but I don’t
even know his name. And I, too, good people, ought to be starting. The morning is
fine, and walking will be easy.” She drank down her coffee as she spoke and rose.
“I cannot eat,” she exclaimed, seeing that they both looked suspiciously at the
thick slice of currant-bread, that lay untouched on her plate. “I think I am
excited at the thought of seeing my husband again. It seems so long since we
parted, and now we shall meet so soon.”

In her own ears her voice sounded far away and unnatural, but they did not seem
to notice anything strange in her. The old woman, with a meek “Thank you,” took the
humble payment she tendered, and they let her go; only the big, burly eldest son
stood at the door and watched her as she went slowly down the little pathway and
out through the creaking gate into the snowy road. She only looked back once, and
then she saw that a dingy signboard hung in front of the house. The picture of what
was meant for a cow, and had once been white, was depicted on it, and the words “A
la Vache Blanche” were clumsily painted underneath. So the house was an inn,
evidently, and as Babette read the words she dimly remembered having heard, long
ago, that there was an inn of that name not far from Brussels. It was kept by some
people named Marac, whose characters were anything but good, and who had been
implicated in several robberies that had taken place some years before, although
the utmost efforts of the police had failed to trace any crime directly home to
them.

“Oh, heavens! Why did I not see that sign last night?” the girl thought,
despairingly, as she trudged along the hard, frosty road. “It would have saved his
life and perhaps my reason.”

She sped along faster and faster, for the house was now quite out of sight. In
the distance the way began to wind up-hill, and a stunted, leafless wood straggled
along one side of the highway. Babette was just considering whether going through
it would shorten her journey, when a woman, dressed in the ordinary peasant costume
of the country, emerged from it and came towards her with quick, firm steps. She
was tall and rather masculine looking. The black Flemish cloak she wore hung round
her in straight, thick folds. She carried a market basket on one arm; a neat white
cloth concealing the eggs and butter that probably lay underneath.

“Good-day,” she said, in thick, guttural tones, as she reached Babette. “Are you
on the way to Brussels?”

Babette made way for her to pass, somewhat shyly.

“Yes,” she said, “and I am in haste; but the roads are heavy and I have my baby
to carry.”

As she answered, her eyes happened to fall on the stranger’s right hand, which
was ungloved and clasping the basket. And as she looked her heart seemed suddenly
to quiver and stand still, for across that strong right hand there ran a deep red
scar, precisely similar to the one she had noticed on the previous night on the
hand of the youngest brother at the “Vache Blanche.”

It did not take long for the whole horrible truth to flash across her. Doubtless
they had felt insecure after their terrible deed, and the youngest Marac had been
dispatched after her, disguised as a woman, with instructions to way-lay her by
some shorter cut, in order to find out if she was really ignorant of the frightful
way in which the pedlar had met his untimely end.

As these thoughts chased each other through her mind, she felt as if her great
terror was slowly blanching her face, and her limbs began to tremble till she could
hardly drag herself over the ground. But her baby’s warm little heart, beating so
closely against her own, once more gave her strength. She dropped her eyes so that
she might no longer see that awful hand, and tottered on by the new-comer’s side,
striving to imagine that it was indeed only a harmless peasant woman who was
walking by her and trying to remember that every step was bringing her nearer to
Brussels and protection. Her companion glanced at her curiously, and Babette
shivered, for she fancied she saw suspicion in the look.

“You seem tired.” she, or rather he, said, always speaking in the same low,
thick tones. “Brussels is barely two miles off, and it is yet early, but perhaps
you have not rested well. Where did you sleep?”

Too well did the girl know why that question was asked her, and now that her
first sickening horror was over, her brave spirit nerved itself once more.

“I was journeying with a friend yesterday,” she replied, “when the snow-storm
overtook us. Luckily we met a man whose home lay in our road. He was very good, and
took us there and gave us supper and beds.”

The stranger laughed.

“A good Samaritan, indeed! And your friend? Where is he now? Did he find his
hosts so hospitable that he was unable to tear himself away?”

“No,” said Babette, gently, “he started early; before I came down he was far on
his road. They were very good to me, and gave me coffee before I left. I am a poor
woman, and could do but little to repay them. The two francs I gave them were
almost my last.”

This speech, uttered in such a soft, even voice—for Babette had schooled
herself well by now—seemed to satisfy her companion, and they walked on side
by side in silence for what seemed to the poor girl the longest hour she had ever
passed.

At last, in the far distance there rose the spires and roofs of Brussels. The
chiming of church bells came gaily towards them through the frosty air, and Babette
knew that her terrible journey was well-nigh ended. At the entrance of the town the
stranger stopped.

“GOOD-BYE.”

“Good-bye,” she said, curtly; “I am late for the market, and must sell my eggs
quickly or shall not get my price.”

She turned down a side street and disappeared, and Babette felt her strength and
mind both failing her now that she was out of danger. She staggered weakly into a
big, dim church, by the door of which the parting happened to have taken place.
Here she sank down in a heavy, death-like swoon in front of one of the side altars,
with her baby wailing fretfully at her breast. When she came to herself again she
was seated in the sacristy, and her hair and face were wet with the water they had
flung over her. By her side stood a black-robed, kindly-faced curé and two
or three women, who were trying to force some wine down her throat. By degrees her
strength came back, and she raised herself and asked piteously for her child. Then,
when he was in her arms, she told her story.

Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers’
countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby’s shawls and handed the
shabby pocket-book to the priest that they were quite certain they had not to deal
with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the money had been looked at and
replaced, then, indeed, they saw the necessity for prompt action. The curé
caught up his hat, and, after whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of
the sacristy.

“He is gone to the police,” said one. “Poor child”—laying her hand
caressingly on the girl’s damp hair—”what hast thou not passed through!
Mercifully the mass was not over, so we found thee at once. Lie still and rest.
Give me but thy husband’s name and address, and in one little half-hour he shall be
by thy side.”

And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the police
and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of Paul’s broad arms, she
felt safe at last. She went peacefully home with her husband, and after a good
night’s rest in the little rooms he had taken for her, she was able to listen
calmly when told next day of the capture of the whole Marac family. They had been
taken red-handed in their guilt, for had not the pedlar’s body been found in a
disused cellar under their house?

He was brought to Brussels to be buried, but his name was never known, and his
money was never claimed. Probably, as he had told Babette, he had been a friendless
old man, wandering alone from place to place.

The police were generous. Half his money was given to the poor and the rest was
handed to Babette, and helped to furnish her new home. A simple stone cross now
marks the unknown pedlar’s grave: but flowers bloom there abundantly, and though
nameless, he is not forgotten. Many a prayer is uttered for him both by Babette and
her children, for the memory of that terrible New Year’s Eve will never fade from
her mind.

Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew
Clark.

BY E. H. PITCAIRN.

With a heartfelt pang, hundreds read in an evening paper on October 20th of the
serious illness of Sir Andrew Clark, so truly spoken of by George Eliot as “the
beloved physician.” Only the previous day he had presided at the Annual Harveian
Oration as President of the College of Physicians.

He had more than one warning by severe attacks of illness, and by the recurrence
of very painful symptoms, that he was over-taxing his strength, but they were
unheeded. A patient once told him he had a horror of having a fit. “Put it away,”
said Sir Andrew; “I always do.” There was only one person to whose fatigue and
exhaustion he was indifferent that was himself.

It is said that he always hoped to die in his carriage or consulting-room, and
it was in the latter, while talking with a lady (the Hon. Miss Boscawen) about some
charity, that he was seized with the illness which ended so fatally. In his case it
is no morbid curiosity which makes thousands interested in every detail concerning
him.

On one day as many as six hundred people, several of whom were quite poor
patients, called to ask how he was, and daily inquiries from all parts, including
the Royal Family were a proof how much he was respected. Very peacefully, on
Monday, November 6th, about five o’clock, he passed away, and on the following
Saturday, after a service at Westminster Abbey, he was buried at Essendon, near
Camfield, the property he had so lately bought and where he spent his last holiday.
The world has already been told how the English nation showed their respect for the
President of the College of Physicians, and in him the profession he so dearly
loved was honoured.

What was the reason of this demonstration of respect? Because individuals seem
to have felt a sense of irreparable loss. Very many have the idea that there
are few others with his gifts who would respond in the same way to their demand for
sympathy and help; for Sir Andrew’s interest in each patient was real. There was an
attractive force about him, difficult to describe, and which only those who knew
him could understand, for he was nothing if not original. It is impossible in this
brief sketch to give an adequate portrait of a great personality and to tell the
story of his life’s work. I shall but try to mention some of his distinctive
qualities and characteristics, illustrated by a few facts. Two or three real
incidents sometimes give a better idea of a man’s character than pages of
generalities.

THE GRAVE IN ESSENDON CHURCHYARD.
From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith.

Sir Andrew was born at Aberdeen in October, 1826. His father died when he was
seven years old, and his mother at his birth. To the end of his life he regretted
never having known a mother’s love. His childhood, spent with two uncles, does not
seem to have been very happy, and he had no brother or sister. He was educated at
Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and at the former place took his degree.

As a young man he gained first medals in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, botany,
materia medica, surgery, pathology, and practice of physic.

At twenty-two, in very delicate health, he entered the Royal Navy as
assistant-surgeon, and was appointed to the hospital at Haslar. His subsequent
medical career is pretty generally known. He obtained almost every possible honour,
culminating in the Presidency of the College of Physicians for the lengthy term of
six years.

Sir Andrew was devoted to the College. He made an excellent President, and a
dignified, courteous, and just chairman. His successor will find it no easy task to
fill his place.

He took an intense interest in all that concerned the welfare of the College,
and gave many proofs of his affection, one of the last being a donation of
£500 last year towards its redecoration. Not a great many laymen know the
College by sight. It is a corner building in Trafalgar Square, the entrance facing
Whitcomb Street. The meetings of the Fellows are held in the magnificent library,
lined with 60,000 volumes, chiefly classics. Opening out of the library is the
Censors’ room, panelled with old oak, and hung with portraits of former Presidents,
chiefly by old masters. At an examination the President sits at the end of the
table with his back to the fireplace, the Registrar (Dr. Liveing) opposite, and the
Censors on either side. In front of the President is a cushion with the Caduceus,
the Mace, and the Golden Cane. It was in the library that Sir Andrew presided at
the Harveian Oration the day before he was taken ill.

Sir Andrew could not be judged of by the surface. As Sir Joseph Phayres truly
says: “I have known him intimately, and the more I knew him the more I respected
and admired him.” Those who knew him best loved him best. One has only to read how
one leading man after another writes of him with enthusiastic appreciation (in the
Medical Journal) to learn what his colleagues thought of his medical skill
and personal character.

A bishop recently spoke of him as the truthful doctor: and a young girl, who
from a small child had stayed with him, told me he would always correct himself if
he had told an anecdote the least inaccurately; and one day this summer when
walking round their garden with him she said the caterpillars had eaten all their
gooseberry trees; “I mean the gooseberry leaves,” she added. Sir Andrew
immediately said, “I am glad you are particular to say what is exactly true”; but,
she added, there was always something to remember in everything he said.
With regard to another point, a clergyman who knew Sir Andrew very intimately once
told me that “No man of this century had a more keenly religious mind; he was so
saturated with thoughts of God and so convinced that God had spoken to man. He was
intensely religious, with a profound sense of the supernatural; he certainly was a
great example to very busy men in the way he always managed to find time for
church, and even when called away to a distance he would, if possible, go to a
church near where he happened to be.” In addition to these qualities, he was very
just, sympathetic, and generous.

I have come across many friends who knew him well, and it is interesting to note
that the same cardinal points seem to have struck everyone as the key-notes of his
life. In almost identical words each one speaks of his strong faith, his strict
veracity, and his intense devotion to duty. One of his old friends said to me the
other day: “Nothing would tempt Clark away from what he thought right; his
conscientiousness was unbounded.”

His love of metaphysics, combined with a very high motive, made him naturally
interested in the whole man—body, mind, and spirit. To quote the words
of a well-known bishop: “It was his intrepid honesty which was so valuable a
quality. In Sir Andrew Clark men felt that he wished to do them good, and to do
them the best good, by making men of them.”

The bishop told me a characteristic anecdote illustrating this: “A clergyman
complained to him of feeling low and depressed, unable to face his work, and
tempted to rely on stimulants. Sir Andrew saw that the position was a perilous one,
and that it was a crisis in the man’s life. He dealt with the case, and forbade
resort to stimulants, when the patient declared that he would be unequal to his
work and ready to sink. ‘Then,’ said Sir Andrew, ‘sink like a man!'” This is but
one of many incidents showing his marvellous power in restraining his patients and
raising them to a higher moral level. The writer could tell a far more wonderful
story of the saving of a drunkard, body and soul, but it is too touching and sacred
for publication. At the top of the wall of that well-known consulting-room (in
which Sir Andrew is said to have seen 10,000 patients annually), immediately facing
the chair where he always sat, are the words: “Glory to God.”

CENSORS’ ROOM—COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS.
From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith.

With regard to his profession he was an enthusiast. He termed medicine “the
metropolis of the kingdom of knowledge,” and in one of his addresses to students,
said: “You have chosen one of the noblest, the most important, and the most
interesting of professions, but also the most arduous and the most self-denying,
involving the largest sacrifices and the fewest rewards. He who is not prepared to
find in its cultivation and exercise his chief recompense, has mistaken his calling
and should retrace his steps.”

He had an ideal, and he did his utmost to live up to it. His words in many
instances did as much good as his medicine.

To explain what I mean I cannot do better than quote part of a letter received
since Sir Andrew’s death, from a delicate, hardworking clergyman, whom I have known
some years. After speaking of Sir Andrew’s painstaking kindness, “never seeming the
least hurried,” he says: “He had a wonderful way of inspiring one with confidence
and readiness to face one’s troubles. I remember his saying once, ‘It is wonderful
how we get accustomed to our troubles,’ and at another time, while
encouraging me to go on with work—reading for Orders: ‘If one is to die, it
is better to die doing something, than doing nothing.’ I have often found that a
help when feeling done-up and useless. In the old days when people used to go and
see him without an appointment, I have often sat for hours in his dining-room,
feeling so ill that I felt as if I should die before I saw him, but after having
seen him I felt as if I had got a new lease of life. I was not at all
hypochondriacal or fanciful, I think, but that was the moral effect of an interview
with him. I believe he revolutionized the treatment of cases like mine, and that
he, to a certain extent, experimented on me; at any rate, he treated me on
philosophical principles, and told me often” (he went to him for twenty years)
“that I had become much stronger than he had expected. He said to me several times:
‘You are a wonderful man; you have saved many lives.'”

This my correspondent understood to mean the experiments had been
successful.

“He once said that if I had died at that time, there was not a doctor in London
would have approved of his treatment. He gave a description of my case some years
ago, in a lecture I think at Brighton—but of course without the name. The
particular weakness was valvular disease of the heart, the consequence of rheumatic
fever, and this treatment was founded on the principle that Nature always works
towards compensation. He told me many years ago that that particular mischief was
fully compensated for.”

He loved his work and never tired of it. He often told the story how his first
serious case, and encouraging cure, was himself. With severe hemorrhage of the
lungs, he was told it would be at the risk of his life if he went on with his
studies. A doctor, however, he made up his mind he would be, and that he would
begin by making every effort to cure himself. With characteristic determination, he
persisted in a strict regimen of diet and fresh air. “I determined,” said Sir
Andrew, “as far as my studies would allow me—for I never intended to give
them up—to live in the fresh air, often studying out of doors; and in a short
time I was so much better that I was able to take gentle exercise. I got well, and
I may almost say I got over the trouble which threatened me.” The lungs were
healed, and a result which seemed inevitable avoided. He would often say he
obtained his first appointment at the London Hospital chiefly out of pity, the
authorities thinking he would not live six months, but he outlived almost every one
of them.

THE CADUCENS, MACE, BOOK, AND SEAL—COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS
From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith

No man could have kept on for fourteen and sixteen hours a day, as Sir Andrew
did, without unbounded enthusiasm and an absorbing interest.

His enormous correspondence must have been the great tax. Most people are
disinclined to write a dozen letters at the end of a hard day’s work; but Sir
Andrew often came home at eight o’clock with the knowledge that letters would
occupy him until after midnight. His letters averaged sixty per day. These would be
answered by return, except where minute directions were inclosed.

Only the other day, a friend of his told me, Sir Andrew came in the morning, a
short time before he was taken ill, looking very tired and worried. On being asked
the reason, he said he had not slept all night, for he went to see a patient three
days before, and because he had not sent the table of directions, the patient wrote
saying he would not try his treatment. “I never slept,” said Sir Andrew, “thinking
of the state of mind to which I had unavoidably reduced that poor patient.”

In order to get through his work he had a light breakfast at 7.30, when he read
his letters, which were opened for him. From eight until two or three he saw
patients, his simple luncheon being taken in the consulting-room. He would then go
to the hospital, College of Physicians, or some consultation; he had often after
that to go to see someone at a distance, but he never worried a patient by seeming
in a hurry, however much pressed for time.

He had a very strong sense of responsibility, and would never rest himself by
staying the night if it were unnecessary. A rich patient in Devonshire once offered
him a large sum to stay until the next morning. “I could do you no good,” said Sir
Andrew, “and my patients will want me to-morrow.” Among his patients were almost
all the great authors, philosophers, and intellectual men of the day. Longfellow,
Tennyson, Huxley, Cardinal Manning, and numerous others were his warm friends. He
always declared he caught many a cold in the ascetic Cardinal’s “cold house.” An
old pupil truly says Sir Andrew had the rare faculty of surveying the conditions
and circumstances of each one, gathering them up, and clearly seeing what was best
to do. Professor Sheridan Delapine says: “He was specially fond of quoting
Sydenham’s words: ‘Tota ars medici est in observationibus.'”

After asking what was amiss and questioning them on what they told him, he would
say: “Give me a plan of your day. What is your work? When do you take your meals?
Of what do they consist? What time do you get up, and when do you go to bed?”
Notwithstanding the keenness of his eye and natural intuition, which found out
instantly far more than was told, he not only eagerly and attentively listened, but
remembered what his patient said. Sir Henry Roscoe gave me a striking
instance of this, and I cannot do better than quote his exact words:—

“I first made Sir Andrew’s acquaintance about twenty years ago at Braemar, where
he was spending the autumn, and, as was his kindly wont, had with him a young
Manchester man, far gone in consumption, to whom he acted as friend, counsellor,
and physician. In our frequent walks and talks, I confided in the eminent doctor
that I had suffered from that frequent plague of sedentary men, the gout. ‘Come and
see me any morning in Cavendish Square before eight,’ said he, ‘and I will do what
I can for you.’ Many years slipped by; living then in Manchester, I never took
advantage of the kind offer, and I never saw Sir Andrew until some eight years
afterwards. I was calling on my old friend, Sir Joseph Whitworth, who at that time
had rooms in Great George Street. As I came quickly out of the front door, Clark’s
carriage drove up, and almost before it stopped the Doctor ‘bounced’ out and we
nearly ran against each other. In one ‘instant-minute,’ as our American friends
say, he accosted me: ‘Well! How’s the gout?’ He had no more idea of meeting me at
that moment than of meeting the man in the moon, and yet, no sooner had he seen my
face—which he had not looked upon for eight years—than the whole ‘case’
flashed upon him. Since that time I have often seen him, and I shall always retain
not only a high opinion of his great gifts, but also an affectionate remembrance of
his great-heartedness.”

Literary people and brain-workers particularly interested him, and they found in
the kind doctor a friend who understood them. He would advise all writing that
involved thought to be done in the morning before luncheon. The evening might be
spent in “taking in” or reading up the subject of a book or paper, but there must
be no giving out. For brain-workers who were not strong, he insisted on meat in the
middle of the day; he declared that for this class it was “physiologically wicked”
even to have luncheon without.

To one who spoke of fatigue after a comparatively short walk, he replied: “Walk
little, then. Many who work their brain are not up to much exercise. I hardly ever
walk a mile myself; but that need not prevent men having plenty of fresh air.”

THE LONDON HOSPITAL
From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith.

Some people laugh at his rules for diet, etc., forgetting that these simple
directions are based on deep knowledge of the human frame. Let them laugh. Many who
have tried them know they have been different people in consequence. His incisive
words—”My friend, you eat too much!” “My friend, you drink too much!” would
not he appreciated by all; but Sir Andrew thought nearly all diseases were the
outcome of the constant and apparently unimportant violation of the laws of health.
Those who were hopelessly ill would always hear the truth from him, but he would
leave no stone unturned to lessen their suffering. Many an incurable patient has he
sent to a home from the London Hospital, and visited them afterwards. Only the
other day I heard of patients he had sent to St. Elizabeth’s, Great Ormond Street,
where incurable patients are nursed and cared for until they die, and never left
the hospital without leaving a guinea with one of the nuns. Sir Andrew had no
stereotyped plan. It was not merely the disease, but the individual he treated. A
friend told me he saved her aunt’s life. She could not sleep, and Sir Andrew
ordered them to give her breakfast at five, “for after tossing about all night she
might sleep after having some food,” and so it proved.

THE HARRISON WARD—LONDON HOSPITAL.
From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith.

To others who might get well, he would say: “Fight for your life.”

Twelve years ago a lady (whom I met lately) had hemorrhage of the lungs three
times. She was told by seven doctors in the country that she “had not a week to
live.” She had young children, and determined to make a great effort to see Sir
Andrew Clark. He prophesied she would get well, providing she at once left the damp
climate where she was then living and made her permanent home at Malvern. A week
after she had taken his remedies she walked up the Wrekin. From that day she saw
Sir Andrew once every year, and looks upon herself as a monument of his skill.

“Die to live,” was a favourite saying of Sir Andrew’s. “In congenial work you
will find life, strength, and happiness.” This certainly was his own experience.
Only in July last he said to the writer of this notice: “I never know what it is to
feel well now, but work is the joy of my life.”

He could, however, place strict limits as to how much a patient might
work. It is well known how docile and obedient a patient he had in Mr. Gladstone.
One evening, coming downstairs muffled up to avoid a worse cold, he was met by Sir
Andrew with the greeting, “Where are you going?” “To the House,” said Mr.
Gladstone. “No, you are not,” replied his friend; “you are going straight to bed!”
and to bed he went. Sir Andrew also limited the time Mr. Gladstone should speak. On
one occasion, however, notwithstanding the fact that the peremptory adviser was
present, watch in hand, Mr. Gladstone, after throwing down the written speech as
the clock struck, went on for another half-hour! ¹
This disobedience was the exception which proved the rule.

Mr. Gladstone was a friend for whom Sir Andrew had the highest respect and
veneration, and hardly ever passed a day without going to see him. Shortly before
he was taken ill he said: “For twenty years I have never heard Gladstone say an
unkind or vituperative word of anyone.”

With respect to fees, he always took what was offered: sometimes he would
receive £500 for a long journey, sometimes two guineas. The following is no
doubt but one of many similar experiences. After a hard day’s work he was urgently
summoned to a place 120 miles from London. It was a very wet night. There was no
carriage to meet him; no fly to be had. After walking a mile or two he arrived at a
small farm, and found the daughter suffering from an attack of hysteria. Sir
Andrew, with his usual kindness, did what he could and evidently gave satisfaction,
for when he left the mother said: “Well, Sir Andrew, you have been so kind we must
make it double,” and handed him two guineas. He thanked them and said:
“Good-bye.”

Sir Andrew would never hear of charging more than his usual fee because a person
happened to be very rich. In a word, he was honest. On one occasion when going to
see a patient in the south, the doctor who was to meet him in consultation met Sir
Andrew at the station, told him they were rich, and quite prepared to pay a very
high fee. But Sir Andrew replied: “I did not come from London,” and naming the
place where he was staying, said, “My fee is only a third of the sum you name.” Sir
Andrew was not indifferent to fees; on the contrary, he rather took a pride in
telling how much he earned. He is said to have once received £5,000 for going
to Cannes, the largest medical fee known. Some, however, have wondered who
did pay him—so numerous were his non-paying patients. From Anglican and Roman
Catholic clergy, sisters, nuns, and all engaged in any charitable work (unless rich
men) he would never consent to receive a fee, at the same time making it felt that
unwillingness to accept his advice “would deprive him of a pleasure”; and it was
felt that this was literally true, and if anything the patients whom he saw “as a
friend” were shown more consideration than others. “Come and see me next week,” he
said to one who demurred to the necessity for going again, knowing he would not
accept a fee, “and I will arrange that you shall not be kept waiting.”

FACSIMILE OF A PRESCRIPTION WRITTEN BY SIR ANDREW CLARK.

The present Lord Tennyson writes: “We are among the many who are much indebted
to Sir Andrew Clark. It was in a great measure owing to him that my father
recovered from his dangerous attack of gout in 1888, when ‘he was as near death as
a man could be.’ After this illness Sir Andrew paid us a visit, at Aldworth, in the
summer of 1889. He told us that he had come in spite of a summons from the Shah, to
which he had replied that the Shah’s Hakim could not obey, as he had promised to
visit his old friend—the old Poet. Sir Andrew added: ‘This disobedience of
your humble and devoted physician for the sake of his friend, the crowned King of
Song, struck the crowned King of Kings so much that, so far from being offended, he
took a noble view, and, as a mark of signal honour, sent me the Star of the Second
Class of the Lion and Sun of Persia.'”

Sundays were often spent out of town, at Hawarden and elsewhere, and latterly at
Camfield, the house so lately purchased. Both this and his town house were entirely
furnished, as he wished each to be complete in itself.

Already at Essendon the example of his life was felt to be a power for good, as
well as the kind interest he took in his poorer neighbours, inviting them up to his
house, promising to give the men a dinner at Christmas, etc. Yet Sir Andrew was no
“country gentleman”; his favourite recreation was books. On being asked: “Which way
are we looking? In which direction is London?” he replied: “I don’t know.” “Don’t
you know how the house stands, or what soil it is built upon?” and again he had to
plead ignorance.

Nevertheless, his love of neatness made him notice if a place was in good order.
One day, driving over to see some neighbours, after congratulating them on the
well-kept garden, he was getting into the carriage, when he suddenly remembered he
had not told the gardener how much pleased he was with the whole place, and with
his usual courtesy insisted on going back to find him.

One of Sir Andrew’s holidays was a trip to Canada, when he accompanied the
Marquis of Lorne and Princess Louise, on the former being appointed
Governor-General there. This he did as a friend, and in no way in a medical
capacity. He was most popular on the voyage out among the passengers, keeping the
ship alive with jokes and amusing stories, and many called him “Merry Andrew.” He
was almost boyish in his keen enjoyment of a holiday. He was evidently devoted to
music, and was delighted with the beautiful string band the Duke of Edinburgh
brought on board at Halifax. In Canada, Sir Andrew was most warmly received and
universally liked by everyone. Amongst others he made the acquaintance of Sir John
Macdonald.

The Princess told me without doubt there was one predominating interest in his
mind, and that the supernatural—whether at a British Association meeting, the
College of Physicians, or speaking privately to his own friends. He realized the
impossibility of explaining by scientific methods the supernatural. He would often
say: “There is more in Heaven and earth than this world dreams of. Given the most
perfect scientific methods, you will find beyond abysses which you are
powerless to explore.”

He had the greatest charm of mind, and, needless to say, was a delightful
companion. His topics of conversation were extremely varied: he liked dialectics
for talk and argument’s sake, and enjoyed talking to those who had somewhat the
same taste. Possibly for this reason he did not fully appreciate children, although
they amused him, and he liked to understand their ideas. A friend of Sir Andrew’s
staying with him at the time told me the following characteristic anecdote: One
afternoon during his autumn holiday in Scotland the footman came in to put coals on
the fire, and a child (a relation) coughed vehemently. “Why do you cough so much?”
said Sir Andrew. “To make James look at me,” said the child. Sir Andrew was
“solemnly interested,” and afterwards took it as a parable of a woman’s nature,
which, speaking generally, he considered morally and ethically inferior to a man’s.
In his opinion very many women were wanting in the two great
qualities—justice and truth—considering their own, their children’s, or
their husband’s interests first rather than what was absolutely right.

One subject that interested him very much was heredity, and he had, of course,
countless opportunities of studying it. “Temperance and morality,” he would say,
“are most distinctly transmitted, especially by the mother; but,” said Sir Andrew,
“in spite of heredity, I am what I am by my own choice.”

Sir Andrew was a great reader. Metaphysics, philosophy, and theology were his
favourite subjects, especially the latter—he also occasionally read a good
novel. Reading was his only relaxation, for it was one he could enjoy while driving
or in the train. Dr. Russell, who was with him when going to attend the
tercentenary of Dublin College, tells the story how Sir Andrew not only read but
wrote hour after hour in the railway carriage, and, in addition, listened to the
conversation. Dr. Russell Reynolds, Sir James Paget, Sir Dyce Duckworth, and Sir R.
Quain were of the party, and the two latter joined Dr. Russell in remarking with
him that it would ruin his eyesight. “I am using my eyes, not abusing them,”
replied Sir Andrew; “you cannot injure any organ by the exercise of it, but by the
excess of exercise of it. I would not do it were I not accustomed to read and write
without the smallest amount of mischief.”

I much regret that lack of space prevents my describing the London Hospital as I
should like. Of most hospitals Sir Andrew was a governor, but his great interest
was the London, of which he and Lady Clark were both life governors.

While Sir Andrew was visiting physician he came regularly twice a week, as well
as for consultation. He was interested in everything that concerned the patients,
and always had a kind word for the nurses. One nurse in the Charlotte Ward (Sir
Andrew Clark’s) said he used literally to shovel out half-crowns at Christmas when
he asked what the patients were going to do. Everyone speaks Of the pecuniary
sacrifice and strain his connection with the hospital involved. He endowed a
medical tutorship, also scholarships for students. Students, nurses, etc., would
eagerly listen to his informal expositions in the wards, as he invariably showed a
grasp of the subject that was equally minute and comprehensive. “He would start
from some particular point and work his way point by point down to the minutest
detail, not bewildering by a multiplicity of facts, but keeping them all in order
with perfect handling, until the framing of the whole thing stood out luminously
clear to the dullest comprehension. An old pupil says his well-known authoritative
manner was the result of a profound and laboriously acquired knowledge of his art,
acquired by years of careful work in hospital wards and post-mortem
rooms.”—Medical Journal.

Happily there are two portraits of Sir Andrew. The last beautifully painted
picture by Mr. Watts (which by the great kindness of the artist is allowed to be
reproduced in this sketch) was only finished a few days before Sir Andrew was taken
ill—for he could only sit from eight till nine a.m. It is one of the series
Mr. Watts is so generously giving to the nation, and he “thinks it one of his
best.” Sir Andrew himself was delighted with it, saying in his hearty way to Mrs.
Watts: “Why, it thinks!” The position in the picture by Frank Holl is
unfortunate.

Very imperfectly I have described the varied work of a man of limitless energy,
with an exceptionally keen appreciation of men and things. A great man has passed
away, and we are poorer in consequence.

Footnote 1: (return)

The substance of this anecdote which I quote from memory, appeared in the
Daily News, and happened at Newcastle.

Beauties:—Children.

Winnifred Emma Heale.
From a Photo. by Heath & Bradnee, Exeter.
Edith Marguerite Dickinson.
From a Photo. by J. Hargreaves, Barrow-in-Furness.
Myrta Vivienne Stubbs.
From a Photo. by Medringtons, Ltd., Liverpool.

Kathleen Keyse
From a Photograph.
Madge Erskine
From a Photo. by Allison & Allison, Belfast.
Dorothy Birch Done
From a Photo. by Stanley Hurst, Wrexham.

Evelyn Mary Dowdell.
From a Photo. by G. Ridsdale Cleare, Lower Clapton, N. E.
Nelly M. Morris.
From a Photo. by J. W. Thomas, Colwyn Bay.
Aligander Smith.
From a Photo. by Norman, May, & Co., Ltd., Malvern.

The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with
Portraits).

FROM 1825 TO 1870.

(Born 7th February, 1812; died 9th June, 1870.)

BY J. HOLT SCHOOLING.

“Everybody knows what Dickens’s signature is like”—says the reader who
bases acquaintance with it upon the familiar, gold-impressed facsimile on the
well-known red covers of his works—”a free, dashing signature, with an
extensive and well-graduated flourish underneath.” (No. 1.)

Aye! But have you ever seen an original Dickens-letter? Have you ever handled,
not one, but hundreds of his documents—letters, franked envelopes, cheques
signed by Dickens, cheques indorsed by him, legal agreements bearing his signature,
and the original MSS. of his works? Owing to the kindness of owners and guardians
of Dickens-letters, etc. I have been able to supplement the materials in my own
collection by numerous facsimiles taken direct from a priceless store of
Dickens-MSS. Here are some of the specimens. We will glance over them, and in doing
so will view them, not merely as signatures, but also as permanently-recorded
tracings of Dickens’s nerve muscular action—of his gesture. The
expressive play of his facial muscles has gone, the varying inflections of voice
have gone, but we still possess the self-registered and characteristic tracings of
Charles Dickens’s hand-gesture.

In No. 1 we have the signature of Dickens as he wrote it when aged forty-five to
fifty; in No. 2 there is the boy’s signature at the age of thirteen, written to a
school-fellow. This youthful signature shows the existence in embryo form of the
“flourish” so commonly associated with Dickens’s signature. It is interesting to
note that the receiver of this early letter has stated that its schoolboy writer
had “more than usual flow of spirits, held his head more erect than lads ordinarily
do,” and that “there was a general smartness about him.” We shall perhaps see that
the direct emphasis of so many of Charles Dickens’s signatures which is given by
his “flourish” may be fitly associated with certain characteristics of the man
himself. We may also note that high spirits and vigorous nervous energy are
productive of redundant nerve-muscular activity in any direction—hand gesture
included.

Let us look at some other early signatures. Hitherto they have been stowed away
in various collections, and they are almost unknown.

The next facsimile, No. 3, is remarkable as being almost the only full signature
out of hundreds I have seen which lacks the flourish; this specimen is also worth
notice, owing to the “droop” of every word below the horizontal level from which
each starts—a little piece of nerve-muscular evidence of mental or physical
depression, which may be tested by anyone who cares to examine his own handwriting
produced under conditions which diminish bodily vigour or mental
élan.

The writing of No. 4 is very like that of No. 3; the easy curves below the
signature are cleverly made, and while they indicate much energy, they also point
to a useful confidence in self, owing to the deliberate way of accentuating the
most personal part of a letter—its signature.

No. 5 is the facsimile of a signature to a letter which was written in the
Library of the British Museum to “My dear Knolle”; the letter ends: “Believe me (in
haste), yours most truly.” At this time—1832—Dickens was a newspaper
reporter, and it is curious to notice that in spite of “haste” he yet managed to
execute this complex movement underneath the signature. Its force and energy are
great, but we shall see even more pronounced developments of this flourish before
it takes the moderated and graceful form of confident and assured power.

There is still more force and “go” about No. 6: it was written on “Wednesday
night, past 12,” and also in haste. Dickens was reporting for the Morning
Chronicle, and was just starting on a journey, but yet there are here two
separate flourishes; one begins under the s of Charles and ends under
the C of that name; the other starts under the capital D and finishes
below the n of Dickens.

The intricacy of the next facsimile, No. 7, is an ugly but a very active piece
of movement. This group of curves is equal to about a two-feet length of
pen-stroke, a fact which indicates an extraordinary amount of personal energy.
Dickens was then writing his “Sketches by Boz,” and this ungraceful elaboration of
his signature was probably accompanied by a growing sense of his own capacity and
power. During the time-interval between the signatures shown in Nos. 7 and 8, the
first number of the “Pickwick Papers” was published—March, 1836—and
Charles Dickens married Catherine Hogarth on the 2nd of April in that year. The
original of a very different facsimile (No. 9) was written as a receipt in the
account-book of Messrs. Chapman and Hall for an advance of £5.

The six facsimiles numbered 9 to 15 deserve special notice. The originals were
all written in the year 1837, and I have purposely shown them because their
extraordinary variations entirely negative the popular idea about the uniformity of
Dickens’s handwriting, and because these mobile hand-gestures are a striking
illustration of the mobility and great sensibility to impressions which were
prominent features in Charles Dickens’s nature.

Common observation show us that a man whose mind is specially receptive of
impressions from persons and things around him, and whose sensibility is very
quick, can scarcely fail to show much variation in his own forms of outward
expression—such, for example, as facial “play,” voice-inflections,
hand-gestures, and so on. Notice the originality in the position of the flourishes
shown in No. 9, and compare the ungraceful movement of it with the much more
dignified and pleasing flourishes in some of the later signatures. A whimsical
originality of mind comes out also in the curious “B” of “Boz” (No. 10).

The next pair—Nos. 11 and 12—are interesting. No. 11 shows the
signature squeezed in at the bottom of a page; the flourish was attempted, and
accompanied by the words: “No room for the flouish,” the r of
flourish being omitted. No. 12 was written on the envelope of the same
letter.

NO. l3.—WRITTEN NOV. 18, 1837.
Taken from the Legal Agreement re “Pickwick.”

No. 13 is a copy of a very famous signature: the original is on a great
parchment called “Deed of License Assignment and Covenants respecting a Work called
‘The Pickwick Papers,'” and which, after a preamble, contains the words: “Whereas
the said Charles Dickens is the Author of a Book or Work intituled ‘The Posthumous
Papers of the Pickwick Club,’ which has been recently printed and published in
twenty parts or numbers,” etc. It is probable that the fact of the seal being
placed between Charles and Dickens prevented the flourish which
almost invariably accompanied his signatures on business documents; the marked
enlargement of this signature takes the place of the flourish, and shows an
unconscious emphasis of the ego. It would be almost unreasonable for us to
expect that so impressionable a man, who was also feeling his power and fame, could
abstain from showing outward signs of his own consciousness of abnormal success.
Yet, in the private letters of Dickens, the simple “C. D.” is very frequent; a few
examples of it are given in this article, and their present number in no way
represents the numerical relation of these simple signatures to the more “showy”
ones. It may at once be said that this point of difference is alike interesting to
the student of gesture and to the student of Dickens’s character. He was certainly
a very able man of business, and the wording of his “business” letters fully bears
out the idea conveyed by his “business” signature—so to speak—that
Dickens was fully aware of his own powers, and that, quite fairly, he did not omit
to impress the fact upon other people when he thought fit. Both the wording and the
signature of many of his private letters are simple and unostentatious to a high
degree. This curious fact, which is now illustrated by Charles Dickens’s own
hand-gesture, ought to be remembered when people talk about Dickens’s “conceit” and
“love of show.” My explanation is, I think, both logical and true.

No. 14 closes this series for the year 1837. It shows a quaint and pretty
signature on a wrapper.

CHARLES DICKENS READING “THE CHIMES,” 1844.
From the original Sketch by David Maelise, R.A.

NO. 15.—WRITTEN MARCH 12, 1841.
(Announcing the Death of “Raven”, a prominent character in “Barnaby
Rudge”)

No. 15 shows part of a very humorous and famous letter announcing the death of
the raven which figures in “Barnaby Rudge.” Notice the curious originality of form
shown in the capital Y and R. The wording of this letter is also
quaintly original, and the sensitive mind of this man again caused his
nerve-muscular action—his gesture—to harmonize with his mood. Points of
this kind, which the handwriting of Dickens illustrates so well, have a deeper
meaning for the observant than for the casual reader of a magazine article; they
indicate that these little human acts, which have been so long overlooked by
intelligent men, do really give us valuable data for the study of mind by means of
written-gesture.

CHARLES DICKENS AS “CAPTAIN BOBADIL” IN “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.”
From a Painting by C.R. Leslie, R.A.

In No. 16 we see another and very original form of the “Boz” signature. No. 17
has a curious stroke of activity above the signature. No. 18 is a fine, strong
signature.

No. 19 is remarkably vigorous and active. The well-controlled activity and
energy of the signatures are now strongly marked. No. 20 explains itself; the
curious P of Pass is worth notice.

No. 21 is a stray illustration of clever and gracefully-executed movements which
abound in Dickens’s letters.

See, in No. 22, how illness disturbed the fine action of this splendid organism;
but illness did not prevent attention to detail—the dot is placed after the
D.

When on a reading tour, Dickens wrote at Bideford the letter from which No. 23
has been copied. After writing that he could get nothing to eat or drink at the
small inn, he wrote the sentence facsimiled. The exaggeration of the words is
matched by the use of two capital T‘s in place of two small t‘s. The
letter continues: “The landlady is playing cribbage with the landlord in the next
room (behind a thin partition), and they seem quite comfortable.” No. 24 is another
instance of the variation which, in fact, obtained up to the very day before death.
No. 25 was written at Berwick-on-Tweed; it is an amusing letter, and states how the
local agents wanted to put the famous reader into “a little lofty crow’s nest,” and
how “I instantly struck, of course, and said I would either read in a room attached
to this house … or not at all. Terrified local agents glowered, but fell
prostrate.” By the way, notice, in No. 25, the emphasis of gesture on the
me.

No. 26 is written in one continuous stroke with a noticeably good management of
the curves. The graceful imagination of this is very striking.

No. 27 shows the endorsement on a cheque.

But we near the end. Doctors had detected the signs of breaking up, which are
not less plain in the written gesture, and had strenuously urged Dickens to stop
the incessant strain caused by his public readings. The stimulus of facing an
appreciative audience would spur him on time after time, and then, late at night,
he would write affectionate letters giving details of “the house,” etc., but which
are painful to see if one notices the constant droop of the words and of the lines
across the page. Contrast the writing in No. 28, broken and agitated, with some of
the earlier specimens I have shown you. This was written three days before death.
The wording of the letter from which No. 29 has been copied tells no tale of
weakness, but the gesture which clothes the words is tell-tale. The words, and the
lines of words, run downward across the paper, and No. 29 is very suggestive of
serious trouble—and it is specially suggestive to those who have studied this
form of gesture: look, for example, at the ill-managed flourish.

NO. 30.—WRITTEN JUNE 8, 1870 (ONE DAY BEFORE DEATH.)
From the last letter written by Charles Dickens.

Now comes a facsimile taken from the last letter written by Charles Dickens. It
has been given elsewhere, but, not satisfied with the facsimile I saw, I obtained
permission to take this direct from the letter in the British Museum. This was
written an hour or so before the fatal seizure. Every word droops below the level
from which each starts, each line of writing descends across the page, the simple
C. D. is very shaky, and the whole letter is broken and weak. Charles
Dickens was not “ready” at “3 o’clock”—he died at ten minutes past six p.m.
And so ends this too scanty notice of a great man’s written-gesture.

NOTE:—Considerations of space and of the avoidance of
technicalities have prevented a really full account of the written gesture of
Charles Dickens; scanty as the foregoing account is, the illustrations it contains
could not have been supplied by any one collector of Charles Dickens’s letters. I
express my sincere gratitude to the many persons who have enabled me to give these
illustrations, and only regret that one collector refused my request for the loan
of some very early and interesting letters.

J.H.S.

The Mirror.

By George Japy.

It has always been said that the Japanese are the French of the Orient. Be that
as it may, it is very clear that in certain traits which characterize the French,
there is no resemblance whatever between the people of those two nations.

Almost as soon as a French baby (a girl, be it understood) is born, its first
instinct is to stretch out its tiny hands for a mirror, in which to admire its
beautiful little face and its graceful movements. This natural, and we may say
inborn, taste grows with the child’s growth, and ere the fair girl has reached her
seventeenth year, her ideal of perfect bliss is to find herself in a room with
mirrors on every side. There is indeed a room in the Palace of Versailles which is
the elysium of the Frenchwoman. It is a long room with looking-glasses from ceiling
to floor, and the said floor is polished so that it reflects, at any rate, the
shadow of the feet.

Now, in the little Japanese village of Yowcuski a looking-glass was an
unheard-of thing, and girls did not even know what they looked like, except on
hearing the description which their lovers gave them of their personal beauty
(which description, by-the-bye, was sometimes slightly biased, according as the
lover was more or less devoted).

Now it happened that a young Japanese, whose daily work was to pull along those
light carriages such as were seen at the last Paris Exhibition, picked up one day
in the street a small pocket hand-mirror, probably dropped by some English
lady-tourist on her travels in that part of the world.

It was, of course, the first time in his life that Kiki-Tsum had ever gazed on
such a thing. He looked carefully at it, and to his intense astonishment saw the
image of a brown face, with dark, intelligent eyes, and a look of awestruck
wonderment expressed on its features.

Kiki-Tsum dropped on his knees, and gazing earnestly at the object he held in
his hand, he whispered, “It is my sainted father. How could his portrait have come
here? Is it, perhaps, a warning of some kind for me?”

He carefully folded the precious treasure up in his handkerchief, and put it in
the large pocket of his loose blouse. When he went home that night he hid it away
carefully in a vase which was scarcely ever touched, as he did not know of any
safer place in which to deposit it. He said nothing of the adventure to his young
wife, for, as he said to himself “Women are curious, and then, too,
sometimes they are given to talking,” and Kiki-Tsum felt that it was too
reverent a matter to be discussed by neighbours, this finding of his dead father’s
portrait in the street.

For some days Kiki-Tsum was in a great state of excitement. He was thinking of
the portrait all the time, and at intervals he would leave his work and suddenly
appear at home to take a furtive look at his treasure.

Now, in Japan, as in other countries, mysterious actions and irregular
proceedings of all kinds have to be explained to a wife. Lili-Tsee did not
understand why her husband kept appearing at all hours of the day. Certainly he
kissed her every time he came in like this. At first she was satisfied with his
explanation when he told her that he only ran in for a minute to see her pretty
face. She thought it was really quite natural on his part, but when day after day
he appeared, and always with the same solemn expression on his face, she began to
wonder in her heart of hearts whether he was telling her the whole truth. And so
Lili-Tsee fell to watching her husband’s movements, and she noticed that he never
went away until he had been alone in the little room at the back of the house.

Now the Japanese women are as persevering as any others when there is a mystery
to be discovered, and so Lili-Tsee set herself to discover this mystery. She hunted
day after day to see if she could find some trace of anything in that little room
which was at all unusual, but she found nothing. One day, however, she happened to
come in suddenly and saw her husband replacing the long blue vase in which she kept
her rose leaves in order to dry them. He made some excuse about its not looking
very steady, and appeared to be just setting it right, and Lili-Tsee pretended
there was nothing out of the common in his putting the vase straight. The moment he
had gone out of the house, though, she was up on a stool like lightning, and in a
moment she had fished the looking-glass out of the vase. She took it carefully in
her hand, wondering whatever it could be, but when she looked in it the terrible
truth was clear. What was it she saw?

Why, the portrait of a woman, and she had believed that Kiki-Tsum was so good,
and so fond, and so true.

Her grief was at first too deep for any words. She just sat down on the floor
with the terrible portrait in her lap, and rocked herself backwards and forwards.
This, then, was why her husband came home so many times in the day. It was to look
at the portrait of the woman she had just seen.

Suddenly a fit of anger seized her, and she gazed at the glass again. The same
face looked at her, but she wondered how her husband could admire such a face, so
wicked did the dark eyes look: there was an expression in them that she certainly
had not seen the first time she had looked at it, and it terrified her so much that
she made up her mind not to look at it again.

She had no heart, however, for anything, and did not even make any attempt to
prepare a meal for her husband. She just went on sitting there on the floor,
nursing the portrait, and at the same time her wrath. When later on Kiki-Tsum
arrived, he was surprised to find nothing ready for their evening meal, and no
wife. He walked through to the other rooms, and was not long left in ignorance of
the cause of the unusual state of things.

“So this is the love you professed for me! This is the way in which you treat
me, before we have even been married a year!”

“What do you mean, Lili-Tsee?” asked her husband, in consternation, thinking
that his poor wife had taken leave of her senses.

“What do I mean? What do you mean? I should think. The idea of your keeping
portraits in my rose-leaf vase. Here, take it and treasure it, for I do not want
it, the wicked, wicked woman!” and here poor Lili-Tsee burst out crying.

“I cannot understand,” said her bewildered husband.

“Oh, you can’t?” she said, laughing hysterically. “I can, though, well enough.
You like that hideous, villainous-looking woman better than your own true wife. I
would say nothing if she were at any rate beautiful; but she has a vile face, a
hideous face, and looks wicked and murderous, and everything that is bad!”

“Lili-Tsee, what do you mean?” asked her husband, getting exasperated in his
turn. “That portrait is the living image of my poor dead father. I found it in the
street the other day, and put it in your vase for safety.”

Lili-Tsee’s eyes flashed with indignation at this apparently barefaced lie.

“Hear him!” she almost screamed. “He wants to tell me now that I do not know a
woman’s face from a man’s.”

Kiki-Tsum was wild with indignation, and a quarrel began in good earnest. The
street-door was a little way open, and the loud, angry words attracted the notice
of a bonze (one of the Japanese priests) who happened to be passing.

“My children,” he said, putting his head in at the door, “why this unseemly
anger, why this dispute?”

“Father,” said Kiki-Tsum, “my wife is mad.”

“All women are so, my son, more or less,” interrupted the holy bonze.
“You were wrong to expect perfection, and must abide by your bargain now. It is no
use getting angry, all wives are trials.”

“But what she says is a lie.”

“It is not, father,” exclaimed Lili-Tsee. “My husband has the portrait of a
woman, and I found it hidden in my rose-leaf vase.”

“I swear that I have no portrait but that of my poor dead father,” explained the
aggrieved husband.

“My children, my children,” said the holy bonze, majestically, “show me
the portraits.”

“Here it is; there is only one, but it is one too many,” said Lili-Tsee,
sarcastically.

The bonze took the glass and looked at it earnestly. He then bowed low
before it, and in an altered tone said: “My children, settle your quarrel and live
peaceably together. You are both in the wrong. This portrait is that of a saintly
and venerable bonze. I know not how you could mistake so holy a face. I must
take it from you and place it amongst the precious relics of our church.”

So saying, the bonze lifted his hands to bless the husband and wife, and
then went slowly away, carrying with him the glass which had wrought such
mischief.

Handcuffs.

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY INSPECTOR MAURICE MOSER,

Late of the Criminal Investigation Department, Great Scotland Yard.

The ordinary connection of ideas between handcuffs and policemen does not need
very acute mental powers to grasp, but there is a further connection, a
philological one, which is only evident at first sight to those who have made a
small acquaintance with the science of words.

The word “handcuff” is a popular corruption of the Anglo-Saxon “handcop,”
i.e., that which “cops” or “catches” the hands.

Now, one of the most common of the many slang expressions used by their special
enemies towards the police is “Copper”—i.e., he who cops the offending
member. Strange as it may seem, handcuffs are by no means the invention of these
times, which insist on making the life of a prisoner so devoid of the picturesque
and romantic.

We must go back, past the dark ages, past the stirring times of Greek and Roman
antiquity, till we come to those blissful mythological ages when every tree and
every stream was the home of some kindly god.

In those olden days there dwelt in the Carpathian Sea a wily old deity, known by
the name of Proteus, possessing the gift of prophecy, the fruits of which he
selfishly denied to mankind.

Even if those who wished to consult him were so fortunate as to find him, all
their efforts to force him to exert his gifts of prophecy were useless, for he was
endowed with the power of changing himself into all things, and he eluded their
grasp by becoming a flame of fire or a drop of water. There was one thing, however,
against which all the miracles of Proteus were of no avail, and of this
Aristæus was aware.

So Aristæus came, as Virgil tells us, from a distant land to consult the
famous prophet. He found him on the sea-shore among his seals, basking in the
afternoon sun. Quick as thought he fitted handcuffs on him, and all struggles and
devices were now of no avail. Such was then the efficacy of handcuffs even on the
persons of the immortal gods.

Having established this remote and honourable antiquity, we are not surprised at
the appearance of handcuffs in the fourth century B.C., when the soldiers of a
conquering Greek army found among the baggage of the routed Carthaginians several
chariots full of handcuffs, which had been held ready in confident anticipation of
a great victory and a multitude of prisoners.

The nearest approach to a mention that we find after that is in the Book of
Psalms: “To bind their kings in chains and their nobles in fetters of iron.” But in
the Greek, the Latin, Wickliffe’s, and Anglo-Saxon Bible we invariably find a word
of which handcuffs is the only real translation. It is also interesting to note
that in the Anglo-Saxon version the kings are bound in “footcops” and the nobles in
“handcops.”

In the early Saxon times, therefore, we find our instrument is familiar to all
and in general use, as it has continued to be to this day. But during the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries there is no instance of the use of the word “handcop”; its
place is taken by “swivel manacle” and “shackbolt,” the latter word being often
used by Elizabethan authors.

Handcuffs, like other things, have improved with time. Up to 1850 there were two
kinds in general use in England. One of the forms, most common in the earlier part
of this century, went under the name of the “Figure 8.” This instrument does not
allow the prisoner even that small amount of liberty which is granted by its modern
counterpart. It was chiefly used for refractory prisoners who resorted to violence,
for it had the advantage of keeping the hands in a fixed position, either before or
on the back of the body. The pain it inflicted made it partake of the nature of a
punishment rather than merely a preventive against resistance or attack. It was a
punishment, too, which was universally dreaded by prisoners of all kinds, for there
is no more unbearable pain than that of having a limb immovably confined.

The other kind of form known as the “Flexible” (No. 1) resembled in general
outlines the handcuffs used every day by detectives.

Contrivances, chiefly the result of American ingenuity, for the rapid and
effectual securing of prisoners have not been wanting, and among them the “Snap,”
the “Nippers” (No. 3) and the “Twister” must be mentioned.

The “Snap” (No. 2) is the one which used to be the most approved of. It consists
of two loops, of which the smaller is slipped on the wrists of the person to be
arrested, the bars are then closed with a snap, and the larger loop is held by the
officer. The manner in which the “Twister” (No. 4) was used savours very much of
the brutal, and, indeed, the injuries it inflicted on those who were misguided
enough to struggle when in its grasp caused its abolition in Great Britain.

Its simplicity and its efficacy, together with the cruelty, have recommended it
for use in those wild parts of South America where the upholder of the laws
literally travels with his life in his hands. It consists of a chain with handles
at each end; the chain is put round the wrists, the handles brought together and
twisted round until the chain grips firmly. The torture inflicted by inhuman or
inconsiderate officers can easily be imagined. When we see the comparative facility
with which the detective slips the handcuffs on the villain in the last act of
Adelphi dramas, we are apt to be misled as to the difficulty which police officers
meet with in the execution of one of the most arduous parts of their duty.

The English hand-cuffs (No. 1) are heavy, unwieldy, awkward machines, which at
the best of times, and under the most favourable circumstances, are extremely
difficult of application. They weigh over a pound, and have to be unlocked with a
key in a manner not greatly differing from the operation of winding up the average
eight-day clock, and fastened on to the prisoner’s wrists, how, the fates and good
luck only know. This lengthy, difficult, and particularly disagreeable operation,
with a prisoner struggling and fighting, is to a degree almost incredible. The
prisoner practically has to be overpowered or to submit before he can be finally
and certainly secured.

Even when handcuffed, we present to a clever and muscular ruffian one of the
most formidable weapons of offence he could possibly possess, as he can, and
frequently does, inflict the deadliest blows upon his captor. Another great
drawback is the fact that these handcuffs do not fit all wrists, and often the
officer is nonplussed by having a pair of handcuffs which are too small or too
large; and when the latter is the case, and the prisoner gets the “bracelets” in
his hands instead of on his wrists, he is then in possession of a knuckle-duster
from which the bravest would not care to receive a blow.

On the occasion of my arresting one of the Russian rouble note forgers, a
ruffian who would not hesitate to stick at anything, I had provided myself with
several sized pairs of handcuffs, and it was not until I had obtained the very much
needed assistance that I was able to find the suitable “darbies” for his wrists. We
managed to force him into a four-wheeler to take him to the police-station, when he
again renewed his efforts and savagely attacked me, lifting his ironed wrists and
bringing them down heavily on my head, completely crushing my bowler hat.

As the English handcuffs have only been formed for criminals who submitted
quietly to necessity, it was considered expedient to find an instrument applicable
to all cases. The perfected article comes from America (Nos. 5 and 6), and, being
lighter, less clumsy, and more easily concealed, finds general favour among the
officers at Scotland Yard. In fact, such are its advantages that we must presume
that it differs considerably from the Anglo-Saxon “Hand-cop” and the somewhat
primitive article used upon the unwilling prophet of the Carpathian Sea. This and
the older kind, to which some of the more conservative of our detectives still
adhere, are the only handcuffs used in England.

The ingenious detective of France, where crime and all its appurtenances have
reached such a state of perfection, is not without his means of securing his man
(No. 7). It is called “La Ligote” or “Le Cabriolet.” There are two kinds: one is
composed of several steel piano strings, and the other of whip-cords twined
together, and they are used much in the same way as the “Twister.”

Any attempt to escape is quickly ended by the pain to which the officer who
holds the instrument can inflict by a mere turn of his hand. One wrist only is
under control, but as the slightest sign of a struggle is met by an infliction of
torture, the French system is more effective than the English.

The Mexican handcuff (Nos. 8 and 9) is a cumbersome and awkward article, quite
worthy of the retrograde country of its origin.

No. 10 shows an effective method of handcuffing in emergencies. The officer
takes a piece of whipcord and makes a double running knot: he ties one noose round
the wrist of the prisoner, whose hand is then placed in his trousers pocket, the
cord is lashed round the body like a belt, and brought back and slipped through the
noose again. The prisoner when thus secured suffers no inconvenience as long as he
leaves his hand in his pocket, but any attempt to remove it would cause a deal of
suffering.

No. 11 is another handcuff of foreign make, and is merely used when a raid is
about to be made, as it allows to a certain extent the use of the hands. It is
useful for prisoners who are being conveyed by sea.

No. 12 is mostly used in Eastern Europe.

My personal experience of handcuffs is small, because I dislike them, for in
addition to their clumsiness, I know that when I have laid my hands upon my man, it
will be difficult for him to escape.

My intimate knowledge of all kinds of criminals in all kinds of plights
justifies me in saying that when they see the game is up they do not attempt
resistance. The only trouble I have had has been with desperadoes and old
offenders, men who have once tasted prison-life and have a horror of returning to
captivity.

Expert thieves have been known to open handcuffs without a key, by means of
knocking the part containing the spring on a stone or hard substance. It will be
remembered that when the notorious criminal “Charles Peace” was being taken to
London by train, he contrived, although handcuffed, to make his escape through the
carriage window. When he was captured it was noticed that he had freed one of his
hands.

I was once bringing from Leith an Austrian sailor who was charged with ripping
open his mate, and as I considered that I had a disagreeable character to deal
with, I handcuffed him. Naturally, he found the confinement irksome, and on our
journey he repeatedly implored me to take them off promising that he would make no
attempt to escape. The sincerity of his manner touched me and I released him, very
fortunately for myself, for I was taken ill before reaching London, and, strange as
it may appear, was nursed most tenderly by the man who had ripped a fellow
mate.

In Belgium the use of handcuffs by police officers is entirely forbidden.
Prisoners are handcuffed only on being brought before the Juge d’Instruction
or Procureur du Roi, and when crossing from court to court. Women are never
handcuffed in England, but on the Continent it is not an uncommon occurrence.

Regarding handcuffs generally, in my opinion not one of the inventions I have
mentioned now in use is sufficiently easy of application. What every officer in the
detective force feels he wants is a light, portable instrument by means of which he
can unaided secure his man, however cunning and however powerful he may be. I
myself suggest an application which would grip the criminal tightly across the
back, imprisoning the arms just above the elbow joints. Such an instrument would
cause him no unnecessary pain, while relieving officers from that part of their
duty which is particularly obnoxious to them, viz., having a prolonged struggle
with low and savage ruffians.

I cannot refrain from relating a piquant little anecdote told to me by a French
colleague, who had occasion to make an arrest, and came unexpectedly on his man.
Unfortunately he was unprovided with handcuffs and was somewhat at a disadvantage,
but being a quick-witted fellow, he bethought himself of an effectual expedient.
Taking out his knife he severed the prisoner’s buttons which were attached to his
braces, thus giving the man occupation for his hands and preventing a rapid flight.
I am indebted to M. Goron, Chief of the Detective Department in Paris, and other
colleagues for some of the specimens here reproduced by me.

The Family Name.

From the French of HENRI MALIN

I.

One afternoon, Mons. Sauvallier received from his younger son—a
lieutenant in garrison at Versailles—the following letter:

“Versailles, May 25, 1883.

“MY DEAR FATHER,

“A terrible catastrophe has befallen me, one which will be a blow to you also. I
am writing about it, because I dare not face you; I deserve never to see you
again!

“Led astray by a companion, I have been gambling on the Bourse, and am involved
in yesterday’s crash, in which so many fortunes have been suddenly swamped.

“I scarcely dare to tell you how much I have lost. Yet I must do so, for
the honour of the Sauvalliers is concerned. Alas! you will be all but ruined!

“I owe the sum of four hundred and sixty-eight thousand francs. Oh! what a
miserable wretch I am!

“When I found that the smash was inevitable I went mad, and entered my room with
the intention of putting an end to my wretched existence. But more sober thoughts
prevailed: I changed my mind. I had heard that officers were being recruited for
Tonquin, and I determined to volunteer for this service. My suicide would not have
bettered matters; it would rather have left an added blot upon our family name. Out
there, at all events, my death may be of use; it will cause you no shame, and may
perhaps move you to a little compassion for your guilty, but most unhappy and
despairing son, who suffers agonies at thought of the trouble he has brought upon
you, and who now bids you an eternal farewell!

“CAMILLE SAUVALLIER.”

Mons. Sauvallier, who had been a widower for several years past, was one of the
most respected business-men of Paris, the owner of a foundry, a judge of the
Tribunal of Commerce, and an officer of the Legion of Honour. He had two sons:
Camille, the lieutenant: and August, an artist of some originality, who was the
husband of a charming wife, and the father of a little six-year-old maiden named
Andrée. Mons. Sauvallier had always deterred his sons from embarking in
trade. He had shrunk from exposing them to the ups and downs of business life, its
trying fluctuations, its frequent cruel mischances. He had arranged that at his
death his estate should be realized: he did not wish the business to be sold
outright, in case it should pass into the hands of strangers who might sully the
hitherto unblemished name of Sauvallier.

And now, in spite of all his precautions, a disaster greater than any he had
dreamed of had overwhelmed him.

Leaning back wearily in his arm-chair, with haggard eyes he re-read his son’s
letter, in order to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Yes! It was too true!
Camille had ruined, perhaps dishonoured, him! It seemed as though the objects that
surrounded him—the very walls and furniture—were no longer the same! As
one staggering beneath a too heavy burden, he rose with difficulty, his limbs
stiff, yet his whole frame agitated; then he sank back into his chair, with two big
tears flowing down his cheeks.

By hook or by crook he must procure the sum, and the debt should be paid
to-morrow. It would be a difficult task. The wealth of the manufacturer consists of
material and merchandise. Would so hurried a realization yield the necessary
amount? He could not tell. Again, when this debt was paid, would he be able to
fulfil his engagements? Bankruptcy stared him in the face. A Sauvallier bankrupt?
An officer of the Legion of Honour, a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, insolvent?
Never! He would die first!

But before it came to that, he would try every expedient: he would strain every
nerve.

So all night long the poor man planned and calculated, and in the morning, with
heavy heart, proceeded to put his plans into effect.

He visited his numerous friends and told them of his trouble, which elicited
much sympathy. In order to help, some made large purchases of him, paying ready
money, others advanced or lent him money. All day until the evening he was running
about Paris collecting cheques, bank-notes, and orders.

“HE NOW BROUGHT THE SUM THUS GAINED.”

In the evening, as he sat down to ascertain the result of the day’s efforts.
Auguste came in with his wife and Andrée. To help his father, the artist had
parted with some of his pictures at a sacrifice, and he now brought the sum thus
gained.

Andrée, unconscious of the trouble of her elders, began to play with her
“Jéanne,” a doll nearly as big as herself, which her grandfather had given
her some time previously, and which she loved, she said, “as her own daughter.”

But the child soon observed the sadness of her parents and her dear grandfather,
and she looked with earnest, inquiring gaze from one to the other, trying to
discover what was amiss. She saw her father lay down his pocket-book, she watched
her mother place upon the table her bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings, and rings,
while Mons. Sauvallier thanked them with tears in his eyes. With a very thoughtful,
serious expression on her little face, the child turned towards her doll, embraced
it with the emotional fervour of a last adieu, then carried it to her grandfather,
saying, in sweet, resigned tones: “Take it, grandpapa! You can sell her, too.”

Mons. Sauvallier wept upon the neck of his little granddaughter, murmuring, “You
also, my angel? Oh, that miserable boy!”

II.

Thus Camille’s debt was paid, and the honour of the Sauvalliers was saved. But
the father’s fortune had gone!

He was able, however, to retain his business. He said to himself that he must
work still, in spite of his threescore years; that he must labour incessantly, with
the anxious ardour of those beginning life with nothing to rely upon save their own
exertions.

He reduced his expenses, gave up his own house and went to live with his son,
sold his carriage and horses, discharged his servants, and stinted himself in every
possible way. Auguste became his designer, Auguste’s wife his clerk. Each accepted
his or her share of the burden bravely and uncomplainingly, as an important duty
which must at any cost be accomplished.

The conduct of this old man, so jealous for his name, so upright, so courageous
in misfortune, excited profound sympathy. All who knew him pitied him; orders
flowed in, and soon a quite exceptional activity pervaded the establishment from
basement to roof, inspiring Mons. Sauvallier with a little hope. But one persistent
fear disturbed his sleep, and troubled his waking hours. It was that some day he
might hear that Camille had been gambling again, and was once more in debt. He had
forbidden all mention of his erring son, but the thought of him was ever present,
and lay like an incubus upon his heart.

One year passed, then another. The foundry still flourished; work positively
raged therein. It had no rest; it also, as though endowed with a conscience, did
its duty nobly. Its furnaces glowed like ardent eyes; its mighty puffing and
snorting shook the ground: the molten metal, red and fuming, flowed from its
crucibles like blood from its body. At an early hour of the morning was heard its
piercing summons to the work-people, and all the night long its glare illuminated
the sky.

III.

The campaign of Tonquin was in full swing. In the midst of an unknown country,
harassed by innumerable difficulties, the French soldiers were contending painfully
with an irrepressible, ever-rallying foe. The smallest success served to excite the
popular patriotism, and all awaited impatiently the tidings of a decisive
victory.

One morning, Auguste, looking very pale, entered his father’s office, and handed
him a newspaper. There, amongst “Latest intelligence,” Mons. Sauvallier read the
following:—

“LEADING THEM ON TO THE ASSAULT.”

“From the camp entrenched at Dong-Song. February 12th, 1885.—To-day,
Captain Sauvallier attacked the enemy with extreme vigour, fought all the day
against considerable forces, and captured successively three redoubts. In attacking
the last of the three, his soldiers, overpowered by numbers, were about to retreat;
but, although seriously wounded in the head and thigh, the gallant officer, borne
by two men, succeeded in rallying his company and leading them on to the assault.
His conduct was admirable, but his condition is hopeless. I have attached the cross
to his breast. This brilliant feat of arms will enable me to enter Lang-Son
tomorrow.—GENERAL BRIERE DE L’ISLE.”

Upon reading these words, Mons. Sauvallier felt a strange emotion, in which
anguish mingled with joy. For a moment he was silent; then he said to his son, “You
think that it is he? He is, then, a captain?”

He read the despatch again, then murmured softly: “The cross! Condition
hopeless!” And a tear rolled down his cheek.

Two hours later the family received a formal intimation of Camille’s deed and
state from the Minister of War, and on the following day all the journals were
praising Captain Sauvallier, son of the respected founder, of Grenelle. And now
they gave details. Camille, it appeared, had been nominated captain a few months
back. Throughout the campaign he had distinguished himself by his imperturbable
coolness under fire, and reckless scorn of the death which he seemed to seek.

His act of heroic energy stirred the enthusiasm of Press and populace, and the
name of Sauvallier was on every lip. Camille’s portrait appeared in the
shop-windows; the illustrated journals depicted him before the redoubt, carried
upon the shoulders of two men, his sword pointed towards the enemy, encouraging his
soldiers by his voice, gesture, and look, his forehead bound with a handkerchief,
and his face bleeding.

Mons. Sauvallier could not go out of doors without seeing his son’s presentment.
From the news-stalls of the boulevards, the corners of the streets, the publishers’
shop-fronts, a ubiquitous Camille watched him pass, and seemed to follow him with
his eyes. Almost at each step the father received congratulations, while
complimentary letters and cards covered his table to overflowing. But, alas! the
telegrams which he received daily from Tonquin left him little hope that he should
ever again behold in the flesh this dear son, of whom now he was so proud.

One morning, three months later, Mons. Sauvallier was at work in his office,
when the door opened softly, and disclosed Andrée’s curly head. The little
one seemed in high spirits, her eyes sparkled with glee. “See, grandfather, here he
is!” she said, and led into the room Captain Sauvallier.

Auguste and his wife followed the pair. Mons. Sauvallier, taken completely by
surprise, rose quickly from his chair, then stood motionless, overcome by his
emotion. He saw before him Camille, with the scar upon his forehead, and the cross
upon his breast—Camille, the hero of the hour, who had shed such lustre upon
the family name!

Timid and embarrassed, like a child who has been guilty of a fault, Camille
stood with bowed head, and when he saw how much his father had aged, he knew that
it was his conduct which had wrought the sad change, and his contrition was
deepened tenfold.

But as he was about to throw himself at his father’s feet, Mons. Sauvallier,
with a sudden movement, clasped him to his breast, exclaiming, in a voice full of
tears, “No, Camille! in my arms! in my arms!”

Father and son, locked together in closest embrace, mingled their sobs, while
Auguste and his wife, looking on, wept in sympathy.

The silence was broken by Andrée. The child had vanished for a moment,
but speedily reappeared, fondling her precious doll, which, it is needless to say,
had not been sold. Holding it out to the captain, she said in her liveliest manner:
“Here is Jeanne, uncle! You remember her? Give her a kiss directly! Don’t you think
that she has grown?”

The Queer Side of Things—Among the
Freaks.

MAJOR MICROBE.

“I’ve been in the show business now going on for forty-three years,” said the
Doorkeeper, “and I haven’t yet found a Dwarf with human feelings. I can’t
understand why it is, but there ain’t the least manner of doubt that a Dwarf is the
meanest object in creation. Take General Bacillus, the Dwarf I have with me now. He
is well made, for a Dwarf, and when he does his poses plastic, such as ‘Ajax
Defying the Lightning,’ or ‘Samson Carrying off Delilah by the Hair,’ and all the
rest of those Scripture tablows, he is as pretty as a picture, provided, of course,
you don’t get too near him. He is healthy, and has a good appetite, and he draws a
good salary, and has no one except himself to look after. And yet that Dwarf ain’t
happy! On the contrary, he is the most discontented, cantankerous, malicious little
wretch that was ever admitted into a Moral Family Show. And he ain’t much worse
than an ordinary Dwarf. Now, the other Freaks, as a rule, are contented so long as
they draw well and don’t fall in love.

“The Living Skeleton knows that he can’t expect to live long—most of them
die at about thirty-five—but, for all that, he is happy and contented. ‘A
short life and a merry one is what I goes in for,’ he often says to me, and he
seems to think that his life is a merry one, though I can’t myself see where the
merriment comes in. So with all the rest of my people. They all seem to enjoy
themselves except the Dwarf. My own belief is that the organ of happiness has got
to be pretty big to get its work in, and that there ain’t room in a Dwarfs head for
it to work.

“I had a Dwarf with me once—Major Microbe is what we called him on the
bills, where he was advertised as the ‘Smallest Man in the World,’ which, of
course, he wasn’t; but, then, every Dwarf is always advertised that way. It’s a
custom of the profession, and we don’t consider it to be lying, any more than a
President considers the tough statements lying that he makes in his annual message.
A showman and a politician must be allowed a little liberty of statement, or they
couldn’t carry on their business. Well, as I was saying, thishyer Major Microbe was
in my show a matter of ten years ago, when we were in Cincinnati, and he was about
as vicious as they make them. The Giant, who was a good seven-footer, working up to
seven and a half feet, as an engineer might say, with the help of his boots and
helmet, was the exact opposite of the Dwarf in disposition. He was altogether too
good-tempered, for he was always trying to play practical jokes on the other
Freaks. He did this without any notion of annoying them, but it was injudicious; he
being, like all other Giants, weak and brittle.

“What do I mean by brittle? Why, I mean brittle and nothing else. It’s a good
United States word, I reckon. Thishyer Giant’s bones weren’t made of the proper
materials, and they were always liable to break. He had to take the greatest care
of himself, and to avoid arguing on politics or religion or anything like that, for
a kick on the shins would be sure to break one of his legs, which would lay him on
the shelf for a couple of months. As for his arms, he was for ever breaking one or
two of them, but that didn’t so much matter, for he could go on the stage with his
arm in splints and a sling, and the public always supposed that he was representing
a heroic soldier who had just returned from the battle-field.

“HE FOUND THE DWARF ASLEEP ON A BENCH.”

“One day the Giant put up a job on the Dwarf that afterwards got them both into
serious trouble. The Giant was loafing around the place after dinner, and he found
the Dwarf asleep on a bench. What does he do but cover him up with a rug and then
go off in search of the Fat Woman, who was a sure enough Fat Woman, and weighed in
private life four hundred and nineteen pounds. The Giant was popular with the sex,
and the Fat Woman was glad to accept his invitation to come with him and listen to
a scheme that he pretended to have for increasing the attractions of Fat Women. He
led her up to where the Dwarf was asleep on the bench and invited her to sit down,
saying that he had arranged a cushion for her to make her comfortable. Of course
she sat down, and sat down pretty solid, too, directly on the Dwarf. The Dwarf
yelled as if he had room for the voice of two full-grown men, and the Fat Woman, as
soon as she felt something squirming under her, thought that one of the boa
constrictors had got loose, and that she had sat down on it. So naturally she
fainted away. I came running in with one of my men as soon as I heard the outcries,
and after a while we managed to pry up the Fat Woman with a couple of cart-rungs
and get the Dwarf out from under her, after which she came to in due time and got
over her fright. But the Dwarf was a good deal flattened out by the pressure, and I
was afraid at first that his ribs had been stove in. It turned out in the end that
he was not seriously injured; but he was in the worst rage against the Giant that
you can imagine, and would have killed him then and there if he had been able to do
it.

“I knew well enough that in course of time the Dwarf would get square with the
Giant, no matter how long it might take and how much it might cost. He was as
revengeful as a Red Indian. I warned the Giant that he must keep a sharp look-out,
or the Dwarf would do him a mischief; but he said ‘he calculated he was big enough
to take care of himself, and that he wasn’t afraid of no two-foot Dwarf that ever
breathed.’ Of course, this sounded brave, but my own belief is that the Giant was
pretty badly frightened. I noticed that he never allowed himself to be alone with
the Dwarf, and was always careful to mind where he stepped, so as not to get
tripped up by strings stretched across the path, or anything of that sort. The
Dwarf pretended that he had forgotten the whole business, and was as friendly with
the Giant as he had ever been; but I knew him well enough to know that he never
forgot anything, and was only waiting for a chance.

“Pretty soon little accidents began to happen to the Giant. One day he would
find that his helmet, which was made of pasteboard, had fallen into a tub of water,
and gone to everlasting jelly. This would oblige him to show himself bare-headed,
which took off several inches from his professional height. Another day his boots
would be in the tub, and he wouldn’t be able to get them on. I’ve seen him go on
the stage in a general’s uniform with carpet slippers and no hat, which everyone
knew must be contrary to the regulations of the Arabian army, in which he was
supposed to hold his commission.

“One night his bedstead broke down under him, and he came very near breaking a
leg or so. In the morning he found out that someone had sawed a leg of the bedstead
nearly all the way through, and, of course, he knew that the Dwarf had done it. But
you couldn’t prove anything against the Dwarf. He would always swear that he never
had any hand in the accidents, and there was never any evidence against him that
anybody could get hold of. I didn’t mind what games he played on the Giant as long
as the Giant wasn’t made to break anything that would lay him on the shelf, and I
told the Dwarf that I was the last man to interfere with any man’s innocent
amusements, but that in case the Giant happened to break a leg, I should go out of
the Giant and Dwarf business at once. But that didn’t scare him a particle. He knew
that he was worth his salary in any Dime Museum in America, and more than that, he
had money enough laid up in the bank to live on, assuming, of course, that he could
draw it out before the cashier should bolt to Canada with it. So he was as
independent as you please, and told me that if I chose to hold him responsible for
other people’s legs he couldn’t help it, and had nothing to say about it.

“At that time I had a Female Samson. She wasn’t the Combined Female
Contortionist and Strongest Woman in the World that is in my show at present, but
she was in about the same line of business. These Strong Women are all genuine, you
understand. You can embellish them a little on the handbills, and you can announce
that the cannon that the Strong Woman fires from her shoulder weighs a hundred or
two pounds more than it actually weighs; but unless a Strong Woman is really strong
and no mistake, she might as well try to pass herself off as a Living Skeleton or a
Two-Headed Girl at once. The fact is, the great majority of Freaks are genuine, and
the business is a thoroughly honest one at bottom. Why, if you told the exact truth
in the handbills about every Freak in my show, barring the Tattooed Girl and the
Wild Man, they would still constitute a good drawing attraction in any intelligent
community.

“This Female Samson was a good sort of woman in her way, though she was a little
rough and a bit what you might call masculine in her ways. She didn’t like the
Dwarf, and he didn’t like her.

“SHE PULLED HIM OVER TO HER BY HIS COLLAR.”

“The Freaks were all at supper one night when the Dwarf said something insulting
to the Female Samson. He sat right opposite to her, and she just reached across the
table and pulled him over to her by his collar. Then she stretched him across her
lap and laid into him with her slipper till he howled as if he was a small boy who
had gone in swimming on Sunday and his mother had just found it out. It wasn’t so
much the slipper that hurt him, though the Female Samson put all her muscle into
the operation, but it was the disgrace of the thing; and when you remember that the
Dwarf was forty-two years old, you can understand that he felt that the woman had
taken a liberty with him. However, the next day he seemed to have forgotten all
about it, and when the Giant reminded him of the circumstance, which he did every
little while, the Dwarf would grin and say that we must let the women do what they
liked, for they were a superior sort of being.

“One of the Female Samson’s best feats was done in company with the Dwarf and
the Giant. She had a horizontal bar fixed on the stage, about ten feet above the
floor. On this bar she used to swing head downwards, just hooking her knees around
it, as all the trapeze artists do. It looks sort of uncomfortable, but it is
nothing when you are used to it. I had a trapeze chap once who would often go to
sleep that way in hot weather. He said that all the blood in his body went into his
head, and that made him feel sleepy, while it cooled off his body and legs. There’s
no accounting for tastes, but as for me, give me a good bed where I can stretch
out, and I’ll never ask to sleep on a trapeze bar.

“As I was saying, the Female Samson would swing on this bar, and then she would
take the Dwarf’s belt in her teeth and hold him in that way for five minutes. There
was a swivel in the belt, so that the Dwarf would spin round while she was holding
him, which he didn’t like much, but which pleased the public. After she had swung
the Dwarf she would do the same act with the Giant. She had to be very careful not
to drop the Giant, for he was terribly afraid of breaking a leg, being, as I have
said, particularly brittle; but she always said that he was as safe in her teeth as
he would be if he was lying in his bed.

“It must have been about a fortnight after the Dwarf was sat on by the Fat
Woman, and a week or more after he had been corrected in public by the Female
Samson, that we had an unusually large evening audience, and everybody was in
excellent spirits. The Female Samson had swung the Dwarf in her teeth, and after
she had let go of him he had climbed up on a chair just behind her, and stood with
his arms stretched out over her and the Giant as if he was saying ‘Bless you, my
children,’ which was a regular part of the act, and never failed to bring him a
round of applause, and induce people to say, ‘What a jolly little chap that Dwarf
is!’ When the Female Samson had got a good grip of the Giant’s belt, and had raised
him about five feet from the floor, the Dwarf leaned a little bit forward and ran a
pin into the Female Samson’s ankle, or thereabouts. Nobody saw him do it, but it
was easy to prove it on him afterwards, for he dropped the pin on the floor when he
had finally got through with it, and everybody recognised it as one of his
scarf-pins.

“The woman would naturally have shrieked when she felt the pin, but she had her
mouth full of the Giant, and she couldn’t do more than mumble a little in a
half-smothered sort of way. The Dwarf paid no attention to that, but gave her
another eye-opener with the pin. It went in about an inch, judging from what the
Female Samson said when she described her sufferings, and it must have hurt her
pretty bad; but she was full of pluck and bound to carry out her performance to the
end. She stood three or four more prods, and then, not being able to stand it any
longer without expressing her feelings in some way, she unhooked one leg and
fetched the Dwarf a kick on the side of the head that reminded him that it was
about time for him to get into his own room and lock the door, and convinced him
that there ain’t a bit of exaggeration in the tough stories that they tell about
the kicking powers of an army mule. The kick sent the Dwarf clean across the
platform, and the people, not understanding the situation, began to cry ‘Shame.’
Whether this flurried the Female Samson or not, or whether she lost her balance
entirely on account of having unhooked one leg, I don’t know. What I do know is
that she slipped off the bar, and she and the Giant struck the floor with a crash
that would have broken planks, if it had not been that the platform was built
expressly to stand the strain of the Fat Woman.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad if she had just dropped the Giant, and hung on to
the bar herself. In that case he would probably have broken his left leg and arm
and collar bone, just as he did break them, but his ribs would have been all right.
As it was, the Female Samson’s head came down just in the centre of him, and stove
in about three-fourths of his ribs. She wasn’t hurt at all, for, being a woman, and
falling on her head, there was nothing for her to break, and the Giant was so soft
that falling on him didn’t even give her a headache. When some volunteers from the
audience had picked up the Giant and put him on a stretcher and carried him to the
hospital, where the doctors did their best to mend him, the Female Samson had a
chance to explain, and the finding of a long scarf-pin on the platform, just under
the bar, was evidence that she had told the truth, and corroborated the red stain
on her stocking.

“IT TOOK FOUR MEN AND A POLICEMAN TO HOLD HER.”

“It took four men and a policeman to hold her, and get her locked up in her
room, she was that set on tearing the Dwarf into small pieces, and she’d have done
it too, if she could have got at him. He had sense enough to see the situation, and
to discharge himself without waiting for me to discharge him. He ran away in the
course of the night, and I never saw him again. I don’t think he ever went into
another Dime Museum, and I have heard that he got a situation as inspector of gas
meters, which is very probable, considering what a malicious little rascal he was.
Well, we have to deal with all sorts of people in our business, and I suppose it’s
the same with you, though you haven’t mentioned what your business is. But you take
my advice and steer clear of Dwarfs. There ain’t a man living that can do anything
with them except with a club, and no man likes to take a club to anything as small
as a Dwarf.”

W. L. ALDEN.

Lamps of all Kinds and Times.

Two Styles: A Tale with a Moral.

Uffizzi Robbinson was blessed with a very full rich, tenor voice but a very
empty purse and he stood in need of a HOLIDAY.

So he cut his hair & otherwise disguised himself & went off to Brighton,
and having hired a piano & boy took up his station on the front and started in
to make his fortune.

He sang song after song, all of them highly classical, in his most approved
style, but his audience being limited and critical, his prospects looked
gloomy.

A gentle hint from his boy set him thinking!! He DISAPPEARED!!! A shadow on the
blind gave the only indication of what he was doing!!

Until one evening he reappeared on the front in all the glories of collar &
banjo, sang vulgar comic songs in a vulgar comic manner to a vast and appreciative
audience and lived in clover for the rest of the season.