*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47373 ***

THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_


                        EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
                          Vol VII., Issue 38.
                            February, 1894

[Illustration: "SHE WAS CLUTCHING THE FATAL TELEGRAM."

(_See page 116._)]

[Illustration:




BETWEEN THE ACTS


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. BLOWITZ.]

It was in 1870, when war had just been declared.

MacMahon had received orders to cross the frontier, and strike a
decided blow against the combined armies of North and South Germany.

In Paris, as indeed throughout the whole of France, everyone was in
a state of feverish anxiety; but in the gay capital, the Parisians
endeavoured to make the days of suspense pass more quickly by _féting_
the expected victory.

One could hear the clinking of glasses at the out-door restaurants, the
music of the _cafés-chantants_, and the carriages filed incessantly
along the broad avenue of the Champs Elysées.

The theatres, too, were well patronized, particularly one on the
Boulevards a certain evening when Mlle. Jeanne de Bolney was to make
her _début_.

The papers had foretold a most brilliant success for the beautiful
young actress, who was so marvellously gifted, and who would no doubt
become the star of the season. She had chosen for her _début_ "La Dame
aux Camélias," which was at that time in the height of its popularity,
and the author himself had said that the rôle of _Marguerite_ might
have been written for this talented young actress, so admirably did it
suit her in every respect. From the very first act it was quite evident
that her beauty and her talent had not been overrated.

The sight of her even had won all hearts. A faultless figure, a
delicate, refined face, with lips which were at once proud and tender,
eyes of deep blue with the most frank expression, a perfectly shaped
head, and a carriage which would have done honour to any queen.

At the sight of this exquisite creature a murmur of approbation ran
through the house and interrupted, for a few seconds, the dialogue.

At the end of each scene the ovations increased, and after the second
act there was a perfect explosion of applause. Among those who were
most delighted at Jeanne's triumph was a young man who belonged to the
theatre--Louis Belcourt. It was through his influence that she had
succeeded in making her _début_, for the manager of this theatre always
preferred pupils from the Conservatoire.

Louis had known and loved Jeanne from boyhood, and there was something
infinitely noble and touching in this devoted yet hopeless love. It
was, indeed, of a kind rarely seen in any man, for it had not blinded
him, and he could see and admire the good qualities of his rival--the
man to whom Jeanne had given all her love.

It had been very romantic, the engagement of the beautiful young
actress. A short time before, at the Longchamps races, she had been
glancing at the grand stand, where Napoleon III. and the ladies of the
Court were seated, when suddenly she became aware of two handsome dark
eyes fixed upon her. She looked away, but, as though fascinated, a few
minutes later she glanced again at the place behind the Court ladies,
and she saw a military-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the
southern sun, and who had risen from his seat and was gazing earnestly
at her, as though he too were fascinated by some spell.

Not long after, Roger de Morfeuille, officer in the Emperor's regiment,
had discovered who Jeanne was. It was an extraordinary engagement;
no word of the future had been spoken between them. Roger knew that
he would have to leave, for war had been declared, and that until
the result of that war should be known he could promise nothing. The
subject of the future was not even broached between them. Jeanne knew
only that their path in life must be together: she felt that it must
be so, and there was no need for words. Only when the terrible parting
came, when Roger had to leave to join his regiment, he slipped a ring
he always wore on to her finger and took from hers one for himself, and
still no words were spoken as to the future.

       *       *       *       *       *

After the second act of the "Dame aux Camélias," when the curtain had
been lowered for the sixth time, and Jeanne had for the sixth time
answered to the enthusiastic recalls, she went slowly up to her room.
She felt overwhelmed: perhaps it was the excess of happiness at her
good fortune which weighed on her like this. Roger knew that it was the
day of her _début_; she felt certain that, even amid the smoke of the
battlefield, he would not forget it. She hardly dared own it even to
herself, but all day she had expected some little souvenir from him,
some sign or word of sympathy; for was she not too fighting a battle,
one of those battles which decided the life of individuals just as much
as his did that of nations? On opening her dressing-room door a flash
of mingled triumph, love, and pride came over her as she caught sight
of a telegram on her table.

She closed her door quickly, not noticing that Louis Belcourt was
following her quietly along the corridor.

Suddenly, through the thick doors and curtains, in the silence of
the empty corridor, Belcourt heard a fearful cry. It was so wild and
passionate that a shiver ran through him. He opened the door and was
just in time to catch Jeanne in his arms. She was livid with horror,
and was clutching the fatal telegram in her hands.

Just as he was wondering what to do for the best, Jeanne's pallor
gave way to a rush of colour to her cheeks. She read the telegram to
him: "We have been defeated at Woerth. They are taking me to a house
near by. Amputation probable. Pray for me. My love, darling.--ROGER."
Belcourt glanced at the telegram and saw that it was unintelligible,
but a kind of alphabet on the table showed him that it had been written
by signs agreed upon.

He stood as though thunderstruck. Suddenly Jeanne put on a hat and
threw a long brown cloak over her stage dress.

"What are you going to do?" he exclaimed.

"I am going to Roger!"

"But, in Heaven's name, Jeanne, stay a little while. The curtain will
be going up. Think what you are doing. You will be ruined--you will
spoil your whole life. Wait till to-morrow!"

"Listen," said Jeanne, in a clear, decided tone. "It is now a quarter
to ten. I know there is a train from the Gare de l'Est at eleven, for I
have sent my letters by a friend of Roger's who is going by it. If you
prevent my going by that train, you see this dagger; well, I will kill
myself with it!"

Louis stepped back, dazed and horror-struck. Jeanne opened the door,
went quickly out by a back door, and Louis followed her, watched her
hail a cab, and drive away.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Belcourt re-entered the theatre he found everyone behind the
scenes in a terrible state of excitement.

Mlle de Bolney could not be found. The house was impatient, and the
manager desperate. He was sending for the police that she might be
found and arrested. Suddenly Belcourt, at the idea of the possible
fatal consequences of Jeanne's flight, determined on a bold move.

He stepped up to one of his friends who had been taking part in the
play, whispered to him, and appeared to be begging him to consent to
what he asked.

Finally the friend yielded, opened the door and walked towards the
stage. Then Belcourt, pushing away the director and stage manager
who attempted to stop him, gave the signal to lift the curtain, and
appeared himself before the house. A deep silence ensued.

[Illustration: "SHE IS OVERWHELMED BY THE NEWS."]

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Belcourt, "Mlle. de Bolney has received
a telegram announcing that there has been a disaster on the German
frontier and our army has sustained a defeat. She is overwhelmed by
the news, and we must ask you to have patience until she feels able to
continue her rôle."

A dismal silence followed these words. Belcourt's friend now stepped
forward and executed the order he had received:--

"We, too, are surely as good patriots as Mademoiselle de Bolney! Surely
the play ought not to be finished before a French audience, who have
just heard that our army is defeated!"

Cries of "_Bravo!_" were heard, and, unanimously, the whole house rose
and prepared to leave the theatre.

Belcourt had saved the honour of Jeanne and of the theatre.

The rumour of the defeat of Reichshoffen, which the Government was
keeping secret, was soon spread abroad in Paris by the spectators who
had heard it from Belcourt, and the news caused a fearful calm in the
gay capital.

Belcourt had been congratulated by all the authorities of the theatre
on his happy idea, but just as he was preparing to leave the theatre
that same night he was seized by a police official and conducted to the
Mazas prison on a charge of "having divulged a State secret," a crime
always punished at least by hard labour, and, in time of war, by death.

       *       *       *       *       *

For more than a month Belcourt had been in Mazas prison, with nothing
to look forward to but dishonour or death. He had been questioned over
and over again as to how he had discovered the secret, but in vain;
nothing could induce him to give any details, for he did not know
whether Jeanne would forgive him for having said so much as he had. The
next day sentence was to be passed upon him.

Successive defeats had embittered the minds of his judges, and it was
pretty sure that he had little chance of getting off without paying
the full penalty of his _crime_. Belcourt was thinking sadly of his
hopeless love for Jeanne, which had caused him to act as he had done in
order to save her, when suddenly the door of his cell opened and the
porter announced: "Madame the Countess de Morfeuille." It was Jeanne
herself, dressed in the deepest mourning.

Her beautiful hair had some silvery threads, her face was cold and
severe as marble, her beautiful mouth was rigid, her eyes seemed to be
gazing at some invisible object, and she had a deathly pallor--such as
one sees on the faces of those who have received some mortal wound.

It was pathetic to see so fair and so young a girl in such hopeless
despair, and Belcourt was deeply touched by it.

"You are free, Louis," she said, gently but sadly. "The Empress herself
has asked for your release. Thank you so much, my friend, for all you
did for me. I came directly I heard of your imprisonment. My husband
had only just been brought home and buried at Morfeuille."

[Illustration: "'YOU ARE FREE, LOUIS,' SHE SAID."]

Very soon after, Jeanne returned to her husband's stately home, that
she might visit daily the tomb of him she had so dearly loved, and who
had married her on his death bed.

When Louis had tried to console her and gently hinted that she was
too young to go through the rest of her life alone, she had answered,
decidedly:--

"Do not ever speak to me of anyone else. I will live and die the widow
of Roger, and will certainly never be anyone else's wife."

It was thus that a great artiste was lost to the French stage, but the
memory of that _début_ will never be lost to any of those who witnessed
it.




_Crimes and Criminals._


NO. I.--DYNAMITE AND DYNAMITERS.

It is not intended that the series of articles we propose publishing in
these pages under the above title should in any way give rise to alarm,
or be an incentive to disturbed and restless nights. On the other hand,
a better knowledge of how crimes are concocted and ultimately carried
into effect may, perhaps, provide a course of much-needed lessons
usually omitted in one's early education. It is said that the public
seldom trouble to protect themselves, and for a very good reason, they
don't know how; and it is only by becoming on a more familiar footing
with the manners and customs of those enterprising individuals who seek
to shatter anything between our nerves and our residences, either by
relieving us of our purse or planting a dangerous species of explosive
at our front doors, that we are the better able to take care of
ourselves, our relatives, and our belongings--ourselves, perhaps, for
choice.

At New Scotland Yard a large apartment is devoted to the exhibit of
ten thousand and one records of crime, in the shape of the actual
weapons, and what not, associated with particularly notorious, and, in
some instances, almost historic, deeds. A visit to this place is the
finest and most complete nerve-tester in the world! The authorities
at New Scotland Yard have kindly placed this room and its contents at
our disposal; and each of the separate cases, which severally contain
exhibits of some distinctive branch of punishable offences, requires
a chapter to itself. The most recently arrived exhibit is one which,
at the present time, possesses a peculiar interest. In the centre of
the room is a glass case, which provides a resting-place for mementos
of the more important outrages and attempts and suspicious cases
of discoveries of explosives which have called for the attention
of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Explosives for the last fifteen or
twenty years--Colonel V. D. Majendie, C.B., H.M. Chief Inspector of
Explosives, and Colonel A. Ford; whilst Dr. Dupré has throughout been
associated with these gentlemen as chemical expert. As an expert in
explosives, no name is better known than that of Colonel Majendie,
a man in the prime of life, of indomitable energy and immovable
disposition; who may be singled out as being engaged in the two
extremes of business and pleasure. His business: dynamite, gunpowder,
and all the kindred blasting operatives; his pleasure: the "Children
of Paules," as the choir boys of St. Paul's Cathedral used to be
designated. In his room at the Home Office slabs of American dynamite,
infernal machines, and detonators; in his rooms at home walls covered
with portraits of these tuneful youngsters, many of them in the whitest
of white surplices; while the drawers of his desk are brimming over
with youthful letters from the past and present choristers of the great
Cathedral. Colonel Majendie never destroys a dynamite relic--or a
child's letter. Both are too precious.

[Illustration: COLONEL MAJENDIE

_From a photo by Webber, Canterbury._]

Such is Colonel Majendie, the sworn enemy of dynamiters; and it was
in company with him that the writer visited New Scotland Yard and
examined, one by one, the contents of the case already referred to, and
associated them with the various incidents in which they were designed
to play--and, in some instances, succeeded in playing--so prominent a
part.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--EXPLOSION AT DUBLIN CASTLE.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--"BABY'S BOTTLE?" FIG. 3.--EXPLOSIVE COAL.]

It may be said that the more serious attempts to devote dynamite to
the very reverse purpose from what it was intended for commenced in
1881, when, on the 14th January of that year, an attempt was made
to blow up the barracks at Salford. Very little damage was done to
the barracks, but a lad was killed and another injured. In all the
subsequent attempts to destroy life and property, only one other
death has occurred. On the Christmas Eve of 1892, an infernal machine
exploded outside the Detective Office in Exchange Court, Dublin Castle,
when a detective officer was killed (Fig. 1). Without including minor
explosions, the numbers of important dynamitic efforts from the year
1881 to 1892 are as follows:--In 1881, 9 attempts; 1882, 5; 1883,
10; 1884, 12; 1885, 8; 1886, 4; 1887, 15; 1888, 2; 1889, 3; 1890, 5;
1891, 6; and in 1892, 7 outrages. It is not necessary to say that the
initial explosion at Salford, in 1881, greatly alarmed the public.
Anything found of a suspicious character was at once associated with
dynamite, and the earliest relic treasured at New Scotland Yard is a
strange-looking object which was found in a tram-car, and owing to
the excited state of the mind of the British public at that time, was
immediately put down as an infernal machine. There is, however, some
reason to believe that it was nothing more than a model for a new idea
in babies' feeding-bottles (Fig. 2). Its inventor never put in a claim
for it, but it still remains at "The Yard" for anybody who can justify
his or her claim to its possession. By its side is an imitation piece
of coal--(Fig. 3)--a most deadly weapon when used, for it is intended
to be filled with explosive and thrown in the stoke-hole of vessels,
in the hope that the stoker may shovel it into the furnace with some
of the other fuel. Another relic of this year is one of four machines
which were found on the 2nd July at Liverpool in the _Bavaria_ (Fig.
4), six other infernal machines having been found in the _Malta_ two
days previously. They were discovered in barrels of cement. They
contained lignin-dynamite, with a very cheap clock arrangement for
firing it. The machines proper were in leaden boxes about nine inches
long by four inches square. A second machine of the 1881 period is of
the clockwork pattern (Fig. 5), and is controlled by a small knife,
which falls at the set time, cutting a string, releasing a spring which
falls on a percussion cap, and so brings about an explosion.

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--INFERNAL MACHINE FOUND ON THE "BAVARIA."]

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--MACHINE OF THE 1881 PERIOD.]

An 1882 relic is a most interesting one, and its surrounding companions
are equally curious. Here is the revolver with which O'Donnell shot
Carey (Fig. 6). It is of an American pattern, and marked 147A in the
catalogue. A most ingenious contrivance also in this part of the
collection is a tin can, made in two compartments (Fig. 7). It was used
for conveying contraband gunpowder to Egypt. It is so made that when it
is probed by the Customs' officials to see what it contains, the probe
used comes out covered with oil.

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--O'DONNELL'S REVOLVER.]

A few samples of a not particularly choice brand of cigars are also
shown (Fig. 8). A gentleman who has no great love for you, and who
fully appreciates the weakness of human nature of the male persuasion
in seldom refusing a cigar, offers you one out of his case:--

[Illustration: FIG. 7.--CANISTER FOR SMUGGLING GUNPOWDER.]

"Something very choice, sir, I assure you," he says. He is a perfect
stranger to you, but--well, a cigar's a cigar, and you accept his kind
offer. The benevolent cigar proprietor sees you light up, and you puff
away in peace. He is suddenly called away. The cigar explodes! It
contains an explosive, which is wrapped up in a piece of blue paper,
and is placed about half-way down the cigar.

[Illustration: FIG. 8.--EXPLOSIVE CIGARS.]

But the most interesting relic of 1882 is a little canister very much
resembling a diminutive milk can (Fig. 9). It is supposed to contain
dynamite, and has never been opened since its receipt at the House of
Commons in that year, addressed to Mr. Forster, then Chief Secretary
for Ireland.

[Illustration: FIG. 9.--CAN SENT TO MR. FORSTER.]

It was not, however, until 1883 that the authorities were fully
aroused. The Explosives Act of 1875 had controlled all substances
of this nature; but it was not designed to control the criminal use
of explosives, although it is true that certain clauses were found
available to some extent. But the Act of 1883 was passed by the House
of Commons in a single sitting--a most important and far-reaching Act,
which deals with every possible phase of the question of explosives. No
wonder this Act was passed.

Before the New Year of 1883 was many days old a series of attempts
was made which, together with the two subsequent years, afforded more
trouble and anxiety to Colonel Majendie and his colleagues than any
trio of years since these more serious efforts were made. Glasgow was
the scene of operations, and on the night and morning of the 20th and
21st January three explosions occurred, in all of which lignin-dynamite
was used. The first was at Tradeston Gasworks on the 20th, the
remainder at Possil Bridge and at Buchanan Street Station on the 21st.
No lives were lost, though considerable damage was done. Photographs
are of the greatest possible use to the expert when engaged in making
his experiments, in order to find out the probable cause of any
explosion, and through the courtesy of Colonel Majendie, we are enabled
to show a number of these.

The picture of the explosion at the Glasgow Gasworks was taken in
the interior of a holder, and shows the perforations of the plates
by projected _débris_ on the side of the holder opposite to that
on which the explosion occurred (Fig. 10). It is fortunate that the
perpetrators of this deed--ten persons were convicted--possessed but
a very crude knowledge of the best method of blowing up a gasworks.
They adopted the same method as at the siege of Paris, but not with
the effect desired. There is a common belief that it is an easy matter
to blow up a gasworks; but the only condition in which a holder is
really dangerous is _when it is empty_. If the holder is full of gas
there is no air present--and gas must have air mixed with it if it is
to assist the explosion. In this case the dynamite was applied, but
it only blew great holes in the gasometer, the gas was consumed, and
part of Glasgow was for some time in darkness. In the Possil Road Canal
Bridge incident--the idea being to let the water out and do no end of
damage--a miserable failure was the result. The detonator did not go
off!

[Illustration: FIG. 10.--THE GLASGOW EXPLOSION--INSIDE THE GASHOLDER.]

Colonel Majendie tells a good story in connection with the Glasgow
affair. He went to Scotland in a great hurry, only taking one suit
of clothes. After spending a considerable time in the gasholder, his
clothes--not to put too fine a point upon it--smelt. Indeed, the next
morning at breakfast Sir John Hawkshaw comforted him with the assurance
that he "smelt like a rat out of a hole!"

When paying his bill in company with the engineer, one of the
restaurant assistants turned to a companion and exclaimed:--

"Good gracious, Jessie, there's a dreadful escape of gas!"

"Then here goes for the escape of the engineer," cried that gentleman,
rushing out of the place.

The Glasgow occurrences were followed up by two explosions on the 15th
March--one outside a window at the _Times_ office, and another causing
considerable damage at the Local Government Board Office, Whitehall
(Fig. 11). The explosion at the _Times_ was abortive, and Colonel
Majendie found the stuff used, together with a tube. This tube was a
silent witness. It was ascertained that it was similar to that used in
the Glasgow explosion, and of a similar pattern to those found on the
men who were convicted.

Now came a very serious business; in Colonel Majendie's opinion,
the most serious he ever had to deal with. It created the greatest
possible excitement at the time. This was the discovery at Birmingham,
on the 5th April, 1883, of a factory of nitro-glycerine, and of a
large amount of the same substance brought thence to London. It is
due to the Birmingham police to state here that they kept their heads
magnificently, laid their traps with consummate skill, and communicated
with the authorities at the Home Office just at the right moment. Some
of the nitro-glycerine found its way to London, the Birmingham police
actually travelling up to the Metropolis with a man whose luggage
consisted of a pair of fishing stockings, containing some 70lb. of this
terrible explosive agent! He was arrested, the explosive was lodged at
a special magazine near Woolwich, and subsequently made into dynamite
and then destroyed.

Whitehead and his accomplices had opened premises as a stationer's
shop. Colonel Majendie, in company with Dr. Dupré, found that at the
back they were carrying on a snug little business in the manufacture
of the most deadly explosive. In a copper was a quantity of sulphuric
acid, with nitro-glycerine floating on the top. The experts carefully
skimmed the nitro-glycerine off, when they were faced with a still more
serious trouble. In another room they discovered a large number of
carboys, one of which contained no less than 170lb. of nitro-glycerine.
It was by no means pure, and the question arose, What was to be done?
Colonel Majendie and Dr. Dupré were forced to go down to Liverpool that
night to give evidence. The nitro-glycerine they dared not remove as it
was. If it were left it might possibly explode--while if the discovery
were announced it would cause a fearful scare.

[Illustration: FIG. 11.--EXPLOSION AT LOCAL GOVERNMENT BOARD OFFICE.]

It was decided to get a large quantity of ice and pack it round
the explosive in order to keep it as cold as possible. So with
this terrible load on their minds the experts left for Liverpool,
and returned to find that they had done the right thing. They had
kept down the temperature sufficiently to ensure the safety of the
nitro-glycerine. With the aid of kieselguhr--an infusorial earth of
a very porous character and the inert ingredient of dynamite, and
considered by Mr. Alfred Nobel the best vehicle to use as an absorbent
of nitro-glycerine--the experts caused the nitro-glycerine to be made
into dynamite. It was conveyed to an isolated site near Birmingham,
spread out on a tract of land, burnt, and so got rid of.

The occupier of the "stationer's" shop and others were subsequently
convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for life.

October of 1883 brought about two explosions--both on the Metropolitan
Railway. The first of these occurred between Charing Cross and
Westminster, fortunately resulting in no personal or serious structural
injury. That, however, on the same night at Praed Street resulted in
three carriages being practically smashed, whilst sixty-two persons
were injured by the broken glass and _débris_. An important discovery
was made on the 16th January, 1884, of some slabs of Atlas Powder of
American make in Primrose Hill Tunnel, and it is surmised that these
were thrown away by a conspirator as being of no use for the moment,
seeing that it is probable that everything was cut and dried for the
somewhat alarming events which occurred in the following month--a
quartette of attempted outrages at four London stations, one of which
was tolerably successful. On the 26th February, 1884, an explosion
occurred in the cloak-room of the London, Brighton, and South Coast
Railway at Victoria Station (Fig. 12); whilst on the 27th February,
28th February, and 1st March, discoveries of bags containing Atlas
Powder, with clockwork and detonators, were made at Charing Cross,
Paddington, and Ludgate Hill stations respectively.

In all these cases the clock was used--and that here reproduced is the
one found at Paddington--which was left in various cloak-rooms in a
portmanteau. The authorities were for the moment at a loss to discover
how the explosion occurred, until the police communicated the fact that
a portmanteau had been seized at Charing Cross Station.

[Illustration: FIG. 12.--EXPLOSION IN CLOAK ROOM AT VICTORIA STATION.]

The following extract from the official report will be read with
interest, seeing that it also describes how an infernal machine of the
clockwork pattern works:--

"The portmanteau, which had been deposited between 7 and 9 p.m. on
Monday, the 25th February, was fastened with two straps and was not
locked. On being opened it was found to contain some packages or slabs
of a peculiar description, and the searcher at once reported the matter
to the police, who rightly concluded that the slabs were probably an
explosive of the dynamite order. The police caused the portmanteau to
be at once conveyed to the Royal Arsenal, Woolwich, and a telegram was
sent requesting our attendance.

"An examination of the portmanteau showed that it contained (in
addition to one or two rather worthless articles of clothing)
forty-five slabs of the material which had excited suspicion. They
consisted each of a paraffined paper packet 6 in. by 3 in. by 1/2 in.
(thick), containing a substance which proved to be a description of
lignin-dynamite not used or licensed for use in or importation into
this country, but largely manufactured and employed for industrial
purposes in America. Each packet had the words 'Atlas Powder A' printed
on it, and was open at one end, and weighed rather under half a pound.
The packets were carefully packed into one side or compartment of the
portmanteau and surrounding what proved to be a box of tinned iron,
measuring 6 in. by 5 in. by 5 in., and having the exterior lacquered
yellow. The box had a hinged lid and the junction of the lid and box
was roughly luted with a material of the character of cobbler's wax.

"We proceeded to remove the box and to open it with suitable
precautions. In the interior was a circular American alarum clock, face
uppermost, and with the alarum bell removed. The clock subsequently
proved to be one made by the Ansonia Clock Company of New York, and
of the pattern designated by them 'Peep of Day.' These clocks can be
readily purchased retail in London for 10s., or even less. On taking
out the clock and turning it over we found that the metal back had
been removed, and that a small nickel-plated vest-pocket pistol (the
woodwork of the stock of which had been removed) was fastened by means
of copper wire to the movement, and the winding handle of the clock
had been turned down and so fixed (also by copper wire) that when
the alarum ran down one end of the handle, as it travelled round,
would impinge upon the trigger and fire the pistol. This, in fact,
had actually been accomplished so far as the impact of the winder and
trigger was concerned, the trigger had been pulled, and the hammer of
the pistol was resting upon the copper rim-fire cartridge with which
the pistol was loaded, and which, on being extracted, proved to have
missed fire. The alarum was set to run off at 12 (at which hour the
pistol hammer had presumably fallen); the clock itself had stopped at
about 4.14.

"Opposite to the muzzle of the pistol, inside the tin box and resting
against it, was the greater portion of one of the slabs of 'Atlas
Powder,' into which, immediately opposite to the pistol's mouth, were
embedded seven powerful detonators, mouths outermost, and by way
of further insuring the action of the machine a piece of ordinary
quick-match had been bent into several of the detonators, which, on
examination, proved to contain an exceptionally heavy charge (over 13
grains) of fulminate of mercury and chlorate of potash.

"This slab was intended to act as the primer, and its function would be
to produce (through the agency of the detonators) an initial explosion
by means of which the mass of dynamite with which the tin box was
surrounded would be exploded.

"It may be interesting to note that the use of a clockwork apparatus
as a means of effecting a deferred explosion is no novelty. Thus the
idea was applied in the infernal machines which were surreptitiously
imported into Liverpool from America in 1881, and Thomas's machine,
which exploded with such terrible effect at Bremerhaven on December 11,
1875, was fired by a similar agency. There exists also in the Museum of
Artillery at the Rotunda, Woolwich, a model of a clockwork apparatus
attached to a flint lock for firing a submarine mine or torpedo, which
was designed by Sir William Congreve, probably in the early part of the
present century. But the particular combination adopted in the present
instance is, so far as our knowledge goes, original."

[Illustration: FIG. 13.--CLOCKWORK MACHINE FOUND AT PADDINGTON.]

After Colonel Majendie had seen this clock he was enabled to attach a
special significance to a piece of metal which he found in the _débris_
at Victoria Station, and which proved to be a particle of steel
spring. This is an admirable example of the usefulness of the magnet,
which is always employed when searching _débris_. It is a curious
fact that the Charing Cross clock went off, that the trigger of the
pistol was released, but the cartridge had not exploded. On dissecting
the cartridge, it was found that the fulminate had been omitted from
the particular part of the rim on which the trigger had fallen. At
Paddington the hammer had also fallen, but the cartridge did not go
off. Upon testing a score of these cartridges nine went off at once,
six did not explode until the vital part was touched by the trigger,
and five refused to explode at all.

A still more remarkable circumstance associated with the Paddington
discovery must be recorded. When the clock was found it was ticking
away merrily (Fig. 13). The dynamite had not exploded owing to the
fact that the winder had caught against a little knob which failed to
release it.

Colonel Ford expressed a desire to take the clock home with him to show
it to his wife. On his way, the jolting of the cab was sufficient to
partially release the winder, and the hammer of the pistol descended
during the night. Of course, the cartridge and dynamite had been
previously removed by the Inspectors.

Before referring at length to the next important event in the history
of dynamiters for the year 1884, we would remind the reader that we
have only dealt in detail with two types of infernal machine: the clock
system, which may be set in advance to act some hours later; and the
burning fuse, which was employed in some of the earlier explosions
alluded to. The infernal machine found at Cork and preserved at New
Scotland Yard shows this method of working very clearly (Fig. 14). It
is a wooden box about a foot square and separated into divisions.
One compartment is fitted with clockwork, to which a fuse is attached
and which passes through to the other part of the box filled with
gunpowder. This box would hold about 8lb. of powder. When the lid is
removed the clockwork starts, the fuse is fired, and the gunpowder
explodes. A fuse is a series of strands of hemp with a column of
gunpowder running through. There are many varieties, and every
manufacturer has a special mark on the fuse he makes, so that the
authorities can always trace it. We lit a fuse and found that it burnt
at the rate of a yard a minute; it can, therefore, easily be adjusted
to any time required.

We now, however, come to the most deadly of all weapons used by
dynamiters--the bomb, which explodes instantly on falling. These
bombs--as the shrapnel shell, used in artillery--can only be designed
for one purpose, the destruction of human life: they are essentially
man-killing infernal machines. On April 11th, 1884, three metal
bombs, containing dynamite, were found in the possession of Daly, at
Birkenhead, who was subsequently sentenced to penal servitude for life.

[Illustration: FIG. 14.--INFERNAL MACHINE FOUND AT CORK.]

The old-fashioned bomb was of a shape resembling an egg, with nipples
like gun nipples and percussion caps. It was weighted at one end to
insure its falling on the point intended. The Barcelona bomb was
spherical, but similarly fitted with nipples. This is the Orsini type.

But the Daly bomb was a far more delicate piece of mechanism. Inside
the bomb was a little bottle containing sulphuric acid with a small
piece of lead, so that when the bomb was thrown the weight of the
lead caused the bottle to break and the acid came in contact with
a composition, which immediately ignited. This ignition fired a
detonator, which in turn fired the dynamite. Although the various
moves in the interior of the Daly bomb were many, yet we were assured
by Colonel Majendie that in some experiments he made, from the moment
the bomb struck the ground to its explosion there was no appreciable
interval of time. The deadly wrecking powers of this bomb were proved
by Colonel Majendie at the trial of Daly. The Colonel took a bomb
and exploded it in an iron room, which is used for testing shells at
Woolwich. A dozen dummy wooden figures--of the size of living men--were
placed round the apartment. The bomb was exploded by electricity, and
the twelve figures received no fewer than one hundred and sixty-eight
wounds!

[Illustration: Fig. 15.--THE DALY BOMB.]

The relics of the Daly case, at New Scotland Yard, are amongst the most
treasured of such items in the possession of the police. Some of them
are reproduced here. There is the bomb (Fig. 15), and a very formidable
weapon it appears, though it would easily fit in an overcoat pocket;
the written instructions found on Daly are fairly legible (Fig.
16), though in the case of one or two words the sulphuric acid has
partially obliterated several of the letters. However, its intention is
sufficiently intelligible. Furthermore, there are set out a number of
pieces of metal--any of which would be capable of killing a man--which
were extracted from some of the dummy figures experimented on at
Woolwich (Fig. 17).

[Illustration: FIG. 16.--DALY'S INSTRUCTIONS.]

It should be stated that Daly, at his trial, suggested that these bombs
might be used for killing fish.

[Illustration: FIG. 17.--PIECES TAKEN OUT OF DUMMY FIGURES.]

"Yes," said Colonel Majendie pointing to those found on Daly; "but
nobody would care to fish with those."

[Illustration: FIG 18.--SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S--EXTERIOR.]

In this same year--1884--no fewer than three explosions occurred on
the night of the 30th May, whilst on the same evening a bag was found
in Trafalgar Square containing Atlas Powder, with fuse and detonators.
The first was at the Junior Carlton Club, St. James's Square, where
about fourteen persons were injured. The second--which occurred about
fifteen seconds after that at the Junior Carlton--at the residence
of Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, St. James's Square (Fig. 18), which the
perpetrators evidently mistook for a part of the Intelligence Office.
It is probable that the charge used was thrown over the area railings,
but it accidentally lodged in a window recess of the morning room,
where the most serious effects of the explosion were felt, although
the windows of the house were much shattered. As the official report
states:--

[Illustration: FIG. 19.--SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S--MORNING ROOM.]

"Although a party were assembled in the morning-room at the time the
explosion occurred, they fortunately escaped injury with the exception
of one lady, who had her hand slightly cut by some broken glass. This
remarkable escape (as it must appear to anyone who had an opportunity
of examining the room before the _débris_ had been disturbed, or who
has seen the photographs of this room) can only be attributed to the
fact that the party did not happen to be seated directly opposite to
the window under which the explosion occurred, but rather in the other
part of the room, where they were to some extent sheltered from the
effects (Fig. 19). Two servants who were standing on the front doorstep
were also injured, one of them somewhat severely, making a total, so
far as is known, of three persons injured by this explosion."

[Illustration: FIG. 20.--EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.]

The third explosion of this eventful night took place at 9.20 p.m., at
Old Scotland Yard. The charge was placed outside a room used by some
of the detective staff. The explosion brought down a portion of the
building, doing considerable damage to some carriages standing there at
the time and to neighbouring buildings, and injuring several persons
(Figs. 20 and 21).

[Illustration: FIG. 21.--EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.]

The last explosion of 1884 was on December 13th, and took the form
of a considerable charge of dynamite or other nitro-compound under
London Bridge. Very little damage was done, but there is no reasonable
doubt that the perpetrators of this deed were themselves killed, and
Colonel Majendie found what he believed to be the remains of a human
being who was blown up with the boat employed in the transaction.
Curiously enough, just previous to this outrage, circumstances led the
authorities to believe that some of the bridges which span the Thames
required special protection, and Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of
Explosives was directed to visit them, and advise as to the precautions
to be taken. Colonel Majendie found that London Bridge contained
certain gully holes which were used for the purpose of draining
out water. These gully holes possessed peculiar advantages for the
secretion of an infernal machine. Accordingly, upon Colonel Majendie's
recommendation, strong iron bars were placed over these holes, so that
it was impossible to place the dynamite in the required position.
The would-be perpetrators--and there were three of them--bungled so
much that, as has already been hinted, little damage was done save to
themselves. The facsimile of the bent bars and hooks (Fig. 22), much
reduced, will give a good idea of the force of the explosive used on
this occasion, and some idea of what the effects upon the bridge would
have been if the bars had not been affixed and the charge had acted
within the gully hole.

[Illustration: FIG. 22.--RELICS OF LONDON BRIDGE EXPLOSION.]

The last of the three bad years was 1885, in which year a brass tube or
fuse for firing nitro-glycerine compound was found at Liverpool (Fig.
23): a very ingenious contrivance (here reproduced), in which sulphuric
acid is used, the time at which the acid will act being governed by the
number of folds of paper stuffed round the hole allowing the fluid
to escape through, and so firing a detonator in conjunction with the
explosive proper. Similar tubes had undoubtedly been used at Glasgow,
at the Local Government Board Explosion, and at the _Times_ office.

[Illustration: FIG. 23.--BRASS TUBE CONTAINING NITRO-GLYCERINE, FOUND
AT LIVERPOOL.]

Again came a trio of events. On the 24th January, 1885, an explosion
occurred at the Tower of London, doing serious damage--scattering
the stands of arms and playing great havoc with other implements of
warfare. Great was the wreckage in the old Banqueting Hall (Fig. 24).
There is every reason for the belief that the man who introduced the
explosive did so in an apron fitted with pockets and worn under his
greatcoat. On the same night a charge of Atlas Powder, similar to
that used at the Tower, created no small havoc in Westminster Hall;
while the third explosion was the well-remembered event at the House
of Commons. Fortunately, the House was not sitting at the time. The
Strangers' and Peers' Galleries were severely injured, and to give an
idea of the wreckage, the Estimates of the following year provided a
sum of £6,125 for repair of damage done to the House of Commons, and
£2,500 for Westminster Hall. Two men were convicted and sentenced to
penal servitude for life.

[Illustration: FIG. 24.--EXPLOSION AT TOWER OF LONDON--THE BANQUETING
HALL.]

We give a reproduction of the Salisbury infernal machine discovered in
this year--a machine of exceptionally rough make (Fig. 25). A series of
minor events had taken place in Wiltshire and Hampshire, which caused
the police some trouble for a couple of years. They were not believed
to be of any political significance, but done simply out of pure
mischief. Still, this sort of fun does not pay, as the two ringleaders
found when they were sentenced at the Salisbury Assizes to twelve and
two months' hard labour respectively.

The year 1886 was fairly clear; but 1887 brought about the discovery
of a conspiracy between Callan and Harkins to commit an outrage by
means of dynamite. The police found at 24, Brixton Road, some 28lb. of
explosive in the dust-bin and garden, which had been left as a legacy
to Callan. Callan's empty portmanteau--also left him by the same person
who bequeathed him the dynamite, a man named Cohen--condemned him,
for on a microscopical examination by Dr. Dupré and the Government
Inspectors, the tell-tale kieselguhr was found.

[Illustration: FIG. 25.--THE SALISBURY INFERNAL MACHINE.]

There was little of serious moment in 1888. The most important event
of this kind in 1889 was on November 18th, when an effort was made to
blow up the police and bailiffs engaged in carrying out evictions on
Lord Clanricarde's estate in Co. Galway. The charge was intended to be
exploded under the ground, and 25lb. of powder was to be used. The mine
was to be actuated by opening a door. As the officials entered--the
door having a string connecting it with the machine in use--the
mine would be exploded. Happily, it failed to go off. The infernal
machine used on this occasion was of a type to be found amongst the
accompanying illustrations--showing a knife and string, the knife
cutting the cord and releasing the trigger of a small pistol, which was
designed to fire the necessary detonator.

There is little to note in the two following years until 1892, when
March 24th brought about the conviction of persons at Walsall who were
in possession of explosives which could only be used for a wrongful
purpose. The sample of bombs shown (Fig. 26) was photographed from
those which convicted the prisoners, and which are now at New Scotland
Yard.

[Illustration: FIG 26.--THE WALSALL BOMBS.]

On Christmas Eve, 1892, an infernal machine exploded outside the
Detective Office, Exchange Court, Dublin, which resulted in the death
of poor Sinnott. As he was proceeding to the office he saw a parcel. It
is probable that he examined it--not kicking it, but handling it--for
one of his fingers was blown into an upper window. Only a very small
charge was used--about a pound--but it did some damage and cost a life.

The last two events of any importance at the time of writing were the
explosion at the Four Courts, Dublin, in May, 1893, which Colonel Ford
investigated, and considered very similar to that of the previous
Christmas Eve; and that at the Aldboro' Barracks, Dublin, towards the
end of last November.

[Illustration:




GIOVANNI

A THEME WITH VARIATIONS,


BY JAMES D. SYMON.]


I.

"Nothing more to-night, thank you, Robert; I shall require nothing
more, except to be left alone."

"Very well, sir."

The old servitor withdrew, and Arthur Dalziel threw himself into his
lounging chair with a weary look in his eyes. For a long time he gazed
into the fire, muttering now and then between his teeth: "If--yet, no,
it is impossible, impossible! Yes, Arthur, my boy, you'd have to give
it all up, lands, position, prospect of a title--that London life you
love so much--and go back to dreary Scotch law. But you're a fool to
think of such things, a confounded fool!"

He rose, and going to a side table poured out a glass of wine, which he
drained hastily.

The wine seemed to relieve him of his disturbing thoughts. He glanced
more cheerfully round his luxurious sanctum--half library, half
music-room--and strolled up to the piano, where he stood carelessly
fingering the keys.

One or two chance chords evidently awoke some old memories of
half-forgotten melody, for he turned to a canterbury and searched among
the heterogeneous mass of music it contained. Music is somehow always
hard to find, but at length Dalziel drew out a single leaf of faded
manuscript, which he set on the stand and, seating himself, began to
play.

It was a wonderful melody, so simple, yet so full and thrilling in its
harmonies. The player's face grew softer as he touched the keys, and he
looked almost youthful again in spite of his worn appearance. It was
not age, however, that had grizzled Arthur Dalziel's hair. He was but
two-and-thirty, though he looked like forty-five. Again and again he
played the melody, and an unwonted moisture gathered in his cold grey
eyes. The music seemed to affect him strangely. Pausing for a little,
while his fingers rested caressingly on the keys, he sighed: "Poor
Jack! Poor Jack! Would that I knew--would that I knew! Still, would it
make me any happier to know? And then--perhaps it might mean ruin--it's
better as it is."

Once more he played over the fragment, scarcely glancing now at the
music, for what we have once known is easily learned again. The wind
howled in strange unison with the plaintive air, but was it merely the
wind that made the musician start and drop his hands nervelessly on his
knees?

"No, no," he exclaimed, "you are an imaginative, nervous fool!
That air is known to yourself alone of living men--it is
impossible--impossible--"

Some sort of fascination seemed to chain him to the instrument.
Mechanically his fingers sought the keys, and the self-same air came
trembling from the strings. He seemed scarcely to believe, however,
that his former fancy (whatever it was) had been all imagination,
for he struck the opening chords softly, and with the air of one who
listens for a response he is but half certain of receiving. Clear above
the notes of the piano, above the wild piping of the wintry gale, rose
the wail of a violin. Very gently and tenderly Dalziel continued to
play, but his face was ashen pale, for the mysterious performer out
there in the storm answered him note for note.

"Strange," he muttered, as the strain ended; "but, ghost or no ghost,
I'll test him with the unwritten part." He sprang up and turned out
the gas. Then flinging open the window, heedless how the gusts of
night-wind scattered his papers about the room, he seated himself once
more at the instrument, and dashed into a variation on the same theme.
Curiosity had taken the place of fear, and his playing was bold and
clear.

Again the violin rang out, and in perfect accord the intricate
variation was rendered. Dalziel suddenly abandoned the air and dropped
into an accompaniment, but the player held on undismayed to the end. It
was a weird but exquisite performance.

"Marvellous! Correct to the minutest particular!" Dalziel cried. "I
shall fathom this, come what may."

He went to the window and peered into the square, where the gas lamps
shivered in the blast and threw an uncertain glimmer, that was not
light, on the deserted pavement.

[Illustration: "DALZIEL STOOPED OVER THE PITIFUL LITTLE BUNDLE."]

No living soul was to be seen, but a voice came out of the darkness: a
child's pleading voice:--

"Please, sir, don't be angry; but _do_, please, play that accompaniment
again. From the beginning this time, please: I'd like to remember it
all. Just once, please, sir, and then I'll go away."

"Who are you?"

"Giovanni."

"Some clever Italian brat. Heard me once or twice, I suppose, and
picked up the air," Dalziel thought; "but then, that variation! I must
sift this, as I said, whatever is the upshot."

"Would you like to come in, Giovanni?" he said presently, as he began
to make out the dim outline of a form huddling against the railings;
"you must be cold out there."

"Come in _there_, to the firelight and the piano? Oh, it would be like
Heaven!"

"I don't know about that," Dalziel muttered, adding, however, in cheery
tones, "Yes, Giovanni, come in here--go up the steps and I'll open
the door for you. He's got a pretty dash of an Italian accent, this
mysterious little Giovanni," he continued, as he stepped into the hall,
"I'd like to see him, at any rate."

He opened the hall door and the warm light streamed out upon the steps,
out upon a pallid little face and a heap of shabby clothes lying there
motionless. Dalziel stooped over the pitiful little bundle, and gently
disengaged a violin from the nerveless hands. Swiftly laying the
instrument on the hall table, he returned and bore the child to the
sofa in the study. He re-lighted the gas and rang the bell.

Robert appeared. Accustomed as he was to "master's fads," he seemed to
receive a severe shock at the sight which presented itself; but none of
Arthur Dalziel's servants, even the oldest and trustiest, dared ask any
questions, so Robert awaited orders in silence.

"Send Mrs. Johnson here, Robert."

The ancient butler obeyed.

"Mrs. Johnson, here's a little street-musician that's been taken ill
just outside. Help me to restore him."

"Bless him, he's a bonny little man," was all the worthy housekeeper
dared to say. "We'll soon bring him to, sir. Some brandy, sir, so. Now
you're better, aren't you, you poor little dear? You're nigh frozen;
and hungry, too, I believe. You're hungry, aren't you, now?" she cried,
as the child's eyes quivered wonderingly open.

"_So_ hungry!"

"Well, you'll have some supper soon," interposed Dalziel. "Get him
something hot, Mrs. Johnson. You just lie still, young man, till it
comes, and don't talk. I'll play to you till your supper's ready, if
you promise to hold your tongue."

He resumed his place at the instrument and played anything and
everything that occurred to him, while Giovanni lay back on the sofa
in quiet enjoyment of the music. His eyes grew very large and bright
as the player proceeded, and once or twice his lips moved as though he
would say something, but remembering the injunction to keep silent, he
invariably checked himself.

So the two new friends passed the time until the supper appeared. The
child ate eagerly, but with evident self-restraint, and Dalziel noted
with the instinctive satisfaction of a gentleman that Giovanni was not
at all ill-bred.

When the supper had at length disappeared Giovanni said: "May I speak
now?"

"Certainly."

"Please, where is my violin?"

"All safe and sound, my man; I'll fetch it for you."

Dalziel stepped out and returned with the instrument. The child clasped
it eagerly, ran his thumb lightly over the strings, and glancing up at
Dalziel, said, mechanically, "'A,' please."

His companion, thoroughly determined to humour and observe the strange
child, struck the required note. In a second or two Giovanni had
brought his instrument to perfect tune. Then he looked up and hesitated.

"Well, my man, what is it?" queried Dalziel.

"That tune again--do, please, play it, sir: the one I heard out in the
square before I grew so dizzy."

Dalziel at first seemed reluctant to comply, but the child's pleading
eyes overcame him, so he turned round to the piano and struck the
opening chords.

Giovanni crept over to his side and began to play, hesitatingly at
first, but gradually gaining strength as the spell of the music
possessed him. Dalziel looked from time to time at the boy's pathetic
face with a questioning, almost frightened glance, but played steadily
to the end.

"Thank you so much, sir," said Giovanni, when they had finished.

"You are a wonderful player, child. Who taught you?"

"Mother," he replied; then he burst into tears, crying, "Oh! I must
go--I must go; poor mother will be wearied to death for me. I am
selfish to stay, but I was so happy with the lovely music that I'd
forgotten her. I must go; poor mother is so ill."

He moved towards the door.

"Come back, Giovanni; you can't go out in the rain. Tell me where
mother lives and I'll go to see her at once, and let her know you're
safe."

With difficulty he persuaded the child to stay indoors, and taking
the address Giovanni gave him he left the house, first directing Mrs.
Johnson to put his _protégé_ to bed.

Ere he had gone half way on his mission the worn-out little brain had
for a season forgotten its troubles in sleep.


II.

Arthur Dalziel took his way to 5, Sparrow Alley, the address Giovanni
had given him, and after sundry ineffectual attempts, succeeded in
discovering it. The house was a wretched, tumble-down tenement in a
shabby quarter, one of those quarters that seem never far removed from
fashionable neighbourhoods, as if set there by Providence to keep the
children of fortune ever in mind of the seamy side of life.

The visitor was admitted by a dirty old woman, half idiotic with sleep
and gin combined, who conducted him to the room where "the furrin
laidy" lived, mumbling the while maudlin compliments to Dalziel with
unmistakable intent.

In a miserable den, upon a still more miserable bed, Arthur Dalziel
found the wreck of a lovely woman. He was a novice at visitation of the
sick, but a glance showed him that the end could not be far away. The
patient was speechless, but as he approached her, her eyes dwelt on him
with a yearning, pleading look which his rapid intuitions interpreted
rightly.

"Your little boy, your Giovanni, is safe," he said, "and will be well
cared for always."

The worn but still lovely face lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction
as her mute lips strove to thank him. Feebly she drew a sealed packet
from beneath the pillow and gave it into Dalziel's hand. After another
effort she contrived to whisper, "This will tell all. You are good,
kind; so like _him_, too. My love to Giovannino--oh, so dark, so
cold----"

Her head sank back--Giovanni's mother was dead.

For a few seconds they stood in silence in the majestic presence of
Death: then the old woman broke into tipsy lamentations while her eyes
wandered greedily over the room.

[Illustration: "SHE GAVE IT INTO DALZIEL'S HAND."]

"Hold your peace, woman," Dalziel cried, irritably, for the contrast
between the sweet, pure image of the dead and the vileness of his
companion jarred harshly on his delicate sensibilities. "Here," he
continued, thrusting a coin into her dirt-grimed palm, "fetch the key
of this room, quick!"

"It's in the door, sir," muttered the other, sulkily, as she clutched
the money.

"Leave me, then," said Dalziel: "I'll see to everything."

The old woman grumblingly retired.

The room was lighted by a single guttering candle, now almost burned
to its socket. There was light enough to show the visitor that beyond
a small leather travelling-box the place seemed to contain nothing
belonging to its late occupant. The box was unlocked, so he opened
it and drew out a dressing-case, which he looked at narrowly with a
sort of trembling curiosity. He attempted to open it, but it resisted
his efforts. Then he bethought him of the sealed packet, which he
opened and examined. It contained several papers, which he glanced at
hurriedly. As he read, his face grew ashen pale and his hands shook
violently. He perused one paper and was taking up a second, when the
candle with a spasmodic sputter went suddenly out. Through the dingy
window, for a single moment, one clear star shone between a rift in
the driving storm-clouds. By its faint light he groped for the door,
and was quitting the apartment when he suddenly bethought himself and
returned to the table for the papers and the dressing-case. He then
left the room, the door of which he locked, and pocketing the key he
sought the congenial companionship of the tempestuous night.

       *       *       *       *       *

One afternoon Dalziel and Giovanni stood by a humble grave. The child
scarcely realized his loss, and clung to his new protector's hand with
passionate intensity. When all was over, as they turned slowly away,
Giovanni said:

"Shall I really always stay with you?"

"Yes, always."

"And learn to be a great musician?"

"Certainly, if you work very hard."

"I _shall_ work very hard, then, to please you and----" he paused and
sobbed violently.

"And whom, Giovanni?"

"And mother. She will know, will she not?"

But Dalziel gave no answer.

The same night Dalziel had another fit of musing. It followed a
lengthened perusal of the papers he had brought away with him from
the chamber of death. One paper, however, was missing. He had left it
behind the night before and could obtain no trace of it. The landlord
denied having entered the room overnight with a pass-key, but Dalziel
did not believe him, though strangely enough he instituted no inquiry
regarding the missing document.

"It is as well," he said to himself; "it is as well it should go.
Nothing can come of it, and when the boy is of age justice shall be
done. Till then, things are best as they are." Then he took up the
faded scrap of music and locked it into the secret drawer of his
writing-desk, again muttering: "Nothing can come of it. It's quite
meaningless to an outsider; no, nothing _can_ come of it. Arthur
Dalziel, your position is secure; besides, you're his proper guardian
in any case--his legal guardian."


III.

Lord Alison was dying. Society knew it, and was languidly interested
in the fact. One fact, however, afforded it far greater interest and
satisfaction. That fact was the succession to the title. Everyone said
the heir was a lucky fellow; and if everyone was poorer than the heir
would be, he uttered the words enviously. If, however, he had greater
possessions, he affected to be condescendingly glad at the luck of the
lucky fellow in question.

[Illustration: "SO FORTUNATE, YOU KNOW."]

"So fortunate, you know, my dear," said the afternoon tea consumers;
"Arthur Dalziel may propose at last with good hope of success. Lady
Hester could never refuse; besides, her father would never permit her
to."

So they settled it in Society.

But Society, though generally infallible in its deliverances on such
nice points, had a few rude shocks in store for it in this instance.

Lady Hester Trenoweth did not love Arthur Dalziel, but she loved
Arthur Dalziel's ward, a young violinist who had begun to create quite
a _furore_ in the fashionable world. In fact, Giovanni had become
the rage, and though some said it was preposterous that a young man
in his position should adopt music as a profession, they were nasty,
old-fashioned creatures who knew nothing of the nobility of a life
lived for the sake of art. That is quite a modern notion, by the way,
so these ancient gossips must be pardoned. They did not know of Lady
Hester's appalling preference, or their venom would have been seventy
times more virulent. They did not know of Lady Hester's preference, and
consequently they permitted themselves to talk freely in Giovanni's
hearing of the projected match between her and his guardian, dwelling
on Dalziel's well-known attachment and the barrier that his lack of a
title had placed upon the union.

Giovanni heard, turned slightly pale, and tuned his instrument for the
next number on the programme. A string broke with a harsh snap. He had
overstrained it. "Never mind," he said, "_it_ can be easily replaced."
No one observed the emphasis on the _it_. Perhaps excitement caused the
accentuation of the monosyllable.

In another part of the room Arthur Dalziel, slightly older-looking, but
handsomer, stood talking with Lord Trenoweth.

"The boy plays marvellously," said the old peer; "he's a credit to you,
Dalziel."

"He'll make his bread by it, easily, if need be," returned Dalziel.

"You have not decided, then, whether he's to come right out as a
professional or not?"

"Not quite; but it's more than likely he will."

"Most providential he has the gift. He'd have been a sad burden to you
otherwise. You picked him up most romantically, I remember----"

"Telegram for Mr. Dalziel," said a waiter.

Arthur glanced at it hastily and handed it to Lord Trenoweth.

The old lord read it carefully. Then he shook hands warmly with his
companion, saying, in an undertone: "She's yours, my lord; she's yours."

Thereupon Dalziel quietly withdrew, and Society heard from Lord
Trenoweth that Lord Alison was dead. Society smiled and awaited further
developments, feeling quite certain what these would be, and, for once
in a way, grievously miscalculating.

Giovanni would be twenty-one the next day, the day on which Dalziel had
determined that justice should be done: but that night Giovanni and he
each attended a funeral. Neither funeral was Lord Alison's. Dalziel
interred, dry-eyed, an old, good resolution; Giovanni buried, with one
or two bitter tears, his young heart's first love.

"I owe him everything I have," said the young man: "it is little that
I should sacrifice something for his sake. Doubtless she cares nothing
for me, the humble artist. I shall try to be happy in my benefactor's
happiness."

"He can easily win fortune and a name with his music," Dalziel told
himself: "he has nothing to lose, and he owes me his training. Besides,
I cannot give her up. She _must_ accept me. No woman in her senses
could do otherwise. Justice--faugh! it's all on my side."

Such were the dirges at the two funerals.

Courtesy to Lord Alison's memory demanded the postponement for a time
of the celebration of Giovanni's coming of age, so that birthday of his
was a somewhat dull one. He said he would go out of town for a little.
Dalziel consented, and his ward left early in the morning.

Among the letters at breakfast-time Dalziel observed one for
Giovanni--a dirty, greasy, plebeian-looking thing. He turned it over
curiously and then, scarcely knowing what he did, opened and read it.
It contained an offer to restore to Giovanni, for a consideration, a
document that would disclose the mystery of his origin. Dalziel did not
hesitate what course to take. He arranged an interview with the unknown
correspondent, and in a few hours was put in possession of the lost
paper.

Giovanni's chances of justice were small enough now. Blind to Lady
Hester's indifference, Dalziel persisted in his wooing, and Lord
Trenoweth was only too proud to countenance a match with the new Lord
Alison. At last the girl yielded to her father's commands and her
admirer's entreaties. She fancied it was the common lot of women to be
sacrificed so; then, too, Giovanni had spoken no word of hope to her.
She would submit and do her duty. Society smiled very sagely over the
engagement, and said: "I told you so: she is too sensible a girl to
resist long."

The time of mourning was over. Lord Alison was to give a very select
musical evening. It still wanted some weeks to the wedding. Giovanni,
Lord Alison's nephew ("though he's not his nephew, really," said the
knowing world), was to play twice. His second piece on the programme
was left without a name. "He will improvise, most likely," said the
writers of Society gossip, and they whetted their pencils for praise.

That blank number was intended as a surprise for Alison. Since the
night when Giovanni was found on the doorstep, he had never seen the
scrap of old MS. music from which his protector had played the air that
brought them together. Dalziel declared he had lost it, and though
seemingly shy of mentioning the fragment, would sometimes regret that
he could not properly recollect it.

Giovanni recollected it perfectly, however, and had been familiar with
it since ever he could remember, though how or where he had learned it
he could not say. Latterly he had a dim suspicion that Dalziel must
have composed it, and was consequently shy of speaking about it. His
memory was marvellous, and he had written in full the piano part that
his benefactor had played to him so long ago. Lady Hester was to be his
accompanist, so he took her into his confidence, fancying, poor boy,
that she would be delighted at the surprise in store for her betrothed.
She gave him a look that he could not understand, and murmured
something about the subtle spell of old melodies. Giovanni, for answer,
took up his instrument and the practising proceeded. Loyalty to his
friend made him purse his lips very tight that afternoon. It was their
last meeting before the concert--before the wedding, in fact. They
had been boy and girl friends, and such ties always get a wrench when
marriage comes to one or other and leaves one stranded. It is a wrench
where there has been nothing but friendship; where love is, it is a
very rending of the heart-strings. Giovanni at length rose to go.

"Good-bye, Hester; it's the last time I may call you so."

"Good-bye, Giovanni."

[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE, HESTER."]

They would meet again in the crowded saloons of Lord Alison's mansion,
but this was to be their true farewell. Something in her tones, in her
look, thrilled the young man. He gazed into her eyes and read her heart.

"Hester!"

"Giovanni!"

"But I must not," she said, at length; "I have promised to marry Lord
Alison."

"And, Hester, it's a strange request; but you must promise me to marry
no one but Lord Alison!"

"I know what you mean, Giovanni; I fear it must be so, now that my word
is pledged. Oh, if we had only discovered sooner!"

"We meet again at the concert. Good-bye, Hester!"

"Good-bye, Giovannino, good-bye!"


IV.

The nameless piece was a brilliant success. The critics said the pathos
was wonderful. Both performers seemed to have but one soul between
them, as in truth they really had. Lord Alison sat like one petrified
as the music ebbed and flowed, but only Giovanni noted that he did
not join in the applause that followed. It cut him to the quick, this
negligence; and when the guests clamoured for an encore he selected a
different piece, greatly to their disgust.

After all the company had gone and that curious dreariness that
invariably invades the scene of a recent merry-making spread through
the rooms, Lord Alison, pale to the very lips, called Giovanni into the
study.

"Take a cigar, boy, and settle yourself to hear a story," he said, as
he closed the door.

Giovanni obeyed, and sank into the corner of the very sofa he had
occupied the first time he entered the house.

After a pause the elder man told a strange tale that was also a
confession. He told how his brother Jack, his big brother Jack, the
poet and musician, had vanished in Italy long years before. Rumour
said he had married a singer whose beauty had captivated him, and that
he feared to return lest his uncle, Lord Alison, should disinherit
him. As time went on, Arthur was recognised as the next-of-kin, and on
succeeding to his father's property had quitted Scotch law and come to
London, where he soon found the gay life of an heir-presumptive to a
great title indispensable to his happiness. Now and then the dread of
his brother's return painted black spots on his sun, but he strove to
erase them, and generally succeeded.

Then came the strange evening when he played his brother's
composition, a relic of college days, and was answered from outside by
an unseen player. From the first he had no doubt who the child was; and
the packet given him by the dying woman confirmed his suspicion, as
well as the worn little dressing-case which he remembered perfectly.
He resolved to reveal all when Giovanni should come of age, but the
fair face of Hester Trenoweth came between them. Then, when the dread
of the missing document was removed, he persuaded himself to sacrifice
conscience to passion. His resolution was increased ten-fold by the
knowledge that Lady Hester loved Giovanni. Arthur's keen eye had
detected her secret. He almost hated them both when the truth became
plain to him. "Boy," he exclaimed, at length, "I've foully wronged you;
but Jack's dead voice spoke again to-night in his melody. It led you to
me, it made me resolve to shelter you (perchance it helped to rob me of
her); but to-night it preached repentance. Take Hester and be happy.
I can claim a younger brother's portion, and I have my profession to
return to, though a selfish life has blunted that weapon I fear. Boy,
say you don't hate me!"

Giovanni's warm Italian blood drove him to a demonstration impossible
to an Englishman.

[Illustration: "I HATE YOU? NEVER!"]

"Uncle Arthur, _I_ hate you? Never! Oh, I've robbed you sorely, I
fear! It's a poor return for what you've done for me. Though you've
erred, you've more than atoned for your error, which has done me no
great harm, and you shall _never_ leave me, _never_." The men embraced
silently, and Arthur Dalziel's face wore a new strange softness, like
that it wore on the night he found Giovanni.

       *       *       *       *       *

Old Lord Trenoweth had hard work to relish the explanations Dalziel
favoured him with next day. When, however, Dalziel mentioned the true
state of things between Hester and Giovanni, and insisted on his
consenting to their wedding, he seemed infinitely relieved. He summoned
Hester and gently told her that, as he had heard of her love for
Giovanni, he would no longer insist on her engagement to Alison.

"But," she quivered out, "I've pledged my word to marry Lord Alison."

"And so you shall," said her father. "Giovanni is Lord Alison. There
has been a great discovery."

But Hester never knew how long ago that discovery had taken place.
Neither did Society, who, after the first shock, smiled benignant
acquiescence, and said, "To think of its being all through that little
theme with variations that Giovanni wrote from memory. Delightfully
romantic!"

"Oh! Uncle Arthur, you're too, too kind to us," Hester said later in
the day.

But Dalziel was silent.

[Illustration:




ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO


By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd]


XX.--ZIG-ZAG DASYPIDIAN.

The Dasypidæ are not such fearful wild-fowl as their name may seem
to indicate; for the name Dasypus is nothing but the scientific
naturalist's innocent little Greek way of saying "hairy-foot." The
Sloth, the Scaly Manis, the Armadillo, the Platypus, the Aard-Vark,
the Ant-eater, and one or two more comprise the family, presenting
the appearance of a job-lot of odds and ends at the tail of an
auctioneer's catalogue. Not only is the family of a job-lot nature, but
each individual seems a sort of haphazard assemblage of odd parts made
up together to save wasting the pieces; for some have tremendous tails,
and some have almost none; some have armour and some have hair; one
has an odd beak, apparently discarded by a duck as awkwardly shaped;
some have two toes only on a foot, some three, some four, and some
five--just as luck might have it in the scramble, so to speak; they
only agree in being all very hard up for teeth.

[Illustration: A MERE MOP--]

[Illustration: WHICH--]

[Illustration: REVEALS--]

[Illustration: ITSELF--]

[Illustration: GRADUALLY.]

The sloth is an admirable creature in many respects. Chiefly, he
has a glorious gift of inaction--a thing too little esteemed and
insufficiently cultivated in these times. If it is sweet to do nothing,
as we have it on the unimpeachable authority of a proverb, therefore it
must be actually noble to do nothing on scientific principles, as does
the sloth. The objectionably moral and energetic class of philosopher
is always ready to enlist the ant, the bee, and similarly absurdly
busy creatures as practical sermons on his side; and that the indolent
philosopher has never retaliated with the sloth is due merely to the
fact that he _is_ indolent, practically as well as theoretically.
Yet the sloth has well-esteemed relations. Consider other proverbs.
"Sloth," says one, "is the mother of necessity." Then another.
"Necessity," says this second, "is the mother of invention." Whence it
plainly follows that sloth is invention's grandmother--although nobody
would think it to look at the sloth here, in house number forty-seven.

[Illustration: "WOT? NOT A COPPER?"]

Now there are persons who attempt to deprive the sloth of the credit
due to his laziness by explaining that his limbs are not adapted for
use on the ground. This is a fact, although it is mean to use it to
discredit so fine a reputation. The sloth is indeed a deal more active
when he is hanging upside down by his toes--but then that is all a part
of his system, since it is plain that his greatest state of activity is
merely one of suspended animation. It is only when he is in a state of
suspense that the sloth is really happy, and this is only one aspect of
the topsy-turviness of his entire nature. Hanging horizontally, head
and tail downward, is his normal position in society, and this is apt
to lead to a belief among the unthinking that he must have lived long
in Australia and there become thoroughly used to holding on to the
world in his usual attitude; but his actual home is Central and South
America--not altogether "down under" but merely on the slope.

[Illustration: "GURN! I'LL--"]

The sloth in this place is, in the eyes of most visitors, a mere mop in
a heap of straw. Let but the keeper stir him up and he reveals himself
gradually, the picture of a ragged, rascally mendicant--a dirty ruffian
whose vocation can be nothing more laborious than extorting coppers on
pretence of sweeping a crossing. A little more stirring, and he will
reach for his perch and invert himself, to think things over. To him
the floor is inconvenient, for it is his ceiling; anybody's ceiling is
inconvenient to crawl about on.

[Illustration: A DIRTY RUFFIAN.]

When one knows that the sloth never drinks, one is prepared to
believe that he persistently refuses to stand; but then nobody can
stand anything, even drinks, on a ceiling. If by any chance he finds
himself on the ceiling (which, as I have said, is his word for floor),
he can only hook his claws wherever he sees a hole, and drag himself.
He is the poorest of all the Dasypidæ in the matter of tail, and was
also unfortunate in the allotment of toes, only wearing two on each
fore-foot. Which disposes of the sloth.

[Illustration: DISPOSED OF.]

Of the Dasypidæ there are only, beside the sloth, various armadillos
and an ant-eater in this place. The armadillo is a placid creature,
with none of the warlike disposition that its armour might lead some to
expect. Mild and placable, as well as rather bashful, it has somewhat
the character of a beplated and armed theatrical super, who plays the
flute and teaches in a Sunday-school when off duty. It is susceptible
to cold, too, and regardless of any heroism of appearance in face of a
chill in the air. Withal the armadillo is indifferent alike to flattery
and abuse: you can no more hurt his feelings than his back.

[Illustration: MILD SUPERS.]

[Illustration: A CHILLY PERSON.]

There are several sorts of armadillo here, but all are equally
indifferent to criticism. Nothing is more impervious to criticism (or
anything else, if you come to that) than an armadillo. He should have
been born a minor poet. An oyster appears to care very little for what
is said of him, but a good deal of his indifference is assumed; you
often catch him opening his shell to listen. The armadillo won't open
his shell for anything--figuratively as well as literally speaking. If
a raging mad jaguar prances up to an armadillo, the armadillo curls
up quietly with an expression that says: "Really, you excite yourself
overmuch; I suppose you want to gnaw me. If you expect to _eat_ me,
after your length of experience, you must be--well, rather a fool, if
I may say so. I shall go to sleep," which he does, while the jaguar
ruins his teeth. Naturalists have marvelled at the fact that native
Paraguayans find whether an armadillo is at home by poking a stick into
his burrow, when (if he is) out comes a swarm of mosquitoes. "What,"
they ask, wonderingly, "can mosquitoes want with an armadillo, when
other things not quite so hopeless are near at hand for biting?" But it
is probably a mosquito championship meeting.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The sloth, _sluggard_ as he is, has not gone to the ant, but to the
ant-eater; that is to say, his cage is not far from Sukey's here.
Sukey is not a wise person. Nobody anxious to be an orator with so
little talent for it can be wise. When first you enter the room you
observe that Sukey is anxious to address a large meeting. She has a
ledge before her, on which she rests her fore-knuckles in a manner
so extremely suggestive of a lecture that you instinctively look for
the customary carafe and glass, and feel perplexed at their absence.
Regardless of this disadvantage, Sukey will turn this way and that,
and thump alternately with one fist and the other, and even, in the
excitement of her eloquence, bounce bodily upon the ledge before her,
as one has heard of a gymnastic American divine doing in his pulpit.
This will the voiceless Sukey do till public indifference disgusts
her, and she flops heavily back on her knuckles into hinder retirement.
But no failure can stifle her ambition, whether it be actually for
oratorical distinction, as appearances indicate, or only for such
cockroaches as you may choose to offer, as the keeper believes.

[Illustration: A SNEER.]

[Illustration: AN IMPOSING PRESENCE.]

[Illustration: DIGNITY.]

Sukey is not an impressive person--her features are against it. She
is not equal to assuming a presence. With all her wealth of nose,
she can't turn it up at anybody. Her sneer is a wretched failure.
Any attempt at an imposing attitude is worse; a large nose of a
sort is often a noble feature of itself; but a nose like this!...
Sukey's extravagance in nose is paid for by a scarcity of mouth.
Her small mouth may be a loveliness in itself, but it will never
allow Sukey a sneer or a smile--let alone a laugh; it condemns her
to perpetual prunes and prism. So that Sukey may neither impress you
by a haughty presence, nor sneer at you, nor laugh at you; one thing
only remains--and it a low expedient--she _can_ put out her tongue at
you--by the yard.

[Illustration: A LOW EXPEDIENT.]

[Illustration: A LAUGH.]

I have often speculated as to how much of this tongue Sukey really
has stowed away inside her, and what would happen if she let it all
out at once. It would probably get entangled with everything and with
itself, like a ball of string cast loose, and Mansbridge (who is
Sukey's keeper) would spend an afternoon unfastening all the knots.
One has to see Sukey many times before the lineal possibilities of
her tongue begin to dawn on one. See her once or twice only, and she
may only exhibit a mere foot or so of it--possibly only eight or ten
inches. Another time she will let out a foot or eighteen inches more,
and you are rather surprised; still, your belief is unshaken that
there _is_ another end to that tongue somewhere. But when, some time
later, she casually releases another yard or two, beyond the few feet
wherewith you are familiar, with an aspect of keeping miles more in
reserve, you abandon the doctrine of the finiteness of things earthly
as mere scientific superstition. Plainly, I don't believe there is any
other end to Sukey's tongue. It has the redeeming feature, however, of
possessing _one_ end, which anybody may see; and as there is an end to
Sukey's tongue we won't be too hard on her, remembering that there have
been Sukeys--well, differently provided for.

[Illustration: PERSEVERANCE.]

Sukey's tongue is a sticky thing, and she waves it about with a
view of eating any unfortunate insect that may adhere to it, on the
catch-'em-alive-oh principle. Her chiefest tit-bit is a cockroach, and,
as you will perceive from her manner as you make her acquaintance,
it is a firm article of Sukey's belief that visitors carry these
interesting insects about with them, in large quantities. When one
remembers how comparatively unfashionable this practice is, one
can understand that Sukey largely lives the life of a disappointed
creature. By way of a great feast, she will sometimes be given a
mouse; and she fishes perseveringly through such odd cracks and holes
as she may find, in hopes of providing such a feast for herself. I
respectfully suggest baiting the end of her tongue with a piece of
cheese. As it is, I fear her catch of mice is scarcely sufficient
to warrant the importation of the ant-eater as a substitute for the
harmless necessary (but usually more harmful than necessary) Tom-cat of
the garden-wall.

[Illustration: A SUGGESTION.]

The ant-eater is not a prepossessing being. Anybody who had never
before seen or heard of him would readily believe him to be an
inhabitant of the moon. He looks the sort of animal one would invent in
a nightmare; his comparatively sober colours and his bushy tail save
him from being an absolute unearthly horror. Conceive, if you can, a
pink ant-eater with blue spots and a forked tail!

[Illustration: ON THE GARDEN WALL.]

Neither is the ant-eater very wise; nothing with so much tongue is very
wise; and the ant-eater uses up so much of its head-stuff on its nose
that nothing is left for the brain. The ant-eater never cuts his wisdom
teeth, because he never has any teeth at all. Really the ant-eater
scarcely seems a respectable character considered altogether. An animal
with more than a foot of slender nose, expressly used for poking
into other people's concerns (the ants'), an immeasurable tongue, no
use for a tooth-brush, and an irregular longing for cockroaches for
lunch--well, _is_ such an animal quite respectable? Would you, for
instance, tolerate him in your club?

[Illustration: NOT VERY WISE.]

The only fairly respectable member of the Dasypidæ is the
armadillo--unless you count the sloth's scientific indolence a claim
to respectability; I rather think it is. But none of the Dasypidæ are
clever--not one. They are all in the lowest form of the mammalian
school, and whenever one is not at the bottom of the form it is because
another already occupies the place. You will commonly find them placed
last of the mammalia in the first book of natural history you look at.

[Illustration: THE LOWEST FORM.]




_Actors' Make-Up._


The art of making-up is one which every actor cultivates most
assiduously. He can convey as much by his countenance as he can by
the words which so glibly roll off his tongue. An extra wrinkle about
the eye will whisper of anything between a diabolical murder and a
hungry interior; a highly-coloured nose may either betray a tendency
to a too frequent falling down in adoration of Bacchus, or the
excessive colour may act as a silent reminder of a "cobd it de head"
and the advisability of an immediate application of a small bottle of
glycerine. All well and good. But some of our actors are beginning to
play pranks with their faces, and are forgetting that they possess a
canvas which needs as delicate touching with the colours as that on
the easel of a Royal Academician. There is a positive danger of "the
Villain at the Vic" making a successful re-appearance again--that
estimable individual whose corkscrew curls were as black as his deeds;
whose every glance told that "ber-lud, ber-lud, nothing but ber-lud,
and let it be cer-r-rimson at that, my lor-rd!" would satisfy. You
remember him. But it is not intended that these pages should either
by word from pen or picture from pencil libel the face of any actor
breathing. It is only desirable that the disciples of Thespis should be
warned against overdoing their stage faces. There is really no need for
it. They are not at Sadler's Wells to-day.

[Illustration: "THE VILLAIN AT THE VIC."]

I remember one old actor at Sadler's Wells in the good old days. He
used to boast that he had played several hundreds of parts during the
last fifteen years, and had made one wig do for every character! He
would flour it, tie it with a ribbon bow, and, lo! he had a George III.
He would red-ochre it for a carroty cranium of a comic countryman,
and he admitted once to black-leading it. His make-up was equally in
keeping with his head-gear. He burnt a cork for making moustaches and
eyebrows, he utilized the white-washed walls for powder, and scraped
the red-brick flooring with his pocket-knife to gain a little colour
for his cheeks. And even then he used to wonder how it was he could
never get his face clean! Though it is to be hoped that no modern
actor will ever have to stoop so low as the floor for his rouge, yet
there seems to be rising up in our midst a generation of actors who
altogether misunderstand the use of brush and pencil. Glance at this
worthy fellow, for instance. Doubtless he is endowed with the best
of intentions, but he has made his face resemble a sweep's, and the
five-barred gate he has put on his forehead would not disgrace the
entrance to a highly respectable turnip field.

[Illustration: "TOO MANY WRINKLES SPOIL THE FACE."]

Now, he will enter like that, and would probably feel hurt if
somebody were to cry out from the gallery that it would be as well if
_some_ actors were to let the audience see their faces for a change
occasionally. The cultivation of wrinkles--on the stage, of course--is
a positive art.

"Must put plenty of lines on the face," says the actor; "I'm playing an
old man to-night." But there is no necessity to wrinkle the face like
badly-straightened-out forked lightning; there is no need to lay down a
new line on your countenance such as a debilitated luggage train would
scorn. The effect, from the front, of the lines laid down about the
vicinity of the eyes appears like a huge pair of goggles without the
connecting link across the bridge of the nose.

[Illustration: "THE FUNNY COUNTRYMAN."]

Then there is "the old man from the country." His wrinkles are nothing
more or less than wicked. He is not content with resembling a cross
between Paul Pry and a Drury Lane clown--he pitchforks the paint on,
increases the size of his mouth by "bringing up" the corners to insure
a perpetual smile, wears a wig which even a Joey Grimaldi would shudder
at, dresses as no countryman ever dressed, and wears a huge sunflower
from his back garden. Your old stage hand, when called upon to play
a countryman, will tell you that there is nothing to equal a level
colouring all over the face, with a little rouge on the cheeks, and the
immediate neighbourhood of the eyes touched up to balance the effect.
Our country friend is almost as wicked in his make-up as the individual
who still pins his faith to the hare's foot--now almost obsolete--and
grins at himself in the glass, and considers an admirable effect is
obtained by "rouging" a somewhat prominent nasal organ.

[Illustration: "'COLOURING' IT."]

[Illustration: "DUTCH."]

Your Dutchman is a funny fellow. Make-up: flaxen wig and fat cheeks.
There are several ways of obtaining this necessary rotundity of
the cheeks. Padded pieces may be joined on to the other parts of
the face with spirit-gum and coloured to match. I believe Mr. W. S.
Penley adopted this course--and a very capital idea it was--when
presenting his admirably amusing _Father Pelican_ in "Falka." But
there is considerable risk in resorting to another course which has of
late become popular. Figs are inserted in the mouth on either side.
The effect may be all right, but, I repeat, the risk is great. In a
pantomime recently played the audience were considerably surprised
to see the fat boy's cheeks suddenly collapse. The actor--who was
particularly fond of these highly delectable articles--having, through
some cause unknown, had to rush on the stage without his evening
meal, suddenly became terribly hungry, and quite forgetful of the
consequences, ate his own cheeks off. The pad, or coloured wool
delicately joined with gum, is therefore to be recommended.

[Illustration: "BELIEVES IN A GOOD EYE."]

Nothing like a good eye--an eagle eye. Hence the camel's hair brush
is called into requisition, and our theatrical friend plays at
latitude and longitude all over his face. The wrinkle on the stage
is a distinctive art, and to become on familiar terms with it is
very necessary. The camel's hair brush has been superseded by lining
pencils, which can be obtained in any colour. They possess the great
advantage--being made of grease--of giving a wrinkle that will not wash
off with perspiration. The "wash off" is after the play is over, when
the wise resort to vaseline or cold cream, with a wash in warm water
afterwards. The gentleman who plunges his head well wrinkled into a
basin of water before vaselining or cold creaming presents a sorry
sight.

[Illustration: "A NICE WASH."]

But, for really beautiful eyes, some ladies may be recommended. The
fair performer has to play the juvenile part in a light comedy, has to
be loved by the nice-looking young man who crowns himself with golden
locks. Hence she goes in for a contrast--a strong contrast.

[Illustration: "'CROWNING' HIMSELF."]

"Love!" she murmurs to herself--"love has eyes," and she immediately
proceeds to "Two lovely black!"

A line under the eye will give it prominence. Too much prominence
is not a desirable thing, especially about one's features. But the
"juvenile" lady does not stop at black-eyeing. The lips have to be made
to look kissable, so they are reddened to a delicately puckered-up
appearance. The grand finale is a fair wig, in total rebellion to the
two lovely black!

[Illustration: "TWO LOVELY BLACK EYES."]

Then we have "the old head on young shoulders"--the young man who makes
up his face as "the doctor" really very well, but forgets all about
his legs. His half-bald wig is joined to a nicety; his eyebrows gummed
on most artistically; the wrinkles are wonderfully, but not fearfully,
made. A good figure-head! But his walk is that of a "two-year-old"; the
cut of his clothes, the shape of his collar, are those of a fashionable
dandy. He stopped short at making-up his head. He should have continued
the process all over.

[Illustration: "OLD HEAD ON YOUNG SHOULDERS."]

The ways of producing whiskers, beards, or moustaches are of three
kinds. They can be made by sewing hair on thin silk gauze, which fits
the part of the face it is intended to decorate, and stuck on with
spirit gum, or they can be made out of crêpe hair--a plaited, imitation
hair--which, in deft fingers, may be made into shape. These, too, are
held on to the face with spirit gum. The last method is to paint the
hair on. The latter course is not recommended.

[Illustration: "THAT'S THE WAY TO GROW A MOUSTACHE, MY BOY."]

I remember once hearing a capital gag at the Gaiety Theatre on this
whisker-spirit-gum question. I believe it was by Mr. E. W. Royce, and
it was during the burlesque days of Edward Terry and Nelly Farren.
Royce's moustache came off; he was supposed to have been driven on to
the scene in a conveyance. He picked it up and proceeded to stick it on
again, quietly remarking:--

    "Dear me! I really must be moulting;
    Unless it is the carriage jolting!"

One of the most effective make-ups on the stage is that of the Jew--and
the really marvellous change which may be obtained in three moves is
well illustrated in this character. The face prepared and painted,
the wig joined to the forehead with grease paint, the actor proceeds
to put on his nose, again finding the spirit gum handy. Such stage
noses are invariably made of wool, coloured to suit the complexion.
The beard--which for such characters as these is always a ready-made
one--is fastened to the face by means of wire over the ears. He shrugs
his shoulders, opens his eyes, leers, and--there is the complete
manufactured article.

[Illustration: "THE MANUFACTURED ARTICLE."]




_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives._


DR. MACKENZIE.

BORN 1847.

[Illustration: AGE 21.

_From a Photo by P. Thompson, Edinburgh._]

[Illustration: Age 35.

_From a Photo by P. Thompson, Edinburgh._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street._]

Doctor Alexander Campbell Mackenzie, Principal of the Royal Academy of
Music, was born at Edinburgh, and sent to Germany at the early age of
ten to study under Ulrich Edward Stein. Four years later he entered the
dual orchestra at Schwarzburg-Sondershausen, and remained in Germany
till 1862, when he came to London to study the violin under M. Sainton.
The same year he was elected King's Scholar at the Royal Academy of
Music. The composition which made him famous was his opera, "Colomba,"
based upon Mérimée's celebrated story. This was produced with great
success by the Carl Rosa Company at Drury Lane in 1884. His subsequent
and most noted works are his second opera, "The Troubadour"; "The
Story of Sayid," and in 1890 "Ravenswood" was successfully produced at
the Lyceum. He was elected Principal of the Royal Academy of Music in
February, 1888, in succession to the late Sir George Macfarren.


THE BISHOP OF LICHFIELD.

BORN 1839.

[Illustration: AGE 7.

_From a Crayon Drawing._]

[Illustration: AGE 19.

_From a Drawing._]

[Illustration: AGE 23.

_From a Photo by Bayard & Bertall, Paris._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock, Birmingham._]

The Hon. Augustus Legge, Bishop of Lichfield, is the fourth son of
William, fourth Earl of Dartmouth. At the age of fourteen he was sent
to Eton, and later on to Christ Church, Oxford, where he graduated
B.A. He was ordained in 1864, his first curacy being at Handsworth,
Birmingham. In 1879 he succeeded his uncle, the Hon. Henry Legge, in
the important benefice of St. Mary's, Lewisham. He was made Bishop in
September, 1893.


HENRIK IBSEN.

BORN 1828.

[Illustration: AGE 37.

_From a Print._]

[Illustration: AGE 43.

_From a Photo by Budtz, Muller & Co., Kjobenhavn._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Jos. Albert, Munich._]

Henrik Ibsen, the eminent Norwegian poet and dramatist, was born at
Skien. He is of German descent and speaks German with fluency; but
he has never written anything in that language. He at first studied
medicine, but soon abandoned that profession for literature. Under the
pseudonym of Brynjolf Bjarme, he published in 1850 "Catilina," a drama
in three acts. In the same year he entered the University, where, in
conjunction with others, he founded a literary journal, in the columns
of which appeared his first satire, "Nora et Dukkehjem." Through the
influence of Ole Bull, the violinist, he became director of the theatre
at Bergen, and in 1857 went to Christiania, where several of his plays
were produced with great success. For some time he lived in Rome, and
in 1866 obtained from the Storthing a pension. His best known works
are: "Fru Inger til Oesteraad," 1857; "Haer Maendene paa Helgeland,"
1858; "Brandt," 1866; "Peer Gynt," 1867; "Keiser og Galelaeer," 1875;
and a volume of poems, "Lyriske Digte," 1871. "The Pillars of Society,"
1877, contains, perhaps, the best embodiment of his social philosophy.
Other works of his are: "Ghosts," 1881; "A Social Enemy," 1882; "The
Wild Duck," 1884; "Hedda Gabler," 1890; "The Master Builder," 1893.


LADY BURTON.

[Illustration: AGE 4.

_From a Drawing._]

[Illustration: AGE 21.

_From a Painting by Desanges._]

[Illustration: AGE 45.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo, by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._]

Lady Isabel Burton was born in London on the 20th of March, 1831, and
married Sir Richard Burton, whose fame was due to no small extent to
the assistance he received from her ability and wifely devotion. Lady
Burton is a woman of great capacity, boundless energy, and immense
force of character. Her recent book, "The Life of Sir Richard Burton,"
has brought her name prominently before the public. No one could have
executed this work better than she who had followed him wherever his
duty called; who had helped him with many of his works, and had taken
part in all his undertakings. Lady Burton now lives a retired life, but
always warmly welcomes the old friends of her husband.


ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS.

BORN 1824.

[Illustration: AGE 32.

_From a Drawing._]

[Illustration: AGE 40.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Eug. Piron, Paris._]

Alexandre Dumas, the younger son of the late Alexandre Davy Dumas,
novelist and dramatic writer, was born in Paris, and received his
education in the Collège Bourbon. Following, at a very early age, in
the footsteps of his renowned father, he published, at seventeen, a
collection of poems, "Les Péchés de Jeunesse." He failed, however, to
attract particular notice until he made one of his tales the groundwork
for a drama called "La Dame aux Camélias," which became one of the
best-known productions of the day. Dumas has enjoyed the satisfaction
of finding himself the founder of a new school: for imitators rapidly
succeeded without, however, being able to disturb his supremacy in
this new line of art. He has the power of constructing a telling
story, and his dialogue is well turned and pointed, displaying much
shrewd observation of character. A comedy from his pen, entitled "Les
Idées de Madame Aubray," was produced at Paris early in 1867. His
"Visite de Noces" and "La Princesse Georges" were brought out at the
Gymnase Dramatique in 1871. In 1872 he published a pamphlet called
"L'Homme-Femme." It repeated the thesis of his novel, "L'Affaire
Clémenceau," and a dramatic version of it was produced at the Gymnase
in 1873 under the title of "La Femme de Claude." M. Dumas was
installed as a Member of the French Academy, February 11th, 1875. He
has published many works since, among which, "Joseph Balsamo," "Les
Femmes qui tuent et les Femmes qui votent," "La Princesse de Bagdad,"
"Denise," and "Francillon" are well known.




_Stories from the Diary of a Doctor._


_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."


VIII.--"TEN YEARS' OBLIVION."

In the spring of 1890 I was asked to see a patient at Croydon with
another doctor in consultation. In this stage of the illness it
was only an ordinary case of somewhat severe typhoid fever, but
the interest lies in the succeeding stages, when complete recovery
seems to have taken place. I have noticed this remarkable illness
in my case-book as an instance of perhaps the most extraordinary
psychological condition which has occurred in my practice, or I might
say in that of any other man.

The patient was a young barrister; he had a wife and three children.
The wife was a pretty, rather nervous-looking woman. On the day when
I went to see her husband, in consultation with the family doctor, I
could not help noticing the intensely anxious expression of her face,
and how her lips moved silently as she followed my words. The illness
was severe, but I did not consider it as specially dangerous, and had,
therefore, only encouraging opinions to give her.

[Illustration: "IN CONSULTATION."]

I saw Mainwaring again at the end of the week. He was then much better,
and I was able to communicate the cheerful tidings to his wife that he
was practically out of danger. He was a man of about three-and-thirty
years of age, tall, and rather gaunt in appearance, with deep-set grey
eyes, and a big, massive brow. I have often noticed his peculiar style
of face and head as belonging to the legal profession. I could quite
believe that he was an astute and clever special pleader. Abbott, the
family doctor, told me that he was a common-law barrister, and I could
well understand his using eloquent words when he pleaded the case of an
unfortunate client.

I did not visit him again, but Abbott wrote to tell me that he had
made an excellent recovery without hitch or relapse. Under these
circumstances his case had almost passed from my memory, when the
following startling incident occurred.

I came home one evening prepared to hurry out again to see a sick
patient, when my servant informed me that a lady was waiting in the
consulting-room to see me.

"Did not you tell her that I am not in the habit of seeing patients at
this hour?" I asked.

"I did, sir," replied the man, "but she would not leave. She says she
will wait your convenience: but, whatever happens, she must have an
interview with you to-night."

"I had better go and see her, and find out what she wants," I murmured
to myself.

I crossed the hall with some impatience, for I had several most anxious
cases on hand, and entered my consulting-room. A slight, girlish
figure was seated partly with her back to me. She sprang up when the
door opened, and I was confronted by the anxious and pleading face of
Mrs. Mainwaring.

"You have come at last," she said, with a deep sigh. "That is a blessed
relief. I have waited for you here because I want to ask your advice. I
am in terrible anxiety about my husband."

"Your husband?" I replied. "But I understood Dr. Abbott to say that he
had recovered perfectly. He said he had ordered him for a month to the
seaside, and then hoped that he might resume his professional work."

"It was so," she replied. "My husband had a quick recovery. I am told
that most typhoid fever patients take a long time to regain their
strength, but in his case this was not so. After the worst was over,
he seemed to get better by strides and bounds. A fortnight ago Dr.
Abbott ordered him to the seaside. I had a fancy for Dover, and thought
of going there. I had even written about lodgings, when my husband
suddenly told me that he did not wish to go to the seaside, and would
prefer spending a fortnight amongst his old haunts at Cambridge. We
went there. We--we were very happy. I left the children at home. It
seemed something like our honeymoon over again. Yesterday morning I
received a letter telling me that my eldest child was not well. I
hurried back to Croydon to see her, telling my husband that I would
rejoin him to-day. My child's illness turned out to be a trivial one,
and I went back to Cambridge by an early train this morning."

Here Mrs. Mainwaring paused and pressed her hand to her heart. Her
face, excessively pale before, now turned almost ghastly. She had
seated herself; she now stood up, the further to emphasize her words.

"When I reached our lodgings," she said, "my landlady met me with the
astounding intelligence that Mr. Mainwaring had packed up all his
belongings and had left Cambridge for London by the express train that
morning.

"This news surprised me, but at first I heard it calmly enough. I
believed that Edward had grown weary of his own society, was anxious
about our little Nancy, and had hurried home. My landlady, however,
looked so mysterious that I felt certain she had something further to
say.

"'Come in, madam, do come in,' she said. 'Perhaps you think your good
gentleman has gone home.'

"'I am sure he has,' I said. 'Can you get me a messenger? I will send
a telegram at once and find out. If Mr. Mainwaring has gone home, he
ought to have arrived by now.'

"My landlady was quite silent for a minute, then she said, gravely:--

"'Perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr. Mainwaring behaved in a very
singular way before he left my house.'

"There was something in the woman's manner which impressed me even more
than her words. I felt my heart beginning to sink. I followed her into
the little sitting-room where my husband and I had spent some happy
hours, and begged of her to explain herself.

"She did so without a moment's hesitation.

"'It all happened early this morning,' she said. 'I brought up
breakfast as usual. Mr. Mainwaring was standing by one of the open
windows.

"'I am going to town,' he said, 'by the express. I shall pack my things
immediately. Bring me my bill.'

"'I was leaving the room to prepare it, when he shouted to me.'

"'How is it those things have got into the room?' he said. 'Take them
away.'

"'What things do you mean, sir?'

"'Those woman's things,' he said, very crossly. 'That work-basket, and
that white shawl.'

"'Why, sir,' I said, staring at him, 'those things belong to your good
lady.'

"'He looked me full in the face and then burst out laughing.'

"'You must be mad,' he said; 'I dislike unseasonable jokes.'

"'He then went into his bedroom and slammed the door noisily behind
him. Half an hour later he had paid the bill, ordered a cab, and gone
off with his luggage. He left all your things behind him, madam.
Mr. Mainwaring was collected and quiet enough, and seemed quite the
gentleman except when he spoke of you; still I don't like the look of
affairs at all.'

"I listened to my landlady," continued poor Mrs. Mainwaring, "while she
told me this strange and most perplexing story. Then I glanced round
the room for confirmation of her words. Yes, my husband and all his
belongings had vanished, but my work-basket, my new hat, my mantle, my
writing-case, and one or two little garments which I was making for the
children, were still scattered about the drawing-room.

"I went into the bedroom and saw the clothes I had left behind me,
flung into a heap in a corner of the room.

[Illustration: "TAKE THEM AWAY."]

"While I was looking at them in a state of mind almost impossible to
describe, my landlady tapped at the door and brought me a note.

"'Under the circumstances, madam,' she said, 'you may like to see this
letter. I have just found it, stamped and directed as you see, on
the davenport in the drawing-room. I think it is in Mr. Mainwaring's
writing.'

"I took it from her and looked at it eagerly. It was addressed in my
husband's writing to a Don of the college (Trinity) where he had taken
his degree. I did not hesitate to open it. Here it is, Dr. Halifax; you
may like to read it. It may possibly help you to throw some light on
this awful mystery."

Mrs. Mainwaring gave me the note as she spoke. It contained the
following words:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--I much regret having missed you when I called yesterday
afternoon to say good-bye. I must take the present opportunity of
thanking you for your kindness to me during the whole of my University
career. I leave Cambridge by an early train this morning, or would call
again to say farewell in person. I hope to call to see you on the first
occasion when I revisit Cambridge.

  "Yours sincerely,
  "ED. MAINWARING."

I read the letter twice, and then returned it without comment to the
wife.

"Will you redirect it and post it?" I said, after a pause.

She answered me almost in a whisper.

"The strange thing about that letter is this," she said. "It is
addressed to a dead person. Mr. Grainger, Edward's old tutor, has been
dead for many years. My husband felt his death keenly when it occurred.
He has many times told me of the personal interest Mr. Grainger took
in him. Have you no comment to make with regard to this letter, Dr.
Halifax?"

"I shall have plenty to say in a moment," I answered. "That letter
will give us a very important clue to our future actions, but now to
proceed: Have you nothing further to tell me?"

"Yes; after reading the letter, I rushed to the nearest telegraph
office and sent a telegram with a prepaid reply to my home. I waited
with what patience I could for the answer, which came within an hour
and a half. My husband had not returned to Stanley Villa. I then took
the next train to town, and went back to Croydon on the chance of his
having arrived there during the day. He had not done so. Dr. Abbott
happens to be away, so I have come to you. Can you give me advice? Will
you help me in any way?"

"Yes, of course, I will help you," I said. "Pray sit down." She had
been standing with her hands clasped tightly together during the
greater part of our interview. "Your story is a very strange one," I
continued, "and I will give it and you my best attention in a moment. I
must run away first, however, to give some instructions with regard to
one of my patients, then I shall be at your service."

She sank into a chair when I told her to sit down. She was trembling
all over. Her nerves were strung to a high pitch. I went into the hall,
thought for a moment, then, putting on my hat, went out. As I was
leaving the house, I told my servant to take a tray with wine and other
refreshments into the consulting-room. Then I went a few doors off to
see a brother physician. I told him I had a peculiar case to attend
to, and asked him to see after my patients until the following day. I
then went back to Mrs. Mainwaring; she had not touched the wine nor the
biscuits which the servant had brought her.

"Come," I said, "this will never do. You must have this glass of wine
immediately and one or two of these biscuits. You will be able to think
much better and, consequently, to find your husband sooner if you take
some necessary nourishment. Come, that is better."

I poured out a glass of port wine and gave it to her. She took it in
her small, trembling hand and raised it to her lips, spilling the wine
terribly as she did so.

"You will do better now," I said.

[Illustration: "SHE RAISED IT TO HER LIPS."]

"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," she exclaimed, with impatience; "you
have not told me what you think of my story. What possible reason can
there be to account for my husband's most strange conduct?"

"I cannot give you a reason yet," I said. "My impression is that Mr.
Mainwaring's mind is not quite right for the time being. Remember,
I say for the time being. Typhoid is a very grave and terrible
disease. Your husband suffered from an exceptionally serious attack.
His apparently rapid recovery may have induced him to do more than
he really had strength to undertake. If this were so, many strange
symptoms might exhibit themselves. I can tell you more particulars with
regard to the exact nature of his malady after I have seen him. The
thing now is to try and find him. Before we begin our search, however,
I should like to ask you a few questions of a practical nature. How old
is your husband?"

"Nearly thirty-three."

"He took his degree at Cambridge, did he not?"

"Yes--just ten years ago. We talked much of it during the happy
fortnight we spent there. We visited all his old haunts. He was a
Trinity man, and loved his college with an enthusiasm I have seen in
few. I never saw anyone happier than he was during the last fortnight.
His spirits were gay. He seemed scarcely to know fatigue. He was always
hunting up old friends."

"Were there many of the men of his time at Cambridge?"

"No--that was the sad thing. He has been unfortunate with regard to
his friends. He made many, for he was popular and had a sympathetic
manner which attracted people, but some had gone abroad and several had
died. There was a Mr. Leigh in particular. He had been much attached
to him in the old days. But he only heard of his death when we went to
Cambridge, for he had completely lost sight of him for a long time.
This news saddened him for a little."

"When did he hear of Leigh's death?"

"The day before yesterday. The Dean of his college told him. He was
visibly affected for the time, and talked of him to me all the evening.
He told me several incidents with regard to a foreign tour they had
taken together."

"Indeed! And he seemed depressed while he spoke?"

"Only just for a time."

"When did your husband and Mr. Leigh go abroad?"

Mrs. Mainwaring thought for a moment.

"It was just after Edward had taken his degree," she said. "He
mentioned that fact also when he talked over matters the evening before
last."

"From what part of England did Mr. Mainwaring and Mr. Leigh start on
their foreign tour?"

"I think it must have been from Dover. Yes, I remember now; Edward said
that Mr. Leigh arranged to meet him at Dover. He failed to keep his
first appointment, and Edward had to remain at Dover waiting for him
for twenty-four hours."

I thought over this piece of information for some time. The story was
altogether puzzling; the queer thing about it being not so much the
fact of Mainwaring's brain having gone wrong as the strange form his
aberration seemed to have taken. It was too evidently the fact that he
was either possessed by an active dislike to his wife, or had forgotten
her existence.

After some anxious thought I asked Mrs. Mainwaring one or two more
questions.

"Did you notice anything peculiar in your husband the last evening and
night you spent together?"

"Nothing whatever," she replied. "My dear husband was just his old
self. His depression about Walter Leigh soon passed away, and he spoke
cheerfully about his own prospects and said how exceptionally lucky
he considered himself to be able to resume his professional work so
soon after such a severe illness. The evening post, too, brought him
a letter, which cheered him a good deal. It was from a solicitor in
large practice, offering him the brief of a very important case which
was to come on in the criminal courts. Edward was highly delighted at
the thought of this work, which meant large fees, badly needed by us
just at present. Early the next morning the post brought us the news
about Nancy's illness. My husband wished to go with me to Croydon, but
I dissuaded him. I did not consider him strong enough, notwithstanding
his boasted return to health, for this fatigue. He saw me off at the
station, however, and promised to meet me there the following morning,
if the child were well enough for me to return."

"Were you surprised when you did not see him?"

"I was, for he is the sort of man who always keeps any engagement he
makes."

"A few more questions, Mrs. Mainwaring; and first, how long have you
been married?"

"Six years," she said, looking up with a faint blush on her white face,
"and Nancy will be five in a week."

"You never happened to meet this Walter Leigh?"

"Never."

"Did your husband ever speak of him to you until two days ago?"

"It is strange, but he never did. He is, as a rule, a very busy
man--much occupied with a growing practice."

"Did you happen to know any of his college friends?"

"No."

"You were not in any way connected with that part of his life?"

"No; we never met until, at least, three years after my husband left
Cambridge."

"Thank you," I said. "I do not think I have anything further to ask
you."

"But what do you mean to do?" she asked. "We can't sit here quietly and
allow my unhappy husband to roam the country. He _must_ be found, and
at once. He--he may have----" Her lips trembled, she lowered her eyes.

"No," I said. "He has not committed suicide. Rest easy on that point.
From what you tell me of your husband I feel inclined to think--of
course, I may be wrong--but I feel strongly inclined to think that he
is at Dover at the present moment."

"What can you possibly mean?"

"What I say. It is quite within the region of probability that he may
be at Dover waiting for his friend Walter Leigh to join him."

When I said this Mrs. Mainwaring looked at me as if she thought I, too,
had taken leave of my senses. I took no notice of her expressive face.

"I am prepared to go with you to Dover," I said. "Shall we start at
once?"

She looked dubious and terribly anxious.

"It seems a waste of time," she said, after a pause.

"I do not think so," I answered. "Your husband was in a weak state,
notwithstanding his boasted strength. From what you tell me, he
evidently exerted himself more than was wise while at Cambridge. By
doing so, he strained a weakened frame. The brain forms the highest
part of that frame, Mrs. Mainwaring, the highest and also the most
easily put out of order. Your husband exerted his body too much, and
excited his brain by old memories and the regrets which must come to a
man when he visits the scene of vanished friendships. You say that Mr.
Mainwaring was visibly affected when he heard of his great friend's
death?"

"He was, he was. He turned white when the Dean told him. The death
was tragic, too. Walter Leigh was killed on an Alpine expedition. The
marvellous thing was how the news never reached my husband before. This
can only be accounted for by the fact that he spent the year of Mr.
Leigh's death in America."

"All this confirms my theory," I continued, "that your husband's brain,
long weakened by serious illness, suddenly gave way. Brain derangement,
as we know, takes all kinds of unexpected forms. I believe that the
form it has taken in Mainwaring's case is this. He has forgotten the
recent years of his life and has gone back again to his old college
days. His letter to the Don of Trinity College who has so long been
dead confirms this theory. His strange conduct with regard to you,
Mrs. Mainwaring, further strengthens it. I feel almost certain that I
am right in these impressions. They are sufficiently strong to make me
anxious to visit Dover immediately. Now, shall I go alone, or will you
come with me?"

"Of course I'll come with you," she answered.

She rose and began to draw on her gloves.

It was late June now, and the day had been a hot one. The twilight had
faded into night when I assisted Mrs. Mainwaring into a hansom and
directed the driver to take us to Victoria Station.

[Illustration: "I ASSISTED MRS. MAINWARING INTO A HANSOM."]

We caught our train by a minute or two, and in process of time found
ourselves at Dover. During the journey Mrs. Mainwaring scarcely uttered
a word. She had drawn her veil over her face and sat huddled up in a
corner of the carriage, as if she were turned into stone. I saw that
she was partly stunned by the shock, and I felt anxious about her, as
well as her husband.

When we arrived at Dover, she drew up her veil and said, impulsively:--

"What do you mean to do?"

"Before I do anything I must ask you another question." I replied.
"Have you any idea what your husband's habits were ten years ago? Was
he extravagant or careful? For instance, on arriving at Dover, would
he be likely to go to a good hotel?"

"He would go to the best," she answered. "He is not careful of money
now, and I am sure he never could have been in the past."

"Then, if my surmise is correct," I said, "we are most likely to find
him at the Lord Warden Hotel, which is, of course, the best in the
town. Anyhow, it is worthwhile to go there first to make inquiries
about him."

"Very well," she replied, in a submissive, hopeless kind of voice.

She had yielded herself up to my directions, but up to the present
moment I had failed to inspire her with any faith in the success of
my mission. She was evidently oppressed with the fear that Mainwaring
had committed suicide, and seemed to think my conjecture about him
impossible.

As we were walking to the hotel, she said, suddenly:--

"If my husband is really out of his mind, we are ruined from a worldly
point of view."

"I am sorry to hear that," I replied. "Have you no private means?"

"No," she answered. "My husband had his profession, and he was doing
good work as a barrister. But there is no profession in the world which
requires greater brain power than his. We have nothing to live on
except what my husband earns."

"In case Mr. Mainwaring cannot earn money for a time, have you no
relations who will help you?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"We have no relations who will help us," she said. "It is true that my
husband's father is still living--he is an old man, a clergyman. He has
a small parish, and with difficulty makes both ends meet. It would be
impossible to expect assistance from him." She sighed heavily as she
spoke. Then she continued, with a naïveté which touched me: "Even at
this terrible moment I cannot help thinking of the children, and of how
they will suffer if our worst fears are fulfilled."

"Well," I said, in a cheerful tone, "we must hope for the best. The
first thing is to find your husband. After that we must consider what
is best to be done for him."

"Oh, can anything be done?" she asked, in a tone of supplication.

"We will see," I replied.

We arrived at the hotel and made inquiries. The name of Mainwaring was
not in the visitors' book.

"That is nothing," I said, turning to Mrs. Mainwaring; "will you please
describe your husband to the manager?"

She did so, entering into a minute and faithful description.

"A tall gentleman, broadly made, with a slight stoop," repeated the
manager after her "He wears glasses, does he not, madam?"

"Sometimes, not always," she replied.

"Has he a _pince-nez_ which he puts on whenever he wants to ask a
question?" continued the manager.

Mrs. Mainwaring turned crimson.

"Yes, yes," she exclaimed, "then he _is_ here! Dr. Halifax, you are
right."

The manager asked further questions.

"A great many gentlemen wear glasses," he said. "I should like to be
quite certain that madam's husband is really one of the visitors before
I disturb any of them. The hour is late too, close on eleven o'clock,
and a good many of the guests have gone to their rooms. About what age
is the gentleman whom you want to find, madam?"

"He looks nearly forty," she replied at once, "although he is not in
reality nearly so old. His hair is dark and slightly tinged with grey."

The manager called one of the waiters and spoke a few words to him. He
then returned to us.

"I think," he said, "that there is a gentleman here who answers to
madam's description, but I cannot find his name. Through an oversight
it has not been entered in the visitors' book. The hotel is very full
this evening. The gentleman who answers to your description," he
continued, looking at Mrs. Mainwaring, "is occupying No. 39. Do you
think you would know him by his boots?"

"Certainly," she replied.

"Then they are probably at this moment outside his door. I will have
them fetched, and you can look at them. Will you have the goodness to
step inside the office, Mrs. Mainwaring, and you too, please, sir?"

I gave the manager my card, and told him that I was Mrs. Mainwaring's
medical adviser. He motioned us to chairs, and in a short time a waiter
appeared with a pair of boots on a tray.

"I have just taken these from outside the door of No. 39," he said,
holding them up for inspection.

A glance told me that they belonged to a large, but well-shaped foot.
Mrs. Mainwaring rushed forward, gave utterance to a rejoicing cry, and
picked them up.

"These are undoubtedly Edward's boots," she exclaimed. "Yes, he is
here. Thank the merciful God we have found him!"

"The gentleman has been in his room for some little time," exclaimed
a waiter who had now come upon the scene. "Would madam like me to
announce her arrival?"

"No," she said, turning very pale. "I will go to him without being
announced. Will you come with me, Dr. Halifax?"

We went upstairs, and the chambermaid conducted us to the door of No.
39. We knocked. The door was locked from within, but our summons was
immediately answered by the approach of a manly step. The door was
flung open and Mainwaring, with a Baedeker's guide in his hand, stood
before us.

Mrs. Mainwaring rushed to him and impulsively endeavoured to throw her
arms round his neck. He started back in astonishment which was not
feigned.

"May I ask?" he said, looking at me, his eyes darkening with anger, "to
what I am indebted for this--this most extraordinary intrusion?"

"Don't you know me, Edward?" sobbed the poor girl. "I am your wife."

"You must be mad," he said. He looked at her with a blank stare of
undisguised astonishment and even disgust. "I have not the pleasure of
this lady's acquaintance," he said, addressing me in an icy tone.

[Illustration: "DON'T YOU KNOW ME, EDWARD?"]

"You don't know me?" she panted. "Oh, surely that must be impossible. I
am your wife, Edward. Look at me again, and you will remember me. I am
Nancy's mother--pretty Nancy, with her curling hair; you know how fond
you are of Nancy. Don't you remember Nancy, and Bob, and baby?--I am
their mother. Dear, dear Edward, look at me again and you will know me.
Look at me hard--I am your wife--your own most loving wife."

Notwithstanding her agitation, Mrs. Mainwaring had been quiet and
self-restrained up to this moment. The intensity of her passion now
seemed to transform her. She flung aside her travelling hat and jacket.
She was desperate, and despair gave to her sudden beauty.

In all my experience of the sad things of life, I seldom saw more
terrible pathos than that which now shone out of the eyes and trembled
round the lips of this poor young woman. She was so absorbed in trying
to get her husband to recognise her that she forgot my presence and
that of the amazed chambermaid who, devoured with curiosity, lingered
near.

"Edward," she said again, going up to her husband, "it is impossible
that you can have forgotten me. I am your wife. I have been your wife
for six years."

"Good Lord, madam!" he exclaimed, bursting into a terrible laugh. "If
you were my wife six years ago, I must have married you when I was a
boy. I had not left school six years ago. I am only twenty-three at the
present moment. Do you mean to maintain that I married you when I was a
lad of seventeen?"

"Edward, dear Edward, don't you know me?" she kept on pleading.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She dropped suddenly on her knees,
and taking one of her husband's hands tried to raise it to her lips.
Her manner, her words, her attitude, pathetic to us who stood by as
witnesses, had a most irritating effect upon Mainwaring.

"Get up" he said. "This is all a plant. But however long you choose to
carry this game on, you won't get anything out of me. I must ask you,
madam, to leave my room immediately. I do not even know your name. I
never saw you before. Will you, sir," he added, turning fiercely to me,
"have the goodness to remove this lady immediately from my bedroom?"

Mrs. Mainwaring staggered to her feet. The cold sarcasm of the words of
denial stung her to the quick. She approached the door, but before she
could reach it she turned faint and would have fallen had I not caught
her and placed her in a chair.

"This is all some diabolical scheme to ruin a respectable man," said
Mainwaring. "Will you favour me with your name, sir?" he added, turning
to me.

"Halifax," I answered. "I am a doctor. I attended you as a consulting
physician in your late severe illness."

"Heavens, what next?" he exclaimed. "I never had a day of serious
illness in my life."

"I think, Mrs. Mainwaring, we had better leave him for the present," I
said. "I will speak to the manager----"

Before I could add another word Mainwaring interrupted me hotly.

"Let it be clearly understood," he said, "that I forbid that woman to
be called by my name. I will see this matter through myself. I have
known of such things before. This is a scheme to ruin the character of
an honourable man. But I shall take immediate care to nip it in the
bud. Is that a chambermaid in the passage? Come here, please. Have the
goodness to ask the manager to come to this room immediately. Do not
go, madam, nor you either, sir, until I speak to the manager."

Mainwaring flung the Baedeker which he had been studying on a table.
We heard some doors opened and some feet hurrying in our direction.
Doubtless the chambermaid who had disappeared on Mainwaring's errand
had already spread the news of our extraordinary story. When I heard
people approaching I took the liberty to close the door of the room.

"What are you doing that for, sir?" exclaimed Mainwaring, whose face
was now almost purple with excitement.

"Pray don't speak so loud," I replied, putting as much force and
command into my voice as I possibly could. "I presume you do not wish
the servants of the hotel to become acquainted with your private
affairs."

He glanced at me savagely, but did not say anything further. A moment
later the manager's knock was heard. I opened the door to him. He came
in, looking anxious and disturbed, and asked why he had been sent for.

Mainwaring began to speak in an excited voice.

"I have sent for you," he said, "to ask you to see that this man and
woman leave the hotel immediately. They have forced their way into my
room and have endeavoured to perpetrate a most disgraceful hoax upon
me. This lady, whom I never saw before, has had the audacity to claim
me as her husband. I wish you to understand clearly that both these
people are impostors. They must leave this hotel immediately if you
wish it to retain its character for respectability."

The manager looked puzzled, as well he might. Mainwaring, although he
showed symptoms of strong excitement, must have appeared perfectly sane
to an ordinary observer. Poor Mrs. Mainwaring, white and trembling,
stood up and looked at me to defend her.

"This is a very extraordinary story," I said to the manager. "I will
give you my version of it in another room."

"Come," I said, turning to Mrs. Mainwaring. She put her hand into mine
and I led her into the passage.

The instant we left the room Mainwaring shut and locked the door.

"That unfortunate gentleman is insane," I said to the manager of the
hotel. "He must be watched, and on no account allowed to leave his
bedroom without being followed."

"That is all very well, sir," replied the man, "but I must have very
good evidence of the truth of your statements before I can allow any
pressure to be put on the gentleman who occupies No. 39. This is a very
queer story, and Mr. Mainwaring showed no signs of insanity before you
came. But, insane or not, it isn't to be supposed that he wouldn't know
his own wife."

"Take us into a private room and let me explain matters to you," I said.

The man did so.

"On your peril," I continued, "I must request you to set someone to
watch that door. I am a medical man, and you cannot trifle with my
requests with impunity. That gentleman is in a dangerous state, and he
must be closely watched."

"Very well, sir," replied the manager, in a more civil tone, "I'll tell
the night porter to keep an eye on the door."

He left us for a moment, but quickly returned.

"Now, sir," he said. "I hope you'll have the goodness to explain
matters a little, for, to say the least, it's a queer story."

[Illustration: "IT'S A QUEER STORY."]

"It is," I replied, "a very tragic one--the only explanation possible
is that the unfortunate gentleman whom we have just left has become
insane. I am a medical man. You can see my name in the 'Medical
Directory' if you look for it. I am well known in the profession. The
gentleman in No. 39 has just recovered from a severe attack of typhoid
fever. Until this morning he was apparently on the road to recovery. A
fortnight ago he went with his wife to Cambridge to pay a short visit.
They left their children at Croydon. Yesterday morning Mrs. Mainwaring
heard of the illness of her eldest child and went to Croydon to see
her, leaving her husband behind her at Cambridge. When she returned to
Cambridge this morning he had vanished, leaving no trace behind him. We
conjectured that he had come to Dover, and followed him here."

"I remember the gentleman now quite well," said the manager. "He came
here quite early to-day and asked for a good bedroom, which he said
he might want for a night or even two, as he was obliged to stay here
until a friend joined him."

"Did he happen to tell you the name of the friend?" I inquired.

"Yes, sir, I remember the name quite well. Mr. Mainwaring said that Mr.
Leigh might arrive at any moment, and that when he did he was to be
shown immediately to his room."

When the manager mentioned Leigh's name Mrs. Mainwaring broke the
silence which she had maintained until now.

"Walter Leigh is dead," she exclaimed.

"Good Lord, dead!" cried the manager. "Was it sudden, madam? Does
the--does Mr. Mainwaring know?"

"Walter Leigh is dead," she continued. "He has been dead for many
years. But ten years ago my husband stayed at this hotel and waited for
Walter Leigh to join him. He had to wait here for twenty-four hours. At
the end of that time Mr. Leigh arrived, and they took the next boat to
Calais."

"Have you the books of the hotel of ten years back?" I asked.

"Certainly, sir."

"Would you mind looking them up? It is important for all our sakes to
substantiate the truth of this lady's words. Have you any idea, Mrs.
Mainwaring, about what month your husband and Mr. Leigh went to the
Continent?"

"Just after their degree examination," she replied. "They took their
degrees together--that would be about this time of year."

"June ten years back," commented the manager. He seemed much impressed
now, and his manner showed me how greatly he was interested.

"I will go downstairs immediately and examine the books," he said.

He returned in about ten minutes with a bewildered face.

"You are right, madam," he exclaimed; "but the good Lord only knows
what it all means. I hunted up the visitors' book of ten years back,
and there were the two names entered in the book as plain as you
please: Edward Mainwaring, Walter Leigh. Mr. Leigh occupied No. 25 and
Mr. Mainwaring the room next to it, No. 26. Now, what does all this
mean?"

"That Mr. Mainwaring has forgotten ten years of his life," I answered,
promptly. "He must be carefully watched during the night. Can you give
Mrs. Mainwaring a bedroom? I shall also sleep at the hotel."

The manager was now only too anxious to attend to our requirements.
Mrs. Mainwaring was conducted to a room on the next floor and I
occupied the bedroom next Mainwaring's, which happened to be empty.

Nothing occurred during the night, which was spent by me in anxious and
wakeful conjecture.

At an early hour the next morning I joined Mrs. Mainwaring. One glance
at her face showed me through what terrible suffering she had been
passing. I told her without preamble what I considered the best and
only thing to do.

"I have thought carefully over your husband's case," I said. "There
is to my mind not the least doubt what has occurred. For some
extraordinary reason Mr. Mainwaring has forgotten ten years of his
life. His memory doubtless carries him accurately up to the date of
his Cambridge degree. He remembers going to Dover, and is now under
the impression that he is waiting for his friend, Mr. Leigh, to join
him at this hotel. Whether he will ever recover the ten years which
he has lost is impossible at the present moment to say. What I should
advise now is this: Let someone whom Mr. Mainwaring knew intimately
ten years ago come and see him, and tell him as simply and as forcibly
as possible what has occurred. He may or may not believe this person's
statement. I am inclined to hope, however, that he will bring his
common-sense to bear on the matter, and will not doubt what he is told;
but of course I may be wrong. Anyhow, this, in my opinion, is the only
thing to try. Has your husband any intimate friend whom he knew well
ten years back?"

"There is his father," she replied at once.

"Good. He could not possibly see a person more likely to influence him.
I think you said that his father was a clergyman--better and better--he
is probably an excellent man, in whose word his son would place
unbounded confidence. Does he live far away?"

"It so happens," she answered, a faint smile filling her eyes, "that my
father-in-law's rectory is not far from here. His parish is close to
Canterbury."

"Give me the address, and I will telegraph immediately," I said.

She supplied me with it, and I quickly prepared a telegram, which was
to bring the elder Mainwaring to his son's assistance. I was writing my
telegram in the hall of the hotel when Mainwaring came downstairs. He
looked full at his wife and me, but did not vouchsafe us the smallest
sign of recognition. He entered the coffee-room, and I saw him sit down
at a small table and order breakfast.

I whispered to the wife to take no notice. The poor woman's eyes were
full of tears and she was trembling excessively, but she had the
courage to do what I told her.

She and I entered the coffee-room a few moments later. We had breakfast
together. Mrs. Mainwaring sat with her back to her husband, but I
faced him and watched him anxiously while I ate. He had called for
a daily paper and began to read it. I watched his face and saw that
the contents of the paper puzzled him a good deal. He passed his hand
across his forehead, took off his _pince-nez_ and rubbed it, finally
flung the paper on the ground and strode out of the room.

At this moment a waiter brought me a telegram. I opened it. It was
not in reply to the one I had sent to Mainwaring's father, but was
from a patient in town. Its character was so urgent and unexpected
that I was forced to attend to it at once. It was necessary for me
to catch the next train to London. I told Mrs. Mainwaring what had
occurred, expressed great regret at being forced to leave her under
such trying circumstances, assured her that I did not anticipate any
fresh development of Mainwaring's illness, begged of her to keep out
of his way as much as possible, and to wait as patiently as she could
for her father-in-law's arrival. I then gave some hasty directions to
the manager of the hotel and left for London. I promised to return to
Dover, if possible, that evening.

My patient in town, however, was far too ill to make it advisable
for me to leave him. I could not go to Dover again that day. In
the evening I received a telegram from Mrs. Mainwaring to say that
her father-in-law had arrived, that her husband had received him
with affection, but that otherwise his condition remained absolutely
unaltered.

[Illustration: "THE CONTENTS OF THE PAPER PUZZLED HIM."]

I wired back naming an early hour on the following day for my visit to
Dover, and then tried to put these anxious circumstances out of my head.

I had just breakfasted on the following day and was preparing to start
on my journey, when my servant brought me a card. I took it up and read
the name with amazement: Edward Mainwaring.

"Where is the gentleman?" I asked of the servant.

"I have shown him into the consulting room, sir."

"Did not you say that I was just going out?"

"Yes," replied the man, "but he said he was sure when you saw his card
that you would see him at once."

"What aged person is he?" I asked.

"Middle-aged, I should say, sir. He is a tall gentleman, with a slight
stoop. When he looked at me he put on his _pince-nez_."

A startled exclamation passed my lips. What strange new development of
Mainwaring's disease had brought him to seek advice voluntarily from me?

I rose at once and went to the consulting-room. My patient was standing
by one of the windows, but when he heard my step he turned and walked
towards me.

"I have come, Dr. Halifax," he said, "to apologize for my rude
behaviour towards you last night. Under the strange circumstances, I
hope you will forgive me."

"I forgive you a thousand times," I replied in a hearty voice. "I
cannot tell you with what inexpressible relief I see that you have
already recovered your memory. Pray accept my warmest congratulations."

"Congratulations!" repeated the poor fellow, with a grim smile, "for
what? I have not recovered my memory. At the present moment I am an
instance of the man who lives by faith."

"What can you mean?" I said, much puzzled in my turn by his words.

"What I say," he replied. "I live by faith. My father, whom I have
always revered and loved as the best of men, has made a strange
statement to me--his statement confirms the story you and--" here
he hesitated slightly--"and the lady you brought with you the other
evening told me. I believe my father--therefore I believe you. This is
a very strong act of faith. Were I asked to describe what I alone know
about myself, I should say that I am at the present moment twenty-three
years of age, that I have just finished a successful academic career at
Trinity College, Cambridge; I mean to become a barrister and am about
to read for the law, but before entering on a somewhat severe course
of study I propose to go abroad with my special friend, Walter Leigh.
This is exactly how matters appear to me at the present moment. With
regard to my past, I can give you chapter and verse for almost every
event which has occurred to me since I was a young child. My boyhood,
my school days, in especial my recent life at Cambridge, are accurately
remembered by me to the smallest detail. That, as far as I can tell, is
my history. I am a young man with bright prospects just beginning life.
I am told, however, by one whose word I cannot doubt, that I have a
further history of grave importance. I am married--I have a wife and
three children. I have a house at Croydon, where I have lived for over
six years. I am a common-law barrister, and am rising in my profession.
I have just recovered from a severe attack of typhoid fever, during
which time you visited me twice in consultation with another doctor.
My father tells me of all these things, and because he is my father I
believe him; but, as a matter of fact, I remember nothing whatever of
this important period of my existence. That poor girl whom I treated
so harshly in your presence is in reality my wife. My father says so,
and I believe his word, but I have not the most remote remembrance of
ever seeing my wife before. When did I woo her? When did I marry her?
What was her name before she took mine? I remember nothing. All is an
absolute and complete blank. In short, ten years, the most important
ten years of a man's life, have been wiped out of mine. Am I insane?"

"Not in the ordinary sense," I replied; "but there is no doubt that
something has gone wrong with a certain portion of your brain."

Mainwaring sank into a chair while I was speaking; now he sprang up and
walked across the room.

"Merciful heavens!" he exclaimed, turning abruptly and facing me.
"Then it is true. What reason is left to me almost reels before the
astounding fact. It is absolutely true that my youth is over. As far as
I am aware I never spent it. I never used it, but it is gone. I have a
wife whom I do not love. I have children whom I care nothing whatever
about. I have a profession about which I know nothing. I cannot give
legal advice. I cannot accept briefs.

[Illustration: "MAINWARING SANK INTO A CHAIR."]

"My father tells me that I am a married man and a barrister. You
tell me the same. I am bound to believe you both. I do believe you.
All that you say is doubtless true. I am surely in the most horrible
position that man ever found himself in. I am a husband, a father, a
professional man. I do not remember my wife. I should not recognise
my own children; and what is perhaps worst of all, from a practical
point of view, I have completely lost all knowledge of my profession--I
cannot therefore earn a single penny for the support of my family. I
have come here to-day, Dr. Halifax, to ask you if anything can be done
_to give me back my ten years_! Can you do anything for my relief? I am
willing to undergo any risk. I am willing to submit to any suffering
which can give me back the time that has slipped into oblivion."

"I must think carefully over your case," I said. "I need not say that
it is of the deepest interest. I cannot tell you how glad I am that
you have come to me as you have done. If you had chosen to doubt your
father's word, it would have been absolutely impossible for me to have
helped you. As it is----"

"I live by faith, as I said just now," repeated Mainwaring. "What is
your thought with regard to my condition?"

"Your condition is strange indeed," I replied. "I cannot explain it
better than by comparing the brain to the cylinder of a phonograph. The
nerve cells, which can be counted by thousands of millions, represent
the cylinder. When certain sensations are conveyed to these cells they
are imprinted on them like the impressions made by the needle on the
cylinder of the phonograph. Even years afterwards the same series of
events or sounds are thus reproduced. _You have lost your cylinder
for ten years._ What I have to do is to try by some means to give it
back to you again. But before I say anything further, let me ask you
a question or two. You say you feel like a young man of twenty-three
about to enjoy a well-earned holiday. This is equivalent to announcing
the fact that you feel in perfect health."

"I certainly feel perfectly well in body," replied Mainwaring. "My mind
is naturally much disturbed and upset, but I have neither ache nor
pain, except----" Here he paused.

"The word 'except' points to some slight discomfort, surely?" I
replied, with eagerness. "Pray tell me exactly what you feel. Any clue,
however slight, is most important."

"I have a certain numbness of my right fore-arm and hand, but this
is really not worth mentioning. I am absolutely strong and well. I
_feel_ twenty-three." He sighed heavily as he spoke, and sinking into
a chair, looked fixedly at me. "What do you consider the cause of my
extraordinary condition?" he asked, abruptly.

"The cause," I replied, "is either the plugging of an artery or the
rupture of a small vessel in your brain. Thanks to the valuable
researches of eminent men who have made the localization of cerebral
functions the work of their lives, I am able to tell pretty readily in
what portion of your brain the mischief lies."

"How?" asked Mainwaring, starting forward in his chair and gazing at me
with eyes of devouring interest.

"You yourself have given me the clue," I answered, with a smile. "You
tell me you have a distinct feeling of numbness in your right fore-arm
and hand. We know that some of the highest cerebral centres are closely
connected with the centres of the nerves of that limb. I can picture to
myself--though, of course, I may be wrong--the exact spot where this
lesion has taken place. It is certainly most important that something
definite should be done to restore your memory and all it entails."

"Then you will do that something?" exclaimed Mainwaring. "You cannot
hesitate. You will not lose a moment in giving me the relief which I
earnestly crave for."

"I should like to consult Dr. Oliphant, the great brain specialist," I
replied.

Mainwaring sprang again to his feet.

"No," he said, "that I cannot permit. He may say nothing can be done,
and then you may have scruples with regard to the right of exposing
my life to a certain risk. I will permit no consultation. If you know
what is the matter with me, you can give me relief without seeking
for further assistance. Do you think I value life under existing
circumstances? Not that!" He flipped some imaginary substance away from
him as he spoke with his finger and thumb. "I put myself absolutely
into your hands, Dr. Halifax," he said, making an effort to restrain
himself. "You say that an artery is plugged in my brain, or that there
is the rupture of a small blood-vessel. You can surely do something to
remove the obstruction?"

"Yes," I said, "I can perform a certain operation, which I will shortly
explain to you. I know you are a brave man; I do not, therefore,
hesitate to tell you that the operation is of a very serious nature,
also that there is a possibility of my being wrong with regard to the
localization of the injury."

"There is also a possibility of your being right," retorted Mainwaring.
"I will accept the risk. I wish the operation to be performed."

"I should certainly like to consult Dr. Oliphant," I repeated.

"You cannot do so against my express wish. I insist on the operation
being performed, even at the risk of life--can I say more?"

"You certainly cannot," I answered. I looked fixedly at him. He was a
fine fellow. Intelligence, resolve, endurance, were manifest in his
expressive eyes and strong, masculine features.

"I am inclined to believe that I shall be successful," I said, rising
and speaking with enthusiasm. "I will agree to do what you wish, and we
will leave the results in the Highest Hands. The operation is doubtless
a very grave one, but you are a man temperate in all things. You have
also abundantly proved that you have a good constitution. With extreme
care your life may not be even endangered. In that case you will be,
at _the worst_, only as you are now. At the best you will be yourself
once again. If what I think is the case, I can, by the operation which
I propose, remove the obstruction which now cuts off from a portion of
your brain the necessary life blood which alone can assure its working.
In short, I can restore your brain to its normal state. I propose to
open the cranial cavity at the exact spot where I think the mischief
is."

"Good," replied Mainwaring; "I leave myself in your hands. How soon can
you put me right?"

"I must see your wife and your father."

"Will you return with me now to Dover?"

"No," I answered. "You are so far yourself that you do not need me to
accompany you. Take the next train to Dover. Tell your father and wife
what you have resolved to do. I will take lodgings for you in a quiet
street near this, and will perform the operation to-morrow."

A moment or two later Mainwaring left me.

The die was practically now cast. I was going to experiment, and in
a daring manner. It was possible that the result might lead to fatal
consequences. I knew this possibility; nevertheless, I scarcely
feared that it would arise. I had explained everything clearly to
Mainwaring--he was willing to accept the risk. If his wife and father
were also willing, I would perform the operation on the following day.

That afternoon I took comfortable rooms for my patient in a street
adjoining that in which I lived. I also engaged an excellent surgical
nurse, in whom I could place perfect confidence. There was then nothing
more to do except to await the arrival of the Mainwarings.

Mrs. Mainwaring and her father-in-law arrived at the rooms which I had
taken for them, late that evening. They sent me a message at once to
say they would be glad to see me, and I hurried to pay them a visit.

Mrs. Mainwaring looked pale--her face was haggard--her eyes disturbed
and restless. She came impulsively to meet me, and clasped one of my
hands in both of hers.

[Illustration: "SHE CLASPED ONE OF MY HANDS IN BOTH OF HERS."]

"Edward has told me what you propose to do," she exclaimed, "and I am
willing--I am abundantly willing that he should run this great risk."

Her words almost surprised me. I looked from her to her father-in-law,
who now held out his hand.

"I have often heard of you, Dr. Halifax," he said, with a courteous,
old-fashioned gesture. "I think you know some special friends of mine.
I may say that I place absolute confidence in your skill, and am
willing to put my son's life in your hands."

I looked attentively from one face to the other.

"I am glad you both give your consent," I replied. "I should not
perform the operation, which I trust will relieve Mr. Mainwaring,
without your mutual sanction. I must tell you plainly, however, that
although I am willing to do it, it is accompanied by grave risk, and I
do not believe another doctor in London would attempt it."

"You mean that Edward may die?" said the wife in a low voice.

I looked her full in the eyes.

"There is a possibility," I said.

"But I do not think he will," she said, a wonderful light leaping
into her face. "I am a woman--a woman does not always reason, but she
strongly believes in instincts--my instinct tells me that you will
save my husband, and in short give him back to me as he was before. At
the worst, even at the worst----" here she turned ghastly pale, "he
would _know_ me in another world. I could endure to be parted with him
on those conditions. I cannot--I cannot endure the present state of
things."

Her composure suddenly gave way, she sobbed aloud.

"There is nothing more to be said," I remarked, after a brief pause.
"I have all your consents, and have made full arrangements to perform
the operation to-morrow morning. A clever surgeon, whom I know well,
will assist me, and an excellent trained nurse will arrive at an early
hour to get the patient ready for our visit. By the way, where is your
husband, Mrs. Mainwaring?"

She had dried her eyes by this time.

"He is in the house," she said, "but he does not wish to see you again
until the moment when you can give him relief."

I said a few more words, and soon afterwards took my leave.

Early the next morning, accompanied by a surgeon and an anæsthetist
on whose assistance I could depend, I arrived at Queen Anne's Street.
We were shown at once to the room where my patient waited for me. He
was sitting in a chair near the window. The nurse was standing in the
background, having made all necessary preparations.

"Here you are," he said, rising and greeting me with a cheerful smile,
"and here am I, and there is a Providence over us. Now, the sooner you
put things right the better."

His courage delighted me. I was also much relieved to find that neither
his wife nor father was present.

"With the help of God, I believe I shall put you right," I said, in a
tone of assurance, which I absolutely felt.

An hour and a half later I went into the sitting-room, where
Mainwaring's father and wife were anxiously waiting for my verdict.

"The operation is well over," I exclaimed, "and my patient is at
present sound asleep. When he awakens the moment will have arrived
when we must prove whether I have done anything for him or not. Will
you have the courage to come into the room with me, Mrs. Mainwaring?
I should like him to see you when he opens his eyes. If he recognises
you, I shall know that I have been successful."

To my surprise she shrank back.

"No," she said, "the ordeal is too terrible. Failure means too much
agony. I cannot endure it; I am not strong enough."

"Then what is to be done?" I asked. "In any case, Mainwaring will know
his father. His knowledge of _you_ is the test which I require to tell
me whether I have succeeded or failed."

She smiled faintly and left the room. In a moment she returned, holding
by the hand a beautiful little girl of five years of age. She had a
wealth of red-gold hair falling almost to her waist; her large eyes
were like sapphires.

"This is Nancy," said the mother, "her father's pet and idol. I sent
for her this morning. When my husband awakens, take her into the
room--she is not shy. If her father recognises her, all is well."

"Very well," I replied.

All that day I watched by Mainwaring; in the evening I came for Nancy.
"Come," I said. The child looked at me with her grave eyes--she was
perfectly calm and self-possessed. I lifted her in my arms and left the
room with her.

I entered the bedroom where my patient lay. The child's arms encircled
my neck. My heart was beating quickly, anxiously. Little Nancy looked
at me in surprise.

"Is father ill?" she asked.

Mainwaring's eyes were open. I put the child on the floor.

"Go and speak to him," I said.

She ran up to the bed.

"Are you ill, dad?" she repeated, in a clear, high voice.

"Halloa, Nan!" he said, smiling at her.

He stretched out one of his hands. The child caught it and covered it
with kisses.

"Send your mother to me, my sweet Nan," he said, after a pause.

Then I knew that Mainwaring had got back his ten years.




_Illustrated Interviews._


No. XXX.--MR. EDWARD LLOYD.

It is late in the day to refer to Mr. Edward Lloyd as possessing the
right to the position of our leading British tenor--indeed, it might
be said to that of one of the first tenors in the world. Mr. Lloyd has
won his way to this position simply by the earnest sincerity which
has characterized everything he has undertaken--added, of course, to
great natural gifts. Since eleven years of age he has always been a
working man, and has laboured with a set purpose always before him. His
heart and soul are as much in a simple little ballad as in an operatic
selection. The public have felt this, and have not been slow in letting
it be known. He is, in many ways, a remarkable man. If there is
anyone who is prone to be spoiled by a community ever ready to pamper
a popular individual, it is a tenor. But from what I have seen--and
my opportunities have been peculiar ones--of Mr. Edward Lloyd, he
impressed me as being a man who sets his face against all flattery, no
matter how honestly it may be deserved. There is absolutely nothing
professional about him. In a word, he is about as perfect a specimen
of an Englishman as one would wish to meet, and as one who loves his
home and its associations, may be held up as a model man. Of medium
height and stalwart appearance, with a countenance which is a happy
hunting ground for smiles, you no sooner feel the grip of his hand than
you know you have met a man brimming over with good nature, honest
intention, and unadulterated sincerity.

[Illustration: MR. EDWARD LLOYD.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

Previous to the interview proper we made a hurried trip to Brighton,
where for three or four months every year Mr. Lloyd, together with
his family, migrates, and where he has a pretty little house within a
stone-throw of Mr. Edmund Yates's. Its blue tile window-boxes are full
of the greenest of evergreens, and flowers are working out their own
notions of decorative art everywhere. Here the walls are given up to a
magnificent collection of hunting pictures. The dining-room has many
exquisite bronzes, and passing by an old grandfather's clock in the
hall--picked up in a Devonshire cottage one holiday time, and in which,
to the methodical tick, tick, tick, of the works, a ship keeps time on
some linen waves--a peep into the drawing-room reveals many a portrait
of professional brothers and sisters--Santley, Maybrick, Antoinette
Sterling, Lady Hallé, etc., with a number of water-colours by Danby,
Enoch, and Prout.

I have already referred to Mr. Lloyd's homely disposition, and this may
be the better understood when it is mentioned that on the occasion of
my long chat with him at his beautiful house at Tulse Hill, after my
visit to Brighton, the day was positively converted into a holiday. The
two youngest boys, Ramon Richard and Cecil Edward, had a day's leave
from Sidcup College. Mr. Edward Turner Lloyd, the eldest son, and a
professor at the Royal Academy of Music, was there. Miss Mary Louisa
Lloyd sang many a delightful ballad to us, and Mrs. Lloyd herself,
together with her husband and Mr. N. Vert, an old friend of the family,
made up a very happy party. So, together with this merry company, I
explored the house and grounds of Hassendean.

[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM--BRIGHTON.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

The early months of winter had by no means robbed the garden of a
thousand beauties. Flowers which help to brighten the dark and cold
months of the year were bravely holding up their heads above the soil,
and the trio of tennis-courts looked in perfect condition. Mr. Lloyd
and all the members of his family are enthusiastic tennis players,
and it is no difficult matter for one to picture the pleasant little
parties which gather on the grass and revel in the five o'clock teas
set out impromptu in the cosy arbours.

[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM--BRIGHTON.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

There is a pause in our journey at the steps which lead to the interior
of Hassendean, a photographic pause for the purpose of a family group.
Even "Ruff," a fine Persian cat, who a minute ago had been engaged in
chasing an innocent sparrow, was called into requisition to face the
camera as being an important representative of the domestic pets of the
house. However, as soon as we got indoors again it was apparent that
pussy could only lay claim to a certain share of favours bestowed.

A voice proceeded from the kitchen: it was the parrot, who had been
sent down below in order to be in close proximity to the kitchen fire,
owing to a temporary indisposition. Still, its much-to-be-regretted
sickness in no way interfered with its powers of speech. Then, as we
stayed for a moment in the conservatory--where, in the midst of the
palms and ferns, a fine statuette of "A Dancing Girl," by J. Lawler,
who sculptured one of the sides of the Albert Memorial, stands in a
conspicuous position--a little canary suddenly bursts into song as Mr.
Lloyd encourages it by running his fingers along the wires of its cage.
This same little canary played a conspicuous part after lunch, when we
repaired to the conservatory, of which more anon.

[Illustration: HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot and Fry._]

The entrance-hall of Hassendean--on the front door of which hangs
a lucky horseshoe--is given up to some admirable examples of
engraving--after Millais, Gainsborough, and Burton Barber; whilst the
staircase leading to Mr. Lloyd's own particular sanctum, in addition to
providing hanging space for many pictures of musical celebrities, has
an artistic selection of Doré's works.

Mr. Lloyd's own room chiefly contains family pictures. On the
mantelpiece are his children; by the window his father, and close
by a reproduction of the stained glass window erected to the memory
of the great tenor's mother at the Ladies' College, Cheltenham. The
dining-room looks out on a great expanse of lawn, studded with fir
trees, and contains some grand canvases by Ogilvie Reid, Knupp, Hughes,
Ladelle, Danby, Cobbett, Hans Poch, of Munich, and J. Stark.

Mr. Lloyd points out with pardonable pride five drawings by Rossetti,
which hang in the drawing-room: he is a hearty admirer of this
brilliant artist's work. The cabinets in this apartment are full of the
choicest of Dresden china and enamelled silver ware, and a prominent
position is given to a Russian silver cigarette case inscribed:
"Presented by His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh to Edward Lloyd,
October, 1884." The motto on it is in Russian, and its translation
reads: "Carry about, don't lose, frequently remember."

The presentments of the features of musical friends are numerous, and,
as Mr. Lloyd takes up a picture of the late Barry Sullivan as _Hamlet_,
he remembers that he was the last friend to see him when he was drawn
out on to the balcony of his house at Brighton, just before he died.
When we remember Mr. Lloyd's profession, one may be permitted to refer
to the music-room as being the most used apartment in Hassendean. It
is really a magnificent room, which the famous tenor had expressly
built for himself; its proportions are perfect, its acoustic properties
everything to be desired. There are two floors to this room at a
distance of 4ft. apart. This realizes an admirable sounding-board.

"Oh, yes!" said Mr. Lloyd, in reply to my question, "I practise here:
but I fear that the public little realize what practice means. I am
never satisfied, though I invariably practise a new work every morning
for two or three months. I first give my attention to the notes, then
study the real meaning of the words. You then begin to see the beauty
of the work and gain a knowledge of the composer's idea. Not until a
work is learnt thoroughly do you begin to realise its countless gems,
and the more I 'live' with the written genius of great composers, the
greater pleasure do I find in their beauties."

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE-HALL--HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

The music-room has a grand ceiling. Its walls are incrusted with
crimson, with a fresco of black oak. The engravings are after Millais,
Alma Tadema, Sir Frederick Leighton, Luke Fildes, Orchardson, Leader,
and Rosa Bonheur. The blue china, which is set out on the great
mantel-board, once belonged to Rossetti, and the grand piano was made
by Schidemeyer, of Stuttgart.

[Illustration: THE STUDY--HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

After lunch, I not only listened to the fine tones of the
Schidemeyer--but something more. It was a most charming _entr'acte_
to our chat together. We were all sitting in the conservatory, and
Dick, the canary, was trilling some of his purest notes. At an almost
unnoticed sign from her mother, Miss Lloyd quietly left her chair and
was followed by her elder brother; the opening bars of a delightful
song of Spain were played, and then the voice of Miss Lloyd was heard
in all its girlish sweetness. The little canary remained silent until
the finish of the song, then it burst out again; once more came a chord
from the piano--a familiar chord--"Good-bye, Sweetheart, Good-bye," and
I listened to the magnificent voice of our great tenor. He probably
never sang with greater expression or intenser feeling than he did that
afternoon at Hassendean. The two young lads from Sidcup rested their
heads on their hands, leant forward so that they might not miss a note,
and made frantic efforts to outrival the applause of perhaps one of the
smallest audiences Mr. Edward Lloyd has ever sung to in his life. When
he had finished, Mrs. Lloyd quietly leant across to me very happily,
and said: "I haven't heard my husband sing that song for more than
fifteen years!"

[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

So we settled down for our talk--and the story of a career which has
been one long ascent to the very top rung of the ladder was told very
modestly, with a constant genuinely kindly reference to others running
through the whole. There is nothing self-assertive about Mr. Lloyd--he
remains steadily the same all the time; watching for opportunities to
praise his brother and sister artists, though it be at his own expense.
When he speaks of others he endeavours to impress upon you that he
_means_ it; when he must needs speak of himself he does so with a merry
laugh and hurries up to get it over. His heart is perfectly open. He is
not a "coddled up" individual; he never did and never will believe in
it. He never muffles his throat up in a huge silk scarf, but believes
in the low collar and "weathering it." The only time he muffled his
neck he caught a fearful cold. His advice is: "Breathe through the
nose, and not through the mouth, when coming out of a hot room. Don't
wrap up; whilst an egg beaten in a very little whisky and water will be
found an excellent stamina.

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

"I was born on 7th March, 1845," he said. "My mother was a daughter
of John Larkin Hopkins, who was a professor of music in the Royal
household of George IV., and held the position of bandmaster of the
Scotch Fusilier Guards for thirty-nine years. He was a fine, stalwart
man, of immense strength, and lived to the ripe age of eighty-two.
My mother, who was one of seventeen children, inherited much of my
grandfather's talent. She was a student at the Royal Academy of Music,
and gained the King's Scholarship for her pianoforte playing at the
age of seventeen. My father was Richard Lloyd, whose good tenor voice
gained for him a vicar choral-ship in Westminster Abbey. I have a vivid
recollection of him, for I think I was his pet child; I know that I had
all I wanted. I was only five when he died, and my mother, with the
utmost devotion, took me in hand with five other brothers and sisters.
She held a very influential musical post at the Ladies' College,
Cheltenham, where she remained for fourteen years; her health gave way,
however, and she returned to London. You have seen in my room upstairs
a picture of the memorial window which those who knew and loved her
caused to be placed in the Great Hall, Cheltenham College."

[Illustration: THE MUSIC-ROOM--HASSENDEAN.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

Little Edward, however, lived in London with an aunt, and Mr. Lloyd has
the happiest recollections of the many letters which his mother wrote,
always asking for news of her boy. It was happy news, indeed, when the
mother heard that her little seven-year-old son had joined Westminster
Abbey as a chorister under James Turle, the Abbey organist, who had not
been slow in recognising the great gift of a beautiful voice which had
been bestowed upon the youth. He took him under his special care, and
to-day the great tenor never tires of bearing testimony to the patience
of his first master, who seemed never to weary in instructing him in
the art of which he was so accomplished a master.

"They were very happy days at the Abbey," continued Mr. Lloyd. "I
served as a probationer for twelve months, and was then entered as a
full chorister. After a few years, I became one of the first four,
until at last I was promoted to head boy. As a chorister I sang at the
funeral of the eminent engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, and wore the
old-fashioned black scarf and black gloves. Even in those early days
I got quite a number of engagements; we used to be paid three or four
guineas for the week's singing at the Handel Festival at the Crystal
Palace, but when I became one of the chosen four boys, Mr. Turle,
who had the musical arrangements associated with big City dinners,
frequently selected me to sing at a guinea and sometimes two guineas a
night at the banquets given by such City companies as the Ironmongers',
Merchant Taylors', Goldsmiths', Vintners', etc., where boys in those
days always sang the soprano parts in the glees and part-songs. The
Dean, however, put a stop to it on account of our health, as it kept us
out very late; still, Dean Trench was always very kind to us, and in
the evenings would frequently invite us to the Deanery to play at bob
apple. You know the game! An apple is suspended on a string and is set
in motion, your hands are tied behind your back, and you try to bite
the apple. The Dean was as merry as any of us, and revelled in securing
as big an apple as possible."

"And did you ever bite the apple, Mr. Lloyd?" I asked.

"No," he replied, merrily; "my mouth was not large enough! I must not
forget Dr. Wordsworth, who was a canon in my time at the Cathedral. My
great recollection of him is that, when he was in office as canon, he
used to preach for an hour, and sometimes longer. It was the privilege
of a senior boy to repair to his house in the cloisters, and, together
with his companion choristers, to stand round a table and be catechized
for one hour after the service. In those early days, I fear that I did
not appreciate this privilege!

[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S FATHER.

_From a Painting._]

"I sang at the wedding of the Princess Royal, at the Chapel Royal, St.
James's. I sat in the gallery, and in my memory can almost hear now
Mr. Harper, the great trumpeter, 'heralding' the wedding party. I met
many choir boys who have since become famous. In those early days Sir
John Stainer was then a senior boy at St. Paul's, and we frequently
met at the rooms of the old Madrigal Society, in Lyle Street--let to
them by the Royal Society of Musicians--where, for our singing, we were
rewarded with a glass of port, a buttered biscuit, and two shillings.
The two shillings were invariably spent before I got home. I also met
Sir Arthur Sullivan and Alfred Cellier at cricket. The boys of the
Chapel Royal and St. Paul's and Westminster frequently tried their
powers with the bat and ball against one another; Sullivan was my
elder. Cellier was always the life and soul of the game of cricket: a
thorough good fellow, although he did bowl me out once.

"Still, I am happy to place on record the important historical fact
that the Westminster boys invariably won."

Although Mr. Lloyd's voice may be said to have never really broken,
at fifteen years of age he left the Abbey and went to a school in
Southwark, where, after remaining for twelve months, he went to his
mother's, at Cheltenham. He had said good-bye to the choristers' stalls
at Westminster, well educated in the music of the great Church writers.
He was on enviably familiar terms with such old masters as Gibbons,
Blow, Boyce, and Purcell, a foundation for all that was to follow
after. At his mother's suggestion he learnt the violin, and she, who
herself had studied the piano under Mrs. Anderson, the music-mistress
of the Queen, gave him lessons in pianoforte playing. However, although
the young lad took kindly to the bow, he couldn't settle down to the
piano. He remained in Cheltenham until twenty, when he returned to
London to his aunt's.

"I sang at a church at Belsize Park," said Mr. Lloyd, "and received
thirty pounds a year. I did the solo singing, and was regarded as a
light tenor, never thinking for a moment that I should develop into
anything particular. But I was always endeavouring to improve myself.
When I was twenty-one, as luck would have it, my uncle, Dr. John
Larkin Hopkins, organist of Trinity College, Cambridge, came on a
visit to my aunt, and my mother, who was also up from Cheltenham on a
little holiday, asked my uncle if he would hear me sing. He did so. I
sang"--and here Mr. Lloyd gave the opening lines of "You and I":--

    'Tis years since we parted, you and I,
    In the sweet summer time long ago.

"He was very delighted, and turned to me and said, 'We have an opening
in the choir at Trinity College: will you come and fill the post until
there is a trial for it?' I was in the seventh heaven; the position was
worth £120 per year; it realized all my hopes. I went to Cambridge; the
music I had to sing--I was a good reader--came like A, B, C to me. I
seemed to please the Fellows. After I had been there three months they
thought there ought to be a trial for the post. There were then two
tenor vacancies, as Mr. Kerr Gedge was leaving to fill an important
position in London. How well I remember the morning of the trial. The
trial was fixed for ten o'clock. However, I got up at four, as I was
too excited to sleep, told the landlady to have a thick steak ready
for me at eight, and went for a long walk. I shall never forget that
four hours' stroll; I remembered that there were seven or eight other
competitors. I felt terribly anxious and nervous, but by the time I
got back again to my lodgings and settled down to my breakfast, I had
determined to go in and win. I felt on that morning just the same as I
do now when about to fulfil any engagement I may have on hand: anxious,
fearfully anxious.

[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S MOTHER.

_From a Photo by W. & D. Downey._]

"At that trial I sang 'If with all your hearts,' from 'Elijah,' and
read some music given to us, and came out first.

"At Cambridge I met the lady who afterwards became my wife. It was at
the opera. 'Faust' was the work, with Blanche Cole as _Marguerite_.
Her future husband, Sydney Naylor, conducted, and, by-the-bye, he was
a Temple boy with me. We were almost engaged from that night, and I
should like to say that, although Mrs. Lloyd is not a musician, from
that day to this she has influenced my life. It was her wish that I
should not sing in opera. And I have never regretted not doing so.
Indeed, I have only made one appearance in costume in my life--it was
at a private house at Hampstead. Here is a portrait of myself in the
character. My part necessitated me carrying on certain papers, which
in my excitement I left outside. I was asked for them; I felt in my
pocket; pocket was empty. 'Dear me!' I said, 'I must have dropped them
on the stairs as I came up'; so I made my exit and brought them back."

Still, Mr. Lloyd's dramatic instincts must have been of a very high
order--for the late Carl Rosa, who chanced to be present, immediately
offered him an engagement. Later on Carl Rosa tried his utmost to
induce him to sing in "Tannhauser," when the impresario was producing
this work at Her Majesty's Theatre, saying at the same time, "I vill
gif you a blank cheque to fill up!" This offer was again refused, and
Rosa always would have it that the great tenor had missed his chance of
going on the stage!

Mr. Lloyd remained twelve months at Cambridge, when he joined the choir
at St. Andrew's, Wells Street, Mr. Barnby (now Sir Joseph Barnby) being
the choir-master and organist, and was shortly after appointed "A
gentleman at Her Majesty's Chapel Royal, St. James's."

"That," said Mr. Lloyd, "was really the beginning of my career. I was
then engaged for the Gloucester Festival, to sing in Bach's 'Passion
Music.' It was my first important engagement and my first big audience.
There were 2,000 people present. It did me a lot of good. I was very
nervous, and my nervousness gave birth to _feeling_. A cold singer is
no good! Dr. Wesley conducted this festival. There are many capital
stories told about him. He was a somewhat eccentric old gentleman, very
forgetful at times, and a most enthusiastic fisherman. He was once
out with his rod and line fishing in a piece of water, when a keeper
approached him and told him it was private.

"'Oh, is it?' he said. 'My name's Wesley.'

"'I don't care,' said the keeper, 'what your name is; you can't fish
here without an order.'

"'All right,' said Wesley; 'you take in my name to your master and I'll
follow you.'

"The keeper consented: his employer expressed his regret at the
occurrence, and said he would be charmed if the doctor remained to
lunch, and they sat down together. After lunch the host turned to the
doctor and said he would be very delighted if he would play a selection
on the organ. A very fine instrument was in the hall, and the doctor,
nothing loth, sat down and played for half an hour. The music over,
Wesley returned to his fishing, fished to sundown, and then went home.
The next day the owner of the organ and the lake was surprised to
receive a letter from Wesley asking for ten guineas for his services on
the organ. Wesley was even more surprised when he had in reply a letter
as follows: 'My charge for a day's fishing is twenty guineas, so if you
will kindly forward ten guineas, that will make us quits.'

[Illustration: MR. LLOYD'S ONLY APPEARANCE ON THE STAGE.]

"On another occasion Wesley was conducting an overture, and was so
wrapped up in his thoughts of fishing that he kept on beating time
after the overture was finished. One of the principal violins whispered
to him that they had done.

"'Impossible!' rejoined Wesley. 'I've got twelve bars more.'

"One can only conclude from this that during the twelve bars the worthy
doctor had held his bâton still in the act of catching a fish, and when
he rose it again to continue beating time he was landing it."

From the time Mr. Lloyd appeared at the Gloucester Festival the active
part of his career may be said to have commenced. He has been engaged
in all the principal festivals from that time, and created the tenor
parts in all the most important modern works: "The Martyr of Antioch,"
by Sullivan; Parry's "Judith"; Mackenzie's "Rose of Sharon" and "The
Dream of Jubal"; Cowen's "Rose Maiden" and "The Water Lily"; Stanford's
"Maeldune," and Sullivan's "Golden Legend," and amongst foreign,
Rubinstein's "Paradise Lost" and Dvoràk's "Spectre's Bride." He created
the tenor part in Gounod's "Redemption" at Birmingham Festival, and at
the following festival the tenor in the same composer's "Mors et Vita."
At Gounod's request he was invited--an invitation he accepted--to sing
in Gounod's latter work at Brussels and Paris under his direction.

At Brussels Mr. Lloyd was presented to the Queen of the Belgians.

His work at all the principal concerts is well known, and ever since
the first night he sang in oratorio at the Albert Hall, under Sir
Joseph Barnby, he has always been a permanent member of the artists
engaged by Sir Joseph, whom, together with Sir Charles Hallé, Mr. Lloyd
regards as having done as much for music as any two artists in England.
He has been to America on no fewer than four occasions; the first of
which was at the Cincinnati Festival, for which he received £1,350 for
five performances in that city. Once every year the State Concerts at
Buckingham Palace claim him.

I asked Mr. Lloyd if he considered that oratorios still held their
place in the esteem of the public against the lighter and less
pretentious musical themes which have of late been so prominent.

He replied: "Oratorios still hold their old power over the public; such
standard works as the 'Messiah,' the 'Stabat Mater,' 'Elijah,' and the
'Hymn of Praise' can never die: they are the support and the backbone
of the festivals. Such works are so great and so magnificent that they
are as fresh to the people to-day, though the hearers may have heard
them fifty times, as they will be to the next generation. They are the
true heirlooms of all music lovers.

"Go out into the 'West.' In Chicago, where we sang the 'Messiah' twice,
there were over 5,000 people at each performance; but if you want to
really understand how these glorious works are loved and revered, go
into the Black Country, on the occasion of a big musical gathering,
and watch the masses come in with their music scores under their arms.
I have seen the galleries crowded with miners, who drink in every
note, and applaud in the right places, too. These great works are the
property of the people: they come to them, and regard the listening to
them as a devotional duty."

It is very well known that Mr. Lloyd has never disappointed the public
except through severe illness; he has been in three railway accidents,
but such severe upsets as these have never deterred him from proceeding
in the even tenor of his ways. He positively snaps his fingers at fogs,
and has sung in a hall when the place has been full of this speciality
of our particular climate which is so distressing to folk in general
and vocalists in particular.

The only occasion on which a fog was a real annoyance was one night
when, on leaving the Albert Hall after a Patti concert, the fog was so
thick that in thin shoes and a dress suit he had to take a lamp from
his carriage, and whilst his coachman led the horse, he had to light
the way. Mr. Lloyd fortunately possessed a good bump of locality; still
he did not reach Tulse Hill till half-past one in the morning.

He has smoked from an early age, and has never found it affect his
voice; still he would not advise young singers to take a pattern from
Mario, who he has been given to understand has smoked as many as thirty
cigars a day. He is inundated with songs, and it may be a consolation
to budding composers to know that the thoughtful tenor always returns
unaccepted scores when stamps are inclosed. He admits to one personal
mishap with his music when singing Blumenthal's beautiful melody, "The
Message." It was an old copy, and a page having become detached, was
economically sewn in. Unfortunately, it was not discovered until Mr.
Lloyd was in the midst of the song that the sheet had been sewn in
upside down.

Mr. Lloyd is famed for his punctuality at all his engagements. "And for
a very good reason, too," he said, when I reminded him of this. "It
was during my first tour with Mme. Liebhart, and Christian, the bass,
suffered with me. We had travelled from Dublin all day, and arrived
at our destination where we were to sing in the evening. Feeling very
tired, I lay down after dinner for a rest before the concert; Christian
did the same. We both fell fast asleep. We were to open the concert at
eight o'clock in the duet "Love and War." At five minutes past eight, a
man came rushing in to say the audience were waiting for our duet. We
flew to the hall, and had to go on a quarter of an hour late. I could
scarcely breathe and could barely get through my share in the duet. But
it was a quarter of an hour with a moral--ever since then I have always
been present a quarter of an hour before going on."

So the day passed happily at Hassendean, and the time came to say
good-night. As I was leaving, Mr. Lloyd put his hand on young Ramon's
head and said, good-naturedly, "Now, would you like to see something
of what I used to do when I was about his age, and was rewarded with
anything from buttered biscuits to a guinea?"

I need hardly say I assured him I should be delighted.

"Then meet me next Saturday at five-thirty at St. James's Hall, when
we will have dinner at the Round, Catch, and Cannon Club and listen to
some of their glees."

Saturday came, and we met again at the Round, Catch, and Cannon
Club--the oldest glee club in the country, being now more than eighty
years old. Dinner over--in the immediate vicinity of Mr. Lloyd and
myself sat Sir Benjamin Baker, Mr. W. Horsley, R.A., Signor Randegger,
Mr. N. Vert, and Dr. Scott, Mr. Lloyd's medical man--books of glees
were brought round and we sat and listened to the sweetest of themes,
most admirably rendered. No one is more attentive than Edward Lloyd--no
one more hearty in his approval.

"'Tis Morn" is the first glee, and Mr. Lloyd reminds me he has sung it
many a time. A selection of T. Cooke's follows, and we listen to the
stirring--

    Strike, strike the lyre! Let music tell
      The blessings spring shall scatter round.
    Fragrance shall float along the gale,
      And opening flow'rets paint the ground.

How pure and sweet sounds "By Celia's Arbour." Not a note is lost by
those whose happiness it is to listen--

    Tell her they are not drops of night,
    But tears of sorrow shed by me;

and whilst it is being sung I cannot help noticing a white-headed
gentleman opposite me who rests his head on one hand, so that his face
can barely be seen, and bends over the glee-book, and never moves
except once, to look up in reverent thought. It is W. Horsley, the
Royal Academician. Yet another is sung--an ode for five voices. The
painter still keeps his head bowed. I looked at the open book before me
and read: "Composed by W. Horsley, 19th February, 1776."

Then Mr. Horsley tells us how well he remembers his father writing "By
Celia's Arbour."

"I remember how Mendelssohn used to come," he said, "and sit for
hours in the summer evenings in the house where I have lived for the
last seventy years. He said that my father's compositions were the
most perfect of their kind he had ever heard. He took some copies of
'Celia's Arbour' home with him, and soon after wrote to my father to
say that he had heard the glee sung amongst the villagers by _forty
voices_!"

Then Mr. Lloyd joins in:--

"I once heard your father's glee, 'By Celia's Arbour,' sung by a few of
the Leeds Chorus, in Worcester, during the Festival. They had gathered
together in the bar of the hotel where I was staying. I had gone to bed
and was awakened out of my sleep, and I thought I had never heard it
sung to such perfection, the voices were so well balanced.

"There, there you are," said Mr. Lloyd, "that's what I mean. I was
something like that in the buttered biscuit days, and when I sang at
the Princess Royal's wedding."

[Illustration: A FAMILY GROUP.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

A bright-faced little lad had stepped up to join the elder members in
a glee for five voices. He wore an Eton suit. The piece selected was a
sonnet by Lord Mornington:--

    O, Bird of Eve! whose love-sick notes,
      I hear across the dale,
    Who nightly to the moon and me
      Dost tell thy hapless tale!

The lad's voice was as true as the trill of the bird of which he sang,
and this time it was the great tenor who sat and--thought, of those
happy Westminster days, of those bewildering banquets at which he used
to sing, of the glasses of port, the palatable biscuits, the useful
two-shilling pieces. Perhaps he thought of more.

The lad sang again and again, until at twenty past nine o'clock, ten
minutes before dispersing, the chairman gave out the number of the last
glee, and Edward Lloyd shared my book as we listened to S. Webbe's
beautiful music set to--

    Rise, my joy, sweet mirth attend,
    I'm resolved to be thy friend;
    Sneaking Phoebus hides his head,
    He's with Thetis gone to bed:
    Tho' he will not on me shine,
    Still there's brightness in the wine;
    From Bacchus I'll such lustre borrow,
    My face shall be a sun to-morrow!

                                                              HARRY HOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

    NOTE.--In the Illustrated Interview with Sir George Lewis in
    our December issue, page 655, the following paragraph occurs:
    "Sir George prosecuted in a number of bank failures, the result
    of the Joint Stock Act of 1862. In addition to Overend and
    Gurney's, there were Barnett's Bank of Liverpool, the Unity
    Bank," etc., etc. The words "Barnett's Bank" should read
    "Barned's Bank." We much regret the mistake, which makes it
    seem that we referred to the well-known and old-established
    firm of Messrs. Barnett & Co., of South Castle Street,
    Liverpool.




_Beauties._


[Illustration: Miss Croker

_From a Photo by Chancellor, 55, Lower Sackville Street, Dublin._

Mrs. WH COOK

_From a Photo by W. Duffus, 26, Queen Street, Huddersfield._

Lady Helen Vincent

_From a Photo by Chancellor, 55, Lower Sackville Street, Dublin._]

[Illustration: Miss Maud Gonne

_From a Photo by Chancellor, 55, Lower Sackville Street, Dublin._

Miss Jameson.

_From a Photo by Chancellor, 55, Lower Sackville Street, Dublin._

Mrs. Gardner.

_From a Photo by W. & A. H. Fry, 68, East Street, Brighton._]

[Illustration: Evelyn Millard

_From a Photo by Alfred Ellis, 20, Upper Baker Street, N.W._

Christine Beauclere

_From a Photo by W. Bradnee, 40, Fleet Street, Torquay._

Miss Hamilton

_From a Photo by Russell and Sons, 17, Baker Street._]




_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._


XII.

                       (VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

[Sidenote: MR. G. AND MR. D.]

There is a general impression from observation of Mr. Gladstone's
manner in the House of Commons and its precincts that his head is kept
so high in the empyrean of State affairs that he takes no note of men
and things on a lower level. His ordinary habits in connection with
persons on and off the Treasury Bench are certainly diametrically
opposed to those of Lord Beaconsfield when he was still in the House of
Commons. On the Treasury Bench Mr. Disraeli was wont to sit impassive,
with arms folded and head bent forward, not without suspicion in the
minds of those at a distance that he slept. Nearer observation would
show that he was particularly wide awake. His eyes (with the exception
of his hands, the last feature in his personal appearance to grow old)
were ever alert and watchful, more particularly of right hon. gentlemen
on the bench opposite. He rarely spoke to colleagues on either side of
him, making an exception in favour of the late Lord Barrington. But
it was only in dull times, in the dinner-hour or after, that he thus
thawed. Even at such times he was rather a listener than a converser.
Lord Barrington lived much in society and at the clubs. It was probably
gossip from these quarters which he retailed for the edification of
his chief, whose wrinkled face was often softened by a smile as Lord
Barrington whispered in his ear.

[Illustration: "ASLEEP OR AWAKE?"]

Mr. Gladstone, on the Treasury Bench, is constantly in a state of
irrepressible energy. He converses eagerly with the colleague sitting
on his right or left, driving home with emphatic gestures his arguments
or assertions. In quieter mood he makes a running commentary on the
speech that is going forward, his observations, I have been told, being
refreshingly pungent and often droll. His deep, rich voice carries far.
Occasionally it crosses the table, and the right honourable gentleman
on his legs at the moment is embarrassed or encouraged by what he
cannot help overhearing.

[Sidenote: A WARY JUDGE.]

Occasionally the Premier seems to be asleep, but it is not safe to
assume as a matter of course that, because his eyes are closed and his
head resting on the back of the bench, he is lapped in slumber. There
is an eminent judge on the Bench whose lapses into somnolency are part
of the ordered proceedings of every case that comes before him. For
many terms he baffled the observation of the smartest junior, as of
the most keen sighted leader. He had his sleep, but instead of awaking
with a more or less guilty start, and ostentatiously perusing his notes
as others used, he, when he woke, scrupulously preserved exactly the
same position and attitude as when he truly slept. Closely following
for a few moments the argument of the learned gentleman who had lulled
him to sleep, he, softly opening his eyes, and not otherwise moving,
interposed a remark pertinent to the argument. For a long time this
device baffled the Bar. But it was discovered at last, and is to-day of
no avail.

Mr. Gladstone has no occasion for the exercise of this ingenuity.
He may, without reproach, snatch his forty winks when he will, none
daring to make him afraid. He admits that, "at my time of life," he
finds a long and prosy speech irresistible, often enriching him between
questions and the dinner-hour with the dower of a quiet nap.

[Illustration: "FORTY WINKS."]

[Sidenote: IN THE DIVISION LOBBY.]

This contrast of demeanour on the Treasury Bench as between Mr.
Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone was equally marked in the division lobby.
The passage through the division lobby, which sometimes occupies a
quarter of an hour, is for Mr. Gladstone an opportunity for continuing
his work.

It was one of the most dramatic incidents on the historic night in
June, 1885, when his Ministry fell that, engaged in writing a letter
when the House was cleared for the particular division, he carried his
letter-pad with him, sat down at a table in one of the recesses of
the lobby, and went on writing as, at another tragic time of waiting,
Madame Defarge went on knitting. It was his letter to the Queen
recording the incidents of the night. Returning to the Treasury Bench,
Mr. Gladstone, still Premier, placed the pad on his knee and quietly
continued the writing, looking up with a glance of interested inquiry
when the shout of exultation, led by Lord Randolph Churchill, following
on the announcement of the figures, told him that he might incidentally
mention to Her Majesty that the Government had been defeated by a
majority of twelve.

[Illustration: "SEEING NOBODY."]

[Sidenote: A LOST VOTE.]

On the very few occasions when Mr. Gladstone visits the inner lobby on
his way to and from the Whips' room, he strides through the groups of
members with stiffened back and head erect, apparently seeing nobody.
This is a habit, certainly not discourteously meant, which cost him a
valuable friend, and made for the Liberal party one of its bitterest
and most effective enemies. Twenty years ago there entered the House of
Commons in the prime of life a man who early proved the potentiality of
his becoming one of its brightest ornaments. A Radical by conviction,
instinct, and habits dating from boyhood, he had raised in an important
district the drooping flag of Liberalism, and amid the disaster that
attended it at the General Election of 1874, had carried nearly every
seat in his own county.

There were other reasons why he might have looked for warm welcome
from the Liberal chief on entering the House of Commons. Mr. Gladstone
had a few years earlier, at another crisis in the fortunes of the
party, been a guest at his father's house, and was indebted to him
for substantial assistance in carrying the General Election of 1868.
A singularly sensitive, retiring man, the new member felt disposed to
shrink from the effusive reception that would naturally await him when
he settled in London within the circuit of personal communication with
Mr. Gladstone. He was in his place below the gangway on the Opposition
side for weeks through the Session of 1874. Mr. Gladstone, it is true,
was not then in constant attendance, but he not infrequently looked in,
and was at least within morning-call distance of the new member. They
met for the first time in the quiet corridor skirting the Library, and
Mr. Gladstone, his head in the air, passed his young friend, son of an
old friend, without sign of recognition.

It was, of course, a mere accident, an undesigned oversight, certainly
not enough to shape a man's political career. I do not say that alone
it did it, but I have personal knowledge of the fact that it rankled
deeply, and was the beginning of the end that wrecked a great career
and has cost the Liberal party dearly.

[Sidenote: MR. DISRAELI AND DR. O'LEARY.]

There is a well-known story of close upon this date which illustrates
Mr. Disraeli's manner in analogous circumstances. In the Parliament of
1874 there was a gentleman named Dr. O'Leary--William Haggarty O'Leary,
member for Drogheda. The Doctor was a very small man, with gestures
many sizes too big for him, and a voice that on occasion could emulate
the volume of Major O'Gorman's. He was fierce withal, as one of his
colleagues will remember. One night in the Session of 1875, when the
Coercion Bill was under discussion, Dr. O'Leary was put up to move
the adjournment. In those halcyon days it was possible for a member
to recommend such a motion in a speech of any length to which he felt
equal. Dr. O'Leary was proceeding apace when, his eye alighting on the
immobile face of the noble lord who was then Mr. Dodson, he alluded
to him as "the right hon. gentleman the Financial Secretary to the
Treasury." A compatriot touched Dr. O'Leary's arm and reminded him that
Mr. Dodson was no longer in office. "The _late_ right hon. gentleman,
then," retorted Dr. O'Leary, turning a blazing countenance on his
interrupter.

[Illustration: "BEFORE THE FIRE."]

It was pending the division on the third reading of the Empress of
India Bill that Mr. Disraeli won over this irate Irishman. The Premier
was anxious to have the third reading carried by a rattling majority,
and spared no pains to gain doubtful votes. One night in a division on
another Bill he came upon Dr. O'Leary in the Ministerial lobby, a place
the then budding Parnellite party fitfully resorted to. Dizzy walked a
few paces behind the member for Drogheda. Quickening his pace, he laid
a hand on his shoulder and said: "My dear Doctor, you gave me quite a
start. When I saw you I thought for a moment it was my old friend Tom
Moore."

From that day the delighted Doctor's vote was unreservedly at the
disposal of his eminent and discriminating friend.

[Sidenote: A WORD IN SEASON.]

Mr. Disraeli, while Leader of the House of Commons, turned the
necessary idle moments of the division lobby to better account than
finishing up his correspondence. In the winter months he used to
station himself at a fire in one of the recesses, standing with
coat-tails uplifted, in an attitude which showed that, though of
Oriental lineage, he had a British substratum. As the throng of members
trooped towards the wicket, Dizzy, keenly watching them, would signal
one out and genially converse with him for a few moments. Those thus
favoured were generally members who had recently made a speech, and
were gratified for the rest of their lives by a timely compliment.
Others--those in the Conservative ranks much rarer--were men reported
by the Whips to be showing a tendency towards restiveness, whom a few
genial words brought back to the fold.

[Sidenote: MR. GLADSTONE'S HAT AND STICK.]

In a recent number, talking of hat customs in the House of Commons, I
observed that there are not many members of the present Parliament who
have seen Mr. Gladstone seated on either Front Bench with his hat on.
An exception was mentioned with respect to the Session of 1875, when,
having retired from the leadership and looking in occasionally to see
how things were getting on under Lord Hartington, he was accustomed
to sit at the remote end of the Treasury Bench wearing his hat and
carrying stick and gloves.

An esteemed correspondent, whose knowledge of Parliament is extensive
and peculiar, writes: "There was a time when Mr. Gladstone most
ostentatiously and designedly wore his hat after the year you mention.
It was when, during the Bradlaugh scenes, he left the leadership, with
the responsibility of persecuting Bradlaugh, to Stafford Northcote.
He brought stick and hat into the House, and put the latter on during
Northcote's proceedings, as much as to say, 'Well, as you have the
House with you, carry your tyrannical procedure through yourself. I am
not in it.' I think all this must be in your Parliament books."

I do not think it is; but I remember the episode very well, and the
embarrassment into which the unexpected attitude plunged good Sir
Stafford Northcote. The situation was remarkable, and, I believe,
unparalleled. Mr. Gladstone had just been returned to power by a
majority that exceeded a hundred. The Conservative forces were
shattered. Even with a Liberal majority, which at its birth always
contains within itself the seeds of disintegration, it appeared
probable that at least the first Session of the new Parliament
would run its course before revolt manifested itself. It turned out
otherwise. A resolution, moved by Mr. Labouchere, and supported from
the Treasury Bench, giving Mr. Bradlaugh permission to make affirmation
and so take his seat, was thrown out by a majority of 275 against 230.

[Illustration: "WITH HAT AND STICK."]

It was after this Mr. Gladstone temporarily abrogated his position as
Leader of the House, bringing in hat and stick in token thereof. When,
on the next day, Mr. Bradlaugh presented himself, made straight for
the table, and was subsequently heard at the bar, the Premier came in,
not only with hat and stick in hand, but wearing his gloves. All eyes
were turned upon him, when Mr. Bradlaugh, having finished his speech,
withdrew at the Speaker's bidding. But he did not move, and then and
thereafter, during the Session, Sir Stafford Northcote took the lead in
whatever proceedings ensued on the lively action of Mr. Bradlaugh.

[Sidenote: SIR STAFFORD NORTHCOTE AND MR. BRADLAUGH.]

What Sir Stafford thought of the duty thrust upon him by the action
of keener spirits below the gangway was suspected at the time. Years
afterwards, disclosure was made in a letter written by his second
son, Sir Stafford Northcote, and published by the _Daily News_ in
December last. When in 1886 the Conservatives returned to power, Mr.
Bradlaugh, who had been furiously fought all through the life of the
former Parliament, was permitted quietly to take his seat. Later, a
motion was made by Dr. Hunter to expunge from the journals of the House
the resolution declaring him incompetent to sit. This was an awkward
position for a Government which included within its ranks men who had
been most active in resistance to Mr. Bradlaugh's attempts to take
his seat. After the debate had gone forward for an hour or two, the
present Sir Stafford Northcote rose from the bench immediately behind
Ministers, and urged that with slight amendment the resolution should
be accepted.

I remember well the scene, above all the startled manner in which Mr.
W. H. Smith, then Leader of the House, turned round to regard this
interposition from so unexpected a quarter. The House instinctively
felt that it settled the matter. If a member habitually so unobtrusive
as Sir Stafford Northcote felt compelled to interpose and support
an amendment, which, however regarded, was a vote of censure on the
conduct of the Conservative party through the Parliament of 1880,
feeling in the Conservative ranks must be strong indeed. A Government
who showed a disinclination to accept the resolution would find
themselves in a tight place if they persisted. What course would Mr. W.
H. Smith take?

Looking at his honest, ingenuous face, it was easy to read his
thoughts. Startled at first by the appearance on the scene of the
member for Exeter, he sat with head half turned watching and listening
intently. Gradually conviction dawned upon him. It was Sir Stafford
Northcote's revered father who had officially led the opposition to Mr.
Bradlaugh. Now, whilst the son spoke, there seemed to come a voice from
the grave pleading that enough had been done to vindicate Christianity
and Constitutionalism, urging that the House of Commons would do well
to perform a gracious and generous act and sooth Mr. Bradlaugh's last
moments (he was that very night lying on his death-bed) with news
that the obnoxious resolution had been erased. All this was glowingly
written on Mr. Smith's face as Sir Stafford Northcote spoke, and when
he followed everyone was prepared for the statement of acquiescence
made on these lines. There was nothing more to be said, and without a
division it was agreed to strike out the resolution from the journals
of the House.

[Sidenote: THE ARTFULNESS OF OLD MORALITY.]

Sir Stafford Northcote's letter, dated from the House of Commons,
13th November, 1893, throws a flood of light on this historic episode
and, incidentally, upon the methods of management of the homely,
innocent-looking gentleman who led the House of Commons from 1886 to
his lamented death in the autumn of 1891. "Shortly after the debate on
Dr. Hunter's motion began," Sir Stafford writes, "Mr. Smith asked me to
come into his private room, and asked me what I thought of the motion.
I replied that I did not see how the Government could accept it as it
stood, as it conveyed a censure on the Conservative party for their
action in the past; but that if this part of the motion were dropped,
I thought that the rest of the resolution might be agreed to. I added
that I would willingly make such an appeal to Mr. Smith publicly in the
House. Mr. Smith quite approved my suggestion. I made the appeal from
my place in the House, and Dr. Hunter consented to amend his motion."

Whence it will appear that the whole scene which entirely took in a
trusting House of Commons was what in another walk of industry is
called a put-up job.

[Illustration: LORD IDDESLEIGH.]

On the late Lord Iddesleigh's feelings during the Bradlaugh campaign,
his son's letter sheds a gentle light. "My suggestion to Mr. Smith."
Sir Stafford writes, "was partly based on the recollection that my
father had often said to me that, while he had had no hesitation in
discharging what he believed to be his duty in the various painful
scenes with which Mr. Bradlaugh's name is associated, he had always
felt much pain at having to take a course personally painful to a
fellow-member of the House."

[Sidenote: THE BIRTH OF THE FOURTH PARTY.]

It is a mistake deeply rooted in the public mind that it was Lord
Randolph Churchill who gave the first impulse to the creation of the
Fourth Party. This is an error due to his fascinating personality,
and the prominent part he later took in directing what for its size
and voting power is the most remarkable engine known in Parliamentary
warfare. The real creator of the Fourth Party was Sir Henry Wolff, now
Her Majesty's Minister at the Court of Madrid. It was he who first
saw the opportunity presented by the return of Mr. Bradlaugh for
Northampton of harassing the apparently impregnable Government. It so
happened that Lord Randolph Churchill was not present in the House at
the time the first movement commenced.

[ILLUSTRATION: SIR HENRY WOLFF.]

In later stages of the struggle Mr. Bradlaugh, so far from showing
indisposition to take the oath, insisted upon his right to do so,
and even administered it to himself. There was nothing in the world
to prevent his falling in with the throng that took the oath on the
opening of the new Parliament on the 30th of April, 1880. Had he done
so and quietly taken his seat, the course of events in that Parliament
would have been greatly altered. But Mr. Bradlaugh was not disposed to
miss his opportunity, and having allowed two or three days to elapse,
during which prominence was given to his position and curiosity aroused
as to his intention, he presented himself at the table and claimed the
right to make affirmation.

Even then, had Mr. Gladstone been in his place on the Treasury Bench,
the danger might have been averted. But the Premier and his principal
colleagues were at the time, pending re-election on acceptance of
office, not members of the House. Lord Frederick Cavendish, then
Financial Secretary to the Treasury, and all unconscious of the tragedy
that would close his blameless life, moved for a Select Committee
to inquire into the circumstances. The attitude of the Conservative
party at this moment was shown by the fact that Sir Stafford Northcote
seconded the motion. It was agreed to as a matter of course.

It was on the nomination of this Committee eight days later that
there were indications of trouble ahead. Sir Henry Wolff moved the
previous question, and took a division on it. Here again the feeling
of official Conservatives was shown by gentlemen on the Front Bench,
led by Sir Stafford Northcote, leaving the House without voting. On the
21st of May, Mr. Bradlaugh brought matters to a crisis by advancing
to the table claiming to take the oath. It was now that Sir Henry
Wolff brought things to a crisis. Having strategically placed himself
at the corner seat below the gangway, he threw himself bodily across
Mr. Bradlaugh's passage towards the table, crying "I object!" This
objection he sustained in an animated speech, concluding by moving a
resolution that Mr. Bradlaugh be not permitted to take the oath. It was
in support of this resolution that Lord Randolph Churchill appeared
upon the scene, interposing in the adjourned debate.

[Illustration: MR. GORST.]

He was not present during any earlier movement on the part of Sir Henry
Wolff. But his keen eye saw the opening to which Sir Stafford Northcote
was yet persistently blind. He joined hands with Sir Henry Wolff. To
them entered a gentleman then known as Mr. Gorst, and much later Mr.
Arthur Balfour. Thus was formed and welded a personal and political
association which has given an Ambassador to Madrid, has bestowed upon
the astonished Conservative party two leaders in succession, and has
endowed Mr. Gorst, in some respect not exceeded in ability by any of
his colleagues, with a modest knighthood and soothing recollections of
a too brief colleagueship with Lord Cross at the India Office.

[Sidenote: NEW MEN AND OLD PLACES.]

Mr. Gladstone has been singularly fortunate in the selection of new
blood for his Ministry. Mr. Disraeli, by some happy hits--not the
least effective the bringing of Mr. W. H. Smith within the ring fence
of office--justly earned a high reputation for insight to character.
Till this Parliament, one never heard of "Mr. Gladstone's young men,"
the innate conservatism of his mind and character leading him to
repose on level heights represented by personages like Lord Ripon and
Lord Kimberley. Growing more audacious with the advance of years,
Mr. Gladstone introduced new men to his last Ministry with success
distinctly marked in each particular instance. Mr. Asquith, as Home
Secretary; Mr. Acland, as Vice-President of the Council; Mr. Herbert
Gardner, as Minister for Agriculture; Sir Edward Grey, as Parliamentary
Secretary to the Foreign Office; Mr. Sydney Buxton, in a corresponding
position at the Colonial Office; Mr. Burt, at the Board of Trade; Sir
Walter Foster, at the Local Government Board, were all new to office
when they received their appointments, and each has satisfied the
expectation of the most critical Assembly in the world.

[Illustration: SIR EDWARD GREY.]

The Junior Lords of the Treasury who act as Whips were also new
to office, whilst Mr. Marjoribanks, though he had gone through a
Parliament as Junior Whip, for the first time found in his hands the
direction of one of the most important posts in a Ministry based upon
a Parliamentary majority. The remarkable and unvaried success of the
Liberal Whips--the team comprising Mr. Thomas Ellis, Mr. Causton, and
Mr. McArthur--was recognised in these pages very early in the Session,
and has since become a truism of political comment.

[Illustration: MR. SEALE-HAYNE.]

Mr. Seale-Hayne is another Minister new to the work who realizes for
his chief the comfort of a department that has no annals. The office of
Paymaster-General is not quite what it was in the days of Charles James
Fox. A certain mystery broods over its functions and its ramifications.
Mr. Seale-Hayne is, personally, of so retiring a disposition that he
is apt to efface both his office and himself. But the fact remains
that affairs in the office of the Paymaster-General have not cost Mr.
Seale-Hayne's illustrious chief a single hour's rest. No Irish member,
shut off by the Home Rule compact from foraging in familiar fields,
has been tempted to put to the Paymaster-General an embarrassing
question relating to the affairs of his office. Mr. Hanbury has left
him undisturbed, and Cap'en Tommy Bowles has given him a clear berth.
Whom Mr. Seale-Hayne pays, or where he gets the money from to meet
his engagements, are mysteries locked in the bosom of the Master. It
suffices for the country to know that Mr. Seale-Hayne is an ideal
Paymaster-General.

[Illustration: MR. ASQUITH.]

[Sidenote: MR. ASQUITH.]

Whilst all the new Ministers have been successes, the Home Secretary,
by reason of the importance of his office and force of character,
has done supremely well. This must be peculiarly grateful to Mr.
Gladstone, since the member for Fife was his own especial find. That
when a Liberal Ministry was formed some office would be allotted to Mr.
Asquith was a conclusion commonly come to by those familiar with his
career in the last Parliament. But I will undertake to say that his
appointment at a single bound to the Home Secretaryship, with a seat in
the Cabinet, was a surprise to everyone, not excepting Mr. Asquith, who
is accustomed to form a very just estimation of his own capacity. The
Solicitor-Generalship appeared to most people who gave thought to the
subject the natural start on his official career of a young lawyer who
had shown the aptitude for Parliamentary life displayed by Mr. Asquith.
Mr. Gladstone knew better, and his prescience has been abundantly
confirmed.

Next to the post of Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant, that of
Home Secretary is by far the most difficult successfully to fill. Proof
of this will appear upon review of the measure of success obtained by
incumbents of the office since the time of Mr. Walpole. The reason
for the pre-eminence and predicament is not far to seek. The Colonial
Secretary has distant communities to deal with, and so has the
Secretary of State for India. The Minister for War and the First Lord
of the Admiralty each has his labour and responsibility confined within
clearly marked limits. So it is with the Postmaster-General, the First
Commissioner of Works, and, in less degree, with the President of the
Board of Trade and the President of the Local Government Board. The
Home Secretary has all England for his domain, with occasional erratic
excursions into Scotland.

There is hardly any point of the daily life of an Englishman which
is not linked with the Home Office, and does not open some conduit
of complaint. Before he had been twelve months in office Mr. Asquith
was hung in effigy in Trafalgar Square. That, it is true, was a
momentary exuberance on the part of the Anarchists. The incident
leaves unchallenged the assertion that there has been no serious or
well-sustained protest against Mr. Asquith's administration at the Home
Office since he succeeded Mr. Matthews. Comparisons are undesirable.
But the mere mention of the name of Mr. Asquith's predecessor reminds
us that the case was not always thus.

In his Parliamentary career Mr. Asquith's success has been equally
un-chequered. It was a common saying among people indisposed to hamper
novices by unwieldy weight of encouragement, that when Mr. Asquith was
placed in a position where he would have to bear the brunt of debate,
he would certainly break down. This cheerful prognostication was based
upon the assertion that the speeches that had established his fame in
the House of Commons were carefully prepared, written out, and, if not
learned off by rote, the speaker was sustained in their delivery by the
assistance of copious notes. This assertion was so confidently made,
and appeared to be so far supported by a certain precision of epigram
in the young member's Parliamentary style, that the theory obtained
wide acceptance.

Everyone now admits that the Home Secretary, occasionally drawn into
debate for which he has had no opportunity for preparation at his desk,
has spoken much more effectively than Mr. Asquith was wont to do. He
has the great gifts of simplicity of style, lucidity of arrangement,
and a fearless way of selecting a word that conveys his meaning, even
though it may sound a little harsh. To this is added a determined,
not to say belligerent, manner, which implies that he is not in any
circumstances to be drawn a hair's-breadth beyond the line which
duty, conscience, and conviction have laid down for him and that if
anyone tries to force him aside he will probably get hurt. This is an
excellent foundation on which a Home Secretary may stand to combat
all the influences of passion and prejudice that are daily and hourly
brought to bear upon him.

Of its general effect a striking and amusing illustration was
forthcoming in the closing days of the winter Session. During Mr.
Morley's temporary withdrawal on account of illness, Mr. Asquith
undertook to take his place at question time in the House of Commons.
For a night or two he read the answers to questions put by Irish
members, and then Mr. Morley's absence promising to be more protracted
than was at first thought probable, the Chancellor of the Duchy, a
Minister with fuller leisure, relieved the Home Secretary of the task.
Thereupon a story was put abroad that Mr. Asquith had been superseded
upon the demand of the Irish members, who had privily conveyed to Mr.
Gladstone a peremptory intimation that they could not stand the kind
of answers Mr. Asquith chucked at them across the floor of the House.
It was added that the appearance on the scene of Mr. Bryce averted an
awkward crisis, the Irish members making haste to declare their perfect
satisfaction with his replies, and their rejoicing at deliverance from
Mr. Asquith's hectoring.

[Illustration: PROFESSOR BRYCE.]

Then it turned out that the answers given through the course of the
week in question had been neither Mr. Asquith's nor Mr. Bryce's. Each
one had been written out by Mr. John Morley. Only, on two nights Mr.
Asquith had read the manuscript, and on two others the task had been
discharged by Mr. Bryce. Thus do manners make the man.




_Singing Bob._


                         BY ALICE MAUD MEADOWS.

Singing Bob and Lily Steve had been friends since first they came
into the camp, both having made their entrance upon the same day, and
having grown intimate over a glass of something hot. Perhaps the total
difference in the appearance and in the nature of the two men drew them
together; anyway, they were seldom apart. They worked upon the same
claim, shared in everything, and spent their leisure in taking long
stretches over the surrounding country.

Singing Bob was a big, burly, handsome man. The sun had tanned his skin
to the colour of the red earth, from out the setting of which a pair
of eyes, blue as the summer sky, and heavily fringed with long, misty
black lashes, laughed continually. He was careless in his dress, as
diggers as a rule are; but for all that nothing ever seemed to hang
ungracefully upon his magnificent limbs. His blue shirt, as a rule,
was stained with earth, and torn with pushing through the undergrowth
in the pine woods. His long, brown wavy hair was pushed back from his
broad brow, and fell almost upon his shoulders.

He had earned his name through his voice: he sang like an angel, clear
as a bell, flexibly as a lark; he could trill and shake in a way which
would have made many an educated singer envious. He could have made his
fortune as a concert singer, but perhaps he had sufficient reasons for
avoiding civilized parts: most probably he had. However that might be,
he came to the diggings, and gave his fellow gold-seekers the benefit
of his musical talent.

Taken all through he was a rough sort of fellow, with off-hand manners,
and a loud voice. When he laughed one feared for the upper half of his
head: he opened his mouth so wide it seemed as though it must come
off, and showed a double row of teeth which would have made a dentist
despair. He was a popular man in the camp, because he was perfectly
fearless and perfectly good tempered.

Lily Steve was a very different man. He was small in stature, below
the medium height, and with all that conceit and self-esteem which is
so usual with very little men. His face was pretty. The sun seemingly
had no power to tan his pink and white skin. His hair was golden, as
were his short beard, whiskers, and moustache. His clothes were always
spotless, even after a hard day's work in the gulch. Apparently the
earth had no power to soil him.

It was to this general spotlessness that he owed his name, "Lily
Steve." Diggers are quick to notice, and name a man from any little
peculiarity he may possess; and in a diggers' camp cleanliness is a
decided peculiarity. They tried to laugh him out of it at first, but as
Singing Bob said, "It was a matter of taste. Lily Steve was doubtless
fond of washing; p'r'aps--who could tell?--it reminded him of something
in the past. Some men like as not got drunk to bring their fathers and
mothers back to their memory and the days of their youth generally;
for his part, he thought it was a good plan to let folks run their own
affairs. There were more objectionable things than cleanliness. He
liked the smell of the earth about his things; upon his own shoulders
a perfectly spotless shirt had a lazy, uncomfortable, all-over-alike
sort of appearance, which wearied his eyes; but upon Lily Steve it was
different. To have one perfectly clean man in the camp conferred a
distinction upon it, which, no doubt, would make other camps envious.
Like as not, they'd be for copying it, but it would not be the real
thing--only a base imitation; they'd have the comfort of knowing that."

So Lily Steve was simply nick-named and left in peace. He had a bold
champion, who towered head and shoulders above the rest of the men in
the camp, and whose aim was sure--that may have had something to do
with it.

"Hunter's Pocket," as the settlement was called, was in a fairly
flourishing condition; not so flourishing as to bring hundreds flocking
to it, but with a reputation which daily increased its population.
There was one long street, with two branches which struck off
crosswise, a rough chapel, a store, and lastly an hotel.

Paradise Hotel scarcely deserved its name. True, there was plenty of
light in it, and plenty of spirits, but neither was celestial; one
thing alone justified its ambitious misnomer--the presence of a goddess.

Mariposas was a beauty, there was not the slightest doubt about that:
tall and slim as a young pine tree, lissom as a willow, graceful and
agile as a wild deer, her eyes large and dark, her skin softly ruddy
as a peach which the sun has kissed passionately, her lips full and
red, the upper one short and slightly lifted, showing even when she was
not laughing a faint gleam of her white teeth; the under one cleft in
the centre like a cherry, her nose short and straight, her chin gently
rounded, her little head set firmly and proudly upon her white throat,
her burnished brown hair falling in wavy masses to her knees, and
caught in at the nape of her neck with a ribbon--such was Mariposas,
the Goddess of the Paradise Hotel, the darling and pride of Hunter's
Pocket.

[Illustration: "MARIPOSAS."]

Who was her father and who was her mother no one appeared to know. Some
said that, so far as paternity was concerned, she was indebted to one,
Jim, who had been found dead in the bush, shot through the heart, some
seventeen years previously, with the infant clasped in his arms; but as
for the mother--about her everyone was perfectly ignorant.

However, the child was adopted by the camp, fed and clothed from
a general fund, and in time installed as presiding Goddess of the
Paradise Hotel. Here she dispensed drinks to the thirsty, refused them
to the inebriated, sang snatches of songs to the company, and even,
when in a specially gracious mood, danced to them.

Singing Bob and Lily Steve were at work on their claim; there was
silence between them only broken by the sharp sound of the picks as
they came in contact with the quartz, and the chattering of a jay-bird
which had settled upon a mound of the red earth, and was watching
operations with his head cocked knowingly upon one side.

It was a curious sort of silence, one that they both apparently
noticed, for now and again they would glance at each other, then
without speaking go on with their work again. It was not that they had
not time for talk, for the picks were lifted but laggingly, and often
rested upon the ground while they took a survey of the surrounding
country.

Seemingly both found more beauty to the right, where the settlement
lay, than to the left, where the pine-crowned hills lifted themselves
up high towards the blue sky. Perhaps the scorching sun which blazed
down upon them that hot January afternoon made their thoughts turn
longingly towards the Paradise Hotel, and the cool drinks which were
being dispensed there. Singing Bob put down his pick, lifted his arms
high above his head, leaned slightly backward, and stretched himself;
then stooping picked up a bit of quartz and looked at it thoughtfully,
passing his shirt sleeve across it once or twice. The sun shone down
upon it, making the iron pyrites glitter and the gold crystals sparkle.
He tossed it from one hand to the other, then let it fall.

"Plenty of gold here, Steve," he said, slowly.

The other man started and turned--their eyes met; there was a curious,
questioning, anxious look in both.

"Plenty," he answered.

"Enough to make a man rich in a couple of months if he worked honest,"
he continued.

"Yes," the other said, curtly.

"There's some as would give a good price for this claim," Bob
continued, meditatively. "It's my 'pinion it's a pocket, and a deep
one; if we was wanting to quit we'd be able to raise a tidy sum on it."

"Yes."

"But we ain't."

"No."

"And if one of us," Bob said, speaking still in an abstract sort
of way, "had found the life distasteful, and wished to leave his
partner--if he hated the dirt, and the hard labour, and had friends
as he'd like to go home to--the other would be willing, like as not,
to pay him a good round sum for his share of the claim; but," looking
anxiously at his companion, "there ain't either of us feels like that?"

"No."

Bob heaved a sigh, took up his pick again, let it fall, then, seating
himself upon a heap of earth, took up the fragments of quartz which
sparkled with sprays of native gold, and crushed them into atoms with a
hammer.

"Some men," he said, softly, glancing at Steve, and catching his eyes
fixed upon him, "have a hankering after England when they've made
something of a pile, and the sweetheart they left there--we didn't
leave any sweetheart?"

"No."

Bob sighed again and went on:--

"And some want to see the old father and mother?"

"Yes--mine both died years ago."

"Just so," with attempted cheerfulness; "we're different, we're enough
for each other."

No answer this time. Bob looked at the fair, pretty boyish face; it
was pink all over, pink as an honest, genuine blush could make it; he
turned away, and sighed again. The jay-bird on the earth-heap strutted
up and down like a sentinel on guard, chattering noisily and screaming
now and then; the wind blew from the pine woods, bringing the pungent
smell with it; the evening was very warm. Steve let fall his pick,
brushed a few earth specks from his shirt, washed his face and hands in
an unconscious sort of way, then looked at his partner.

"I'm going to turn it up for to-day," he said.

"Ah!" Bob returned, slowly. "Well, I'll put in a bit more work, I
think."

Steve lingered a moment as though he would have said more with a little
encouragement, but Bob was so deeply engaged in his work that he felt a
sort of delicacy in disturbing him, and turned away, walking slowly and
thoughtfully, as though undecided about something. The jay-bird watched
him go, then came nearer to Bob, pecked at his shirt sleeve, pulled
at his red handkerchief, and took other liberties, keeping his sharp
eyes on the handsome face and hammer alternatively. Bob glanced at him,
smiled and sighed at one and the same time, then let his hands fall
idly between his knees.

So he sat for some time, then looked round. He wanted to say something,
and there was no one to say it to. _Thought_ scarcely unburdens one's
mind; _speech_ is always a relief. He looked at the earth, the sky, the
quartz, and finally at the bird. There was something so human about the
little creature that he decided to make him his confidant.

"You see," he said, gravely, giving the bird his whole attention, "it's
like this: me and Steve, we've been partners since we came to this here
Hunter's Pocket. He being a bit weakly, and having habits which isn't
usual in these parts, I've been obliged to stand up for him and fight
his battles, so to speak, which, naturally, makes me a bit partial to
him--being partners, you see, we've been used to share everything, luck
and all. But there's sometimes a thing happens to a man when sharing
can't be the order of the day; that time's when a man falls in love."

The bird shut his eyes for a moment, then turned them up and looked
sentimental, as much as to say, "It's the same with us."

"You see," Bob went on, slowly, "Steve haven't said anything to me, and
I haven't, so to speak, mentioned the fact to him: but there it is, we
two partners have set our hearts on Mariposas, and the question is:
Who'd make her the best husband?"

The bird grew restless; perhaps he thought that was a tame ending to
a love story. Doubtless he had expected that Bob would at least wish
to fight for the girl. He hopped away with one bright eye turned round
to the digger, then changing his mind, perhaps feeling a bit curious,
came back, and began pecking at the blue shirt again.

[Illustration: "HIS CONFIDANT."]

"Which'd make her the best husband?" Bob repeated. "Not," with a shake
of his head, "that I can say she's given either of us 'casion to think
that she'd take us into partnership; but if I thought that Steve would
suit her better than me and make her happier, I'd cut my throat before
I'd say a word as might disturb her."

The bird intimated by a low, guttural sound that this was a most
laudable sentiment, then, perching himself upon the digger's leg,
nestled up to him.

"Steve's clean, and Steve's a gentleman," Bob went on, stroking the
bird softly with one finger. "He'd treat her like a lady always, speak
gently to her, and not offend with any rough ways: but he's weakly, he
couldn't protect her 'gainst rudeness or insult as I could; he couldn't
love her as I could. Great God!" bringing one hand down heavily upon
his knee while with the other he held the bird in a firm, gentle clasp,
"how I'd love her if she'd have me!" His face flushed, his great breast
heaved, the red blood crept up under his bronzed skin, his blue eyes
grew tender, then he lifted his voice and sang:

    "Mariposas, Mariposas, idol of this heart of mine;
    Mariposas, Mariposas, all the love I have is thine.
    Could I tell thee how I love thee, wouldst thou laugh or smile at me?
    Mariposas, Mariposas, say, what would your answer be?"

He paused a moment, then sang the same words again. They had come to
him as a sort of inspiration some few days before; previously, as he
gravely told himself, "he had not known he was one of those darned
poet chaps." He was a little ashamed of the weakness, but found the
constant repetition of the poor verse, adapted to the tune of a camp
hymn, very soothing and comforting. The words softened his nature,
and almost brought the tears into his eyes. They made him blissfully
miserable, and in this misery he took a melancholy pleasure, as some do
in picturing the scene of their own death-bed, the leave-takings, the
last touching words they will breathe, and the quiet, happy smile which
will set their lips as they hear the angels calling, and see the gates
of Heaven open.

Having tired out the patient bird, who backed from his hand, ruffling
all his feathers the wrong way, and hopped away, he rose from his seat,
then turned quickly as a low ripple of laughter fell upon his ear.

Such a vision met his gaze as made his great frame tremble. Mariposas,
with a teasing smile upon her beautiful face, was standing just behind
him: she had been a listener to his idiocy.

"That's a fine song, and no mistake, Bob," she said, standing some
little distance from him, and flashing defiant glances at him from her
dark eyes. "The lady'd be obliged to you for making her name so public.
The magpies'll be calling it out to-night."

She paused: he had no word to say, but just stood before her drinking
in her beauty, longing, yet afraid, to fall down and worship her.

"Where's Steve?" she said, sharply, stooping down to the bird, who was
examining her shoe-lace minutely.

"Gone home," Bob said, finding his tongue. "He'll be at the Paradise
by this time likely. Did you want him?"

[Illustration: "A VISION MET HIS GAZE."]

"One's always pleased to see Steve," she said, eyeing the stained
clothes of the splendid specimen of manhood before her with great
displeasure. "_He_ keeps himself decent." She paused again. Bob had
nothing to say; he looked down at his own clothes and sighed. "Well,"
she said, sharply, after a moment, "have you nothing to say for
yourself?"

"No," he answered, humbly. "Some can keep clean, some can't. If,"
sheepishly, "I had a wife, now----"

"A wife!" interrupting him. "D'you suppose any decent woman would
undertake _you_? Not she."

His expression grew quite hopeless.

"You think not?" he said, so sadly that her heart might have been
touched. "Well," stooping down and picking up his tools, "I've feared
the same myself. It's a bad job, but somehow," looking himself slowly
over, "the earth seems to have a spite against me."

"Steve can keep clean."

"Yes," agreeingly, "it's curious, but that's so. You're quite right,
Steve's the better man of us two."

She tossed her head and blushed rosy red, but neither agreed nor
disagreed with him.

"I'm going back now," she said, after a little pause. "I came for a
walk to get a breath of fresh air. It isn't often I'm down in the
gulch--it's not an inviting place. Are you leaving work now?"

"Yes," Bob answered; "but I'll wait awhile till you've gone. You'd not
like to be seen walking with me."

He spoke quite simply, and scarcely understood why she pouted her
pretty lips--putting it down as meaning that _that_ she certainly would
not like to do. He stood looking at her, then suddenly she turned away.

He watched her, hoping that perhaps she would turn her head; but
she did not. She went slowly, though, and suddenly sat down on an
earth-heap. He wondered why she was resting. He went to her. She was
holding one foot as though it pained her, but her eyes laughed round at
him and her cheeks were as red as a rose.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked.

"No," she answered, while her lips twitched amusedly; "at least,
nothing much: I've sprained my ankle. I shall have to stop here till it
is better."

"Can't you walk?" he said, looking troubled.

"No," she answered, shortly.

He stood by her side, scarcely knowing what to do. He could have taken
her up in his arms and carried her as easily as though she had been a
baby. The very thought of holding her so made him tremble; but, then,
she would never let him.

"I wish Steve were here," he said.

"Why?" sharply. "What could Steve do that you cannot?"

"Steve could help you; you wouldn't mind him, he's clean."

"Steve couldn't carry me."

"No, that's true. Steve's but a weakly chap, but"--loyally--"he's
clean!"

"Go and fetch someone to help me."

"And leave you here alone? Not I." He looked down upon her, at her
lovely hair, at her laughing eyes; then he looked at her white dress.
"Will it wash?" he asked, touching it.

"Oh, yes."

"Then let me carry you."

Her eyes sought the ground, the smile round her lips grew merrier; she
began pushing the loose stones about with her fingers.

"May I?" he said, eagerly.

She looked up with defiant eyes. "Well, I suppose I must get home," she
answered.

He waited for no more, but caught her up in his arms and held her
closely clasped. For a moment he paused while he battled with, and
conquered, an inclination to stoop and kiss her, then, turning his face
from hers, he swung away towards the huts.

She smiled to herself, and laid her head down upon his shoulder; she
could feel the mad beating of his heart, and it made her own beat
faster.

"Bob," she said.

"Yes," he answered, keeping his face steadily turned away.

"Look at me," she said, authoritatively, "Why do you look away?" "Am I
so ugly?"

He turned slowly, looking down upon her face, at her lips, scarce an
inch from his. "So beautiful," he said; "so beautiful. It is best that
I do not look at you."

"Am I heavy, Bob?"

[Illustration: "AM I HEAVY?"]

"Heavy? No!"

"Put me down if I tire you."

"Tire me!"

"You've turned your face away again."

"I must."

"Why, Bob?"

He held her a little closer, and answered with another question: "Did
you ever see cherries growing?"

"Yes, Bob."

"And did ever you notice that folks put nets over them to keep the
birds from pecking them?"

"Yes, Bob."

"Do you think they'd be able to resist the temptation of touching them
if they could see them looking so tempting, so sweet and beautiful, if
they wasn't protected?"

"I dare say not."

"Well,"--he turned and looked at her for a moment--"I'm like the birds,
and your lips are the cherries. I mustn't look or I shall be tempted."

She flushed all over her face and neck, then into her eyes laughter
stole.

"Did it ever strike you that perhaps the cherries were made for the
birds to peck?" she said, half nervously.

He looked at her once more; the bronze colour faded from his face, his
great chest heaved.

"Mariposas?" he said, gently, questioningly, "Mariposas!"

She grew pale and frightened, she had only been playing with him.

"Let me down," she said, "I can walk now; let me down, Bob."

"But your foot?"

"Let me down."

He lowered her from his arms gently, she stood firmly upon both feet,
there was no vestige of pain in the expression of her face.

"Thank you," she said, demurely, looking up at him and laughing as
though something amused her. "Are you going on to the Paradise? Wait a
little while; let me go alone; folks'll talk if they see us together;
most outrageous ideas get into some people's heads when they've not
much to think of."

She tripped away, Bob standing watching her. Almost he expected to hear
a little cry of pain and to be called to her help, but seemingly the
ankle was quite well.

He watched her out of sight, then his eyes wandered over his own
person--his clothes seemed more earth-stained than ever; his shirt,
that had been clean that morning, was splashed with liquid mud.

"She's right," he said, softly, "no decent woman would marry a dirty
fellow like me."

He stood hesitatingly, then turned away towards his hut. There he got
water and scoured himself almost savagely, then changed his clothes,
and somewhat sheepishly, if the truth be told, made his way towards the
Paradise Hotel.

It was pretty full; everyone had knocked off work for the day--the
whole camp was spending the evening convivially--they hailed Bob with
delight. Someone thrust a pewter pot into his hand, bade him drain it,
and give them a song.

Bob looked round at the presiding goddess.

"If it's quite agreeable to all, I'll be happy," he said.

His look asked for Mariposas' permission. She did not answer for a
moment, but looked him all over; he felt himself colouring.

"You've not been working to-day, have you, Bob?" she said.

He blushed painfully, and, their attention thus drawn, the whole camp
noticed his spotless cleanliness.

"Yes," he answered.

"Then you've been getting married, or going to a christening since?"

"No."

"Then it's sweethearting you are?"

He looked her full in the face. "Yes," he answered, "that's it. I'm
sweethearting."

There was a chorus of good-humoured laughter at this. They thought he
was joking, all but the girl: she knew better, but she did not mean to
spare him.

[Illustration: "'YOU MUST GO AWAY FROM HERE,' SHE SAID."]

"Then you must go away from here," she said. "We won't ask her name;
but, like as not, she'd prefer that you should spend your time with
her. When you're married and want to get away from her nagging, you may
come back."

The men laughed, they thought it was a good joke.

"Shan't I give you the song?" Bob asked, humbly.

"No, thank you," the girl answered. "Steve is going to sing with me."

"Steve!"

He looked at his partner and smiled. Steve had a voice about as
melodious as the jay-bird.

"Then I am not wanted?"

All the men looked at Mariposas, waiting for her to speak. They thought
in some way Bob had offended.

"No," she said, "not here. Good-night, Bob; give my love to your
sweetheart."

He went out slowly, and back to his hut. He could not understand how
he had offended the girl--what made her treat him so. It never crossed
his mind that it might simply be wilfulness. Once or twice he sang his
little love song over to himself; then he closed his eyes, folded his
arms as they had been folded when he held the girl he loved in them,
and tried to think she was there still.

About midnight Steve came in. Bob opened his eyes and looked at him.
Something about his footstep had struck him as unusual; generally it
was light, now it dragged; his face, too, was colourless, and in his
boyish eyes there were tears.

Bob rose slowly and went to him.

"Anything wrong, Steve?" he asked, laying his great hand upon his
partner's shoulder with a touch gentle as a woman's.

Steve dropped his face upon his hands.

"She won't have me," he said. "I asked her to-night; she had been so
kind, singing with me, walking a little way with me; I thought it meant
that I might speak. She must have known that I loved her."

"And she refused you?"

"Yes."

"Try again; perhaps she wants you to try again."

"No, she says her heart is not her's to give."

"Does she?"

Bob went cold, and pale too. He wondered who it could be that she
loved; there was none worthier than Steve.

"If it had been you," Steve went on, "I could have borne it; but see
how she treated you to-night. I shall go away from here, Bob."

"And I, Steve."

It was little they slept that night, and before the next evening
everyone knew that Singing Bob and Lily Steve were going away from the
camp. Perhaps, too, they half guessed the cause.

[Illustration: "MARIPOSAS ENTERED THE HUT."]

They had done very well, and their claim sold for a fair price. They
would take quite enough away to start in some new way.

It was the night before they had settled to leave: Steve had gone up
to the Paradise to say good-bye to Mariposas. Bob said he couldn't and
wouldn't, but sent a message by his friend. He was sitting alone, half
wishing that he had gone just to see her face and hear her voice once
more, when someone lifted the latch of his door, and the subject of his
thoughts entered the hut.

He rose quickly, then stood still, not knowing what to do; she broke
the silence.

"So you were going without bidding me good-bye?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, huskily, for now that she was there, so near to
him, it seemed harder than ever to go. "Yes, I thought it best."

"Why?"

"Because I loved you, because I love you."

"You never told me so."

"No, Steve loved you. Steve is a better fellow than I, and--and you
said that no decent woman would take me. Steve told me the other night
that he had asked you to be his wife, and that you had said no, that
your heart was already given, and so we are both going. I could not
stop and see you belonging to another."

There was a silence. It had begun to rain; the heavy drops pattered
against the window, and a rising wind rattled the door.

"It is better that I go," he said. "I shall start now in some other way
of life."

"You and Steve?"

"No, Steve will go back to his people; he has relations."

"And you?"

"I have no people. I have no one belonging to me, not a single soul--I
never shall have."

"You are quite alone in the world?"

"Quite."

"And that sweetheart you spoke of?"

He did not answer, he only looked at her: she coloured and faltered.

"It is not well for a man to live alone," she said, unconsciously
quoting. "Bob," coming a little nearer to him, "do you remember that
day that you carried me?"

"Is it likely I could forget?"

"And you thought I was hurt, but I wasn't. Bob"--softly--"I _wanted_ to
be taken in your arms."

He did not speak, he did not understand--why had she wanted him to take
her in his arms?

"And they are so strong," she went on, "they held me so comfortably.
Bob--since you are going away, since after to-night I shall never see
you again--take me into them once more."

He took a step backwards.

"But the man you love!" he said.

"Bob! Must I ask you twice?"

He paused no longer, he threw his strong arms around her, lifting her
in them.

"Now," she said, a shy smile creeping over her lips, "kiss me once--we
are friends, parting for ever."

He bent his head; he kissed her, not once, but fifty times.

"Great God!" he said, hoarsely, "how can I go? How can I part with her
now?"

"Is it hard?" she said. "Poor Bob," touching his face gently with her
slender fingers, "have I made it harder? I must go now and you must go
to-morrow; put me down."

He did not obey, he held her close.

"Who is it that you love?" he asked.

She looked straight into his eyes.

"Is it fair to ask?" she answered. "And does it matter--you go
to-morrow?"

"Yes, I go to-morrow."

She reached her arms upward as she had once before; she lifted herself
a little in his embrace, and laid her cheek against his.

"Take me with you, Bob," she whispered. "It is you I love!"

"Mariposas!"

"Are you glad?--then kiss me again!"




_How Composers Work._


                        BY FRANCIS ARTHUR JONES.

One of my correspondents, writing to me on the subject of this article,
says that he thinks I have undertaken a "tough job," and I fancy he
is partly right. I trust, however, that my efforts have not been
altogether futile, and that I have, in a measure, overcome most of the
"toughness."

It has always appeared to me a curious fact that whereas one so often
sees facsimile reproductions of the MSS. of famous authors and others,
it is a comparatively rare occurrence to come across the compositions
of musical composers treated in the same way, and I therefore
determined to undertake the work of placing before the readers of this
magazine portions of the MSS. of some of the foremost composers of the
day, together with their opinions relative to that art of which they
are the masters.

It may interest my readers still further to learn that the MSS. were,
in most instances, re-written for me by the composers, with the object
of their being produced in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. They are given here
as specimens of their compositions _when ready for publication_, for
the first jottings of a composer are, as a rule, intelligible only to
himself.


JOSEPH BARNBY.

Sir J. Barnby, the late Precentor of Eton College, and newly elected
Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, writes:--

"As a rule I do not work at the piano except to test what has already
been written down. I have found ideas come most readily in the railway
carriage or during a drive, and the time I prefer for composition is
the morning."

[Illustration: "Sweet and low"

Part-song

Lord Tennyson Barnby]

As to writing on commission he says:--

"I see no objection to a composer writing 'to order,' as long as he
sends out nothing of which he does not approve. Handel's 'Dettingen Te
Deum,' Mozart's 'Requiem,' Mendelssohn's 'Elijah,' and a hundred other
works furnish us with successful examples of this class of composition.

"I do not," he continues, "consider the _art_ of composing one which
can be acquired (the science may), but such an art is all but useless
without serious cultivation."

In his modesty, Sir Joseph will give no opinion as to which he
considers his best work, but sends, for publication here, a few bars of
one of his part-songs which has had the widest acceptance--"Sweet and
Low."


JOHN FRANCIS BARNETT.

Mr. Barnett's method of composing I give in his own words:--

"Sometimes," he says, "an idea will come to me spontaneously, but when
this is not the case I try for something, generally at the piano. If I
succeed, I dot it down on music paper, but do not feel satisfied that
it will be of any worth until I try it again the following day, because
I have not infrequently found that an idea, which I considered good at
the time, after the lapse of a day or more will appear to me insipid
and not worth working out. I prefer the evening for composition, but
not too late. For working out my ideas, putting them on paper, and for
orchestration, I like the morning. Of my own compositions I consider
'The Building of the Ship,' written for the Leeds Festival, the best
work I have yet done."

[Illustration]

As many of Mr. Barnett's compositions have been written "to order," he
not unnaturally believes in this method of composition. In fact, he
feels all the better for having some strong reason for commencing a
composition, but can easily understand that it would act detrimentally,
especially if it involved the hurrying of the work.

"To a great extent," he continues, "I believe that composition can be
acquired and cultivated providing there is some groundwork of talent to
go upon. Without cultivation it would be impossible to work out ideas
satisfactorily; at the same time, I do not believe that any amount of
cultivation will give original ideas unless they belong to the composer
by nature."

I here give my readers a few remarks of Mr. Barnett's, on whether or no
we are a musical nation. At the close of this article I hope to give
his opinion on this somewhat oft-repeated question at greater length.
For the present, then, he says: "I think that the English are generally
fond of music, but the quality of music they are fond of is, in many
cases, bordering on the commonplace. That there are a multitude of
admirers of the classical in music amongst the English is, fortunately,
quite true, but I am inclined to believe that there are too many who
are quite content with perhaps dance music, and who would rather not
hear such a thing as a Beethoven Sonata. The reason for the want of
good taste amongst a certain portion of our people may be traced to
the class of music given by some teachers to their young pupils." The
portion of music is taken from Mr. Barnett's last cantata, "The Wishing
Bell," produced at the Gloucester Festival.


JACQUES BLUMENTHAL.

"Sometimes," says Jacques Blumenthal, "I compose at the piano, at
other times away from it. I am in the habit of reading a good deal of
poetry, and when any poem strikes my fancy and seems adapted to musical
treatment, I copy it into one of my MS. books, of which I always keep
several, in English, French, German, and Italian. These verses all lie
patiently there till their time comes to be set to music. Some have to
wait for years, some are composed almost at once; it all depends on the
mood in which I happen to be, for according to my mood I look out for
some verses corresponding to it, and then the song comes forth with
ease; in fact, it takes much less time to compose the music than to
write it down, but I invariably try to improve upon it, and file down
or add almost up to the time of going into print. Sometimes I feel more
attracted towards one language than towards another, and then I am apt
to compose for some time nothing but songs in that language. This is
the origin of my French and German albums, and as you ask me which I
consider my best work, I must say in my estimation it is the album of
twenty German songs with English version by Gwendoline Gore."

As to whether the art of composition can be acquired or learned and
cultivated, Mr. Blumenthal says:--

"There is no doubt that the rules, or what we may call the grammar
of composition, can be acquired by clear heads just as the rules of
any other grammar can be. But just as little as knowing the rules of
language can make you write _one_ phrase worth remembering, so will the
life work of a mere musical scholar be cast into the shade by a few
bars from the pen of a man of genius."

[Illustration]

The two or three bars of music in the composer's autograph are taken
from his well-known song "The Message."


F. H. COWEN.

Mr. Cowen says, with reference to his mode of composing: "I usually
work by fits and starts, or rather, I should say, that I work sometimes
for months continuously, almost all day and evening with little rest,
especially when I am engaged upon a large work, for then I can think of
nothing else: it weighs upon my mind until completed. At other times,
perhaps, I do little or nothing (except a few songs, etc.) for a month
or two, lying quite fallow. This may be a greater strain than working
systematically all the year round, but I cannot bear when engaged on
anything important to lose the thread of it for a single moment."

As to composing to a piano, Mr. Cowen believes in it when writing for
_voices_ and singing every note and word oneself, but otherwise his
opinion is that the music is very apt to be unvocal. In the case of
_choral works_, he often makes the vocal score first, having made up
his mind thoroughly beforehand what the orchestration is to be.

"I never work now very late into the night," continues the composer,
"though I used to; usually beginning about 10 or 10.30 a.m., and
leaving off about 11 or 12 p.m., with intervals for meals and a
constitutional (this is, of course, when working hard). Every
composer should have a notebook of some sort to jot down ideas in
when necessary. I may say, however, that I have carried about with
me (mentally only) whole songs or movements perfected, sometimes for
three or four years without writing down a note, and have afterwards
used them in almost the exact state in which they were photographed
in my brain! I do not think it possible for composition to be taught
or acquired, that is, _real_ composition. I daresay that anyone
with a certain musical taste can be taught to string a melody and
accompaniment together; but the _genuine_ thing must be born in one,
though, of course, the gift is useless, or at least crude, without
serious cultivation."

Mr. Cowen considers his best work up to the present the "Symphony in F,
No. 8," and his new opera "Sigrid" (not yet performed).

In conclusion he says: "I do not believe in composers writing 'to
order,' as a general rule, but I think they may often do their best
work under pressure, and when they know it must be completed by a
certain time. Of course, this means that the time allowed them is
sufficiently long to prevent their unduly hurrying or 'scamping' their
work."

The few bars of music are the beginning of a song published in an album
of twelve by various composers, the words of which are by H. Boulton.

[Illustration]


ALFRED R. GAUL.

Alfred Gaul when composing always thinks of the necessary construction
for best bringing out the meaning of the words.

"This I do in the first place," he says, "without associating a
musical idea with the words. Having, as far as possible, arrived at a
conclusion on this point, I next think of the music, both as to melody
and harmony. All these points being settled to my satisfaction, the
work then proceeds with ease."

Mr. Gaul sets no particular part of the day aside for composing,
working sometimes early and sometimes late.

Of all his cantatas and other compositions his favourite is "The Ten
Virgins," Op. 42, a sacred cantata for four solo voices and chorus, and
this he considers his best work.

[Illustration]

As to the English being a musical nation, Mr. Gaul gives it as his
opinion that the greatly improved esteem entertained by foreigners for
English compositions and English performers may be taken as evidence of
our country being a decidedly musical one.

With regard to writing on commission, he adds: "I do not think one is
so likely to be as successful as under other conditions, although many
of the best works of recent years have been written to order, _i.e._,
in consequence of commissions given by festival committees." The
music is taken from Mr. Gaul's last work, "Israel in the Wilderness,"
performed at the Crystal Palace, July 9, 1892.


CHARLES GOUNOD.

The famous French composer, Charles François Gounod, briefly gives
as his opinion: "Composer c'est exprimer ce que l'on _sent_ dans une
langue que l'on _sait_."

He adds that though the art of composition cannot be acquired, it may
undoubtedly be cultivated; in fact, must be trained, like any other
talent.

Mons. Gounod lays down no strict rules for composition, as he follows
none himself, only composing when inclined to do so. As to his best
work, he says: "I consider it is that which is still to be done"; and
again: "Every nation is a musical nation."

Finally, the few bars of music given here are surrounded by more than
the usual amount of interest, for Mons. Gounod, in presenting them,
wrote: "The portion of music I send you is from no _work_ of mine, but
'instantaneous' for you, of an autograph."

[Illustration]


EDVARD GRIEG.

The Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg, sends his opinion over the sea,
from his home at Bergen, where, by the way, he has just celebrated his
silver wedding.

[Illustration]

He says: "I have no particular rule when composing. In my opinion
the art of composition is not at all to be learned, and yet _must_
be learned; for it is impossible for a composer to write melodies
correctly without a complete mastery of his art. Just as hopeless as
for an illiterate person lacking the necessary knowledge of language to
sit down to write a standard work."

He adds that as he has no favourite composer, all _good_ composers are
his favourites.

Of his many compositions, Grieg gives his preference to his famous
sonata for the violin, "Op. 13," a few bars of which are here given.


CH. H. LLOYD.

Professor Ch. H. Lloyd, when composing, generally proceeds on the
following lines:--

"If I am setting words to music," he writes, "I generally read them
over several times till they suggest appropriate music, and then
jot down my ideas on paper. If it is an abstract composition, it is
difficult to say what starts the machine. Ideas often come to me when
I am in the train, or at less convenient times. Whenever possible, I
write down a few bars before I forget them; but the main work is done
sitting at a table with some music paper before me. I seldom go to the
piano till I am well on with a composition, and I never seek for ideas
at it. I have no regular or fixed time for composing--more often in the
morning than at any other time; but sometimes I have not time to put a
note on paper for months together."

Unlike some other composers, Professor Lloyd believes most decidedly in
composers writing under compulsion "to a certain extent."

"For," he says, "if a composer knows that he _has_ to finish a
particular work by a certain time and for a certain purpose, why, I am
of opinion that he will accomplish it far better under pressure than
if he was working with no fixed object; at the same time, of course,
such pressure in excess is not a good thing, and if carried to a great
extent, actually detrimental to the production of good work."

Of his own works, Mr. Lloyd prefers his "Song of Balder," and this
composition in his opinion is the best written.

In conclusion the Professor says: "If there is no aptitude for
composition it can never be acquired; if, on the other hand, the
aptitude exists, but the energy to cultivate it with hard and serious
study be absent, it can never be brought to a successful issue."

The portion of particularly neat MS. is taken from his "Sonata for
Violin and Pianoforte."

[Illustration]

                          (_To be Continued._)

[Illustration:




THE LAND OF YOUTH

A SCANDINAVIAN POPULAR TALE

A STORY FOR CHILDREN.]


There was once in a great kingdom a good King, brave in battle, wise
in council, happy in all his undertakings. But a day came when, seeing
his locks turn white and feeling himself weakened by age, he thought
he had not much longer to live on earth; he held to life, however, and
demanded of the savants of his kingdom whether there was not any way
of escaping death. These men deliberated over this great question, and
were unable to solve it.

One day there came to the palace an old sorceress who had travelled far
over land and sea, and who was renowned for her knowledge. The King
asked her what news she brought.

"I have heard," she said, "that you are greatly in fear of death, since
you have become old, and I have come to show you a way to recover both
strength and health."

"Speak, speak!" cried the King, delightedly.

"A long way--a very long way--from here, there is a country called
Ungdomland, where there are magnificent apples and marvellous water.
Whoever eats of those apples and drinks of that water immediately
recovers his youthfulness. But it is not easy to get possession of the
two: they are so far away, and the road leading to them is so perilous."

So said the sorceress. The King rewarded her magnificently, and
resolved to send one of his sons in search of the apples and water of
youthfulness.

He prepared for him a brilliant equipage, gave him money, and the
Prince departed on his quest. But he did not go far. He stopped at a
city which pleased him, and lived there gaily, without thinking of the
errand on which his father had sent him, nor of his father.

The old man, after long waiting for his return, and neither seeing
him come back nor hearing of him, sent towards that Land of Youth his
second son, who, on arriving at the city where his brother was living,
found there the same seductions, and, in his turn, gave himself up to a
life of gaiety, and completely forgot his mission and his father.

The King aged and saddened more and more. His young son, named Carl,
expressed a wish to go in search of the Land of Youth. The King, having
only this son left to him, did not like to part with him; but Carl was
so determined that he finally overcame all resistance. He departed,
like his brothers, with a brilliant equipage; and the old man was left
alone and deeply distressed at the desertion of his sons.

Carl passed by the city where his brothers were stopping, and they
tried to detain him with them. But he wished to redeem the promise he
had made to his father, and travelled through vast regions. Everywhere
he inquired the way to the Land of Youth, but nobody could direct him.

[Illustration: "CARL'S BROTHERS TRIED TO DETAIN HIM."]

One evening, in the heart of a dense forest, he saw a tiny light
shining a long way off, and making towards it, in the hope of finding a
resting-place, reached a cottage, the dwelling-place of an old woman,
who kindly consented to give him lodgment, and asked him who he was and
whither he was going.

"I am the son of a King," answered Carl, "and I am in search of the
Land of Youth."

"Ah!" replied the good old woman, "I have lived three hundred winters
and have never heard of that country. But I am the Queen of the
Quadrupeds; to-morrow morning I will question them, and perhaps one of
them may be able to give you some useful information."

The Prince cordially thanked her for her civility, and slept soundly.

At sunrise the next morning the old woman blew her horn; a great noise
was instantly heard in the forest. All the four-footed animals, large
and small, assembled about the cottage. Their Queen asked them whether
they knew where the Land of Youth was, and all replied that they had
not the least idea where it was to be found.

The polite old woman turned towards the Prince, and said:--

"You see that I cannot direct you on your way; but go, from me, to my
sister, who is Queen of the Birds; perhaps she will know better than I.
Mount on the back of this wolf, he will carry you to her."

The Prince again thanked her, and set off on the back of his strange
steed. In the evening he found himself in the depths of a forest and
saw, once more, a tiny light shining in the distance. The wolf stopped
and said:--

"Yonder is the dwelling-place of the sister of my sovereign. Here we
must part."

The Prince descended into an underground cabin, and found there another
good old woman, who received him politely, and asked him for what
purpose he was travelling. He replied that he was in search of the Land
of Youth.

"Ah!" she said, "I have lived six hundred winters, and have never
heard speak of that country. But to-morrow I will question the birds."

The Prince thanked her and slept soundly.

Next day the old woman blew her horn, and immediately a great noise was
heard in the air. The birds flew hurriedly from all sides. Their Queen
asked them whether they knew where the Land of Youth was, but they
replied that they did not know.

Turning towards the Prince, the Queen said:--

"You see that I cannot direct you as I wish, but my sister, who is the
Queen of the Fishes, may, perhaps, be better informed than I. Seat
yourself between the two wings of this eagle, and he will carry you to
her."

The Prince obeyed, and, in the evening, alighted at a small cabin.
There he found an old woman, who inquired who he was and where he
wished to go.

"I am the son of a King," he replied. "I am in search of the Land of
Youth, and have come to you with the recommendation of your sister."

"I have lived nine hundred years," said the good old woman, "and have
never heard tell of the country to which you wish to go; but to-morrow
I will question the fishes."

Next day, in fulfilment of her promise, she blew her horn, and
instantly a great commotion was seen in the waves, all the fishes
darting through the waters and assembling about their Queen, who
inquired whether they knew where the Land of Youth was, and they all
answered that they did not know.

"But I don't see amongst you the old whale," cried the Queen.

In a moment, a great noise was heard in the water; it was caused by the
hurried arrival of the whale.

"Why are you so late?" demanded the Queen.

"I have had a long way to come--several thousand leagues."

"Where have you been?"

"To the Land of Youth."

"Very well. You have failed in your duty by not coming sooner in answer
to my summons; as a punishment, you will bear this young man to the
land from which you have come and bring him back."

[Illustration: "THE WHALE SPED RAPIDLY THROUGH THE WATERS."]

The Prince warmly thanked the good nine-hundred-years-old woman and got
upon the back of the whale, which sped rapidly through the waters. By
the arrival of evening, he had reached the shore on which he desired to
land.

The whale then said to him:--

"Listen to the advice I am going to give you--do not forget it, and
follow it punctually. At midnight everything sleeps in the enchanted
castle before you; you may, therefore, enter it at midnight, but do not
pluck more than one apple, nor take more than one phial-full of the
magic water; do not linger, but return in all haste, otherwise you will
expose yourself and me to a mortal danger."

"Thanks," replied Carl; "I will remember your instructions."

At midnight he entered the enchanted castle. All within it was plunged
in sleep, as the whale had said would be the case. In front of the door
there were a number of frightful beasts, bears, wolves, and dragons,
lying beside each other, their eyes closed.

He passed through many superb rooms and saw with admiration the riches
they contained. At length he came to one larger than the rest, the
walls of which were covered with plates of gold and silver. In the
middle of this room was the tree on which shone the magic apples, and
near it, rippling over precious stones, with a marvellous sound, ran
a clear and luminous stream of water--the water of which the bold
traveller had come so far in search.

He filled a phial with the water of youthfulness, but, after doing
that, forgot the whale's advice, and plucked as many golden apples as
he could get into his wallet. Having got all he wanted, he wished to
quit the enchanted castle, but he could not find the way by which he
had entered. He wandered from room to room, searching in vain for the
outer door.

At length he entered a room yet more splendid than any he had before
seen. It contained a bed of blue silk, on which was reposing a young
girl of incomparable beauty. Carl stood before her motionless and
speechless in an ecstasy of delight. At the same time the young girl
saw, in a dream, the image of this charming Prince so distinctly that,
thenceforth, she could not forget him, and in her ear a mysterious
voice murmured: "This is he whom you must marry."

Carl at length tore himself from the contemplation of the beautiful
sleeper, wrote his name, and the name of his country, on the wall near
her, and went out.

Hardly had he crossed the threshold of the door ere everything in the
castle awoke and all there became movement. He sprang upon the back of
the whale, which was impatiently awaiting him.

[Illustration: "THIS IS HE WHOM YOU MUST MARRY."]

On reaching the middle of the sea, the gigantic animal suddenly plunged
into the depths of the waters, then, remounting, said to the Prince:--

"Did that plunge frighten you?"

"Yes; I confess it greatly frightened me."

"Well, I was quite as much alarmed when you filled your wallet with
apples."

When he had gone a little further, the whale again plunged, only deeper
than the first time, and then said to the Prince:--

"Were you afraid?"

"More than ever I have been before."

"Well, I was quite as much frightened when you stopped to look at the
Princess."

A little further on, the whale once more plunged and remained longer
under the water, saying to the Prince on rising again to the surface:--

"Were you afraid?"

"Yes, terribly."

"Well, I was quite as much terrified when you wrote your name on the
wall."

In the evening Carl arrived at the cottage of the Queen of the Fishes.
As a return for the service she had rendered him, he gave her a golden
apple and some drops from the marvellous spring.

As soon as the nine-hundred-years-old woman had drunk the water and
eaten the apple, the wrinkles disappeared from her face; between her
lips shone two rows of white teeth; her form became upright; and, in
short, in place of a decrepit old woman, appeared a young girl with
golden tresses, sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks. She warmly thanked
Carl for his generosity, and said to him, as he was departing:--

"I also have a present for you. Take this bridle and shake it--and you
will see what it will give you."

The Prince obeyed, and at the same moment saw before him a superb
horse, which quietly allowed itself to be mounted and, with the
rapidity of the wind, bore him to the Queen of the Birds.

To her also he gave some water of youthfulness and an apple, which
rejuvenated her in an instant. And as he was departing, she said,
thanking him for his generosity:--

"I also have a present for you. Take this tablecloth, and, as soon as
you spread it, it will furnish you a royal repast."

Carl remounted his good horse, rode to the Queen of the Quadrupeds, and
renewed her youthfulness, as he had done to her two sisters. She also
thanked him cordially and said, as he was departing:--

"I wish to give you a proof of my gratitude; take this sword, at sight
of which no adversary can offer resistance, not even the most savage
animal."

With this powerful sword, the precious tablecloth, and the enchanted
bridle, the Prince continued his journey, and reached the city where
his two brothers still remained, and after joyfully embracing them,
related to them all his adventures.

On hearing that he had been so successful in his enterprise, the two
brothers, feeling at once ashamed of their want of energy and furious
at his success, resolved to strip him of what he had so bravely won. To
celebrate his return, they said, they prepared a grand banquet, and,
deceiving him by these pretended evidences of affection, during the
night, and without his having the least suspicion of their villainy,
changed the treasure he had brought from Ungdomland for other water and
other apples.

Carl continued on his way homeward, eager to see his father again, and
filled with happiness at the idea of being able to give him back his
lost youthfulness. As soon as he had embraced him, he gave him, with
joyful confidence, his phial of water and apples.

But neither the water nor the apples produced any effect, and the old
man was deeply pained and irritated by what he imagined to be the
deception practised by his son. Innocent Carl saw that he had been
robbed.

Some time afterwards, his two wicked brothers arrived. They told
to their father a prodigious story of vast regions they had passed
through, and perils they had dared, to reach the enchanted land. Then
they gave him the true water and the true apples which they had stolen
from Carl.

Instantly the white locks of the old King regained their primitive hue,
his wrinkles vanished, his limbs got back their youthful strength and
elasticity.

Transported with joy, he pressed his two sons to his bosom, calling
them his heroes, his benefactors. He lavished tenderness and
distinction on them; and then, suddenly remembering the youngest, who
had tried to deceive him, he became furious against him, and ordered
him to be cast into the lions' den and left there without assistance.

Nobody dare oppose this terrible sentence, and Carl was given over to
the wild beasts, that ought instantly to have devoured him. But he had
preserved the presents of two of the old women. At the sight of his
sword the lions drew back humbly. When he was hungry he spread his
tablecloth, which was instantly laden with the choicest food.

Meanwhile the young Princess of Ungdomland thought of him constantly,
and, believing he would return, waited for him, day after day. One
night she saw him again in a dream, no longer with a smile on his
lips and light in his eyes, as she had seen him when he was near her,
but downcast, anxious, captive. At the same time a mysterious voice
murmured in her ear: "This is he whom you must marry."

She listened, she looked: this dream was for her a reality, and her
mind was quickly made up--he could not come to her, therefore she must
go to him; he was sad, she must console him; he was captive, she must
deliver him.

On the wall he had written his name and the name of his country;
to that country she set off with a large number of ships, a mass of
precious things, and a legion of soldiers.

At sight of this foreign fleet all the inhabitants of the rejuvenated
King's capital were greatly alarmed--it had come with hostile
intentions, perhaps, and it certainly appeared formidable.

But the young Princess only asked to see the young man who had been in
Ungdomland. Her wish was one that could easily be satisfied. The King
hastened to send his eldest son to her; but she had no sooner set eyes
on him than she cried:--

"This is not he of whom I am in search!"

The King sent his second son.

She awaited him on board her magnificent ship, surrounded by her
officers, and no sooner saw him than she exclaimed:--

"This is not he of whom I am in search!" adding: "It is of no use
trying to deceive me. I must see the young Prince who came to
Ungdomland; otherwise, I vow that of this royal capital I will not
leave one stone standing upon another."

At those words the two impostors were dumfounded, and the King, pale
and trembling, remembered the dreadful sentence he had pronounced.

What was to be done? Doubtless, the young Prince had long before been
devoured by the wild beasts. They went, however, to the edge of the pit
into which he had been cast, and found him seated calmly in the midst
of the lions.

A cry of joy announced this miracle, and was repeated on all sides.
The King flew to his son, threw himself on his knees before him, and
begged pardon for his iniquity. Carl tenderly raised him, held him to
his heart, and returned with him to the city, where he had been so much
beloved and regretted. The crowd pressed upon his steps, and filled the
air with enthusiastic shouts.

[Illustration: "THAT IS HE!"]

On reaching the palace, he arrayed himself in his festival clothes,
shook the magic bridle, and, mounted on a superb horse, advanced
towards the foreign flotilla.

Hardly had the Princess cast her eyes upon him ere she cried:--

"That is he! I recognise him. It is he who came to Ungdomland!"

They approached each other. She held out her hands to him; he was the
spouse designed to her by the mysterious voice.

Next day the marriage of the handsome Prince and the beautiful Princess
was pompously celebrated, and they departed together to the Land of
Youth, where they lived long and happily.

The two traitors were cast into the den of lions into which they had
caused their innocent brother to be thrown.




_The Queer Side of Things._


[Illustration: THE THINNER-OUT]

Reader, can you, by a violent effort of memory, recall the two spirits,
William and James, who engaged in these pages in several arguments
concerning the possibility of your, and my, existence? I know you have
had other things to think about lately--the possibility of obtaining,
either by exorbitant payment, diplomacy, or any means underhand or
otherwise, a supply of coals for the winter--the fate of Lobengula--the
chances of the Employers' Liability Bill--the state of our Navy. But if
you will for one moment compare the weight of these trivialities with
that of the question: "Is it, or is it not, possible for this Universe
to have ever existed?"--you will find the former group of subjects
vanish like an idle dream; while the VAST QUERY will instantly absorb
your whole attention.

_Then_ you will recollect that the more thoughtful, more logical, less
visionary spirit William conclusively proved the impossibility of our
existence.

Yet he was wrong. Very slight inquiries into evidence have since
convinced me that our Universe _does_ exist. It is difficult to credit,
in the face of William's logic: but I fear we _must_ believe it.

Very well--waiving the possibility of our _all_ being hypnotized
through all the ages (say by Adam, Rameses the Great, Mr. Stead, or
some other power having sway over human minds) into a belief of the
existence of the non-existent--we will, please, take it as carried that
we _do_ exist, and that even William is forced to admit it. Very good:
now let's get on.

"What do you think _now_?" asked James, a weak-minded scintillation of
triumph in his eye.

William was evidently seriously offended; facts which contradict
carefully-weighed logic, flawless in all other respects, are always
irritating to the thoughtful. Men of science will indorse this.

"Hurrm!" he said at last; "your Universe does exist--in a way; and
the globe you call 'Terra' does exist--in a way. But the highly
objectionable creatures on it don't seem too comfortable; in fact, a
more ridiculous, calamitous, disastrous, pitiful, gruesome, repulsive
muddle than they make of it I could not possibly conceive!"

"But they have _some_ reasonable qualities?" argued James.

"A few," said William. "Those taught them by the conduct of what
you call the lower animals. _I_ know what's principally wrong with
them--they _think_, and _do things_, too much."

"Well, they are, perhaps, too much given to thinking and doing
things. I admit that they make many mistakes, but I _do_ protest that
they _mean well_--that their theories are, as a whole, in the right
direction--that they have a solid, genuine admiration for good aims and
great deeds, and reward such merits when conspicuously shown by any
among them."

"Hum!" said William.

"Oh, come," said James; "you _must_ admit that humanity's rewards are,
as a rule, conferred on those who do the greatest services to humanity."

"From _my_ point of view, yes!" said William. "Let's have a game!" he
said, suddenly.

"A game?" said James, taken aback by such a proposition from the
cynical and severe William.

"Yes," said the latter. "Let us put this point of yours to the test.
Let you and me select, each, a specimen of humanity from among this
herd, each of us choosing the specimen which he deems most likely to
obtain the highest praises and rewards of humanity; let us choose
our specimens as babies, and watch them through their subsequent
careers--eh?"

"Very good," said James, confidently.

"Let's have a bet on it, like your humans do with insurance companies
about the length of their lives," said William. "I will bet you--let's
see--I'll bet you that comet against that little star over there in the
constellation like a saucepan. The comet's more showy, and apparently
better value; so that will please _you_ best: and you won't notice its
flimsiness as compared with the greater solidity of the little star."

"But what nonsense!" said James. "What in space would be the use of a
comet or a star to one of us? What could we do with it?"

"You could give yours," said William, in that nasty tone of his, "to
one of your humans. He would be delighted. It's exactly the kind of
thing they are always longing for."

Then they looked about among humanity.

"I've chosen my baby," said James. "Something has gone wrong with
another baby's feeding-bottle, and my baby is trying to put it right."

"Very curious!" said William. "The baby I had chosen is the very baby
whose feeding-bottle--(anachronism is nothing to _us_, James--we deal
with _all_ dates)--your baby is attempting to put right. While your
baby is so engaged, _my_ baby is damaging the tube of _your_ baby's
bottle, to the end that your baby may fail to get any nourishment
through it. That's the baby for _me_!"

James laughed in derision. "Well, if you think _your_ choice will merit
the praise of humanity----!" he began.

"Stop!" said William. "The words in our agreement were '_obtain_ the
praises of humanity.' We said nothing about _meriting_ them. I say my
choice will obtain them."

"Well, well," said James, "you needn't split hairs!"

"I'm not splitting hairs," replied William; "I am pointing out the
chasm between two mountains."

"But--confound it!" said James, impatient at his companion's want of
reason. "You don't mean to seriously tell me that you seriously believe
that humanity would seriously choose to reward those who injure rather
than those who benefit----?"

"Never mind what I believe. You'll see," said William. "See, our babies
are growing; they are little boys now. What's yours doing?"

"Mine," said James, triumphantly, "has found a dead bird, and is trying
to bring it to life."

"That is the bird which _my_ little boy has killed," said William.

James sniggered again. "You had better make another choice," he said.

"_Will_ you kindly mind your own business," said William, "and look
after your chance of that comet? You'd better be ordering a handsome
casket to present it to your baby in _when_ he has obtained the praises
of humanity. What's your baby up to now?"

[Illustration: "THAT'S THE BABY FOR ME!"]

"He has grown," replied James, gazing earthwards. "He is at school.
Another boy has been knocked down in the playground by a third boy ----"

"Yes--by _my_ boy," put in William.

[Illustration: "FOUND A DEAD BIRD."]

"And my boy is attending to his bruises and trying to ease the pain of
them."

"Just so," said William. "A most mistaken young person! I knew he
would--just the sort of thing he _would_ be up to!"

"At any rate, he is earning the gratitude of the victim," protested
James.

"The gratitude of victims," said the objectionable William, "is not
legal tender; it is not even a marketable article. Did you ever see
the gratitude of victims quoted in the share-lists of the newspapers
published by your precious humans? Have you ever seen it advertised
for in the columns of that periodical of theirs called _Exchange and
Mart_? You may have seen it advertised for sale there; but there were
no answers. Now look at _my_ boy, James--look at him! That's promise,
if you like! He's knocking down _all_ the other boys like ninepins."

"Your boy is a Bully," said James.

"Ah! you've discovered it, then? It has at last dawned upon you that I
am bound to win. My boy is a Bully. You may as well just hand over that
little star out of the saucepan at once, and save further trouble."

"What! _Do_ you mean to tell me," screamed James, rising on the
tips of his toes with indignation, "to tell me that a Bully is the
sort of person to obtain the highest praises and rewards of his
fellow-creatures?"

"I do," said William. "The sort, and the _only_ sort. I'll grant that
your beneficent person who does a lot of good to your humans may come
in for a good large amount of praises, and also even get a small amount
of solid rewards: but the fellow they really love is your Bully."

"How can they love him? Impossible!" said James.

"Then why do the confounded creatures act as though they did? You can
only judge of their sanity by their acts--and those disprove it. Let's
go on. What's my boy doing now?"

"He is playing with a lot of little toy soldiers," said James. "He is
knocking them over with toy cannon. Now he is constructing little toy
towns, and setting fire to them."

"And your boy?"

"Is picking up the little soldiers, and trying to bend them straight
and set them on their legs again."

"Ah! Always throwing away your chances of winning that comet by wasting
his time earning the gratitude of victims!" said the horrid William.
"And now they have both left school, and are studying. My boy is
practising sword-cuts, and reading about words of command, and linked
battalions and machine-guns."

[Illustration: "HE'S KNOCKING DOWN ALL THE OTHER BOYS LIKE NINEPINS."]

"And my boy is practising tying bandages, and reading about arteries,
and nerves, and compound fractures, and epidemics. My boy is fitting
himself as a Healer."

"And my boy," said William, "is fitting himself for a Slayer."

"You are either mad," said James, "or are indulging in a pastime which
is not your _forte_--a jest. You cannot seriously imagine that these
humans will actually prefer one who slays them!"

"I _know_ they will--it just tallies with their queer ways. They
profess to hold human life at the highest value! That's not humbug on
their parts, mind you--they are under the delusion that they do so
hold it. Life is to them an object of joy, and the absence of it one
of regret; as I told you once before, they delight in the filling up
of the waste places of their ball with human life. They don't consider
animal life as life.

"If an island is full of intelligent elephants, who hardly ever make
mistakes, and quiet, domesticated kangaroos, and contented rabbits,
these humans of yours say: 'What a pity it isn't inhabited--we ought
to people that desert!' They don't recognise the fact that it _is_
inhabited and _isn't_ a desert! They are delighted at the growing
crowds in their towns; and if they look down a lane and don't see
anyone in it, they drop a tear and think: 'It's very sad there should
be no human life in that lane.'

"And here comes in one of the queerest phases in the exceeding
queerness of these people of yours--all the while they are under the
impression that they consider the increase of humanity as of the
highest advantage, they have an unrecognised instinct which tells them
that things will be mightily uncomfortable for them when their ball
gets a little overfilled: and from this unrecognised instinct springs
their partiality to anyone who thins them out. The Thinner-Out is the
object of their very highest rewards----

"Ha! Look--look there, on that TERRA of yours. There's a great ship
about to be wrecked--yes, there it goes, crashing on the rocks. There
will be a wholesale bit of thinning-out there--no; see, one of your
humans, by the exercise of superhuman energy, and at infinite risk to
himself, is saving the whole lot of them. Every one of them is safe on
land now. They are crowding round their preserver----"

"Ha!" cried James. "Where are your precious cynical arguments _now_?
Look at their gratitude--look how they grasp his hand, and kiss it,
and----"

[Illustration: SLAYER AND HEALER.]

"Collect for him a sum amounting to nearly fifty pounds, and send him
a medal, and mention him in the principal newspapers--nearly half a
column in some!--and drop him," said William.

"Of course," he continued, "there are several kinds of
Thinners-Out--there's the one who spreads epidemics by travelling in
public conveyances when suffering from communicable ailments: they
don't reward him, because no particular effort is required for his
kind of work--a child could do it: but he is protected by the laws.
Who ever heard of anyone being visited by any heavier punishment than
the fine of a few coins for wilfully thinning-out humans in this way?
Nobody. Then there are two kinds of the class who go in for the most
lucrative method of thinning-out--War. There's the warrior who thins
out his fellow-creatures to gratify his own personal inclinations and
ambitions; and there's the warrior who is forced to thin them out by
the duty of defending his country against the former kind of warrior."

"Ah! and the latter's the kind of warrior his fellow humans will heap
the highest rewards upon," said James.

"Oh, _is_ he?" said William. "All right; for the sake of curiosity
let us just follow the career of a third boy--the little one that was
knocked down by _my_ boy, and tended by yours. What is _he_ at now?"

"Why, he is practising with a sword like your Bully; only he is
practising parries instead of cuts; and he is also reading about
words of command, and linked battalions, and machine-guns, and
fortifications. And I recollect, by the way, that he was lately playing
with a little toy town and trying to defend it."

"Just so," said William. "He'll do very well, mind you; but the other
kind of warrior--my Bully--will distance him in rewards by leagues.
Halloa!--there's a booming of cannon, and a noise of screaming. What's
doing?"

"It's your Bully. He's an adult human now; and he's besieging a town;
now he has taken it and set it on fire, and put the inhabitants to the
sword."

"That's the way to begin, James! If you want to win the love and
respect of those humans of yours, strike terror into them at the start.
You see, those you spare feel so proud of their own cleverness in being
spared, and so relieved about it, that they are in the best of humours;
and, looking about for somebody on whom to expend their good humour,
they naturally fix on the figure that catches their eye first; and
that, of course, is the figure of the Thinner-Out. See?"

"Your beastly baby is taking more towns, and kindly accepting ransoms
for abstaining from destroying what never was his."

"Yes; and from a corner of the earth comes out the other boy who
studied war; and he stands in front of the one-half of the earth where
he lives, to prevent the Bully attacking it; and now there's a great
battle--another--another--and another, and my baby is beaten back from
one-half of that globe of yours, and the other baby stands in the
middle of that half and crows; and my baby, the Bully, has to confine
his attention to the half he has overrun and conquered, while a wild,
delirious, long-pent-up shout of heartfelt relief comes up from the
humans on the defended half. Where's that baby of yours--the doctor?"

"There he is," said James; "there he is--picking up the damaged
soldiers and trying to bend them straight and set them on their legs
again; checking epidemics and diseases arising from the privations
and calamities of war, assuaging suffering, and curing and comforting
thousands. You'll lose your comet, William--come, confess it!"

"Bah!" said William. "You don't know much of the ways of this pet fancy
of yours, the inhabitants of that globule. See--they are about to show
their gratitude to our three babies by conferring rewards----"

"They're looking towards my baby, the Healer!" shouted James, excitedly.

Even William was interested out of his wonted calm by the situation.

"They're handing him something done up in paper. What is it?" he
shouted.

"A baronetcy--there!" shouted James. "And now they're turning to the
Thinner-Out who defended one-half of the world! See--what's that they
hand to him?"

"A dukedom!" shouted William. "Wait a bit--wait a bit--don't crowd on
to my toes--you can see where you are. Now--they're turning towards----"

"Your Bully, the Champion Thinner-Out. They're handing him--don't
shove----"

"Well--what?" screamed William.

"An Imperial Crown!" gasped James.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reader, if you do not believe in William's theory, search your "Burke"
for a physician qualified to sit in the House of Lords.

J. F. SULLIVAN.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:




Pal's Puzzle Page.


Ye Hatte & Shoehorne

FIND THE CYCLIST.

FIND HER VALENTINE.

WHERE'S THE FERRYMAN?]




Transcriber's Notes:


    Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors were
    silently corrected.

    Anachronistic and non-standard spellings retained as printed.

    Italics markup is enclosed in _underscores_.

    Title page added by transcriber.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Strand Magazine, Volume VII, Issue
38, February 1894, by Various

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 47373 ***