THE

STRAND MAGAZINE

_An Illustrated Monthly_

Vol. 5, Issue. 27. 

March 1893

[Illustration: "BY HEAVEN, " CRIED RUY LOPEZ, "THE DUKE SHALL FINISH HISGAME!"

(_A Game of Chess_. )]

[Illustration]

A GAME of CHESS. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

I. 

King Phillip II. Was playing at chess in the Escurial Palace. Hisopponent was Ruy Lopez, a humble priest, but a chess player of greatskill. Being the King's particular favourite, the great player waspermitted to kneel upon a brocaded cushion, whilst the courtiers groupedabout the King were forced to remain standing in constrained and painfulattitudes. 

It was a magnificent morning. The air was perfumed with the orangegroves, and the violet curtains of the splendid hall hardly softened theburning rays which streamed in through the windows. The blaze of livinglight seemed scarcely in harmony with the King's gloomy countenance. Hisbrow was black as night, and from time to time he bent his eyesimpatiently upon the door. The nobles stood in silence, darting meaningglances at each other. It was easily to be discerned that some event ofgreat importance weighed upon the spirits of the assembly. No one paidany attention to the chess-board except Ruy Lopez, who, as he moved thepieces, hesitated between the temptation of checkmating his opponent andthe deference due to his King. The silence was unbroken except by thesound made by the players moving their pieces. 

Suddenly the door opened, and a man of rude and savage aspect advancedinto the hall, and, presenting himself before the King, stood waitinghis commands to speak. This man's appearance was anything butprepossessing, and on his entrance the nobles, as if animated with onethought, shrank back with contempt and loathing, as if some uncleananimal had entered into their midst. His massive, herculean figure wasclad in a doublet of black leather, and his face, in which could be seenno trace of intelligence, expressed, on the contrary, nothing butvileness and villainy; a great scar, running right across his face andlosing itself in a bushy beard, added still further to the naturalbrutality of his countenance. 

An electric thrill ran through the assembly. The new comer was FernandoCalavar, high executioner of Spain. 

"Is he dead?" asked the King, in an imperious tone. 

"No, sire, " replied Calavar, bowing low. 

The King frowned. 

"Great Sovereign of Spain, " Calavar continued, "the prisoner has claimedhis privileges, and I cannot take proceedings against a man whose bloodbelongs to the noblest in Spain, without having a more imperative orderfrom your Majesty, " and he bowed again. 

The nobles, who had listened with great attention to these words, brokeinto a murmur of approbation as the man finished speaking. The proudCastilian blood rushed like a stream of lava through their veins, anddyed their faces crimson. The manifestation became general. Young AlonzaD'Ossuna openly asserted his opinion by putting on his plumed cap. Hisbold example was followed by the majority of the nobles, and their loftynodding crests seemed to proclaim with defiance that their mastersprotested in favour of the privilege, which the hidalgos of Spain havealways enjoyed, of covering their heads before their Sovereign. 

The King gave a furious start, and striking his fist violently upon thechess-board, scattered the chessmen in all directions. 

"He has been judged by our Royal Court of Justice, " he cried, "andcondemned to death. What does the traitor demand?"

"Sire!" replied the executioner, "he asks permission to die upon theblock, and also to pass the three last hours of his life with a priest. "

"Ah, that is granted!" replied Philip, in a tone of relief. "Is not ourconfessor in the prison according to our orders?"

"Yes, sire!" said Calavar, "the holy man is there; but the Duke refusesto see St. Diaz de Silva. He says he cannot receive absolution fromanyone below the dignity of a Bishop. Such is the privilege of a noblecondemned to death for high treason. "

"Yes, these are our rights!" boldly interrupted the fiery D'Ossuna; "andwe claim from the King our cousin's privileges. "

This demand acted as a signal. 

"Our rights and the King's justice are inseparable, " cried Don Diego deTarraxas, Count of Valence, an old man of gigantic stature, clothed inarmour, holding in his hands the bâton of Great Constable of Spain, andleaning upon his long Toledo blade. 

"Our rights and our privileges!" cried the nobles, repeating the wordslike an echo. Their audacity made the King start with fury from hisebony throne. 

"By the bones of Campeador!" he cried. "By the soul of St. Jago! I havesworn neither to eat nor sleep until the bleeding head of Don Gusmanlies before me. As I have sworn, so shall it be. But Don Tarraxas hassaid well, 'The King's justice confirms his subjects' rights. ' My LordConstable, where does the nearest Bishop reside?"

"Sire, I have more to do with camp than with the Church, " the Constablereplied, somewhat abruptly. "Your Majesty's chaplain, Don Silvas, ispresent: he can tell you better than I. "

Don Silvas began to speak in trepidation. 

[Illustration: "WHAT DOES THE TRAITOR DEMAND?"]

"Sire, " he said, humbly, "the Bishop of Segovia is an official of theKing, but he who filled the duty died last week, and the parchment whichnames his successor is still upon the Council table, and is yet to besubmitted to the Pope's seal. "

At these words a joyous smile hovered about D'Ossuna's lips. This joywas but natural, for the young man was of the blood of the Gusmans, andhis cousin, the condemned prisoner, was his dearest friend. The Kingperceived the smile, and his eye shot forth lightning. 

"We are the King!" he said, gravely, with the calm which presages astorm; "our Royal person must be no butt for raillery. This sceptreappears light, my lords, but he who ridicules it shall be crushedthereby as with a block of iron. I believe that our holy father the Popeis somewhat indebted to us, so that we do not fear his displeasure atthe step which we are about to take. Since the King of Spain can make aPrince, he can also make a Bishop. Rise, then, Don Ruy Lopez. I createyou Bishop of Segovia. Rise, I command you, and take your rank in theChurch. "

The courtiers stood dumfounded. 

Don Ruy Lopez rose mechanically. His head was whirling, and he stammeredas he strove to speak. 

"If your Majesty pleases----" he began. 

"Silence, my Lord Bishop!" replied the King. "Obey your Sovereign. Theformalities of your installation shall be performed another day; oursubjects will not fail to acknowledge our wishes in this affair. Bishopof Segovia, go with Calavar to the condemned man's cell. Give absolutionto his soul, and in three hours leave his body to the executioner's axe. As for you, Calavar, I will await you here; you will bring us thetraitor's head. Let justice be accomplished. "

Then Philip turned to Ruy Lopez. 

"I give you my signet ring, " he said, "to show the Duke as a token ofthe truth of your story. "

The executioner left the chamber, followed by Ruy Lopez. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said the King, turning to the others, "do you stilldoubt the King's justice?"

But the nobles answered not a word. 

The King, having taken his seat, made a sign to one of his favourites toplace himself before the chess-board, and Don Ramirez, Count of Biscay, accordingly knelt down upon the velvet cushion. 

"With a game of chess, gentlemen, " said the King, smiling, "and yourcompany, I cannot fail to make the time pass agreeably. Let no one leavethe chamber until Calavar's return. We cannot spare a single one ofyou. "

With these ironical words, Philip commenced a game with Don Ramirez, whilst the nobles, almost dropping with fatigue, resumed the positionsabout their august master which they had occupied at the beginning ofthis story. 

II. 

Calavar, leading the way, conducted the new Bishop to the condemnedman's cell. Ruy Lopez walked like one in a dream. Was he awake, or not?He hardly knew. At the bottom of his heart he cursed the King and hisCourt. He understood perfectly that he had become Bishop of Segovia, buthe felt deeply at what a price he had bought his dignity. What had DonGusman done that he should be thus sacrificed? Don Gusman, the bestchess player in Spain! He thought of all this as he proceeded over themarble flags which led to the State prison, and as he thought he prayedthat the ground would open and swallow him up. 

Don Gusman was pacing impatiently up and down his narrow cell with ahurried step that betrayed the feverish anxiety of his mind. The cellwas furnished with a massive table and two heavy wooden stools, thefloor being covered with coarse, thick mats. Shut out from all thenoises of the outer world, here silence reigned supreme. A crucifix, roughly carved, was fixed to the wall in the niche of a high window, which was carefully barred with iron. Except for this image ofresignation and mercy, the walls were bare. Well might this dungeonserve as antechamber to the tomb. 

As Ruy Lopez entered the cell a sudden burst of sunshine flooded thewalls as if in bitter mockery of him who was soon to see it no more. 

The Duke saluted the new Bishop with great courtesy. They regarded eachother, and exchanged in that look a thousand words which they alonecould understand. Ruy Lopez felt the painfulness of his position deeply, and the Duke understood his embarrassment. Their thoughts were both thesame, that in the condemnation of one of the principal favourites of theKing an innocent life was threatened! The proofs of the crime imputed tothe Duke were grave; the most important being a despatch written in DonGusman's hand to the French Court, in which he unfolded a scheme forassassinating Philip II. This had sufficed to condemn him. 

Don Gusman, strong in his innocence, had kept a rigorous silence whenbrought before his judges, and the accusation not being denied, sentence of death was passed upon him. Don Gusman since hisincarceration had not altered. He had braved the storm, and looked upondeath with an unmoved countenance. His last hours had no terrors forhim. If his forehead was overshadowed, if his steps were agitated andhis breathing hurried, it was because there rose before his eye theimage of his betrothed, Dona Estella, who, ignorant of her lover's fate, was waiting for him in her battlemented castle on the banks of theGuadalquiver. If he felt weak at this fatal moment, and if a pang shotthrough his heart, it was because his thoughts were of her who was tohim the dearest thing in all the world. 

[Illustration: "RUY LOPEZ ENTERED THE CELL. "]

Ruy Lopez had not entered alone. Calavar was at his side; and it was hewho announced to the Duke the King's decision and reply. Ruy Lopezconfirmed the executioner's words, and the Duke, falling on his kneesbefore the new Bishop, asked his blessing, then turning to Calavar witha gesture of authority, he dismissed him, saying:--

"In three hours I shall be at your disposal. "

Calavar obeyed him and went out, and the Duke and Bishop were leftalone. 

Ruy Lopez was trembling with nervousness, whilst Don Gusman's face worea calm and serene expression. He took the Bishop's hand, and wrung itwarmly. There was a pause. The Duke was the first to break the silence. 

"We have met before in happier circumstances, " he said, smiling. 

"It is true, " stammered Ruy Lopez, who, pale and agitated, resembledrather the penitent than the confessor. 

"Much happier, " repeated the Duke, absently. "Do you remember, when youplayed your celebrated game of chess with Paoli Boy, the Sicilian, inthe presence of the King and Court, that it was upon my right arm thatthe King leant?" Then after a pause he continued: "Do you remember also, father, those words of Cervantes, 'Life is a game of chess?' I haveforgotten the exact place in which the passage occurs, but its meaningis, that upon earth men play different rôles. There are, as in chess, kings, knights, soldiers, bishops, according to their birth, fate andfortune; and when the game is over death lays them all as equals in thetomb, even as we gather together the chessmen into a box. "

"Yes, I remember those words of Don Quixote, " replied Don Lopez, astonished at this singular conversation, "and I remember also Sancho'sreply: 'That however good the comparison was, it was not so new that hehad not heard it before. '"

"I was your favourite pupil, even your rival, " said the Duke, withoutappearing to hear Don Lopez. 

"It is true, " cried the Bishop. "You are a great master of the game, andI have been often proud of having such a pupil. But now, on your knees, my son. "

They knelt down together, and there before the crucifix Don Gusman madeconfession to Ruy Lopez, who as he listened could hardly restrain histears. 

When the Duke had finished, two hours after--for the confession underthe Church seal was long and touching--the Bishop blessed the prisoner, and gave him absolution. The face of Don Gusman, as he rose, was calmand resigned. 

[Illustration: "THEY KNELT DOWN TOGETHER. "]

But there remained still an hour to wait. 

"This delay is torture, " cried the Duke. "Why do they not cut off theprisoners at once, instead of stretching their souls upon such a rack ofagony? An eternity of suffering is in each of these minutes. " And theprisoner began to walk impatiently to and fro, with his eyes constantlybent upon the door. The Duke's firmness was shaken by the thought ofthat weary hour of waiting. Ruy Lopez had fulfilled his duty. Theprisoner's soul was purified, and now the priest could become thefriend. 

As Don Lopez heard Don Gusman utter this exclamation, and saw his facegrow white, he understood what agony he was undergoing, and felt at oncethat something must be done to divert his thoughts. But in vain heracked his brain for an idea. He could think of nothing. What could hepropose to a man about to die? For such as he, the flower has no longerperfume, woman has no longer beauty. Then suddenly a thought flashedacross his brain. 

"How would a game of chess--" he began, timidly. 

"An excellent idea!" cried Don Gusman, recalled to himself by thissingular proposal. "A farewell game of chess. "

"You consent?"

"Most readily; but where are the chessmen, my friend?"

"Am I not always provided with the instruments of war?" said Ruy Lopez, smiling. Then he pulled forward the two stools and set out upon thetable a microscopic set of chessmen. "Our Lady pardon me!" he continued. "I often pass my spare time in the confessional in working out someproblem. "

The chessmen being set out, the players took their seats, and were soonabsorbed in the excitement of the game. 

This strange contest, between a priest and a condemned prisoner, made apicture worthy of the brush of Rembrandt or Salvator Rosa. The lightwhich streamed from the arched windows fell upon the pale, noblefeatures of Don Gusman, and upon the venerable head of Ruy Lopez. 

The emotions of the two players were very different. Ruy Lopez playedwith a preoccupation which was not usual to him, and which rendered himmuch inferior to his ordinary strength. Don Gusman, on the contrary, stimulated by excitement, played with more than his ordinary skill. Atthis moment his noble Castilian blood did not fail him, for never hadthe Duke given better proof of the clearness of his mind. Such a flashof intellect must be compared to the last flickers of the failing lamp, or to the last song of the dying swan. 

Don Gusman suddenly attacked his adversary with an impetuosity whichnearly gained him a certain victory; but Ruy Lopez, recalled to himselfby this vigorous effort, defended himself bravely. The game became moreand more complicated. The Bishop strove to gain a mate which he saw, orbelieved he saw, at hand, whilst Don Gusman played with the eagerness ofcertain victory. Everything was forgotten, and time passed unnoticed. The chess-board was their universe, and a life of anxiety was in eachmove. 

The minutes, the quarters, the half-hours flew by, and the fatal hourarrived at last. 

A distant sound struck on their ears; it grew nearer, it increased, andthe door swinging open gave admittance to Calavar and his assistants, who advanced into the cell with torches in their hands. They were armedwith swords, and two of them bore the block, covered with a black cloth, on which lay an axe. 

[Illustration: "THE GAME BECAME MORE AND MORE COMPLICATED. "]

The torches were placed in the receptacle prepared for them, whilst oneof the men scattered cedar sawdust on the floor. All this was the workof a moment, while the executioner stood waiting for the prisoner. 

As Calavar entered, Ruy Lopez started to his feet, in a tremor of alarm, but the Duke did not move. His eyes were fixed upon the chess-board. Itwas his turn to play. Calavar, seeing his abstracted gaze, advanced tothe Duke's side and placed his hand upon his shoulder. 

"Come, " he said. 

The prisoner shuddered as if he had trodden upon a serpent. 

"I must finish this game, " he said, imperiously. 

"It is impossible, " Calavar replied. 

"But, fellow, the game is mine! I can force mate in a few moves. Let meplay it out. "

"I cannot. It is impossible, " repeated the executioner. 

"Are the three hours gone already?"

"The last stroke has just struck. We must obey the King. "

The assistants, who had until then stood leaning on their swords, cameforward at these words. 

The Duke was sitting against the wall, under the high window, with thetable between him and Calavar. He started to his feet. 

"I shall not move until the game is over. In half an hour my head shallbe at your disposal. "

"My lord, " replied Calavar, "I respect you deeply, but I cannot grantyou this request. I answer for your life with mine. "

Don Gusman made a gesture of impatience, and pulling off his diamondrings, he threw them at the executioner's feet. "I mean to finish thegame, " he said, carelessly. 

The jewels sparkled as they rolled and settled in the dust. 

"My orders are imperative, " cried Calavar, "and you must pardon us, noble Duke, if we have to use force; but the King's orders and the lawof Spain must be carried out. Obey, then, and do not waste your lastmoments in a useless struggle. Speak to the Duke, my lord Bishop. Tellhim to submit to his fate. "

Ruy Lopez's reply was as prompt as it was decisive. He seized the axewhich lay upon the block and swung it with both hands above his head. 

"By Heaven!" he cried, "the Duke _shall_ finish his game!"

Scared by the gesture which accompanied these words, Calavar drew backin such a fright that he stumbled and fell back on his companions. Theswords flashed from their scabbards, and the band prepared for attack. But Ruy Lopez, who appeared to have put forth the strength of aHercules, cast upon the ground his heavy wooden stool. 

"The first of you who passes this limit dies!" he cried in a loud voice. "Courage, Duke!--to the attack! There are only four of these miscreants. The last desire of your Grace shall be gratified, were I to lose my lifein the attempt. And you, wretched man, beware how you lay a finger upona Bishop of the Church. Down with your swords and respect the Lord'sanointed!" And Ruy Lopez continued to hurl forth, in a jargon ofSpanish and Latin, one of those formulas of excommunication andmalediction which at that period acted so strongly upon the masses ofthe people. 

The effect was prompt. The men stood rooted to the spot with terror, whilst Calavar, thinking that to kill a Bishop without a sealed orderfrom the King was to run the risk of putting his life in jeopardy inthis world and his soul in the next, avowed himself vanquished. He knewnot what to do next. To rush with the news to the King, who was waitingimpatiently for Don Gusman's head, was only to expose himself. To attackthe prisoner and the priest would be too hazardous, for Ruy Lopez was aman of no mean strength. The position of affairs was critical. At lasthe decided to take the easiest way out of the difficulty--to wait. 

"Will you promise me faithfully to give yourself up in half an hour?" hedemanded of Don Gusman. 

"I promise, " replied the Duke. 

"Play on, then, " said the executioner. 

The truce being thus concluded, the players returned to their seats andtheir game, whilst Calavar and his companions, forming themselves into acircle, stationed themselves round the two players. Calavar, who washimself a chess player, looked on with interest, and could not preventhimself from involuntarily considering each move the players made. 

Don Gusman looked up for an instant upon the circle of faces whichsurrounded him, but his _sang froid_ did not abandon him. 

"Never have I played in the presence of such a noble company!" he cried. "Bear witness, rascals, that at least once in my life I have beaten DonLopez. " Then he returned to the game with a smile upon his lips. TheBishop gripped the handle of the axe which he still held in his hand. 

"If I were only sure of escaping from this tigers' den, " he thought, "Iwould break every head of the four of them. "

III. 

If three hours had dragged in the prisoner's cell, they had not passedmore quickly in the Royal chamber of King Philip. 

The King had finished his game with Don Ramirez de Biscay, and thenobles, still compelled from etiquette to remain standing, appearedalmost ready to drop with fatigue, rendered still more painful from theweight of their armour. 

Don Tarraxas stood motionless, with closed eyes like one of those ironfigures which ornamented the castles of the savage Goths. YoungD'Ossuna, with drooping head, stood propped against a marble pillar, whilst King Philip strode impatiently about the apartment, only stoppingat intervals to listen to some imaginary noise. According to thesuperstitious custom of the age, the King knelt for a few moments at thefoot of a figure of the Virgin placed upon a porphyry pedestal to praythe Madonna to pardon him the deed of blood which was about to takeplace. Silence reigned, for no one, whatever his rank might be, dared tospeak before his Sovereign without his commands. 

As the King's eyes saw the last grain of sand fall in the hour-glass heuttered an exclamation of joy. 

"The traitor dies!" he cried. 

An almost inaudible murmur ran through the assembly. 

"The hour is passed, Count of Biscay, " said Philip, turning to DonRamirez, "and with it your enemy. "

"My enemy, sire?" asked Ramirez, affecting surprise. 

"Why do you repeat my words, Count?" replied the King. "Were you not arival to Don Gusman in the affections of Dona Estella, and can rivals befriends? Dona Estella shall be yours. This young girl will bring you herbeauty and her fortune. I have not spoken of this to our Council, but myRoyal word is pledged. If the ingratitude of Sovereigns is ever spokenof before you, Count, you will be able to reply that we did not forgetthe true friend of the King and of Spain who discovered the plot and thecorrespondence of Don Gusman with France. "

Don Ramirez de Biscay seemed to listen to the King with uneasiness. Hekept his eyes fixed upon the ground, as if he disliked to be thuspraised in public. Then he made an effort to reply. 

"Sire!" he said, "it was with great repugnance that I fulfilled such apainful duty"--he hesitated, and then was silent. 

Tarraxas gave a slight start, whilst D'Ossuna struck sharply the pommelof his sword with his iron glove. 

"Before Dona Estella shall belong to this man, " thought D'Ossuna, "Iwill have vengeance or perish in the attempt. Tomorrow shall be the dayof my revenge. "

The King continued:--

"Your zeal, Don Ramirez, and your devotion must be rewarded. The saviourof our throne, and perhaps of our dynasty, merits a particular gift. This morning I ordered you to make out some _lettres-patentes_, whichconfer upon you the rank of Duke and Governor of Valence. Are theseready to be signed?"

Don Ramirez grew pale with pleasure. He shook like an aspen and his eyesgrew dim. But the King made an impatient movement, and the Count, drawing a roll of parchment hastily from his breast, presented it on hisknees to the King. 

"My first public duty to-day shall be to sign these papers, " said theKing. "The executioner has already punished treason; it is now time forthe King to recompense fidelity. "

The King unrolled the parchment and began to read. As he read, his facebecame convulsed with fury, and his eyes shot forth flames of wrath. 

"By my father's soul!" he shouted; "what do I behold?"

IV. 

The game of chess was finished. Don Gusman had beaten Ruy Lopez, and histriumph was complete. He rose to his feet. 

"I am now, as ever, ready to obey the wishes of my King, " he said toCalavar. 

The executioner understood him, and began to prepare the block. Whilstthis was being done Don Gusman advanced towards the crucifix, and saidin a firm voice:--

"Oh, Heaven! may this unjust and rash act which is about to take placefall upon the head of him who is the instigator of this treachery; butlet not my blood recoil upon the head of my King. "

[Illustration: "WHAT DO I BEHOLD?"]

Ruy Lopez, crouching in a corner of the cell, and burying his face inhis mantle, began to recite the prayers for the dying. 

Calavar approached Don Gusman, and putting his hand upon the Duke'sshoulder began to loosen his ruff. Don Gusman shrank back from thecontact. 

"Nothing that belongs to you, except this axe, shall touch a Gusman, " hesaid, taking off his ruff himself and placing his head upon the block. "Strike!" he added, "I am ready!"

The executioner raised the axe--the King's justice was at last to besatisfied, when shouts, rapid footsteps and confused voices arrested thesweep of the executioner's arm. 

The door gave way under the united efforts of a troop of armed men, andD'Ossuna, rushing into the cell, threw himself between the executionerand his victim. He was just in time. 

"He lives!" cried Tarraxas. 

"He is saved!" repeated D'Ossuna. "My beloved cousin, I never hoped tohave seen you alive again. God in His mercy has not let the innocentperish for the guilty. God be praised!"

"God be praised!" echoed all the spectators, and louder than the restrang out the voice of Ruy Lopez. 

"You have arrived in time, my friend, " said Don Gusman to his cousin;"but now I shall have no longer strength to die, " and he sank backfainting on the block. The shock had been too much for him. 

Ruy Lopez seized the Duke in his arms, and, followed by all the nobles, bore him along the passages to the King's apartment. When Don Gusmanopened his eyes he found himself in the midst of a circle of hisfriends, amongst which stood the King, looking down upon him with anexpression of joy. 

Don Gusman could hardly believe his senses. From the axe and the blockhe had passed to the King's apartment. He did not understand why thischange had taken place. He did not know that Don Ramirez, in giving his_lettres-patentes_ to the King to sign, had, in his agitation, given himinstead a paper containing a plot in which he schemed to get rid forever of Don Gusman, a detested rival, and one of the firmest supportersof the throne. He was ignorant of all that had passed, and did not knowhow he had escaped from the clutches of the executioner. It was sometime before everything could be made clear to him. 

Three days afterwards, at the same hour as Gusman's miraculous delivery, Calavar beheaded Don Ramirez, Count of Biscay, traitor and falsewitness. Don Gusman was overwhelmed with congratulations on all sides. King Philip grasped him cordially by his hand. 

"Gusman, " he said, "I have been very unjust. I can never forgive myfolly. "

"Sire, " replied the Duke, "let us speak of it no more. Such words spokenby my King are worth a thousand lives. "

But the King continued. 

"I desire, " he said, "that henceforth, in commemoration of your almostmiraculous deliverance, you carry upon your escutcheon a silver axeemblazoned on an azure chess-board. This month we shall celebrate yourmarriage with Dona Estella. The marriage shall take place in ourEscurial Palace. "

Then he added, turning to Ruy Lopez:--

"I believe that the Church will possess a good servant in its newBishop. You shall be consecrated Lord Prelate, with a scarlet robe, enriched with diamonds; that will be the recompense of your game ofchess with Don Gusman. "

"Sire, " replied Don Lopez, "never before this day have I been satisfiedto be checkmated. "

The King smiled, and the courtiers followed his example. 

"Now, my lords, " continued Philip, "we invite you all to our Royalbanquet. Let Don Gusman's seat be placed upon our right, and the Bishopof Segovia's on our left. Give me your arm, Don Gusman. "

[Illustration]

Illustrated Interviews

XXL--MR. AND MRS. KENDAL. 

If one had waited for a few months, "The Kendals" would have beengetting settled in their new home in Portland Place. But, then, thehappiest associations are always centred around the old, and thepleasantest and frequently the dearest recollections are gathered aboutthe familiar. That is why I went to them once more to their home of manyyears at 145, Harley Street. 

It would be difficult to realize a woman of more strikingcharacteristics than she who was for so many years known as "Madge"Robertson, and notwithstanding a very important visit one morning inAugust twenty-three years ago to St. Saviour's, Plymouth Grove, Manchester, when she became the wife of Mr. William Hunter Grimston, there are many who still know and speak of her by her happily-rememberedmaiden name. From that day husband and wife have never playedapart--they have remained sweethearts on the stage and lovers in theirown home. At night--the footlights; by day--home and children. Mrs. Kendal assured me that neither her eldest daughter, Margaret, nor Ethel, nor Dorothy--the youngest--nor "Dorrie, " who is now at Cambridge, norHarold, a "Marlborough" boy, would ever go on the stage. Home, husband, and children--home, wife, and children, are the embodiment of the lifeled by the Kendals. 

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry_. ]

Together with Mr. Kendal we sat down in the drawing-room, and werejoined for a moment by Miss Grimston, a quiet, unaffected young girl, who looked as though she could never rid herself of a smile, either inher eyes or about her mouth--a young maiden who suggested "sunshine. "She was carrying Victoria, a pet dog. The mother's whole thoughts seemedto go out to her daughter. 

"Our Jubilee dog, " she cried. "I bought her on Jubilee Day, and, curiously enough, Mr. Kendal bought one too, neither of us telling theother we were going to make such canine purchases. "

Then, when Miss Grimston had left the room, her mother turned to mequietly, and said:--

"The image of my brother Tom. The same hair, the same expression ofeyes, the same kind and loving ways. I think he lives in my girl. Comewith me and you shall see his portrait. "

It hung in Miss Grimston's boudoir--an apartment the walls of which weredecorated with pictures of the Comédie-Française Company, the originaldesigns for the dresses in "A Wife's Secret"; while over themantel-board are Mr. And Mrs. Kendal in "The Ironmaster, " and manyfamily portraits are about. 

[Illustration: MISS GRIMSTON'S BOUDOIR. 

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry. _]

"It is so amusing to hear people talk and write about my eldest brotherTom and me playing together as children, " she said. "My mother wasmarried when she was eighteen, and my brother was born when she wasnineteen; I was born when she was forty-eight, and was her twenty-secondchild! So my brother was a grown man with a moustache when I knew him. Iwas brought up with his two children--little Tom and Maude, my ownnephew and niece. "

What a delightful story it was! Little Madge Robertson used to dress upas a policeman and take Maude into custody before Tom, the younger, asthe judge. And this was the trial:--

"What is the prisoner charged with, constable?" asked the judge. 

"Murder, my lord, " replied the representative of law and order. 

"Prisoner, are you guilty?"

"Yes, my lord, " answered the poor prisoner. 

"Prisoner, have you anything to say why sentence should not be passedupon you according to law?"

"Yes, my lord. _I'm the daughter of the author of 'Caste'. _"

The prisoner always got off, and dear old William Robertson would watchthis little scene and roar with laughter. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Kendal said quietly, as we again looked at "Tom's" picture, "my brother was kindness itself, even from his infancy. I rememberhearing how, when he was a very small boy and living with his aunt, hewent out one summer's day with a new velvet jacket on. He caught sightof a poor little beggar child his own size, who was in tatters, and, beckoning him across, at once divested himself of his new coat, put iton the wondering youngster, and ran away home as fast as he could. Hisaunt questioned him, and upon finding out the true circumstances of thecase, and not wishing to damp the kind spirit in the little fellow'sheart, said:--

"'Well, we'll go and try to find the boy you gave it to, and buy yourjacket back. '

"Fortunately the search was successful, and the coat was bought back forno less a sum than half-a-sovereign. 

"And in later years it was just the same with Tom. He could never passby a common cookshop, in front of the windows of which was often a crowdof men, women, and children, looking on with longing eyes, withoutgetting them inside and giving them a fill to their hearts' content. When out driving it was no different. He would stop the horse, and haveall the watching hungry ones inside, and the next moment they would berevelling in the satisfying properties of thick slices of plum-puddingand roast beef. "

The house throughout is most artistic. Mr. Kendal is a painter of greatmerit, and he "knows" a picture as soon as he sees it. Pictures are hishobby; hence there is not a room in the house--even to thekitchen--which does not find a place for some canvas, etching, orengraving. The entrance-hall is at once striking, with its quaintthirteenth century furniture, bronzes, and Venetian ware. There are somefine engravings of Miss Brunton--who became Countess of Craven--Kemble, Garrick, Phelps, and Mrs. Siddons. A picture of Mrs. Kendal in "TheFalcon" was done at the express wish of, and paid for by, the late PoetLaureate. Tennyson said it reminded him of a woman he liked and admired. In the shadow is a fine bust of Macready, given by the great actor tothe father of Mrs. Kendal; resting against the fireplace on either sideare the two lances used in "The Queen's Shilling, " and close by are twohuge masks representing a couple of very hirsute individuals. They camefrom California, and represent "The King of the Devils" and "The King ofthe Winds. "

[Illustration: THE HALL. (_From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry. _)]

[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM. (_From a Photo, by Elliott & Fry. _)]

The entrance to the dining-room is typical of all the other doordecoration in the house--a carving of cream enamel of beautiful designand workmanship. The walls of this apartment are terra-cotta, with afinely carved oak-panelling. It is a little treasure room of canvases, the gem of which is probably C. Van Hannen's "Mask Shop in Venice"--apainter of a school which Luke Fildes, R. A. , has done so much topopularize. Macbeth is represented by a couple of delightful efforts, and there are samples of the skill of Eugene Du Blas, Crofts, John Reid, Andriotti, Sadler, De Haas, Rivers; a grand landscape by Webb--nearlyall of which are Academy works. The decorative articles are as artisticas in some cases they are peculiar. Running about above the oakenfireplace, amongst choice bronzes and blue ware, and a black boy who istrudging along with a very useful clock on his back, are many quaintanimals of polished brass--even mice are not missing, with wonderfullylong tails--that sparkle and glisten in the firelight. Ascending thestaircase you find etchings after Alma Tadema, Briton Riviere, andothers; the walls are covered with them. 

[Illustration: SCENE FROM "THE SQUIRE. " _From the Picture by Mr. Kendal. _]

Here are a series of delightful pictures showing Mr. And Mrs. Kendal inGilbert's "Sweethearts, " and I am reminded that the gifted actor andactress were the first to appear before the Queen after a period offive-and-twenty years, during which Her Majesty had never seen a play, the performance that night consisting of "Sweethearts" and TheyreSmith's "Uncle's Will. " And as one takes note of many rare works--thebedroom is almost entirely given up to Doré's marvellous creations, though near the window is a splendid specimen of the photographer's art:a head of Miss Mary Anderson--one cannot fail to observe the familyspirit everywhere--sometimes portraits of children, sometimes small anddainty pencil studies made of them by their father. Occasionallytheatrical sketches by Mr. Kendal appear. Here are some of the principalmembers of the old St. James's Company, who used to give Mr. Kendalsittings between the acts--here a capital bit of artistic work depictinga scene from "The Squire, " made from stray memorandums and with the aidof a looking-glass for securing the actor-artist's face. 

Leaving Mr. Kendal for a time, Mrs. Kendal and I returned to thedrawing-room. It overlooks Harley Street and is a handsome two-roomedapartment, the prevailing tone of blue, cream, and gold harmonizing toperfection. It is positively one huge collection of curios. 

The screen at the far end is rather shuddery, not to say creepy, tothose of nervous temperament. It is decorated with tomahawks of fearfuland wonderful shapes and sizes, and other Indian implements of warfare. 

"These came from California, " Mrs. Kendal explained. "No sooner are youout of the train than the Indians tomahawk you! Look at this bow andarrow. "

The pots of palms and ferns all hold American flags. These colours--thestars and stripes--once surmounted baskets of flowers and floralemblems--five, six, and even seven feet high--handed to Mrs. Kendalduring her recent tour in the States; and amongst the sweetly-perfumedblossoms diamonds, pearls, and other precious gems have glistened in theshape of ornaments. A table near the window tells you of the generosityof the Americans. It is crowded with silver ornaments and mementos. Youmay handle the diminutive silver candlesticks to light "The Kendals"away--silver jugs, souvenir spoons, frying-pans, coffee-pots--all inminiature. This silver dollar is only one of a hundred. You touch aspring, when, lo and behold! the portrait of the donor appears. AllAmerican women have dainty feet. These little ebony and silver lasts foryour boots remind you of this. On this table is a letter from thePrincess of Wales, thanking Mrs. Kendal for "the lovely silver weddingbells and flowers which you so kindly sent me on the tenth. " You mayexamine George IV. 's cigar-case--a silver tube in which the King waswont to carry a single cigar. It is impossible to number all thetreasured odds and ends, but still more difficult to total up theminiature articles set out in a pair of cabinets. 

[Illustration: NAPOLEON'S WRITING-TABLE _From a Photo by Elliott &Fry. _]

[Illustration: "SHAKESPEARE AND BACON" _From the Picture by A. E. Emslie. _]

Mrs. Kendal has a hobby--it lies in the collecting of the tiniest oftiny things. If her intimate friends come across any curiosityparticularly choice and small, it is at once snapped up and dispatchedto Harley Street. I had some little leaden mice in my hand the size ofhalf-a-dozen pins' heads. Handkerchiefs an inch square, babies' woollenshoes, pinafores, shirts, all of the tiniest, but perfectly made, withbuttons and button-holes complete, and even buns with currants no biggerthan a pin's point. Sheep, dogs, cats, monkeys, pigs, giraffes--inshort, convert the entire Zoo into miniature china knick-knacks, and youhave a considerable portion of Mrs. Kendal's collection realized. Onemust needs stand for a moment at Napoleon's writing-table, near whichrests a characteristic clay by Van Beers. The pictures here are many. Millais' work is well represented by several etchings, and a remarkablyclever thing by Emslie, entitled "Shakespeare and Bacon, " suggests thetwo extremes of taste to a nicety. Whilst a young enthusiast isdeclaiming Shakespeare, one of his listeners--doubtless, equallyenthusiastic, but with an eye for victuals--is interrupting a soliloquywith the remark: "Now! who says bacon?" Every portrait has ahistory--Prince and Princess Henry of Battenberg in their weddinggarments, the late Duke of Albany, Professor Huxley, Mrs. BeecherStowe, Mr. And Mrs. Pinero, Mr. And Mrs. Bancroft, and many others. Three suggestive pictures, however, cannot be passed by. This dearlittle fellow is the son of Mr. B. J. Farjeon. Mr. Farjeon married "RipVan Winkle" Jefferson's daughter, and the youngster is pictured dressedin the tattered garments of merry, rollicking _Rip_. You know how _Rip_always drinks your health? He holds the glass of hollands high up andcries, "Here's your health and your family's good health, and may theyall live long and prosper!" but Mr. Farjeon's little boy cries out, "Here's your health, and your family's good health, and may you all livelong and _proper_!"

[Illustration: GROUP IN CLAY BY JAN VAN BEERS. ]

[Illustration: MRS. KENDAL AS "GALATEA"]

A photo, of Dr. Pancoast stands near a bust of Mrs. Kendal as _Galatea_, done when she was seventeen. Dr. Pancoast--a celebrated Americanphysician--saved Mrs. Kendal's life when her maid accidentallyadministered a poisonous drug to her mistress. The poor girl herselfnearly died of fright. 

But perhaps the portrait of the late Duchess of Cambridge, which Mrs. Kendal now holds in her hand, is more interesting than them all. "Herlate Royal Highness, " Mrs. Kendal said, "always addressed me and wroteto me as Mrs. Grimston. She was paralyzed in her right hand and wrotewith her left; perhaps that is why this letter, written in pencil andwith great effort, is treasured more than it otherwise would have been. "

It was one of the last letters written by Her Royal Highness. Theletters and words were wonderfully legible; it read:--

 "DEAR MRS. GRIMSTON, --One line only to thank you for sending me the stalls for my dressers, who enjoyed your and Mr. Grimston's charming acting immensely. My first deaf one was able to follow perfectly, thanks to your having kindly let her have the book previously. Again thanking you, "I remain, "Yours very sincerely, AUGUSTA. "

And in a little cabinet in the far corner is a beautiful Sèvres bowl. Inthe bowl is a telegram from "Princess Mary, " asking Mrs. Kendal to cometo St. James's Palace at once. Written on a black-edged envelope werethese words: "To dearest Mrs. Grimston Kendal. A little souvenir. Foundamongst the last wishes of her late Royal Highness the Duchess ofCambridge. "

It is only just possible to hasten through the collection of substantialreminiscences which add to the charm of this corner of the house. Thequaint white china hare was given to Mrs. Kendal many years ago by Mr. John Hare, when playing together at the Court. A curious but vividlysuggestive idea of Japanese wit, in the shape of a couple ofcharacteristically dressed figures, typifies "Health" and "Wealth"; thefigure, representing "Health" has a countenance of the deepest red, theother a face all golden and as resplendent as the sun. In a small frameis the letter from the Goethe Club of New York, making Mrs. Kendal anhonorary member. She is the only woman member of this club. And thispretty little doll dressed as a Quakeress--a charming compliment to therecipient--was presented by the Quakeresses of Philadelphia, who never, never, never go the play, yea, verily! So they sent this as a tribute oftheir admiration for the talents and character of the woman who has beencalled "The Matron of the Drama. "

[Illustration: MRS. KENDALL'S LITTLE QUAKERESS. ]

We sat down on a settee in front of the fire. The cushions were of whitelawn marked with the initial "M. , " and were worked by the late LadyEglinton. 

Mrs. Kendal's happy and homely face is familiar to all. She has a trulytender and sympathetic expression there at all times. Her hair was oncethat of the fair one with golden locks, now it is of a rich browncolour--very neatly and naturally trimmed about her head. She is verykind--very motherly; just the woman you would single out in time oftrouble and ask, "What would you advise me to do?" I gathered theseimpressions whilst listening to many things she said of which I need notwrite. Her views on theatrical life are strong, nay, severe. She is notafraid to speak, and she hits hard and sends her shots home. But youcannot mistake the earnestness of her manner, the true intent of hermotives. 

"I am only a common-place woman, " she said to me. "I used to be ever solight-hearted--now, I'm a morbid creature. Here we are sitting down bythe fireside. I may tell you happy reminiscences that may make onemerry, and all the time I should be thinking about--what? Cancer! Ireturn to my dressing-room from the stage at night. As I am passingalong a fellow player may turn to me and say, 'How well the play hasgone to-night!' I am only thinking of those who have trod that samestage before me. What are they now? Dust--earth--worms!"

I stirred the fire, and the bright glow from its burning embers lit upthe corner where we sat. And we talked together. 

Margaret Brunton Robertson was born at Great Grimsby on March 15th, 1849--curiously enough these lines will be read on the anniversary ofher birthday. Her grandfather, father, and uncle were all actors. 

"I lived alone with my father and mother, " she said, "and the only realrecollection I have of my father is his fine white beard, which he grewtowards the latter days of his life, and a little advice he once gaveme. 

"'Always count twenty, ' he said, 'when you are walking across the quayat Bristol, then you won't hear the sailors swear!' Yet he would usevery bad language to me when he was teaching me my parts; for you know Icommenced acting at a very early age. I was only three when I made myfirst appearance--and I ruined the play. It was at the MaryleboneTheatre in the 'Three Poor Travellers, ' and I was a blind child. Mynurse was in the front row of the pit--that is, in the very first row, for there were no stalls. All I thought about was my new shoes--a verypretty, dainty little pair, and as soon as I stepped on the stage, Iopened my eyes, caught sight of the delighted face of my nurse, andcried out:--

"'Oh! nursey, dear, look at my new shoes!'

"I played at Chute's Theatre in Bristol in many child's parts. When myfather went to the wall over the Lincoln Circuit, Mr. Chute engaged himas an actor, and I went with him. I remember in 'A Midsummer Night'sDream'--I was _Mustard Seed_, I think, or _Peas Blossom_; at any rate, some small character that required very prettily dressing, and plenty offlowers on my little costume. I am as fond of flowers to-day as I wasthen. Well, when once I got on the stage in my pretty dress--of which Iwas particularly proud--before I would leave it, I had to be bought offwith apples and oranges! There they would stand at the wings, and theprice would go up--up--up--two oranges, three oranges, three orangesand two apples--until I inwardly murmured a childish equivalent for'sold, ' and toddled off. 

"I acted _Eva_ in 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' when I was eight. I think I wasalways a sad child--I looked forty when I was fifteen. After little_Eva_ I used to play anything. "

And they were hard times for little Madge--she worked like the bravelittle woman she was. Her childish thoughts were constantly with herparents--how best could she add to the weekly income. And this is whatthe same little Madge would do. Night after night, after playing in aserious piece, she would appear in burlesque, sing, dance, and crack hersmall jokes with the best of them. It was hard work that made her awoman--it was dearly-bought experience that gave birth to thesympathetic heart she has to-day. 

[Illustration: MRS. KENDAL. _From a Photo. By Bassano. _]

So at fourteen she was a woman grown--and at fifteen at Hull played_Lady Macbeth_ to Phelps's _Macbeth_!

"I was dressed in my mother's clothes, " Mrs. Kendal said, "and I fear Imust have looked a fearful guy!"

At rehearsal Phelps looked upon the young woman. 

"And who--who is this child?" asked the great actor. 

"Madge Robertson, " the manager answered; "a rare favourite here. It wasa choice between her and a very old woman, Mr. Phelps. "

"Then let the young woman play, by all means, " Phelps said. 

What a night it was! At the end of the play they wanted her on again, but Phelps was obdurate. A party of men came round, and threatened tothrow Phelps into the Humber! Phelps remained firm. 

"He was kindness itself through it all, " Mrs. Kendal assured me, "andthough I did not go on again, he proved his thoughtfulness a littlelater on by sending for me to play _Lady Teazle_. I played the leadingparts during the three nights Phelps remained in Hull in 'The Man of theWorld, ' 'Richelieu, ' and 'Macbeth. ' On July 29th, 1865, I made my_début_ in London, at the Haymarket, as _Ophelia_ to the _Hamlet_ ofWalter Montgomery. Poor Montgomery! He was what you would call a'lady-killer'--very conceited, but, withal, very kind. He once wrote aletter to my father, and added a postscript, saying: 'Keep this letter. Should poverty fall upon you or yours, your great-grand-children may beable to sell it for a good sum of money!' I was only with him sixweeks. "

The only play of her brother's in which Mrs. Kendal has appeared was"Dreams, " when the Gaiety first opened. At this time the managers alwaystried to induce Mrs. Kendal to appear in a riding habit--a costume inwhich she looked strikingly handsome. 

"Alfred Wigan played in 'Dreams, '" continued Mrs. Kendal. "His wife wasone of the kindest women I ever met. She gave me a gold bracelet for avery curious little service I used to render her husband every night. Hehad to sing a song in 'Dreams, ' and one or two of the high notes werebeyond his reach. I used to take these notes for him, and the audiencenever guessed the truth. "

"And have you not played _Desdemona_?" I asked. 

"Oh! yes--and to a real black man, and so he did not have to put hishead up the chimney to make himself up for the part! His name was IraAldridge, and scandal said he was the dresser of some great actor whomhe used to imitate. But he had very ingenious ideas as to the characterof _Othello_. He thought him a brute, and played him as such. His greatnotion was to get the fairest woman possible for _Desdemona_--and I wasselected, for at that time my hair was quite golden. 

"In one part of the play he would cry out, 'Give me thy hand, Desdemona!' and certainly the effect of my hand in his huge grasp wasimpressive. Then in the last act he would pull me from the couch by thehair of my head. Oh! there was something in his realism, I can tellyou!"

Miss Robertson made a great sensation when she appeared as _BlancheDumont_, in Dr. Westland Marston's "Hero of Romance, " when it wasperformed for the first time at the Haymarket Theatre, on March 14th, 1868. Seventeen months after this, on August 7th, 1869, she was MadgeRobertson no longer. On that day she was married to Mr. William HunterGrimston, whose stage name is Kendal. It is a charming little story. 

It occurred at Manchester. Mr. Kendal and Miss Robertson were on tourwith the elder Compton, and they were--sweethearts. A convenient timeseemed to have arrived for their wedding day, for on the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights pieces were to be played in which neither ofthem would be required. This would mean a nice little honeymoon--and thetwo lovers would reappear on the Monday night. So the day wasfixed--Thursday; the church chosen--St. Saviour's, Plymouth Grove; andthe best man booked--Walter Gowing, who used to play under the name ofWalter Gordon. 

Then bad news came. Compton's brother was taken ill, and he had to hurryaway from Cottonopolis. Another play had to be put in the bill, both Mr. Kendal and Miss Robertson would be needed--for it was "As You Like It, "and the one would be wanted for _Orlando_ and the other for _Rosalind_. Still, the wedding was proceeded with on Thursday morning, quietly andhappily, and in the evening husband and wife met on the stage in theForest of Arden. There, with _Celia_ as the priest, amidst the leafytrees and grassy pathways, _Orlando_ turns to the merry _Celia_, andpointing to the far, far happier _Rosalind_, cries out:--

"Pray thee, marry us!"

"Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?"

"I will. "

"Then, " _Rosalind_ pertly remarks, "you must say, 'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. '"

"I take thee, Rosalind, for wife, " said _Orlando_, earnestly. 

Then _Rosalind_ asked, "Now tell me how long you would have her afteryou have possessed her?"

And _Orlando_ replied--both in the words of Shakespeare and in thelanguage of his own heart--"For ever and a day!"

That is the true story of the wedding of Mr. And Mrs. Kendal. It was anatural desire of each never to play apart from the other, and from thatday they have never separated. For some seven years Mr. And Mrs. Kendalplayed at the Haymarket, under Buckstone's management, and the giftedactress merrily referred to the little jokes played on "Bucky" by someof the actors. He was stone deaf, and could only take his cues when tospeak from the movements of his fellow-actors' lips, so they would annoyhim by continuing the lip movement, and "Bucky" sometimes got "stuck. "

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM. _From a Photo. By Elliott & Fry. _]

Little need be said of Mrs. Kendal's subsequent work--her acting at theCourt, the Prince of Wales's, and her labours at the St. James's, when, in 1881, she appeared there under the joint management of Mr. Kendal andMr. Hare. Not only in this country has her name become fondly familiarin the homes of those who "go to the theatre" and those who "neverwould, " but in America the artistic acting of herself and husband hasbeen instantly and enthusiastically recognised. 

I left the drawing-room--pausing, before entering Mr. Kendal's study, toadmire the aviary--a veritable home of song--and to notice onediminutive member of the feathered tribe in particular, who has beentaught by Miss Grimston to perform tricks _ad lib. _, in addition togiving forth the sweetest of notes. 

The study is a very delicate apartment in terra-cotta and gold--here andthere are quaint blue china vases and many exquisite bronzes. The windowin the recess where the table is--a typical study table, suggestingplenty of work--is of stained glass, the quartet of divisionsrepresenting the four seasons. A glance round the walls of this room atonce reveals the substantial side of Mr. Kendal's artistichobby--pictures. In this apartment there is nothing but water-colours, save a very clever pen-and-ink sketch by a New York artist, called "SixMonths After Marriage, " which Jefferson caught sight of at the New YorkDramatic Bazaar, and reminded Mr. Kendal to "keep his eye on, " and aportrait or two of Mrs. Kendal and the children. "Hetty Sorrell" at herbutter pats, with her thoughts very far from the churning-pan, is a gem. "The Last of St. Bartholomew" is a magnificent bit of painting, and theVenetian views at once carry one back to the home of the merry gondolierand perfect moonlight nights. This picture of Salvini--who its possessorassured me was the finest tragedian he had ever seen--was painted by Mr. Kendal himself. The bookcase, running along opposite the window, contains many rare first editions, of which Mr. Kendal is a verypersevering and successful collector, and a bound manuscript copy ofevery play produced by him, together with the original sketches for thescenery. You may look over the "Scrap of Paper, " "The Falcon, " "Queen'sShilling, " "Ladies' Battle, " "Clancarty, " "The Ironmaster, " "The MoneySpinner, " and "The Squire"--Pinero's play, of which somebody wrote thatit wafted the scent of the new-mown hay across the footlights. 

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SALVANI, BY MR. KENDAL. ]

It is interesting to learn how Mr. Kendal first came across Pinero. 

"I only knew him as an actor at the Lyceum, " he said, "and had never methim. He wrote and asked if we would let him read a play to us. As a rulewe never do that; but, remembering that Pinero was himself a player, wemade an exception. So it came about that one day, after a rehearsal, theactor playwright read his piece to us in the _foyer_ of the St. James's. We never expected anything at first, but the reading ended in our takingthe play immediately, though we scarcely knew what we should do with it, seeing it was a two-act play. We found an opportunity, however, and youknow the success it was. It was called 'The Money Spinner. '"

Mr. Kendal is a striking-looking man--the very ideal of a picturesquesoldier, with a constitution of steel. He talks to you frankly, easily, for there is not two penny-worth of presumption about him. He lives andlabours very quietly--he enjoys his days, and a good cigar. He divideshis talents between the stage and the brush. His pencil and palette havebeen with him in far-off places, and there is always a corner in hisbag for them if he only travels twenty miles from Harley Street. Hispeculiarity of painting--so to speak--lies in the fact that he neverfails to chronicle the view obtained from any hotel where he may bestaying. He showed me a book full of these hasty impressions--all ofwhich were most beautifully done--many of them he could only give tenminutes or a quarter of an hour to. Two of these I brought away forreproduction in these pages; they are both unfinished, however--thepencil reminders of certain little additions tell that. 

[Illustration: SKETCH FROM THE QUEEN's HOTEL, MANCHESTER, BY MR. KENDAL. ]

The first of these is a view of the Infirmary as seen from Mr. Kendal'swindow at the Queen's Hotel, Manchester; the second--done in a quarterof an hour--shows the way the Americans erect their buildings forexhibiting a cyclorama--popularly known here as a panorama. It was donefrom a back window in an hotel in Cleveland, U. S. A. The actor-artistnever learnt drawing, save for a few hours' lessons he took at the SladeSchools under the tuition of Le Gros. He draws everything that impresseshim--his painting memory is remarkable. He sees a man's face in thestreet, carries it home in his mind, and it will be very faithfully puton paper or canvas. 

We talked for a long time on "pictures"--he was so happy and earnestabout it that it was some time before we made an attempt to tread theboards and get behind the footlights. 

Mr. Kendal--William Hunter Grimston--was born at Notting Hill, and justoutside the sound of Bow Bells, on December 16th, 1843. His parentsbelonged to the Low Church, and their views of the theatre in general, and on adopting the stage as a profession in particular, will be readilyunderstood. Mr. Kendal was intended for the Army--how he came to "go on"the stage is best told in his own words:

"I had only been to three or four pantomimes previously, " he said, "andone night--I was about eighteen years of age at the time--I found myselfin the stalls of the old Soho Theatre, in Dean Street, Soho, now knownas the Royalty Theatre. My paper and pencil were out, and I was busilyengaged in making sketches of the various actors and actresses. Thepiece was 'Billie Taylor. ' Suddenly I felt a gentle tap on the shoulderfrom behind. I turned round. 

"'Would you allow me to take those sketches round and show the 'parties'interested?' a gentleman asked. 

"'Certainly; with pleasure, ' I replied. 

"'Perhaps you would like to come behind the scenes as well?'

"It was just what I wanted, so I followed the person who had so kindlyinterested himself in my scribble. He proved to be Mr. Mowbray, themanager of the theatre. The picture behind the scenes that night was aperfect Elysium to me. I think Mowbray must have noticed the impressionit made upon me, for he asked if I would like to go on the stage. Idid--as a sort of super. "

[Illustration: SKETCH FROM HOTEL WINDOW, CLEVELAND, U. S. A. , BY MR. KENDAL. ]

Mr. Kendal's first important engagement lasted four or five years at theTheatre Royal, Glasgow. Here he met and played with such people as HelenFaucit (Lady Martin), G. V. Brooke, Mr. And Mrs. Charles Kean, DionBoucicault, Fechter, Miss Bateman (Mrs. Crowe), and the elder Sothern. When Sothern left, the accomplished young actor played _Dundreary_, andfound himself straying in the footsteps of the famous originator of thepart, even to the hop. One would have thought that people would havepraised the actor for taking such a worthy example--but it displeasedTom Taylor, and he wrote very wrathfully. Then Mr. Kendal went to theHaymarket, met Miss Robertson, and from their wedding day their livesmay be said to have been the same in thought, word, and deed. 

As an organizer and man of business his tact and judgment were testedand proved during his joint management of the St. James's with Mr. Harein 1881. For some time previous to this Mr. Kendal had been on thelook-out for a theatre, and his mind wandered towards the St. James's, but it required a large sum of money spending on it before it could beopened. 

"One night I was talking to Lord Newry at my club, " said Mr. Kendal, "and happened to say that if £2, 000 or so were spent on the St. James'sI might feel inclined to take it. 

"'Suppose I spend that amount of money on the place, will you take it?'Lord Newry asked. 

"My only reply was that I would think about it. In the meantime I wentto the Court, from there to the Prince of Wales's to play in'Diplomacy'--it ran a year--'Peril' and 'London Assurance. ' Then Ireturned to the Court again, and during this time Lord Newry hadpractically gutted the old and unlucky St. James's, turned it insideout--John Hare, my wife and self entered, and we remained there nearlyten years. "

Mr. And Mrs. Kendal share the same opinion of America--it is the land ofto-day, the land of the future. As to its theatres in comparison withours, Mrs. Kendal--who had now joined us--was most enthusiastic. I hadreached the pillars, from which hung curtains of intricate Japaneseworkmanship, leading to the hall. Victoria, the Jubilee dog, was barkinga friendly "Good-bye, " and the lusty throats of Miss Grimston'stwo-and-twenty canaries forced their sweet notes from a far-away roominto the passage. 

"I will give you some idea of what an American theatre is like, " saidMrs. Kendal. "You reach your destination by rail at some small place fora one-night stay. If it is raining and the ground is wet, men in longjack-boots catch hold of you and gallantly take you across the puddles. You do not see a soul about--and you are in fear and trembling as towhere your night's audience is coming from. You get to your hotel, andthen your next thought is--where is the theatre? You expect to find alittle, uncomfortable, band-box of a place, and you set out to see itwith a heavy heart. It is a palace--a marble palace--a positive poem!And your heart leaps happily--only to drop dull again, for you suddenlyremember that you have seen--nobody, not even the oldest inhabitant. Youturn to the manager. 

"'Yes, yes--but, what about an audience, how are you going to fill it?'you ask. 

"'Wall, ' he replies, 'I don't trouble myself much about that. I reckonthat every seat in this theatre is sold for to-night, that's all!'"

 HARRY HOW. 

[Illustration: MR. KENDAL. _From a Photo. By Maurice Stephens, Harrogat. _]

"_Author! Author_!"

BY E. W. HORNUNG. 

This story has to do with two men and a play, instead of a woman, and itis none of mine. I had it from an old gentleman I love: only he ought tohave written it himself. This, however, he will never do; having knownintimately in his young days one of the two men concerned. But I havehis leave to repeat the story more or less as he told it--if I can. AndI am going to him for my rebuke--when I dare. 

 * * * * *

"You want to hear the story of poor old Pharazyn and his play? I'm nowgoing to tell it you. 

"Ah, well! My recollection of the matter dates from one summer's nightat my old rooms in the Adelphi, when he spoilt my night's work by comingin flushed with an idea of his own. I remember banging the drawer intowhich I threw my papers to lock them away for the night; but in a fewminutes I had forgotten my unfinished article, and was glad thatPharazyn had come. We were young writers, both of us; and, let me tellyou, my good fellow, young writing wasn't in those days what it is now. I am thinking less of merit than of high prices, and less of high pricesthan of cheap notoriety. Neither of us had ever had our names before thepublic--not even in the advertised contents of an unread and unreadablemagazine. No one cared about names in my day, save for the half-dozengreat ones that were then among us; so Pharazyn's and mine never used toappear in the newspapers, though some of them used our stuff. 

"In a manner we were rivals, for we were writing the same sort of thingfor the same sort of publications, and that was how we had cometogether; but never was rivalry friendlier, or mutually more helpful. Our parts were strangely complementary; if I could understand for thelife of me the secret of collaboration, which has always been a mysteryto me, I should say that I might have collaborated with Pharazyn almostideally. I had the better of him in point of education, and would haveturned single sentences against him for all he was worth; and I don'tmind saying so, for there my superiority ended. When he had a story totell, he told it with a swing and impetus which I coveted him, as well Imight to this day; and if he was oftener without anything to writeabout, his ideas would pay twenty shillings in the pound, in strengthand originality, where mine made some contemptible composition in pence. That is why I have been a failure at fiction--oh, yes, I have! That iswhy Pharazyn would have succeeded, if only he had stuck to plainordinary narrative prose. 

[Illustration: "HE SKETCHED THE NEW STORY. "]

"The idea he was unable to keep within his own breast, on the evening ofwhich I am telling you, was as new, and simple, and dramatic as any thatever intoxicated the soul of story-teller or made a brother author greenwith envy. I can see him now, as I watched him that night, flinging toand fro with his quick, nervous stride, while he sketched the newstory--bit by bit, and often the wrong bit foremost; but all with hisown flashing vividness, which makes me so sorry--so sorry whenever Ithink of it. At moments he would stand still before the chair on which Isat intent, and beat one hand upon the other, and look down at me with agrand, wondering smile, as though he himself could hardly believe whatthe gods had put into his head, or that the gift was real gold, itglittered so at first sight. On that point I could reassure him. My openjealousy made me admire soberly. But when he told me, quite suddenly, asthough on an afterthought, that he meant to make a play of it and not astory, I had the solid satisfaction at that moment of calling him afool. 

"The ordinary author of my day, you see, had a certain timorous respectfor the technique of the stage. It never occurred to us to make light ofthose literary conventions which it was not our business to understand. We were behind you fellows in every way. But Pharazyn was a sort offorerunner: he said that any intelligent person could write a play, ifhe wanted to, and provided he could write at all. He said his story wasa born play; and it was, in a way; but I told him I doubted whether hecould train it up with his own hand to be a good-acting one. I knew Iwas right. He had neither the experience nor the innate constructivefaculty, one or other of which is absolutely necessary for the writingof possible plays. I implored him to turn the thing into a good dramaticnovel, and so make his mark at one blow. But no; the fatal fit was onhim, and I saw that it must run its course. Already he could see andhear his audience laughing and crying, so he said, and I daresay hecould also feel the crinkle of crisp weekly receipts. I only know thatwe sat up all night over it, arguing and smoking and drinking whiskyuntil my windows overlooking the river caught the rising sun at anangle. Then I gave in. For poor old Pharazyn was more obstinate thanever, though he thanked me with the greatest good temper for mywell-meant advice. 

"'And look here, my boy, ' says he, as he puts on his hat, 'you shan'thear another word about this till the play's written; and you are to askno questions. Is that a bargain? Very well, then. When I've finishedit--down to the very last touches--_you_ shall come and sit up all nightwith _me_, and I'll read you every word. And by gad, old chap, if theygive me a call the first night, and want a speech--and I see you sittingin your stall, like a blessed old fool as you are--by gad, sir, I'llhold up you and your judgment to the ridicule of the house, so help menever!'

[Illustration: "I COULD SMELL HIS PIPE THROUGH THE KEYHOLE. "]

"Well, I am coming to that first night presently. Meanwhile, for thenext six months, I saw very little of Pharazyn, and less still in thenew year. He seldom came to my rooms now; when he did I could never gethim to stay and sit up with me; and once when I climbed up to his garret(it was literally that), he would not answer me, though I could smellhis pipe through the key-hole, in which he had turned the key. Yet hewas perfectly friendly whenever we did meet. He said he was working veryhard, and indeed I could imagine it; his personal appearance, which hehad never cherished, being even untidier, and I am obliged to addseedier, than of old. He continued to send me odd magazines in which hisstuff happened to appear, or occasionally a proof for one's opinion andsuggestions; we had done this to each other all along; but either I didnot think about it, or somehow he led me to suppose that his things weremore or less hot from the pen, whereas many of mine had been written atwelvemonth before one saw them in type. One way or another, I gatheredthat he was at work in our common groove, and had shelved, for thepresent at all events, his proposed play, about which you will rememberI had undertaken to ask no questions. 

"I was quite mistaken. One night in the following March he came to mewith a haggard face, a beaming eye, and a stout, clean manuscript, whichhe brought down with a thud on my desk. It was the play he had sketchedout to me eight or nine months before. I was horrified to hear he hadbeen at work upon it alone from that night to this. He had written, sohe said, during all this time, not another line, only each line of hisplay some ten times over. 

"I recollect looking curiously at his shabby clothes, and then remindinghim that it was at his place, not mine, I was to have heard him read theplay: and how he confessed that he had no chair for me there--that hisroom was, in fact, three parts dismantled--that he had sacrificedeverything to the play, which was worth it. I was extremely angry. Icould have helped him so easily, independent as I was of the calling Iloved to follow. But there was about him always an accursed, unnecessaryindependence, which has since struck me--and I think I may say so afterall these years--as the mark of a rather humble, very honest origin. 

"He read me the play, and I cried over the third act, and so did he. Ithought then, and still think, that there was genius in that thirdact--it took you off your feet. And to me, certainly, it seemed as ifthe piece must act as well as it read, though indeed, as I took care tosay and to repeat, my opinion was well-nigh valueless on that point. Ionly knew that I could see the thing playing itself, as I walked aboutthe room (for this time I was the person who was too excited to sitstill), and that was enough to make one sanguine. I became asenthusiastic about it as though the work were mine (which it never, never would or could have been), yet I was unable to suggest a singleimprovement, or to have so much as a finger-tip in the pie. Nor could Iafterwards account for its invariable reception at the hands ofmanagers, whose ways were then unknown to me. That night we talked onlyof one kind of reception. We were still talking when the sun cameslanting up the river to my windows; you could hardly see them fortobacco-smoke, and we had emptied a bottle of whisky to the success ofPharazyn's immortal play. 

[Illustration: "HIS MANUSCRIPT RAGGED BUT UNREAD. "]

"Oh, those nights--those nights once in a way! God forgive me, but I'dsacrifice many things to be young again and feel clever, and to know theman who would sit up all night with me to rule the world over a bottleof honest grog. In the pale light of subsequent revelations I ought, perhaps, to recall such a night, with that particular companion, silently and in spiritual ashes. But it is ridiculous, in my opinion, tofit some sort of consequence to every little insulated act; nor will Iever admit that poor Pharazyn's ultimate failing was in any appreciabledegree promoted or prepared for by those our youthful full-souledorgies. I know very well that afterwards, when his life was spent inwaylaying those aforesaid managers, in cold passages, on stagedoorsteps, or, in desperation, under the public portico on the street;and when a hundred snubs and subterfuges would culminate in the returnof his manuscript, ragged but unread: I know, and I knew then, that thewreck who would dodge me in Fleet Street, or cut me in the Strand, hadtaken to his glass more seriously and more steadily than a man should. But I am not sure that it matters much--_much_, you understand me--whenthat man's heart is broken. 

 * * * * *

"The last words I was ever to exchange with my poor old friend keepringing in my head to this day, whenever I think of him; and I canrepeat them every one. It was some few years after our intimacy hadceased, and when I only knew that he had degenerated into a Fleet Streetloafer of the most dilapidated type, that I caught sight of him one dayoutside a theatre. It was the theatre which was for some years agold-mine to one Morton Morrison, of whom you may never have heard; buthe was a public pet in his day, I can tell you, and his day was justthen at its high noon. Well, there stood Pharazyn, with his hands in hispockets and a cutty-pipe sticking out between his ragged beard andmoustache, and his shoulders against the pit door, so that for once hecould not escape me. But he wouldn't take a hand out of his pocket toshake mine; and when I asked him how he was, without thinking, helaughed in my face, and it made me feel cruel. He was dreadfullyemaciated, and almost in rags. And as I wondered what I ought to do, andwhat to say next, he gave a cough, and spat upon the pavement, and Icould see the blood. 

[Illustration: "THERE STOOD PHARAZYN. "]

"I don't know what you would have done for him--but for all I knew whathad brought him to this, I could think of nothing but a drink. It wasmid-winter, and I tell you the man was in rags. I felt that if I couldget him to a bar he might eat something, too, and that I should get ahold of him this time which I would never again let go. Judge of mysurprise when he flatly refused to come with me even for a drink. 

"'Can't you see? he said in his hollow voice. 'There'll be a crowd heredirectly, and I want the best seat in the pit--the best in the house. I've been going dry for it these two days, and I'm going dry till I'veseen the piece. No, I've been here an hour already, and there's threehours more, I know; but I'm not going to risk it, thanks all the same. '

"By this I had remembered that Morton Morrison was to re-open that nightwith a new piece. Indeed, I ought not to have forgotten that, seeingthat I had my order about me somewhere, and it meant a column from mypen between twelve and one that night. But this sudden, sorry meetinghad put all other thoughts out of my head. 

"'My dear fellow, ' I said, with a sort of laugh, 'are you afirst-nighter, too?'

"'Only at this theatre. '

"He looked me queerly in the face. 

"'You admire Morrison very much?'

"'I love him!'

"I suppose my eyes thawed him, though God knows how hard I was tryingnot to hurt him with pitying looks. At all events he began to explainhimself of his own accord, very impetuously; indeed I rather think theoutburst was purely involuntary. 

"'Look here, ' he said, with his hoarse voice lowered: 'I hoped never tosee your face again. I hoped you'd never see mine. But now you are here, don't go this minute, and I'll tell you why I think so much of MortonMorrison. I don't know him, mind you--he doesn't know me from Adam--butonce long ago I had something to do with him. And God bless him, butdamn every other manager in London, for he was the only one of the lotthat gave me a civil hearing and a kind word!'

"I knew what he was talking about, and he knew that I knew, for we hadunderstood one another in the old days. 

"'I took it to him last of all, ' he went on, wiping his damp lips withhis hand. 'When I began hawking it about he was an unknown man; when histurn came he was here. He let me read it to him. Then he asked me toleave it with him for a week; and when I went back to him, he said whatthey had all said--that it would never act! But Morton Morrison said itnicely. And when he saw how it cut me up, into little bits, he got me totell him all about everything; and then he persuaded me to burn theplay, instead of ruining my life for it; and I burnt it in hisdressing-room fire, but the ruin was too far gone to mend. I wrote thatthing with my heart's blood--old man, you know I did! And none of themwould think of it! My God! But Morrison was good about it--he's a goodsoul--and that's why you'll see me at every first night of his until thedrink finishes its work. '

"I had not followed him quite to the end. One thing had amazed me toomuch. 

"'You burnt your play, ' I could only murmur, 'when it would have turnedinto such a novel! Surely you have some draft of it still?'

"'I burnt the lot when I got home, ' Pharazyn replied; 'and by-and-by Ishall join 'em and burn too!'

"I had nothing to answer to that, and was, besides, tenacious of mypoint. 'I don't think much of the kindness that makes one man persuadeanother to burn his work and throw up the sponge, ' said I, with a gooddeal of indignation, for I did feel wroth with that fellow Morrison--abread-and-butter drawing-room actor, whose very vogue used to irritateme. 

[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THIS?"]

"'Then what do you think of this?' asked Pharazyn, as he dipped a handwithin his shabby coat, and cautiously unclenched it under my nose. 

"'Why, it's a five-pound note!'

"'I know; but wasn't _that_ kind, then?'

"'So Morrison gave you this!' I exclaimed. 

"Two or three persons had stopped to join us at the pit door, andPharazyn hastily put the note back in his pocket. As he did so, hisdreadfully shabby condition gave my heart a fresh cut. 

"'Are you never going to spend that?' I asked in a whisper; and in awhisper he answered:--

"'Never! It is all my play has brought me--all. It was given me as acharity, but I took it as my earnings--my earnings for all the work andwaiting, and blood and tears, that one thing cost me. Spend it? Not I!It will bury me as decently as I deserve. '

"We could converse no more. And the presence of other people preventedme from giving him my overcoat, though I spoke of it into his ear, begging and imploring him to come away and take it while there was stilltime for him to clip back and get a seat in the front row. But he wouldnot hear of it, and the way he refused reminded me of his old stubbornindependence; all I got was a promise that he would have a bite with meafter the performance. And so I left him in the frosty dusk, ill-cladand unkempt, with the new-lit lamp over the pit door shining down uponthe haggard mask that had once been the eager, memorable face of mycleverest friend. 

"I saw him next the moment I entered the theatre that evening, and Inodded my head to him, which he rebuked with the slightest shake of hisown. So I looked no more at him before the play began, comprehendingthat he desired me not to do so. The temptation, however, was too strongto go on resisting, for while Pharazyn was in the very centre of thefront row in the pit, I was at one end of the last row of the stalls;and I was very anxious about him, wanting to make sure that he was thereand not going to escape me again, and nervous of having him out of mysight for five minutes together. 

"Thus I know more about the gradual change which came over Pharazyn'spoor face, as scene followed scene, than of the developments and meritsof those scenes themselves. My mind was in any case running more on mylost friend than on the piece; but it was not till near the end of thefirst act that the growing oddity of his look first struck me. 

"His eyebrows were raised; it was a look of incredulity chiefly; yet Icould see nothing to impale for improbability in the play as far as ithad gone. I was but lightly attending, for my own purposes, as youyoungsters skim your betters for review; but thus far the situationstruck me as at once feasible and promising. Also it seemed not a littlefamiliar to me; I could not say why, for watching Pharazyn's face. Andit was his face that told me at last, in the second act. By God, it washis own play!

"It was Pharazyn's play, superficially altered all through, nowheresubstantially; but the only play for me, when I knew that, was beingacted in the front row of the pit, and not on the stage, to which I hadturned the side of my head. I watched my old friend's face writhe andwork until it stiffened in a savage calm; and watching, I thought of the'first night' he had pictured jovially in the old days, when the bareidea of the piece was bursting his soul; and thinking, I wonderedwhether it could add a drop to his bitterness to remember that too. 

"Yet, through all my thoughts, I was listening, intently enough, now. And in the third act I heard the very words my friend had written: theyhad not meddled with his lines in the great scene which had moved usboth to tears long ago in my rooms. And this I swear to, whether youbelieve it or no--that at the crisis of that scene, which was just asPharazyn made it, the calm ferocity transfiguring his face died away allat once, and I saw it shining with the sweetest tears our eyes canshed--the tears of an artist over his own work. 

"And when the act was over he sat with his head on his hand for someminutes, drinking in the applause, as I well knew; then he left his seatand squeezed out on my side of the house, and I made sure he was comingto speak to me over the barrier; and I got up to speak to him; but hewould not see me, but stood against the barrier with a mien as white andset as chiselled marble. 

"What followed on the first fall of the curtain I shall relate asrapidly as it happened. Louder call for an author I never heard, and Iturned my eyes to the stage in my intense curiosity to see who wouldcome forward; for the piece had been brought out anonymously; and Idivined that Morrison himself was about to father it. And so he did; butas the lie passed his lips, and in the interval before the applause--thetiny interval between flash and peal--the lie was given him in a roar offury from my left; there fell a thud of feet at my side, and Pharazynwas over the barrier and bolting down the gangway towards the stage. Ithink he was near making a leap for the footlights and confrontingMorrison on his own boards; but the orchestra came between, and thefiddlers rose in their places. Then he turned wildly to us pressmen, andI will say he had our ear, if not that of the whole house besides, forthe few words he was allowed to utter. 

"'Gentlemen!' he cried at the top of his voice--'Gentlemen, I'm one ofyou! I'm a writing man like yourselves, and I wrote this play thatyou've seen. That man never wrote it at all--I wrote it myself! That manhas only altered it. I read it to him two years ago--two years ago, gentlemen! He kept it for a week, and then got me to burn it asrubbish--when he had made a copy of it! And he gave me this, gentlemen--he gave me this that I give him back!'

"It was a matter of only a few seconds, but not till my own last hourshall I forget Morrison's painted face on the stage, or that sweatingwhite one beneath the boxes; or the fluttering from Pharazyn's poorfingers of the five-pound note he had treasured for two years; or thehush all over the house until the first hand was laid upon his dirtycollar. 

"'What!' he screamed, 'do none of you believe me? Will none of you standby me--isn't there a man--not one man among you----'

"And they threw him out with my name on his lips. And I followed, andfloored a brute who was handling him roughly. And nothing happened tome--because of what happened to Pharazyn!"

 * * * * *

The dear old boy sat silent, his grey head on his hand. Presently hewent on, more to himself than to me: "What could I do? What proof had I?He had burnt them every one. And as long as the public would stand him, Morrison kept his good name at least. And that play was his greatsuccess!"

[Illustration: "HE GAVE ME THIS. "]

I ventured gently to inquire what had happened to Pharazyn. 

"He died in my arms, " my old friend cried, throwing up his head with anoath and a tear. "He died in a few minutes, outside the theatre. I couldhear them clapping after he was dead--clapping his piece. "

[Illustration]

Zig Zags at the Zoo: Conkavian

If the gentle reader, full of a general desire for knowledge and aparticular enthusiasm for natural history, will refer to any one of thegreat standard works on birds, and, turning to the index, seek for thefamily title of the Conkaves, I have every hope and confidence that hewill not find it; because, as a matter of fact, it is a little inventionof my own, and, I may modestly urge, rather a neat thing in scientificnomenclature, on the whole. It has the advantage of including in onefamily the storks and the pelicans, which in all orthodox books on birdsare planted far apart and out of sight of each other, with many orders, tribes, and families between. Under my title they are gathered amicablytogether in the common possession of very long bills, like two tailorson a man's doorstep. The word is derived, in the proper and regularmanner, from ancient sources; from _conk_, a venerable Eastern word, signifying a nose or beak, and the Latin _avis_, a bird. And I offerthe term freely as my humble, but I trust useful, contribution toscience; my first contribution. 

The stork is regarded, in many countries, with a certainsemi-superstitious reverence and esteem. After many prolonged andserious attempts to saturate myself with a similar feeling, I regret toconfess to a certain smallness of esteem for the stork. You can't esteema bird that makes ugly digs at your feet and heels with such a very bigbeak. Out in their summer quarters the storks are kept in by close wire, and close wire will give an air of inoffensiveness to most things. But, away in a by-yard, with a gate marked "private, " there stands a shedwherein the storks are kept warm in winter, behind wooden bars; andbetween these bars stork-heads have a way of dropping at the toes of thefavoured passer-by, like to action of a row of roadmen's picks. 

[Illustration: PICKS AND CHEWS. ]

The stork has come off well in the matter of bodily endowment. Thepelican has a tremendous beak--achieved, it would seem, by a skimping ofmaterial in the legs; but the stork has the tremendous beak and legs ofsurprising growth as well. His wings, too, are something more thanrespectable. At flying, at eating, at portentous solemnity ofdemeanour--in all these and in other things the pelican and the storkscore fairly evenly; but at walking the pelican is left behind at once. This makes one suspect the stork's honesty. The pelican has a good beakand wings, and pays for them, like an honest bird, out of its legs, justas the ostrich pays for its neck and legs out of its wings. But thestork is abnormally lucky in beak, neck, legs, and wings together, andeven then has material left to lay out in superfluous knobs and wens tohang round its neck, which leads to a suspicion that many of itspersonal fittings belong properly to some other bird. I've a notion thatthe unlucky kiwi might identify some of the property. 

[Illustration: THE PELICAN LEFT. ]

[Illustration: ARMY. ]

Perhaps the adjutant should be acknowledged king of the conkavians. Billy, the Zoo adjutant, has, I believe, no doubt on the subject at all. Billy is an ornament to the military profession--a very fine fellow, with a thing on the back of his neck like a Tangerine orange, and a wenon the front of it, which he can blow out whenever he wants to amusehimself, and everything else handsome about him. He is an old soldier, too, is Billy, having been Adjutant of the Regent's Park Conkavian Corpsfor seventeen years; but if you knew nothing of his age, still you wouldcall Billy an old soldier--upon a little acquaintance with his habits. 

[Illustration: LAW. ]

There seems no valid reason why the professional aspirations of thestork should be restricted to the army. If an adjutant, why not a dean?Why not a proctor? There is the making of a most presentable don about astork; and I have caught a stork in an attitude of judicial meditationthat might do honour to any bench. There is no reason why "sober as ajudge" should not be made to read "sober as a stork, " except that thestork is the more solemn creature of the two; and I think that somespecies of stork--say the marabou, for instance--might fairly claimbrevet rank as judge, after the example of the adjutant. The elevationof a beak to the bench might be considered an irregular piece of legalprocedure; but, bless you, it's nothing unusual with a stork. Put anybench with something to eat on it anywhere within reach of a stork'sbeak in this place, and you shall witness that same elevation, precedentor no precedent. 

[Illustration: UNIVERSITIES. ]

A common white stork hasn't half the solid gravity of an adjutant or amarabou. He has a feline habit of expressing his displeasure by blowingand swearing--a habit bad and immoral in a cat, but worse in a storkaccustomed to Church. Church, by-the-bye, is the keeper of all theconkavians, as well as of the herons, the flamingoes, the ibises, theegrets, and a number of other birds with names more difficult to spell. It is impossible to treat disrespectfully a man with such widespreadresponsibilities as this, or there might be a temptation to mention thathe is not an unusually high Church, although his services are not alwayssimple, often involving a matter of doctorin'. But, then, some peoplewill say anything, temptation or none. And after all, it is pleasant toknow that, whatever a stork or a pelican wants, he always goes toChurch. 

[Illustration: SWEARING. ]

[Illustration: CHURCH. ]

This being the case, there is a proverb about cleanliness that makes onewonder why the marabou stork doesn't wash himself. It isn't as though henever wanted it. I have a horrible suspicion about this philosophic oldsloven. I believe his profession of philosophic contemplation isassumed, because it is the easiest excuse for indolence. Now, a pelicanis not a bird of graceful outline, but he _is_ careful about hisfeathers. The pelican is a scrupulous old Dutchman, and the stork is anuncleanly old Hindu. And uncleanly he must be left, for it takes a dealto shame a stork. You can't shame a bird that wraps itself in aconvenient philosophy. "Look here--look at me!" you can imagine apelican cleanliness-missionary saying to the stork. "See how white andclean I keep all my feathers!" "Um, " says the stork, "it only makes 'ema different colour. " "But observe! I just comb through my pinions withmy beak, so, and they all lie neat and straight!" "Well, and what's thegood of that?" grunts the stork. "And then you see, " says the pelican, ignoring the question, "with a good long beak you can reach everywhere, over your back and under your wings; see, I'm as clean under my wings asanywhere else, although it's covered up!" "Beastly vanity, " growls theold Hindu, getting bored. "Then, " continues the Dutchman, "you giveyourself a good shake, and there you are!" "And then, " says thephilosopher sarcastically, "to-morrow, I suppose, you'll have to do itall over again?" "Of course!" "Oh! I hate a fool!" says the stork, andcloses the lecture. 

[Illustration]

Thus the marabou. The ordinary white stork is comparatively respectable, and so is the adjutant--or comparatively almost respectable, let us say;you can't be too cautious in giving a personal character to a stork. For long, long, the stork has enjoyed a reputation for solemn wisdom, for philosophical dignity. Now for the first time I venture to questionthis reputation--to impeach the stork as a humbug. It is easy to achievea reputation for profound and ponderous wisdom, so long as one looksvery solemn and says nothing. This is the stork's recipe. Go up to Billyhere, or one of the marabous, as he stands with his shoulders humped upabout his head, and make a joke. He won't see it. He will lift hiseyebrows with a certain look of contempt, and continue tocogitate--about nothing. If the joke is a very bad pun--such a frightfulpun that even a stork will see and resent it--perhaps he will chatterhis beak savagely, with a noise like the clatter of the lid on an emptycigar-box; but he will continue his sham meditations. "Ah, my friend, "he seems to say, "you are empty and frivolous--I cogitate the profounderimmensities of esoteric cogibundity. " The fact being that he is veryseedy after his previous night's dissipation. 

[Illustration]

That is the chief secret of the stork's solemnity, I am convinced. Hehas a certain reputation to maintain before visitors, but after hours, when the gates are shut and the keepers are not there to see, themarabou stork is a sad dog. I haven't quite made up my mind what hedrinks, but if he has brandies and sodas he leaves out too much soda. Look at that awful nose! It is long past the crimson and pimplystage--it is taking a decided tinge of blue. It _looks_ worse thanbrandy and soda--almost like bad gin--but we will be as charitable aspossible, and only call it brandy and soda. 

I should like to see the marabou stork on his nightly ran-tan, if onlyto gloat over his lapse of dignity, just as one would give much to seeBenjamin Franklin with his face blacked, drunk and disorderly and beinglocked up. But, as a shocking example, the marabou is quite bad enoughwith his awful head in the morning; his awful head and his disreputablenose, that looks to want a good scraping. I respect Billy, the adjutant, for his long service and the Tangerine at the back of his neck. Theordinary stork (although he swears and snaps) I also respect, becausethe goody books used to tell pious lies about him. The whale-headedstork, which is also called the shoe-bird, I respect as a sort ofrelative of the shoo-fly that didn't bother somebody. But the marabouhas forfeited all respect--converted it into nose-tint. I must talk toChurch seriously about the marabou. 

[Illustration: THE RAN-TAN. ]

Now, the pelican is no humbug. There is nothing like concealment abouthis little dissipations; and he is perfectly sober. Any littleirregularity at the pelican club just opposite the eastern aviary nevergoes beyond a quiet round or two for a little fish dinner. It is quite aselect and a most proper club. Indeed, the first rule is, that if anyloose fish be found on the club premises, he is got rid of at once bythe first member who detects him. And the club spirit is such thatdisputes frequently occur among members for the honour of carrying outthis salutary rule. The chairman of the club is an old crested pelican, who, by some oversight, has never been provided with a private name ofhis own. I think he should be called Peter, because he can take such amiraculous draught of fishes. It _is_ a draught; you know--a pelicandoesn't eat fishes--he drinks them down in bulk. For Peter, a dozen orso fresh herrings is a mere swill round of the mouth. 

[Illustration: A QUIET ROUND OR TWO. ]

Peter walks about the club premises with much dignity, deferred to onall sides by the other members. His kingship is rarely disputed, havingbeen achieved by the sort of conquest most familiar in the pelican club;and his divine right is as much respected as his tremendous left. 

A pelican never bears malice; he hasn't time, especially now, withcompetition so keen in the fish business, and Church's fish pails onlyof the ordinary size. There is never any ill-feeling after a littlespar, and each proceeds, in the most amicable way, to steal some otherpelican's fish. A spar at this club, by-the-bye, is a joyous andhilarious sight. Two big birds with stumpy legs and top-heavy beaks, solemnly prancing and manoeuvring before one another with anaccompaniment of valiant gobbles and a punctuation of occasionalpecks--a gleesome spectacle. 

[Illustration: PETER. ]

[Illustration: A SWILL ROUND. ]

Another sport much exhibited at the pelican club is that ofthe broadsword. The school of fence is that of Mr. VincentCrummies--one--two--three--four--over; one--two--three--four--under. You see, when a dozen or two birds with beaks a couple of feet long orso get together in a small area, and now and again rush all in the samedirection for fish, fencing is certain to develop, sooner or later. Sohere you have it, _secundum artem_--one--two--three--four--over;one--two--three--four--under; and although none have yet attained theCrummleian degree of knocking out sparks, there is a deal of hollownoise, as of thumping on a wooden box. But there is never anyafter-malice, and in less than five minutes either combatant willswallow a fish rightfully belonging to the other, with perfectaffability. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

There is a good deal of the philosopher about the pelican, and of a moregenuine sort than characterizes the stork. The pelican always makes thebest of a bad job, without going into an unnecessary tantrum over it. Ifanother member of the club snatches a fish first, the pelican doesn'tbother, but devotes his attention to the next that Church throws; a fishin the pouch is worth a shoal in somebody else's. Now and again Peterloses his temper for a moment if the others catch the first snack, andlays about him with his bill--but then, when a fellow's chairman, and alot of other fellows come snatching the lunch from under his nose--why, hang it all, you know. .. . But it is only for a moment, and Peter is soonin position for the next pouchful. He is artful about this position. When Church appears at the rails with a pailful of fish most of themembers rush to those rails, jostle together and shove their beaksthrough them and over them--any way to get nearer the pail. But thechairman knows very well that Church doesn't throw the fish outside therails, but into the inclosure, somewhere near the middle; and near themiddle the sagacious Peter waits, to his early profit--unless Church isunusually slow about throwing the fish, in which case Peter is apt tolet his excitement steal his sagacity, and to rush into the pell-mell, anxious to investigate the delay. 

[Illustration: A LITTLE SOLEING AND HEELING. ]

There is a deal of excellent wear in a pelican. One has been here aboutthirty years, and two more have been established on the same premisesfor a quarter of a century. All these three are in capital workingrepair and will probably last, with a patch or two, and a little soleingand heeling, for a century or two more; no respectable pelican is everbowled out for less than three figures. 

In the winter the club takes up its quarters in the shed behind theinclosure; a shed sumptuously furnished with certain benches and forms, whereon the club stands in rows, with a general appearance of a numberof very solemn naughty boys in a Board school. In winter, too, Churchwill often put his bucketful of fish on the ground, so that the club maydine in a clubbier way. But whether you watch this club feeding togetherfrom the pail, each member doing his best to put away the whole pailfulat a gulp, or whether you observe them playing a sort of greedy game oflacrosse with fish which Church throws them, you will be equally amazedthat the pelican was used as a symbol of charity and brotherly love inearly and middle Christian art. 

[Illustration: SCHOOL. ]

[Illustration: CLUB DINNER. ]

I have seen a pelican enact a most instructive moral lesson at apail-dinner. Observe the bill and pouch of a pelican. The pouch is anelastic fishing-net, and the lower mandible is a mere flexible frame tocarry it. Now, I have observed a pelican to make a bounce at thefish-pail, with outspread wings, and scoop the whole supply. But thenhis trouble began. The whole catch hung weightily low in the end of thepouch, and jerk and heave as he might, he could never lift the load atthe end of that long beak sufficiently high to bolt it. Meanwhile, hisfriends collected about him and remonstrated, with many flops andgobbles, betting him all his fish to nothing that he would lose it afterall; this way they chased that bag, and that way, while the bagger, inmuch trepidation and with many desperate heaves, wildly sought remotecorners away from his persecutors. Now, by the corner of the clubpremises stands an appliance, the emblem of authority, the instrument ofjustice, and the terror of the evilly-disposed pelican--a birch-broom. This, brandished in the hands of Church, caused a sudden and awfulcollapse of the drag-nets, an opening, a shower of fish and many snaps;wherefrom walked away many pelicans with fish, and one with none, whohad looked to take all. The moral is plain to the verge of ugliness. 

[Illustration. ]

[Illustration. ]

[Illustration. ]

[Illustration. ]

[Illustration. ]

A pelican has no tongue--or none to speak of. It is a mere little knobscarcely the size of a cherry. The long, long meditations of the pelican(lasting between feeding times) are given up to consideration whether ornot the disgrace of this deficiency is counter-balanced by the greatercapacity for fish which it gives the pouch. After all, it is onlyanother instance of that commercial honesty which makes the pelican payfor his beak out of his legs; he gives his tongue for a pouch. Thereshould be a legend of the pelican applying honestly to Adam to buy apouch, and the wily stork waiting and waiting on the chance of snatchingone without paying for it, until all had been served out; afterwardsliving all its life on earth in covetous dudgeon, unconsoled by itswealth of beak, legs, wings, and neck, and pining hopelessly for thelost pouch. There are many legends of this sort which ought to exist, but don't, owing to the negligence of Indian solar myth merchants, orwhoever it is has charge of that class of misrepresentation. 

[Illustration. ]

The pelican can fly, although you would never believe it, to look at theclub members here. To a Zoo pelican a flight of two feet is anundertaking to be approached with much circumspection and preparation, and a summoning of resolution and screwing of courage proper to themagnitude of the feat. It takes a long time to learn to fly on to abottom-up bucket. The Zoo pelican begins on a shadow--not a very darkone at first--and works his way up by jumping over, darker shadows tostraws and pebbles, before he tries a bucket. The accomplishedbucket-jumper makes a long preliminary survey and circumnavigation ofhis bucket before performing, and when he does begin it is with a numberof wild rushes and irresolute stops. When at last he gets the properlength of run, and the right foot in front, and doesn't see anything tobaulk him, he rises with a great effort, and all the lookers-on whodon't know him stare up over the trees, and are astonished to find him, after all, only on the bucket. His pinions are cut, poor fellow! If theywere not, what would become of the fishmongers' shops?

_Shafts from an Eastern Quiver_. 

IX. --MAW-SAYAH: THE KEEPER OF THE GREAT BURMAN NAT. 

By Charles J. Mansford, B. A. 

I. 

"The fine points of an elephant, sahib, " said our guide Hassan, "are acolour approaching to white, the nails perfectly black, and an intacttail. "

"I am glad to hear that an elephant has some qualities which recommendit, " said Denviers, good-humouredly. "I should think that the one uponwhich we are riding is about as lazy as it is possible to be. I supposeslowness is an unusually good point, isn't it, Hassan?" The Arab, whowas sitting before us on the elephant, gave it a stir with thesharply-pointed spear which he held in his hand to urge it on, and thenglancing back at us, as we reclined lazily in the cushioned howdah, hesaid inquiringly: "Are the sahibs tired already of travelling thus? Yetwe have fully two hours' journey before us. "

"Hassan, " I interposed, "this is a good opportunity for you to tell usexactly what you heard about that Maw-Sayah when we were at Bhamo. It isin consequence of that, indeed, that we are going to try to get amongthese strange Kachyens; but as we are not quite sure of the details, youmay as well repeat them. "

"The sahib shall be obeyed, " responded our guide, and although carefulto keep a good watch in front, he turned his body slightly towards us ashe prepared to begin the narrative. 

[Illustration: "THE SAHIB SHALL BE OBEYED. "]

On reaching Burmah we stayed for several days in Rangoon, the Queen ofthe East as it is called nowadays, although only remarkable formerly forits famous monasteries of Talapoins and as a halting-place for the bandsof pilgrims on their way to the mighty Shway Dagohn pagoda. Thence wejourneyed up the Irawaddy, and having duly paid reverence to some of thenine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine pagodas of Pagan--the outcastslaves of which city seemed a strange contrast to its otherwise absolutedesertion--we continued our journey by steamer as far as Mandalay. Having endured the doubtful pleasure of a jaunt in a seatless, joltingbullock-carriage--the bruises from which were not easily forgotten--weeventually reached Bhamo, where Hassan entered into conversation with ahill-man. From the latter he learnt a strange story, which was later ontold to us and the truth of which we hoped before long to fully test, for soon afterwards we set out on an elephant, our faithful guide inthis new adventure again proving himself of the greatest service. 

"Now, Hassan, " said Denviers, "we are quite ready to hear this storyfully, but don't add any imaginary details of your own. "

"By the Koran, sahib, " began the Arab, "these are the words which werethose of him to whom I spoke under the shade of the log stockade. "

"Which are, of course, unimpeachable, " responded Denviers. "Anyone couldtell that from his shifty eyes, which failed to rest upon us fixed evenfor a minute when we spoke to him afterwards. " The Arab seemed a littledisconcerted at this, but soon continued:--

"The great Spirits or Nats, who guard the prosperity of Burmah, havebecome greatly incensed with the Kachyens, not because they failed toresist stoutly when the monarch was deposed a few years ago----"

"Then we are to have a modern story, this time, Hassan?" interruptedDenviers. "I quite expected that you would commence with some longworn-out tradition. "

"The sahibs shall hear, " the Arab went on. "No one who offends the Natsof Burmah need expect anything but evil to follow. There are the Nats ofthe sky, the Nats of the earth, the Nats of the Irawaddy, the Nats ofthe five hundred little rivers, and the thousand Nats which guarded thesacred person of the monarch----"

"Yes, Hassan, " said Denviers, impatiently, "you mentioned them allbefore. We haven't time to hear the list enumerated now; go on aboutthis one particular Nat which you say is causing such havoc among thehill-tribes. "

"Patience, sahib. The Nats were justly roused to anger because thedeposed monarch was not afterwards taken to the water's edge riding uponan elephant instead of in a bullock-carriage. "

"Well, Hassan, " said Denviers, "judging from our own experience the Natsseem to be pretty sensible, I must say--but how do they affect the peaceof mind of the Kachyens?"

"Listen, sahib. High among the hills which may be seen stretching beforeus lies a village in which many of the Kachyens dwell, their occupationbeing sometimes that of tillers of the land, but more often consistingin planning and carrying out raids upon other hill-men, or of descendingat times to the plains, and there looting the towns wherein dwell morepeaceable tribes. In all their forays they had been successful, forwhenever their trusty dahs or swords were drawn, those who opposed theminvariably obtained the worst of the encounter. So powerful did theybecome that at last those dwelling in the plains--Shans, Karenns, andTalaings, too--made no resistance against their attacks; and when theysaw the produce of their fields carried away, thought themselves happynot to have been slain. The reason why the Kachyens became so successfulin all they undertook was that a powerful forest Nat placed them underits protection, and hence they could not be harmed by their foes. 

"Now it chanced that the King was in great danger through following theadvice of his impetuous ministers, whereupon he summoned the Kachyens tohis assistance--for their fame as warriors had reached his ears longbefore. But they, confident of securing their own safety whateverhappened to the monarch, refused to obey his command to march againstthe Burman foes. The consequence was that when the indignity which Ihave mentioned was offered to the deposed monarch, the Nats throughoutBurmah were furious with that one who ruled the village in which theKachyens dwelt, and they sent some of their number to destroy it. Thelatter, however, appeased them by making a grim promise, which has beenonly too faithfully kept. 

"A few days afterwards a hill-man, who was clearing a part of the landon the woody slope of the height, _saw the Nat_, which had never beforebeen visible, and, terrified at the strange form which it had assumed, he ran hastily to the rest of the tribe, and, gathering them together, held a consultation as to what should be done to appease it. Somesuggested that upon every tree trunk should be scratched appealingmessages, which the Nat might read; others were in favour of placing ahuge heap of spears and swords near the spot where the embodied Nat hadbeen seen in order that it might be tempted to destroy all those whourged it to injure them. The messages and weapons, however, when placedfor the Nat to observe did no good, for one dreadful night a rattlingwas heard of the bamboos, which lay before one of the Kachyen's huts, and the man, going hastily to see what caused it, was swiftly carriedaway in the darkness without apparently uttering a single cry! For manynights in succession a similar scene was enacted, for he at whose doorthe dire summons came dared not refuse to answer it lest the wholehousehold might perish. 

"Nothing more was ever seen of those thus strangely carried off, and theKachyens, each of whom feared that his own end might come next, determined to consult some famous Buddhist priests who dwelt not farfrom them, and who held charge over the famous marble slabs which thegreat War Prince of Burmah had caused to be engraved concerning theirillustrious traditions. The man whom ye saw me conversing with by thestockade was the one whom the tribe intrusted with the task; but thepriests, after much consideration among themselves of the object of hisvisit, refused to have anything to do with such a tragic affair, andthereupon dismissed their suppliant. 

[Illustration: "THE BUDDHIST PRIESTS. "]

"This Kachyen, when sorrowfully returning towards the hills, fearingthat the tribe would destroy him because of his non-success, chanced tomeet on his way a Mogul, to whom he repeated the story. The latter, laying his hand on his red-dyed and fierce-looking beard, advised theKachyen to enter a hole in the mountain side and to consult a famousMaw-Sayah, or juggler, who dwelt there. This juggler promised assistanceif the tribe would pay him a great reward in the event of his success, and when they agreed to this he entered the village and waited for duskto arrive. Again the dreadful rattling was heard, and another Kachyenstepped out to meet his fate. None of the tribe dared to look at whattranspired, except the juggler, and he too disappeared! The nextmorning, however, he came into the village and called its inhabitantstogether. When they had solemnly agreed to his conditions, he statedthat the Nat was bent upon destroying them all, and that to attempt toescape by means of flight would only lead to quicker death. Then he toldthem what the result of his intercession for them had been. 

"The Nat had been persuaded to destroy only one victim on each seventhevening at dusk, and had appointed him to see that certain conditionswere not broken. He was to have a hut at his disposal, and into this themen were to go by lot, and thus the Nat would obtain a victim when thetime came round. They were forbidden to wander about after sunset, andwhatever noises were made not to hearken to them, since the Maw-Sayahwould see that the others were unharmed. So long had this dreadfuldestruction lasted that more than one-half of the men in the Kachyenvillage, or town, as it might well be called from the large number whoinhabited it, had perished, and yet the Nat still demanded a victim, andthe Maw-Sayah is there to see that the compact is fulfilled. The man whotold this story, sahibs, declares that the keeper of the Nat has by thismeans obtained sway over the Kachyens to such an extent that they havebecome his abject slaves, for the custom of drawing lots has beenabolished, and he selects whom he will to sacrifice to the Nat. By somemeans this Kachyen offended the Maw-Sayah, who thereupon condemned him, but he, in terror of the sudden and silent death in store for him, fledto Bhamo, where he lives in momentary fear of destruction. Such then, sahibs, is the story, and it is to see this Maw-Sayah and the Nat attheir fell work to-night that even now our faces are turned to the highland before us, up which we must climb, for there is but one narrowpathway leading to the village. "

Hassan ceased, and then Denviers turned to me as he said:--

"I think that this Maw-Sayah, as Hassan calls him, has about as muchfaith in Nats as we have. It suits his purpose to league himself withsomething mysterious; whatever it is we will try to find out, " and heglanced at the weapons which we carried. 

II. 

"The sahibs must dismount here", said Hassan shortly afterwards, andfollowing to the ground our guide, we began to climb the mountain pathwhich stretched before us. The ascent was exceedingly steep, and severaltimes we stopped to rest after pushing our way through the tangledmasses which almost hid the path, which was itself cut here and thereapparently through the rocky strata. When we had reached aboutthree-fourths of our journey Hassan stopped and pointed out to us one ofthe thatched roofs of a hut, which seemed in the distance scarcelynoticeable until his keen eyesight discovered it. The village, we found, lay a little to the left of the mountain path, for on nearing the summitwe found ourselves passing through a peculiar avenue of treesinterspersed with long bamboo poles. From the tops of the latter therewere stretched across the approach strong, rough-looking cords, whichsupported various uncouth emblems, and among which were large triangles, circles, and stars, cut apparently out of the stems of huge bamboos. After traversing this avenue for nearly three hundred yards we saw thetree trunks which Hassan had mentioned, and which were deeply scarredwith cabalistic messages to the fierce Nat, which we could not of courseunderstand. Affixed to some of the trees farther on we saw a number ofspears and dahs mingled with shorter weapons, the latter being made ofsome species of hard wood, and close to them we observed the skulls ofseveral large animals, one of which we judged was that of an elephant. 

[Illustration: "THE AVENUE. "]

In spite of the fact that the village was a large one, the buildingswere of a very primitive construction, being made of bamboos withthatched coverings, reaching almost to the piles on which the huts wereplaced. We did not observe any openings made to serve as windows, theonly ones noticeable being those by which the Kachyens entered, placedabove a bamboo ladder, which seemed to, serve instead of steps. Althoughthe sun had scarcely set, the village was wrapped in a strange silence, the sound of our footsteps alone being heard. The smoke that seemed tobe forcing its way through stray holes in the thatch amply convinced us, however, that the inhabitants were within doors, and, turning to ourArab guide, I asked him if he could distinguish among the many huts theone in which we expected to find the Maw-Sayah. He seemed a littleuncertain at first, but after wandering through the village together wereturned, and then Hassan, who had been very observant the whole time, pointed to one of the rudely-constructed huts and said:--

"I think that is the one into which we seek to enter; it is situatedaccording to the position in which the Kachyen said it was, and, besides, it bears a strange proof of the story which ye have listened towith such ill-concealed disbelief. "

"Why do you think that is the hut, Hassan?" I asked, for, to my eyes, nodifference between that and the others close to it was distinguishable. 

"If the sahib will look at the bamboo ladder and observe it carefully, he will see that it is unlike the others round, " said the Arab. 

"I suppose you refer to these deep scratches upon it, don't you, Hassan?" asked Denviers, as he pointed to some marks, a few of whichwere apparently fairly recent. 

"The sahib guesses rightly, " answered our guide. "You will remember thatthe Kachyen stated to me that the Nat is accustomed to obtain its victimnow from the abode of the Maw-Sayah; those marks, then, have been madeby it when it dragged its human prey out of the hut. " We gazed curiouslyat the marks for a few minutes, then Denviers broke the silence byasking the Arab why it was that the Nat made marks at all. 

"I should have thought that such a powerful spirit could prevent suchevidences of its presence becoming observed, " he continued. "My respectfor it is certainly not increased by seeing those deep scars; they seemto be made by something which has sharp claws. "

"That is because of the shape which it has assumed, sahib, " said theArab, "for the Nats have wondrous powers----"

"Very likely, Hassan, " interposed Denviers; "I suppose they can doexactly what they like, can they not?" I was much surprised at the limitwhich was, however, placed upon their powers by our guide, for heresponded quickly:--

"Not altogether, sahib. There is one thing that a Nat cannot do, according to the reports of these Kachyens, and that is, they are unableto move in a direction which is not straight, and hence they are carefulto avoid rough ground, where tangled masses and boulders bar theirprogress, so they usually frequent the open avenues, such as the onewhich we have just passed through. The symbols above it and the writingsand weapons are all for the Nat's benefit. "

"And the elephant's skull?" asked Denviers, irreverently. "What is thatput up for?" The Arab, however, had an explanation ready, for hepromptly replied:--

"That indicates where the supplies of food are to be found when the Natrequires any. " Denviers turned to me for a moment as he said:--

"I should have thought it a good plan, then, to have put it upon the hutof this Maw-Sayah whom we are about to interview. See that your weaponsare in good order, Harold, we may soon need them. " Giving a cautiouslook at my belt and the weapons thrust into it, I followed Denviers, whohad mounted the short bamboo ladder, and was endeavouring to obtainadmission to the hut. We heard a harsh sound within, then the cry ofsomeone apparently terror-stricken, and a moment afterwards we hadpushed past the Maw-Sayah, who by no means was willing to allow us toenter the rude dwelling. 

The single room, which seemed to constitute the hut, was extremely lowand bare of furniture entirely. A few bamboos were spread in one part ofit, while at the far end was a fire, the light from which was partlyobscured by the smoke, which almost suffocated us, so thickly did itroll up and then spread through the hut. Near the door stood a manscarcely clothed, upon whose face we saw a look of the most abjectterror, for, as we surmised, the noise of our entry was mistaken by himfor the approach of the fell thing to which he was condemned by theMaw-Sayah. We moved towards the latter as he threw himself down by thefire, which he had only left to see who it was that came unbidden to thehut where to enter was the preceding event to death. He was clothed in along blue strip of linen, which wound round his waist and covered hisbody, partly leaving his dark chest uncovered. His features were stampedwith an appearance of supreme cunning, his oblique eyes reminding us ofa Chinaman, while the fierce look in them as they glared at us fromeither side of an aquiline nose, which betrayed his Burmese descent, didnot increase our confidence in the man as he stretched out his bonyhands over the fire as if for warmth, although outside the hut we hadfound the heat almost insupportable. 

"What do ye seek?" he demanded, as he looked into our faces in turn andseemed astonished at our strange features. 

"We are travellers who wished to see a Kachyen village, " respondedDenviers, "and we further desired to see some of its inhabitants; butas none were visible we entered this hut, even against your will. Whereare the people who dwell here?" The man whom my companion addressedpointed to the Kachyen near the doorway, as he responded:--

"There is one of them, and in a short time even he will never be seenagain. "

[Illustration: "WHAT DO YE SEEK?"]

"Can you give us food?" hazarded Hassan, in order to get the man tocontinue his conversation, for the Arab evidently was expecting that theNat would soon arrive upon the scene. The Maw-Sayah rose and pointed tothe entrance as he cried:--

"That way ye came, that way shall ye depart. Food for ye I have not, norwould I give it if I had. " I turned to Denviers and said in a lowtone:--

"What shall we do, Frank? I don't think our opportunity of seeing whatmay transpire will be as good within the hut as without it. Whatever thesolution is to this affair, if we are outside we shall see this Kachyendragged away, and may further watch the approach of whatever causedthose strange marks which we observed. "

"One thing is clear, " said my companion, "we will attempt to save thisintended victim, at all events. I expect that if we tried we could gethim away easily enough, but that plan would not be of much service. Wemust attack this being, whatever it is, with which this Maw-Sayah isleagued. How I should like to hand him over as a victim instead of thattrembling captive by the door. It shows to what extent this juggler hasacquired power over this tribe, for I notice that his captive isunbound, and is certainly a much finer built man than the other. "

"It wants less than an hour to dusk, sahibs, " said Hassan, who hadlistened carefully to our remarks; "if we were to station ourselves alittle away from the hut we could see what took place, and if the Natwere mortal we might attack it. "

Denviers shrugged his shoulders at the Arab's supposition as heresponded:--

"There is little doubt, Hassan, that the Nat would smart if that keenblade of yours went a little too near it, but I think your plan is agood one, and we will adopt it, as it falls in with what has alreadybeen said. " We gave a final look at the crafty face of the man who wasstill seated by the fire, and then brushing past the captive we made forthe open village again. 

"I feel sorry for this Kachyen, " said Denviers. "He will have a dreadfulfive minutes of it, I expect; but it is our only way of preventing, ifpossible, such an affair from occurring again. " On leaving the hut westationed ourselves almost opposite to it, and then began to keep watch. What we should see pass up the avenue we could only surmise, but oursuppositions certainly did not lead us to imagine in the faintest degreethe sight which before long was destined to completely startle us. 

III. 

The grey dusk was becoming night when among the dark stems of the treeswe saw some black form move over the ground. We could scarcelydistinguish it as it crawled over the bamboo logs and made a raspingnoise as it clung to the ladder. The door of the hut yielded to it, anda minute after it again emerged and bore with it the terrified Kachyen. We crept after it as it dragged its captive down the avenue, strivingour utmost to make out its shape. One thing we could tell, which wasthat the creature was not upright; but our movement behind it wasapparently known, for it struggled to move quicker over the ground withits human burden. 

[Illustration: "IT AGAIN EMERGED. "]

"Shall I shoot it?" I whispered to Denviers, as my nerves seemed to bealmost unstrung at the unknowableness of the creeping thing. 

"You would more likely kill the man, " he responded. "Follow asnoiselessly as you can--it will not let its prey escape, be sure ofthat. Once we track it to its haunt we will soon dispatch it, big andfierce as it seems. "

We drew nearer and nearer to it, until it had passed half-way down theavenue, then it seemed to become lost to our view, although we were, aswe knew, close to it. I felt Denviers' hand upon my shoulder, and thenhe whispered:--

"The Kachyen is being dragged up a tree just in front--look!" I couldjust distinguish something moving up the trunk, when suddenly thecaptive, who had hitherto been apparently paralyzed with terror, uttereda cry and then must have succeeded in disengaging himself from thedreadful thing that had held him, for the noise of someone falling tothe ground was heard, and a minute after we distinguished the form of aman rushing headlong back to the village for safety. 

We did not anticipate such an event, and were contemplating a search forthe captor of the Kachyen, when a cold sweat broke out upon me, for theclammy claws of the man-hunter had touched me! The sensation whichseized me was only of short duration, for I felt myself released just asDenviers said:--

"Harold, the Kachyen has fled, and his captor, determined to secure itsprey, has betaken its crawling body after him. If only we had a light! Isaw something like a black shadow moving onwards; get your pistol readyand follow. " I just distinguished Denviers as he passed on in front ofme, Hassan coming last. When we reached the hut of the Maw-Sayah westopped at once, for, from the cry which came from it, we rightlysurmised that the terrible seeker for human prey had made for thisplace, thinking, in its dull intelligence, that its captive hadreturned. We thrust ourselves into the hut, and saw by the red firelighta sanguinary contest between the Maw-Sayah and the black object which wehad endeavoured to track. Thinking that the Kachyen was being destroyed, the juggler had not fastened his door, and the enraged man-eater hadseized him as he rested on the ground, quite at its mercy!

The Maw-Sayah was struggling with his bony hands to extricate himselffrom the clutches of a monstrous tree-spider! We had seen, on an islandin the South Seas, several cocoa-nut crabs, and this reptile somewhatresembled them, but was even larger. Grasping the juggler with severalof its long, furry-looking claws, it fixed its glaring red eyes in madanger upon him as he grasped in each hand one of its front pair oflegs, which were armed with strong, heavy-looking pincers. He besoughtus wildly to shoot, even if we killed him, held as he was by hisrelentless foe. 

"Harold, " cried my companion, "keep clear, and look out for yourselfwhen I fire at this reptile; most likely it will make for one of us. " Hedrew right close to it, and thrusting the barrel of his pistol betweenits eyes touched the trigger. The explosion shook the hut, its effectupon the spider being to cause it to rush frantically about the floor, dragging the Maw-Sayah as if he were some slight burden scarcelyobservable. 

[Illustration: "A RELENTLESS FOE. "]

"You missed it!" I cried. "Look out, Hassan, guard the doorway!" TheArab stood, sword in hand, waiting for it to make for the entrance, while Denviers exclaimed:--

"I shot it through the head!" and a minute afterwards the trueness ofhis aim was manifest, for the claws released, and the Maw-Sayah, woundedbadly, but saved, stood free from the muscular twitchings of the deadspider. 

"You scoundrel!" said Denviers to him, "I have a good mind to serve youthe same. You deserve to die as so many of these simple-minded, credulous Kachyens have done. " I thought for one brief second that mycompanion was about to kill the juggler, for through all our adventuresI had never seen him so thoroughly roused. I stood between them; then, when Denviers quickly recovered his self-command, I turned to theMaw-Sayah and asked:--

"If we spare your life, will you promise to leave this village and neverto return?" He turned his evil-looking but scared face towards useagerly as he replied:--

"I will do whatever you wish. " Denviers motioned to him to rest upon theground, which he did, then turning to me, said:--

"It is pretty apparent what this juggler has done. The man who firstreported the discovery of this Nat, as the foolish Kachyens call it, simply disturbed a monstrous spider which had lived in the trees whichhe felled--that accounts for his seeing it. Finding animal food scarce, the reptile ventured into this village and tried to get into one of thehuts. Its exertions were rewarded by the Kachyen coming to the door, whom it accordingly seized. To continue its plan, which proved sosuccessful, needed very little reasoning power on the part of such acunning creature. No doubt this Maw-Sayah purposely left the door of hishut unfastened each seventh night, and the spider thus became accustomedto seek for its victim there, I daresay it came the other nights, butthe juggler was then careful enough to keep his hut well fastened. "

"What do the sahibs propose to do?" interrupted Hassan. Denviers turnedto him, as he responded:--

"We will wait for daybreak; then, having dragged the dead spider outwhere the Kachyens may see that it is no longer able to harm them, wewill take this Maw-Sayah down the mountain path away from the village aspoor as he came. "

[Illustration: "YOU SCOUNDREL!"]

"A good plan, " I assented, and we followed it out, eventually leavingthe juggler, and climbing once more into the howdah upon the elephant, which we found close to the spot where we had left it, secured fromwandering far away by the rope which Hassan had used to hinder itsmovements. 

We entered Bhamo, and while we took a much-needed rest, our guide--as weafterwards learnt--searched for and found the fugitive Kachyen, who, onhearing that his safety was secured, hastily departed to the village torejoice with the rest of his tribe that the so-called Nat would not dothem any more injury. 

_From Behind the Speaker's Chair. _

III. 

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY. )

[Illustration: "OBSTRUCTION. "]

It is thirteen years since a new Parliament last blithely started on itsway with Mr. Gladstone sitting in the seat of the Premier. Since March, 1880, a great deal has happened, not least in the change ofcircumstances under which the business of the House of Commons isconducted. The majority of the House of Commons may be Liberal orConservative, according to a passing flood of conviction on the part ofthe constituencies. When presumptuous hands are stretched forth to touchthe Ark of its procedure, its instincts are all Tory. For more than twohundred years preceding the advent of a Tory Ministry in 1886, this wasso. Mr. Gladstone, driven to desperation in the second Session of theParliament of 1880-5, endeavoured to reform procedure so thatobstruction might be fought on even terms. He was met by such resoluteand persistent opposition from the Conservative side that, even with anoverwhelming majority at his back, he succeeded only in tinkering thepot. Oddly enough, it was left for the Conservatives when they came intooffice to revolutionize the system upon which, through the ages, Parliamentary business had been carried on. 

There was nothing in the reforms more startling to the oldParliamentarian than the proposal automatically to close debate atmidnight. A dozen years ago members of the House of Commons assembled atfour o'clock for prayers. Questions began at half-past four, and no onecould say at what hour of the night or of the next morning the cry "Whogoes home?" might echo through the lobby. In those days Mr. O'Donnellwas master of the situation, and he had many imitators. A debate carriedon through several nights might seem to be approaching a conclusion. TheLeader of the Opposition, rising between eleven o'clock and midnight, spoke in a crowded House. The Premier, or his lieutenant, followed, assuming to wind up the debate. Members wearied of the long sitting wereprepared to go forth to the division lobby; when from below the gangwayon the left there uprose a familiar figure, and there was heard awell-known voice. 

[Illustration: F. H. O'DONNELL. ]

These usually belonged to Mr. O'Donnell bent upon vindicating the rightof a private member to interpose when the constituted authorities of theHouse had agreed in the opinion that a debate had been continued longenough. A roar of execration from the fagged legislators greeted theintruder. He expected this, and was in no degree perturbed. In earliestpractice he had a way of dropping his eye-glass as if startled by theuproar, and searched for it with puzzled, preoccupied expression, apparently debating with himself what this outburst might portend. Hedid not love the British House of Commons, and delighted in thwartingits purposes. But he knew what was due to it in the way of respect, and, however angry passions might rise, however turbulent the scene, he wouldnever address it looking upon it with the naked eye. As his eye-glasswas constantly tumbling out, and as search for it was preternaturallydeliberate, it played an appreciable part in the prolongation ofsuccessive Sessions. 

[Illustration: "EYE-GLASS PLAY. "]

What has become of Frank Hugh now, I wonder? Vanishing from the House ofCommons, he reappeared for a while on the scene, characteristicallyacting the part of the petrel that heralded the storm Mr. Pigottineffectively tried to ride. It must be a consolation to Mr. O'Donnell, in his retirement, wherever it is passed, to reflect on the fact that itwas he who directly brought about the appointment of the ParnellCommission, with all it effected. His action for libel brought againstthe _Times_ preluded and inevitably led up to the formal investigationof the famous Charges and Allegations. 

The member for Dungarvan was, in his day, the most thoroughly dislikedman in the House of Commons, distaste for Mr. Parnell and for Mr. Biggarin his early prime being softened by contrast with his subtlerprovocation. An exceedingly clever debater, he was a phrase maker, someof whose epigrams Mr. Disraeli would not have disowned. He was aparliamentary type of ancient standing, and apparently ineradicablegrowth. In the present House of Commons fresh developments are presentedby Mr. Seymour Keay and Mr. Morton. These are distinct varieties, butfrom the unmistakable root. Both are gifted with boundless volubility, unhampered by ordinary considerations of coherency and cogency. Neitheris influenced by that sense of the dread majesty of the House of Commonswhich keeps some members dumb all through their parliamentary life, andto the last, as in the case of Mr. Bright, weighs upon even greatorators. The difference between the older and the new development isthat whilst over Mr. O'Donnell's intentional and deliberate vacuity ofspeech there gleamed frequent flashes of wit, Mr. Morton and Mr. Keayare only occasionally funny, and then the effect was undesigned. 

[Illustration: O'DONNELL'S LAST APPEARANCE. ]

[Illustration: MR. SEYMOUR KEAY. ]

Since we have these two gentlemen still with us, it would be rash to saythat if Mr. O'Donnell could revisit the glimpses of Big Ben he wouldfind his occupation gone. He would certainly discover that hisopportunities had been limited, and would have to recommence practiceunder greatly altered conditions. One of the former member forDungarvan's famous achievements took place in the infancy of theParliament of 1880-5, and, apart from its dramatic interest, is valuableas illustrating the change effected in parliamentary procedure by theNew Rules. On that particular June night the paper was loaded withquestions in a fashion unfamiliar in the last Parliament, though thereare not lacking signs of renewed activity since political partieschanged places. Question No. 23 stood in the name of Mr. O'Donnell, andcontained in his best literary style a serious indictment of M. Challemel-Lacour, just nominated by the French Government as theirrepresentative at the Court of St. James. 

[Illustration: MR. A. C. MORTON. ]

Sir Charles Dilke, then Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, madecategorical reply, directly traversing all the points in the indictment. When he resumed his seat Mr. O'Donnell rose in his usual deliberatemanner, captured his eye-glass, and having fixed it to his satisfaction, remarked in his drawling voice that it was "perfectly impossible toaccept the explanation of the Government. " Being interrupted with criesof "Order! Order!" he quietly played his trump card: "If I am notallowed to explain, " he said, "I will conclude with a motion. "

[Illustration: SIR CHARLES DILKE. ]

The House howled again, but it was a cry of despair. Mr. O'Donnell, theyknew, had the whip hand. In those good old days he, or any other memberdesiring to obstruct ordinary procedure, might, in the middle ofquestions, start a debate on any subject under the sun. This and otheroutrages were doubtless recalled by the House of Commons when revisingits Rules. It then ordered that no member might, during the progress ofquestions, interpose with a motion on which to found debate. If, in thiscurrent month of March, Mr. O'Donnell, being a member of the House ofCommons, had wanted to attack M. Challemel-Lacour, he must needs havewaited till the last question on the paper was disposed of, and couldthen have moved the adjournment only if his description of thequestion--as one of urgent public importance--was approved by theSpeaker, and if, thereafter, forty members rose to support the requestfor a hearing. 

In June, 1880, all that was left for the crowded House to do was to roarwith resentment. Mr. O'Donnell was used to this incentive, and had itbeen withheld would probably have shown signs of failing vigour. As itwas, he produced a pocket-handkerchief, took down his eye-glass andcarefully polished it, whilst members yelled and tossed about on theirseats with impotent fury. Under the existing Rules this scene, if it hadever opened, would have been promptly blotted out. The closure wouldhave been moved, probably a division taken, and the business of theevening would have gone forward. There was no closure in those days, andMr. Gladstone, after hurried consultation with Sir Erskine May, hastilymoved that Mr. O'Donnell be not heard. 

A shout of savage exultation rising from every bench, save those onwhich the Irish members sat, hailed a stroke that promised to deliverthe House from the thraldom of Mr. O'Donnell at the very moment when itschains had taken a final twist. In ordinary circumstances thisresolution would have played the part of the as yet unconsecratedclosure. A division would have followed, the motion carried by anoverwhelming majority, and Mr. O'Donnell would have been temporarilyshut up. 

But those were not ordinary times. The Fourth Party was in the prime ofits vigour. Lord Randolph Churchill's quick eye discovered an openingfor irritating Mr. Gladstone and damaging the Government by making whatshould have been a business night one long turmoil. Mr. Parnell, whilstdisclaiming any personal sympathy with Mr. O'Donnell, moved theadjournment of the debate, and poor, placid Sir Stafford Northcote, egged on by the young bloods below the gangway, raised various points oforder. Finally, at eight o'clock, the House dividing on Mr. Parnell'samendment, Sir Stafford Northcote voted with the Irish members, leadinga hundred men of the Party of Law and Order into the same lobby. 

[Illustration: STIRRING UP SIR STAFFORD. ]

Hour after hour the riot continued. At one time blameless Sir WilliamHarcourt, then Home Secretary, appearing at the table, a Conservativemember, amid tumultuous shouts, moved that he be not heard. When membersgrew tired of shouting at each other they divided on fresh motions forthe adjournment, and it was not till one o'clock on the followingmorning that Mr. O'Donnell, grateful for a pleasant evening, was goodenough to undertake that before he recurred to the question he wouldgive due notice, so that the Speaker might exercise his discretion inrevising its terms. At five minutes past one in the morning, after awrangle full eight hours long, the Speaker, with a pretty assumption ofnothing particular having happened, called on the next question on thepaper, which was Number 24. 

All this might happen again on any night of this month save for thebeneficent action of the New Rules a long-suffering Parliament wasfinally induced to adopt. On the threshold of a new Parliament it isuseful to recall the scene as an assistance in calculating what may beaccomplished by the Parliament elected in 1892, as compared with thatwhich began its history in 1880. On the face of it, Parliament to-dayhas much less time at its disposal for the accomplishment of work thanit had a dozen years ago. Then, the duration of a sitting wasindefinite. The House might, as it did in February, 1881, meet at fouro'clock on a Monday afternoon and sit continuously till Wednesdaymorning. Now, the Speaker takes the Chair at three o'clock; publicbusiness commences at half-past three; and at midnight, save in caseswhere the Standing Order has been formally suspended, the Speaker leavesthe Chair, and the House adjourns, whoever may be on his feet. 

[Illustration: "DISGUST. "]

The influence of this automatic procedure is beneficially feltthroughout the whole of debate. One wholesome influence works in thedirection of using up the early hours of the sitting, an arrangementwhich carries comfort to countless printing offices and editorialsanctums. Some time before the New Rules came into operation, Mr. Gladstone discovered for himself the convenience and desirability oftaking part in debate at the earliest possible hour of a sitting. Hisearlier associations drifted round a directly opposite course. In thegood old days the champions of debate did not interpose till close uponmidnight, when they had the advantage of audiences sustained andexhilarated by dinner. That was before the era of special wires to theprovincial papers, early morning trams, and vastly increased circulationfor the London journals. Mr. Gladstone discovered that he was morecarefully reported and his observations more deliberately discussed ifhe spoke between five and seven o'clock in the evening than if, following his earlier habit, he addressed the House between eleven andone in the morning. He has, accordingly, for some years been accustomed, when he has an important speech to deliver, to interpose in debateimmediately after questions. 

This habit has become general, even compulsory, with members who may, within certain limits, choose their own time for speaking. All the creamof debate is now skimmed before the dinner-hour. At the close of apitched battle, the two Leaders of Party, as heretofore, wind up thedebate. But their opportunity for orating is severely circumscribed. Theaudience in the House of Commons does not begin to reassemble afterdinner till half-past ten. Rising at that hour, the Leader of theOpposition, if he fairly divides the available time with the righthonourable gentleman opposite, must not speak more than three-quartersof an hour, and should not exceed forty minutes. 

This is a necessity desirable not less in the orator's interest than inthat of the audience. Except for the exposition of an intricate measure, twenty minutes is ample time for any man to say what is useful for hisfellow-men to hear. All Mr. Disraeli's best speeches were made withinhalf an hour, and if he thought it necessary, from a sense of theimportance of his position, to prolong them, his stock of good thingswas exhausted in twenty minutes, the rest being what Carlyledisrespectfully described as thrice-boiled cole-wort. Mr. Gladstone cango on indefinitely, and in very recent times has been known to hold hisaudience spell-bound for three hours. But even he has profited by thebeneficent tyranny that now rules the limit of debate, and, rising withthe knowledge that he has but forty minutes to speak in, has excelledhimself. For less exuberant speakers not gifted with his genius, the newdiscipline is even more marked in its benefits. 

[Illustration: MR. KEIR HARDIE. ]

 * * * * *

It is too soon to endeavour to estimate the general characteristics ofthe _personnel_ of the new Parliament. It will probably turn out to bevery much of the same class as the innumerable army of its predecessors. When Mr. Keir Hardie came down on the opening day in a wagonette, withflags flying and accordions playing, it was cried aloud in some quartersthat the end was at hand. This apprehension was strengthened when Mr. Hardie strolled about the House with a tweed travelling cap on his head, the Speaker at the time being in the chair. This, as Dr. Johnsonexplained, when the lady asked him why he had described the horse'spastern as its knee, was "ignorance, pure ignorance. " Mr. Hardie is nota man of the quietest manners, as was testified to by the apparition inPalace Yard of the wagonette and its musical party; but in themuch-talked-of incident of the cap he sinned inadvertently. Before theSpeaker took the chair he had seen members walking about with their hatson. He had observed that even in his presence they remained seated withtheir heads covered. The shade of etiquette which approves this fashionwhilst it sternly prohibits a member from keeping his hat on when inmotion, even to the extent of leaning over to speak to a friend on thebench below him, was too fine to catch the eye of a new member. 

Mr. Keir Hardie has done much worse things than this in his publicappearances during the recess, and since the Session opened there hasnot been lacking evidence of resolve to keep himself in the front of thestage where the gallery may see him. But this is no new thing, to becited in proof of the deterioration of the composition and style of theHouse of Commons. It has been done repeatedly in various fashions withinrecent memory, and always with the same result. No man, not even Mr. Biggar--and he may be cited as the most ruthless experimenter--hassuccessfully struggled against the subtle disciplinary influence of theHouse of Commons. 

From the first the member for Cavan set himself in deliberate fashion tooutrage Parliamentary traditions and usages. He finished by becoming apunctilious practitioner of Parliamentary forms, a stickler for theminutest observation of order. Whilst Mr. Gladstone and other members ofold standing were content to preface their speeches with themonosyllable "Sir, " nothing less than "Mr. Speaker, sir, " would satisfyMr. Biggar. No one who has not heard the inflection of tone with whichthis was uttered, nor seen the oratorical sweep of the hand thatlaunched it on its course, can realize how much of combined deferenceand authority the phrase is capable of. Mr. Biggar, having in his earlyParliamentary days defied the Chair and affronted the sensibilities ofthe House, alike in the matter of dress and deportment, developed into aportly gentleman of almost smug appearance, a terror to new members. Woeto any who in his ignorance passed between the Chair and the memberaddressing it; who walked in from a division with his hat on; or whostood an inch or two within the Bar whilst debate was going forward. Mr. Biggar's strident cry of "Order! Order!" reverberated through the House. Others joined in the shout, and the abashed offender hastily withdrewinto obscurity. 

[Illustration: THE LATE MR. BIGGAR. ]

It is the same with others of less strongly marked character. Vanity orgarrulity may force a new member into a position of notoriety. He may, according to his measure of determination, try a fall again and againwith the House, and may sometimes, as in the case of Mr. O'Donnell, seemto win. But in the end the House of Commons proves victorious. It is asort of whetstone on which blades of various temperature operate. Intime, they either forego the practice or wear themselves away. In eithercase the whetstone remains. 

This is a rule without exception, and is a reassuring reflection in viewof the talk about the degeneracy of the House of Commons, and thedecadence of its standard of manner. It would not be difficult to showthat the House at present in Session will, from the point of view ofmanners, favourably compare with any that have gone before--though, tobe just, the comparison should be sought with Parliaments elected undersimilar conditions, with the Liberals in office and the Conservatives inopposition. That is an arrangement always found to be more conducive tolively proceedings than when parties are disposed in the contrary order. The Parliament dissolved last year was decorously dull. Mr. Gladstone inopposition is not prone to show sport, and no encouragement was held outto enterprising groups below the gangway to bait the Government. It wasvery different in the Parliament of 1880-5, of which fact theChallemel-Lacour episode is an illustration, only a little more piquantin flavour than the average supply. 

There are already signs that the new Parliament will not lie under thecharge of deplorable dulness brought against its predecessor. But thesevarying moods are due to waves of political passion, and do not affectthe question whether the House of Commons as a body of English gentlemenmet for the discharge of public business has or has not deteriorated. Ihave an engraving of a picture of the House of Commons in pre-Reformdays. It was carefully drawn in the Session of 1842. A more respectablebody of the gentlemen of England it would be difficult to gathertogether. With the possible exception of one or two politicaladventurers like the then member for Shrewsbury, there is probably not aman in the House who is not well born or at least rich. Mr. Keir Hardiewould look strange indeed in these serried ranks of portly gentlemenwith high coat collars, cravats up to their chin, short-bodied coatsshowing the waistcoat beneath, and the tightly trousered legs. Yet thisHouse, and its equally prim successors, had its obstruction, itspersonal wrangles, and its occasional duel. Peel was attacked byDisraeli in a fashion and in language that would not be tolerated in theHouse of Commons now, even though the target were Mr. Gladstone. 

It is not necessary to go back as far as the days of Peel orParliamentary Reform to sustain the bold assertion that, so far fromhaving degenerated, the manners of the House of Commons have improved. In the Parliament elected in 1874 there sat on the Conservative side agentleman named Smollet, who early distinguished himself by bringingParliamentary debate down to the level of conversation in "RoderickRandom. " In those days Mr. Gladstone was down after the GeneralElection, and Mr. Smollet, to the uproarious delight of gentlemen nearhim, savagely kicked him. 

[Illustration: "MOBBING HIM. "]

It was in the second year of this same Parliament, less than twentyyears ago, that Mr. Gladstone, issuing from a division lobby, wassuddenly pounced upon by some fifty or sixty Conservative members, andhowled at for the space of several moments. It is, happily, possible forMr. Gladstone to forget, or at least to forgive, personal attacks madeupon him through his long career. In this very month of the new Sessionhe may be nightly seen working in cordial fashion with ancientadversaries from Ireland, describing as "my honourable friends"gentlemen who, ten years ago and for some time subsequently, heaped onhis head the coarsest vituperation permitted by practised manipulationof Parliamentary forms. But this scene in the division lobby on the 12thof April, 1875, is burned into his recollection. I have heard him, within the last few months, refer to it in those tones of profoundindignation and with that flashing fire in his eyes only seen when he isdeeply moved. He mentioned, what I think was not known, that LordHartington happened to be walking with him at the time. But there was nomistake for whom the angry cries were meant. Mr. Gladstone spoke withthe profounder indignation because, as he said, he had on this occasiongone out to vote on behalf of a man whose character he detested, becausehe saw in the action taken against him an attack upon one of theprivileges of Parliament. 

That scene was an outburst of political animosity; and the movements ofpolitical animosity, like the dicta of taste, are not to be disputed. But on the question of good manners, the only one here underconsideration, it may be affirmed that the present House of Commonswould be safe from lapse into such an exhibition. To this better stateof things the operation of the New Rules has conspicuously contributed, and though, as we know, they have not operated to the absoluteextinction of Parliamentary scenes, they have appreciably limitedopportunity and incentive. 

_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives_. 

LORD BATTERSEA. 

[Illustration: AGE 14. 

_From a Daguerreotype. _]

BORN 1843. 

Lord Battersea, who was until recently known to the world as Mr. CyrilFlower, M. P. , is a son of the late Mr. P. W. Flower, of Streatham, andwas educated at Harrow and at Trinity College, Cambridge. 

[Illustration: AGE 21. 

_From a Photo, by Mayland, Cambridge. _]

He was called to the Bar at the age of twenty-seven, and became LiberalMember for Brecknock in 1880, and for the Luton Division of Bedfordshirein 1885 and 1886, in which later year he was one of Mr. Gladstone's"Whips. " He married the daughter of the late Sir Anthony Rothschild, andboth he and his wife are much interested in the welfare of the lowerclasses of London. Lord Battersea was unanimously reputed the handsomestman in the House of Commons, and is now, in every sense of the word, anornament of the House of Lords. 

[Illustration: AGE 40. 

_From a Drawing. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photograph by Bassano, 35, Old Bond Street, W. _. ]

W. Q. ORCHARDSON, R. A. 

BORN 1835. 

[Illustration: AGE 16. 

_From an Oil Sketch by himself. _]

[Illustration: AGE 35. 

_From a Photograph by Walery, Marseilles. _]

[Illustration: AGE 44. 

_From a Photograph. _]

Mr. William Quiller Orchardson was born in Edinburgh, and at the age offifteen entered the Trustees' Academy of that city, his first picturesbeing exhibited in the Royal Scottish Academy. At the age oftwenty-eight he came to London, and the same year exhibited at the RoyalAcademy for the first time, his contributions being entitled, "An OldEnglish Song" and "Portraits, " the latter a life-size composition ofthree young ladies. In 1865 he painted "The Challenge, " which won aprize of £100 given by Mr. Wallace, and one of the very few Medalsawarded to English painters at the Paris Universal Exhibition. In 1866came "The Story of a Life"--an aged nun relating her experiences to agroup of novices. Two years later, when he had only been four years inLondon, he was elected an A. R. A. Among his more recent pictures may bementioned "Napoleon on Board the _Bellerophon_" (1880), "The Salon ofMadame Recamier" (1885), "The Young Duke" (1889), and "St. Helena"(1892). Mr. Orchardson was elected an R. A. In 1877, and a D. C. L. OfOxford in 1890. 

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photo. By Elliott & Fry. _]

LADY HALLÉ. 

[Illustration: AGE 10. 

_From a Drawing. _]

[Illustration: AGE 23. 

_From a Photograph. _]

Lady Hallé, whose maiden name was Wilhelmine Néruda, was born at Brünn, where her father was organist of the cathedral. She was a pupil ofJansa, and made her first appearance at Vienna at the age of six, and inLondon at the age of nine. After this she returned to the Continent, andin 1864 she married Ludwig Norman, a Swedish musician. Since 1869 shehas been in England every winter, playing especially at the concerts ofSir Charles Hallé, whom she married in 1888. 

[Illustration: AGE 35. 

_From a Photograph. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photo by Burraud_. ]

SIR CHARLES HALLÉ. 

[Illustration: AGE 20. 

_From a Painting. _]

Sir Charles Hallé is a native of Germany, but at an early age heestablished himself in Paris, where he acquired a great reputation byhis refined and classical rendering of the compositions of the greatmusicians; but the Revolution of 1843 drove him to England, where he hasever since resided. He soon established himself at Manchester, and asthe founder of the annual series of orchestral and choral concerts thereand in London, which have become, perhaps, the most important series inEurope, he has rendered the most valuable service to musical art. 

[Illustration: AGE 31. 

_From a Painting. _]

[Illustration: AGE 45. 

_From a Photo, by H. Hering, Regent Street, W. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photo. By Mayall & Co. , 164, New Bond Street, W. _]

DR. HERMANN ADLER, CHIEF RABBI. 

[Illustration: AGE 24. 

_From a Photograph by McLean & Haes, Haymarket. _]

Born 1839. 

Dr. Adler, son of Dr. Nathan Marcus Adler, was born in Hanover, and cameto London with his father at the age of six. He studied at UniversityCollege, took his B. A. Degree at the University of London at twenty, and that of Ph. D. , at Leipzig, at twenty-two. In the following year hewas ordained Rabbi by the famous Rapoport, Chief Rabbi of Prague, andbecame in succession Principal of the Jews' College in London and ChiefMinister of the Bayswater Synagogue. In 1890 his father, the ChiefRabbi, died, and Dr. Adler was elected in his place. Dr. Adler is wellknown not only by his powerful and scholarly writings, but by his workamong the poorer Jews of London. 

[Illustration: AGE 37. 

_From a Photograph by J. R. Sawyer, Norwich. _]

[Illustration: AGE 44. 

_From a Photograph by Fradella, 216, Regent Street, W. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photograph by The Photographic Co. _]

SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON, BART. , K. C. B. 

Born 1826. 

General Alison, son of Sir Archibald Alison, the first Baronet, who wasthe well-known author of "The History of Europe, " was born at Edinburgh, and entered the Army at the age of twenty. He served in the Crimea, atthe siege and fall of Sebastopol, at which date our second portraitrepresents him. During the Indian Mutiny he lost an arm at the relief ofLucknow. In 1882 he commanded the 1st Brigade, 2nd Division, during theexpedition to Egypt, and at the decisive battle of Tel-el-Kebir he ledthe Highland Brigade which fought so gallantly on that memorableoccasion, and after Arabi's surrender he was left in Egypt with thecommand of the British army of 12, 000 men to restore order and protectthe Khedive. Sir Archibald was included in the thanks of Parliament forhis energy and gallantry, and was promoted to the rank ofLieutenant-General; he received his appointment as General in 1889. In1869 Sir Archibald Alison published an able treatise, "On ArmyOrganization. "

[Illustration: AGE 3. 

_From a Miniature. _]

[Illustration: AGE 31. 

_From a Daguerreotype by Werge, Glasgow. _]

[Illustration: AGE 47. 

_From a Photograph by Jacklett, Aldershot. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photo, by Barraud. _]

MADAME JANE HADING. 

[Illustration: AGE 3. 

_From a Photo. By Chalot et Cie. , Paris. _]

[Illustration: AGE 5. 

_From a Photo. By Chalot et Cie. , Paris. _]

Madame Jane Hading, the well-known French actress, was born atMarseilles, in 1863, where her father was popular as a leading actor, with whom she appeared when only three years of age as little _Blanchede Caylus_ in "Le Bossu. " At the age of thirteen she began work inearnest, having won "le prix de solfège" at the Marseille Conservatoire, and her talent having come to the ears of Mr. Plunkett, the director ofthe Palais Royal, he engaged her for the Palais Royal in Paris, whereshe created the part of _La Chaste Suzanne_, by Paul Ferrier. Giving upcomic opera for comedy, Jane Hading went to the Gymnase, where shecreated the part of _Claire de Beaulieu_ in "Le Maître de Forges. "London had the opportunity of seeing her in that and "Prince Zilah, " byJules Claretie, later on, and fully indorsed the Parisian verdict. Theseconspicuous successes were followed by others almost as notable, and hersubsequent tour in America won her golden opinions, and was sosuccessful that it was extended some months. Her latest Parisian successwas "Le Prince d'Aurec, " which added greatly to her laurels, putting herin the very front rank of great artists. 

[Illustration: AGE 15. 

_From a Photo. By Fabre, Marseilles. _]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY. 

_From a Photo, by Reutlinger, Paris. _]

_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. 

XVI. --THE ADVENTURE OF THE STOCKBROKER'S CLERK. 

BY A. CONAN DOYLE. 

Shortly after my marriage I had bought a connection in the Paddingtondistrict. Old Mr. Farquhar, from whom I purchased it, had at one time anexcellent general practice, but his age, and an affliction of the natureof St. Vitus' dance, from which he suffered, had very much thinned it. The public, not unnaturally, goes upon the principle that he who wouldheal others must himself be whole, and looks askance at the curativepowers of the man whose own case is beyond the reach of his drugs. Thus, as my predecessor weakened, his practice declined, until when Ipurchased it from him it had sunk from twelve hundred to little morethan three hundred a year. I had confidence, however, in my own youthand energy, and was convinced that in a very few years the concern wouldbe as flourishing as ever. 

For three months after taking over the practice I was kept very closelyat work, and saw little of my friend Sherlock Holmes, for I was too busyto visit Baker Street, and he seldom went anywhere himself save uponprofessional business. I was surprised, therefore, when one morning inJune, as I sat reading the _British Medical Journal_ after breakfast, Iheard a ring at the bell followed by the high, somewhat strident, tonesof my old companion's voice. 

"Ah, my dear Watson, " said he, striding into the room. "I am verydelighted to see you. I trust that Mrs. Watson has entirely recoveredfrom all the little excitements connected with our adventure of the'Sign of Four. '"

"Thank you, we are both very well, " said I, shaking him warmly by thehand. 

"And I hope also, " he continued, sitting down in the rocking-chair, "that the cares of medical practice have not entirely obliterated theinterest which you used to take in our little deductive problems. "

"On the contrary, " I answered; "it was only last night that I waslooking over my old notes and classifying some of our past results. "

"I trust that you don't consider your collection closed?"

"Not at all. I should wish nothing better than to have some more of suchexperiences. "

"To-day, for example?"

"Yes; to-day, if you like. "

"And as far off as Birmingham?"

"Certainly, if you wish it. "

"And the practice?"

"I do my neighbour's when he goes. He is always ready to work off thedebt. "

[Illustration: "'NOTHING COULD BE BETTER, ' SAID HOLMES. "]

"Ha! Nothing could be better!" said Holmes, leaning back in his chairand looking keenly at me from under his half-closed lids. "I perceivethat you have been unwell lately. Summer colds are always a littletrying. "

"I was confined to the house by a severe chill for three days last week. I thought, however, that I had cast off every trace of it. "

"So you have. You look remarkably robust. "

"How, then, did you know of it?"

"My dear fellow, you know my methods. "

"You deduced it, then?"

"Certainly. "

"And from what?"

"From your slippers. "

I glanced down at the new patent leathers which I was wearing. "How onearth----?" I began, but Holmes answered my question before it wasasked. 

"Your slippers are new, " he said. "You could not have had them more thana few weeks. The soles which you are at this moment presenting to me areslightly scorched. For a moment I thought they might have got wet andbeen burned in the drying. But near the instep there is a small circularwafer of paper with the shopman's hieroglyphics upon it. Damp would ofcourse have removed this. You had then been sitting with your feetoutstretched to the fire, which a man would hardly do even in so wet aJune as this if he were in his full health. "

Like all Holmes's reasoning the thing seemed simplicity itself when itwas once explained. He read the thought upon my features, and his smilehad a tinge of bitterness. 

"I am afraid that I rather give myself away when I explain, " said he. "Results without causes are much more impressive. You are ready to cometo Birmingham, then?"

"Certainly. What is the case?"

"You shall hear it all in the train. My client is outside in afour-wheeler. Can you come at once?"

"In an instant. " I scribbled a note to my neighbour, rushed upstairs toexplain the matter to my wife, and joined Holmes upon the doorstep. 

"Your neighbour is a doctor?" said he, nodding at the brass plate. 

"Yes. He bought a practice as I did. "

"An old-established one?"

"Just the same as mine. Both have been ever since the houses werebuilt. "

"Ah, then you got hold of the best of the two. "

"I think I did. But how do you know?"

"By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his. Butthis gentleman in the cab is my client, Mr. Hall Pycroft. Allow me tointroduce you to him. Whip your horse up, cabby, for we have only justtime to catch our train. "

The man whom I found myself facing was a well-built, fresh-complexionedyoung fellow with a frank, honest face and a slight, crisp, yellowmoustache. He wore a very shiny top-hat and a neat suit of sober black, which made him look what he was--a smart young City man, of the classwho have been labelled Cockneys, but who give us our crack Volunteerregiments, and who turn out more fine athletes and sportsmen than anybody of men in these islands. His round, ruddy face was naturally fullof cheeriness, but the corners of his mouth seemed to me to be pulleddown in a half-comical distress. It was not, however, until we were allin a first-class carriage and well started upon our journey toBirmingham, that I was able to learn what the trouble was which haddriven him to Sherlock Holmes. 

"We have a clear run here of seventy minutes, " Holmes remarked. "I wantyou, Mr. Hall Pycroft, to tell my friend your very interestingexperience exactly as you have told it to me, or with more detail ifpossible. It will be of use to me to hear the succession of eventsagain. It is a case, Watson, which may prove to have something in it, ormay prove to have nothing, but which at least presents those unusual and_outré_ features which are as dear to you as they are to me. Now, Mr. Pycroft, I shall not interrupt you again. "

Our young companion looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. 

"The worst of the story is, " said he, "that I show myself up as such aconfounded fool. Of course, it may work out all right, and I don't seethat I could have done otherwise; but if I have lost my crib and getnothing in exchange, I shall feel what a soft Johnny I have been. I'mnot very good at telling a story, Dr. Watson, but it is like this withme. 

"I used to have a billet at Coxon and Woodhouse, of Drapers' Gardens, but they were let in early in the spring through the Venezuelan loan, asno doubt you remember, and came a nasty cropper. I had been with themfive years, and old Coxon gave me a ripping good testimonial when thesmash came; but, of course, we clerks were all turned adrift, thetwenty-seven of us. I tried here and tried there, but there were lots ofother chaps on the same lay as myself, and it was a perfect frost for along time. I had been taking three pounds a week at Coxon's, and I hadsaved about seventy of them, but I soon worked my way through that andout at the other end. I was fairly at the end of my tether at last, andcould hardly find the stamps to answer the advertisements or theenvelopes to stick them to. I had worn out my boots padding up officestairs, and I seemed just as far from getting a billet as ever. 

"At last I saw a vacancy at Mawson and Williams', the great stockbrokingfirm in Lombard Street. I daresay E. C. Is not much in your line, but Ican tell you that this is about the richest house in London. Theadvertisement was to be answered by letter only. I sent in mytestimonial and application, but without the least hope of getting it. Back came an answer by return saying that if I would appear next MondayI might take over my new duties at once, provided that my appearance wassatisfactory. No one knows how these things are worked. Some people saythe manager just plunges his hand into the heap and takes the first thatcomes. Anyhow, it was my innings that time, and I don't ever wish tofeel better pleased. The screw was a pound a week rise, and the dutiesjust about the same as at Coxon's. 

"And now I come to the queer part of the business. I was in diggings outHampstead way--17, Potter's Terrace, was the address. Well, I wassitting doing a smoke that very evening after I had been promised theappointment, when up came my landlady with a card which had 'ArthurPinner, financial agent, ' printed upon it. I had never heard the namebefore, and could not imagine what he wanted with me, but of course Iasked her to show him up. In he walked--a middle-sized, dark-haired, dark-eyed, black-bearded man, with a touch of the sheeny about his nose. He had a brisk kind of way with him and spoke sharply, like a man thatknew the value of time. 

[Illustration: "'MR. HALL PYCROFT, I BELIEVE?' SAID HE. "]

"'Mr. Hall Pycroft, I believe?' said he. 

"'Yes, sir, ' I answered, and pushed a chair towards him. 

"'Lately engaged at Coxon and Woodhouse's?'

"'Yes, sir. '

"And now on the staff of Mawson's?'

"'Quite so. '

"'Well, ' said he. 'The fact is that I have heard some reallyextraordinary stories about your financial ability. You remember Parkerwho used to be Coxon's manager? He can never say enough about it. '

"Of course I was pleased to hear this. I had always been pretty smart inthe office, but I had never dreamed that I was talked about in the Cityin this fashion. 

"'You have a good memory?' said he. 

"'Pretty fair, ' I answered, modestly. 

"'Have you kept in touch with the market while you have been out ofwork?' he asked. 

"'Yes; I read the Stock Exchange List every morning. '

"'Now, that shows real application!' he cried. 'That is the way toprosper! You won't mind my testing you, will you? Let me see! How areAyrshires?'

"'One hundred and six and a quarter to one hundred and five andseven-eighths, ' I answered. 

"'And New Zealand Consolidated?'

"'A hundred and four. '

"'And British Broken Hills?'

"'Seven to seven and six. '

"'Wonderful!' he cried, with his hands up. 'This quite fits in with allthat I had heard. My boy, my boy, you are very much too good to be aclerk at Mawson's!'

"This outburst rather astonished me, as you can think. 'Well, ' said I, 'other people don't think quite so much of me as you seem to do, Mr. Pinner. I had a hard enough fight to get this berth, and I am very gladto have it. '

"'Pooh, man, you should soar above it. You are not in your true sphere. Now I'll tell you how it stands with me. What I have to offer is littleenough when measured by your ability, but when compared with Mawson's itis light to dark. Let me see! When do you go to Mawson's?'

"'On Monday. '

"'Ha! ha! I think I would risk a little sporting flutter that you don'tgo there at all. '

"'Not go to Mawson's?'

"'No, sir. By that day you will be the business manager of theFranco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited, with one hundred andthirty-four branches in the towns and villages of France, not countingone in Brussels and one in San Remo. '

"This took my breath away. 'I never heard of it, ' said I. 

"'Very likely not. It has been kept very quiet, for the capital was allprivately subscribed, and it is too good a thing to let the public into. My brother, Harry Pinner, is promoter, and joins the board afterallotment as managing director. He knew that I was in the swim downhere, and he asked me to pick up a good man cheap--a young, pushing manwith plenty of snap about him. Parker spoke of you, and that brought mehere to-night. We can only offer you a beggarly five hundred to startwith----'

"'Five hundred a year!' I shouted. 

"'Only that at the beginning, but you are to have an over-ridingcommission of 1 per cent, on all business done by your agents, and youmay take my word for it that this will come to more than your salary. '

"'But I know nothing about hardware. '

"'Tut, my boy, you know about figures. '

"My head buzzed, and I could hardly sit still in the chair. But suddenlya little chill of doubt came over me. 

"'I must be frank with you, ' said I. 'Mawson only gives me two hundred, but Mawson is safe. Now, really, I know so little about your companythat----'

"'Ah, smart, smart!' he cried, in a kind of ecstasy of delight. 'You arethe very man for us! You are not to be talked over, and quite right too. Now, here's a note for a hundred pounds; and if you think that we can dobusiness you may just slip it into your pocket as an advance upon yoursalary. '

"'That is very handsome, ' said I. 'When should I take over my newduties?'

"'Be in Birmingham to-morrow at one, ' said he. 'I have a note in mypocket here which you will take to my brother. You will find him at126B, Corporation Street, where the temporary offices of the company aresituated. Of course he must confirm your engagement, but betweenourselves it will be all right. '

"'Really, I hardly know how to express my gratitude, Mr. Pinner, ' saidI. 

"'Not at all, my boy. You have only got your deserts. There are one ortwo small things--mere formalities--which I must arrange with you. Youhave a bit of paper beside you there. Kindly write upon it, "I amperfectly willing to act as business manager to the Franco-MidlandHardware Company, Limited, at a minimum salary of £500. "'

"I did as he asked, and he put the paper in his pocket. 

"'There is one other detail, ' said he. 'What do you intend to do aboutMawson's?'

"I had forgotten all about Mawson's in my joy. 

"'I'll write and resign, ' said I. 

"'Precisely what I don't want you to do. I had a row over you withMawson's manager. I had gone up to ask him about you, and he was veryoffensive--accused me of coaxing you away from the service of the firm, and that sort of thing. At last I fairly lost my temper. "If you wantgood men you should pay them a good price, " said I. "He would ratherhave our small price than your big one, " said he. "I'll lay you afiver, " said I, "that when he has my offer you will never so much ashear from him again. " "Done!" said he. "We picked him out of the gutter, and he won't leave us so easily. " Those were his very words. '

"'The impudent scoundrel!' I cried. 'I've never so much as seen him inmy life. Why should I consider him in any way? I shall certainly notwrite if you would rather that I didn't. '

"'Good! That's a promise!' said he, rising from his chair. 'Well, I amdelighted to have got so good a man for my brother. Here is youradvance of a hundred pounds, and here is the letter. Make a note of theaddress, 126B, Corporation Street, and remember that one o'clockto-morrow is your appointment. Good-night, and may you have all thefortune that you deserve. '

"That's just about all that passed between us as near as I can rememberit. You can imagine, Dr. Watson, how pleased I was at such anextraordinary bit of good fortune. I sat up half the night huggingmyself over it, and next day I was off to Birmingham in a train thatwould take me in plenty of time for my appointment. I took my things toan hotel in New Street, and then I made my way to the address which hadbeen given me. 

"It was a quarter of an hour before my time, but I thought that wouldmake no difference. 126B was a passage between two large shops which ledto a winding stone stair, from which there were many flats, let asoffices to companies or professional men. The names of the occupantswere painted up at the bottom on the wall, but there was no such name asthe Franco-Midland Hardware Company, Limited. I stood for a few minuteswith my heart in my boots, wondering whether the whole thing was anelaborate hoax or not, when up came a man and addressed me. He was verylike the chap that I had seen the night before, the same figure andvoice, but he was clean shaven and his hair was lighter. 

[Illustration: "UP CAME A MAN AND ADDRESSED ME. "]

"'Are you Mr. Hall Pycroft?' he asked. 

"'Yes, ' said I. 

"'Ah! I was expecting you, but you are a trifle before your time. I hada note from my brother this morning, in which he sang your praises veryloudly. '

"'I was just looking for the offices when you came. '

"'We have not got our name up yet, for we only secured these temporarypremises last week. Come up with me and we will talk the matter over. '

"I followed him to the top of a very lofty stair, and there right underthe slates were a couple of empty and dusty little rooms, uncarpeted anduncurtained, into which he led me. I had thought of a great office withshining tables and rows of clerks such as I was used to, and I daresay Istared rather straight at the two deal chairs and one little table, which, with a ledger and a waste-paper basket, made up the wholefurniture. 

"'Don't be disheartened, Mr. Pycroft, ' said my new acquaintance, seeingthe length of my face. 'Rome was not built in a day, and we have lots ofmoney at our backs, though we don't cut much dash yet in offices. Praysit down and let me have your letter. '

"I gave it to him, and he read it over very carefully. 

"'You seem to have made a vast impression upon my brother, Arthur, ' saidhe, 'and I know that he is a pretty shrewd judge. He swears by London, you know, and I by Birmingham, but this time I shall follow his advice. Pray consider yourself definitely engaged. '

"'What are my duties?' I asked. 

"'You will eventually manage the great depôt in Paris, which will pour aflood of English crockery into the shops of one hundred and thirty-fouragents in France. The purchase will be completed in a week, andmeanwhile you will remain in Birmingham and make yourself useful. '

"'How?'

"For answer he took a big red book out of a drawer. 'This is a directoryof Paris, ' said he, 'with the trades after the names of the people. Iwant you to take it home with you, and to mark off all the hardwaresellers with their addresses. It would be of the greatest use to me tohave them. '

"'Surely, there are classified lists?' I suggested. 

"'Not reliable ones. Their system is different to ours. Stick at it andlet me have the lists by Monday, at twelve. Good-day, Mr. Pycroft; ifyou continue to show zeal and intelligence, you will find the company agood master. '

"I went back to the hotel with the big book under my arm, and with veryconflicting feelings in my breast. On the one hand I was definitelyengaged, and had a hundred pounds in my pocket. On the other, the lookof the offices, the absence of name on the wall, and other of the pointswhich would strike a business man had left a bad impression as to theposition of my employers. However, come what might, I had my money, so Isettled down to my task. All Sunday I was kept hard at work, and yet byMonday I had only got as far as H. I went round to my employer, foundhim in the same dismantled kind of room, and was told to keep at ituntil Wednesday, and then come again. On Wednesday it was stillunfinished, so I hammered away until Friday--that is, yesterday. Then Ibrought it round to Mr. Harry Pinner. 

"'Thank you very much, ' said he. 'I fear that I underrated thedifficulty of the task. This list will be of very material assistance tome. '

"'It took some time, ' said I. 

"'And now, ' said he, 'I want you to make a list of the furniture shops, for they all sell crockery. '

"'Very good. '

"'And you can come up to-morrow evening at seven, and let me know howyou are getting on. Don't overwork yourself. A couple of hours at Day'sMusic-Hall in the evening would do you no harm after your labours. ' Helaughed as he spoke, and I saw with a thrill that his second tooth uponthe left-hand side had been very badly stuffed with gold. "

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight, and I stared inastonishment at our client. 

"You may well look surprised, Dr. Watson, but it is this way, " said he. "When I was speaking to the other chap in London at the time that helaughed at my not going to Mawson's, I happened to notice that his toothwas stuffed in this very identical fashion. The glint of the gold ineach case caught my eye, you see. When I put that with the voice andfigure being the same, and only those things altered which might bechanged by a razor or a wig, I could not doubt that it was the same man. Of course, you expect two brothers to be alike, but not that they shouldhave the same tooth stuffed in the same way. He bowed me out and I foundmyself in the street, hardly knowing whether I was on my head or myheels. Back I went to my hotel, put my head in a basin of cold water, and tried to think it out. Why had he sent me from London to Birmingham;why had he got there before me; and why had he written a letter fromhimself to himself? It was altogether too much for me, and I could makeno sense of it. And then suddenly it struck me that what was dark to memight be very light to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I had just time to get up totown by the night train, to see him this morning, and to bring you bothback with me to Birmingham. "

There was a pause after the stockbroker's clerk had concluded hissurprising experience. Then Sherlock Holmes cocked his eye at me, leaning back on the cushions with a pleased and yet critical face, likea connoisseur who had just taken his first sip of a comet vintage. 

"Rather fine, Watson, is it not?" said he. "There are points in it whichplease me. I think you will agree with me that an interview with Mr. Arthur Harry Pinner in the temporary offices of the Franco-MidlandHardware Company, Limited, would be a rather interesting experience forboth of us. "

"But how can we do it?" I asked. 

"Oh, easily enough, " said Hall Pycroft, cheerily. "You are two friendsof mine who are in want of a billet, and what could be more natural thanthat I should bring you both round to the managing director?"

"Quite so! Of course!" said Holmes. "I should like to have a look at thegentleman and see if I can make anything of his little game. Whatqualities have you, my friend, which would make your services sovaluable? or is it possible that----" he began biting his nails andstaring blankly out of the window, and we hardly drew another word fromhim until we were in New Street. 

 * * * * *

At seven o'clock that evening we were walking, the three of us, downCorporation Street to the company's offices. 

"It is of no use our being at all before our time, " said our client. "Heonly comes there to see me apparently, for the place is deserted up tothe very hour he names. "

"That is suggestive, " remarked Holmes. 

"By Jove, I told you so!" cried the clerk. "That's he walking ahead ofus there. "

He pointed to a smallish, blonde, well-dressed man, who was bustlingalong the other side of the road. As we watched him he looked across ata boy who was bawling out the latest edition of the evening paper, and, running over among the cabs and 'buses, he bought one from him. Thenclutching it in his hand he vanished through a doorway. 

"There he goes!" cried Hall Pycroft. "Those are the company's officesinto which he has gone. Come with me and I'll fix it up as easily aspossible. "

Following his lead we ascended five stories, until we found ourselvesoutside a half-opened door, at which our client tapped. A voice withinbade us "Come in, " and we entered a bare, unfurnished room, such as HallPycroft had described. At the single table sat the man whom we had seenin the street, with his evening paper spread out in front of him, and ashe looked up at us it seemed to me that I had never looked upon a facewhich bore such marks of grief, and of something beyond grief--of ahorror such as comes to few men in a lifetime. His brow glistened withperspiration, his cheeks were of the dull dead white of a fish's belly, and his eyes were wild and staring. He looked at his clerk as though hefailed to recognise him, and I could see, by the astonishment depictedupon our conductor's face, that this was by no means the usualappearance of his employer. 

[Illustration: "HE LOOKED UP AT US. "]

"You look ill, Mr. Pinner, " he exclaimed. 

"Yes, I am not very well, " answered the other, making obvious efforts topull himself together, and licking his dry lips before he spoke. "Whoare these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?"

"One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of thistown, " said our clerk, glibly. "They are friends of mine, and gentlemenof experience, but they have been out of a place for some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening for them in thecompany's employment. "

"Very possibly! Very possibly!" cried Mr. Pinner, with a ghastly smile. "Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?"

"I am an accountant, " said Holmes. 

"Ah, yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you, Mr. Price?"

"A clerk, " said I. 

"I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let youknow about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg thatyou will go. For God's sake, leave me to myself!"

These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which hewas evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burstasunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took astep towards the table. 

"You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive somedirections from you, " said he. 

"Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly, " the other answered in a calmertone. "You may wait here a moment, and there is no reason why yourfriends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service inthree minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far. " He rosewith a very courteous air, and bowing to us he passed out through a doorat the further end of the room, which he closed behind him. 

"What now?" whispered Holmes. "Is he giving us the slip?"

"Impossible, " answered Pycroft. 

"Why so?"

"That door leads into an inner room. "

"There is no exit?"

"None. "

"Is it furnished?"

"It was empty yesterday. "

"Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don'tunderstand in this matter. If ever a man was three parts mad withterror, that man's name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers onhim?"

"He suspects that we are detectives, " I suggested. 

"That's it, " said Pycroft. 

Holmes shook his head. "He did not turn pale. He _was_ pale when weentered the room, " said he. "It is just possible that----"

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of theinner door. 

"What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?" cried the clerk. 

Again and much louder came the rat-tat-tat. We all gazed expectantly atthe closed door. Glancing at Holmes I saw his face turn rigid, and heleaned forward in intense excitement. Then suddenly came a low gurgling, gargling sound and a brisk drumming upon woodwork. Holmes sprangfrantically across the room and pushed at the door. It was fastened onthe inner side. Following his example, we threw ourselves upon it withall our weight. One hinge snapped, then the other, and down came thedoor with a crash. Rushing over it we found ourselves in the inner room. 

[Illustration: "WE FOUND OURSELVES IN THE INNER ROOM. "]

It was empty. 

But it was only for a moment that we were at fault. At one corner, thecorner nearest the room which we had left, there was a second door. Holmes sprang to it and pulled it open. A coat and waistcoat were lyingon the floor, and from a hook behind the door, with his own braces roundhis neck, was hanging the managing director of the Franco-MidlandHardware Company. His knees were drawn up, his head hung at a dreadfulangle to his body, and the clatter of his heels against the door madethe noise which had broken in upon our conversation. In an instant I hadcaught him round the waist and held him up, while Holmes and Pycroftuntied the elastic bands which had disappeared between the livid creasesof skin. Then we carried him into the other room, where he lay with aclay-coloured face, puffing his purple lips in and out with everybreath--a dreadful wreck of all that he had been but five minutesbefore. 

"What do you think of him, Watson?" asked Holmes. 

I stooped over him and examined him. 

His pulse was feeble and intermittent, but his breathing grew longer, and there was a little shivering of his eyelids which showed a thinwhite slit of ball beneath. 

"It has been touch and go with him, " said I, "but he'll live now. Justopen that window and hand me the water carafe. " I undid his collar, poured the cold water over his face, and raised and sank his arms untilhe drew a long natural breath. 

"It's only a question of time now, " said I, as I turned away from him. 

Holmes stood by the table with his hands deep in his trousers pocketsand his chin upon his breast. 

"I suppose we ought to call the police in now, " said he; "and yet Iconfess that I like to give them a complete case when they come. "

"It's a blessed mystery to me, " cried Pycroft, scratching his head. "Whatever they wanted to bring me all the way up here for, and then----"

"Pooh! All that is clear enough, " said Holmes, impatiently. "It is thislast sudden move. "

"You understand the rest, then?"

"I think that it is fairly obvious. What do you say, Watson?"

I shrugged my shoulders. 

"I must confess that I am out of my depths, " said I. 

"Oh, surely, if you consider the events at first they can only point toone conclusion. "

"What do you make of them?"

"Well, the whole thing hinges upon two points. The first is the makingof Pycroft write a declaration by which he entered the service of thispreposterous company. Do you not see how very suggestive that is?"

"I am afraid I miss the point. "

"Well, why did they want him to do it? Not as a business matter, forthese arrangements are usually verbal, and there was no earthly businessreason why this should be an exception. Don't you see, my young friend, that they were very anxious to obtain a specimen of your handwriting, and had no other way of doing it?"

"And why?"

"Quite so. Why? When we answer that, we have made some progress with ourlittle problem. Why? There can be only one adequate reason. Someonewanted to learn to imitate your writing, and had to procure a specimenof it first. And now if we pass on to the second point, we find thateach throws light upon the other. That point is the request made byPinner that you should not resign your place, but should leave themanager of this important business in the full expectation that a Mr. Hall Pycroft, whom he had never seen, was about to enter the office uponthe Monday morning. "

"My God!" cried our client, "what a blind beetle I have been!"

"Now you see the point about the handwriting. Suppose that someoneturned up in your place who wrote a completely different hand from thatin which you had applied for the vacancy, of course the game would havebeen up. But in the interval the rogue learnt to imitate you, and hisposition was therefore secure, as I presume that nobody in the officehad ever set eyes upon you?"

"Not a soul, " groaned Hall Pycroft. 

"Very good. Of course, it was of the utmost importance to prevent youfrom thinking better of it, and also to keep you from coming intocontact with anyone who might tell you that your double was at work inMawson's office. Therefore they gave you a handsome advance on yoursalary, and ran you off to the Midlands, where they gave you enough workto do to prevent your going to London, where you might have burst theirlittle game up. That is all plain enough. "

"But why should this man pretend to be his own brother?"

"Well, that is pretty clear also. There are evidently only two of themin it. The other is personating you at the office. This one acted asyour engager, and then found that he could not find you an employerwithout admitting a third person into his plot. That he was mostunwilling to do. He changed his appearance as far as he could, andtrusted that the likeness, which you could not fail to observe, would beput down to a family resemblance. But for the happy chance of the goldstuffing your suspicions would probably have never been aroused. "

Hall Pycroft shook his clenched hands in the air. "Good Lord!" he cried. "While I have been fooled in this way, what has this other Hall Pycroftbeen doing at Mawson's? What should we do, Mr. Holmes? Tell me what todo!"

"We must wire to Mawson's. "

"They shut at twelve on Saturdays. "

"Never mind; there may be some doorkeeper or attendant----"

"Ah, yes; they keep a permanent guard there on account of the value ofthe securities that they hold. I remember hearing it talked of in theCity. "

[Illustration: "PYCROFT SHOOK HIS CLENCHED HANDS IN THE AIR. "]

"Very good, we shall wire to him, and see if all is well, and if a clerkof your name is working there. That is clear enough, but what is not soclear is why at sight of us one of the rogues should instantly walk outof the room and hang himself. "

"The paper!" croaked a voice behind us. The man was sitting up, blanchedand ghastly, with returning reason in his eyes, and hands which rubbednervously at the broad red band which still encircled his throat. 

"The paper! Of course!" yelled Holmes, in a paroxysm of excitement. "Idiot that I was! I thought so much of our visit that the paper neverentered my head for an instant. To be sure the secret must lie there. "He flattened it out upon the table, and a cry of triumph burst from hislips. 

"Look at this, Watson!" he cried. "It is a London paper, an earlyedition of the _Evening Standard_. Here is what we want. Look at theheadlines--'Crime in the City. Murder at Mawson and Williams'. GiganticAttempted Robbery; Capture of the Criminal. ' Here, Watson, we are allequally anxious to hear it, so kindly read it aloud to us. "

It appeared from its position in the paper to have been the one event ofimportance in town, and the account of it ran in this way:--

"A desperate attempt at robbery, culminating in the death of one man andthe capture of the criminal, occurred this afternoon in the City. Forsome time back Mawson and Williams, the famous financial house, havebeen the guardians of securities which amount in the aggregate to a sumof considerably over a million sterling. So conscious was the manager ofthe responsibility which devolved upon him in consequence of the greatinterests at stake, that safes of the very latest construction have beenemployed, and an armed watchman has been left day and night in thebuilding. It appears that last week a new clerk, named Hall Pycroft, wasengaged by the firm. This person appears to have been none other thanBeddington, the famous forger and cracksman, who, with his brother, hasonly recently emerged from a five years' spell of penal servitude. Bysome means, which are not yet clear, he succeeded in winning, under afalse name, this official position in the office, which he utilized inorder to obtain mouldings of various locks, and a thorough knowledge ofthe position of the strong room and the safes. 

"It is customary at Mawson's for the clerks to leave at midday onSaturday. Sergeant Tuson, of the City Police, was somewhat surprisedtherefore to see a gentleman with a carpet bag come down the steps attwenty minutes past one. His suspicions being aroused, the sergeantfollowed the man, and with the aid of Constable Pollock succeeded, aftera most desperate resistance, in arresting him. It was at once clear thata daring and gigantic robbery had been committed. Nearly a hundredthousand pounds worth of American railway bonds, with a large amount ofscrip in other mines and companies, were discovered in the bag. Onexamining the premises the body of the unfortunate watchman was founddoubled up and thrust into the largest of the safes, where it would nothave been discovered until Monday morning had it not been for the promptaction of Sergeant Tuson. The man's skull had been shattered by a blowfrom a poker, delivered from behind. There could be no doubt thatBeddington had obtained entrance by pretending that he had leftsomething behind him, and having murdered the watchman, rapidly rifledthe large safe, and then made off with his booty. His brother, whousually works with him, has not appeared in this job, so far as can atpresent be ascertained, although the police are making energeticinquiries as to his whereabouts. "

[Illustration: "GLANCING AT THE HAGGARD FIGURE. "]

"Well, we may save the police some little trouble in that direction, "said Holmes, glancing at the haggard figure huddled up by the window. "Human nature is a strange mixture, Watson. You see that even a villainand a murderer can inspire such affection that his brother turns tosuicide when he learns that his neck is forfeited. However, we have nochoice as to our action. The doctor and I will remain on guard, Mr. Pycroft, if you will have the kindness to step out for the police. "

_Beauties. _

[Illustration: FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY MESSRS. ELLIOTT AND FRY, BAKERSTREET, W. ]

[Illustration: Miss Webster

Madame Shirmer-Mapleson

Madame Sigrid Arnoldson]

[Illustration: Miss ALICE LETHBRIDGE

Miss Flo Henderson

Mdlle. Del Torre]

_Hands. _

BY BECKLES WILLSON. 

II. 

[Illustration: CASTING A HAND FROM LIFE. 

(_Studio of Mr. Onslow Ford, A. R. A. _)]

The sculptor's practice of casting in plaster the hands of his client isof comparatively recent growth. The artist of the old school--and he isfollowed in this by many of the new--disdained so mechanical a means tofidelity. Very few, indeed, among the British painters and sculptors ofthe past will be found who took the pains to see that the hands or eventhe figures of their counterfeit presentments on canvas or in marbletallied with the originals. Sir Joshua Reynolds, as we know, would haveregarded this as the essence of finical vulgarity. 

The principal drawback in making casts from life is to be found in thediscomfort, not to speak of the actual torment, it often causes thesitter by the adhesion of the plaster to the hairy growth of the skin. Various methods are resorted to with a view to obviate this, and in somecases successfully. 

The hands of Thomas Carlyle--stubborn, combative, mystical--which appearin the present paper, will amply repay the closest scrutiny. These handsare unwontedly realistic, and emphasize their distinctiveness in everyvein and wrinkle. They appear to be themselves endowed with each ofthose various qualities which caused their possessor to be regarded asone of the most puissant figures in the century's literature. The handis not one, to use Charles Lamb's expressive phrase, to be looked at_standing on one leg_. It deserves a keener examination. 

[Illustration: THOMAS CARLYLE'S HANDS. ]

Mention has been made of the hand of a distinguished prelate, CardinalManning. It will not be out of place to compare it with the hands ofthe late Archbishop of Canterbury, which were cast posthumously. Scarcely anything could be more antagonistic. The nervous personality ofManning is wanting here. The hands of the Archbishop seem more to belongto the order of the benevolent Bishop Myriel than to that of theenthusiast and ascetic. 

[Illustration: THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY'S HANDS. ]

[Illustration: LORD PALMERSTON'S HAND. ]

Plenty of opportunity to study the hands of statesmen is afforded inthose of Lord Palmerston, Count Cavour, Sir Stratford Canning, and LordMelbourne. The fallacy of attaching special qualities to any distinctivetrait in the hand of an eminent person is most readily discernible here. One should avoid _à posteriori_ reasoning. It would be the same for aphysiognomist to argue a man a statesman from a facial resemblance toMr. Gladstone, or that he is fit to write tragedies because he owns theexact facial proportions of Sardou. 

[Illustration: COUNT CAVOUR'S HANDS. ]

[Illustration: SIR STRATFORD CANNING'S HANDS. ]

Among these the hand of Lord Palmerston will stand forth mostprominently to the reader. Its characteristics are, on the whole, sufficiently obvious, in the appended cast, to be thought accentuated. It might not unprofitably be noted in connection with those of StratfordCanning, Viscount de Redcliffe (for fifty years British Ambassador inIndia), whose statue by Boehm, with Tennyson's famous epitaph:

 Thou third great Canning, stand among our best And noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased, Here, silent in our Minster of the West, Who wert the voice of England in the East!

is in a nave of the Abbey. With these should be joined the hand ofViscount Melbourne, the predecessor of Sir Robert Peel in thePremiership, and the great statesman after whom the city of Melbournewas named, in order to range this British galaxy against the hands ofthe Italian patriots, Count Cavour and Joseph Garibaldi, whose laboursresulted in that master stroke of latter-day politics, the unificationof Italy. Those of the former were cast separately in differentpositions, it being the intention of the sculptor for the right hand torest lightly upon a column and the left to grasp a roll of parchment. Garibaldi's hand may be described as both virile and nervous. 

[Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: HAND OF JOHN BURNS, M. P. ]

[Illustration: HAND OF JOSEPH ARCH, M. P. ]

[Illustration: GARIBALDI'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: SIR E. BOEHM'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: HAND OF JOHN JACKSON, R. A. ]

Another type of hand is exemplified in the hands of Messrs. Joseph Archand John Burns. Both of these belong to self-made men, accustomed tohard manual labour from childhood. Their powerful ruggedness isadmirably set off by the exquisite symmetry and feminine proportions ofthe hand of John Jackson a Royal Academician and great painter of histime. For symmetry, combined with grace, this hand is not surpassed. 

The hand of Sir Edgar Boehm was cast by his assistant, ProfessorLantéri, for the former's statue of Sir Francis Drake. It will beobserved that the fingers grasp a pair of compasses, the original ofthose which appear in the bronze at Plymouth. 

[Illustration: LADY BLESSINGTON'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: MRS. CARLYLE'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: MRS. THORNYCROFT'S HAND. ]

Reverting to the ladies again, interest will, no doubt, centre upon thehand of the celebrated Lady Blessington, accounted the wittiest hostessof her day; and not least attractive will appear Mrs. Carlyle's andthose of Mrs. Thornycroft and the celebrated Madame Tussaud. The wife ofthe Chelsea sage was herself, as is known, an authoress of no meanrepute. 

A comparison of the hand of Mr. Bancroft with that of Mr. Irving, givenlast month, will prove interesting, if not instructive. 

[Illustration: MME. TUSSAUD'S HAND. ]

It has been said that the hands of Carlyle are characteristic; that theypossess, with those of Wilkie Collins, the merit of being precisely thesort of hands one would expect to see so labelled. We now present athird candidate for this merit of candour in casts of the hands of thenotorious Arthur Orton, better known under the sobriquet of theClaimant. They are pulseless, chubby, oblique: yet they are remarkable. In scrutinizing them, it is difficult not to feel that one looks uponhands very remote indeed from the ordinary. 

[Illustration: MR. BANCROFT'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: HANDS OF THE TICHBORNE CLAIMANT. ]

Next we look upon the hand of a giant even superior to Anak, inLoushkin, the Russian. But physically great as was the Muscovite, it isto be doubted if he really attained the world-wide celebrity of thelittle American, Charles Stratton (otherwise known as "Tom Thumb"), whose extremity serves as a foil to his rival for exhibition honours. 

Another Boehm relic requires some explanation. Every visitor to theMetropolis has doubtless seen and admired the heroic equestrian statueof the Duke of Wellington, opposite Apsley House. They may even havenoticed the right hand, which is represented as lightly holding the reinof the animal. The appended was cast from the original model in clay ofthe hand of the Duke, no cast direct from life ever having beenexecuted. 

[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S HAND. ]

It is sufficient to say that the subjoined hand and arm of LadyCardigan, wife of the noted Crimean warrior, was one greatly admired bySir Edgar, in whose studio it hung for many years. In like manner willthe hand of Lady Richard Grosvenor be found the possessor of manybeautiful and interesting traits. 

[Illustration: THE HANDS OF "TOM THUMB" AND LOUSHKIN, THE RUSSIANGIANT. ]

[Illustration: LADY CARDIGAN'S HAND. ]

A member not altogether dissimilar to that of the musician Liszt is thehand of Carl von Angeli, Court painter to Her Majesty, and like thatalso in setting at naught the conclusions too often arrived at by thechirognomist. For there is here breadth without symmetry, and an utterabsence of the poise which we look for in the ideal hand of the artist. It is instructive to compare it to the hand of the painter, JohnJackson. 

[Illustration: LADY RICHARD GROSVENOR'S HAND. ]

[Illustration: CARL ANGELI'S HAND. ]

Observe the massive, masculine fingers and disproportionately smallfinger-nails in the hands of Professor Weekes, the sculptor. There isscarcely any perceptible tapering at the third joint, and the fingersall exhibit very little prominence of knuckle or contour. It is anythingbut an artistic hand, and yet its owner was a man of the keenestartistic perceptions. 

In Frederick Baring's (Lord Ashburton) we find the thick-set fingers, and what the chirognomist calls the "lack of manual repose, " of thegreat financier. But as his lordship was statesman with a talent fordebate as well as man of commerce, it will not unlikely be found thatthe hand presented combines the both temperaments. 

[Illustration: PROFESSOR WEEKES' HANDS. ]

[Illustration: LORD ASHBURTON'S HAND. ]

I have been enabled, through the kindness of Mr. J. T. Tussaud, toembellish the present collection by an ancient cast of the hand of theComte de Lorge, a famous prisoner in the Bastille. This cast was taken, together with a death mask, after death, by the great-grandmother of thesculptor, to whom both relics have descended. 

The Queen's hands, which appeared in the last issue of this Magazine, were cast by John Francis, a famous sculptor of the day. Mr. HamoThorneycroft, R. A. , writes me to say that "While the moulds were beingmade Her Majesty removed all the rings from her fingers _except_ thewedding ring. This she was most anxious should not come off, and was inconsiderable fear lest the moulding process might remove it. "

[Illustration: COMTE DE LORGE'S HAND. ]

[_The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are alwayson view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is opento the public without charge. _]

[Illustration: ROSITA]

FROM THE FRENCH OF PITRE CHEVALIER. 

I. 

It was harvest day at a house in the little village of Panola, inCastile, on the 25th of August, 1838. The great sheaves of corn had beenborne, amidst universal rejoicing, to their resting-place in thegranary. All the village inhabitants had shared in this pleasant task, and now, following an ancient custom, they had erected a trophy composedof a few last sheaves of corn, round which the young girls and men beganto dance gaily, to the sound of guitars and castanets. 

Within the house, in a room which overlooked this charming scene, weretwo men. 

The first, seated at a table, was an old man over sixty, but enfeebledrather by cares than by age. His venerable head, crowned with whitehair, drooped upon his breast with patriarchal dignity. The old man, whohad been a soldier in the Spanish army, was Don Pedro de la Sarga, aCastilian as noble as he was poor. His companion was his son, DonStephano, a young man of twenty, considered the most accomplished man inPanola. He was handsome; his warm, brown skin, his large, black eyes, the regular features, which wore that expression of national pride whichdistinguishes a Castilian from any other race, and his raven-black hairwere eminently the Spanish type in all its grace and haughtiness. Theyoung man wore the Spanish holiday costume, the richness of which hasmade travellers exclaim, more than once, that no European prince isclothed like a simple peasant of Castile. Stephano had on a short vestof black cloth, lined with yellow silk, ornamented with fringes andbunches of ribbons; an embroidered shirt with open collar revealing awaistcoat with gilt buttons, knee-breeches of black silk confined at theknees by bunches of ribbons, shoes and gaiters of fine brown leather, while a black felt hat with drooping plume completed his costume. 

Stephano's gloomy face contrasted with his gay attire. He leant againstthe open window, carelessly holding in his hand a bouquet of fadedjasmine, whilst he gazed with melancholy eyes upon the festive scenebefore him, and only by a shake of the head and a sad smile replied tothe light badinage of the dancers as they passed the window. But now andthen his eyes lighted up, and he sighed deeply as a certain dancer, prettier than the rest, approached him. 

"How pretty she is!" he murmured, as he followed her retreating form. 

"Stephano!" called out the old man, who had been watching his son forsome time. 

"How gracefully she dances, " continued the handsome dreamer, wrapt inhis thoughts. 

"Stephano!" repeated the old man. 

"Yes, father, " cried Stephano, with a start, and coming forward. "Do youwish to speak to me?"

"From your mysterious air and endless sighs these last few days, Stephano, I conclude that you are in love, " said his father. 

"In love!" stammered the young man. "You think I am in love?"

"I do not think, my son--I am sure of it; and I have only one reproachto make to you, and that is that you have not made me a confidant ofyour secret before. "

"You shall know all, father, " said Stephano, drawing a chair close toDon Pedro. 

"For the last month, " he continued, "I have had in my heart a love whichnothing can subdue, and the object of my passion is a young girl here, aglance from whose eyes is worth more to me than all the world besides;but she shuns my love, and on every occasion strives to avoid me. Shehardly permits me to speak to her for fear that the passion she reads inmy eyes will break into words. "

"Bah!" said the old man, merrily; "it is very likely that she shuns youfor the reason of your not opening your mouth; you scare the young girlwith your morose airs. "

"Oh, if that were only true, " sighed the disconsolate swain. 

"Now, " said the old man, "there only remains for me to know the name ofmy future daughter-in-law. "

The young man was about to pronounce the name which already trembled onhis lips when a sudden clamour interrupted the most interesting portionof this conversation. The peasants, followed by the partners, wererushing towards the house, and in the twinkling of an eye the room wasfilled with the animated and noisy throng. The new-comers wore richcostumes, more or less copies of Stephano's; some carried guitars, others castanets, while most of them leaned upon tall peeled rods, forked at the top, and ornamented with ribbons of all colours; eachcarried on the left side of his vest a bouquet similar to that ofStephano. The young girls in their silken bodices, short skirts, redstockings and mantillas, rattled their castanets as they entered withtheir partners. The joyous crowd surrounded Don Pedro, whilst cries of"Rosita! Rosita!" resounded from all sides. 

"Well, well, my children, what is it you want?" demanded the villageNestor of his clamorous audience. 

"We want Mlle. Rosita, " they repeated. 

"What, my niece? But is she not with you? I thought it was she whom youwere leading just now round the corn sheaves. "

"That is true, " replied one of the foremost of the crowd; "everythingwent smoothly until we wished her to take part in our usual ceremony of'The Maiden's Choice. '"

"Did you explain to her, " asked the old man, "what is the ceremony?"

"Yes, we told her all that was necessary: that it is an old custom inPanola on harvest day, after having escorted the daughter of the houseround the last sheaves of corn, for all her admirers in the village topresent her, each in his turn, with a bouquet; that she must then choosethe one she loves amongst them by retaining his bouquet, whilst theothers are rejected. She answered us by saying that she had only been inPanola a few months, and was therefore not forced to adopt our customs, and leaving us with these words she fled from us and escaped through thelittle granary door. "

"The little shrew!" Don Pedro exclaimed, who, like an amiable old man, was always on the side of the young folk. "But my friends, " he added, "you are but poor Lotharios to be flouted by a young girl; you mustfollow her and bring her back. "

"That is just what we have done; but one cannot catch a bird withoutalso having wings. She seemed to fly as we followed her, and on reachingthe granary she entered and slammed the door in our faces; so we havecome, as a last resource, to you, Don Pedro, to ask her to comply withour wishes. "

"You are right, " replied the old man, with all the gravity of a judge, "you must be satisfied at once"; and he looked round for Don Stephano, who was standing more moody than ever behind a giggling group of youngpeasants. 

"My son, " he said, "go and bring your cousin here. If she refuses, tellher that I particularly wish her to come. "

"I will go, father, " said Stephano, after a second's hesitation; and hewent out. 

There was a slight pause; then shouts and acclamations and rattling ofcastanets burst forth, as Rosita, with downcast eyes, entered the room, led by Stephano. Well might they welcome with fervour such a charmingcreature. Rosita was just eighteen. She wore upon her golden brown haira black lace mantilla, which contrasted with her creamy complexion andthe liquid depth of her large brown eyes. A brown velvet bodice showedoff to perfection her slight yet rounded figure; and her silk skirtsjust revealed her pretty ankles and small feet in their silk stockingsand neat shoes. 

Rosita was a native of Navarre. She had quitted Tafalla, her nativevillage, on the death of her father and mother, who had been victims ofthe Civil War which at this time desolated the country, and had beenconducted not without peril to her uncle's house at Panola, in which shehad since taken up her abode. 

"Rosita, " said Don Pedro to his niece, taking her hand, "I have madeyour apologies to your friends for the trick you have played them. It isyour turn now to atone for your misdeed, by submitting to an old custom. Among the brave Castilians who surround you there are many suitors foryour hand. There must be one among them whom you secretly favour. Yourchoice is entirely free, and even the favoured one after the ceremonywill then have only the right to please you and to merit your hand. "

"But, uncle----" faltered the young girl. 

"I will take no denial, my dear, " interrupted the old man. 

Rosita strove in vain to protest, but her imperturbable uncle would notlisten, and gave a sign to the peasants to begin the ceremony, in whichhe seemed to take as keen an interest as they did themselves. Thereuponthe majority of the young men, darting furious glances of jealousy atone another, prepared for the contest. Rosita, at her uncle's side, stood at one end of the room. At her right and left were grouped theyoung peasant girls, admiring without envy the queen of the _fête_, andforming her court. Stephano stood behind with dejected mien. Those withguitars touched their instruments lightly now and then, and upon thisscene, worthy of the pencil of Leopold Roberts, the sun, now setting atthe horizon, cast a calm and solemn light. 

The first peasant who came forward was a tall young man, with a ruddycomplexion. 

"My name is Geronimo Caldaroz, and I am twenty-five. It has been thetalk of the village why I did not marry, and it has been said it wasbecause I had never yet seen a maiden beautiful enough to please me. Butnow I have found her; it is you, Rosita. Will you accept my bouquet?" Hepresented his bouquet to the young girl, who blushed as she received it, and then let it fall. 

"Refused! Refused!" whispered the spectators, whilst the young mandisappeared into the crowd, and a second one took his place. But thesame thing occurred, and with the same result. Soon the jasmine bouquetscovered the ground round the young girl's feet. The rejected suitorsmultiplied so fast that they could no longer hide their discomfitureamongst the others. Restless and smiling, Don Pedro wondered why hisniece was so severe, and the remaining suitors seemed to hesitatewhether to advance into the lists or not. Then the last three timidlyadvanced one by one toward Rosita. The two first were not even heard tothe end of their speech, and then all eyes were fixed with interest uponthe last. Rosita let him finish his discourse, took his bouquet, whichshe scrutinized demurely, and then uttering a deep sigh let it fall uponthe amorous trophy piled at her feet. 

A murmur rose amongst the stupefied villagers. Don Pedro approached hisniece. 

"Well, my child, " he said, "have you thought of what you have done?"

"Yes, uncle, " Rosita replied. "Did you not tell me yourself that I wasperfectly free?"

"Free to choose, without doubt; but not to send all your suitors away. "

Rosita cast down her eyes and made no reply. 

"Pardon me, father, but there still remains one, " said Stephano, breaking the silence. 

"Where is he?" everyone asked at once. 

"Here he is. "

Rosita trembled so violently that she was compelled to lean for supportupon her uncle's arm, and Don Pedro, more astonished than anyone, rushedtowards his son. 

"What, Stephano?" he said joyfully. "It is your cousin whom----"

"Yes, father, " replied the young man. "It is she whom I love. "

In the midst of such general interest Stephano, pale with emotion, advanced towards his cousin. 

"Rosita, I love you, " he said, simply. "Will you keep this bouquet whichI offer to you?"

The young man pronounced these words with a voice so sweet andexpressive, and the gesture with which he offered the symbolic flowerwas so imploring and passionate, that a sympathetic thrill ran throughthe spectators, and tears bedimmed Don Pedro's eyes. 

[Illustration: "'ROSITA, I LOVE YOU, ' HE SAID. "]

Rosita, not less pale than her cousin, took the bouquet with a tremblinghand, gazed upon it tenderly, then made a movement as if to throw itdown, paused, and then at last, with head turned aside, let it fall. 

"Santa Maria! He also!" cried the crowd, mournfully. 

"Do not condemn me without hearing my justification, " cried Rosita, turning to Don Pedro. 

"Your justification?" repeated Stephano, with relief. 

"Uncle, " she said, after a pause, "there is a secret which I may havebeen wrong in concealing from you hitherto, but I must confide it to youalone. "

"To me!" cried the astonished old man. 

"I will come with you at once, " and, seizing Rosita's hand, he led heraway, making signs to the peasants as he did so to disperse. 

Stephano strolled out to breathe the air upon the hills, whose shadowswere beginning to slope down into the valley. The sky was lighted onlyby the afterglow of the red, sunken sun; the evening breeze carriedalong in the warm air the perfume of the jasmine flowers and orangegroves in bloom, and no sound was heard but the music of guitars andcastanets, mingled sometimes with the faint tinkle of sheep bells. 

When Stephano re-entered he found his father and cousin in the lowerhall. Rosita, on perceiving him, made a pretext for rising, andhurriedly left the room. Don Pedro and his son were left alone. 

"One word, father, " said Stephano. "Does Rosita love me, and will shealso become my wife?"

"You must forget Rosita, " replied the old man. "You must tear from yourheart even the remembrance of your love. "

The young man abandoned himself to despair. 

"I shall never forget her, " he said, passionately. "My love for Rositawill only cease with my life. "

And he rushed from the room, leaving the old man wondering. 

II. 

For some weeks the inmates of Don Pedro's house were forced to remainprisoners, for rebel soldiers filled the neighbouring villages, andtroops of guerillas were being mustered to put them to flight. It was amorning, early in September, just after the sun had peered above thehorizon. A fine rain had fallen during the night, and the drops whichrested on the foliage sparkled like myriads of diamonds. The streetswere as yet deserted; some muleteers alone passed along them atintervals. Don Pedro's house was the only one astir. 

Don Stephano, according to his custom, had risen with the dawn, and wasnow alone in the lower hall, standing opposite the window whichoverlooked the high road. He was occupied in fixing an iron lance upon awooden rod, at which he gazed abstractedly. 

The sound of a voice filling the air with song attracted his attention;it was singing the Moorish romance of "Adlemar and Adalifa, " and to thequick perception of a Spanish ear was marked with a slight Ultramontaineaccent, which Stephano discerned like a true Castilian. Without movinghe listened to the song which awoke the echoes of the valley. Theamorous words recalled to Stephano's mind the thought of Rosita, and hesighed deeply. Then he listened anew to the voice, which grew nearer andnearer, and in which, in spite of its strange accent, he seemed to hearan understrain of singular emotion. His conjectures were not long, however. A man enveloped in a large mantle peered in at the open window, and after throwing a rapid glance behind him leapt into the room. Stephano recoiled at the sight of such a strange visitor, and felttempted to seize the man, whom he took at first for a robber. Then atroop of horsemen dashed past the house. The stranger gave a sigh ofrelief. Then for the first time he caught sight of Stephano. 

"I must be careful, " the soldier muttered, as he drew his cloak morecarefully round him. "This Spaniard does not look over benevolent. "

"Who can this man be?" thought Stephano, as he instinctively put hishand on his pistols; but on seeing the stranger advance towards him witha pleasant smile, he paused. 

"Noble Castilian, " said the stranger, "are you a man to oblige an enemyin peril, and who for a quarter of an hour wishes you no more harm thanif you were his brother?"

Before replying, Stephano scrutinized his questioner. He saw before hima man of about twenty-eight, with a frank face and light hair andmoustache. His accent, and the blue pantaloons which appeared under thebrown mantle, proclaimed him a Frenchman. 

[Illustration: "THE STRANGER. "]

"No unarmed man is my enemy, " replied Stephano, "and from the moment myroof was over your head you became my guest. "

"Shake hands on it! You are a fine fellow, " cried the soldier, holdingout his hand. At the same time he drew aside his mantle, and Stephanorecognised the uniform worn by the French volunteers of Don Carlos'sarmy. "Now, if you have a drop of anything to drink handy, I will tellyou in a few words what has brought me here. "

Stephano opened the sideboard, and brought out a bottle and glasses. Thesoldier wiped his moustache as he began. 

"You see before you, " he said, with frank abruptness, "CharlesDulaurier, a soldier by birth and profession, lieutenant in theGrenadiers of His Majesty Charles V. --pardon me, Don Carlos. Beingstationed some few miles from here, I asked for leave of absence thismorning to join some troops which (pardon me) are going to make a raidupon this very village this morning. But, thanks to my foolhardiness instarting off alone, I soon found myself in the hands of guerillas. Iescaped. They pursued me. But I, though alone in a strange country andunarmed, led them a nice dance for half an hour. I was just about tofall again into their hands when I came in sight of this house. I dupedthem by my ruse of pitching my voice in such a manner as to lead them tothink I was beyond the village, whilst I at the same time took refugehere. To conclude, my worthy fellow, no doubt the guerillas are notblind, and not finding any trace of me upon the route, will return toPanola. Consequently, if you are a host to my liking you will----"

"Conceal you, " said Stephano, quickly. "You are right!" and he glancedround with uneasiness. The lieutenant struck him on the shoulder. "Oneminute, " he said; "the guerillas cannot reappear for half an hour. Thislittle expedition, as you may imagine, was not my only motive for comingto Panola, and I must again abuse your patience in asking you somequestions upon a certain subject which is the motive of my expedition. "

"Go on, " replied Stephano, with resignation. 

"I came here to look for a young girl, " said the Frenchman, twisting hismoustache, "and as, perhaps, you will be so good as to give me someinformation on this point, it would be better for you to know the story. Last year my regiment, after a vigorous resistance, entered a village inNavarre. "

"A village in Navarre?" repeated Stephano, and his brow darkened. 

"One house had been so well defended, indeed, that it was foundnecessary to surround it, and our infuriated soldiers, drunk withcarnage, determined to massacre everyone within. I luckily surprisedthem as they drew their sabres upon two poor old creatures and theiryoung daughter. I threw myself between the victims and their butchers;the wretches turned upon me and I fell wounded by a bayonet thrust, butthey were saved. The kind people who owed me their lives bore me totheir house, and gave me every care. The young girl watched at mybedside for more than a fortnight. Briefly the beauty, the tenderness ofthe little girl, won my heart. Losing no time, I declared my passion. She whispered, blushing, that I might speak to her parents. As soon as Iwas well enough to walk, I hastened to the worthy old man, who, afterthe shock he had received, became mortally ill, and felt his endapproach. I had no sooner asked him for his daughter's hand than heexclaimed, 'God be praised! I shall not now die without havingrecompensed our deliverer. ' At the same time he took the young girl'shand and mine, and, after making us exchange rings, clasped themtogether. Then he stretched forth his trembling hands above our heads tobless us, whilst on our knees by the bedside we swore eternal fidelityto each other. Three days after the good man died, and the same day myregiment left for Castile. Seven months passed without my hearing anynews from my betrothed, and it was only by chance I learned that on hermother's death she had quitted Navarre to take up her abode in heruncle's house at Panola. 

"But what is the matter?" said the lieutenant, as Stephano rosehurriedly. 

"I know enough, " replied the young man in a hollow voice. "The villagewas Tafalla, and the young girl's name is Rosita. "

"But what is there in that?" cried the lieutenant, who understoodnothing of Stephano's emotion. "You know Rosita? She is here? You aresilent. Heavens! Is she dead--or married?"

"No, no, " replied Stephano, with an effort. "Rosita is here. No doubtshe loves you and watches for your return with impatience. "

"Where, then, shall I find my betrothed?"

Stephano was about to reply to this question when the tramp of horseswas heard. It was the troop returning. 

"Softly!" whispered Dulaurier as he crept towards the window. "Yes, these are my friends. Where will you hide me?"

Stephano regarded him with a savage gleam in his eyes and muttered tohimself, "This man comes here to blast my happiness, and I must protecthis life at the peril of my own. "

"What am I to do?" repeated Dulaurier. 

"Take this dagger, " said Stephano, "put on your mantle and follow me. "He unfastened a little door which opened upon a staircase which led intothe garden, and descended, followed by Dulaurier. They stole alongbehind a thick hedge of hawthorn until they came to the trees of alittle orchard, from which rose the roof of a ruined summer-house. Onreaching this spot Stephano installed the lieutenant so that he couldwatch both the road and the garden; then having arranged upon the coursethey should take, Stephano hastened back to the house. 

[Illustration: "THEY STOLE ALONG. "]

Don Pedro was in the lower hall, alone, when his son entered. 

"I have a request to make to you, " said the young man, clasping hisfather's hand convulsively. "I want you to let me start at once to joinmy brothers and to fight for Spain. "

"Can you then leave your cousin?" said Don Pedro, sadly. "And you do notknow----"

"I know more than you, father, more than Rosita herself about thisaffair, " interrupted Stephano. "Is not Rosita betrothed to a Frenchvolunteer in Don Carlos's army, and is this not the secret she confidedto you on harvest day?"

"It is true. But how have you discovered it?"

"From a man flying from the pursuit of guerillas; no other than the manhimself, Lieutenant Charles Dulaurier!"

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the stupefied old man. 

"You see, father, that it is absolutely necessary for me to go, " criedStephano. "I cannot wait until Rosita and Dulaurier are united. Theirhappiness would be more than I could bear, and I have thought of a planby which the lieutenant can be saved without putting off my departure. Ishall join the troop of guerillas who are seeking Dulaurier in thevillage. Seeing me become one of themselves their suspicions will belulled, and I shall save my rival by departing with his enemies. "

"You are right, " replied his father, after a painful pause, but he couldnot utter a word more. 

The young man proceeded to take down from the wall his pistols and hisgun; he placed the former in his belt and the latter on his shoulder, took his hat and stepped forward to bid his father farewell. But as hethrew himself into the arms of the weeping old man, the door opened andRosita entered. 

The young girl glanced quickly from one to the other, and then her eyesremained fixed on Stephano. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked, examining his equipment. 

"I am going away, " replied Stephano. "Farewell, Rosita, be happy. Farewell, father, " he added, embracing Don Pedro. 

"He is going, " said Rosita, her eyes dim with tears, "without onefriendly smile, without one clasp of his hand. Oh! Stephano, " sheexclaimed, springing forward. "You cannot part from me thus!"

"You are keeping me!" said the bewildered young man. 

"Yes, " she replied, seizing his hand. "Stay, Stephano, do not go. Iimplore you!"

"Remain!" cried the young man, passionately. "Remain to see you in thearms of another? Never!"

As he moved towards the door, Rosita sprang towards him withoutstretched arms. "And what if it is you whom I love, Stephano? What ifI have never loved anyone but you?" A thunderbolt would hardly haveproduced more effect than did these words. 

"You love me?" he repeated, approaching his cousin. "Rosita, for mercy'ssake, repeat those words once more, so that I may be sure of havingheard aright. "

"Yes, I love you, " repeated the young girl, tenderly; "no one but you!Will you stay now?"

"For ever, if you wish it!" cried the enraptured youth, throwing downhis gun and pistols. "Look at me, Rosita, that I may read in your eyesthat word which gives me life, and which I have waited for so long. Howblind and foolish I have been! But that will be all right now, will itnot, my beloved?" As he spoke he embraced her passionately. By both ofthem the world was forgotten. 

Through the open window came the clink of spurs and rattling of sabres. This sound, to which Stephano and Rosita were deaf, struck on the ear ofDon Pedro and paralyzed him with terror. 

"Stephano!" he cried at last. "Remember Lieutenant Dulaurier!"

[Illustration: "REMEMBER LIEUTENANT DULAURIER!"]

"Ah!" groaned Stephano, rudely torn from his ecstasy of happiness; andhe fixed his gaze upon his cousin. 

The girl had not even heard Don Pedro. 

"Rosita, " said her lover, "you say you love me, but you have a_fiancé!_"

"Dulaurier!" cried the startled girl. "Great Heaven! pardon me, I hadforgotten. "

"If this man, " continued Stephano, "came here to claim your promise, youwould reply, would you not, that friendship alone, not love, had drawnyou towards him, and that your hand, promised when you hardly knew whatyou did, would now be given without your heart?"

"Yes, that is what I should answer; but he is not likely to come here, Stephano. "

"And what if he were here already?" asked an impressive voice. 

Don Pedro at the same time stepped forward between the young people, andbefore the severe face of the Spaniard their eyes drooped. 

"Father!" faltered the young man. 

"Silence!" cried the old man. "Your duty is clear. What if Dulaurierwere in the house, Rosita--what if, more faithful than you, he had cometo claim his promise, made at the death-bed of your father? I ask youwhat you would answer. "

Trembling and submissive as a criminal before his judge, the young girlturned her eyes from Stephano to Don Pedro. 

"I should reply to Lieutenant Dulaurier that, before God and man, I amhis betrothed bride, and that while he lives no other can be myhusband. "

"Come then, my child, prepare to receive your _fiancé_, " and Don Pedroheld out his hand to his niece to lead her away. 

"You are destroying my happiness!" cried Stephano. 

"But in return I give you back your honour, " replied Don Pedro. "Lookafter the lieutenant, for here come the guerillas!" and he went out. 

"What a dream, and what an awakening!" murmured Stephano as he was leftalone. "Rosita vows she loves me, and at the same time declares she willnever be mine while Dulaurier lives. _While he lives!_ And I must takeupon myself the peril of saving him, when I have only to let him----Oh, how despair tempts us to horrible deeds! Is there time to fly, to quitthis spot where each thought is torture: to hasten and join theguerillas before they enter the house? For, alas! if they enter now anddemand where their enemy is--by Heaven! I shall not have the strength toresist--I must fly!"

Picking up his gun and pistols he rushed towards the door, but recoiledat the sight of a man in the uniform of a captain of guerillas, who by agesture forced him to pause. 

[Illustration: "IT IS TOO LATE!"]

"Malediction--it is too late!" murmured the young man, as he droppedupon a chair, and let his unheeded weapons fall to the ground. 

"Two sentinels before each door and window, " called out the captain tothe soldiers who followed him. "This is the last house in which ourprisoner could take refuge, " he continued, striking impatiently the buttend of his rifle upon the ground. "Search well, comrades; you know hewho takes the Frenchman prisoner is to have the honour of firing thefirst shot upon him, and is also to receive twenty douros for reward. "Thereupon he advanced into the room. "Well, my good fellow, " he said toStephano; "what are you going to do with these weapons? Are they todefend yourself or to protect the officer whom you have hidden here?"

"No one is hidden in this house, " replied the young man, with thecourage which peril bestows. "The La Sargas are known throughout thecountry to be devoted to Spain and the Queen. I have three brothers inthe national army, and I have just picked up these weapons with theintention of joining your troops. "

The captain looked at him with a sneering smile. Then he turned to hiscompanions, who had just returned from searching the house. 

"Well, have you found anything?"

"Only a young girl and an old man, " was the reply. 

"Bring the old man here, " said the captain; then he turned to Stephano. "And you, sir, go with my lieutenant and these three men, and show themevery room there is"; then he murmured in the lieutenant's ear, slipping at the same time a purse of gold into his hand: "Spare neitherthreats nor persuasion to gain this young man over to our side. Whateverit costs, I must recapture our prisoner. "

Stephano felt tempted to resist these orders, but he reflected that thiswould only draw suspicion upon him, and he led the way up the stairs, which were placed in a corner of the room. 

At the same time Don Pedro entered, guarded by two soldiers and leaningon his staff. Then an interval ensued, and the minutes flew past. Suddenly a pistol shot was heard. Everyone gave a start of alarm. Thenone of the guards who had gone out with Stephano came rushing down thestairs and into the room. 

"The bird is snared, or will be in a few minutes, " he cried. "Ourprisoner, " he continued, pointing through the window, "is in thatbuilding which you see at the bottom of the garden. "

"How do you know this?" asked the captain. 

"From the young man who is upstairs with the lieutenant. "

"From Stephano!" cried the old man, growing pale with horror. 

"Ah, ah!" laughed the captain, "your son does not seem very hard topersuade. "

"The lieutenant having discovered nothing, " the man went on, "told threeof us to go and search the granary, and took advantage of the occasionto take the young man aside. I watched them. A purse of gold and thebarrel of a pistol have been the principal inducements. The sly fellowat first was very obstinate, and it was then that the lieutenant firedthe pistol at him to frighten him. The young man seemed to be moved in asingular manner by the shot. He gave way with good grace, and pointedthe pavilion out to us. "

Whilst the captain lent a joyful ear to this narrative, Don Pedro, onthe contrary, listened with terror mingled with incredulity. At theselast words he could contain himself no longer, and broke in violently:--

"Enough, wretch; enough!" he cried. "What you say is impossible! It isan infamous calumny! My son is quite incapable of such villainy!"

"Look, senor, " replied the man, pointing to the stairs. 

Stephano in truth was descending with the lieutenant, holding the pursein his hand. His pale and agitated face seemed to proclaim his guilt, and Don Pedro sank back fainting on a seat. Stephano crossed the roomwith a faltering step without observing his father, and, reaching thewindow, gazed out upon the road. 

In recalling to mind his son's jealousy of Dulaurier, Don Pedrounderstood the facts of the matter--that he had sold his guest to getrid of a detested rival. Maddened by passion, he had without doubt lostall control over himself. After having exchanged some words in a lowvoice with his lieutenant, the captain made a sign to two of his men. 

"Remain with this fellow, " he said, in a tone of contempt, pointing toStephano, "until we reach the pavilion; if he makes one movement shoothim, and when a volley announces to you that we are not deceived, joinus to start upon our route. "

"Very good, captain, " answered the two soldiers, taking up theirposition on each side of Stephano, whilst the others went out softly. 

A mournful silence reigned in the chamber. 

Stephano stood erect before the window, with haggard eyes fixed upon theroad; Don Pedro, mute and motionless in his chair, seemed like a manbereft of all at a single blow. Then, his misery overwhelming him, hecovered his face with his hands and wept. Stephano turned round quickly, and for the first time saw his father. 

"Great Heavens! He was there, and heard all!" he murmured. "Father!" hecried imploringly. 

"Call me your father no more, " cried the old man, with flaming eyes, "unless you can tell me that I am blind and deaf, or that I have dreamedthat my son was a coward, a traitor, an assassin! Tell me so, Stephano, for pity's sake!"

The young man made an effort as if he were about to speak, but paused atthe sight of his two guards; the strain was so painful that he wasforced to lean for support on one of the guerilla's arms. Then he turnedaway; Don Pedro rose from his seat and came towards his son. 

"His eye never quits this fatal window, " he murmured to himself. "Itlooks as if he watched to see the success of his perfidy, that he wishesto assure himself that his rival does not escape. Wretch!" he burstforth, "if this is so, may you be----"

Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon the old man's arm. It was Rosita. 

"Ah! it is you, Rosita!" said Don Pedro with a bewildered stare. "Wretched man that I am, what was I about to do?" he added, passing hishand over his forehead. 

Rosita came farther forward into the room. 

"Stephano guarded by two soldiers!" she cried. "Holy Virgin! what doesthis mean, and what has happened?"

And she made an instinctive movement towards her cousin. Her unclestopped her. 

"Keep away from this wretched man!" he cried, "for he is a coward and atraitor; he has betrayed your betrothed!"

"Betrayed my betrothed!" cried the girl, with horror. "It isimpossible!"

"Not only has he betrayed him, " continued the old man, taking hisniece's hand, "but he is watching for the success of his treason. Do yourecognise my son, Rosita?" he added, with heartrending despair, "or theman whom you loved?"

Here the poor old man broke down completely, and sank back into hischair. The girl gazed at him with consternation. Even the rough soldierswere touched by the scene, and turned their heads aside. 

[Illustration: "THE POOR OLD MAN BROKE DOWN COMPLETELY. "]

At that instant a loud report shook the walls. It was the captain'svolley. The two soldiers exchanged a meaning glance and disappeared. Assoon as they went out Rosita threw herself in Don Pedro's arms. 

"Dulaurier is dead!" said the old man, gloomily. 

"He is saved!" cried Stephano, coming forward, and throwing from him ashe did so the purse of gold. "Yes, father, yes, Rosita, the lieutenantis safe and sound, and will be with us in a few seconds. "

"How can that be?" cried Don Pedro, passing from despair to joy. 

"Before leaving Dulaurier in the pavilion we had arranged that he was tobe informed by a pistol shot when he must leave his hiding-place for thegranary whilst his enemies were searching the pavilion. You understandnow how the guerilla's shot agitated me. For, of course, Dulaurier, taking the report for the signal agreed upon, would leave the pavilionfor the granary, and would then fall into the hands of his pursuers. Theonly plan to save him was to get the soldiers away from the granary, which I did by feigning to betray Dulaurier, by accepting the purse, andpointing out the pavilion as his hiding-place. For a quarter of an hourI have endured the tortures of hell, but I have saved the man whoconfided in me, and I am still worthy of you both!"

The young man had hardly finished his narrative when his father andRosita were at his feet begging for forgiveness. Then Stephano hastenedto the granary, and called the lieutenant's name, but there was noresponse, and soon Stephano's surprise was changed to uneasiness. Herushed into the granary. It was empty. Stephano reappeared, pale, tottering and breathless. 

"Dulaurier is not in the granary, " he cried. "He cannot have taken thepistol shot for my signal. He must have remained, and that report weheard was his death-shot. "

He paused abruptly. Don Pedro and Rosita understood, and burst forthinto an exclamation of horror. 

"Victory! Victory!" cried a hundred voices. 

Their despair and consternation were changed to the most livelyastonishment, when a detachment of Don Carlos's volunteers entered thehouse, led by Dulaurier himself. 

"Dulaurier!" exclaimed Stephano, Don Pedro, and Rosita at the same time. 

"Our enemies!" said the old Castilian, whilst his niece shrank behindhim. 

"Say rather friends, " replied Dulaurier, pressing Stephano's handwarmly. 

"But how has all this happened?" began the bewildered Stephano. 

"One minute's attention. For half an hour I waited patiently after yourdeparture in the little pavilion, when I heard the signal we arranged onof the pistol shot. I quitted my hiding-place at once, and was preparingto creep towards the granary, when, casting a glance upon the road, Irecognised the uniforms of the volunteers of my regiment. Briefly, "continued Dulaurier, showing the soldiers who surrounded him, "here arethe gentlemen, whom I have the honour of presenting to you. Like goodcomrades, they determined to avenge me, and we caught the guerillas inan ambush as they were searching the pavilion. Bang! a generaldischarge, and thirty men were lying on the ground, and the rest runningaway for their lives. "

"The volley of which we believed you the victim!" interrupted Stephano. 

"You understand the rest. Not wishing to quit Panola without thankingyou, and also wishing to see about that little matter which I mentionedto you this morning, we came on here. And now, " he added to Stephano, with the air of a man who has no time to lose, "I must thank you mostwarmly for all you have done for me. "

There was such a tone of kindness in these words that Stephano could donothing but grasp his hand cordially in return. 

"Anyone else?" cried the effusive officer, looking quickly round. "Youhave a father, a mother, a wife, perhaps? Where are they? This noble oldman must be your father, " and upon Stephano's making an affirmative signhe grasped the old man's hand, and wrung it with force. 

"Are there no ladies in your family?" asked Dulaurier with a gallantair. 

It was then that in spite of Rosita's efforts to avoid his attention hecaught sight of her as she hid behind Don Pedro's high-backed chair. 

"Ah! here is one!" he said, without recognising his betrothed. Hestepped forward towards her. 

"Most amiable senora, " he began politely, "permit me----" He paused, gazing with stupefied eyes upon the young girl, and then made a sign tohis soldiers to leave them. 

"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, "if I am not deceived it is Rosita, mypretty _fiancée_!"

"You are right; it is I, Monsieur Dulaurier, " faltered the young girl. 

The light of happiness vanished from all the faces in the room exceptthe lieutenant's. 

"You can easily understand, my pretty one, what has led me to Panola, "said Dulaurier. 

"I presume you have come to remind Rosita, " answered Don Pedro, "of thepromise that she gave you at her dying father's bedside. She has notforgotten it, senor. She recognises her duty, and you have only one wordto say----"

"Will you answer me yourself, Rosita?" interrupted Dulaurier, markingher extreme pallor and agitation. "You know what I have the right ofclaiming; are you still able to give it me freely?"

"Without doubt, " she murmured; "if I give you my hand, my heart will gowith it. "

"Words, nothing but words!" thought the lieutenant, who grew pale in histurn. "All women are weathercocks. It is clear I am superseded, " and hebit his lip until it bled. "But I should like to know who is mysubstitute, " and he turned mechanically to Stephano. He found him asmute and as troubled as Rosita. The truth flashed across him. "I cannotblame the brave young man, " he murmured to himself, "for falling in lovewith his cousin. It has not prevented him from saving my life at theexpense of his love and honour, and as I have no wish for a heart notwholly mine, I have now to render sacrifice for sacrifice, and to keepthe reputation of France equal to that of Spain. " He turned to Rositawith a smile. 

"Mademoiselle, " he began, "when we plighted our troth, and I told youthat I loved you devotedly, I was as sincere as I am to-day, only I tookupon myself too much, and have contracted several other engagements, more or less similar to yours. " He gave a forced laugh as he pronouncedthese words. 

"That is enough, senor, " said Don Pedro. "But why have you then come toPanola to claim her promise?"

"Who said that I was here for that purpose?" asked Dulaurier, abruptly. Stephano, indeed, recollected that the Frenchman had not said a singleword which implied that he came to claim Rosita's hand. "I imploreMademoiselle Rosita to pardon me, " pursued Dulaurier, "and I proposethat we exchange rings again. "

[Illustration: "I PROPOSE THAT WE EXCHANGE RINGS AGAIN. "]

It was no sooner said than done. Dulaurier turned and clasped Stephano'shand again, and now the young man saw with apprehension that Dulaurier'seyes were dim with tears. Dulaurier could keep up the farce no longer, and his heart was breaking behind the smile upon his lips. 

"Dulaurier!" said the young man, "you weep: you are unhappy! What youhave said has been only a sublime falsehood! You love Rosita--you wishto marry her--and if you have the generosity to renounce all for me, itmust not be at the expense of your happiness. "

"Hush!" said Dulaurier, as he took him aside. "Do not undo my work. Butsince you have found it out, you are right. I did come back to claimRosita. I have always loved her, and have loved none but her. But do notbreathe a word of this. Let no thought of my unhappiness cast a shadowon her life. Sacrifice for sacrifice, young man. France is equal toSpain, and we are quits. 

"Farewell, brave Castilians, " he cried aloud, "celebrate the marriagemerrily: and let us hope that we shall never meet upon the battlefieldof this unhappy country. "

"Farewell!" replied Stephano, huskily. 

Dulaurier pressed Don Pedro's and Stephano's hands, kissed that ofRosita, and joined his comrades outside. 

"Wheel to the right--forward!" he shouted, at the head of his battalion. 

Then came the roll of the drum, and they all marched past the window. 

"Rosita, " said Stephano to his cousin, "you are free, and we are goingto be happy; but never let us forget Lieutenant Dulaurier!"

_The Queer Side of Things. _

The N. P. M. C

[Illustration]

Let us return for a space to the two spirits William and James, whoseconversations we described in past numbers. Some readers may possiblyrecall how the spirit James, while wandering through the darkness ofunoccupied Space (about five-and-twenty billions of eons before thecommencement of Eternity), conceived a wild idea of the possibility ofthe existence of worlds--worlds occupied by an impracticability called"man. " It will be recollected how the wiser spirit William castwell-merited ridicule upon this insanely impossible phantasy of adisordered mind; nay, even condescended to crush, by perspicuous andirrefutable logic, the grotesque and preposterous idea. 

Very well; it is now William's turn. 

"James, " he said one day as they chanced to sight each other in theawful solitude of Space, "I have been thinking over that world of yours, and your crowning absurdity, 'man. ' Pray do not become too inflated withweak conceit at my condescending to think about such trivialities; forthe fact is, any subject of thought--however hopelessly foolish--is arelief amid the tediousness of Space. Well, I have been reflecting uponthat characteristic which you conceive as distinguishing your puppet'man'--I allude to _intelligence_. I think you suggested that he wouldpossess intelligence?"

James only fidgeted uneasily, and made a feeble sign of affirmation. 

"Very well, " continued William. "Now, I have been putting two and twotogether, and have found out the nature of that quality which youmistake for intelligence; its true name is 'low cunning. ' Every freshpiece of absurdity which you have told me touching the tricks of yourqueer creatures has supplied new evidence of this. Your creatures wereto feed upon the substance of the 'world' on which they lived, and, everincreasing in numbers, would logically in course of time find there wasnot a mouthful apiece. I think we agreed about that? Well, let usconsider that period, some time before the creatures should actuallybecome exterminated by the natural evolution of events--the time whenall the eatable products of their world would be growing scarce. Youwent so far as to imagine a great many products----"

"Yes!" said James, gazing afar off in the absorption of his imagination. "Yes--there were eggs, and oysters, and poultry, and mushrooms, and----"

"Ah!--the very things I've been reflecting about. Well, I've beendreaming that, at the period of which I speak, when all the commoditieswere becoming scarce, your human beings would agree to make poisonousartificial articles of consumption with which to poison themselves bydegrees, and thus reduce the population to convenient limits. "

"No!" cried James, pondering deeply. "Their idea would be to poison not_themselves_, but _each other_!"

[Illustration: "POISON. "]

"Ah! I see. Then they would make some sort of effort to preventthemselves being poisoned?"

"Oh, yes; they would pass Adulteration Acts for the purpose. "

"I see; and any creature who did not wish to be poisoned could takeadvantage of these Acts to protect himself?"

"Certainly. The Acts would be very stringent. Let us suppose, forexample, that a certain man suspected that the butter supplied to himwas not butter at all, but a deleterious compound--well, all he wouldhave to do would be to go to the shop, accompanied by a guardian of thepeace, and, standing on one leg, with both hands on the counter and oneeye shut, order a pound of the butter in certain words prescribed by theAct. He would then say to the tradesman, 'I am about to divide thispound of butter into three equal portions for the purposes of analysis';and, taking the butter-man's knife in his left hand, and passing it tohis right, would cut the butter into three portions exactly equal. 

"After this, hermetically sealing the three portions in three jarsprovided for the purpose, he would hand one jar to the tradesman, thesecond to the guardian of the peace, and retain the third. Then he wouldbring an action; and (provided that all the conditions had beenaccurately fulfilled, without the slightest flaw) the erring tradesmanwould be told by the Court not to do it again; while the complainantwould have to pay all costs, and possibly a fine; and would be sneeredat by the magistrate as a fussy idiot and a common informer. 

"If, on the other hand, the complainant should omit to secure thecompany of a custodian of the peace, or fail to stand on one leg withboth hands on the counter, or take the knife in his right hand first, orshould leave out the prescribed words, or blink his eye, or stammer, orsneeze, or in any other way fail to observe the regulations of the Act;he would, of course, have no case or remedy. The Adulteration Acts wouldbe extremely stringent----"

"Against the victim of adulteration?"

"Ye--es, " murmured James, a little nonplussed. 

[Illustration: "THE SHOP. "]

"Ah--well, then, I think we can afford to ignore these AdulterationActs--like the adulterators and the public authorities would--andproceed with the question of the adulteration. I had a most vivid visionor dream of the details of this adulteration as they would be carriedout on your world at the period we are now considering. I imagined thatI was actually in a part of your world called 'America, ' and that one ofyour human beings politely invited me to walk through his factory andsee how things were made. I think you mentioned 'oysters'----"

[Illustration: "NO CASE. "]

"Yes, " said James, "that's one name the article of food would possess;newspaper writers, however, would not recognise them by that name--theywould only know them as 'the succulent bivalve. '"

"The very idea!" exclaimed William. "That's exactly what I seemed tohave become--a newspaper writer. I fancied I went to see the factory, and then sent in the following account:--

"One of the most interesting factories in America is the statelybuilding of the Ephraim Q. Knickerbocker Natural Products ManufacturingCorporation, of Spread Eagle Springs, N. J. That the structure is itselfan imposing one may well be imagined in view of the vast productiveenergy expended within its walls; and the feebleness and inefficiency ofthe productive operations of Nature are never so fully realized as aftera visit to this marvellous factory, and a comparison of the two systems. 

"It was, therefore, with no little satisfaction that we lately receiveda courteous invitation from the able and energetic managing directorGeneral Sardanapalus J. Van Biene to inspect the operations of theCorporation at its factory. Accordingly, we proceeded to the New Yorkterminus of the Natural Products Manufacturing Corporation's New York, Sumner Ferry, Thanksgiving Flats, and Spread Eagle Springs Railroad, along which a special train speedily whirled us to the front door of theworks. On the steps stood the genial managing director, supported by theprincipal manager Colonel Exodus V. Rooster, the head chemist MajorMadison B. Jefferson, and the assistant chemists Judge Vansittart J. Sumner and Admiral Hudson W. Killigrew. 

"They received us with open arms, and, after entertaining us at a_recherché_ lunch, conducted us to the chemistry and analysis sectionoccupying a little over seventeen acres and employing a permanent staffof thirteen thousand four hundred and thirty-two, assistants, among whomare chemists, microscopists, sub-inventors, etc. , etc. There it is thatthe productive operations of Nature are studied and improved upon. 

"'You must not imagine that we have any kind of sympathy or admirationfor Nature's system, ' explained General S. J. Van Biene, hastening tosweep away any false impression which we might have formed. 

[Illustration: "THEY RECEIVED US WITH OPEN ARMS. "]

"'On the contrary, we just entirely despise her and her ways, and shouldhave discarded her way back but for the prejudices of the consumingpublic. It's just like this--the consumers still believe in naturalproducts, and so we have to go on reproducing them instead of startingright away on our own lines and bringing out new and originalcommodities far in advance of anything Nature can do. How we'restultified you'll see as we work through. We just have to copy, anyway, in place of originating. We make oysters, for example. Now quite a whileago, our head chemist Major Madison B. Jefferson invented a new edibleway, finer in every essential than the oyster; but the consumerswouldn't have it: they shied at it, and declared it wasn't wholesome;and we had the whole stock on our hands, and had to vat it down again, and recolour it, and make tomatoes of it. Then they took it down andjust chaired it round. Of course, we have to say we _grow_ theproducts--that's another effect of popular prejudice; if we had said wemade those tomatoes, the public would have started right off again, andtalked of "adulteration, " although our tomatoes whip Nature's by 50 percent, in all the elements of nutrition and flavour. Just taste thisone. '

"We hesitated, and the director, perceiving it, promptly consumedanother from the same case. Thus reassured, we ventured to nibble at theartificial vegetable, and found it excellent in every respect--decidedlysuperior to the natural product, as he had stated. 

"'But, ' we asked, 'do you not suffer considerable losses when theseproducts--necessarily perishable in the natural course of things--beginto decay?'

[Illustration: "JUST TASTE THIS ONE. "]

"'That's just another point where we show our superiority to Nature. _Our_ products _don't_ decay; on the contrary, they improve by keeping. Here is a tomato seven years old, ' he continued, taking down anothercase. 'Try it. '

"We did. The other was not to be compared with it. The older tomato hadmatured and mellowed, the skin having a finer colour and lovelier gloss, the flesh possessing a firmer body and more delicate flavour; it was farin advance of any tomato we had ever conceived. 

"'Wonderful!' we exclaimed. 

"'A very simple matter, ' said the director. 'All that is required is athorough mastery of chemistry. In all our goods we employ a specialpatent preservative of our own, which is naturally a secret. Wecalculate it to be worth one hundred and fifty quadrillions of dollars. 

"'But let us show you how we make oysters! See, these are the tankswhich contain the mixture--the compound which forms the body of thebivalve. This tank contains the beard-mixture; and this one thegristle. '

"'And what are the principal ingredients?'

"'Glue, made from horses' heels. This is a very important factor in ourproducts. This glue, after undergoing a peculiar treatment whichprevents its hardening and losing its elasticity in the course of years, is flavoured and coloured in various ways. This great tank contains thecomposition for the internal parts of the oyster--nearly black, youperceive; that tank over there contains the compound for the flesh thatcovers the internal parts; that tank farther along holds the beardmixture; and the one beyond that the gristle which attaches the oysterto the shell. First, the flesh of the oyster is run into moulds, eachoyster being in two parts; then the inside of the animal is run intoanother mould, and the two halves of the body are automatically placedaround it and cemented together. 

"'Meanwhile the beards have been rolled, stamped, frilled, and colouredalong the edge by special automatic machinery. The body of the oysterthen passes to the fixing-up room, where the beard is cemented to it byhand, and finishing touches of colour added; and then it passes alongand has the gristle attached: and the oyster itself is complete. '

[Illustration: The Oyster Factory Affixing the Beards. ]

"'But it wants a shell!'

"'Just so. As far as the supply will go, we buy up old shells fromdustyards and use them; but most of them are damaged by previousopening, so we make the bulk of our shells, and they're a good deal morenatural than the real ones. They're made of lime. '

"'All alike?'

"'Not in the least. You see, we have some thousands of moulds, every onediffering slightly from the rest. There's a special department forhingeing the two shells together. We had some trouble to find asubstance for the hinge; but at last one of our chemists hit on a way ofsubjecting old hide-scraps to a peculiar process, and that did thething. The mother-of-pearl is made of a sort of soft glass, somewhatafter the appearance of Venetian glass, and put on the shell hot. Lastly, the oyster is attached to the shells by its cartilage; a littleliquor is put in, and the shells are closed up. '

"'But surely people must observe that they are not alive?' we said. 'Forinstance, they can't open their shells!'

"'That's just where you're astray, ' replied the General. 'Owing to themechanical action of salt upon the composition of the cartilage, theoyster opens when placed in salt water. Iron, however, exercises anelectro-magnetic influence upon the composition forming the body of thebivalve, causing a sudden contraction--so that, on a knife beingintroduced into the shell, the latter closes in the most natural way. Wemanufacture pearls on the premises, and advertise that one oyster inevery gross taken from our beds contains a pearl of more or less value;and there's a greater demand for our oysters than for any others in theworld. Our oyster beds are way down along the coast, about ten milesoff; and are inspected by thousands yearly. Taste this egg. '

[Illustration: The Pearl. ]

"He took up a fine specimen of a new-laid egg, and proceeded to break itinto a glass. It was a delightful egg. 'That's our latest pattern ofegg, ' explained the General, 'You perceive that it has three linesaround it, where the substance of the shell is weaker than elsewhere;the lines near each end enable a person about to consume the egg in aboiled state to easily cut off the top or bottom with a knife, or runhis nail around it; while the line about the middle greatly assistscooks in breaking it into a basin. There is also a thin spot at eitherend, to facilitate sucking. These eggs are always new-laid; we send tonsto Europe, particularly to Great Britain, where ours are the only fresheggs they ever get. '

[Illustration: The London Egg]

"'But you must find some difficulty in making an egg?'

"'Just as easy as smiling. The white is simply jelly-fish subjected to achemical process--jelly-fish aren't costly. This tank is full of theliquor. The main ingredient of the yolk is the horse-heel glue mentionedbefore; we also boil down vast quantities of rats--they come cheap, too;it's only the cost of catching them; and then there's a vegetablecolouring, and the preservative, and a few other trifles. First, the twohalves of the white are made in two moulds, and frozen; then the twofrozen halves are frozen together, and the yolk-mixture poured inthrough a small hole, which is then closed. Then comes the skin; andthat is the most expensive part, for it contains a certain quantity ofrubber. We have tried in vain to find a substitute for rubber, butfailed hitherto. The rubber is mixed with a gum from a South Americantree, and the mixture is applied with a brush over the frozen egg; andthen the egg, still frozen, is dipped in a lime composition very nearlyidentical with the oyster-shell mixture; and, lastly, the whole thing ispassed through the finishing machine, which turns the three thin linesand the two thin spots, imitates the pores of the shell, and deliversthe finished egg to the warehouse. '

"'Marvellous!' we involuntarily exclaimed. 

"'Oh, that's nothing at all, ' said the director. 'We're meditatingturning out eggs that will hatch and become fowls. At present we have tomanufacture fowls; but we calculate to make a great saving by producingthem from the eggs we make. That building over yonder is the terrapinfactory; we turn out eleven tons of terrapin weekly. We make clams, ofcourse--in the oyster department. In this next house we make kidneys andsweetbreads. Fruit? Oh, yes, we turn out masses of fruit; peaches paybest, but we do very well with nuts. '

"We were then conducted to the show-room, where we tasted a number ofother products of the wonderful factory; and we had just said a gratefulfarewell to our courteous guide, when we were seized with pains of themost acute description. 

 * * * * *

[Illustration: The Pain. ]

"The arrangements of the hospital were admirable. The kindliness andattention we received made our five years' sojourn there a time to lookback upon with feelings of gratitude. We are assured that, with strictdiet and unremitting care, we may last some time yet--possibly eventhree months. "

 * * * * *

"It was a marvellous vision, " said James, fervently, as the voice ofWilliam ceased. "Surely after that you must think better of those beingsof mine?"

But William merely sniffed. 

 J. F. SULLIVAN. 

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[Illustration: A TURNIP RESEMBLING A HUMAN HAND. ]

The above photographs represent two views of an extraordinary turnipgrown by Alderman David Evans, Llangennech Park, Carmarthenshire. We areindebted for the photographs to Mr. Morgan W. James, of Llanelly. 

[Illustration: A ROOM PAPERED WITH STAMPS. ]

The above photograph represents the study of Mr. C. Whitfield King, ofMorpeth House, Ipswich, which he has papered with 44, 068 _unused_foreign postage stamps, bearing the value of £699 16s. 9d. , andcontaining 48 varieties of different sizes and colours, presenting anexample of mosaic work which is altogether unique of its kind. 

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[Illustration: Drinking]

[Illustration: VESSELS OF ALL]

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[Illustration: A CROCODILE STORY. ]