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Title: The Harmsworth Magazine, v. 1, 1898-1899

Author: The Harmsworth Magazine

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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE, V. 1, 1898-1899 ***

THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE.

A FAIR ANGLO-SAXON.

From  the  Painting  by  A. Seifert.

By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street, W.

THE

HARMSWORTH

MONTHLY PICTORIAL

MAGAZINE

VOLUME I.

1898-9. No. 1.

PUBLISHED BY

HARMSWORTH BROS., LIMITED, LONDON, E.C.

INDEX TO VOL. I.

ARTICLES.

PAGE.

ALBUM, A FAMOUS WIGMAKER'S FAMOUS. By Gavin Macdonald. Illustrated by Facsimiles

356

BALLOON JOURNEY, A GIRL'S, OVER LONDON. By Gertrude Bacon. Illustrated by Photographs

400

BEAUTIES, IRISH. By Ignota. Illustrated by Photographs

484

BLOODHOUNDS, A MAN HUNT WITH. By Alfred Arkas. Illustrated by Photographs

383

CHESHIRE TOWN, IN A DISAPPEARING. By Percy L. Parker. Illustrated by Photographs

166

"CHRYSANTHEMUMS CURLED HERE." A Chat with a Floral Barber. By Alfred Arkas. Illustrated by Photographs

579

CRACKERS, COSTLY CHRISTMAS. The Romance of Christmas Presents. Illustrated by Photographs

439

CRICKET AND CRICKETERS. Words by M. Randall Roberts. Pictures by Mr. "Rip"

212

CRICKET MATCH, A VERY QUEER. Mr. Dan Leno's Eleven v. Camberwell United C.C. By Gavin Macdonald. Illustrated by Photographs

323

CYCLIST, THE CLEVEREST AMATEUR, IN THE WORLD. Remarkable Trick Riding by a Military Officer

493

DANGER SIGNALS, NATURE'S. A Study of the Faces of Murderers. By J. Holt Schooling. Illustrated by special Photographs

656

DARLINGS, LITTLE. By Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne

99

DOCUMENTS, INCRIMINATING. With Facsimiles of Fatal Writings

304

DOOR-KNOCKERS, FAMOUS LONDON. Illustrated by Photos specially taken.

216

DOUBLES IN REAL LIFE, NOTABLE. With Photographic Evidence

5

ENGINE MATCH BETWEEN ENGLAND AND AMERICA, AN. By F. A. Talbot. Illustrated by Photographs

651

EXCUSE, OUR, FOR THE ISSUE OF A SIXPENNY MAGAZINE AT THREEPENCE

3

FIRE BRIGADE HEROES, TRAINING OUR. By Alfred Arkas. Illustrated by Photographs

243

FIRES, SOME SENSATIONAL. By Frederick A. A. Talbot. Illustrated by Photographs

529

FOOTBALL, MAKING A. An Essential Part of a Great Game. Illustrated.

444

FORTRESS, THE MOST REMARKABLE, IN THE WORLD. By Percy L. Parker. Illustrated by Photographs

274

MAN-OF-WAR, HOME LIFE ON BOARD A. Illustrated by Photographs

86

MAN IS MADE OF WHAT? By T. F. Manning. Illustrated by Photographs

339

MEDICAL DETECTIVE AND HIS WORK, THE. By T. F. Manning. Illustrated by A. Morrow and by Diagrams

144

MICE WORTH THEIR WEIGHT IN GOLD. By Gavin Macdonald. Illustrated by Photographs

631

MINIATURE CRAZE, THE MODERN. By H. M. Tindall. Illustrated by Charming Examples

197

MONEY, STRANGE KINDS OF. By Robert Machray. Illustrated by Photographs

639

MURDERS, LONDON'S UNDISCOVERED. By Lincoln Springfield. Illustrated by Photographs

515

NEWSPAPER, MAKING A MODERN. By Alfred C. Harmsworth

38

"PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS. With Illustrations of Machines recently invented

315

PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES. With Remarkable Photos, proving the Uselessness of the Camera as a Witness

259

POISON DEVICES. Illustrated

106

POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES. Illustrated by Facsimiles of Valuable Stamps

327

RAILWAY SMASHES, FAMOUS. By Frederick A. Talbot. Illustrated by Photographs

227

ROYALTIES, LITTLE. Illustrated with Photographs by Speaight

590

ROYALTY, TATTOOED. By R. J. Stephen. Illustrated by Photographs

472

SANDOW, HOW, MADE ME STRONG. Illustrated with Photographs

23

SECRET CHAMBERS, REMARKABLE. Written and illustrated by Allan Fea

416

SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS. A Marvellous Performance in Dumb Show. By Alfred Arkas

67

SKELETONS, MODERN FAMILY. By Beatrice Knollys. Illustrated by A. S. Hartrick

17

SLEIGHS FOR CHRISTMAS. By J. E. Whitby. Illustrated by Photographs

558

SMOKER'S MUSEUM, FROM A. By T. C. Hepworth. With Illustrations

370

SPORT, THE MOST CRUEL, IN THE WORLD. By Sidney Gowing. Illustrated by Photographs

182

STATISTICS GONE MAD. By J. E. Grant. Illustrated by Diagrams

609

TEA, HOME OF FOUR O'CLOCK, THE. Illustrated by Photographs

605

TOY, A £10,000. Complete Working Railway in a Room. By Robert Machray. Illustrated by Photographs

125

WEATHER, HOW WE GET OUR. By Gavin Macdonald. Illustrated by Photographs

55

WHISTLER, THE WORLD'S CHAMPION. Illustrated by Photographs and Musical Examples

546

WHITE "ZOO," A. Lord Alington's Hobby. By Alfred Arkas. Illustrated by Photographs

154

WIVES, AMERICAN, OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS. Illustrated by Portraits

289

1898. Your Everyday Life in the past Twelve Months. By Alfred Arkas

455

3,000 MILES ON RAILWAY SLEEPERS. One Aspect of a Bicycle Tour Round the World. By Edward Lunn. Illustrated by Photographs

619

STORIES.

BABY SANTA CLAUS, A. The Story of a Christmas Reconciliation. By Marion Elliston. Illustrated by Harold Copping

521

BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C., THE. By Percy E. Reinganum. Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I.

236

CHANCELLOR'S WARD, THE. By Richard Marsh. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend

73

CHOLERA SHIP, THE. By Cutcliffe Hyne. Illustrated by Richard Jack

159

CLEVER MRS. BLADON. By E. Burrowes. Illustrated by Sydney Cowell

645

COUNT AND I, THE. The Story of a Stolen Letter. By James Barratt. Illustrated by Robert Sauber

447

COURTSHIP BY PROXY. By H. A. Therrauld. Illustrated by Fred Pegram

461

CROWDED HOUR, A. By Clarence Rook. Illustrated by B. E. Minns

634

CURSE OF THE CATSEYE, THE. By Alfred Slade. Illustrated by E. Prater

623

DAPHNE. By Walter E. Grogan. Illustrated by Harold Copping

361

DESCENT OF REGINALD HAMPTON, THE. By Halliwell Sutcliffe. Illustrated by W. Rainey, R.I.

189

DESPATCHES FOR GIBRALTAR, THE. By Gilbert Heron. Illustrated by D. B. Waters

389

DESTINY, MY. A Wayside Romance. By C. K. Burrow. Illustrated by Fred Pegram

347

EDITOR'S ESCAPADE, THE. By Archibald Eyre. Illustrated by S. H. Vedder

405

FACE AT THE DOOR, THE. By Walter D. Dobell. Illustrated by S. H. Vedder

373

FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, MY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. By Henry Martley. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend

281

"FINDER WILL BE REWARDED, THE." A Bachelor's Romance. By Gerald Brenan. Illustrated by Sydney Cowell

489

FIVE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE, THAT. By Richard Marsh. Illustrated by John H. Bacon

172

GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE. A Story of the Indian Mutiny. By J. F. Cornish. Illustrated by Vereker M. Hamilton. R.P.E.

265

GOLDEN CIRCLET, THE. By Charles Kennett Burrow. Illustrated by Ralph Peacock

11

HER LETTER! By J. Harwood Panting. Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I.

61

HIS HIGHNESS THE RAJAH. The Quest of the Yellow Diamond. By Beatrice Heron-Maxwell. Illustrated by E. J. Sullivan

549

HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY. By Clarence Rook. Illustrated by B. E. Minns

94

HOW THE BURGLAR HELPED AT CHRISTMAS. By Lucian Sorrel. Illustrated by H. M. Brock

476

HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED. By Beatrice Heron-Maxwell. Illustrated by Fred Pegram

250

IAN'S SACRIFICE. By Alick Munro. Illustrated by Ralph Peacock

309

"KLONDYKE, OFF TO." By George A. Best. Illustrated with Novel Life Photographs

583

LONDON'S LATEST LION. By Gilbert Dayle. Illustrated by Fred Pegram

595

"MAN OVERBOARD!" An Episode of the Red Sea. By Winston Spencer Churchill. Illustrated by Henry Austin

662

MISSING Q.C.'s, THE. By John Oxenham. Illustrated by Frank Craig and T. Robinson

497

MOTOR-CAR ELOPEMENT, AND HOW IT ENDED, THEIR. By Edgar Jepson. Illustrated by H. R. Millar

49

PRINCESS IN GREEN AND TAN, A. By Arthur Preston. Illustrated by A. Rackham

611

SHORT MEMORY OF MR. JOSEPH SCORER, THE VERY. By John Oxenham. Illustrated by H. M. Brock

131

STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL, THE. By Clarence Rook. Illustrated by Hal Hurst, R.B.A.

319

STONE RIDER, THE. By Nellie K. Blissett. Illustrated by Max Cowper

30

TELEGRAPH MYSTERY, A. By W. B. Northrop. Illustrated by H. H. Flère.

539

TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER, THE. By Cutcliffe Hyne. Illustrated by J. Finnemore. R.B.A.

297

TRAVELLING COMPANION, MY. By Catherine Childar. Illustrated by Fred Pegram

115

FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

"ANDRÉE, INDEED! I WAS THERE LONG AGO." From the Painting by T.C. Hepworth

669

BURDEN OF LOVE, A. From the Painting by N. Sichel

224

CHARLES I. ON HIS WAY TO EXECUTION. From the Painting by Ernest Crofts, R.A.

331

CHRISTMAS, THE FIRST. From the Painting of H. J. Sinkel

434

CUBAN BELLE, A. From the Painting by Gabriel Ferrier

219

DAUGHTER OF CANADA, A. Photographic Study

565

DECEMBER DAY IN THE OLDEN TIME, A. From the Painting by A. Perez

568

DRAGON AND GEORGE, THE. From the Painting by R. Holyoake

333

EMPTY CHAIR, THE. From the Painting by Briton Rivière, R.A.

336

EVERYBODY'S FAVOURITE. Photographic Study

561

FAVOURITE, THE. From the Painting by Arthur J. Elsley

110

FOR DEAR LIFE. From the Painting by Stanley Berkeley

329

GIRL OF THE PERIOD. From the Painting by Heywood Hardy

668

GOOD NIGHT! From the Painting by G. Hom

112

GORDONS AND GREYS TO THE FRONT. From the Painting by Stanley Berkeley

430

GREEK GIRLS PLAYING BALL. From the Painting by the late Lord Leighton

577

GREUZE'S MASTERPIECES, ONE OF. Now in the National Gallery

425

HAPPY AS A KING. Photographic Study

671

"HUSH!" From the Painting by Maud Goodman

109

IN RUSSIA—THE TERROR OF THE PLAIN. From the Painting by A. Von W. Kowalski

672

JOHN BULL FOR EVER—WHAT WE HAVE WE'LL HOLD. From the Painting by Maud Earl

56

JUDITH. From the Painting by N. Sichel

334

LAKE WINDERMERE IN THE WINTER OF 1885. From a Photograph

564

LAST ELEVEN AT MAIWAND, THE. From the Painting by Frank Feller

566

LAST MINUTE, THE. NOW OR NEVER. From the Painting by T. M. Hemy

443

LITTLE DEAR, A. Photographic Study

667

LIVE AND LET LIVE. From the Painting by A. W. Strutt

332

MAKING A MARRIAGE IN THE OLDEN TIME. From the Painting by A. T. Vernon

221

MANNERS AT TABLE. From the Painting by A. J. Elsley

330

MEDITATION. From the Painting by N. Sichel

111

MIRIAM THE PROPHETESS. From the Painting by N. Sichel

574

MOTHER'S DARLING. Photographic Study

569

NAPOLEON'S FLIGHT AFTER WATERLOO. From the Painting by A. C. Gow, R.A.

666

OPPORTUNITY FOR FLATTERY, AN. From the Painting by D. Hernandez

575

OVERTAKEN! From the Painting by John A. Lomax

280

PETS, SOME COSTLY. From Photographs

85

PRINCE, OUR. From the Painting by A. Stuart Wortley

567

PUSHING FAMILY, A. From the Painting by G. A. Holmes

428

RUSSIAN BELLE, A. Photographic Study

571

SALMON POACHER, THE. From the Painting by Douglas Adams

335

SON AND HEIR, THE. From the Painting by L. Schmutzler

427

SPAIN, A FLOWER OF. From the Painting by N. Sichel

108

SPAIN, A LITTLE MAID FROM. Photographic Study

338

SPANISH PEACE COMMISSIONER, A. From the Painting by Hal Hurst, R.B.A.

665

SUMMER. From the Painting by W. Reynolds Stephens

220

SWEET AND TWENTY. From the Painting by G. L. Seymour

2

TALLY HO! From the Painting by Heywood Hardy

572

TIME TO GET UP. From the Painting by A. J. Elsley

426

TURNER'S GREAT WORK—THE FIGHTING TEMERAIRE. Now in the National Gallery

429

VERY OLD, OLD STORY, A. From the Painting by L. Alma Tadema, R.A.

670

WAITS, THE. From the Painting by W. H. Trood

570

WATER CARRIER, THE. From the Painting by J. W. Godward

222

WHICH WINS? From the Painting by Arthur J. Elsley

223

WHY NO. I. WAS SO POPULAR. Head, from the Painting by A. Seifert

563

WHY THE ANTELOPES STAMPEDED. From the Painting by William Strutt

226

WILL HE COME? From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A.

114

YORKSHIRE LASS, A. Photographic Study

573

POETRY.

BABY BELLE. By Bernard Malcolm Ramsay. Illustrated by Harold Copping

482

BABY, IN PRAISE OF. By Barrington McGregor. Illustrated by C. Robinson

661

GOLDEN HAIR AND CURLYHEAD. By Allan Upward. Illustrated by J. H. Bacon

435

LITTLE MAID. Illustrated by C. Robinson

258

ROGUEY MAN, THE. Illustrated by H. H. Flère

346

ROSE AT LAST, A. By Clifton Bingham. Illustrated by Harold Nelson

22

SAD FATE OF MISTRESS PRUE, THE. Illustrated by Robert Sauber

399

SHOE, A TINY. Illustrated by Archie Watkins

308

SUNSET, BEYOND THE. By Clifton Bingham. Illustrated by Charles Robinson

235

THREE SCORE AND TEN. Illustrated by T. Walter West

388

TO A BLANK SPACE. By the Rev. J. Hudson, M.A. Illustrated by Robert Wallace

576

SWEET AND TWENTY.

From  the  Painting  by  G. L. Seymour.

OUR EXCUSE . . .

FOR   THE   ISSUE   OF   A   SIXPENNY   MAGAZINE   AT   THREEPENCE.

. . .   SOME   REASONS   WHY.

HE beginning of a new Magazine, once an event, is now so much a commonplace that the ancient excuse of the "long felt want" no longer serves.

In the days of the Nabobs, the gentle shaking of the Pagoda tree sufficed to bring great stores of wealth, but these be the times of the fallen rupee. Your modern Anglo-Indian toils out his existence for a bare pittance. And it is so in the making of Magazines. One hundred and fifty years ago the mere issue of the "Gentleman's" stirred to their depths the Coffee Houses and the Clubs, not only here in the Old Country, but in our North American Colonies as well.

Times are changed, alas! "The Harmsworth Magazine," though, indeed, it appeals to an English-speaking audience of over one hundred millions, will at best provoke a little favourable comment in the train and the library, for the Magazine field has been vastly exploited, and especially of late. A modern buyer of periodical publications rises as warily to a new lure as a twice-shot-over partridge to the gun.

The reader of Magazines has of late years been harried by a direct, by an enfilading, and a ricochetting fire of new adventures, some honestly and avowedly frivolous, others portentously literary, a few loftily artistic. Every imaginable plan has been adopted whereby his capture might be effected. Projectiles calculated to vanquish by size and weight of paper have been hurled at him; there have even been surreptitious and spy-like attempts to enter his domestic circle by seeking the favour of his wife and daughters by means of "Women's Departments," all frocks, furbelows, and complexion cures; and worse, his very children have been attacked by page on page of "Nursery Chat" and "Tiny Tales for Little Listeners."

Last straw of all, he has been patronised by the vast army of "Great Authors" of the period. And if the chit-chat of the press is to be believed there never were in Rome, in Athens, or in the days of Elizabeth herself, so many distinguished litterateurs as at present. The unfortunate victim has trembled at the solemn pomp of

"The editor of the 'Monster Magazine' has pleasure in announcing he has been so fortunate as to secure the masterpiece of Mr. ——."

or,

"It is rumoured that Mr. —— has been induced to enter into an agreement to contribute an important series of short stories to the "Monster Magazine" during the Spring of 1905. Mr. —— is entirely occupied in the fulfilment of various contracts until that time."

It is "right here," as our American kinsmen have it, that "The Harmsworth Magazine" comes in.

Together with a great many other people, we came to the conclusion long since that a good deal of the literary wares that are foisted on the public by means of the ordinary advertising methods of personal paragraphs and "interviews" is mainly rubbish. Frankly and openly do we, therefore, declare that mere "names" will never command an entrance to the pages of this Magazine. As with our "Daily Mail" and our other journals, we shall rely on new writers. The public is weary of the reiteration of the same contributors to each of the monthly publications. He (and she) wants something new. It is our desire, for the sake of the public, for the benefit of young artists and others, and for our own profit, to avoid the productions of the professional "ring" of much advertised mediocrity which most assuredly dominates many of our Magazines to-day, though the work of really representative men and women will always be secured, without regard to its cost.

In selecting the price at which "The Harmsworth Magazine" should be issued to the British, Canadian, Australasian, South African, and Anglo-Indian public, we choose that of the two most distinguished journals in our language, "The Times" and "Punch."

Can such a publication as this be sold for 3d.? Provided we reach a gigantic circulation, we can do it. We are enabled to issue a threepenny Magazine containing more expensive literary matter, more numerous pictures, and more pages than the sixpenny Magazines of a few months back, at so ridiculous a price, because this Magazine is only a small incident in an organization controlling four daily journals and nearly thirty weekly periodicals; because we already possess and are now building printing machinery of an entirely novel and labour-saving nature.

The Magazine will be cheap as to price only. In every respect, save, perhaps, mere bulk, "The Harmsworth Magazine" will compete frankly, and without reserve, with older friends in the same field.

The experiment, largely due to a devoted band of workers, headed by my brother Cecil, is at least an interesting one. Will it succeed? Much depends upon the good word of those who read it. If it meets with your approval, if you consider that the enterprise is worthy of commendation, will you make our effort known to your circle?

ALFRED C. HARMSWORTH.

WE ARE FIVE.

Elliot & Fry, photo.

THE DUKE OF NORFOLK.

Elliot & Fry, photo.

MR. G. MANVILLE FENN.

NOTABLE DOUBLES

IN REAL LIFE.

With Photographic Evidence.

I T is pretty generally believed that the Czars of Russia are in the habit of employing understudies to personate them when some more than usually hazardous public appearance has to be made. Whether or not this is true we cannot take upon ourselves to say, but it is very clear that if Nicholas II. were in need of a "double," he would not require to go outside the circle of his own relatives to find an almost exact replica of himself in our Duke of York. The two Princes are first cousins, but the facial resemblance existing between them is far more remarkable than is ordinarily the case between near relations. It is true, of course, that the Duke of York is a better-looking man than his cousin, but any make-up artist, by the employment of a few pencilled lines round the eyes, and by re-arranging the hair, could transform H.R.H. into an exact likeness of the Czar.

W & D Downey, photo, Ebury Street.

H.I.M. THE CZAR AND H.R.H. THE DUKE OF YORK.

More noteworthy still, because of the absence of relationship between them, is the likeness of the present Postmaster-General, the Duke of Norfolk, and the veteran novelist, Mr. George Manville Fenn. Looking upon the two portraits, it is not easy to believe that Mr. Fenn is sixteen years the senior of the head of the great house of Howard. Another curious feature in connection with the two cases before us is the fact that, although the Duke of Norfolk is almost as much like Mr. George Manville Fenn as one pea resembles another, his resemblance to certain portraits of the great Charles Dickens is rather remote, whereas Mr. Fenn's is very close.

It should here be mentioned that in the case of most of our doubles the likeness is even more pronounced in actual life than it appears from the photographs. In many instances the gestures, the walk, and the little mannerisms of the personages here portrayed are practically identical. The writer recalls to mind the example of a gentleman well-known in the West end of London who resembles the present Duke of Devonshire as closely as the Duke of York resembles the Czar. The Duke of Devonshire's imitator—if he be such—not only wears his hat pressed down over his eyes in the well-known fashion of the Duke, but assumes almost as inimitably that intensely bored look that has deceived so many people as to the true character of the head of the Liberal Unionist party. Mere photographs would inevitably fail to do justice to a case of this kind.

Russell & Sons, photo.

THE RT. HON. J. CHAMBERLAIN, M.P.

London Stereoscopic Co., photo.

MR. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN, M.P.

In regard to the adjoining portraits of Mr. Austen Chamberlain and that of his scarcely less distinguished father, it is noticeable that in addition to the striking facial resemblance, there is the same defect in the sight of the right eye occasioning the use of the monocle. Even if we take it for granted that Mr. Joseph Chamberlain has indulged in the harmless foible of dressing his hair and arranging the cast of his countenance to accentuate his likeness to the member for East Worcestershire, it cannot be gainsaid that the similarity between the son and the father is real enough to merit illustration in this gallery of "doubles."

Jesting apart, those who have studied Mr. Austen Chamberlain in the House and on the platform, prophesy for him a very remarkable career. He has much of the readiness and all the imperturbability that have made his father the ablest "parliamentary hand" since the retirement of Mr. Gladstone. It is interesting to note that the disbelief of Mr. Chamberlain père in exercise, as a means of recruiting the health, is not shared by Mr. C. fils, who is an enthusiastic cyclist.

London Stereoscopic Co., photo.                  Elliott & Fry, photo.

MR. L. ALMA-TADEMA, R.A.             THE LATE MR. GEO. DU MAURIER.

The late Mr. Du Maurier was of French extraction, while Mr. Alma-Tadema was born at Dronryp, in Holland, yet they might have been twin brothers, so strangely alike were they. If Mr. Du Maurier had worn his hair a little longer and parted it in the middle, the most intimate mutual friends of the two distinguished artists must have found it difficult to tell which was which. An amusing story is told illustrating this point. Mr. Du Maurier, dining at a friend's house one evening, was placed next to a lady whom he did not recollect to have met before. A brief dialogue, something to this purpose, ensued:

Lady: "You know, Mr. Alma-Tadema, that you are supposed to resemble Mr. du Maurier very closely. For my part, I do not see how the most superficial observer could be deceived in the matter!"

Mr. Du Maurier: "Pardon me, but I am Mr. Du Maurier!"

Some people tell the story the other way round—with Mr. Alma-Tadema as the second party in the dialogue—with equal effect.

These are portraits of Professor Stuart, M.P. for Hackney, and Mr. Stanley J. Weyman, the novelist. If Mr. Weyman ever becomes a member of Parliament it is to be hoped that he will not relinquish his eyeglass. Were he to do so he would run a great risk of merging his identity in that of the Professor. He might not object to this, however, nor would Professor Stuart protest very indignantly we may be sure, were he to find himself suddenly credited with the authorship of Mr. Weyman's fascinating romances. Let us hope that Mr. Weyman will not enter the political arena, bestowing on Westminster the gifts that were meant for mankind.

Elliott & Fry, photo.                        Elliott & Fry, photo.

PROFESSOR STUART, M.P.                MR. STANLEY J. WEYMAN.

Elliott & Fry, photo.                  Elliott & Fry, photo.

MR. EDWARD GERMAN.               MR. ANTHONY HOPE.

Most of us have forgotten that Mr. Anthony Hope contested a seat in Parliament in 1892, but few of us are sorry that the gifted author failed to get in. Mr. Anthony Hope Hawkins, to give him his full name, is an excellent speaker, but even that gift is not so useful in Parliament as consistent and unquestioning voting-power, and until members are allowed to read their speeches the gift of authorship will remain at a discount there. A good many of us, perhaps, could cut tolerable figures at Westminster, but our Anthony Hopes and Stanley Weymans are few and far between, and we would wish to keep them to their proper work of literature. Mr. Edward German, Mr. Anthony Hope's double, is a young composer who has done very well already, and may be expected to do better in the future.

Elliott & Fry, photo.                  Hills & Saunders, photo.

THE RT. HON. CECIL J. RHODES.               SIR J. STAINER.

A close examination of the portraits of the Rt. Hon. Cecil John Rhodes and of Sir John Stainer, the Professor of Music at Oxford, should well repay the expert physiognomist. At first blush it seems hardly probable that the man of action, the empire builder, should have much in common with the scholarly musician—though indeed Mr. Rhodes has "faced the music" right manfully more than once in the course of his splendid career. Examine carefully the mouths of our two celebrities, and take note of the well-defined lines leading downwards from the corner of the nose. The eyes, too, and the contours of the two faces are strangely similar. There is a dimple in Mr. Rhodes' cheeks that proves conclusively, if we had no other evidence, that Mr. Rhodes is a man of humour, nor are similar indications wanting in the adjoined portrait of Sir John Stainer. If Sir John had taken himself off to South Africa in early youth it might have been his fate to add another empire to the Queen's dominions; if Mr. Rhodes had stayed on at Oriel College, Oxford, and devoted his vast abilities to the study of music, he might now be occupying the professional chair in that art at his Alma Mater.

London Stereoscopic Co., photo.                        London Stereoscopic Co., photo.

MR. JOHN HARE.                                    MR. ARTHUR ROBERTS.

There is a distinct style of theatrical face that we all recognise directly we see it. For instance, the heavy tragedian with the blue chin and luxuriant hair, à la Sir Henry Irving, is known wherever he is seen, and quite a number of pages of our Magazine might be filled with his doubles. But Mr. John Hare and Mr. Arthur Roberts whose portraits we give side by side are comedians (of widely different styles), and are not particularly theatrical in appearance. Off the stage Mr. Hare might be taken for an eminent Q.C., while "Arthur" might be supposed to move exclusively in turf circles. Mr. Hare, whose real name is Fairs, is, of course, the best "old man" actor we have. In connection with this fact he himself tells a rather good story. He was in a carriage on the Underground Railway when he met an old school-fellow. Gradually the conversation turned to theatres. "Are you fond of the stage?" Mr. Hare was asked by his friend. When the reply was "Yes," he presumed that Mr. Hare had seen a certain play at the Prince of Wales's.

"No," said Mr. Hare, "I can't say I have seen it!"

"Then you should go at once," said his friend. "It's a capital play, and a devilish clever old man acts in it—a fellow named Hare!"

A. Sachs, photo, Bradford.                        London Stereoscopic Co., photo.

MR. MARK OLDROYD, M.P.                     LORD BALFOUR OF BURLEIGH.

Lord Balfour of Burleigh, the Secretary for Scotland, and Mr. Mark Oldroyd, M.P. for Dewsbury, are an interesting pair of political doubles. Lord Balfour (whose title by the way was attainted in 1716 and only restored to the present peer in 1869) is one of the hard workers in the House of Lords, and knows more about education, water supplies, and Sunday closing, than an omnibus-full of average members of the Lower House. When not actively engaged, in his Secretarial capacity, in looking after the interests of the Northern Kingdom, Lord Balfour is wont to put in a little light work as chairman of a factory or rating committee. Mr. Mark Oldroyd divides his time between his political duties and his business, as a woollen manufacturer, in Dewsbury. He has been mayor of the famous Yorkshire town, and is as proud of his native place as his townsfolk are proud of him.

Elliott & Fry, photo.                              Russell & Sons, photo.

SIR THOS. ESMONDE, M.P.                              SIR E. GREY, M.P.

Two youthful baronets and Members of Parliament now claim our attention. Sir Edward Grey is almost as distinguished in Parliament as he is in the world of athletics—he is once more tennis (not lawn-tennis) champion for England. As Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the last Government, he was a pronounced success—his manner being voted only less superior than that of the extremely superior person, the Hon. George Curzon, who ornaments the same office at the present time. Sir Thomas Esmonde, born in the same year (1862) as Sir Edward Grey, should have a splendid parliamentary future before him, for he is a descendant of no less a celebrity than the great Henry Grattan.

Elliott & Fry, photo.            Elliott & Fry, photo.            London Stereoscopic Co., photo.

RT. HON. LORD ROSEBERY.   HON. PHILIP STANHOPE, M.P.   RT. HON. ARNOLD MORLEY, M.P.

Lord Rosebery has at least two doubles among public men. This is not to be wondered at when one considers how popular a man is the last Liberal Prime Minister.

When the Duke of Wellington was living, it was the pride of many a private citizen to be thought like the great Duke; and Disraeli had many doubles, the late Sir James Stansfeld being one of them. In Germany, at the present moment, we may meet passable duplicates of Bismarck in every town. Who does not recollect the perfect army of Randolph Churchills that invaded society when that brilliant young statesman's fame was at its greatest? It is surely a harmless conceit that causes an inoffensive private person, if he in any way resembles a great man of whom everybody is talking, to accentuate the likeness by every means in his power.

But in the case of Lord Rosebery's doubles it is somewhat different. Both Mr. Arnold Morley and Mr. Philip Stanhope are distinguished men themselves, and we may be quite sure that they do not spend much of their time dressing up to the likeness of their political leader. Mr. Philip Stanhope is a near relative of Lord Rosebery's, and is of exactly the same age. Mr. Arnold Morley is two years younger than Lord Rosebery (having been born in 1849), was Postmaster-General in the last Liberal Administration, and may some day be Prime Minister.

Valentine & Sons, photo.                              Westfield, photo, Walmer.

THE LATE RT. HON. W. E. GLADSTONE.                  MR. H. PAGE, J.P.

With doubles of Mr. Gladstone we might easily fill several pages of this magazine. Mr. Henry Page, J.P., of Deal, is an almost exact replica of the venerable statesman, and has been the recipient of attentions really meant for Mr. Gladstone on more than one occasion. It is a singular fact that Mr. Page's father bore a remarkable likeness to the Duke of Wellington.

The reader will have noticed already that the greater number of our doubles is to be found in the ranks of the politicians. It is really quite astonishing to contemplate how many doubles are to be found in the House of Commons itself.

Elliott & Fry, photo.                        Elliott & Fry, photo.

MR. H. O. ARNOLD FORSTER, M.P.            MR. E. F. G. HATCH, M.P.

Mr. H. O. Arnold Forster and Mr. E. F. G. Hatch, M.P. for the Gorton Division of South-West Lancs, for instance, it is said grow more like one another every day.

The difficulty experienced by the Speaker in attaching the right name to these gentlemen when they rise to "catch his eye" must be very considerable.

Russell & Sons, photo.                  Elliott & Fry, photo.

MR. J. ROCHE, M.P.            RT. HON. LORD GEORGE

HAMILTON, M.P.

Lord George Hamilton, who, with Mr. J. Roche, M.P., makes up the last pair of our doubles, is an excellent example of the immense disadvantage attaching to a public man whose features do not lend themselves to caricature. Had Lord George overcome his natural deficiencies in this respect by the adoption of an eyeglass, an orchid, or an eccentric brand of waistcoat, he might ere now have been ranked among our Prime Ministers, for it is an undoubted fact that these details are better remembered by the public at large than years of devoted hard work.

Disraeli's cork-screw curl on the forehead is less likely to be forgotten than his splendid services to the Empire, while it may be asserted with confidence that Mr. Chamberlain's eyeglass and orchid will linger in the public mind long after his personal sacrifices for the principle of Unionism are familiar to none but the student of history.

When at the General Election of 1868 Lord George captured the seat for the County of Middlesex—then regarded as an impregnable Liberal stronghold—a dazzling future was prophesied for him. If these prophecies have not been realised to the full extent it is not, as we believe, because Lord George has not lived up to his earlier reputation, but simply because Nature has not gifted him with a remarkable personal appearance, nor art with a satisfactory substitute. However, a Statesman even of the first rank who has occupied with distinction such important offices as First Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary of State for India, has no reason to be dissatisfied with himself. No doubt each reader of this article will be able to add considerably to our gallery of "doubles," but we have done enough if we have opened up an amusing and interesting train of ideas.

THE GOLDEN CIRCLET.

A COMPLETE STORY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

Illustrated by Ralph Peacock.

ANNESLEY walked past the main entrance to the Century Theatre in the curious condition of one who is able partly to regard himself from the outside. The boards were placarded with the announcement of a new play, to be produced that day week, "The Golden Circlet," by Conrad Howe. Now Annesley and Conrad Howe were the same person; but it was difficult to convince the former, who had worked so deadly hard and failed so often, that the latter was now within sight of what might prove a great success. Annesley saw people stop to look at the announcement and read his other name, with a feeling that he was almost guilty of a serious misdemeanour; he was taking them, as it were, at a disadvantage; he was almost inclined to tap one elderly gentleman on the shoulder and assure him that no harm was intended to him or any one else.

The secret of the authorship of "The Golden Circlet" had been well kept. Only three people were in the know, and not one of these was a woman. Annesley therefore felt safe. He had assumed the other name because his own had brought him no luck; he imagined people shrugging shoulders and wagging wise heads; he could hear the murmur,—"What! Annesley still writing plays? If he hadn't wasted his time over that, he might have had some money left. What a fool the man is!" Annesley had therefore put down the pen and Conrad Howe had taken it up. Moreover, Conrad Howe had actually written a play which seemed to have in it the elements of popularity; hence newspaper paragraphs, discussions as to identity, and finally the fixing of the first night and the appearance of the posters.

"The Golden Circlet" represented six months' grinding work. He had practically shut himself away from the world. He had declined invitations, paid no calls, risked everything on a last throw. When the thing was finished it seemed like coming into fresh air again; he remembered people whose names he had almost forgotten, and above all a girl whom he had told himself it might be wiser to forget; and, while his passionate working fit was on, he had almost succeeded, seeing her only as a possibility at the beginning of success. It is wonderful what hard work may do for a man, for a time. But when the pause comes human nature must always have its backward glance, its old heart searchings, its reviving pains.

Annesley, then, stood watching the entrance to the Century Theatre, and, as he stood there, suddenly his heart commenced a wild stampede. He slipped into the doorway of a shop just in time to escape the eyes of a girl who was walking quickly up the Strand. He waited for a moment; she did not pass. After a time he ventured to glance out; she had left the theatre, and was disappearing in the crowd.

His first impulse was to overtake her and make a clean breast of everything, but a moment's reflection convinced him that, having restrained himself so far, it would be folly to make a doubtful step then. Connie Bolitho had probably no idea that Conrad Howe was a cloak for Herbert Annesley, and he saw an opportunity for a little comedy not to be neglected. Since his position had grown stronger he felt free to indulge his humours; a year before life had seemed all tragedy, with a diminishing banking account, and a sheaf of unpaid bills. He walked carelessly up to the box-office.

"Did a lady take seats a moment ago; a lady with a red hat and fur-trimmed cloak?"

"Pretty?" asked the clerk.

"Very pretty," said Annesley.

"Yes,—two stalls."

"Two!" said Annesley, with an inner question in the word. "Are the next seats engaged—the ones, I mean, on either side of those two?"

The man looked at the plan.

"No," he said.

"Book them to me, please."

"'YOU ARE FORGIVEN,' SHE SAID, SWEETLY."

The clerk smiled benignly as he handed the tickets to Annesley; the life in a box-office is dull during business hours.

Annesley walked away with his tickets, feeling that he had done a good morning's work. He had at any rate made sure of a seat near Miss Bolitho; if her companion were a man he must brace himself to eclipse that fortunate individual; if a woman, it did not matter. He would prefer the woman, for in six months a great deal might have happened. Miss Bolitho was not bound to him in any way; they had seemed to understand each other, but a struggling writer with only debts to his credit, had not dared to lay those debts and a doubtful future at his lady's feet.

During the next week Annesley's time was fully occupied, but when the great day came and the final rehearsal was over he had a few hours in which to feel that almost unendurable excitement which precedes an ordeal the result of which is not in our own hands. His part of the work was over, but would the actors rise to theirs? He believed they would, but belief is a poor support when so much depends upon it. His excitement was also doubled by the prospect of watching the effect of his work on Miss Bolitho.

Annesley reached the theatre five minutes before the curtain rose. The house was full; the gallery seethed like a hive, people were already standing at the back of the pit. A glance showed him that Miss Bolitho was there, with a man whom he had never seen before at her side. He made his way quickly to his seat and was there before she had observed him.

"You are as interested in plays as ever?" he asked.

"Mr. Annesley!" she cried. He was sure that the hand she gave him trembled a little.

"May I ask you to forgive me for the past six months? I've been working terribly hard, almost night and day."

"At a play?"

"Yes,—at a play."

"You are forgiven," she said sweetly, "because you are brave and stick to your ideals."

"I am rewarded," he murmured. A glance at her face assured him that her beauty was not less; that, at any rate, had remained unchanged.

"Do you know who this Mr. Conrad Howe is?"

"No one seems to know; his identity has been kept secret most successfully."

"Do you suppose it is not his real name?"

"I have an idea it isn't; it sounds assumed, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure. What do you think, Tom? Let me introduce you to Mr. Annesley,—my cousin, Captain Bolitho, who is just home from India." They bowed severely to each other.

"We were discussing," said Connie, cheerfully, "whether Conrad Howe was a real or a pen name. What do you think?"

"I don't know anything about these writing Johnnies. I don't see why they shouldn't use their own names unless they're ashamed of them."

"Perhaps you don't quite understand, Tom," Miss Bolitho suggested.

"Perhaps I don't!" said Tom.

"The climate of India is so trying," Miss Bolitho whispered to Annesley.

"It must be," he said, smiling.

The orchestra glided into a slow movement and the curtain rose. I need not tell you the story of the play; it was simple, but intensely human, having in it the philosophy learnt in years of struggle, but always with hope and faith in the ultimate good beyond. It presented no problem of the gutter raised to drawing-room standard by meretricious gilding; it had the singular distinction of being perfectly clean and also entirely dramatic. As Annesley saw his work develop before his eyes, and felt how it was taking hold of a breathless audience, he did not grudge the experience that had gone to its making or regret that he had kept his ideals unsoiled. When the curtain fell upon the first act the clamour of applause was the true expression of genuine emotion aroused by legitimate means. Annesley felt weak and almost sick. He realised vividly what it all meant to him; he realised, above all, of what little value it would be if he failed in the greater matter of his love. Connie leaned towards him; she had tears in her eyes.

"THE MANAGER WAS SIMMERING WITH JOY."

"This is the kind of thing we've been waiting for," she said. "This is quite true and human. Conrad Howe should be a happy man to-night."

"If he is in the house."

"I hope he is; there's sure to be a call." Annesley's heart thumped.

"That must be awfully trying to a man," he said.

"Why don't you write plays of this kind?"

"It's rather the sort of thing I've been aiming at."

"Go on aiming at it, then, and you'll succeed."

"With your encouragement I feel I could do anything."

"This isn't a bad play, is it?" asked Captain Bolitho.

"It's splendid," said Connie.

"The fellow knows something, too. There's not all that confounded footle that leads you nowhere. The girl's ripping."

"She is," said Annesley. As a matter of fact she was a careful study of Miss Bolitho; for that reason Miss Bolitho appeared entirely unconscious of it.

"There are only three acts, too," said the Captain; "that's sensible. Five acts, with long waits between, are killing. I call it taking your money on false pretences. You don't come to a theatre to hear the band play."

When the curtain rose again the house instantly settled into silence, a sure sign that things were going well. Connie leaned forward with something of the eagerness of a child; even Captain Bolitho unhinged himself, as it were, and indicated interest by a slightly curved back. Annesley began to feel master of himself again; part of the future, at least, was now safe; how much that means to a man who steps from poverty to the security of a decent income can only be realised by those who have been in a like case; the mere fact of being able to pay a debt with promptitude is capable of affording a very exquisite joy. But, now that so much was within his grasp, he longed for all; the horizon of desire, like the horizon of the actual world, always recedes as we advance; since a few months before he had travelled innumerable miles towards success; that being reached, there was still an infinite distance beyond.

BEFORE THE CURTAIN.

In the second act there was a simple love-scene that appeared to take the audience by surprise; it was direct, touching, convincing. Annesley noticed that no one laughed, a thing almost unprecedented in a London theatre when sentiment attitudinises upon the boards. This gave him a glow of well-earned triumph; he had mentally decided beforehand that that was the crucial point of the play; when it was passed he dropped back and closed his eyes.

"You didn't see all that act," Connie said to him in the interval; "are you tired,—were you asleep?"

"I'm neither tired nor sleepy, I heard everything."

"Didn't you think the love-scene beautiful?"

"Yes," he said, blushing at his own candour.

"I didn't think much of that," said Captain Bolitho, "I suppose because I can't see myself saying pretty things to a girl. It's not in my line, you know. I feel 'em, but can't express 'em. My notion is that the girl should make love to me."

"But you must begin, surely," Connie said.

"That's just the deuce of it," said the Captain, "I can't."

Annesley rose. "I must go now," he said, "to another part of the house. When it's over will you remain here till I come? I've an idea that I can find out who this Conrad Howe is. May I bring him to see you if I'm right?"

"Do, I'll wait for you." He went out into the Strand and lit a cigarette. The aspect of the world had changed for him; he even saw cabs and buses with different eyes. Every passenger upon the pavement seemed a friend, the roar of traffic had new music in it,—the stars above the housetops looked down with kindly eyes. The cool air put fresh courage into him, soothed his pulse, made his hope seem real. Inside the theatre it had been altogether difficult to understand substantial facts; but out there in the hurry of the street it was easy enough. There was no doubt about "The Golden Circlet," or Connie Bolitho, or about himself; they all existed, they all were of the world. The name of Conrad Howe stared at him from the placards; he even touched the letters with his fingers to make quite sure. Ten minutes later he re-entered the theatre by the stage door.

He met the manager in the wings. That gentleman was simmering with joy, his congratulations were overwhelming. Annesley bore them with resignation.

"There's sure to be a call for 'Author,'" said the manager; "you'll go to the front, won't you? It's always better; pleases them, you know. Do you feel nervous? Come to my room and have some champagne. This is a howling success, Mr. Howe—nothing like it for years. Just listen to that applause? You've fetched 'em, no doubt about it. Come along and have that champagne." Annesley went readily enough; the atmosphere of the theatre was getting on his nerves again.

When the last curtain fell the pit and gallery got upon their feet and cheered; the rest of the house was equally decisive if more discreet; "The Golden Circlet" was a success. And in the midst of the hubbub Annesley found himself before the curtain, bowing, dazzled by the footlights and straining his eyes to see one face. And, as though in obedience to his call, it rose before him, flushed, glowing, with eyes from which the delight and astonishment had hardly died, and with lips whose smile seemed tremulous with coming tears. That was the true moment of his triumph.

As soon as he could escape he found his way into the empty stalls; one figure remained. As he approached Connie raised her head. The colour had died out of her face; she was as pale as Annesley was himself. He held out his hand.

"I have brought Conrad Howe to see you," he said.

"'I WISHED TO WIN YOUR LOVE.'"

"Why didn't you tell me before? It was cruel of you."

"Perhaps it was because I thought that if I failed I could not bear that you should know it."

"That was not true friendship."

"Did I ever profess friendship for you?"

She hesitated, and played with her fan. A little wave of colour flowed back into her cheeks.

"You see," he went on, "I was pretty much alone in the world, and had to make my mark in my own way. A few months ago things were very black with me. I shut myself up and worked."

"It must have been hard for you," she said, "to cut yourself off from everything like that."

"It was hard, I'm not going to pretend it wasn't. But I had hope—not very bright, perhaps, but still it was enough to keep me from going under."

"You had faith in yourself and in your own work."

"I had more than that. Can you guess what it was?" Their voices sounded curiously hollow in the empty theatre,—the attendants were already putting up and covering the seats.

"You hoped to get fame and money?"

"Yes, but more than either I wished to win your love. Don't kill my illusion, don't ring down the curtain on my romance, Connie, and leave me in the dark. Everything I did was for you. You inspired whatever was good in 'The Golden Circlet.' The thought of you kept my head above water. I can come to you now without feeling ashamed."

"You might have come before. You need never have been ashamed. I could have helped you, oh, so much!"

"But now that the dark days are over, you won't turn your back on me and say I don't need your help? I need it more than ever. My love, the golden circlet is yours if you will take it from me."

She, gave him both her hands and lifted her face to his.

"I am your's always," she said, "but I think, perhaps, I loved you better when you were quite poor, but you never asked me then to love you. Think of what you've lost!"

Annesley took her in his arms in spite of a watchful attendant. "Never mind," he said, "everything's in the future for both of us, never mind the past. They may even damn my play now if they like."

At this point Captain Bolitho's voice was heard in loud protest.

"I tell you," he was saying, "I left a lady in your confounded theatre, and she hasn't come out. I've had a cab waiting ten minutes."

"It's Tom," Connie whispered, "I forgot all about him. Poor Tom!"

"Miss Bolitho's quite safe," said Annesley, "we've just been settling a little matter of great importance to both of us."

Captain Bolitho peered into the face of each in the uncertain light and seemed to understand.

"The devil you have!" he murmured under his breath. Then he said aloud, "Anyhow, Connie, I can't keep the cab waiting any longer. I congratulate you, Mr. Annesley Howe, on your 'Golden Circlet.' That was a deuced neat little surprise you'd hatched for us. I like your play, and I daresay I shall like you when I know more of you. Dine with me next Thursday, will you? Good-night."

A MOTHER OF TWO.

Photo by Landon, Ealing

MODERN FAMILY SKELETONS.

BY BEATRICE KNOLLYS.

Illustrated by A. S. Hartrick.

THIS DRUMMER APPEARS WHENEVER A MEMBER OF THE OGILVY FAMILY IS GOING TO DIE.

A FAMILY ghost is a possession almost as respectable as a patent of nobility, and happy is the house reputed, on satisfactory evidence, to be haunted by one. There are still a few hereditary ghosts left, and a few leasehold and freehold ghosts; but these last are often the property of retired manufacturers and American millionaires who have bought house and lands, pedigrees, portraits, and family ghosts all together as they stood.

In this article it is my intention to be the biographer of a few ancient and well-born ghosts only, as space will not permit me to condescend to mere one-generation ghosts, pedigreeless spirits.

A. was an Airlie who killed a poor drummer, whose spirit plays a drum at Cortachy Castle, Kirriemuir, Scotland, whenever any member of the Ogilvy family is going to die. The origin of this tradition is that the drummer, for some reason or other, in his lifetime so enraged a former Lord Airlie that he had him thrust into his own drum and flung from the window of a tower of Cortachy Castle, though the drummer threatened to haunt the family ever after if his life were taken.

He has seemingly kept his word, for in 1849, before the decease of a Lord Airlie, and again in 1884, before the death of a Lady Airlie, the beat of the drum was on each occasion distinctly heard by different guests of the family. One of these guests was a lady staying in the castle, who was so ignorant of the tradition that, having heard the beating of a drum while dressing for dinner, she innocently asked her host—Lord Airlie—at the table who his drummer was. The question made the peer turn quite white, for the sound had preceded the loss of his first wife, and it was only a few months after this ominous dinner party that the second wife died.

THE COMBERMERE GHOST—A YOUNG GIRL WHO APPEARS TO FORETELL DEATH.

The Combermere family have two ghosts in their record. In Combermere Abbey there is an old room, once a nursery, and here has been seen the spirit-figure of a little girl fourteen years old, dressed in a very quaint frock with an odd little ruff round its neck. It appeared to a niece of the late Lord Cotton as she was dressing for a very late dinner one evening in this former nursery, now used as a bedroom. She had just risen from her toilet-glass to get some article of dress when she saw the child standing near her bed—a little iron one which stood out in the room away from the wall—and presently the figure began running round the bed in a wild, distressed way, with a look of suffering in its little face, which the lady could see quite plainly as the full light of her candles fell upon it.

On mentioning this apparition, her widowed aunt, Lady Cotton, called to remembrance that the late Lord Cotton had told her of the sudden death years ago of a favourite little sister of his, with whom he had been playing, he being also a child then, by running round and round the bed with her, just the night before—indeed, only a few hours before, her decease.

A stranger story still, and one that has not yet, I believe, appeared in print, is that where quite recently a lady took an amateur photograph of the drawing-room of a house once inhabited by the late Lord Combermere—at Brighton I think it was. The lady in question saw, to her horror and astonishment, visible on the plate, the ghost of the old peer—a tall man with rather stout face and a moustache—reproduced sitting in one of the easy chairs of this drawing-room, though not apparent to the naked eye.

The Drake ghost—the spirit of Sir Francis Drake—might be termed a sporting spirit, as it has been frequently seen in different parts of Devonshire and Cornwall—notably Plymouth—driving a hearse drawn by headless horses and followed by a pack of headless hounds.

ONE OF THE FYVIE CASTLE GHOSTS IS A TRUMPETER BY PROFESSION.

Two Gordon ghosts live at Fyvie Castle in Scotland. One is a lady dressed in a magnificent costume of green brocade, who is seen, candle in hand, passing through a tapestried room of the old castle when any important event is going to happen to the family.

The other spirit is by profession a trumpeter, who tradition affirms haunts the castle in revenge for having during his lifetime been seized by the press-gang at the instigation of the then Gordon of Fyvie Castle, who wished to get rid of a rival in the affections of a pretty daughter of his factor or bailiff.

The girl, however, remained faithful to the trumpeter, the separation from him making her die of a broken heart; and now, like the drum of Cortachy Castle, a trumpet is heard whenever misfortune is in store for the unlucky Gordons. Ill-fated they certainly are, as beside being the hereditary owners of unlucky ghosts, they are also under a hereditary curse—the curse of a "Thomas the Rhymester"—who, when the gates of the castle long years ago were churlishly closed against him in the days of wandering minstrelsy, declared that the property should never descend in a direct line till three "weeping" stones were found; but up to twenty years ago, when a relative of the writer was staying at the castle, only one weeping stone had been discovered.

In Fyvie Castle there is also a sealed room, which is always kept religiously closed; for the saying is, should the door be ever opened, the master would die and his wife go blind. Faith and fear have prevented the saying being proved, as the room has never been opened; but as regards the curse of "Thomas the Rhymester," it is certainly a fact that the Gordons have never inherited in a direct line.

ONE OF GLAMIS CASTLE'S GHOSTLY INHABITANTS—A TALL, BEARDED VISITANT IN ARMOUR.

There is a perfect spirit vault of ghosts at Glamis Castle, the ancestral residence of another old and celebrated Scotch family, the Lyons, the head being the Earl of Strathmore. They also possess a secret chamber, which is supposed to be connected with some terrible mystery known only to each owner, the next heir, and the house-bailiff, of the time being. Even the exact locality of the room is never revealed to others than those three, and though more than one heir-apparent has promised to tell the secret to his bosom friends as soon as the attainment of his twenty-first year entitled him to learn it; yet after he has known it, a solemn silence on the subject has been maintained, and beyond the fact that a stonemason is supposed to be secretly employed to close the approach to this chamber after each visit, nothing more definite is known. The strangest part of it all is the evident necessity that each successive house steward should be made acquainted with this mystery, which looks as if to him was intrusted the duty of providing food for some person or thing imprisoned in those walls of fifteen feet thickness. Whether the mystery is in any way connected with the apparition of a bearded man, who flits about the castle at night, and hovers over the couches of children, is not known; perhaps it has something to do with a figure which appeared at a window to a guest staying at Glamis Castle, and sitting up late one moonlight night. The owner of the pale face, lit up with great sorrowful eyes, seemed to wish to attract attention, but it was suddenly pulled away as if by some superior power. Presently, horrible shrieks rent the night air, and an hour or so later, the guest, gazing horror-stricken from the window of the room, saw a dark huddled figure, like that of an old decrepit woman, carrying a bundle, pass across the waning moonlight outside, and vanish.

Perhaps the most interesting legend attached to this magnificent old castle is the historical tradition that in one of its rooms Duncan was murdered by Macbeth, "Thane of Glamis," and this Duncan is perchance the tall bearded ghost in armour who haunts the old square tower, and on one occasion nearly frightened to death a child who, with its mother, was on a visit to the castle. The child was asleep in a dressing-room off its mother's bedroom. She herself was lying awake, when a cold blast extinguished her light suddenly, but not the night-light in the dressing-room, from whence, immediately after, proceeded a shriek. The mother rushed in and found her child awake, and in an agony of fear, because the tall mailed figure she herself had seen pass into the dressing-room had come to the side of the cot and leant over the face of the child. As a matter of fact, tradition and truth are so mixed up with all the stories connected with this very ancient fortress-palace, that it is difficult, in fact impossible, to know what to believe and what to disbelieve.

A more peaceable spirit is the Townshend ghost of Rainham, in Norfolk, commonly known as the "Brown Lady." She is described as tall and stately, dressed in a rich brown brocade, with a sort of coif on her head. The features are clearly defined, but where the eyes should be are nothing but hollows. She is seen walking about the old mansion every now and then, though no reason can be discovered to account for her restlessness. Lord Charles Townshend, on being asked by a lady if he also believed in the apparition, replied, "I cannot but believe, for she ushered me into my room last night."

The Lonsdale spirit seems to have been as rowdy in death as it was during life when it inhabited the body of Jemmy Lowther, well known as the "bad Lord Lonsdale." For years after his decease the inhabitants of Lowther Hall and the neighbourhood were kept in a constant state of excitement by continual disturbances in the house, noises in the stables, and the galloping across country of Lord Lonsdale's phantom "coach and six."

"WHILE SHE PRAYED THE SPIRIT APPEARED AND SAID, 'TAKE UP THE CANDLE AND FOLLOW ME.'"

The Powys Castle ghost was a much more amiable spirit, and of quite a superior character to the devil-may-care spirit of Jemmy Lowther. His object was benevolent, and his manners were well-bred and gracious when he appeared. His last visit was to a poor pious workwoman, who, in the absence of the Herberts from Powys Castle, was purposely put by the servants in the haunted bedroom, a handsomely furnished apartment with a boarded floor, a big bedstead in one corner, and two sash windows. A good fire was made up in the room, and a chair and a table with a large lighted candle on it was placed in front of the fire. She had just sat down in the chair to read her Bible, when to her astonishment in walked a gentleman. He wore a gold-laced hat and waistcoat, with coat and the rest of his attire to correspond. He went over to one of the sash windows, and putting an elbow on the sill, rested his face on the palm of his hand. She supposed afterwards that he stood quietly thus to encourage her to speak, but she was too frightened. Then he walked out of the room, and the poor woman, rising from her chair, fell on her knees and began to pray. Whilst praying, the spirit appeared again, walked round the room, and came close behind her. He again departed, and again appeared behind her as she still knelt. She said, "Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you want?"

It lifted its finger and said—

"Take up the candle and follow me, and I will tell you."

She did as she was bid, and followed him into a very small room, where, tearing up a board, he pointed to an iron box underneath, and then to a crevice in the wall where lay hidden a key. These he commanded were to be sent to the Earl of Powys, then in London. This was done, though history does not relate what the box contained; but it was known that this poor Welsh spinning woman was provided for liberally by the Powys family till she died about the beginning of this century.

Though one does not associate ghosts with such a city of excitement, life, and renovation as London, yet it does possess several haunted houses. One belonging to a present-day peer, and situated in Park Lane, is said to be haunted by fashionable spirits having a dance. Some people can only hear the buzz of their voices and the swish of dresses and the tap of feet, while others can see the figures themselves talking and dancing.

Yes, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

LETTING THE FAMILY SKELETONS OUT OF THE CUPBOARD.

A ROSE AT LAST

BY

CLIFTON BINGHAM

I   T was only a rosetree slender

On a dingy window sill,

In the heart of the busy City,

With its mingled good and ill.

And the Angels must have seen it,

Unwilling to let it die,

For it thrived and bore a rose-bud

Under that darksome sky!

A    WHITE face watched it daily

With joy in its childish eyes,

As she played alone in the garret

Under the city skies:

It brightened the dingy windows,

Each night as she crept to bed,

Though hungry and loveless and lonely,

"It will soon be a rose," she said.

T    HERE at the window one morning,

The bud was a rose so fair,

But the garret was still and silent,

There was no little white face there!

It was smiling in happy slumber,

Its pain and loneliness past,

For the Angels who loved her were saying,

That the bud was a rose at last!

HOW SANDOW MADE ME STRONG

A REMARKABLE PHYSICAL TRANSFORMATION.

IT was a question of going to South Africa or running the risk of a short life in England; health dictated the question, and the answer depended on many things. Someone suggested Sandow's School of Physical Culture as a compromise; and finally England, backed up by financial and other reasoning, carried the day.

ON ENTERING SANDOW'S SCHOOL.               TEN MONTHS AFTER.

(From Photographs.)

I was a puny youth, weak of spirit and frail of frame, when I first visited Sandow's muscle factory in St. James's Street, London, and said that I had come to be made into a strong and healthy Englishman—to obtain a fresh lease of life if possible.

HEIGHT AND WEIGHT.

BEING SOUNDED.   "THE LITTLE MACHINE TICKED MERRILY AWAY."

Sandow fingered my arms and chest as he might a prize ox, and remarked that I should make an admirable subject for his purpose; he liked pulling folks out of their graves. Whereupon I imagined I should be passed into the gymnasium to swing a dumb-bell for an hour or so, and be invited to drop in again when I was next that way. But I was mistaken. Had my object been to enlist in Her Majesty's forces, the examinations and tests I was subjected to could not have been more extensive or peculiar. I was sounded, measured, weighed, pounded and questioned, the results being solemnly entered into a big ledger, as though it might all be used as evidence against me should the need ever arise. Weight 120 lbs., chest measurement 32 in., height 5 ft. 6½ in., though the latter is immaterial, as Sandow does not bargain to make one grow in that direction when nature considers her duty done.

Though I felt ashamed of the figures myself, they did not seem to affect my burly interrogators in any way, and the examination proceeded. Had I indigestion, and did I smoke? I confessed to a little of either weakness of the flesh. Was there any particular ailment in the family, and would I take a full breath and blow down this tube? As I did so, a little clock-like machine ticked merrily away, till it registered that my pair of lungs—or "one and a decimal," as a blunt old doctor had once informed me—could contain at full pressure 185 cubic inches of air—a poor record, be it said.

Next came dumb-bell and weight tests, careful note being made of the exact number of pounds I could lift with one hand, two hands, hold at arm's length, and support above my head. The record ran thus:—One hand lift, 65 lbs.; at arm's length, 18 lbs.; raised from shoulders (1) 40 lbs., (2) 35 lbs. each. Bar-bell raised above head, 85 lbs. So the examination ended, and when my photograph had been taken as a sort of example "before trying," I was free to join the little army of health-and-muscle seekers whenever I chose.

A very mixed army it was. Stern-visaged men were there going through the exercises as seriously as if life itself depended on them; sprightly veterans taking again to regular exercise, so much missed since they joined the half-pays; middle-aged men making up for the negligences of earlier days; clerks and students of all kinds going into strict training in order to be in form for the cricket and running season; and finally a goodly sprinkling of puny youths working hard to attain the weight and chest measurement necessary to give them another chance at Sandhurst or Woolwich, where they had just been declined "for physical reasons."

The display was not without its humour. A plump stockbroker is a common and natural enough sight in the city, but he forms a different spectacle as, minus the glossy hat and black coat of his calling, he energetically whirls a pair of dumb-bells in the frantic endeavour to exchange his superfluous avoirdupois for sinew and muscle, especially when his immediate neighbour, a very lean littérateur, is performing the same evolutions with the secret hope of putting on flesh.

THE BAR-BELL TEST—SUPPORTING 85 LBS.

It would require a keen eye, supported by a good imagination, to discover any outward visible sign of the "strong man" about the various instructors of Sandow's school, dressed as they are in ordinary attire, to say nothing of fashionable collars and the latest thing in neckties. Any one of them might have strolled in from Bond Street, mistaking the place for the club, yet any one of them would think nothing of snatching up a 100 lb. dumb-bell and raising it aloft with the ease with which most people might perform a similar feat with an umbrella.

When I presented myself at the gymnasium for my first course of instruction I was handed a pair of dumb-bells weighing not more than 3 lbs. each. I protested that I had been in the habit of using bells three times as heavy. It did not matter, I was informed,—lead pencils would be almost as serviceable, providing I concentrated my whole attention on each exercise in turn.

It must not be supposed, however, that dumb-bells do not play an important part in Sandow's system. On the contrary, as will be seen from the photographs herewith, they figure in numerous exercises, but their weight is practically immaterial. They usually vary according to the physical condition of those using them.

Having grasped his "three-pounders," the student is made to stand in an attitude of ease, the inner side of his arms fronting outwards. His very first step on the road to muscular development is to alternately bend each arm at the elbow, bringing the dumb-bell close to the shoulder. This has to be repeated some twenty or thirty times, to the measured "One, two, three," of the instructor.

LIFTING 70 LBS. WITH TWO HANDS.

The same thing is then gone through with the arms turned the other way, so that the knuckles instead of the finger-tips are brought up to the shoulders. Next the arms are extended outwards in a straight line, each being bent in turn at the elbow, and the dumb-bell brought immediately above the shoulder. And here comes the student's first difficulty; for in extending the arms each time it is necessary to keep them straight and rigid in order that the muscles may be benefited by the strain. It is amusing to watch various pairs of arms gradually drooping as this exercise proceeds.

Altogether the dumb-bells are used in about twenty different positions, each affecting a different set of muscles. There is the lunge, for instance, exercising both arms and legs. First standing at ease, the pupil takes a stride forward and strikes out alternately with his left and right, as though an adversary awaited the blow. Some twenty-five or thirty such lunges, however, are calculated to transform the most bellicose among Sandow's disciples into members of the Peace Society.

The wrists are strengthened in this fashion: once more extending the arms in a line with the shoulders the pupil now holds the dumb-bells by the ends, instead of in the usual way, and with a circular motion of the wrists revolves the bells first from right to left, then from left to right.

RAISING 40 LBS. WITH ONE HAND.

Next comes what the flippant call the "see-saw" motion. With the inevitable dumb-bell in each hand the student stands erect; the see-saw consists of nothing more remarkable than bending the upper portion of the body from side to side, without moving the lower limbs. These are cared for in the next exercise. Lying at full length on the ground, the pupil actually proceeds to kick his legs in the air! Not particularly graceful, perhaps, but highly beneficial, it is claimed, to the "hinges" at the knees and hips. What this motion does for the lower limbs, the next does for the upper part of the body. Lying at full length on the ground as before, and keeping the legs perfectly stiff, the student raises his head and shoulders from the ground, and with a quick movement swings forward until his body is bent almost double, then returning slowly to the former position. The dumb-bells are now forsaken for a time. The lesson to be learned is to support the body on the hands and toes, and to alternately lower and raise it by respectively bending the elbows and straightening the arms, taking care not to touch the ground with any part of the body. It looks and sounds easy enough; so it is, to do it once, but quite another thing to keep it up in quick succession until the instructor sees fit to cry "halt!" which is timed, it seems to the student, specially to remind him of the penultimate straw and the camel's back.

THE LUNGE.

Dumb-bells are now resumed, this time attached to stout elastic strands, these in turn being fixed to the wall. Exercises of much the same kind as before are gone through, except that the strain on the muscles is now greater, seeing that almost every movement involves stretching the rubber bands to their fullest extent, and allowing them to return to their natural state slowly, not with a snap. The same principle is applied to the development of the legs and neck, ingenious devices in the shape of "harness"—forming an interesting branch of the system—being requisitioned for the purpose. In each case the elastics have to be stretched as much as possible, the strain being in turn centred on sets of muscles that could be reached by no other method.

If after having gone through all these exercises the pupil should pine to develop his knowledge of Physiology as well as his frame, he may learn that this little action affects the latissimus dorsi, that that tiny movement seeks out the neglected deltoid, that another bend of the body, insignificant though it may seem, means much to the pectoralis major, and so forth. But the gentle student usually prefers not to burden his brain with these things, and in this respect he is perhaps not unlike the gentle reader. So no more shall be inflicted.

Every pupil has to attend Sandow's School at least twice a week, and when there to repeat each of the exercises named some twenty times, though this number is a kind of moveable feast, advancing or decreasing with his condition, reaching as high as sixty and as low as ten. Beyond that he is supposed to practise every day at home, and regularity in this greatly facilitates the development, just as home-lessons assist a schoolboy's education. There, probably, the simile ends; certainly the majority of Sandow's followers do conscientiously work out of school hours.

When students have been got into trim generally—this takes about a month—they are allowed to add weight-lifting, with and without "harness," to their regular exercises. To do so before the body was in a supple condition might result in serious strains occasionally. A still further stage is practice on the Roman pillar. This consists of hanging backwards suspended from the knees, and from that rising to an upright position, lifting with the body a bar-bell weighing anything between 30 lbs. and 120 lbs.

Every few months examinations are held, the same tests and measurements as on entering being gone through, and the results put down side by side in the ledger, so that one's weak points can be seen at a glance and receive particular attention forthwith.

THE FIRST STEP.

"WHAT THE FLIPPANT CALL THE 'SEE-SAW' MOTION."

"NOT PARTICULARLY GRACEFUL, BUT HIGHLY BENEFICIAL."

Personally, I had not been in the school a few weeks before I began to feel its benefits. The first signs were the arrival of an appetite and the disappearance of indigestion and insomnia. Gradually I exchanged loose flesh for firm muscle; my weight increased; my chest measurement advanced. My weight-lifting crept up by "fives" and "tens," till at the end of three months I could raise 70 lbs. with one hand, 350 lbs. with two, and 500 lbs. in "harness," all with comparative ease.

"UNTIL HIS BODY IS BENT ALMOST DOUBLE."

Every time I blew into the little lung-testing machine I felt apprehensive of its breaking or getting out of order under the strain. My course of instruction commenced ten months ago; at the last examination, held recently, my record ran:—One hand lift 130 lbs. (an increase of 65 lbs.). Held at arm's length 35 lbs. (increase 17 lbs.). Raised from shoulders, one hand, 90 lbs. (increase 50 lbs.), both hands, 160 lbs. (increase 90 lbs.). Raised above head 175 lbs. (increase 90 lbs.). Weight, 10 st. 0 lb. (increase 1 st. 6 lb.); chest measurement, 36 inches (increase 4 inches). Lift with "harness" 800 lbs.; without 550 lbs. Perhaps it should be added that this result was not achieved by irregular attendance at the school or occasional practice at home. I worked diligently every day on rising in the morning, and before retiring at night, and I fancy I have no need to go to South Africa now.

FOR THE WRISTS.

A little about the St. James's School itself. Incredible though it may seem, it is not a limited company. Every one connected with the place, from the manager downwards, has to go through the system. That is why the door is opened to you by a young Hercules whose clothes are bursting over him, and who, rumour says, is afraid to take them off o' nights lest he should never be able to get into them again; that is why, if you call early or late enough, you will see a muscular charwoman scrubbing the front steps to the quick time of "Sandow's March," for even she is not exempt. There is, by the way, a special course of training for lady pupils.

NOT SO EASY—

Every one connected with the place participates in the profits, which must be large, from the head-manager down to the two humbler individuals just mentioned. That, doubtless, is why the door is always opened to you with commendable alacrity, and may account for the fact that the front steps are the whitest in St. James's Street, and that the brasswork about the establishment positively dazzles the eyes with its gleam.

—AS IT LOOKS.

Of course Sandow has his "secret." It is that he does not believe in developing one part of the body at the expense of another. His aim is not to turn out pupils with runners' legs or rowers' arms, but of good physique generally. If a runner enters the school his legs are naturally better developed than the average. They will, therefore, require less attention than usual, and more will be given to other parts of his body. And so forth.

IT IS THE CONSTANT_STRAIN THAT_DEVELOPS THE MUSCLES.

The exercises are so devised that no set of muscles in the body is overlooked. In the ordinary course they are all developed together, at much the same rate; but this, of course, cannot always be adhered to. It frequently happens that a pupil desires chest expansion above all else, in which case he will devote himself primarily to the exercises specially framed to bring about that result. In several cases a couple of inches in the way of chest measurement has stood between pupils at Sandow's and commissions in Her Majesty's army.

Much depends, Sandow avers, on mind concentration.

"It is of little use," he says, "going through the exercises mechanically. As each one is performed, it should occupy the whole attention. Merely swinging a dumb-bell the regulation number of times will do no good. It should be regarded as serious work, and one's heart should be in it. It has not been my aim to produce what are known as strong men; it is a comparatively easy task to pick out a few men exceptionally endowed by nature, and train them until they attain great proficiency in particular feats of strength and activity. It may be considered somewhat ambitious, but my honest desire is nothing less than to permanently raise the standard of physique in the whole race, and to restore, as far as possible, the old types of physical strength and beauty, for the loss of which civilization is so largely responsible."

One naturally asks: What is the age limit at which physical development necessarily ceases? Perhaps Sandow's school-register best answers the question. His pupils range from fourteen to seventy-three. The gentleman of the latter age felt so rejuvenated after one week's attendance that he promptly put himself down for a whole year's course, and has since declared his intention of "never leaving school" until old age compels him.

It is interesting to recall how Sandow first came before the public as an exponent of strength. Some nine years ago it was the practice of a "strong man" then performing at a London theatre of varieties to issue nightly from the stage a challenge to the world generally to accomplish any of his feats, which included the lifting of great weights, the snapping of steel chains, and the bending of iron bars. One night, to everyone's surprise, the challenge was accepted by a member of the audience, and a young man stepped upon the stage in immaculate evening dress. When this was removed the customary attire of the stage "strong man" was revealed. It was Sandow, then unknown.

LIFTING 350 LBS. WITHOUT HARNESS.

Amid the wildest excitement he performed every one of the wonderful feats. The next day a new "strong man" had dawned.

LIFTING 500 LBS. WITH HARNESS.

It is Sandow's ambition to start schools of muscular development in all the principal cities and towns in the kingdom, and if they become as popular as those in London, there is hope for the country, physically, yet. The tendency of the Englishman, since he acquired the habit of living in towns, has been to take too little exercise. Roast beef and Sandow may do more for the race than the former ever accomplished alone.

WEIGHT-LIFTING ON THE ROMAN PILLAR.

A. E. J.

THE STONE RIDER!

A SHORT STORY OF THE WEIRD.

BY NELLIE K. BLISSETT; ILLUSTRATED BY MAX COWPER.

IT was a dull day in early spring, and the wind in the pine forest behind the Castle of Salitz was making a melancholy moaning. In one of the deep window-seats of the castle I sat, with a book in my hand, looking down at the drowned landscape and the swollen river. I had come to visit that mysterious personage, Count Siebach von Salitz, whose extraordinary powers of thought-reading and prophecy would have brought him in several fortunes had he chosen to use them professionally. As it was, he was the object of much interest, and not a little awe, in half the capitals of Europe; and it was with some curiosity that I accepted his invitation to his Hungarian estate.

So far nothing in the least peculiar had occurred to me—a disappointment I was rather inclined to resent.

Siebach's step disturbed my meditations. I turned and saw him coming down the passage—a tall, gaunt man, with a haggard face and evil eyes. But if Siebach's personal appearance was not prepossessing, his charm of manner was so great that when you knew him well you forgot the small, cruel eyes, the sneering mouth, the curious mixture of power and cunning which characterized his countenance. His voice, too, was singularly beautiful, and atoned for many things.

He smiled as he came up and seated himself beside me.

"If you admire the view, you shouldn't look so solemn, Bazarac," he said; "and if you don't, and are bored, shall we go for a ride? Or will you come and look at my study?—you haven't seen it yet, and it is worth seeing."

"HAGGARD FACE AND EVIL EYES."

"Everything here is," I answered, as I rose and followed him downstairs.

He laughed.

"That is the disadvantage of being born a Siebach of Salitz—there is no merit in possessing perfection. It is merely inherited property. Don't knock your head against this doorway—it is low. That's right!"

We had passed under a low archway into a long room panelled with black oak. There was a table, littered with papers, near the window, and over the hearth hung the portrait of a young man whose countenance, particularly about the mouth, distinctly resembled that of Siebach.

"How like you that portrait is!" I exclaimed.

He looked at it for a moment as though weighing my remark carefully in his mind.

"Do you think so?" he said at last. "It is my poor cousin Franz."

"I didn't know you had one."

"He is dead. He was drowned whilst we were bathing in the river beneath. I was with him at the time, but I could not save him. His body was never recovered—it was an awful affair. He was only seven and twenty."

"Younger than you?"

"Oh, no—older. He was the heir. Poor Franz!"

I looked at the portrait with increased interest, and Siebach gazed at it too. There was a disagreeable expression on his face.

"It is a fine portrait," I said.

"Very—an Auberthal. You know Auberthal, of course? A splendid painter. Singular, now, I forgot that he will arrive here to-day. He has a long-standing engagement to visit me."

I was very glad to hear it, for I had known Auberthal when he was a mere boy, studying in Garcia's "Atelier Espagnol." We had seen a great deal of each other, and I had liked him exceedingly. Although Siebach was very entertaining, I did not altogether trust him; a solitude only relieved by his presence did not at the moment appear alluring.

I expressed my pleasure, and began to walk about the study, admiring the family portraits, of which there were a great number. Under one of them I noticed a curtain drawn across the wall, and, supposing it to conceal a picture or a cabinet, I very innocently put out my hand as if to draw it on one side.

"TALKING TOGETHER IN THE FOREST."

A sharp exclamation from Siebach stopped me. I dropped the curtain and turned to him.

"What is the matter?"

He recovered his self-possession immediately.

"Nothing. I was cutting a pencil and the knife slipped. Oh, it is only a scratch!"

"What is behind this curtain?" I asked, returning to my former occupation.

He did not answer at once. Then he laughed, a trifle uneasily.

"A family superstition—nonsense if you like. You can look."

I drew it accordingly. The curtain covered a large recess, and in this recess stood the life-sized statue of a horse in white marble, bearing a man in armour upon his back. The singular part about this equestrian group was, that whilst the horse was stone, the trappings and the man's armour were real.

"That is an odd idea," I remarked.

"What, the armour? Oh, it belonged to an ancestor of mine. Of course there is a stone figure underneath to match the horse."

"The vizor of his helmet is down. Why don't you raise it? It would be far more effective."

He laughed again more uneasily than ever.

"My dear Bazarac, 'let sleeping men lie' is an excellent transposition of the old proverb. This gentleman is supposed to 'walk'—or rather ride. In other words, he is the family apparition. He is supposed to ride about the castle at night."

"What a very unpleasant idea!"

"Do you think so? Well, it is sufficiently ghastly, I admit."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"No, but I have often fancied I heard a horse snorting and trampling about the passages. At this time of year he is often heard. The servants tell odd stories about him, but I have never encountered him myself."

"It would be an interesting encounter."

Siebach shuddered visibly.

"I think not," he said, in an altered tone.

I looked up at him. His face was very pale, and his shifty glance avoided mine.

"You are afraid of him," I said, laughing.

An odd light blazed for a second in his eyes. He had a pair of gloves in his hand, having just come in from a walk. Suddenly, without any warning, he flung one glove full at the mailed face of the Stone Rider. The armour rattled, and the glove fell back at Siebach's feet. He picked it up and looked me in the face.

"You see whether I am afraid," he said, haughtily.

I did not understand his manner, but I saw that it would be better to change the subject at once, and avoid it for the future. So I asked him at what time Auberthal would arrive, and we talked of other things.

Auberthal came in time for dinner—a little round man with a face all brown skin and black beard, and extraordinarily bright eyes. I should never have recognized in him the slip of a boy whose genius had electrified the "Atelier Espagnol," but he was as pleasant as ever. We passed a very enjoyable evening, and retired in due course to bed.

From the moment I had dropped the curtain across the recess in the study, I had never given another thought to the Stone Rider. Auberthal's arrival had successfully banished reflection on that somewhat peculiar incident. I undressed, and got into bed, and, as I was not sleepy, began to read. I suppose this was at about half-past eleven, and I went on reading steadily for over half an hour, at the end of which period I laid down my book and prepared to blow out my candles, when a sound arrested my attention, and I paused to listen. The castle had long been silent, and everyone had retired to rest. Yet there was a distinct sound as of someone moving about the corridors under me.

My room was in the second story of the building, at the head of the grand staircase—an immensely broad and imposing affair of beautifully inlaid marble. The corridors, too, were all marble paved, so that the slightest sound was noticeable in them. I listened, and distinctly heard the noise, whatever its cause, approach the foot of the staircase. Then it paused for a moment, and there followed a curious sound of scrambling, as of a large and somewhat unwieldy object coming up the stairs.

By this time my curiosity was thoroughly excited. I got out of bed and went to the door. As the room was very long, and the door at the farther end of it, this was a decidedly better post for listening purposes. I had not been there a second before I heard the unmistakable rattle of armour, and the snuffling sound a horse would make after any unusual exertion. A wild idea flashed across my mind, and I pressed closer to the door.

This was the Stone Rider!

The sounds came nearer and nearer until they were just outside. Then came another pause, and a heavy sigh—almost a groan—but whether from horse, or rider, I could not decide. Then the horse was turned round, and clattered and rattled down the shallow steps of the staircase, and away down the corridors, until all was silent once more.

All this time, though greatly excited, I had not felt the slightest sensation of fear; but now that all was still such a feeling of terror came over me that I lay awake for hours scarcely able to breathe, listening for the return of this midnight visitant. But he did not come, and towards morning I fell asleep.

"IT IS GOING DOWN THE CORRIDOR TOWARDS THE STUDY."

At breakfast I observed that Auberthal, who had been very lively the previous evening, seemed silent and depressed. Siebach, too, looked rather yellower and thinner than usual. I enquired if they had not slept well.

"Oh, yes," answered Siebach, hastily, "I have slept very well indeed, thank you."

Auberthal said nothing for a moment.

"You don't look particularly brilliant yourself, Bazarac," he remarked presently.

"Somebody was racketing about the staircase last night and disturbed me," I replied carelessly. "Didn't you hear it, Auberthal? Your room is next mine. I wondered whether the noise would keep you awake."

Siebach looked up at me sharply and seemed about to speak. But he thought better of it, and returned to his breakfast.

"Yes," said Auberthal, quietly. "Something certainly kept me awake. That family ghost of yours, Siebach, I expect—the Stone Rider."

"I heard nothing," returned the Count, stolidly.

But Auberthal was not to be silenced.

"No? That is odd. I heard him distinctly. He stopped outside my door; and something groaned. It gave me a peculiar sensation. What makes him walk, Siebach—I suppose there's a legend?"

"Oh, there are lots of legends," answered Siebach, offhandedly. "One says that the Ritter von Salitz in the thirteenth century caused a statue of himself, on his favourite charger, to be set up in the courtyard of the castle, and when he took prisoners of war, he chained them to the Stone Rider and flogged them to death. When he was about sixty he married for the second time. His wife was very young and very beautiful, and had been betrothed to his eldest son, whom he hated, and banished from the castle. One day he found his son and his wife talking together in the forest. He seized them, had them lashed to the statue, and directed his men to flog them to death, whilst he himself stood by and derided them. However, that was the last atrocity he perpetrated, for he soon after went mad, and died. And his spirit is doomed to ride the stone horse for ever."

"A sufficiently horrible story, at any rate," remarked Auberthal, composedly. "Is the horse in your study the original of the courtyard."

"Yes. It has been most carefully preserved, and handed down from generation to generation."

"No wonder it roams about the castle at night," I said.

"That is mere nonsense," returned Siebach, irritably.

I said nothing more; but after breakfast I found an opportunity of speaking to Auberthal alone.

"I should like to investigate this matter," I said. "Will you help me, Auberthal?"

He laughed.

"Certainly; but I don't believe in ghosts, you know, Bazarac. I trust you don't?"

"FOR A FEW MOMENTS THE RIDER REMAINED MOTIONLESS."

"I have seen some very strange things in connection with ghosts; at all events, will you keep up to-night, and follow the Stone Rider with me?"

"If it will afford you any amusement."

"Don't speak to Siebach about it, then. He evidently does not care for the subject," and I related to him the incident of the glove.

He looked rather grave.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said, when I had finished. "There is insanity in his family, you know—I don't think his brain is what it was. And once he went off his head altogether."

"When?"

"Soon after his cousin was drowned. He saw it happen. That was enough to drive anyone mad, perhaps. But he was always queer."

"Then, to-night—?"

"Yes. When he gets to the bottom of the staircase again we will follow him."

The day passed off very quietly, and nothing more was said about the statue. We went to our rooms at the usual time, and I sat down to wait. At a few minutes past twelve I heard the noise beginning. It came up the staircase as it had done before, and paused for a moment outside the door. Then I again heard the sigh, or groan, and the clattering down the stairs. I opened my door and found Auberthal already on the landing.

"Make haste," he said. "It is going down the corridor towards the study."

"HE GRIPPED MY ARM."

We rushed down, and along the passage, the rattling going in front of us. But we were too slow. When we reached the study, the green baize curtain was drawn, and everything was perfectly still. After a moment's hesitation I pushed back the curtain. There sat the Stone Rider, immovable as ever, mailed and erect.

"He looks quite harmless," I said, doubtfully.

Auberthal bent down and held the candle closer. On the side of the horse were great dark stains, and the armour glimmered redly in the flame. The painter put his hand on one big patch, and drew back quickly.

"I could swear it was wet," he whispered. "Let us go!"

We returned, and I drew him into my room.

"It's very odd!"

"Very!" He held up his hand. "Do you see?"

"Good Heavens!" I gasped, "it's all red!"

"With blood," he said, solemnly.

*      *      *      *      *

For some days neither Auberthal nor I spoke of our adventure with the Stone Rider. But at last, one evening before dinner he came to me in my room.

"I shall go down into the study to-night," he said, "and see what really happens. Will you come too?"

"Yes. The noise at night still goes on?"

"Regularly every night. Bazarac, I mean to get to the bottom of this mystery."

"All right. I shall be charmed if you can prove the whole thing a hoax, but—"

"But what?"

"I don't think you will."

He considered for a moment.

"I don't think I shall either," he said, as he left me.

Siebach was unusually brilliant and amusing at dinner. He kept us at table long after our usual hour, and when we at last got away to our rooms there was barely time to let the castle become quiet, and get back to the study, before twelve o'clock. However, we accomplished the feat, seated ourselves near together, blew out the candle, and waited for the ghost to move.

For some time everything was silent. Then, all at once, the room became strangely illuminated. One after another the chairs, and tables, and pictures grew out of the gloom, lit up with a pale, peculiar light. And at last the curtain was drawn aside—the horse shook himself, and snorted—the armour rattled—and the Stone Rider rode slowly out into the middle of the room.

The supernatural radiance streamed from him—it issued from the closed bars of his helmet, from the steel breastplate, from the joints of the rusted gorget. It seemed to grow brighter every moment, till, almost dazzled, I turned my attention to the horse.

I did not at first notice the stain on his side which Auberthal had observed. But as I looked at him, I saw that a dark stream began to trickle down the whiteness of the marble. It dripped from a great dent in the breastplate of the Rider—dripped slowly and steadily over the horse's neck, and rolled down to the floor.

For a few moments the rider remained motionless; then struck his spurs into the marble flanks of his steed, and they moved away. The light went with them through the open door, and Auberthal sprang up and rushed after them.

I saw the Stone Rider turn in his saddle and look back as we raced after him; and a flash of flame seemed to shoot out from between the helmet-bars. On they went—clattering, clashing, rattling through the stone passages, and we after them. They reached the staircase—the Rider rose in his stirrups and urged the horse up. The pace was too fast—the horse slipped, plunged—and finally recovered himself, just as an ordinary horse might do, and halted.

But the Rider's balance was destroyed. He swayed in the high saddle—his arms went wildly into the air—and he crashed forward, and fell, with a horrible rattling sound, at our feet. The clasps that fastened the gorget and breastplate burst—the helmet rolled away—and on the pavement before us lay a skeleton!

For a time we were too stunned to speak. Then Auberthal uttered an exclamation of horror and looked up.

Half way up the staircase stood Siebach von Salitz. His face was ghastly white—his eyes were widened with an expression of awful terror—his hands were stretched out as though grasping the air. He stood motionless for some moments, staring into vacancy; then his rigid expression relaxed, his arms dropped to his sides, and he came down the stairs.

"What has happened?" he enquired.

"That!" said Auberthal, bluntly, pointing to the skeleton.

Siebach bent over it for a moment. Then he kicked it contemptuously aside.

"Somebody has been playing a practical joke," he remarked.

Auberthal coughed.

"I have not, nor has Bazarac. Who could have done it?"

"Do you suppose I have?"

Siebach seemed indignant. Auberthal looked at him very quietly.

"I do not suppose anything," he said, "but there is the skeleton, and there is—"

He turned to look for the horse, but it was gone.

"There was the horse," he concluded, "and to-morrow morning I leave for Paris. Good-night!"

He disappeared up the staircase, leaving me face to face with Siebach.

"What does he mean?"

"I RECOGNISED ONE OF SIEBACH'S SERVANTS."

"I really don't know, Siebach."

"Do you intend to leave for Paris, too?"

"I am very sorry," I said, "but my nerves are really not equal to this sort of thing. Good-night, Siebach!"

He surveyed me with an odd expression; then, suddenly, he gripped my arm.

"Do you think—" he almost gasped in my ear—"do you think that he suspects anything?"

I shook him off.

"Good heavens, Siebach! What should he suspect? Can't you explain this horrible thing?"

He recovered his self-command almost immediately, and smiled feebly.

"No. I can't," he said. "Am I to explain all my family skeletons, Bazarac?"

"Not if you do not wish."

And I left him standing by the skeleton of the Stone Rider.

*      *      *      *      *

For some years I did not come across Count Siebach von Salitz—neither, I am afraid, did I wish to do so. Of the Stone Rider—who had proved to be no stone at all—I often thought, but at last I hardly regarded the incident as anything more than the recollection of a bad dream. Auberthal and I met frequently, and often discussed our adventure; and I believed that he had suspicions concerning Siebach which I did not care to share. But one evening as we sat in the "Atelier Espagnol"—Auberthal and myself—someone knocked at the door and came hastily in. I recognised one of Siebach's servants.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Will M. Bazarac or M. Auberthal come to my master at once? He is very ill at the Hôtel ——."

We both rose and looked at each other, and Auberthal slipped his arm through mine.

"We had better go together."

So we went. The Hôtel —— was close by. In ten minutes we were in Siebach's bedroom.

"HIS EYES BLAZED WITH FEVERISH LIGHT."

He lay in bed, looking thinner and more haggard than ever. His eyes blazed with feverish light, and he beckoned us eagerly to approach.

"There is not much time," he said, speaking in a weak, strained voice; "I sent for you to tell you—what is that?"

His eyes dilated with fear, and he glanced round the room.

"It is nothing," said Auberthal, gently.

He laughed—a short, bitter laugh.

"He is not far off—he never is. Don't you hear the horse breathing outside the door? I can. I always hear it now. Don't let it come in—don't—don't, Auberthal!"

His voice rose to a shriek.

"Nothing shall come in."

"Thank you. I am so foolish to mind! I—I wanted to tell you. I—I murdered him."

He fell back exhausted.

"Whom?" asked Auberthal, aghast.

"My cousin Franz. He was the heir."

"But he was drowned."

Siebach struggled up on his elbow.

"No, I told them that. I shot him; and I knew if they found the body they would accuse me, so I hid it. And when his father died, and I got the castle, I dug him up—and—you know. I could not hide the skeleton, so I put it on the horse. Don't you think that was a good idea?"

He laughed, and Auberthal looked at me with a shudder.

"The armour hid it," went on Siebach, "and I knew they were all so superstitious they wouldn't touch it. And then you came—you and Auberthal."

At that moment the doctor came in. When he left the room he called me out.

"Count Siebach is mad?" I questioned,

"He is not responsible for what he says. Are you a friend of his?"

"In a way."

"Then you had better stay with him. Send for me if he gets worse. I shall do no good by stopping."

I went back to Auberthal. Siebach was obviously too ill to be left. I agreed to sit up with him half the night, whilst Auberthal rested.

Siebach was exhausted, and for some hours lay quite still. I think he was insensible. But about 12 o'clock I heard a sound from the bed, and went to him. He was sitting up, looking straight before him into space.

"Don't you hear it?" he asked.

I listened, to appease him.

"No."

"Not the horse?"

I listened more attentively.

Yes—the old rattle—the old sound of a horse's hoofs. It was coming up the stairs.

Slowly the door opened—slowly the light I had seen before grew in the darkened air—and into the room rode the Stone Rider, rigid, erect, with the unearthly radiance all around him.

He came up to the foot of the bed, and slowly lifted the vizor of his helmet, disclosing a glistening skull—and, as I looked, the skull became the face in the portrait over the mantelpiece of the study at Salitz. It was too evident that Siebach recognised it. His eyes were fixed on the apparition; his thin features were grey, and drawn with fear. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at it; then he threw up his arms with an awful cry, and fell back.

Slowly the Stone Rider drew the mailed gauntlet from his right hand. For a moment he poised it deliberately in the air, then flung it full in Siebach's face.

A shudder ran through the prostrate figure, but it did not move again; and the Stone Rider turned his horse and rode from the room. The light followed him, and we were again in semi-darkness.

Then I lit a candle and rang for Auberthal and the servants.

*      *      *      *

Whether the story of the murder was correct or not, I cannot say. It may have been the madness of a diseased imagination, or it may have been the late remorse of a criminal. At any rate, it is not for me to throw suspicion on the name of a dead man. I can only relate what I myself saw and heard. The doctor declared, and maintains to this day, that his patient was insane; and, being a doctor, he very naturally has the world on his side. But, say what he will, there is one thing he can never explain. When I lit the candle that night, and found Count Siebach von Salitz lying dead, I found also that on his forehead was the distinct print—purple and bruised—of a clenched fist. The doctor cannot explain this; perhaps I can. For what could it be if it was not left by the gauntlet of the Stone Rider?

"I ... FOUND COUNT SIEBACH VON SALITZ LYING DEAD."

MAKING A MODERN NEWSPAPER.

SOME SECRETS REVEALED

BY ALFRED C. HARMSWORTH, Editor of the Daily Mail.

FROM FOREST—

WHEN you casually and carelessly open your newspaper of a morning, how often do you realise, even if you are aware, that it is the product of a score of busy organisations, with tentacles spread over the whole world, the operation of which involves the best brains and machinery of the age; that unlimited capital and thought are devoted to its daily production; that its continual appearance has created a new class of men who work at night and sleep by day; that its distribution requires the use of special trains, and the gathering of its news the opening at night of telegraph, cable, and telephone offices; that the public appetite for reading is sweeping away vast Scandinavian and American forests for the manufacture of the wood pulp of which the paper itself is made; and that the very journal you are reading may have formed part of a growing tree a month ago!

In the days of wagers, the wool growing on a sheep's back was once converted into a dresscoat by dinner-time—and they dined at four o'clock then! In the last few years a not dissimilar experiment resulted in the conversion of a tree that was growing at dawn into a newspaper by luncheon.

Your daily newspaper is the best bargain you will ever make, and you make it every day. Do you grasp the fact that your newspaper is the most splendid example of co-operation imaginable—that it enables you to obtain for a few pence each week that which, if only one copy were printed, would cost you, for telegraphy, for brain work, for machinery and building and land, a thousand pounds a day or more? The Duke of Westminster or Mr. Astor might buy a better horse, picture, or theatre seat than you can, but your newspaper is as good as theirs.

According to Mr. Labouchere and some other folk, the mystery of the press is the secret of its power. Yet I venture to think that if I lift the curtain a little—nay more, if I take the public behind the scenes for a short while—I shall be increasing rather than endangering the respect in which the newspaper press is very properly held in this country.

In the days when many newspapers were small sheets, produced in dark alleys, under the charge of disreputable ne'er-do-wells, who veiled a vast amount of vulgarity under the name of Bohemianism, it was doubtless a wise thing to surround the press with mystery. The less the public knew about a newspaper office the better for the newspaper. But to-day the public press is the concentration of all that is best in thought and all that is most modern in mechanism.

—TO FLEET STREET.

A three mile roll of paper.

HOW THE NEWS COMES—BY CABLE, TELEGRAPH, TELEPHONE, ETC.

The internal construction of a newspaper office is almost as complicated as that of a battleship—the duties of a modern editor as onerous as those of the man in the conning tower.

Let us take a hasty glance at the inside life of a journal.

A newspaper office is one of the few business establishments in which the human machinery is at work the whole twenty-four hours round. The business department, which requires the same staff as is needed in an insurance office or bank, starts its operations, as a rule, at nine in the morning, when the heads and clerks of the advertising, circulation, and other departments assemble.

With them arrives the first of the editorial staff. He, in the case of one newspaper with which I am acquainted, relieves the colleague who has been on duty since the previous midnight. It is his duty to open the editorial letters, to watch the news of the day, to see whether the particular journal on which he is engaged has gained or lost by comparison with its competitors in the collection of news, and to arrange matters generally for the coming of his co-workers, the foreign editor, and others, who assemble at eleven o'clock.

By this hour many of the reporters are already engaged in their multifarious engagements in various parts of the metropolis. The preparation of the next day's paper goes on steadily until five o'clock, when there is usually a brief conference of the editorial powers that be on the policy to be adopted on any particular event, and the methods required for obtaining any particular news or other features, and then, at six o'clock, the hard work of the day commences.

The clerks, who have been receiving and checking advertisements all day, have sent them to the printing department, where advertisers' announcements are being put into print as rapidly as nimble fingers can operate quick machinery, and then, save for the presence of one or two clerks, the advertisement and commercial side of a newspaper "shuts down" for the day. The sub-editors appear, reporters come in with the results of their day's labours, news arrives by the tape and other news machines in a constantly increasing quantity for the next nine hours. First comes the news from China or India. The Indian correspondent puts his telegram on the wire at eight or nine o'clock in Bombay, which is equal to four o'clock in the afternoon in London; and this difference of time, even allowing a couple of hours for transmission, makes him always first in the field with his news. But, on the other hand, the American news will not arrive until very late indeed, for when it is seven o'clock in the evening at New York it is midnight here.

"How do you manage to find all the little pieces of news to put into your paper?" is a question that must have been asked of every journalist.

That is not the difficulty. One's heaviest task is the keeping out of the items of news. On an average day it is safe to estimate that twice or thrice as much intelligence comes to a newspaper as it can possibly use. At times like, say, the last Jubilee, or at any moment of public excitement, news pours in in a manner appalling to contemplate.

OLD STYLE.

(Setting type by hand at 10 words per minute.)

The wonder is that there are so few mistakes in journals. When it is remembered that those who handle and pass the news have often but a second to decide as to its accuracy, that it often comes from parts of the world to which it is impossible to refer speedily by telegram, that it frequently consists of statements made by public men, who may disavow them when put to the test—when it is remembered that the sub-editor has to contend with the errors of shorthand, of the telegraph, the electric cable, and the telephone, I think that British newspapers, and London metropolitan newspapers in particular, are an object lesson to the world in accuracy. Laborious publications like the Army List, and the London Gazette, which are compiled by a leisurely Government staff, contain as many errors in proportion as the hastily produced modern newspaper.

NEW STYLE.

(Setting type by machinery at 40 words per minute.)

Accuracy, indeed, may be considered to be the feature of English journalism. The stress of newspaper competition in New York induces the younger journals to rush anything into type that comes to hand, and the American public does not seem to mind it.

But I pity the English journal which should print one or two items of false news. The average Briton, who is a plodding, painstaking man, takes his newspaper as seriously as his breakfast, and one or two mistakes in his newspaper, or his eggs, would make him change his caterer. He has no sympathy for "enterprise" which leads him astray. And from this fact arises one of the differences between the English and the American newspaper. From the American aspect, ours is dull, slow, stupid, and behind the times. On the other hand our journals are typical of the painstaking, plodding nature of our people, and, like our public buildings, are often much better than they look.

DISTRIBUTING CARTS WAITING FOR THE EVENING PAPER TO COME FROM THE MACHINES.

To return to our visit to the newspaper office. All the evening long as news arrives it is cut down and measured as to its importance, corrected, given its proper heading, and sent upstairs by pneumatic or other lifts to the composing department. Towards eleven o'clock at night every brain is concentrated on its task. At one o'clock the worst is over. There is time for a cigar or a cigarette. One may be waiting for important news from a war correspondent, or merely keeping the paper open for any news that may arrive between one and three in the morning.

CYCLIST DISTRIBUTORS "LOADING UP."

The type is first set into columns by machinery, corrected and re-corrected; these columns are then made up into pages, which are again corrected, each page being tightly screwed into an iron frame (I am purposely using no technicalities). A papier maché or other mould is then taken of each page, and into this mask (or matrix) hot metal is poured, and the pages come out in the form of curved plates ready for fixing on the machines. It is a difficult process to explain without ocular demonstration, and I have been so long accustomed to the work that I have lost all sense of its beauty and ingenuity.

Towards three o'clock in the morning all the curved plates have been fixed on the machines; final proof copies—that is to say, first impressions of the paper—have been passed; the machines start, and up come complete copies of the paper as you see it at the breakfast table, the club, or in the railway train.

The first complete copies are carefully scanned by dozens of eager eyes in the hope of finding some tiny blunder which it is not too late to remove.

Each of these modern printing presses depicted here has a nominal capacity of 48,000, or 96,000 copies per hour, according to the size of the paper.

THE MACHINE WHICH EATS PAPER AT THE RATE OF 20 MILES AN HOUR.

It is a speed truly terrific. The carts that are waiting outside the newspaper office in the night seem to be filled almost by magic. One hears the machinery start; a few minutes later the race for the distributing agents and the railway trains begins. Upstairs such of the editorial staff as have not gone home are enjoying the same kind of chat at the conclusion of their labours as other men do at their clubs. Nor are we newspaper men clubless even at that hour. The Press Club, hard by Fleet Street, keeps its doors open for journalists until five a.m.; and for the printers and others there are special hostelries open to them, and to them only, by legal enactment. Railway companies, too, provide trains for us, though not so many as they should, thus enabling us to get away from the city to the pure air of the suburbs at a time when all the world is sleeping.

HOW THE PAPERS COME UP FROM THE "INFERNAL REGIONS."

Newspapers are commercial concerns, and their proprietors are as anxious to attractively stock their columns as tradesmen their shop windows. We do not say so in our journals, but privately we are entirely aware that we are racing each other for attractive news. As to what does or does not sell in a newspaper, always an important question, opinions differ greatly. I doubt whether any two editors of metropolitan daily journals would agree on that point, the fact being that what pleases one audience does not necessarily interest another. Sometimes a newspaper will adopt a feature that has proved successful in a contemporary with most disappointing results in its own case. Now and then a particular feature will spread throughout the whole press. At one time the public is bent upon foreign news, at another time upon matters purely domestic, but I think all are agreed that the average metropolitan reader nowadays turns to his foreign news before he reads anything else. Two or three years ago there appeared to be a positive craze for sporting intelligence. To-day mere sporting news seems to have lost much of its attraction. The year before last the amount of cricket in the evening journals was a source of amazement. This year I venture to think cricket will reach its proper level.

PAPERS BEING TURNED OUT COMPLETE, FOLDED, COUNTED, AND READY FOR THE AGENTS—AT THE RATE OF 48,000 COPIES PER HOUR.

But that every section of the public values the quick and accurate publication of news is obvious. The desire for speed increases each year, and it is now recognised that the main object of a modern newspaper organisation is the collection of news and the accurate and speedy publication thereof. Incidentally it may be mentioned that of the quickness with which this is performed by the press, the evening journals in particular, few of the public have the least appreciation. I have known the verdict of a trial, the result of a cricket match, or a boat race, published to the world within ten seconds of the arrival of the news in the newspaper office. The statement seems incredible, but the thing can be done in more than one newspaper office in London and the provinces.

AN EDITORIAL CONCLAVE.

(Deciding the policy of the paper.)

I have asked for and obtained an item of news from New York in seven minutes. In this space of time was comprised the writing of my question in London, its transmission to New York, the writing of the news there, and the telegraphing of it back to London.

The British evening journals, and more especially those of the provinces, and Scotland, are, in my opinion, ahead of the world in the rapidity with which they publish accurate information.

We newspaper men love to chat among ourselves of great examples of the publication of exclusive news, "beats" and "scoops," we call them. One of the most successful was that achieved by the Pall Mall Gazette when it announced, in the teeth of press and official denials innumerable, the resignation of Mr. Gladstone. I was in the United States at the time, and can truly say that for well-nigh a month the Pall Mall Gazette was advertised day after day by a contradictory telegram in every paper in the United States. It is said that £500 was paid for that item of intelligence. It would have been cheap at £5,000.

Another great achievement was the publication by the New York World of news of the sinking of H.M.S. Victoria. It is not pleasant for the British journalist to remember that the full account first appeared in a journal published on the other side of the Atlantic, and that that account was retransmitted to England. Then among other sensational news victories were those of the Times correspondent at Pekin, in the recent Far Eastern imbroglio, and of Mr. Archibald Forbes at the time of the Franco-Prussian war.

The present generation has almost forgotten a great newspaper development of a generation back. Nearly thirty years ago the whole world was wondering what had become of Dr. Livingstone. Many attempts were made to find him; there were private and semi-official hunts for the missing missionary, but without avail. Then the Daily Telegraph and the New York Herald despatched Mr. Stanley, who found him at Ujiji. Next to the splendid war work of Sir W. H. Russell during the Crimea, Stanley's work was the best expeditionary journey of the century. More recently we have seen great feats of newspaper enterprise, both in this country and the United States, grow out of the Hispano-American war. War news will probably always be a newspaper's greatest luxury.

FLEET STREET BEFORE DAWN.

The Sheffield Daily Telegraph did a very big thing in 1867. I extract an account of the accomplishment from a recent publication:

"At that time, although few outsiders suspected it, there existed in Sheffield a British Vehmgericht—of which a man named Broadhead, secretary of the Sawgrinders' Union, was president—for the secret trial and punishment of non-unionist workmen. The Telegraph, acting on private and dearly-bought information, attacked this organisation, Sir William Leng, of course, finding the money, and often personally conducting the necessary investigations. It was a delicate as well as a dangerous task, as he soon found to his cost.

"One of his reporters was bludgeoned and left for dead in one of the principal streets of the town, and in broad daylight. The house in which another lodged was blown up with gunpowder. His own life was threatened day by day, and often many times a day. His leaders were written with a revolver on his desk and another strapped to his hip, and for nearly a year he never went abroad unarmed. At length the famous Royal Commission of 1867 was appointed, with the result that the secret horrors Sir William had so fearlessly denounced were dragged into the light of day. All England stood aghast, and the arch-villain Broadhead, together with Crookes, Hallam, and others of his tools, made full confession in order to save their own miserable necks. The power of the terrible tribunal was broken for ever; but the exposure cost the Telegraph, from first to last, some eighteen thousand pounds."

Sir William Leng's daring calls to mind that of Mr. Ross, of Black and White, who as a young man went through an experience that, while it proved a stepping-stone to his fortune (for he made nearly £1,000 by his exclusive telegrams to the press), thrilled the world for a very long time. The following is an account of the matter given me by a friend of his:—

In the memorable winter of 1880, when the snow lay so deep along the lines of the North that trains passed through tunnels of ice, and towns were isolated for days, a gruesome incident happened.

The Earl of Balcarres died at Florence, and the body, having been embalmed, was conveyed by tedious stages to Aberdeen, thence to be consigned to the mausoleum which formed part of the magnificent mansion at Dunecht, upon which the deceased Earl had spent twenty years of thought and "tons of money."

A hearse, of the lugubrious type one is accustomed to see in country towns, had been sent to await the belated train at Aberdeen, and the body was duly transferred, not without difficulty, for the bulk of the suite of coffins was a little greater than village hearses are made to meet. The weary ten mile journey was undertaken in the dark, amid a downfall of snow, over the bleak road that leads from the granite city to the village of Skene. Progress was slow, the night grew darker and stormier; the snow drifted in wreaths across the road; the horses became exhausted; the men in charge did their utmost for a time, but it seemed as if, in the words of the national poet, "the De'il had business on his hand." Hearse and horses became embedded in a bank of snow, and further effort was futile; the body had to be abandoned for the night.

On the following day the storm abated, assistance arrived, the vehicle was extricated, and the body was conveyed to Dunecht. There the funeral service was conducted in the chapel which is built over the family vault, and with little ceremony and few attendants the body was deposited on one of the shelves of the underground structure which was intended to be the tomb of the family to which its first tenant, the noble Earl, belonged.

A CORNER OF MESSRS. W. H. SMITH AND SON'S HEADQUARTERS IN LONDON AT 3.30 A.M.

The weird circumstances attending the Lord Balcarres' death and funeral were almost fittingly followed by events of unparalleled mystery. Twelve months almost to a day had transpired when a heavy odour of spices attracted the attention of the servants moving about the mansion. On examination it was found that the huge slab of stone which covered the doorway leading into the vault had been disturbed. The stone—seemingly heavy enough to require the strength of a dozen men to move it—had been lifted, the vault had been entered, the coffin "pinched" forward till it rested on the floor, the lid had been torn off, the two inner cases had been rent, the body removed, and the floor of the vault was strewn with the red sawdust by which the embalming fluid had been absorbed. Here was a mystery indeed.

The first hint of what had happened appeared in the papers on Saturday. The young Earl was telegraphed for, and outposts of police were established round the house, with instructions that no one was to be admitted, and no information was to be vouchsafed. One enterprising young journalist—Mr. W. D. Ross—who at that time was editing the principal evening paper in Aberdeen, resolved to break the silence by which his contemporaries were baffled. He secured the co-operation of one of the servants on the estate to whom he was known, and, deeming boldness best, found his way to the house, and demanded an audience of the Earl. The housekeeper, after some demur, consented. Plain-spoken tact was necessary in dealing with so delicate a matter; so when the Earl appeared, the young man explained that he was there as the representative of the Times (of which he was then the correspondent) to consult the young peer's wishes as to what should be said about this mysterious matter, with a view to obviate malicious and mistaken versions.

Lord Balcarres wisely accepted this considerate method, and, despite the orders that had been issued, gave special facilities to the pressman to examine the vault and obtain the facts so far as they could be obtained at the time. The first result was that Mr. Ross secured the monopoly of information, and also the monopoly of the telegraph wires at Aberdeen, and on Monday morning all the papers throughout the country published columns on the Dunecht mystery. It was this publicity that eventuall resulted in the partial elucidation of the mystery.

REPORTERS GLEANING "FULLEST DETAILS OF THE CRIME."

For days and weeks the telegraph officials at Aberdeen were kept busy transmitting the reams of "copy" which, in his capacity of half detective and half reporter, this young man had prepared. Mr. Ross probed the matter minutely, and, apart from his important police work, so thoroughly was his newspaper task accomplished, that over thirty leading daily papers passed their correspondence into his hands. Through the various phases of the mystery, ample orders and handsome revenue poured into him, since sub-editors put no stint on the quantities of matter of vital interest furnished for the public under the heading of "The Dunecht Outrage." The sensation was kept up by speculation, searches by bloodhounds, police investigations, arrests, body-snatching theories, suggestions of black-mail, of malice, and every kind of motive, for twelve months.

During this time, the newspaper man, whose detective work was considered of the greatest value by the police, became an important medium between the parties supposed to be concerned and the detective staff of the city, a position of very considerable personal danger.

Then the interest died away, till in July of 1882, eighteen months after the rifling of the tomb, the body was found buried in the leaf mould that lay in the dry bed of a little rivulet that at one time had run through the grounds at Dunecht.

Public interest was again kept at high tension by the curiosity of the people to account for the motive of the outrage. Then came the apprehension of suspected persons, afterwards liberated, and finally of one named Souter, who was convicted in the High Court at Edinburgh and sentenced to penal servitude. The conviction hardly met the justice of the case, for it was obvious that there must have been a group of grave-robbers at work.

One of the most curious things about the case was that the police informed Mr. Ross that they believed it was the intention of the guilty parties to make a confession, and that they had elected to make him the medium of it. It was actually arranged that the parties were to travel to Aberdeen by a certain train to reveal the whole mystery, but for reasons that have never transpired this plan was subject to sudden eclipse, and to this day the mystery remains as much a mystery as ever. The unfortunate man Souter, whose actual guilt was greatly doubted, called upon Mr. Ross the moment he was set at liberty, and through him communicated to the Press a circumstantial repudiation of his own responsibility, and promised that what he knew about the crime and the criminals would ultimately be revealed when considerations of honour which had kept him silent could be removed.

This is the story of the famous mystery which formed one of the most thrilling newspaper sensations of modern times, and which created for the present manager of Black and White a reputation for enterprise which has lasted till to-day.

IN THE EDITOR'S PRIVATE OFFICE—"I HAVE AN IMPORTANT SECRET TO SELL!"

Of a hundred interesting sides of newspaper life I have been unable to say anything. The dangers of war correspondents—the humours of the society column, and the people who want to get into it—the financial editor—the lady journalist—the parliamentary staff—the descriptive reporter—the newspaper artist—the £ s. d. of journalism—each and all of these, and many more, would make a paper of considerable interest; and Mr. Joseph Hatton should write his "Journalistic London" anew, for the whole newspaper position has changed since his last edition.

The sub-editor and the descriptive reporter appear to me to be the men upon whom the chief work of the journalism of the future will fall. In France, where they do many things well, such masters as Zola have raised descriptive newspaper writing to the level of an art. Here, save in the case of war correspondence and parliamentary work, we have not specialised much as yet. A descriptive reporter, as one of the artists who has illustrated this little chat of mine suggests, may be sent out to describe a murder trial, a fire, an execution, or interview a great novelist!

We shall improve by-and-by. The old verbatim reporter will always remain, but he must give way to the descriptive writer in many matters.

Touching the question of the publishing of great secrets—such as that of Mr. Gladstone's retirement already referred to—I claim for the newspaper press of Britain that it refrains from publishing news calculated to needlessly injure or offend. How well do we know the fair visitant who comes to us with some great scandal to sell, and who becomes almost indignant when she is politely shown out. Women, I fear, are more versed in this matter than men.

Out with the River Police.

SOME DAYS IN THE LIFE OF A NEWS-GATHERER.

A murder trial.

A railway accident.

A political meeting.

An execution.

A colliery disaster.

Interviewing a distinguished novelist.

A fire.

THEIR MOTOR-CAR ELOPEMENT,

AND HOW IT ENDED.

BY EDGAR JEPSON.

Illustrated by H. R. Millar.

THE atmosphere of the room was charged almost with storm; there was a thrill upon its air, the thrill of pent emotion. Jack stood gazing out of the window; Kitty sat by the fire looking at his broad back almost hungrily, a craving for the clasp of his arms rending her, her hands clenched to the whitening of her finger-nails in the effort to keep control of her feelings.

"What's the use of having fifty thousand a year, if I can't marry the man I want!" she cried, fiercely.

At her words a sudden spasm of pain caught his breath, and twisted his averted face; but he made shift to say in his usual drawl—

"It does seem rather hard lines, little girl. Who is it?"

"Don't call me little girl! I believe you think I'm still a child!" said Kitty.

"Very well, very well—madam. Who is the man? Young Malmesford?"

"As if I should tell you!" cried Kitty.

"Well, you sent for me. I thought you wanted my advice or help, or something, don't you know!" said Jack.

"I want help badly enough," said Kitty; and he turned sharply at her tone to see that her face was very pale in the frame of her black hair. "But how could you help me in this? How could anyone help me? I oughtn't even to talk about it to you!"

"Oh, yes; you ought!" he said, quickly. "You've always talked about everything to me!" He paused awhile, then added, and he could not keep the sadness out of his voice, "So you want someone else to talk to about everything? Who is it? I'll deal with him all right." The last words came savagely.

"Oh!" cried Kitty, "I believe you'd order him to marry me, and thrash him if he refused!"

"I'd see that he did it!" said Jack, with the same savage earnestness.

A silence fell upon them; Kitty's thoughts seemed to grow more distressful, for now and again she sighed; Jack stared out of the window, and watched the deepening twilight blacken the park; it seemed to him that this confession of Kitty's was so blackening his life; the night was settling down upon it.

"Jack—do you—do you remember—about two years ago—you stopped kissing me. Why—why did you do it?" said Kitty, softly; she seemed to have wandered from the point. He turned to her; the glow of the fire alone lit the room now; and she was sitting full in it. Her face was still pale.

"CLENCHING HIS FIST AND BANGING IT ON THE TABLE."

"Oh," he said, in discomfort, "you weren't a child any more. And you were a great heiress—and I was your friend and guardian—and all that sort of thing, don't you know!"

"Poor Jack! You're very poor, aren't you, Jack?"

"No, I'm not! I'm rolling in riches! I've four hundred a year!" said Jack, bitterly. "Besides, there's the Colonial Land Agency; I made twenty pounds out of that last year."

"What's four hundred a year with your tastes?" queried Kitty.

"Look here! don't let's talk about me. What about this fellow?" said Jack, clenching his fist and banging it on the table.

"You should never have left Westralia. You kept your horses, you got your sport; you were on the way to becoming the big man of the district," said Kitty, not to be diverted from her theme. "Do you remember what a swell you were when you first found me, six—no, seven—I'm always forgetting that I'm nineteen—years ago, and how poor father and I were? Do you know I should never have been anything but a wild bush-girl if you hadn't taken me in hand and looked after me? Really you taught me everything! I believe that but for that I might have worn the wrong clothes!"

"Oh, nonsense! You were born all right," said Jack.

"Oh, yes, you did," said Kitty. "And when three years ago the gold was found, and father made his million, and died, appointing you my guardian, and you thought I ought to come to England and have some schooling, I believe you left Westralia just for my sake, to look after me."

"One always comes back to England," said Jack, quickly.

"You wouldn't have come but for that," said Kitty.

"Oh, yes, I should. Of course I should."

"I always thought it strange that father didn't leave you a few thousands a year for your trouble in looking after me and my fortune," said Kitty.

"He knew jolly well I shouldn't have taken it," said Jack, hotly.

There was a pause; and then she said thoughtfully—

"Do you know I believe father thought you would fall in love with me and marry me? Wasn't it a funny idea?" said Kitty.

"Oh, v—v—very funny! Very funny!" said Jack, grinding his teeth softly.

"Yes; just think of your age. Why, you'll be twenty-eight on the tenth of March," said Kitty.

"Oh! So it's that young fool Malmesford, is it?" said Jack, viciously.

"What's that young fool Malmesford?" asked the innocent Kitty.

"Look here," said Jack, in a quiet, strained voice, "we're getting away from the point. You want to marry a man; and I'm to make him marry you. Who is he?"

"Ah," said Kitty, plaintively, with a long-drawn breath, "now I see why you're so keen about it. You want to get rid of me. You are tired of the trouble of looking after my stupid investments. Well, I'm sure I don't wonder at it. You want to marry me off, and have done with it. I wouldn't have sent for you if I'd known; I've only added to your trouble."

"Well," said the goaded Jack, "thank goodness you'll be of age in two years; and then I sha'n't be plagued like this."

"SHE SET DELIBERATELY TO WORK TO FILE THROUGH THE HANDLE."

"Plagued," said Kitty, "how plagued? I'm so sorry. How was I to know you wanted to be rid of the trouble of me and my fortune? You never grumbled before."

"Oh, your fortune! I tell you I've wished a thousand times that every investment of yours went to smash, and you lost every penny of it! So there! I'll just leave you for awhile to make up your mind whether you're going to tell me who the man is, or not!" He flung out of the room in a heat, and banged the door.

Kitty laughed a little low laugh of extreme relief; but her eyes were all shining; and she said with a little shiver, "He loves me—he does—he does—he does!!!"

Presently she rose, with a very resolute face, took a hat and coat from a peg in the hall, went out of the back-door, and down to the stables. She went into a coach-house, switched on the electric light above her motor-car, and considered it thoughtfully. It was a big car, with something of the air of a trap, built to hold two. Then she went to the box of tools used for its machinery, and selecting a fine file stepped into the car, and set deliberately to work to file through the handle of the lever which started and stopped it. Her Australian life had made her a capital work-woman, and she did it neatly; but it was a long piece of work, and now and again she stopped to test it. She wished to file through it, so that she could break it with a jerk. All the while she worked she whistled softly. Something about her task seemed to amuse her.

At last she completed it to her liking, and then sat back in the car, weighing, with a face that grew very serious, the risks of the dangerous game she had resolved to play. After a long while she rose and said between her teeth, "I don't care if we are smashed, Jack and I, together."

She came back to the house, went to him in the billiard-room, and said, "We're going to dine at the Hall to-night. Aunt will go in the brougham, and you and I in the motor-car."

"I hate the beastly thing. I know there will be a smash some day," he said. His temper was still ruffled.

"KITTY AND THE MARQUIS WERE PLAINLY GREAT FRIENDS."

"Very well," said Kitty, gently. "You go with aunt, and I will go in the car by myself."

"I'll be shot if I do!" said Jack; then he said, "I suppose Malmesford will be there?"

"I suppose he will," said Kitty, very demurely. "But why do you speak so contemptuously of your cousin?"

"I didn't choose my cousins, did I?" said Jack.

"You're very irritable to-day," said Kitty, severely, and she left him.

Later, as they were settling themselves in the motor-car, Jack, still captious, said, "How many more rugs? are we going to the North Pole?"

Kitty's heart jumped: they might be going a good deal further: she only said, "There are ten degrees of frost already; and it isn't like a closed carriage."

She handled the lever very gingerly, and brought them to the Hall safely. Jack did not enjoy the dinner. Kitty and the Marquis of Malmesford were plainly great friends: she had never, indeed, been so nice to him before. Jack tried to regard their friendship with the eye of an indulgent guardian, hardened, as he believed himself, to the thought of her marrying; he made a very poor hand at it. He had accustomed himself, indeed, to looking at her across the great gulf of her wealth; but the sight of another man making fortunate love to her awoke in him a desperate jealousy.

They were late leaving the Hall; and it was a bitter black frost. Aunt Anne started first in her brougham, and then Kitty, in a long sealskin jacket and sealskin cape, walked down between Jack and Malmesford to the stables, where the motor-car awaited them. Jack wrapped the rugs round her very carefully, and took his seat at her side; she cried a careless "Good-night!" to Malmesford, and started the car gently. As they turned into the road at the end of the drive, she moved the lever nearly to full speed, and with a sharp jerk of her strong little wrist snapped off the handle.

"SHE MOVED THE LEVER NEARLY TO FULL SPEED."

"What's that?" said Jack.

"Oh, Jack!" she cried, with an odd, excited thrill in her voice, "I've smashed the handle, and we can't stop!"

"Good Heavens!" cried Jack, and threw his arm around her.

The speed began to quicken.

"The lever's nearly at full speed," said Kitty, quietly. "What are we to do?"

His arm tightened round her, and the alternatives raced through his mind. "We must strike the Great North Road at Anderfield, and heaven forgive any one who gets in our way!" he said.

"Six miles and two turns," said Kitty; "but it's our only chance."

The hedges were flying past. The first turn was two miles away, and they were very soon on it. Kitty put on all the brake she could; and they came round it safely. They came down hill to the second turn: fortunately it was not sharp: a long hill fairly steep, and, for all the brake, the machine went quicker and quicker until it seemed almost to fly, scarcely touching the ground. The hedge of the other side of the Great North Road sprang suddenly up before them: they seemed almost on it; Jack, with his heart in his mouth, lifted Kitty half out of her seat as they whizzed round the corner on two wheels: the car settled with a jerk that proved the strength of its springs, and they ripped down the Great North Road.

Kitty laughed a short hysterical laugh.

"I thought we'd gone to glory together!" she said: and they both lay back panting.

"How far are we going?" said Jack.

"It won't stop for fifty miles," said Kitty.

"Good Lord!" said Jack. "Can't I do anything? Let me get at the machinery."

"You can do nothing!" said Kitty, sharply.

For a long while neither said a word. The car sped along with a querulous, eerie whirr that rose to a clattering snarl as it hurtled down hill. The cold air stung their faces; the hedges were level, black walls on either side; now and again they flew through a sleeping village; and the dogs who ran out to bark, turned and fled yelping from this sinister, rushing monster. Kitty's firm hand steered them steadily, save when the car jerked snarling down hill, out of control; now and again she set the whistle hooting. Jack sat with his mind in a whirl of fears of what might befall her. Little by little the oppression of a nightmare began to weigh upon them as a binding spell.

Jack broke it by withdrawing his arm from around her, and lighting a cigar; he did not slip his arm back.

Presently she said softly, "Hold me again, Jack, I feel safer"—his arm slipped round her—"I feel—I feel—as if some dreadful beast were carrying us away."

She looked infinitely childlike; and he gripped her closer.

"Poor aunt Anne, she'll think we've had a smash, as indeed we may," she said presently.

"By Jove, yes; they'll be hunting the neighbourhood for us!" said Jack.

"As for Lord Malmesford, he'll think you've run away with me," said Kitty.

"Oh, nonsense!" said Jack, uneasily.

"He will though. Juliette Halliwell will tell him so. I saw her get very angry at the affectionate way you were looking at me at dinner," said Kitty.

"I wasn't!" said Jack.

"Oh, yes, you were; ever so affectionately. What kind of affection was it, Jack—paternal?"

"Talk of something else!" said Jack, in a thick voice; and nestling against him, she felt him quiver and his heart shake him at each thumping beat.

Some miles further on the lights of a town rose suddenly a little way ahead. Kitty set the whistle hooting, and slowed the car as much as she could, but even then they dashed down the long silent street at a very dangerous pace. It was fortunate that it was empty. They were a mile beyond it before they breathed easily again, and Kitty said, "What town was that?"

"I don't know," said Jack. "We're five-and-twenty miles from home."

"THEY RUSHED TOWARDS THE WAGGON."

The road stretched far away ahead, very white in the moonlight; and the feeling that the car was a malignant living creature came upon them more oppressively than ever, wearing their nerves.

Kitty nestled closer to him—a fear that her desperate freak would have a tragic end invading and filling her heart. They rushed up a long hill—the car seemed to breast it like a strong demon—and at the top saw before them a long steep descent.

"Now the brute's going to have all its own way," said Kitty, between her clenched teeth.

"Never mind, little girl," said Jack, cheerily, "sit tight." If she had not been there, he felt that he would have enjoyed the danger; as it was, he sat in torture.

"It is out of control!" cried Kitty; and, peering ahead: "There's—there's a waggon at the bottom of the hill!"

The whistle hooted and hooted; she gave the car the brake; and at each leap it jarred every bone in her body. They rushed towards the waggon; if the waggon was not on its right side of the road, they were smashed: they were upon it; Kitty screamed out; there was a snapping crash; then they were rushing along the empty road with the left splash-board torn off. Kitty lay back in a dead faint. Jack caught the steering-gear in his right hand, raised Kitty with his left arm, and twisted into her place, holding her on his knees. The car began to slacken and go smoother up the opposite hill; in three minutes it was steady again. Kitty lay heavy and still in his arms, her face very white in the moonlight; her faint breathing scarce parted her lips.

Uphill and downhill, through villages, through another town the car fled on. Now and again Kitty murmured a word, now she seemed to sleep. The night was wearing on. At last it seemed to him that the beast was tiring; and he scarce dared believe it. But breasting the next long hill it slowed and slowed; its moan hushed; it came to a crawl. Thirty yards from the top it stopped a moment, moved on again, then stopped for good. For all its danger he sighed that their ride was at an end. Kitty never stirred; he gave her a little shake; and she sighed too, and raised herself. They looked down on a great stretch of country; here and there the dim twinkling showed the lights of a town.

"KITTY LAY STILL IN HIS ARMS."

"There are some biscuits and a flask of cherry brandy, if it isn't broken, in the box of your seat," said Kitty, slipping into the place at his side. He fished them out unharmed, and they munched the biscuits, and drank from the flask by turns.

He looked at his watch, and said, "Ten past three! By Jove, we've had a narrow squeak!"

"Three in the morning, and miles from anywhere. I'm hopelessly compromised," said Kitty.

Jack knitted his brows, thinking it out; he could not gainsay it. He said nothing. "Oh!" said Kitty, almost in a wail, "I thought you were a man of honour, Jack."

"Well?" said Jack.

"There is only one course open to you," said Kitty.

"Well, I suppose there is," said Jack, a little stiffly. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes: I will—I must—I must," said Kitty, with a deep sigh.

Presently she said in a very low voice, "Have you no sense of what is fitting?" As she spoke she looked into his eyes, swiftly and away.

He caught her to him, and kissed her; it seemed to him that her lips were responsive.

A sudden jealous pang wrung his heart. "But—but—the other man: the man you want to marry?" he said.

"Ah, yes," said Kitty, carelessly—"the other man. It's no use talking about him now. Let us forget him. I will tell you about him when—when—we are married."

She threw her arms round his neck and whispered, "Do you think you will learn to love me, Jack?"

He pressed her to him and cried passionately, "For four years I have loved you more and more every day. Every day I have cursed your money more!"

"Poor Jack!" said Kitty, and her eyes were full of tears. He lifted her out of the car, putting his arm round her, and supporting her; and they began to walk down the hill in search of a railway station, careless, in the glow of their happiness, of that bitter cold, and of the inevitable long wait for a train.

HOW WE GET OUR WEATHER.

BY GAVIN MACDONALD.

With photographs illustrating the queer side of the matter.

IN most of the morning papers we are accustomed to the luxury of a detailed weather report and forecast. The majority glance at it with a sceptical smile. They are of opinion that in order to be on the safe side they must invert its message. If fine weather and sunshine are predicted, they sagely nod and take down the homely gamp. The prediction of a hurricane or stormy showers is the signal for leaving umbrellas and overcoats at home.

However, those who know anything of the gigantic strides meteorology has made within the past few years are aware that in the main its prognostications are accurate. In fact, it is a matter for great surprise that its practical uses are not more generally recognised and taken advantage of.

If you meet your best friend in the street his first six words contain some reference to the weather. The merest stranger looks questioningly at the sky when he has made his bow. Two-thirds of the daily conversation of the British Isles has to do with this subject; nor is this surprising, for it is a matter of vital importance, affecting all classes alike.

CHURCH LIFTED INTO THE AIR BY A TORNADO AND DROPPED ROOF-DOWN ON A HOUSE 100 FEET AWAY.

A wet Bank Holiday may mean thousands of pounds out of a railway company's pocket, not to mention the disappointment and chagrin of countless thousands of prospective holiday makers. A severe frost may disorganise a whole trade. In 1881, for instance, the whole building trade was at a standstill for a period of nearly three weeks, owing to the severity of the frost. And to the farmers, horticulturists, and fruit-growers the weather is a matter of financial life or death.

Meteorology is of invaluable assistance in other ways: in warning our coasts of coming storms; in deciding the climate and consequent healthfulness of the different parts of the country.

You can't even build a new town successfully without it, for only by accurate meteorological observation can the two most important factors of water-supply and sewerage be dealt with. For example, in planning a new waterworks, the ground subject to the greatest rainfall, and having the utmost gathering capacity, must be selected; while in constructing the system of sewerage, it is essential for the surveyor to accurately gauge the force and volume of the heaviest thunder-shower. If this is miscalculated, pipes of insufficient capacity may be laid with disastrous results to the city and its inhabitants.

These things are only to be learned by a study of meteorology.

Few people have any knowledge of the science beyond that supplied them by the forecasts and charts in the daily papers. Consequently the charts, which are more or less abstruse, are only understood by the few, and the forecasts are indulgently tolerated as a description of useless fortune-telling, rendered respectable by scientific recognition.

The popular idea seems to be that certain scientific men who have given the subject considerable study, cast a knowing eye on the evening sky, and pass on written prognostications for use in the morning papers.

HOUSES WRECKED BY A TORNADO.

As a matter of fact the method by which we obtain our weather reports and forecasts is very different, and savours even more strongly of romance than the clairvoyant system usually identified with the seers of the weather office.

Two institutions look after our weather—the Meteorological Office, a Government department with a grant of £15,000 per annum, and the Royal Meteorological Society, a scientific institution maintained by the subscriptions and donations of its members.

The Meteorological Office occupies a dull set of rooms in Victoria Street over a shop, and, other than the latest weather chart, hung up outside the street door, there is nothing to intimate that the presiding wizards of the weather sit upstairs, and that if you are particularly anxious to have the latest information in their possession you have only to walk up and pay the nominal sum of one shilling.

Likewise you may receive the latest information by letter for the same fee, or by wiring to "Weather," London, the shilling fee and the cost of a telegraphic reply.

Farmers and others to whom the question of weather is a vital one, especially at the hay and harvest seasons, are supplied with harvest forecasts for the nominal sum of 2s. 6d. per quarter, in addition to the cost of the telegrams.

In addition to this, a set of forecasts is daily supplied to the newspapers, and about twenty-eight well-known agriculturists, for public exhibition in their neighbourhoods.

The system employed in making up the weather is of more than usual interest, and is worthy of some description.

In connection with the office are some 140 observing stations, including 17 belonging to the Royal Meteorological Society and 19 to the Scottish Meteorological Society. These stations are divided into classes according to the value and quantity of the observations supplied by them. Excepting the cases of telegraphic stations, which are subsidised by the central office, the observers are mostly volunteers who are interested in meteorology, and who provide their own instruments.

The office receives sixty telegraphic weather reports each morning, eighteen every afternoon, and twenty-nine each evening, in addition to an enormous mass of data supplied by volunteer and casual observers.

The forecast we are accustomed to find in our morning paper is compiled from the telegraphic reports of the subsidised stations. There is something peculiarly fascinating in the idea of the clerk of the weather scenting out a big gale and issuing a warning hours before its arrival on our coasts. One associates him with a prophet or witch, and very naturally wonders how it is done.

As a matter of fact forecast work is far from romantic, entails very great mental labour, excellent judgment, and great scientific knowledge and experience.

The forecasts are made three times a day—at 11 a.m., 3.30 p.m., and 8.30 p.m. They are, of course, based on the telegraphic reports and observations. The 8.30 p.m. forecast is made for the morning newspapers.

Among the volunteer observers are representatives of all professions. In one case a deaf and dumb gentleman presides over a station of considerable importance.

The stations themselves are mostly situated in the observers' grounds, and the surroundings of some of them are very picturesque. The stations at Rousdon and Chapel Hill, Torquay, are both beautifully situated. Princetown station is particularly interesting, because of its situation in the yard of the great Dartmoor penal establishment! We may be quite sure that its presence in such surroundings has nothing to do with the well-being of the convicts themselves, the dreary routine of whose lives is little affected by considerations of weather. In another case, the meteorological observatory is found on the tower of a church—that of Boston, Lincolnshire. Among the instruments on the tower is an electrical thermometer connected with the ground by a wire so that it may be read without the necessity of ascending. It is impossible to over-estimate the usefulness of a station such as this, situated as it is in the midst of purely agricultural country. The farmers round Boston avail themselves, it need scarcely be said, of the valuable information furnished by the mysterious little instruments on their church tower.

More interesting, perhaps, than any of these is the observatory situated in a London churchyard.

Although every day a ceaseless throng of human beings crowd and jostle in the streets of the City of London, yet it has always been difficult to obtain observations there, for the very good reason that scarcely anybody lives within its precincts. The only station of the kind is to be found in the churchyard of St. Luke's, Old Street, one of the few restful spots in this busiest corner of the world.

The highest station in Great Britain is that on the summit of Ben Nevis, 4,407 feet above the sea. The northmost station is in the Shetland Isles.

Many gentlemen among the volunteer observers are leading meteorological experts, and spend much time and money on the equipment and maintenance of their stations.

Messrs. Metcalfe, photo. Richmond, Yorks

HAILSTONES (ACTUAL SIZE) THAT FELL AT YORK, JULY 8, 1893.

A very fine private observatory is that belonging to Col. Knight, of Harestock, Winchester, of which an illustration appears on page 60.

The scaffolding in the foreground was erected for the purpose of lowering an earth thermometer into the ground. This instrument, which is constructed to register the temperature seventy feet below the surface, is contained in the wooden chamber standing at an angle to the scaffolding, and was photographed during the sinking process.

Besides the work of preparing weather reports and forecasts, the office fulfils many other functions, such as the study of ocean meteorology, climatology, and so forth. In connection with the former work, the office annually receives some hundreds of reports and observations from officers of ships of the Royal Navy and Mercantile Marine.

The fishermen and sailors round our coasts have much to thank the office for. Besides supplying all the ports with daily weather reports and forecasts, it has lent over 200 barometers to fishing villages and other places on the coast for the benefit of the seafaring population.

Fortunately in this country we suffer comparative immunity from tornados, sirrocos, cyclones, and other dangerous natural phenomena.

That we can produce something more ferocious than an April shower, however, is amply demonstrated by our illustration of two huge rents torn in a hillside at Langtoft, East Yorkshire, by the bursting of a waterspout.

Hailstorms are another great source of destruction. Most people will remember the damage caused by a hailstorm in Essex last year, when several farms and homesteads were utterly wrecked, and great numbers of cattle killed.

Many people who have not encountered the big hailstorm regard it with the cheerful scepticism with which they view the sea serpent and the abnormal gooseberry. However, by permission of the Royal Meteorological Society, we are enabled to reproduce a photograph of some of the hailstones—actual size—which fell in a great storm at York on July 8th, 1893, together with a section of corrugated iron, showing holes and damage caused by hailstones which fell in a similar storm at Tulcumbah, N.S.W., on Oct. 13th, 1892.

CORRUGATED IRON PIERCED BY HAILSTONES.

However, most people would rather lose a section of corrugated roofing than encounter the flash of lightning that struck the man whose clothes appear in the illustration on the next page. As will be seen, the clothes are literally shredded to rags, and the strong leather boots are torn as though they were tissue paper.

MIDNIGHT PHOTOGRAPH OF LIGHTNING FLASH IN SHANGHAI HARBOUR.

Photographs of lightning are no longer novel; but our picture of a flash taken at midnight in Shanghai Harbour is one of the most remarkable ever seen. It is some distance behind the anchored steamer, but the reflection on the water is so vivid as to give it the appearance of moonlight.

The tornado is a phenomenon we can very well do without, and we sincerely hope the clerk of the weather will give us ample notice of the very faintest indication that one of these inanimate monsters is coming our way.

The tornado is soon over, it is true, but hailstorms are to be preferred. On May 27th, 1893, a storm of this nature put in an appearance at Wellington, Kansas, and practically wrecked the whole city. A horse was picked up, stable and all, and blown some hundreds of yards to leeward. The stable was smashed, but curiously enough the horse came down on his feet and escaped unhurt.

CLOTHES OF MAN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING.

In the same storm the Lutheran church was lifted bodily from its foundations into the air, and fell, bottom upwards, on top of a new residence 100 feet away, as it appears in the photograph.

In another photograph are some collapsed houses, the result of a similar storm in Lawrence, U.S.A.

Although our own Meteorological Office and Society have no such startling instances to record, yet they possess much data of equal interest.

For instance, how many people know that on Dec. 4th, 1879, the thermometer registered 23 degrees below zero at a place called Black Adder, in Berwickshire? This is the greatest degree of frost ever known in Great Britain. The coldest spot in the world is Verkoianski, a town in Siberia, where 120 degrees of frost have been registered. The hottest is the Red Sea, where 120 degrees of heat are often experienced.

The hottest place in Great Britain, curiously enough, is London, or rather the Thames Valley. The wettest, Seathwaite, in the Lake District, where 8.03 inches of rainfall have been registered in 24 hours.

Taking 1 inch of rain to represent 101 tons of water per acre, it will be seen that the farmers cannot complain of drought in the Seathwaite district.

However, the greatest rainfall ever measured in this country occurred in Camden Square, London, on June 28, 1878, when 3¼ inches fell in 1½ hours.

Lately several meteorological experiments have been made with kites and balloons, which are expected to enrich the science with many new discoveries.

Many people have curious ideas of the capabilities and functions of "The clerk of the weather." Mr. Robert H. Scott. M.A., F.R.S., the gentleman at present occupying this position, in his book on "Weather Charts and Storm Warnings," tells some curious stories illustrative of this.

For instance, in June 1886 he received a letter bearing no less than ten postmarks. It was addressed "Weather Office, Strand, London." Its contents were—"Three next days order to be fine."

A Boston letter was addressed—Right Hon. Clerk of Weather, 9, Downing Street, London, W.C.

Its contents were—

"My Lord Clerk,—May it please your lordship you will greatly oblige your humble servant by writing or sending me a telegraph whether it will be fine or no on the 5th of November, 1867.

"I have the honour to remain,

"Your lordship's most obedient servant,

"Joseph William ——."

Such letters are by no means rare, though such ignorance seems scarcely credible in the nineteenth century.

Boak & Co., Photo, Bridlington Quay

HILL TORN BY WATERSPOUT, LANGTOFT, E. YORKS

Further, there are many false prophets who prophesy without science, and they rarely miss the opportunity of sending along a forecast in order to give the constituted clerk of the weather a leg up in his arduous duties.

There are also many amateur weather prophets.

One of these gentlemen issued monthly postcard forecasts for more than twelve months between 1882 and 1883.

If they are wrong, nobody bothers, but if the S.W. gale predicted from the Meteorological Office fails to put in an appearance, woe to the unfortunate clerk of the weather. People forget how many times his predictions have been verified.

If one is interested in meteorological work and is anxious to become an observer, the path is by no means difficult. On application at the office a form is sent, which must be filled up. Certain particulars as to the observer's fitness are naturally required, and he is invited to forward a description of his residence and a plan of the spot on which he would suggest erecting his instruments.

He must also describe the natural surroundings, so that the office may decide whether they are likely to have any prejudicial effect on the instruments, and therefore affect the accuracy of the records.

Each observer supplies his own instruments, and if his application is accepted, a book of instructions on their correct use is sent to him.

COLONEL KNIGHT'S 70-FOOT EARTH THERMOMETER, WINCHESTER.

Or he may obtain instruction at the London office, or any of its chief agencies. In all these places sets of instruments are kept in working order for the express purpose of instructing observers in the methods of observation.

I suppose most of our readers, during a stay at some port or favourite watering place, have observed a curious triangular black object suspended from the pier or jetty signal-mast.

Those who have enquired as to its nature will know that it is the signal of an approaching storm. On receiving telegraphic notice of an atmospheric disturbance on or near the British coasts, the Meteorological Office telegraphs to all the chief ports and fishing stations.

The telegram is exhibited at the foot of the signal-mast, and the warning signal, a black canvas cone 3 feet high and 3 feet wide at the base, is immediately hoisted.

The nature and direction of the approaching storm is indicated by the position of the cone.

At night three lanterns hung on a triangular frame supply its place.

Storm warning telegrams are supplied to some 215 stations, of which 117 are in England and Wales, 63 in Scotland, 28 in Ireland, 4 in the Isle of Man, and 3 in the Channel Islands.

Another branch of the work, of invaluable service to navigators, is the preparation of monthly current charts of the oceans of the world. Observations are constantly being made by captains of ocean-going vessels, and the data are forwarded whenever possible to the Weather Office. A strict account of the currents recorded in each month has been kept for 60 years!

HER LETTER!

ONE OF J. HARWOOD PANTING'S INTERESTING NARRATIVES.

Illustrations by W. B. Wollen, R.I.

BRUSSELS—evening—an evening which preceded a still more memorable morn. To be precise, it was the 15th of June, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and fifteen.

Captain John Durnford, of the Guards, stood outside the Chapelle du Saint Sacrament des Miracles. The air was full of rumours. Napoleon had been striding Europe like a Colossus. No one knew what would be his next move on the strategical chessboard. But it was not of him, nor of the events connected with him, that John Durnford was thinking as he stood before the Chapelle.

He had heard of the death of a woman whom he had tenderly loved. Years ago, before he entered the army, they had been sweethearts. Then they had drifted apart; and now he had discovered, quite accidentally, that she had died but two days ago, homeless, friendless. And yet not entirely that. Her last moments had been tended by Sister Anne, a religieuse, and it was to see her that Jack was waiting outside the Chapelle.

Presently, the hour of nine was chimed from the surrounding belfries. Almost simultaneously, the door of the Chapelle was opened, and the religieuse came out.

"Pardon me," said Jack, approaching her, hat in hand; "but am I speaking to Sister Anne?"

"'AM I SPEAKING TO SISTER ANNE?'"

"Yes, my son."

"You are the lady, are you not, who so charitably befriended Mdlle. Denton?"

"I but did my duty, my son."

"Ah, if all the world would but interpret duty in the same way! I am an old friend of Mdlle. Denton's, and it was only by chance I heard of her death. Could you let me see her before—before——"

Jack's voice faltered. He did not complete the sentence.

"Before she is buried, you would say? I understand," said Sister Anne, sympathetically. "Poor child! I thought she hadn't a friend in the world. It seems I was mistaken. Will you follow me?"

She took him through a labyrinth of streets, and paused before a ramshackle old house which had seen and withstood the storms of more than one revolution.

"You would like to be alone with the dead?" asked the Sister.

"If Madame will grant me that favour."

She rang the bell, whispered to the drowsy old concierge, and, with a Benedicite, was gone. The concierge conducted him up the staircase, pointed to a door, gave him a lighted candle, and descended.

Jack opened the door, and as he did so a gust of wind blew out his light and left him in darkness. He had just time, however, to see the white-shrouded figure stretched on the bed in the corner. He approached it reverently, and stood by the side of the shroud, with thoughts which choked themselves for utterance.

"Poor, poor Minnie! This, then, is the finish!"

What was that? His moan, he thought, was echoed by another. He quickly put the thought from him.

He put his hand gently forward to feel the face of the dead woman, and in doing so it rested upon something warm, palpable. He could almost have shrieked, the transition of feeling was so great—between the ice-cold rigour he had anticipated, and the warmth of animate life. What could it mean?

He had no time for conjecture, for the hand which he had extended to the face of the dead was clasped by another hand—the hand of the living.

"In Heaven's name, who are you?" demanded Jack.

There was no answer; then Jack repeated his question in French. This time there came an answer.

"One—one who loved her, Monsieur! By what right are you here?

"By as great a right as yours—as one who loved her, too."

Jack thought he heard a curse between clenched teeth.

"Love? Peste! What does a cold-blooded Anglais know of love? You come here as a thief in the night."

"Thief!" Jack exclaimed. "I suppose you know the meaning of the words you have used?"

"Parbleu! How could I do otherwise, since Monsieur himself has provided me with an illustration? Is it the act of an honest man to steal into a chamber? Is it the act of a gentleman to encroach upon another's grief? No; it is the act of a vauvien; for it is insult to the living and profanation to the dead."

The man was evidently distraught with grief; so Jack replied calmly, "You talk of profanation to the dead. It would indeed be profanation were I to imitate your language. I am willing to admit that you excel in your nice selection of epithets, but I deny your love for the poor dead girl lying here by your use of them."

"BEAUTIFUL SHE LOOKED, EVEN IN DEATH."

Jack's calmness of utterance, so strongly in contrast to that of the stranger, produced some effect upon his hearer. There was a lengthy pause. Save for the sharp breathing of the two men confronting each other, the chamber might have been given up entirely to the dead. It seemed in that pause as though the still form in the shroud were listening for an answer.

At length the stranger spoke, his voice now tremulous and pathetic:

"You doubt my love for her? Eh, bien! I loved her as few men could have loved. I have confronted death once, twice this day to see her dear, dead face. I have confronted—still confront—what is worse than death: disgrace and ignominy. Has Monsieur done as much?"

"No," said Jack, sententiously, touched yet chagrined by the man's passion.

"Until Monsieur has done as much, has he the presumption to say that he has as great a right to stand here as I?"

"Presumption!" cried Jack. "By whatever right I stand here, I certainly question your right to use such terms to me. But before we discuss the point further, would it not be as well to have a light?"

There was a hasty movement on the part of the figure opposite.

"If you stir, you are a dead man."

There was a faint ray of light shining through the window, not sufficient for Jack to see the person before him, but sufficient to see the cold gleam of steel. It was a sword. This man was a soldier, then, and an enemy. Jack now understood his allusion to the peril he had run in coming there, and admired his bravery. His love for Minnie Denton must indeed have been great.

"You spoke about ignominy just now," said Jack. "I don't know whether your interpretation of the phrase is the same as mine. But a British soldier—for I, too, am a soldier—considers that there is no greater ignominy than that of being suspected of cowardice. I should be a coward if I cared for your threats. I'm going to get a light."

"Pardon me. You are a brave man. I did wrong to threaten you." Jack heard the sword return to its scabbard. "Let me appeal to your honour."

"That is an appeal which has never been made to me in vain."

"My visit here has been a secret. I wish it to remain so. This much only I may tell you—that I am an officer in the French army, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. You see the risk I have run."

Jack started. This man had indeed risked much to see the last of the woman he loved.

"You say that your visit here is a secret one; and yet you reproached me just now with being a thief in the night. I will not retaliate; for I too can respect a brave man. I will only say that your confidence will not be betrayed."

Jack stretched out his hand. It was again clasped by the stranger. They stood thus for a moment, hand in hand, over the dead.

Then the stranger bent, and Jack could hear him whispering terms of endearment to ears that could not hear, and pressing kisses upon lips that could not respond.

"Now, Monsieur, I am going," he said, at length. "I thank you for your patience, and will send up the concierge with a light. You will then be able to read this letter. Oblige me by taking it. From it you will see who is the most entitled to her love. It was the last letter she ever wrote. You say you are a soldier? Eh, bien, when next we meet, Monsieur, it will be in a different place. As we have learned to respect each other, I hope to show that respect in the best way a soldier can—by crossing swords with you. Jusqu'au revoir!"

"HE WAS STOPPED AT THE ENTRANCE BY A GENDARME."

"Au revoir, Monsieur!"

In a moment or two Jack heard the stranger go out, and the concierge came stumbling up with a light. Jack took it from him, and gazed upon the face of Minnie Denton. Beautiful she looked, even in death. The pain and agony of the last struggle had gone and left the features placid, as one in peaceful sleep.

Years ago he had loved her deeply, tenderly, and she had returned his love. Then they had quarrelled. The breach between them had widened, and in a fit of desperation he enlisted. Europe was at the time one great battlefield, and Jack was immediately sent on active service. So he had altogether lost sight of his old love.

He had been with Wellington in the Peninsula, and after serving with a bravery which had gained him the eulogiums of his general, had been drafted with his regiment to Brussels just prior to the time when Napoleon escaped from Elba.

There had not been much time to think of love while these stirring events were transpiring, but the news of his old sweetheart's death, in the very city in which he was stationed, had touched a tender chord.

Jack mused mournfully upon the past as he looked down on the still, silent face. She had been fickle; yet had not he? What would their fate have been had they not quarrelled? Would it have been widely different? Perchance she would have been a happy mother; he, a happy father; or they might have been utterly miserable.

Whatever Fate might or might not have had in store for them in other circumstances, it was galling to think that her last thoughts had been of this stranger—a Frenchman and an enemy.

But was it true? There could, alas! be little doubt of it, for had not the Frenchman left with him the best—rather he would say, the worst—of all testimony: her own letter? What stronger evidence of her fickleness could there be than that?

Jack turned to the light and looked at the letter which had been placed in his hand.

Good heavens! What was this?

"THE DUKE AND HE HELD A WHISPERED CONVERSATION."

It was no love letter, but a document folded in the shape of a letter. Jack looked at it eagerly, and read it through not once, but twice, and thrice.

It was Napoleon's directions to his generals, signed by the Emperor himself, containing specific instructions respecting the forthcoming battle against the allied forces. The one line that burnt itself into Jack's brain was that an advance was to be made upon Quatre Bras early the next morning. Wellington had no suspicion that the advance was to be made so soon; for Jack knew that he and many of the officers were at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond in the Grande Place.

The Frenchman had said that he was an officer, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. Jack saw it all. He had given him this document instead of, as he supposed, the dead woman's letter. Then came to Jack a question of honour. Had he the right to use this information?

He did not pause long to consider the point. The safety of his country was at stake. That was enough. The old maxim, "All is fair in love and war," had now a double signification. So Jack hurried along with all possible speed to the Grande Place.

The ball was at its height. The strains of music, the laughter of the dancers, came to Jack as he neared the Duchess's residence.

He was stopped at the entrance to the hall by a gendarme.

"Est ce que vous avez votre billet, Monsieur?"

"Non."

"Alors je ne puis pas vous admettre."

Jack explained it was of the utmost importance that he should see the Duke of Wellington, and at length he was ushered up the staircase into an ante-room, while an attendant went in search of the Duke.

Jack had a full view of the ballroom as he waited. As in a kaleidoscope he saw the gleam of many uniforms, fair faces, white shoulders, slender graceful forms—alternate flashes of scarlet and white—as couple after couple whirled by in the mazy waltz. Presently from out the maze came one martial figure which Jack knew well. There could be no mistaking that stern, immobile face, the tightly pressed lips, the prominent Roman nose. It was the Iron Duke!

"Well, sir, you wish to see me?" was his laconic greeting.

"Yes, General, on a matter of life and death. Read that."

He handed the Duke the document he had received from the Frenchman. His searching eyes had grasped its contents in a moment; yet he betrayed no excitement or astonishment.

"Where did you get this?" he calmly asked.

Jack briefly explained the circumstances under which he had obtained possession of the document. The Duke turned to his aide-de-camp.

"Tell General Picton I wish to see him immediately."

In a minute or two the aide-de-camp returned with the General.

"THE FRENCHMAN WAS A VERY SKILFUL SWORDSMAN, JACK EQUALLY SO."

"Napoleon left Frasne this morning," said Wellington. "The Prussians have fallen back. Ziethen has been beaten. Napoleon is marching now upon Quatre Bras. Read that."

Picton read the document, and studied the plan. Then the Duke and he held a whispered consultation. The aide-de-camp returned again and again to the ballroom, and Jack saw the officers stealing away one by one. Then the Duke turned to Jack:

"You have done well in bringing me this document. I will not forget it. Prepare to join your regiment."

Jack saluted, and passed into the street. As he did so, the bell of the Hotel de Ville boomed one. Simultaneously could be heard the tramp, tramp of the Highland regiments as they defiled into the Grande Place.

The British forces were preparing to meet the enemy.

In the morning the two armies found themselves ranged in battle array opposite each other.

Then came the opening struggle at Quatre Bras, followed by the yet more memorable death-wrestle of nations at Waterloo.

No need to repeat the incidents of that famous day—Picton's bravery, Napoleon's strategy, Wellington's tenacity of purpose, the glorious stand around the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte.

Napoleon charged again and again the immovable British centre. The destinies of nations hung in the balance, and it was not until Wellington gave the famous command—"Up, Guards, and at them!"—that the balance turned to the side of victory.

Jack was foremost in the charge, and as his column swept down the slope, he heard a voice cry out to the fleeing Frenchmen:

"Arrêtez! Arrêtez!"

He recognised the voice as that of the man whom he had met at the shroud of Minnie Denton. Though the interview had only been brief, he could recall every accent. The voice was one he was never likely to forget.

Finding his efforts to check the retreating soldiers unavailing, the officer turned and faced the pursuing column.

Jack was the first to reach him. The rest of the column swept on, leaving the two face to face, sword to sword.

"Your prophecy has come true, Monsieur," said Jack. "We have met again—a little sooner probably than you anticipated."

"Ah! it is you," said the officer. "Truly pleased to see you. We are destined, it seems, to be rivals till the last. I beat you in love, you will admit; and I shall do my best to——"

He did not finish the sentence. Steel met steel; the sparks flew from the quivering blades. The Frenchman was a very skilful swordsman, Jack equally so. Jack at last with an adroit parry sent the sword from his adversary's hand.

"JACK QUICKLY DISMOUNTED, AND KNELT BY HIS SIDE."

Jack was stooping to pick up the weapon when a stray shot hit the Frenchman in the breast. He fell with a groan from his horse. Jack quickly dismounted, and knelt by his side.

"Ah, Monsieur, it is very good of you," he gasped, as Jack raised his head; "it is very, very good of you; but I am dying. The fortune of love was with me; the fortune of war is with you."

Jack strove to staunch the blood that was gushing from the wound, but in vain. The wound was a mortal one.

"It is useless," gasped the Frenchman. "Nothing can be done, and I would rather die than be a prisoner. You are my enemy, but you are a gentleman. One thing I would ask you. Minnie—Mdlle. Denton—is to be buried to-morrow, Bury us in one grave. It is all I ask."

Jack promised. He felt a great pressure from the hand resting within his; then the head fell back in his arms. A brave soldier had fought his last battle.

Simultaneously there rose on the air a great shout. It was the shout of the conquering army announcing that the battle of Waterloo had been fought and won.

SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS

A MARVELLOUS PERFORMANCE IN DUMB SHOW.

NOT a quarter of a mile from the Marble Arch, on the left side of Oxford Street (No. 419, Oxford Street, as a matter of fact), looking towards the Park, there stands a dull, unpretentious, red brick edifice, so unpretentious indeed that in spite of its ecclesiastical appearance it is unnoticed by the majority of passers by.

The bulk of the teeming thousands who pride themselves that they know their London are ignorant of its whereabouts, nor are the countless legions who daily pass through the busy thoroughfare better informed.

Nor is it surprising; for there is little but a tiny cross on the coping stone, and a dingy notice board behind dingier railings, to mark one of the most interesting buildings in all London—St. Saviour's Church, the cathedral of London's 2,000 deaf and dumb.

Here Sunday by Sunday the silent poor and the silent rich worship together. Outside, the roll of traffic merges into one long dull roar that may distract the thoughts of worshippers in other churches, but to the congregation of St. Saviour's makes no difference. They cannot hear it.

JUSTICE (WEIGHING WITH SCALES).

I had heard much of the Rev. F. W. G. Gilby's wonderful method of preaching to his people, how he has become thoroughly conversant not only with the old-fashioned finger spelling familiar to those who have watched the conversation of the deaf and dumb, but can also by means of gesture and acting make use of a system of preaching richer in suggestion, wider in range, and infinitely more effective in its scope and power of riveting the interest of his flock.

Accordingly, one wet Thursday evening a short time ago, I made one of the congregation at evening service, curious to take part in such a service myself. I am never likely to forget the impression that quiet service made on me, nor to relieve my mind of the feeling of overwhelming depression at the realisation that this little crowd of afflicted people, miserably and unutterably poor in the majority of cases, was living, moving, and breathing in our very midst, helpless yet happy, willing and intelligent, yet almost entirely dependent on this one enthusiastic, unselfish man for their comfort—not only spiritual, but in many cases, as I discovered, material as well.

I have not the space, nor is it in my province in this short article, to describe or appeal on behalf of the needs of this institution, but the interested ones should see for themselves, and if within their power, help.

Excepting the chaplain's wife, herself an expert follower of her husband's method, I was the first to arrive. The lights were low, and there was nothing about the dim church save the absence of choir stalls and pulpit to suggest the unusual nature of its mission.

Presently a distant door opened, a shuffling step dragged along the aisle. The first member of the congregation took his rags with him into a front seat. He was a shoeblack down on his luck, but nobody turned him out. In Mr. Gilby's flock all are equals, all are friends in their common adversity. The first seats are for the first comers.

A few moments later and the congregation was nearly complete. Here and there one caught a flash of recognition between two friends, then up went two pairs of hands flashing white in the dim light as an animated conversation took place across the church. By the time the church was half full a whole volley of chatter was playing round; everywhere the darkness was alive with flickering, speaking hands, and faces vibrating with expressive gesture. It was an odd scene, weird and uncanny to the hearing visitor who sat misunderstood and not understanding amid the silent throng.

"DEAR DEAF AND DUMB FRIENDS WE WISH YOU

In a few moments the chaplain, attired in the usual canonicals, appeared, and the service commenced.

Throughout the proceedings there was no sound but the dull roar of passing omnibuses and cabs outside. Not a hymn, not a word, only that indescribable hush, almost unnerving to one strange to the scene. Yet throughout the service, in the prayers, in the sermon, not an eye strayed from the slight figure talking in a language of his own at the little desk on the altar steps.

At first the ghostly reality of this strange sermon dispelled all other thoughts. It did not seem comprehensible that there could be any connection between the chaplain and the attentive congregation, but here and there one could catch a reflection of one of his gestures on the face of an intent watcher.

Then a more than usually familiar passage was signalled, and a broad intelligent smile passed swiftly across the faces of the congregation, and they nodded and looked towards each other comprehendingly.

Then for the first time one realised that the flying fingers playing rapidly above the reading desk, flickering now high and now low, like the figures in a kinetoscope picture, meant something; that the gestures, the graceful swaying of the body, the marvellous play of the features, all had their meaning; that each little movement was intelligible to the watchers as the word of a spoken sermon, and infinitely more expressive.

As the utter novelty of the scene became more familiar, I found myself trying to interpret the drift of the sermon, and it was little short of marvellous how intelligible a great number of the gestures were, even to one untrained and unused to sign language.

The acting and gestures in many sentences were so obvious, that it was almost as though the words were rather the equivalents of the signs than vice versâ. It was, indeed, an astonishing revelation of the possibilities of human expression. When the faculty is combined with a system of word signs intelligible to the merest child, it will be understood how much may be done in this way, without recourse to the more tedious method of spelling out each word separately, although this is necessary where the sign imagery is so subtle as only to appeal to highly cultivated imaginations.

As a matter of fact, Mr. Gilby has a marvellous faculty in this direction, that has been fostered and perfected by life-long study. So much is this the case, indeed, that I doubt if he could be equalled in this direction by any one of our greatest actors.

Presently the service was at an end. There was a little desultory silent conversation, and the congregation dispersed, just as it came, without a sound. Three or four stragglers, clean and intelligent-looking, but obviously poor, remained behind, and presently made their way up the altar steps, and into the tiny vestry.

JOINED TOGETHER IN ONE HEART AND ONE MIND, IMITATING CHRIST UNTIL THE CHURCH IS COMPLETE."

I followed them, and when each had stated his different wants and difficulties, and received relief and comfort, I persuaded Mr. Gilby to assist me in the preparation of this article, illustrative of his remarkable work.

It will be readily granted by those who examine our interesting series of photographs, that my demands on his good nature were by no means moderate. Those who object to being photographed almost as much as they dislike the necessary visit to the dentist—and Mr. Gilby is one of these—will appreciate Mr. Gilby's feelings when our photographer desired not only one siting, but a dozen. However, Mr. Gilby will be more than compensated if this article is the means of attracting public attention to the afflicted ones that are his especial charge.

The most important photographs we give are those that illustrate a message that I have prevailed on Mr. Gilby to issue through these pages to the deaf and dumb of the British Empire. The message is necessarily brief and short: as it is we are obliged to print twelve photographs in order to do it justice. The exact message is as follows:—

"Dear deaf and dumb friends, we wish you joined together in one heart and one mind, imitating Christ until the Church is complete."

The appropriateness of many of Mr. Gilby's signs becomes immediately apparent on glancing at the photographs, but some are not as clear as others. "Deaf and dumb" is signified by rapidly touching the mouth and the ear; "friend," by shaking hands with oneself; "we," by pointing at oneself, at the persons addressed, and vaguely to the left to indicate people in general; and "joined together," by opening the hands, and then bringing them together closed. A most interesting sign is that representing "Christ," where a finger is pressed into the palm of each hand in rapid succession, as if to indicate the piercings of the nails of the cross; and scarcely less remarkable is that which denotes the "Church"—the motions being those of one ringing church bells!

"KNOWLEDGE."

Excellent as these photographs are, they convey but a slight impression of the effect produced by a sermon in Mr. Gilby's gesture-language. It must be understood that his is no laborious art. Distinct and picturesque as Mr. Gilby's motions are, they succeed one another with the rapidity of words penned by an expert shorthand writer. On one occasion, indeed, Canon Wilberforce—one of the most fiery orators of the day—addressed our deaf and dumb congregation, and Mr. Gilby, who stood by the side of the eloquent Canon to interpret the discourse, experienced no difficulty in keeping level with him. It will thus be seen that, as practised by an expert, the art of gesture-language leaves little room for improvement. As a matter of fact, the sentence given above would be "signed" by Mr. Gilby, in the course of an ordinary pulpit address, in about three seconds.

Needless to say those signs that are to be expressive of themselves require to be of the most suggestive nature in order to be readily understood, and it is in the invention of these that the teacher of the deaf and dumb may find a great field for the exercise of his ingenuity.

In a great number of cases there are signs which are universally accepted and understood by deaf mutes the world over. On the other hand, each school has its own special gestures, equally expressive but peculiar to itself, and in the department of versatility of gesture Mr. Gilby is second to none. In fact, I have seen him express an idea in half a dozen ways, and each one of them could have been interpreted with ease by a half wit.

In the majority of cases the photographs illustrating the gestures have been taken in an entirely novel way.

By making several exposures on one plate we have sought to illustrate the various movements composing those gestures which are of a composite description. Where a word or idea is expressed by a single sign, this is, of course, unnecessary. One photograph is all-sufficient.

"CONVERSATION" (OPENING AND SHUTTING FINGERS AS THE MOUTHS OF BIRDS CHATTERING).

It may possibly occur to many that there might be considerable difficulty in conveying a difference of expression in the same idea; that is to say, the difference indicated in spoken language by a mere variation of inflection in the voice. As a matter of fact, the sign language is even more expressive in this particular. An excellent illustration of this is given in two photographs on page 71. Both gestures express the same idea—a parting between two friends. In the first of the two you have the parting in which there is a little sadness. The idea of separation is conveyed by the hand leading the other away. That it is a matter of regret is shown by the expression of the face and the nod of the head.

In the second photograph of the pair you still have the parting. This time, however, it is a humorous rendering which might be used with happy felicity at the conclusion of a platform speech, where the speaker wished to convey a sort of "Well, I'm sorry to go, but I must," notion. Here the separation is humorously expressed by the suggestion of brute force brought to bear on the speaker's collar.

In similar fashion many inflections may be given to the same idea, and with the indispensable assistance of facial expression the elements of Hope, Tragedy, Comedy, Fear, are introduced.

The extraordinary mobility of Mr. Gilby's features must prove of the utmost service to him. With a scarcely perceptible quiver of the features his face expresses alternate Tragedy and Humour. So much so, indeed, that one feels that he is throwing his whole nature into each and every fleeting gesture. And this is probably the secret of his success, for to this pale-faced, highly strung man the cause of the deaf mute is as life itself.

The education of the deaf and dumb is necessarily limited, though the general impression that they are deficient in mental capacity is entirely erroneous. On the contrary, brightness, intelligence, and, curiously enough, content are their chief characteristics. Such educational limitations as exist are an unavoidable result of the tedious and trying system that must be gone through in order to give a deaf and dumb child even the rudiments of an education.

If you wish to teach such an one what a cow is and how to spell the word, there is only one method, and that is to place a picture of a cow before it and write the word on paper till it comprehends that the letters C O W represent the name of the animal in question.

It will be seen, therefore, that only those who have enjoyed very exceptional educational advantages are in a position to appreciate some of the deeper abstract ideas of philosophy and the sciences.

"PARTING."

Abstract ideas are difficult of adequate expression, therefore, not because they cannot be suggested by the sign language, but by reason of the reader's own inability to comprehend their significance. Some of the more general ideas of an abstract nature are, however, taught with comparative ease. We give two examples. Both are almost self-explanatory. The first (on p. 70) expresses Knowledge, or Wisdom; the second (p. 67) is a sign demonstrative of Justice. Nothing could be clearer, of course. It is simply a mimetic illustration of the symbolical picture of Justice blind, and so impartial, holding the scales. The right hand is first placed in the position of holding the scales, and is then rapidly brought down on a level with the other, thus picturing the scales.

"STUPIDITY" (THE ASS).

Two other pictures illustrate signs of a peculiarly expressive nature. Nobody will want to be told what a deaf and dumb man means who describes you with the sign shown below. The lower picture on the preceding page is Mr. Gilby's way of expressing the fact that he has been holding a conversation with someone. It will be noticed that there are two positions of the forefinger, which are intended to indicate that this finger is snapped rapidly against the thumb. It is more or less a humorous way of expressing the idea, and as actually illustrated by Mr. Gilby is exceedingly comic. A more sedate way of expressing the idea would be to hold the hands in the same position, but to draw them slowly apart and towards each other.

I feel that no article on this subject would be complete without some special illustration of the enormous part pure facial expression plays in Mr. Gilby's peculiar method. Indeed it is in his case a fine art, and must represent an enormous increase in the effectiveness of his addresses and lectures, and consequently in the happiness and comfort they give his silent audiences.

"LET ME THINK. HAD IT ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE. NOW, WHAT WAS IT!"

AH! WAIT! "NO! I GIVE IT UP."

Five photographs illustrative of a little lapse of memory explain better than any words what I mean. Without strict attention to grammar, I will call this Forgetfulness, More Forgetfulness, Most Forgetfulness, Still more Forgetful, Forgotten.

This series will be an object lesson on the debt we all owe that fleeting, intangible thing we call Human Expression.

No article is complete without its story. Mr. Gilby is full of stories, but I have only space for one, and that looks weak on paper when I remember how inimitably it was acted when he gave it to me.

Some time since he was due to give a short address in the schoolroom under the church. The Vicarage adjoins the sacred edifice, and he therefore decided it was unnecessary to change the light indoor shoes he was wearing in his study. Accordingly he wore them on the platform downstairs and commenced his address.

A few moments later he happened to quote the text in which the words, "I cast my shoe," occur. Now obviously the best sign for the expression of this idea was a gentle kick. Mr. Gilby gave it, but the demonstration proved much more literal than he had intended, for a second later his shoe flew through the air and dropped in the midst of an immensely amused audience.

The story emphasises Mr. Gilby's belief that humour is, and always should be, a valuable ally in the higher education of the deaf and dumb.

It is an infallible means of securing that closer understanding and sympathy between teacher and pupil which raises teaching from the dull mechanical level of routine to a fine art.

Humour in his case is a natural gift—perhaps one of his greatest. It peeps out unbidden in his sermons. It renders his lectures and addresses delightful to deaf, dumb, and hearing visitors alike, and one cannot but feel that in all the many branches of his work it turns sadness into sunshine and depression into an unfaltering hope for the future.

The scope of this article on St. Saviour's Church does not permit of our entering upon the hotly-contested methods of educating the deaf, whether by the lips or by manual signs or spelling. Mr. Gilby is one of the Government Inspectors of Schools, and, having been born of deaf parents, and brought up amongst the afflicted, may reasonably be presumed to have a right judgment in these matters. For himself, he is an ardent upholder of the Combined System—often known as the American way of instructing the deaf. He differs in toto from any who may think that Missions to the Deaf are unnecessary, for by learning speech they are raised to the same level as their more fortunate brethren who can hear.

In conclusion I cannot repay Mr. Gilby's courtesy and kind assistance in the preparation of this article better than by repeating the wish I feel to be nearest his heart:—

If you have an opportunity, help the Deaf and Dumb.

ALFRED ARKAS.

THE CHANCELLOR'S WARD.

PERHAPS MR. RICHARD MARSH'S BEST SHORT STORY.

Illustrated by F. H. Townsend.

I.

ONE really ought to write, She married him, not, He married her.

"The simple question is, my dear Tommy, are you going to take me or leave me?"

This was in Hyde Park. They were seated on one of those seats which are in front of the police station. Neither of them ought to have been there. Which, of course, was one of the reasons why they were. Mr. Stanham turned his eyeglass full upon Miss Cullen. Perhaps he thought that that was sufficient answer. Anyhow, she went on—

"In other words, are you going to marry me, or are you not?"

"'ARE YOU GOING TO MARRY ME, OR ARE YOU NOT?'"

"I am; Gad, I should rather hope so. I say, don't be too hard upon a fellow, Frank."

"Call me Fanny, don't call me Frank! Don't you know that my name is Frances, sir, which has absolutely no connection with Frank!"

"That's all right, old man."

That's what Mr. Stanham murmured. Extraordinary how some men do talk to women nowadays, even to the women whom they love!

"Then, if you do intend to marry me, Mr. Thomas Stanham, you'll be so good as to do so on Thursday morning next before noon."

Mr. Stanham began to scratch the gravel with his stick.

"And get seven years' penal."

"Stuff! They don't give you penal servitude for marrying wards in Chancery. It's contempt of court."

"Yes, I know. Have to wash out your cell at Holloway, and stand at 'attention,' with your hat off, while the governor cuts you dead."

"Then perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what it is that you do propose to do. Do you imagine that you are the sort of person the court of Chancery will ever allow to marry me?"

"Haven't so much imagination, my dear Frank."

"Call me Fanny, not Frank! You are not to call me Frank. Then do you suppose that I'm the sort of girl who's willing to wait, and not marry her sweetheart, until she's twenty-five? Because if you suppose anything of that kind, we must be perfect strangers."

"It's very good of you, I'm sure."

"Oh, I daresay. You don't love me that much." Miss Cullen flicked her parasol. "Because a horrid old uncle chooses to say that I'm to be a ward of the court until I'm five and twenty, am I to be a spinster all my life? If you loved me the least little bit, you'd invite the Lord Chancellor to come and see you marry me in the middle of Hyde Park, even if, directly the deed was done, he had your head cut off on Tower Hill."

"Thanks, dear boy."

Of course he married her. On the morning of the specified Thursday she went out for a stroll, and he went out for a stroll, and they met at the registrar's, and, as she put it, the deed was done. And, when the deed was done, she went home to lunch, and he went, not home to lunch, but to a private place, where he could swear. Now here they were, both of them, at Tuttenham. They encountered each other on the doorstep. She said, "How do you do, Mr. Stanham?" And he said, "How do you do, Miss Cullen?"

"THEY ENCOUNTERED EACH OTHER ON THE DOORSTEP."

"Nice way in which to have to greet your own wife," he told himself, having reached the comparatively safe solitude of his own apartment.

Then the Duke got him into his own particular smoking-room. The Duke was in an armchair. Mr. Stanham stood before the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. The talk wandered from Dan to Beersheba. Then, a good deal à propos des bottes, the Duke dropped what he evidently intended to be taken as a hint.

"If you take my advice, young man, you'll keep clear of Frances Cullen. She's here."

Mr. Stanham winced.

"Is she? Yes. I know. I met her on the steps."

"Did you!" The Duke eyed him. He, not improbably, had observed the wince. "Warnings are issued all along that coast. Steer clear."

"What do you think they'd do to a man if he were to marry her?"

"Do to him! Tommy! I hope you're not meditating such a crime. She's not an ordinary ward of the court, any more than she's an ordinary millionaire."

"So I suppose."

"You had a little run with her in town. Everybody had their eyes on you, as you're aware. And when the Duchess told me she was coming, I'd half a mind to write and put you off—fact! This is not a house in which even tacit encouragement can be offered to a dalliance with crime. Not"—the Duke puffed at his pipe—"not that she's half a bad sort of girl. She's clever. Very pretty. And she's got a way about her which plays havoc with a man."

"Much obliged to you, I'm sure."

"What do you mean?"

"For saying a good word for my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Mrs. Thomas Stanham—née Cullen."

"Tommy!—You don't mean it!"

"You can bet your pile I do,—and then safely go one better. I've got a copy of the marriage certificate in my pocket, and I rather fancy that she's got the original document in hers."

"You—young blackguard!"

"Sort of cousin of yours, aint I, Datchet? It's all in the family, you know. Blackguard, and all."

"How did you do it?—And when?—And who knows?"

"Only you and me, and the lady. That's what's weighing on my mind. What's the good of having a wife, if she ain't your wife—or, at any rate, if you daren't say that she's your wife, for the life of you?"

The Duke suddenly rose from his seat. He seemed to be in a state of actual agitation.

"Tommy, do you know that the Chancellor is coming here?"

"Who?"

"The Lord Chancellor. The carriage went to meet him an hour ago. I expect him every moment."

Mr. Stanham looked a trifle blank.

"I didn't know the ministry was formed."

"It's formed, but it's not announced; Triggs is to be the Chancellor."

"And what sort of gentleman may Triggs be, when he's at home?"

"'YOU—YOUNG BLACKGUARD!'"

"Sir Tristram? Well!" The Duke was walking up and down the room. He appeared to be reflecting. "He's rather a queer card, Triggs is. He's been a bit of a wildish character in his time—and they do say that his time's not long gone. He has a temper of his own—a nasty one." Pausing, the Duke fixedly regarded Mr. Stanham. "I should say that when Triggs learns what you have done, he will clap you into gaol, and keep you there, at any rate until Miss Cullen ceases to be a ward of the court."

Mr. Stanham's countenance wore a look of dire consternation.

"No! She's to be a ward until she's twenty-five, and she's not yet twenty-two."

"Then, in that case, I should say that, at the very least, you are in for three good years of prison. My advice to you is——"

The Duke's advice remained unuttered. Just at that moment the door was opened. A servant ushered in a new-comer.

"Sir Tristram Triggs."

The Duke, striding forward, held out both his hands.

"Sir Tristram!—And how long is it to be Sir Tristram?"

The other shrugged his shoulders.

"For a few hours, more or less, I suppose. I don't know much about this kind of thing. I daresay I shall know more about it when I've done."

"When you've done? May that not be for many and many a year! Allow me to introduce to you a friend of mine,—Mr. Thomas Stanham."

Sir Tristram turned. For the first time, he appeared to notice Mr. Stanham.

Physically, the new, great man was short, and inclined to ponderosity. The entire absence of hair upon his face served to accentuate its peculiar characteristics. It was a square face,—and, in particular, the jaw was square. His big eyes looked from under a penthouse formed by his over-hanging brows. As one looked at him, one instinctively felt that this was a man whom it would be safer to have as a friend than an enemy. As he turned, a faint smile seemed to be struggling into existence about the corners of his great mouth. But, directly his glance alighted upon Mr. Stanham, that smile vanished into the ewigkeit. He looked at him very much as a bull-terrier might look at a rat. And he said, in a tone of voice which seemed fraught with curious significance—

"I have had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman before."

On his part, Mr. Stanham regarded Sir Tristram with a supercilious air which, perhaps unconsciously to himself, was only too frequently seen upon his face,—as if Sir Tristram were an inferior thing.

"I'd no idea that your name was Triggs."

The Duke, standing behind Sir Tristram, clenched his fists, and glared at Mr. Stanham as if he would like to have knocked him down.

It happened, shortly afterwards, that Miss Cullen left her bedroom to come downstairs. As she went along the corridor she met a gentleman who was being conducted by a servant, probably, to his own apartment. The gentleman was Sir Tristram Triggs. When Sir Tristram saw Miss Cullen, and Miss Cullen saw Sir Tristram, they both of them stopped short. The great man's complexion was, normally, of a ruddy hue. At sight of the lady he turned the colour of a beetroot, boiled. She drew herself up to the full capacity of her inches. And she uttered a single monosyllable.

"You!"

"'YOU!'"

That was all she said—then went sweeping on.

"That horrid man!—He here!—To think of it!—If I'd only known that he was coming, I do believe, in spite of Tommy, that I'd have stayed away."

At the foot of the stairs Miss Cullen encountered Mr. Stanham. That gentleman had, as he was wont to have, his hands in his pockets. Also, as he was not wont to have, he had a face as long as his arm.

"I say, Frank, old man, isn't there somewhere where I can have a word or two with you on the strict 'Q.T.'?"

"Certainly—the library. There's never a soul in there."

One would not like to libel Tuttenham so far as to say, with Miss Cullen, that the only tenants the library ever had were the books. But, on that occasion, it did chance that the pair had the whole place to themselves. Mr. Stanham perched himself on a corner of the table, still with his hands in his pockets.

"There's going to be a pretty kettle of fish, dear boy."

That was what the gentleman observed.

"My dear child, what do you mean? What is the matter?"

"The Lord Chancellor's here."

"No!—How do you know?"

"Datchet just introduced me to him."

"Oh, Tommy, I say, what fun!"

With a little laugh, the lady clapped her hands. She appeared to be gifted with a keener eye for comedy than Mr. Stanham.

"I don't know what you call fun. It happens that the new Lord Chancellor is a man who, I have good reason to believe, would give a tidy trifle for a chance of getting his knife into me."

"Whatever for?"

"I'll tell you the story. Last year, when I was at Canterstone for the shooting, I was placed next to a man whom I had never seen in my life, and whom I never wanted to see in my life again. What Charlie asked him for, beats me. I believe, if he knew one end of a gun from the other, it was as much as he did know. I doubt if there ever was his ditto as a shot. I wiped his eye over and over again. I kept on doing it. I couldn't help it—I had to. He never hit a bird. But he didn't like it, any the more for that. We had something like a row before the day was over. I fancy that I said something about a barber's clerk. Anyhow, I know I walked off there and then."

"You nice, agreeable child! It's my opinion that all you men are the same when you are shooting—missing links. And, pray, what has this pleasant little sidelight on the sweetness of your disposition got to do with the new Lord Chancellor?"

"Only this,—the new Lord Chancellor's the man I called a barber's clerk."

"Tommy! How horrible!"

"It does seem pretty lively. You should have seen how he looked at me when Datchet just now introduced us. Unless I am mistaken in the gentleman, when this little affair of our's leaks out, and I'm brought up in front of him, and he sees who I am, he'll straightway consign me to the deepest dungeon, and keep me there, at any rate as long as he's Lord Chancellor. It's only a cheerful little prophecy of mine. But you mark my words, and see."

"My poor, dear boy! Whatever shall we do?"

"There's one thing I should like to do, and chance it;—I should like to kick Sir Tristram Triggs!"

"Kick who? Sir Tristram Triggs! Tommy! Why would you like to kick Sir Tristram Triggs?"

"That's the beggar's name."

"'KISS ME! BEFORE I FAINT!'"

"The beggar's name? Can it be that Sir Tristram Triggs is the new Lord Chancellor?" She threw out her arms, with a gesture of burlesque melodrama. "Tommy! Kiss me! Quick. Before I faint!"

"I never saw a chap like you for kissing."

"That's a pretty thing to say! Although we may be married, sir, we have not yet been upon our honeymoon."

"I'll kiss you, if you like."

"Thank you kindly, gentle sir!" She favoured him with a sweeping curtsey. "Tommy, even you have no idea of the ramifications and complications of our peculiar situation." Mr. Stanham had removed his hands from his pockets. They occupied a more agreeable position round the lady's waist. "See if I don't snatch you from the lion's jaws."

"Does that mean that you will help me to escape from Holloway?"

"It means that you will never get as far as Holloway?"

"Am I to die upon the road then?"

"Don't talk like that, don't! You don't know what a wife you've got! You don't know how she loves you, worthless creature that you are! Tommy, do say that you love me, just a little bit! There, you needn't squeeze me quite so tight. I can't explain to you all about it. I will some day! There's going to be a duel, perhaps to the death! between the Lord Chancellor and yours to command; and if that august personage, in the figure anyhow, of Sir Tristram Triggs, is not worsted and overthrown, I will give you leave, sir, to say that you do not admire my taste in dress.—Tommy, don't."

II.

AFTER dinner, Miss Cullen, strolling about the great glasshouse, all alone, came upon Sir Tristram, also all alone. Although not, probably, more than half an inch taller than the gentleman, she looked, yes, down at him, as if, comparatively, he were but an insect at her feet.

"Well, Sir Tristram, what amends do you propose to make to me?"

"Miss Cullen?"

"Sir?"

She looked at him; and this famous lawyer who had been more than a match for the olla podrida of the law courts, and the champions of the political ring, quailed before a young girl's eyes.

"I fear, Miss Cullen, that I fail to apprehend your meaning."

"Is it possible that you are an habitual desecrator of that law which you have sworn to uphold, and that, therefore, the details of your crimes are apt to escape your memory? More than three months have elapsed since you committed your crime. So far as I know, you have not sought as yet to take advantage of any occasion to offer me atonement."

Sir Tristram faced round to her with something of the bull-dog look which had come upon his face when he had found himself in front of Mr. Stanham.

"May I inquire, Miss Cullen, why you go out of your way to use language of such extravagant exaggeration? It would be gross absurdity, amounting almost to prostitution of language, to call the offence of which I was guilty, if it was an offence, a crime."

"Perhaps it is because you are a lawyer that you are unaware that not so very long ago a man was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for exactly the same thing."

"'THAT FOR THE CHANCELLOR!'"

Sir Tristram fidgeted. He seemed not to have complete control over his tongue.

"Miss Cullen, I trust that I may never be found lacking in respect to a lady. If I have been so unfortunate as to have offended you, I proffer you my most sincere apologies, and I humbly entreat for your forgiveness."

Miss Cullen remained, obviously, wholly unmoved.

"When a criminal expresses his contrition, is he held, by so doing, to have sufficiently purged himself of his offence?"

"What is it that you require of me?"

"I am told that you are to be the new Lord Chancellor. I am a ward in chancery."

"I learn the fact with the greatest pleasure."

"Do you? Then your pleasure bears a strong resemblance to my pain. I am to remain a ward till I am twenty-five."

"Indeed?"

Sir Tristram began to rub his hands.

"Yes,—indeed! I had an objectionable uncle who was so foolish as to suppose that I could not be a better judge of my own life's happiness than—a number of elderly gentlemen."

"Hem!" Sir Tristram coughed.

"If I was willing to overlook your offence—" Sir Tristram smiled—"I should require a quid pro quo."

"And what, my dear Miss Cullen, would be the nature of the quid pro quo?"

"'WELL, OLD MAN, HAVE YOU HAD IT OUT WITH TRIGGS?'"

"I should want you to consent to my marrying."

"To consent to your marrying?—Ah!—I see!—If the matter is laid before me in due and proper form—it is possible that you have a certain individual in your mind's eye whom you are willing to make the happiest of men—and I was satisfied that he was a fit, and a proper, person, and every care was taken to safeguard your interests—then, my dear Miss Cullen, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to give my consent to your being happily launched on what, I fear, is, too often, the troubled sea of marriage."

"That's not the sort of thing I want at all."

"No? Then what is the sort of thing you want, may I inquire?"

The young lady tapped her foot against the floor. For the first time, she seemed to be not entirely at her ease.

"The fact is, I'm married already."

"Married—already?—With the consent of the court?"

"Bother the court!"

"Young lady!—Are you aware who it is to whom you are speaking?"

"I am perfectly aware. I am speaking to the person who kissed me against my will."

"Miss Cullen!—I'm the Chancellor!"

"That for the Chancellor!"

She actually snapped her fingers in his face. He seemed to be speechless; though, perhaps, he only seemed so. When he did speak, it was as if he were suffering positive pain.

"I find myself unable to believe that you are capable of realising the position in which I stand, the position in which you stand, too. Personal misusage I might endure. But, in this matter, I am impersonal. Take care! I represent, in my poor person, the majesty of English law."

He turned as if to go. If he supposed that he had crushed her, he was very much mistaken.

"Is that your last word, Sir Tristram?"

"Miss Cullen, it is my last."

"Then, now, be so good as to listen to my last word. The Duke of Datchet is a magistrate. I will go straight to him, and demand from him a warrant for your arrest."

"A warrant, for my arrest? Girl!"

"I presume that it is because I am a girl, that you are enough of a man, first to assault, and then to bully me."

Taking out his handkerchief, Sir Tristram applied it to his brow.

"Am I mad, or you? Are you utterly impervious to any sort of reason?"

"Not more than you are. I have yet to learn that, because you are Lord Chancellor, you cannot be made to answer for your crimes, exactly like any other criminal. Forgive my husband, forgive me, whose only crime has been that we love each other, and who have not offended in the sight either of heaven or of earth, and I will forgive you, who have offended in the sight of both. Decline to do so, and, unless there is one law for the great and another for the small, in which case the world shall hear of it, I promise that you shall learn, from personal experience, what it means to go to gaol."

Sir Tristram looked about him, as if he wondered why the earth did not open to swallow her. He seemed to gasp for breath.

"Miss Cullen, I beg that you will not suppose, that, under any possible circumstances, I could listen, even for a single instant, to what, to me, are your hideous insinuations. But one possible solution I do see to the painful situation in which you stand. If the person whom you have illicitly and improperly married—"

"Not improperly married, how dare you!"

"'HER BEHAVIOUR FILLED ME WITH PROFOUND AMAZEMENT.'"

"In the eyes of the court, Miss Cullen, certainly, in the eyes of the court. Hear me out. If this person should prove to be a fit and a proper person, of good character, of due position, and so forth, then, taking all the circumstances into consideration, I might be moved to leniency. What is the person's name?"

"He is of the highest lineage."

"So far, so good."

"He is a gentleman of the noblest character."

"Still better."

"He would be showing honour to any lady in the land if he made of her his wife."

"Hem! Precisely! I asked you for his name."

"Thomas Stanham."

"Thomas Stanham!" Sir Tristram's countenance went as black as a thundercloud. "Thomas Stanham!" He turned to her with a look of fury on his face which took even Miss Cullen by surprise. "That vagabond!"

"How dare you speak so of my husband, sir?"

"Your husband? Girl, you are a fool! You, the owner of prospective millions, have thrown them, even before they are in your actual possession, into the lap of that pitiful adventurer. You ask me to show him leniency? I will be lenient to you at least. I will protect you from him, in spite of yourself."

He spoke with a degree of dramatic intensity which threw a lurid light upon the cause of his success in life. Miss Cullen was silenced after all. She stood and watched him as he strode away, with a degree of dignity in his bearing which seemed to have suddenly made him taller.

"Tommy must have wiped his eye!"

That was what she said to herself when she was alone.

"Well, old man, have you had it out with Triggs?"

Turning, Miss Cullen found that Mr. Stanham had approached from behind. He stood in the doorway—as usual, with his hands in his pockets.

"Yes, young man, I've had it out with Triggs."

Miss Cullen had a little flush on her cheeks, and an added light in her eyes, which superfluities, it might be said, unjustifiably heightened her attractions.

"Softened his adamantine breast?"

"Well, hardly. Not what you might call quite. In fact, I should say that, if he remains in his present frame of mind, he will send you, for a certainty, to something much worse than penal servitude for life."

"Is that so? Very kind of you, I'm sure. I knew you'd make a mess of it, my love."

"Wait till the play is over. There's always a muddle in the middle. The third act has not begun."

III.

"Triggs, this is the deuce of a nice state of things!"

The latest ornament of the woolsack was seated in the privacy of his own apartment prior to retiring to rest. But the cares of his position had followed him there. He was working his way through a mass of papers when his host appeared at the door.

"To what state of things does Your Grace refer?"

The Duke looked round as if to make sure that they had the room to themselves. He seemed to be in a state of considerable agitation; indeed, the abruptness of his entry had in itself suggested agitation.

"Of—of course you know that I—I'm a magistrate."

"Certainly I know it."

Something in the other's tone seemed to have a soothing influence upon the Duke, possibly because it roused the spirit of mischief that was in him. He sat in an armchair. Crossing his arms upon his chest, stretching out his long legs in front of him, he regarded the toes of his evening shoes.

"Triggs, I have had an application made to me for a warrant for your arrest."

The Chancellor went a peony hue, as we have seen him do before.

"Your Grace is joking."

"I wish I were. I found it anything but a joke, and I am afraid that you are not likely to find it one either."

Sir Tristram removed his glasses. He held them in his hand. His face became hard and stern.

"May I ask Your Grace to be more explicit?"

The Duke turned. Placing one elbow upon the arm of his chair, he looked at Sir Tristram as he leaned his chin upon his hand.

"Triggs, Miss Cullen has applied to me to issue a warrant against you for assault."

"Surely such an application was irregular."

"I am not so sure of that, I am not so sure. Anyhow, I told her that it was. The only result of which, so far as I can judge, will be that she will make the application, in more regular form, either to me, or to someone else, to-morrow. But that is not the point. Triggs, did you do it?"

"Is it necessary that Your Grace should ask me?"

"You didn't kiss her?"

Sir Tristram took out his handkerchief. He actually gasped for breath. It is to be feared that at that moment the representative of English law almost told a lie. However, it was only almost; not quite. He merely temporised.

"The whole affair is a pure absurdity."

"How do you mean? Is the charge unfounded?"

Sir Tristram drew his handkerchief across his brow.

"Supposing I did kiss her."

"Supposing! Triggs? Good heavens! I remember your leading for a woman who brought exactly such a charge against a man. I remember how clearly you pointed out how, under certain circumstances, such an action might be, and was, an offence against good morals. Didn't Pickum give the man six months?"

The lawyer's resemblance to a bull-dog became more and more pronounced. He all but showed his teeth.

"I don't know, Duke, if you are enjoying a little amusement at my expense."

The Duke sprang to his feet. His bearing evinced an accession of dignity which, in its melodramatic suddenness, almost approached to farce.

"AN AMAZING RESEMBLANCE TO A SMILE."

"It is not my habit, Sir Tristram, to regard my magisterial duties as offering much scope for amusement. Situated as I am—as you are—as we all are—our party!—in the eyes of the nation, it seems to me that this matter may easily become one of paramount importance. Of such importance that I have come to you as a friend, to-night, to ask you, if there is a chance of Miss Cullen's charge becoming so much as whispered abroad, to seriously consider if it would not be advisable for you to place your resignation in the hands of the Prime Minister before your appointment to the Chancellorship is publicly announced."

Sir Tristram's jaw dropped open. His resemblance to a bull-dog perceptibly decreased.

"Duke!"

"I am not certain, in coming to-night, that I have not allowed my friendship for you to carry me too far. Still, I have come."

"Your Grace is more than sufficiently severe. If you will allow me to exactly explain my position in this matter, I shall have no difficulty in making that evident. I fear that Miss Cullen is a dangerous young woman."

The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

"You, of all men, ought to know that, under certain circumstances, women are dangerous—and even girls."

"Precisely. That is so. But, I think that, after I have made my explanation, you will allow that Miss Cullen is an even unusually dangerous example of a dangerous sex." He paused—perhaps for reflection. When he continued, it was with a hang-dog air. "Some short time since I did myself the honour of asking Miss Cullen to become my wife. I fear that—eh—circumstances induced me to take her answer too much for granted. So much so, indeed, that—eh—while I was waiting for her answer, I—eh—I—eh—kissed her. I do not wish to lay stress upon the accident that the kiss was but the merest shadow of a kiss. But such, in fact, it was."

"In plain language, Triggs, you kissed her against her will."

"I had no idea that it was against her will, or I should certainly not have done it. Her behaviour after—eh—my action, filled me with the most profound amazement. She jumped up. She addressed me in language which I can only describe as more pointed than elegant. And—eh—she walked away, leaving me, I do assure Your Grace, dumbfounded."

"Well?"

The Duke's back was turned to Sir Tristram, possibly because there was something on His Grace's face which bore an amazing resemblance to a smile.

"Well, I heard nothing more of the matter. Indeed, I have heard and seen nothing of the lady till I met her here to-day. This evening she has alluded to the matter in a manner and in terms which filled me with even more profound amazement than her behaviour on the—eh—original occasion."

"But, man, didn't you apologise?"

"I apologised in terms of almost abject humility. But that did not content her. I will be frank with Your Grace. She made me a proposition which——"

The Duke waved his hands. He cut Sir Tristram short.

"SHE LOOKED CHARMING."

"I have heard too much already. Triggs, I have allowed my friendship for you to play havoc with my discretion, let me hear no more. My advice to you is compromise, compromise, at almost any cost. You don't want to have your career ruined by a girl, and for the mere shadow of a kiss. To consider nothing else, think of the laughter there would be. As you say, the young woman can be dangerous, and, if nothing happens to change her purpose, you may take my word for it that she means to be."

Before Sir Tristram could reply, the Duke was gone. The newly appointed representative of the majesty of English law was left alone with his papers and his reflections. These latter did not seem to be pleasant ones. Words escaped his lips which we should not care to print;—we fear they referred to that undutiful ward of his lordship's court. Inwardly, and, for the matter of that, outwardly, he cursed her with bell, book, and candle; certainly never was heard a more terrible curse. And, so thoroughly did he enter into the spirit of the thing, that he was still engaged in cursing her when the door opened, and in front of him was Miss Cullen with the handle in her hand.

She looked charming, and by that we mean even more charming than usual. She had changed her dress for a peignoir, or a dressing-gown, or something of the kind. Beyond question Sir Tristram had no notion what the thing was called. It suited her to perfection—few men had a better eye for that sort of thing in a woman than he had. There is no fathoming feminine duplicity, but no one ever looked more surprised than did that young woman then. She had thrown the door wide open and rushed into the room, and half closed it again behind her before she appeared to recognise in whose presence and where she really was.

"I—I thought—isn't this Mary Waller's room? Oh—h!"

As struck with panic she turned as if to flee. But Sir Tristram, who was gifted, before all else, with presence of mind, interposed. He rose from his chair.

"Miss Cullen, may I beg you for moment?"

"Sir! Sir Tristram Triggs!" Miss Cullen's air of dignity was perfect, and so bewitching. "I had something which I wished to say to Lady Mary Waller. There has been some misunderstanding as to which was her room. I must ask you to accept an apology."

"Unlike you, Miss Cullen, I always accept an apology."

"Indeed. Then my experience in that respect has, I presume, been the exception which proves the rule."

"May I ask when you apologised to me,—and for what?"

"This evening—," the lady looked down; her voice dropped; thrusting the toe of her little shoe from under the hem of her skirt, she tapped it against the floor—"for becoming a wife."

The grim man behind the table regarded her intently. Although he knew that the minx was worsting him with his own weapons, she appealed to, at any rate, one side of him so strongly, that he was unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from wrinkling themselves into a smile.

"May I ask, Mrs. Stanham——"

"Sir Tristram!" She threw out her arms towards him with a pretty little gesture. "You have set my heart all beating! You have brought the tears right to my eyes! You are the first person who has called me by my married name."

"'THEN I'LL KISS YOU.'"

He moved his hand with a little air of deprecation—as if the thing were nothing.

"May I ask, Mrs. Stanham, if Mr. Thomas Stanham is related to the Duke of Datchet?"

"Related?—Of course he is!—He's his favourite cousin."

"His favourite cousin?" We doubt if she was justified in her use of the adjective, but, the simple truth is, she was a dangerous young woman. "I see. The plot unfolds. May I ask, further, if this little comedy was rehearsed in advance?"

"And in my turn, may I ask, Sir Tristram, what it is you mean?"

They looked at each other, eye to eye. They understood each other pretty well by the time Sir Tristram's glance dropped down again to the papers on his table. His tone became, as it were, judicial.

"Well, Mrs. Stanham, I have been considering the matter of which you spoke to me this evening, and, having regard to the whole bearing of the case, to the social position of Mr. Thomas Stanham, and so forth, speaking, of course, ex parte, and without prejudice, I may say that, as at present advised, if proper settlements are made, the marriage might be one which would not meet with the active disapprobation of the court."

Sir Tristram raised his eyes. The lady shook her head—very decidedly.

"That won't do."

"Won't do?—What do you mean?"

"What I say. I'm not going to have Tommy bothered about settlements. I'm settlement enough for Tommy. What you have to do is to sit down and to simply write this: 'My dear Mrs. Stanham,—Speaking as Lord Chancellor, it gives me much pleasure in assuring you, as a ward of the court, that your marriage with Mr. Thomas Stanham meets with my entire and unreserved approval.—Yours faithfully, Tristram Triggs!'" Sir Tristram glowered—he might! But she was undismayed. "You will have to do it, sooner or later—you're a very clever man, and you know you will!—so why not do it at once?"

He did it at once. Actually! Possibly because the whole affair appealed keenly to his sense of humour,—one never knows! She read the paper, folded it, and then she said—with such a pout! and with such malice in her eyes!—

"Now you may kiss me again; if you like."

"I am obliged to you; but the costs in the suit have already been too heavy."

"Then I'll kiss you!"

And she did—with some want of precision, just over the right eye. Then she fled to the door. When she was half-way through it, she turned, and waved towards him the hand which held the paper.

"You are my guardian, you know."

THE QUEEN'S BODYGUARD.

SOME COSTLY PETS.

1. Mr. S. Woodiwiss's short-haired English tabby, "Champion Zenophon" (worth £100). 2. The Hon. Mrs. McLaren Morrison's Persian, "Ameer" (worth £100). 3. Mrs. C. Hill's short-haired blue, "Patrick Blue" (worth £50). 4. Madame Portier's long-haired blue, "Blue Boy" (worth £100). 5. Mrs. L. G. Leverson's Siamese, "Rynda" (worth £30). 6. Miss G. Willoughby's chinchilla long-haired, "Zaida" (worth £160). 7. Miss G. Willoughby's Siamese, "Fulmer Banjo" (worth £50). 8. Mrs. Herring's "Champion Jemmy," English silver tabby (worth £100). 9. Hon. Mrs. McLaren Morrison's long-haired black, "Satan" (worth £100).

Music (BUGLE CALL SUMMONING THE COOKS TO GET THE MEN'S GROG FOR THE DAY.)

HOME LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR.

DESCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS LIVED THERE.

TO the majority of Englishmen the phrase "Life on board a Man-of-War" calls up pictures of smart gun-drill, tactical exercises, and other more or less irksome though necessary duties. Few people indeed have any cognizance of the way in which our bluejackets live their daily life and how they manage to amuse themselves in the spare time at their disposal during the three years afloat, which is the usual period of a seagoing ship's commission.

Jack is awakened at 5 a.m. in summer and 6 a.m. in winter by the loud blare of a bugle under his hammock, and the hoarse voices of the bosun's-mates shouting "Show a leg there. Arise and shine, 'rise and shine. All ha- - - - - -nds lashupandstowhammocks." Having lashed his bedding in his hammock in the regulation manner, by taking seven turns round it with his hammock-lashing, he has his breakfast, for which meal he is allowed half an hour.

He then works and drills more or less continuously until noon, with the exception of 15 minutes' "stand easy" at 8 a.m., when he is allowed to smoke, and to go down to his mess and eat and drink if he feels so inclined.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

SERVING OUT JACK'S GROG (12.30).

At noon the ship's company is "piped to dinner."

Noon is the dinner hour of our navy right throughout the world, and though things have greatly changed since the introduction of steam and the torpedo, the navy still retains the "bosun's pipes" of the days of Nelson. No sooner is the shrill pipe sounded than there is an excited rush of men to the cook's "galley," whence arises a cloud of odorous steam redolent of baked meats, vegetables, and baked and boiled "duffs" (so dear to the naval heart of all ages), which are to feed the 600 or 700 odd hungry men just released from work.

Men going on watch at noon—as the Marine sentries, for example—are allowed to fetch their dinner at "seven bells" (11.30), and sometimes ludicrous mistakes will arise through this privilege. The men take turns to prepare the dinner, and the cook of the mess for the day usually fetches his mess-mates' dinner from the "galley." On one occasion which the writer recalls, the cook was at work on deck when the bell struck seven, and could not get away. Several of his mess-mates (he was a Marine Artillery man) having to go on watch at noon, proceeded to the "galley" in quest of their dinner, and "fisted" (seized) a savoury dish they imagined to be theirs, without first examining the brass mess-number on the side thereof. The dinner was divided and eaten, and the plates were being washed up, when a group of excited bluejackets, having questioned every other mess in the ship, made their way to No. 19 mess and hungrily demanded their dinner.

The Marines had taken the wrong one, but offered their own in exchange. Search at the "galley" failed to produce the missing meal, which was eventually discovered stowed away beneath a wash-tub under the Marines' mess-table, uncooked. The absent-minded cook for the day, who was much taken up with a song of his own composition, entitled "A Barrack-room Dinner," which he was to sing at a forthcoming entertainment, had, in his contemplation of the visionary meal he was to sing of, forgotten to take the actual dinner to the galley, and there it lay in the mess in all its uncooked glory.

After a somewhat heated discussion, the Marines appeased the bluejackets by paying for a dinner of corned beef and pickles from the canteen, and thought they had heard the last of the matter; but the sailors had determined to pay the "Joeys" in their own coin, and did so a few days later, when the ship's company, being at "collision quarters," the Marines' messes were emptied of all their inmates. A party of bluejackets was stationed with the diving apparatus on the main-deck near the Marines' messes, and in the party were several who had suffered the loss of their dinner. It was 4 p.m., and noticing a large "plum-duff" on the table, evidently intended as a delicacy for tea, they pounced on it to a man. When the Marines came down in hungry expectation, behold! there was but an empty dish.

Dinner time lasts an hour and a quarter, and at "one bell" (12.30) the bugle-call for grog—"Nancy Dawson," as it is nick-named—summons the cooks to the grog tub.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

TEETOTAL SAILORS RECEIVING CASH INSTEAD OF RUM.

The bugle-call, which is unknown even to army men, is given on the previous page.

Each man above the age of eighteen is allowed half a pint of grog, usually mixed in the proportion of one part of rum to three of water, and hence familiarly termed "three water"; and the number of half-pints due to each mess is served out to the cook of that mess for the day. The cooks stand à queue in the numerical order of their messes, the mess whose turn it is to pump the grog-water for that day (the messes take daily turns at so doing, petty officers' mess excepted) standing first "on tally," and the grog is served out by a petty officer and the Marine sergeant of the guard, under the supervision of a warrant officer and the ship's steward, who, book in hand, checks off the number of pints allotted to each cook.

The grog-tub is usually decorated with some loyal motto worked in brass, a first favourite being "The Queen, God bless Her."

A large proportion of men, thanks to the praiseworthy exertions of that true friend of Naval mankind, Miss Agnes Weston, are teetotalers; and these men, together with the boys under 18, are allowed money instead of rum at the rate of one penny one day and three farthings the next alternately. This is paid them once a quarter (monthly in harbour ships) by the paymaster in exactly the same manner in which the entire ship's company receive their ordinary pay.

The dinner-hour, too, is a convenient time for the sale of dead or "run" men's effects.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

AN AUCTION—SELLING A DESERTER'S CLOTHES.

When a man has absented himself without leave for seven days he is officially posted a deserter, and any clothes, uniform, &c., he may have left behind him are sold by auction to the highest bidder, the proceeds going to the Government.

Jack Tar, like a great number of his social superiors, does not believe in giving a paternal Government any more than he can conveniently help; and many a great bargain does he pick up at these sales. For instance, a white duck tunic, such as the master-at-arms is holding up for inspection in our illustration, and which costs Jack 4s. to 5s., will start at 3d. and slowly mount up to 6d. or 8d., beyond which sum the bidding seldom rises.

At 1.15 p.m., dinner being over, on ordinary week days the bugle sounds "Clean Guns," and work recommences; but on Sundays and Thursdays (known to the bluejacket as "Spun-yarn Sunday") the ship's company are granted an afternoon of rest.

As soon as dinner time is over the bosun's mate pipes the sufficiently obvious pipe "Hands make and mend clothes"; and, as Jack makes all his own wearing apparel, he is not slow to take advantage of the time allowed him.

In fine weather the men bring their machines on deck and smoke and sew together. Every conceivable kind of needlework does Jack execute equally well. And not only the rank and file, but the petty officers also are glad to make their own clothes rather than buy them ready made; and though Jack is generally a self-taught tailor, he turns out far smarter work than the slop-shops. The difference is very obvious if one compares a bluejacket wearing uniform "built" by his own deft fingers, with one who is wearing a suit bought at some "Naval Outfitter's."

The men have the forward part of the upper deck to themselves, the petty officers having the space further aft set apart for them; but this advantage is not without its little drawbacks. Witness an incident experienced by the writer.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

JACK AS TAILOR—MAKING AND MENDING HIS CLOTHES.

He was seated by a ventilator playing chess—a favourite game—with a comrade. The fleet was about to enter Vigo, and a heavy sea was running, drenching the fo'c'sle and the other side of the deck, but leaving the space where the players were seated dry as a bone. They were just congratulating themselves on their comfortable quarters, when the ship, suddenly altering course to make the entrance to the bay, slewed round to port, and a heavy sea came neatly in and caught them as they sat. Chessmen, board, and players went suddenly floating about the deck in picturesque confusion, to the great amusement of the onlookers, who were expecting some diversion. Going below to change his clothes—for he was wet to the skin—the writer had the bad luck to stand directly under the same ventilator, and no sooner had he donned dry clothes than another malevolent and illfavoured sea came carefully down the ventilator shaft and rendered him as wet again. He tenderly avoided that ventilator during the remainder of the cruise.

Thursday afternoon is the recognised time for the opening of the mysterious and voracious "Scran-bag."

On board a man-of-war tidiness is a matter of great importance, and with a view to enforcing it an officer—on Sundays and Thursdays the puissant captain himself—makes a tour of the entire ship at certain hours. Woe betide the luckless man who has left out of its place the smallest article! For when the decks are being cleared up for the "Rounds" (as the inspection is termed), here a towel that has been inadvertently left on a rack instead of being stowed away in its appointed place, the kit-bag—here a book, or a coat, or a pound of tobacco, stowed away out of sight behind a scuttle cover, and discovered by the insinuative, far-reaching hand of the "Crusher," as the ship's corporal is familiarly termed, a hand that has a pleasant knack of exploring out-of-the-way nooks and corners—in short, any article that is left about is confiscated, and placed within a huge canvas bag, the "Scran-bag."

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

A SKILFUL MACHINIST.

Every Thursday it is opened, and there gathers around it an excited knot of men who overhaul its contents thoroughly, a ship's corporal standing by to see that no man claims "what isn't his'n." But before the owner is allowed to take away his article he is mulcted in one penny for each article, to be put in the poor-box, or else he has to provide a piece of soap to be used in scrubbing decks.

Nearly everyone has seen "Ship's tobacco" in some form or other, but few know how the sailor prepares it for use. It is served out to him monthly, at the same time as his soap, in packages of 1 lb., for which he pays 1s. 1d., being allowed it duty free. It is a dark, rich leaf, and the first thing done is to remove the stems. This done, some water is sprinkled on the loose leaves (the old salt will prefer rum, to add to its strength and flavour), and the whole is enclosed in a piece of canvas and tightly bound with twine until it assumes a cigar-like shape, pointed at each end. Next some fine line is taken, one end secured to the tobacco and the other made fast to some strong support. One or two men now sit astride the line, and the tobacco is wound round and round, the weight of the men compressing it to about half its original bulk. When entirely covered with line it is tightly secured, and in two or three days is ready for use.

At night the men's time may fairly be considered their own. On certain evenings fresh water is served out for the washing of clothes, for Jack is his own washerwoman as well as tailor. That the marine is no less handy than his sailor brother may be gathered from the fact that the ship's cobbler usually belongs to that immensely useful branch of the service so aptly described by Kipling as "soldier and sailor too."

A number of men who are handy with razor and scissors make a good addition to their pay by attending to the tonsorial wants of their less gifted brethren, and shave and cut hair in a heavy sea-way with the ship rolling and pitching all over the place as easily as they do in harbour with an immovable deck to stand on.

"All work and no play"—the proverb was made for Jack; and though the bluejacket has to make his own amusement he does it as thoroughly as he does all else he puts his hand to. Nearly every ship in the navy has its nigger troupe or theatrical party, and some really clever performances are given; the make-up and dress are good, and would be no disgrace to a professional company. The fair sex, though absent, are hardly conspicuous thereby; few uninitiated eyes would detect in the female characters a middle-aged able-seaman or a cheeky young ordinary.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

SAILORS CLAIMING THEIR ARTICLES ON THE OPENING OF THE "SCRAN-BAG."

A more athletic relaxation is boxing, which is—as it should be—a favourite amusement aboard. Many a good man has the Royal Marines or the navy supplied to the professional ring.

While the men are amusing themselves in various ways their superiors are likewise killing time, and will often indulge in cricket on the quarter-deck, which is screened with canvas to avoid losing the ball overboard. The game can only be played at sea, for in harbour the quarter-deck is required for more serious work. The ball is usually a soft tennis-ball. The officers don flannels, and many an exciting game, such as Ward-room v. Gun-room, is played, and continued at every opportunity till the match is finished.

Every officer aboard takes an interest in these matches, captain and commander often coming on deck to encourage their juniors with their august presence, and many a match won by the navy ashore has been due to the practice aboard. For if a man can play cricket with a sloping and mobile deck beneath him he can surely do better on a well-rolled pitch.

On Saturday nights, on such ships as carry one, the band discourses sweet dance-music for the delectation of the men; and these proverbially ardent lovers of Terpsichore are true to their goddess, even though the wind is howling great guns, and the ship rolling and pitching in such a way that none but true sons of Neptune could even walk upright, to say nothing of dancing.

When no band is carried, a miscellaneous collection of blue-jacket and marine musical amateurs supply the deficiency; and their music, though not perhaps up to the standard of Mr. Dan Godfrey, amply fulfils its requirements.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

"JACK IS HIS OWN WASHERWOMAN."

When the ship is in harbour, leave is often allowed, and in connection with shore-going there is an interesting formality not generally known. It is one of the most heinous crimes in the naval decalogue to attempt to smuggle any intoxicant aboard; and to obviate such a possibility every man on returning from shore is searched by the corporal of the gangway, a ship's corporal standing by, book in hand, to enter the names of the offenders in the "black list," to be dealt with next day by the commander.

The corporal of the gangway is usually an experienced Marine told off for the duty, and under his hands it would be difficult for even the most crafty smuggler to conceal any liquor about his person.

But to the credit of our navy be it said that cases of smuggling are extremely rare.

As a general rule Jack Tar and Joe the Marine, though certainly sometimes labouring under conditions trying to even the most law-abiding civilian, conform to regulations and discipline with that breezy cheerfulness and brave good-will which makes them, as they always have been and it is to be hoped always will be, the idols of their countrymen, the proud boast of their nation, and a standing menace to her enemies.

Photo. R. Thiele & Co.

OFFICERS PLAYING CRICKET ON THE QUARTER DECK.

CRICKET SKETCHES.

Two Pages by Mr. "Rip."

MR. K. J. KEY—A STATELY

PROCESSION OF ONE.

AN UNUSUAL EXPERIENCE

FOR THE GREAT

ARTHUR SHREWSBURY.

AN ELEGANT BAT—

MR. F. G. J. FORD.

"RANJI" MAKES A

BRILLIANT CATCH.

LITTLE "BOBBY" ABEL

GETTING AWAY WITH

AN AWKWARD ONE.

FIREWORKS!

AN OVER BY MR. JESSOP.

PHILLIPS, THE

INTERNATIONAL

UMPIRE.

BIG TOM RICHARDSON—READY

TO KNOCK UP A BRISK DOZEN

OR SO.

HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY.

A COMEDY IN AN OMNIBUS.

BY CLARENCE ROOK; ILLUSTRATED BY B. E. MINNS.

THE gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop's Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing his seat drove his elbow into my hat.

"DROVE HIS ELBOW INTO MY HAT."

"Bless me! I'm always doing that. Most extraordinary! I'm sure I beg your pardon."

I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other arm—the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman—and continued to rock it mechanically.

The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.

It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. "Why," I asked myself, "do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting eyes, want to change their place in a bus?"

The suspicion came—and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver's whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted to the roof.

The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance, he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman, who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.

As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and, as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl's waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.

And then I noticed a curious disturbance—only a momentary rise and fall—in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could tell, had moved. The girl's hands were lying in her lap, precariously clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.

"THE TIRED-LOOKING GIRL SWAYED SLIGHTLY."

The explanation came to me in a flash. In so sudden a flash that I turned in the same instant to the conductor and found his sidelong glance meeting mine.

"See that?" he muttered, under the clatter of the bus.

"I should think I did," I said, "he's picked her pocket."

"I've 'ad a eye on the old josser for the last month," he said. "I'll make it a fair cop this time. You're my witness."

"Well," I said, "I'm not awfully keen on being mixed up——"

"Bit of high-spyin' now," he said. "What's the matter with a little bit o' high-spyin', eh?"

The conductor mounted the steps to the roof. The tired girl, awakened suddenly to her position, straightened herself and peered anxiously through the window of the bus as though to make certain that she had not been carried to Wormwood Scrubs in her sleep. Reassured, she gathered up her portfolio in a firmer grasp with one hand, and with the other searched the back of her head for errant pins.

Round the edge of my paper I watched the old gentleman, whose eyes were now fixed obliquely upon the woman on his left. I distinctly saw his eyes travel down from the woman's face to her black cloth jacket, and stop at the outside pocket, from which her omnibus ticket was peeping. The pocket was on a level with, and almost touching his elbow, and his hand, his left hand, which was resting upon his knee, began slowly to travel towards the pocket of the tired-looking woman.

"APPARENTLY MAKING SKETCHES OF THE PASSENGERS."

The baby was kicking, grasping at the stuffy air with crinkled fingers, and threatened to give voice, and the tired-looking woman, rocking more anxiously than before, looked timidly from one neighbour to another as though in apology for the wrath to come.

At that moment my glance was attracted to a point above the old gentleman's head, where I met the eyes of the conductor, pressed close against the window-pane. A little higher was the tip of his nose, whitened by the pressure, and above that his stubby red moustache, underneath which a mouth gaped with inquiry. For a moment or two I was fascinated by the inverted face, which seemed to belong to some other-world creature which had tumbled from extra-mundane space and stuck fast upon the window of the Bayswater bus.

The benevolent old gentleman, quite unconscious of the watchful eyes behind his head, was regarding with a bland smile the advertisements on the window behind me. And as my eyes fell again on the spot where I had last seen his hand, I saw that it was not there. There never was a more unskilful performance. For there sat the old gentleman before my eyes, looking calmly over my head, with two fingers inserted into the pocket of the woman who was rocking the baby. As though it knew the wrong that was being done, the baby gave vent to the threatened yell, and the mother, patting it, and rocking it, and speaking to it in unknown tongues, saw nothing and felt nothing else.

Suddenly, as I watched, the benevolent old gentleman dropped his eyes from the advertisements, and mine arrested them as they fell. Never was an old gentleman so vastly perturbed. I almost felt sorry for him; for an aged criminal who has not learned the art of escaping detection and is therefore hopelessly incompetent, is a pathetic sight.

The omnibus stopped with a jerk just as we came within the range of the lamps at the corner, and the old gentleman, so evil were his deeds, seemed to shrink from the light. I was not quite certain of the etiquette with pickpockets. Ought I to leap upon him then and there and to denounce him? That would be melodramatic, I reflected; and I hate a scene; so I only raised myself from my seat, borrowed support from the handrail above my head, and waited upon events.

"TOWARDS THE POCKET OF THE TIRED-LOOKING WOMAN."

The tired girl bestirred herself and looked round, the woman with the baby changed her burden again from one arm to the other and peered anxiously at the door.

"Royal Oak," I said, answering her look of inquiry.

She sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, and at the same moment the old gentleman jumped up and shambled towards the door, while the other passengers carefully drew in their toes.

By this time I noticed that the conductor's face had detached itself from the window. Three people had risen to leave; but the old gentleman was first, being clearly in a hurry; and as he found himself unable to pass me, half-standing and half-sitting, with my hand on the overhead rail, he looked pleadingly at me, as though imploring my silence. I hesitated a moment. It was none of my business to arrest criminals. But I did not mind giving a passive support to the cause of justice, so I stayed where I was. And then the conductor appeared, blocking the doorway.

"No, yer don't," he said.

"My good man," began the old gentleman, "I sincerely trust I have given no offence. I only——"

"I see yer," said the conductor, looking over his shoulder towards the public-house, and jerking his head.

"Then kindly oblige me," said the old gentleman, "by not making a fuss. If a sovereign now——"

"Oh, stow it," said the conductor. "You've done it once too often, that's what you 'ave. I see yer right enough this time, and you're going to be give in chawge, that's what you are. Strite."

The old gentleman looked helplessly round him. Impatient passengers began to remonstrate from the step; others from the kerb.

"AS I WATCHED."

"'Old on," said the conductor, "we're all goin' 'ome to tea."

A policeman crossed from the opposite corner.

"'Igher up there!" he remarked, dispassionately.

"Look 'ere, constable," said the conductor, "'ere's a job in your line." Then his tone became official. "I 'ereby give this man in chawge for picking pockets."

"Oh," said the policeman, scattering the bunch of people gathered round the step.

"I see him—and this gentleman 'ere see him," said the conductor. "'Tain't the first time, neither. Old 'and, he is; that's what he is."

The doorway was now blocked by the policeman's form.

"That ain't good enough for me," he said. "Any of you ladies and gentlemen lost anything?"

"I see 'is 'and in that lydy's pocket," said the conductor, pointing over the constable's shoulder at the woman with the baby. "You feel in your pocket, lydy."

Then ensued a general searching of pockets, while a rival omnibus swept by triumphantly and gathered up such passengers as were too impatient to await the outcome of the situation.

I leaned forward and said in an undertone to the girl with the portfolio, who alone of the passengers shewed no interest in the contents of her pocket, "You had better look in your pocket, I feel convinced it was picked while you were asleep upon his shoulder."

"'I GIVE THIS MAN IN CHARGE FOR PICKING POCKETS.'"

"I wasn't," she said, abruptly. Then, reflecting apparently that she was rude as well as tired, she added, "I've nothing worth stealing, thank you all the same."

In a desultory way she began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The old gentleman stood by the policeman. His face had grown very red; his eyes, wandering from one passenger to another, became suddenly fixed, and his face was redder than ever. It was sufficiently obvious that he was very uneasy. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw the baby's head hanging at an alarming angle over the woman's arm. The mother was leaning towards the light and looking at the contents of her free hand—a bus ticket, two pennies, a farthing, and a sovereign.

"Now, then! lost anything, mem?" asked the conductor.

"No, I ain't lost nothing," she began, slowly.

The old gentleman nodded to her pleasantly.

"Though," she continued, "I don't rightly understand why——"

"I think this must belong to you, sir," said the girl with the portfolio, suddenly, holding out a sovereign to the old gentleman.

"Not at all, my dear; nothing to do with me, nothing whatever," he said, nodding his head at her. "Old enough to be your grandfather, too!"

"Now then, what's all that?" asked the policeman.

"Only this gentleman must have been putting a sovereign into my pocket, and I insist—oh! I insist——"

"Look here, constable," said the old gentleman, "can't you see that you are embarrassing the young lady? Any little transaction between her and me is none of your business, or anyone else's either."

The old gentleman stamped impotently upon the floor of the omnibus.

"He's been giving money away," said the policeman over his shoulder to the conductor, "looks like."

"And why not, why not?" said the old gentleman. "What's the good of having money if you can't make people happy with it?"

The constable looked reflectively at him.

"I dunno," he said. "I'd better take your name and address."

The old gentleman looked apprehensively round. Then he took a card from his pocket and gave it to the policeman.

"'YOU GO HOME,' HE SAID."

"Please don't read it out," he said.

The policeman looked at the card, put it into his pocket-book, and made a note in pencil. Then he swung himself off the omnibus and looked hard at the old gentleman as he descended slowly.

"You go home," he said. "You want to be took care of, you do."

The conductor stood upon the kerb with his hand on the rail, looking after the old gentleman as he trudged off towards Royal Oak Station.

"'Urry up there," said the constable. "Wastin' my time," he added, as he turned his back.

The conductor rang the bell and leaned dolefully against the stairway as the bus started away from the dispersing crowd.

The girl with the portfolio was regarding her sovereign thoughtfully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger; then she returned it with her handkerchief to her pocket, looked doubtfully round and blushed slightly.

The woman with the baby was biting something, which, as she caught my eye, she hurriedly slipped into her jacket pocket. "Not that I'd be be'olden to anybody," she remarked at large, rocking her baby with much energy, "me 'usband earning good money, thanks be. But peliteness is peliteness——"

"You may think yer know yer way abart," said the conductor, looking at me and jerking his head up and down, "but now and then you find you're left—badly left. Now, think o' that! Droppin' sovereigns all over the place. Well, I wish I'd a'knowed!"

Photo by Landor, Ealing

THE HEAVENLY TWINS.

LITTLE DARLINGS.

HALF A MILLION

PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN.

Words by Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne.

LOCKED away in the breast of Mr. W. J. Byrne, the children's photographer, is a secret which, when she has read this article, every mother of children will want to know. Let it be said at once, however, that her curiosity will have to go unsatisfied; Mr. Byrne has his secret, and wild interviewers cannot drag it from him.

SUNSHINE.

Ability to pose adults gracefully and naturally before the camera is an accomplishment admittedly rare; in the case of children, with the difficulties increased tenfold, it must be a gift. It is one thing to dump a subject into a chair and obtain a likeness, another to make a picture as well. And when a man has taken half a million photographs of little sitters, in as many poses, he may be held to be something of an authority on the subject. That is Mr. Byrne's record; he is to children what Rosa Bonheur is to animals, save that he uses neither pencils nor brush; he is a veritable artist with the camera. Some of the examples of his skill here seen represent, it is not difficult to realise, an infinity of painstaking and experimenting, while others tell of patient waiting, followed by considerable alacrity at the moment of a fleeting expression which he desired to preserve. Mr. Byrne's method is very simple; one half of his secret is soon told.

SHADOW.

"Photographing children," he says, "is charming work, but it can never be successful so long as the customary relations between them and the photographer exist. They usually enter a studio with much the same sort of feelings as they do a dentist's. They should be made to feel at home before the business side of their visit is reached. Instead of being at once placed in the 'operating' chair, they should be allowed to wander about, if old enough, at their own sweet wills and in any case become accustomed to their strange surroundings. Wild gesticulations, promises of chocolates, stories of 'the little bird,' and orders to 'keep like that,' only serve to produce expressions of wonder and fear. Personally I let the child amuse itself with new toys, and either pretend to take no notice, or else join in the game. This may go on for half an hour. Meanwhile, an attendant is quietly focussing an almost concealed camera, and when the child begins to prattle, I wait for an unconscious and happy expression, then snap goes the shutter, and the thing is done.

"WHO IS THAT LITTLE FELLOW?""I DON'T LIKE HIM!"

"Every child's face is beautiful to at least one pair of eyes. The features may not be symmetrical, the eyes may be small and dull, but the charm of childhood does not lie entirely in facial beauty. It is the coy smile and the quaint expression that a parent prizes most. And it is these characteristics that a photographer should aim to catch. Mothers often make the mistake of rehearsing the sitting at home. It is even better not to mention the matter in the presence of the little one; it is usually much more satisfactory if the visit is a surprise one as far as the child is concerned. It is also unwise to dress the young sitter in unaccustomed clothes or to warn it to be good. For general work, my rule about posing children is, 'Never pose them at all.'"

"QUEEN OF HEARTS."

Mr. Byrne's studios are veritable toy-shops, containing everything from a jumping frog to a model of an Atlantic liner. Indeed, Mr. Byrne has given a big firm of toy-dealers a standing order to send anything new that comes in the market. Antiquarians will learn with a pang that the dear old Noah's Ark is going the way of all flesh. British children will have none of it. They refuse to look pleasant for less than a little bicycle with rubber tyres, or a miniature motor-car with real boilers—at least when they go to be photographed.

So much, then, for how Mr. Byrne's "happy" results are produced; what about his "unhappy" ones? Both are well represented here. Take the first pictures, Sunshine and Shadow. What caused the inquisitive little fellow in the first to find the world all dark and so little of interest in life a few seconds later?

"RATHER SLOW, THIS!"

It must have been something wholly unexpected, for it effected much the same change in his companion's countenance. Was it a pin-point gently insinuated between the shoulder blades, or a cold sponge dexterously applied to the little spine?

That is what mothers would like to know. Mr. Byrne says, with a smile, that it was neither—that the expression was a purely natural development. But will the mothers of England believe him?

UNHAPPY LITTLE PEOPLE.

"WHAT DOES ALL THIS MEAN?"

There is, too, the case of the little boy gazing so intently into a hand-glass; what did he find hidden in its depths to make him suddenly cast it aside, and turn to where the photographer is presumably standing, with such a look of mingled disappointment and disgust? His discovery was evidently remarkable, for, as will be seen, it had the additional effect of taking his fore-lock out of curl. Again Mr. Byrne is appealed to, and again he smiles and vouchsafes the same reply. And again the mothers of England will have their suspicions.

In photography, as in many another profession, the path of those who would forsake the beaten track does not lie through acacia groves. Many obstacles strew the way. For instance, Mr. Byrne conceived the notion of posing children in a big boot, such as appears in two of the accompanying reproductions. It is a simple-looking boot, yet it took two years to make; that is to say, the day the order was given, and the day it was satisfactorily carried out, were separated by a span of such duration. But much happened in between. First of all Mr. Byrne made a rough design of what he wanted, giving the dimensions, etc., and sent it, through a friend, to a local bootmaker. Perhaps, not anxious to have his idea noised throughout camera-land, Mr. Byrne's instructions were not as explicit as they might be; it was the time of the dynamitard outrages, and the worthy artist in leather grew suspicious. What might his customer want with such a boot? it was most unusual; he had never heard of a man with such a large foot; and why only one boot? He didn't like such peculiar orders, but he would do what he could in the matter; of course it would cost a goodish sum. As to whether the poor man had nightly visions of the strange boot being filled with infernal machines and placed under the House of Commons, and himself charged by the State with aiding and abetting the plot, no reliable information is forthcoming, but certainly, after two months had elapsed, he sent word to say that he found the work more difficult than he had anticipated, and that unless the one-legged individual, for whom the boot was apparently intended, could call and be measured in the ordinary way, he must regretfully throw up the job. A carpenter was next tried, but with little more success. The boot actually did come home, after a time, but it was large enough for six children to lose themselves in, instead of comfortably accommodating one. At this stage it occurred to Mr. Byrne that one of the Drury Lane "property" men, used to tailoring for pantomime giants and other unusual creatures, would be able to make a boot a little bit out of the common without being too inquisitive as to its mission in life. So it finally arrived, a beautiful creation, fit for any Brobdingnagian dandy, and redolent of Day and Martin. But Mr. Byrne wanted a dilapidated boot; to save further trouble, however, he proceeded, with the aid of a pocket knife and an old hatchet, to dilapidate it himself.

LITTLE MISS PENSIVE.

It was much the same with the egg appearing herewith. It was tried in canvas, wood, and papier-maché before the more serviceable aluminium produced a "lay" that any pantomime bird might be proud of. Both the boot and the egg have done yeoman service since. They have assisted in producing something approaching a thousand photograph-pictures.

When Mr. Byrne had shown that the novel could be blended with the artistic in child photography, would-be imitators were not slow to appreciate the innovation. Photographers wrote from all parts of the country to inquire where Mr. Byrne obtained his "properties"; they would like to add duplicates to their own studios. Guileless Mr. Byrne replied in each case—"From America."

It would be as difficult for Mr. Byrne to say how he came to make a spécialité of child photography as it would to explain what led him to take to the camera at all. He practically drifted into both.

"My life," he says, "might almost be described as one long drift. Although I was born in Ireland, I entered the Italian army, for some reason no one, not even myself, has ever been able to explain, when I was fifteen years of age. I fought in the Austro-Franco-Italian campaign of 1859, being one of the only two Britishers engaged in the war. The other was the late Colonel Peard. Like him, I was present at the great battles of Magenta and Solferino, and like him I several times came near ending my career on the plains of Lombardy.

"When the war was over, and there seemed no prospect of another, I drifted away from the colours, back to London, and into the more peaceful occupation of portrait making. Photography was in its infancy in those days; and I can only presume that I took kindly to it because I had always been something of an artist, which was of considerable advantage to me in my new profession. After a while I discovered that I secured happier results with children than was usual, probably because, being naturally fond of them, I devoted more care and attention to them than was customary, for child sitters were rare then, and photographers were apt to regard them as rather bad bargains, notwithstanding the higher fees charged."

LITTLE DAMES IN FANCY FRAMES.

It is not surprising to learn that Mr. Byrne has "snapped" nearly all the little English royalties; his studios being located at Richmond in Surrey, he has frequently been summoned to the White Lodge and Windsor Castle, not to mention more distant royal seats. Regarding juvenile princes and princesses, Mr. Byrne has something interesting to say.

"Royal children have charming and simple ways, and it is usually an easy matter to establish friendly relations with them. That once accomplished, photographing always becomes a pleasure. They are just as fond of new toys as other children, just as eager for a romp, frequently more so. Indeed, I have more than once had to 'play soldiers' with some of the Queen's grandchildren while waiting for them to reach a sitting-still mood."

Perhaps much of Mr. Byrne's success is due to the fact that photography is not merely his profession; it is his hobby as well. He is constantly devising new and novel poses, both for his private sitters and the child-models he employs. When a mother calls at the studio with her bairn, she is shown numerous bulky volumes, veritable picture galleries of children in almost every conceivable attitude, and invited to choose which she would prefer for her own little one's portrait. Bewildered by such a display, she usually elects to leave the choice to the photographer, and she is invariably wise; for the pose that shows to perfection the characteristic beauty of one child may be quite unsuitable for another. A trained eye notices these things as quickly as a practised artist can tell whether a certain bit of scenery is "paintable" or not. One of Mr. Byrne's child-models must be the most photographed little person in the country, for she has figured in no fewer than two thousand studies. To show the variety of these, a page herewith is devoted to a composite reproduction of the little model in some of her happiest poses. The sweet child, it might be mentioned, is the daughter of Mr. Byrne's laundress.

A CHILD MODEL—SOME OF HER HAPPIEST POSES.

SOMEBODY'S NEST-EGG.

Mr. Byrne has three "Don'ts" for mothers who would secure speaking likenesses of their little ones. Don't let the little one know beforehand that it is going to a studio. Don't dress it in any costume to which it is unaccustomed. Don't endeavour to arrange its hair; this will look better if allowed to fall naturally.

BUILT FOR ONE.

It must not be supposed, however, that the subject of this article is a photographer of children only. Between them, eighty-nine exhibitions in various parts of the world have awarded him something like a quarter of a hundredweight of medals for exhibits of all kinds, while he has also photographed nearly every adult member of our royal family and innumerable celebrities. In this branch of his work, however, Mr. Byrne has to content himself with the artistic, and leave the novel severely alone. For the Prince of Wales, considerate sitter though he is, would hardly consent to have himself "caught" in an old boot, or Sir Ellis Ashmead Bartlett, though he does much to amuse his fellow members of Parliament, permit himself to be represented emerging from an aluminium egg. So the "properties" have to be laid aside at times.

"I DON'T LIKE PHOTOGRAPHERS!"

"The Queen," says Mr. Byrne, "is one of the best sitters in the world, very rarely moving or spoiling a plate. That abomination of all studios, the head rest, is quite unnecessary in Her Majesty's case. The Prince of Wales takes quite a keen interest in photography himself, and when sitting will go to considerable personal trouble in order that the results may be successful. The Prince will get together a royal group where anyone else would fail. The German Emperor is a most genial sitter; but his pose before the camera is apt to be rather stiff, and his expression somewhat stern. Nearly every royal sitter, in fact, has some peculiarity which one finds it one's task to moderate without destroying altogether."

But we are no nearer Mr. Byrne's secret. How were the "unhappy" pictures obtained? Stories are told of fond mothers, waiting in anterooms, being horrified to suddenly hear piercing shrieks proceeding from the studio. Breathlessly they have dashed in, to find Mr. Byrne all smiles, baby all tears. When the proofs came home, the picture showing baby crying was generally voted wonderfully lifelike, even if it was not selected for general distribution.

These strange rumours are referred to, and once again Mr. Byrne is appealed to to withdraw the veil; but yet again he smiles and replies as before. Which reply, it is to be feared, the mothers of England will accept with the customary condiment.

POISON

POISONED RING.

POISONED GLOVES.

POISONED SWORD.

POISONED HOCKEY STICK.

POISONED SHIRT.

POISONED DAGGER.

POISONED BOOTS.

POISONED BOWL.

THE ingenuity of man in devising schemes to perpetuate life has almost been equalled by his ingenuity in framing devices to abridge it. In all ages there have been men who hated convention, even conventional murder. When they desired to remove an enemy secretly, they had recourse to poison; but not to ordinary schemes of poisoning. They made it an art.

An interesting device, very palpably suggested by the famous shirt of Nessus, is that given on the opposite page. The shirt was charged within with poison of great acerbity, which so acted upon the skin of its wearer as to inflame and then blister with incredible malignity, until the victim died in horrible agonies.

Various hypotheses have been put forward with respect to the history of the shirt we illustrate, which is now in an American museum; but there seems every reason to believe that it is the garment mentioned in a German work of the 15th century by Adolph Beckert, as having been exhumed with the body of a Greek military captain, with an inscription to the effect that, having been guilty of gross insubordination, amounting to treason, he was ordered to denude himself of his garments in the presence of the soldiers, and don the fatal tunic.

Of equal, if not greater antiquity, was the device in vogue among the Tartar princes.

When a prince desired to dispatch an inconvenient subject, he was invited to a game of hockey, participated in by the various nobles, officers and officials of the Court. The Royal Chamberlain always took good care that the technical miscreant should play with a special stick, within whose jewelled hilt lurked the deadly poison. But even the drug would have been scarcely sufficient to destroy life if there had not been also concealed in the handle a number of microscopic needle points which, tiny as they were, and almost unobserved at the first handling, were quite sufficient after a few minutes' play to puncture the skin.

In this connection we may advert to the vast number of swords and daggers extant whose tips were impregnated with poison; these are to be found in many museums in Europe. There are not a few even in our own Scotland Yard. Although legitimately poison devices, they betray little ingenuity.

The pair of gauntlets shown on the opposite page are said to have been the property of a great foreign political notability. Once well on the hands of the victim, a species of gum, with which the interior was lined, adhered with such tenacity to the flesh that it was next to impossible to remove the gloves, except by cutting them away; and even then the gum remained impervious to water, or of solution, until inflammation was succeeded by festering, and unless amputation of the whole arm followed, death inevitably ensued.

Several deaths from the wearing of poisoned boots have been recorded, notably that of Andre Nolofski, courier to the Russian Empress Catherine the Great, who was discovered some nine miles from Moscow, lying prone dead on the side of the road, with apparently not a mark of disfigurement, until someone removed his boots. Then a surgeon discovered that tiny poisoned needles had pierced his feet.

Poison rings were not unknown to the Romans. A hollow duct was contained in half the ring, from which poison was supplied to a needle of infinitesimal size at the opposite side. The other half of the circle enclosed a very delicate mechanism for operating the needle. When, with a slight pressure, the hand of the enemy was clasped with apparent cordiality and good-fellowship, it gently punctured the skin without exciting suspicion.

Another device we illustrate was in very common use amongst the Chinese up to a century ago. It consisted of a bowl heavily coated with a colourless soluble poison on the inside. Upon any hot liquid, such as tea, being poured into this cup, the poison became dissolved. As a whole service of this ware might come into the possession of one family without suspicion, it is not difficult to credit the fact that in spite of every precaution about food, seven or eight persons were often exterminated by this process.

OUR MONTHLY GALLERY

OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London W.

A FLOWER OF SPAIN.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London W.

"HUSH."

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London W.

THE FAVOURITE.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W.

MEDITATION.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W.

GOOD-NIGHT!

Transcriber's Note

Page 14: 'busses' corrected to 'buses', though 'busses' may have been in use in 1898, or may have been confused with fishing boats (herring busses).

"... he even saw cabs and buses with different eyes."

Page 40: 'our's' corrected to 'ours' (though 'our's' may have been in use in 1898, or maybe the 'demon' apostrophe may not be so modern!).

" From the American aspect, ours is dull,..."

Page 56: 'Meterological' corrected to 'Meteorological'

"the Meteorological Office, a Government department...."

Page 78: 'ofence' corrected to 'offence'.

"... to have sufficiently purged himself of his offence?"

Pages 93-97: 'bluejacket' (noun) appears a number of times; blue-jacket (adjective) appears once.

'workwoman' and 'work-woman' also both appear, in different stories.

Numerous occurences of words which are sometimes joined by a hyphen, and sometimes separate, also appear (e.g. 'bugle-call' and 'bugle call').

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE, V. 1, 1898-1899 ***

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Table of Contents

THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE.

A FAIR ANGLO-SAXON. From the Painting by A. Seifert.

The HARMSWORTH MONTHLY PICTORIAL MAGAZINE VOLUME I. 1898-9. No. 1.

INDEX TO VOL. I.

ARTICLES.

STORIES.

FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

POETRY.

SWEET AND TWENTY. From the Painting by G. L. Seymour.

OUR EXCUSE . . . FOR THE ISSUE OF A SIXPENNY MAGAZINE AT THREEPENCE. . . . SOME REASONS WHY.

WE ARE FIVE.

NOTABLE DOUBLES IN REAL LIFE.

THE GOLDEN CIRCLET. A COMPLETE STORY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

A MOTHER OF TWO. Photo by Landon, Ealing

MODERN FAMILY SKELETONS.

A ROSE AT LAST BY CLIFTON BINGHAM

HOW SANDOW MADE ME STRONG A REMARKABLE PHYSICAL TRANSFORMATION.

THE STONE RIDER! A SHORT STORY OF THE WEIRD. By Nellie K. Blissett; Illustrated by Max Cowper.

THEIR MOTOR-CAR ELOPEMENT,

HOW WE GET OUR WEATHER. By Gavin Macdonald.

HER LETTER! ONE OF J. HARWOOD PANTING'S INTERESTING NARRATIVES.

SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS A Marvellous Performance in Dumb Show.

THE CHANCELLOR'S WARD. Perhaps Mr. Richard Marsh's Best Short Story.

I.

II.

III.

THE QUEEN'S BODYGUARD.

SOME COSTLY PETS.

HOME LIFE ON BOARD A MAN-OF-WAR. DESCRIBED BY ONE WHO HAS LIVED THERE.

CRICKET SKETCHES. Two Pages by Mr. "Rip."

HIS SOVEREIGN REMEDY. A COMEDY IN AN OMNIBUS.

THE HEAVENLY TWINS.

LITTLE DARLINGS. HALF A MILLION PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN. Words by Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne.

OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.

Transcriber's Note

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