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The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, No. 05, May 1891

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Title: The Strand Magazine, Vol. 01, No. 05, May 1891

Author: Various

Editor: George Newnes


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRAND MAGAZINE, VOL. 01, NO. 05, MAY 1891 ***

[Illustration: "GABRIELLE JOINED HER PRAYERS TO HER LOVER'S."

(_An Eighteenth Century Juliet._)]




_An Eighteenth Century Juliet._

By JAMES MORTIMER.


I.

FRENCH judicial annals are rich in strange and romantic episodes, but
there are few narratives so replete with pathetic interest as the story
of Gabrielle de Launay, a lady whose cause was tried before the High
Court of Paris about the middle of the eighteenth century, and created
a profound sensation throughout France at that epoch.

Mademoiselle de Launay was the only child of an eminent judge of
Toulouse, where Gabrielle was born about the year 1730. M. de Launay,
as the President of the Civil Tribunal of Toulouse, occupied a position
of distinction, to which he was additionally entitled as a member of
one of the leading families of the province. Between himself and the
son of the late General de Serres, a deceased friend of the President
de Launay, there existed an intimacy which gave colour to the belief
entertained in the most exclusive social circles of Toulouse that young
Captain Maurice de Serres was selected to be the future husband of the
judge's beautiful daughter, then in her eighteenth year, whilst Maurice
was nine years her senior. The birth and fortune of the two young
people were equally in harmony, and the match thus appeared in every
way suitable.

The surmises of the gossips were shortly confirmed by the formal
announcement of the betrothal, and Maurice was on the point of asking
the approval of his widowed mother, who resided in Paris, when an
incident occurred which threatened to dash the cup of happiness from
his lips. An official letter from the Minister of War reached Captain
de Serres, instructing him, with all despatch, to rejoin his regiment,
suddenly ordered abroad on active service in the far East.

The next morning, at an early hour, the young officer presented himself
at the residence of President de Launay, greatly to the surprise of the
worthy judge and his daughter, to whom he despairingly imparted the
untoward tidings. The grief of Maurice and Gabrielle at the prospect of
their sudden separation, for a long and uncertain period, was poignant
in the extreme, and M. de Launay was himself profoundly distressed by
this unexpected blow to his projects for his only child's happiness.
After the first outburst, Maurice entreated the President to hasten the
marriage and permit Gabrielle to accompany her husband to the Indies,
if she would consent to undertake the voyage. Gabrielle joined her
prayers to her lover's, but her father refused absolutely to listen
to the proposal. Apart from his reluctance to part from his child for
an indefinite term, the good President pointed out to the young man
the hardships of a voyage to the most distant quarter of the globe,
and the danger of exposure to a climate then regarded as fatal to many
Europeans.

"Suppose Gabrielle, young as she is, were to sicken and die thousands
of miles from her native land," said the President; "could you ever
recover from the consequences of your rash imprudence, or could I
forgive myself for my own weakness and folly?"

"Then, sir," exclaimed Maurice, passionately, "I only know of one
alternative. I will at once resign my commission, and adopt a new
profession--I care not what, so that it shall not separate me from the
woman I love."

M. de Launay shook his head, and, with a grave smile, replied that
such an act would be unworthy of a French soldier and a scion of the
noble house of de Serres. As a last resort, Maurice implored the
President to sanction the immediate celebration of the marriage, with
the understanding that Gabrielle should remain under her father's
protection until her husband's return from foreign service, which, he
anticipated, would be in about two years. To this request, also, M. de
Launay returned an inflexible negative, without vouchsafing any reason,
except that such was his decision.

Finding all his efforts vain, Maurice resigned himself to the
inevitable, whilst Gabrielle sadly prepared to obey the command of one
to whose behests she had ever yielded a dutiful submission, comforting
herself, perchance, with the secret hope that her love and fidelity to
Maurice would be more cherished, and invested with a greater heroism in
his eyes, after two long, weary years of trial and separation.

In maintaining an attitude of firmness throughout the dilemma in which
he had been placed by the inconsiderate passion of the young officer,
M. de Launay manifested the possession of all the wisdom requisite
in dealing with a difficult problem; but in adhering strictly to
the French custom of decorously assisting at all interviews between
unmarried young people of opposite sexes, and in failing to leave
the lovers together alone for a short time, the President showed a
deplorable want of knowledge of the human heart. The thought did not
occur to him that a few tears, kisses, and vows of constancy would go
far towards reconciling Maurice and Gabrielle to the sweet sorrow of
parting, and that with these innocent crumbs of comfort the parental
presence is totally uncongenial. Never in the history of love has it
been deemed admissible that there should be witnesses to the tender
words of farewell, the fond look in each other's eyes, the soft
pressure of each other's hands, the whispered oath of eternal fidelity,
and the many mysterious nothings which at such times are held sacred.
Oblivious of these delicate considerations, the worthy President gave
the young people no opportunity for a leave-taking which would have
been to them a relief and a precious souvenir. Their parting was one
of silence and dejection, but at the last moment Maurice found means
to murmur in Gabrielle's ear, "I will be in the garden at midnight,
under your window; meet me there to say good-bye." She spoke no word
of reply, but a glance at her face assured him that his prayer had
been heard and granted. With a tranquil smile, he bade farewell to the
President, who again betrayed a sad lack of penetration in accompanying
him to the gate, without the remotest suspicion that a clandestine
midnight meeting of the lovers had been planned under his own eyes, and
that the young officer's sudden composure arose from a joy he found it
difficult to conceal.

[Illustration: "FAREWELL."]


II.

To both the lovers the hours seemed leaden indeed, until night came. At
last, the church clock of Toulouse chimed three-quarters past eleven,
and Gabrielle stole tremblingly down to the garden. The night was dark,
and not a sound could the young girl hear but the tumultuous beating
of her own heart, as she gently withdrew the bolts from the outer door
and stepped lightly upon the soft green sward. Filled with dread of
the consequences which might ensue if her secret meeting with Maurice
should be discovered by her father, the poor child's remorse for her
act of disobedience, as she regarded it, caused her to pause more than
once, undecided whether to keep her tacit promise, or to creep back
swiftly to her chamber. Before she could adopt the course dictated by
prudence and submission to her father's will, she heard a light step
behind her, and in another instant she was clasped in her lover's arms.
Gently releasing herself, she placed her hand in his, and led him to a
low bench close by, under the shadow of a tree. Seated side by side,
they spoke in low whispers of their approaching separation and of their
mutual sorrow during Maurice's long absence from France. They talked
of their occupations, and of the expedients each would adopt to make
the time seem less wearisome. They arranged the employment of every
day, and fixed the hours when each should breathe the other's name, and
thus know that they were in communion of thought, though thousands of
miles of ocean rolled between them, forgetting that in widely different
climes the day to one would be night to the other. Then, perhaps,
this geographical obstacle occurred to them, and they triumphantly
vanquished it by promising to think of each other always, awake by day
and in dreams by night, which would be the surest method of never being
absent for an instant from each other's meditations.

In these lover-like communings the night sped quickly, and over the
tree-tops came the silver streaks in the clouds which herald the
approach of dawn. They knew that their remaining time must now be
short, and for a while they spoke no words. Still they sat side by side
upon the bench, Maurice holding Gabrielle's hand folded within his own.
Motionless, and with her head leaning forward, she wept in silence,
tears of mingled joy and anguish. Maurice felt a strange thrill of
rapture in his heart as he gazed in the sweet face of his beautiful
betrothed, illumined by the soft rays of the moon, and as if seized
with a sudden impulse, he fell upon his knees before her.

"Do you love me, dearest?" he murmured in trembling accents.

"God is my witness," she answered gently, "that I love you better than
aught else on earth."

As if startled by the danger of discovery to which they were becoming
every instant more and more exposed, the young man sprang hastily to
his feet, clasped her in his arms, and kissed her passionately.

"Farewell, my own true love," he said softly. "Farewell until we meet
again."

"Must you then leave me?"

"Alas, yes!"

She feared that her own gentleness and calmness at the supreme moment
of parting would seem cold and tame in contrast with his exaltation,
and, throwing her arms around his neck, she cried--

"Kiss me once more, Maurice; once more!"

Again he pressed his burning lips to hers in one long, last embrace.

"Farewell, Maurice," she sighed. "I feel that, if I were in my shroud,
your kiss would recall me back to life!"

And with these prophetic words ringing strangely in his ears, he
turned, and fled from her presence.


III.

Four long and eventful years had passed since the lovers' clandestine
parting, when Captain de Serres again set foot on the soil of his
native land. The transport which brought a portion of his regiment
home entered the harbour of Brest early one bright morning in June,
and Maurice the same day set out for Paris, his first thought being
to embrace his widowed mother, whom he idolised. He had taken the
precaution to send her previous intelligence of his return to France,
and of his safety, for the poor lady, during nearly two years, had
mourned her only son as dead. Of his betrothal to Mademoiselle de
Launay she had never known, though she knew of the President by name as
one of her late husband's early friends.

When Maurice arrived in Paris, on the second morning after his
departure from Brest, and it was vouchsafed to his mother to clasp
in her arms the son she had thought gone from her for ever, her joy
can only be pictured by those to whom it has been given to taste an
unhoped-for happiness. Maurice, too, was happy; but still, after the
first emotions of such a meeting, Madame de Serres' keenly observant
glance detected in her son's face a strange expression of melancholy,
and an air of abstraction in his replies to her anxious questions,
which at once aroused all her solicitude. Alarmed at his singular
demeanour, she tenderly pressed him to confide to her the cause of his
sadness, that she might at least attempt to soothe and console him.

"It is nothing, mother," he said, with an effort to smile, "merely a
childish folly, of which a man should be ashamed; but since you imagine
that there is some serious cause for my ill-timed depression, I must do
my best to reassure you, though I fear you will only laugh at me."

"No, no, my son, I shall not laugh, whatever it may be," replied Madame
de Serres. "Explain yourself fully, Maurice, and trust my good sense to
make all due allowances."

"Very well, mother," was the answer, "you shall know the exact truth.
On my way home this morning, I passed before the church of St. Roch,
the entire front of which was heavily hung with black, and decorated
for the funeral of some person of note. Such a circumstance, I am
aware, is of every-day occurrence in Paris, and would not likely
attract the attention of an indifferent passerby. But upon me the sight
of those mournful preparations had a strange and mystic effect, which
seemed to chill my blood, and imbued me with a presentiment of evil. I
feared--ah! you are smiling at my superstitious weakness, and you are
right. But three years of captivity and horrible sufferings have so
unstrung me that my restoration to liberty and home seems a miraculous
dream, and I tremble to awake lest I should indeed find it to be only a
vision after all."

"My dear Maurice," said his mother, imprinting a kiss on his brow,
"let this convince you that it is no dream. The feelings you have
described to me I can well understand, and they prove that you cling
strongly to your recovered happiness, since you tremble lest it may
again be snatched from you by relentless destiny. You must try to
forget the trials of the past, and accustom yourself to the present,
as if you had never known what it is to suffer. As for your mournful
impression at the sight of a church hung with black, you have been so
long absent from France that a very ordinary occurrence seems invested
with a significance it really does not possess, except for those who
have sustained the loss of a dear relative or friend. The funeral
decorations you saw this morning were no doubt in honour of the young
and beautiful Madame du Bourg, wife of the President du Bourg, chief
judge of the Civil Tribunal of Paris."

"The beautiful Madame du Bourg?" repeated the young officer,
inquiringly. "Was the fame of her beauty, then, so universal as to
become proverbial?"

"Yes, poor young creature," replied Madame de Serres, "though she had
only resided in Paris since her union with the President du Bourg,
about eighteen months ago. Her husband was nearly thirty years her
senior, and the unhappy lady died after an illness of only two days,
so I was informed yesterday, leaving an infant six months old. The
unfortunate lady herself was scarcely more than a child, and, before
her marriage, was the belle of Toulouse, Mademoiselle Gabrielle de
Launay."

[Illustration: DISASTROUS NEWS.]

This disclosure, so simple and so brusque, of a terrible calamity
to him, did not at once penetrate sharply and clearly the mind of
Maurice de Serres. He was so utterly unprepared for the blow that for a
moment he was unable to realise the disastrous news thus unconsciously
imparted to him by his mother. He gazed at her with the air of a man
who had not fully grasped the meaning of the words she had spoken, and
asked her to repeat them. Then Madame de Serres, remembering that her
son had been stationed at Toulouse a few years previously, and might
consequently have met the President de Launay and his daughter, framed
an evasive reply; but the instant she again named Mademoiselle de
Launay, and reverted to the story of her sudden death, Maurice fell,
with a cry of anguish, at his mother's feet, as though struck by a
mortal wound--a livid pallor overspread his features, his breathing was
that of a man struggling against suffocation, and he might have died,
had not a flood of tears come to his relief.

In this critical emergency Madame de Serres fortunately retained her
presence of mind, and with the ingenuity of maternal instinct, she
found means to alleviate the violent grief of her son. With his head
pillowed upon her bosom, she talked to him of his lost bride, divining
all that had occurred without a word of explanation from Maurice, and
gently reproaching him for having failed to tell her, his mother, the
story of his love. She found means to reconcile him to the death of
Gabrielle--that, he said, was the will of God--but how could he ever
forget the broken vow, or forgive the perfidy of her who had called
Heaven to witness her promise of fidelity? Then, with admirable tact
and delicacy, his mother recalled to his mind his capture by the
enemy, and the official report of his death, which, no doubt, had
reached Toulouse, and had left Mademoiselle de Launay no resource but
resignation to the decree of Providence. Probably, she said, after a
long resistance and many tears, the unhappy girl had at last yielded
an unwilling obedience to her father's commands, and had consented to
a marriage of convenience, in which her affections had borne no part.
And so natural and plausible was this theory, that in devising these
simple motives in mitigation of Gabrielle's conduct, Madame de Serres
told her son the exact truth. Finally, she poured balm into his heart
by asking him to consider whether the real cause of Mademoiselle de
Launay's early death might not have been sorrow for Maurice's loss, and
the bitter wretchedness of her forced marriage with a husband whom she
could never love?

These wise arguments were, indeed, not without soothing effect. At all
events, after listening to his mother's words for some time, he became
more calm, though a keen observer would have divined that his silence
was not that of resignation, but the refuge of a mind which conceives a
desperate project, weighs its possibility, and resolves upon carrying
it into immediate execution. Madame de Serres watched with deep anxiety
the expression of her son's face, and, had he once raised his eyes
despairingly to hers, she might have read in them a determination to
put an end to his life. But she never suspected him of harbouring any
design so terrible, and when he entreated that he might be left alone,
she acquiesced without hesitation.

Towards nightfall she had the satisfaction of seeing him rejoin
her, apparently almost restored to tranquillity. In her presence,
and without disguise or concealment, he provided himself with a
considerable sum in gold, kissed her, and left the house without
uttering a word, nor did Madame de Serres ask for an explanation, or
seek to detain him. It was quite dark when Maurice sallied forth into
the street, and walked rapidly in the direction of the Rue St. Honoré.
On reaching the church of St. Roch, he lost no time in finding the
sacristan, and inquired the name of the place where Madame du Bourg had
been buried that morning. The information was supplied to him without
hesitation, and he set off immediately for the designated cemetery.
On arriving at the gates, he found them closed for the night, and
experienced some difficulty in rousing the janitor, who was asleep in
his lodge. After some demur, the man opened the door to his nocturnal
visitor, and inquired his business.

"Let me come in," said Captain de Serres, "and I will tell you."

Seeing before him a young man of aristocratic mien and appearance,
the grave-digger, whose curiosity was now fairly aroused, offered no
further objection, and showed the way to a little room on the ground
floor of the lodge.

"Be seated, sir," he said, civilly, placing a chair. "You are, perhaps,
fatigued with your walk."

"No," replied the young officer; "there is no time to be lost."

Then, to the terror and amazement of the grave-digger, Maurice,
placing in his trembling hands more gold than he had ever before seen
in his whole life, implored him to accept it as a reward for committing
an act of sacrilege--a crime then punishable with death. Maurice
entreated him to remove the earth from the grave he had filled that
day, to exhume the corpse of Madame du Bourg, and to break open the
coffin which covered the remains of that most unhappy lady, that he,
Maurice de Serres, her affianced husband, might look once again upon
the woman he had so passionately loved.

[Illustration: MAURICE AND THE GRAVE-DIGGER.]

Then ensued a long and painful discussion, for the glittering heap of
gold, pressed upon the poor man by his tempter, did not succeed in
overcoming either the fears or the scruples of the honest grave-digger.
To the distracted young officer it was a maddening blow to find that
the cupidity upon which he had counted to vanquish the obstacles in
his way had no existence, or if it had, was less powerful than the
grave-digger's dread of the consequences. Maurice gave full vent to
his despair and his tears so moved the heart of the poor man, at whose
feet he grovelled in agony, that out of the commiseration he succeeded
in inspiring came a consent which neither gold nor entreaties had been
able to obtain.

"Come!" said the grave-digger; "if it must be so, follow me!"

He led the way to the dark and silent cemetery, armed with a spade,
a coil of rope, and a thick chisel, Maurice carrying his companion's
lantern. Stumbling over many a mound of earth, they at last reached
the grave in which the dead woman had been buried only a few hours
previously. Taking off his jacket, the grave-digger set to work,
without uttering a single syllable. In an hour, which to Maurice seemed
years of torture, the hollow sound of the spade striking the top of the
coffin told them that their sacrilegious task was nearly accomplished.
A few moments more, and the united efforts of the two men had succeeded
in raising the coffin to the surface. Maurice whispered to the man
to remove the lid without noise, but as may well be imagined, such
an injunction was needless. Proceeding with the utmost silence and
precaution, the grave-digger was not long in loosening the fastenings
of the coffin. Then, having now recovered his customary coolness and
self-command, he sat down quietly upon a neighbouring tombstone, and
mutely motioned to Maurice, who stood gazing at the corpse, as if
petrified by the horrible sight. Finding the young man still remained
immovable, the grave-digger pointed with his long, bony finger, to the
still, white object, and muttered, "Look, 'tis she!"

But Maurice made no response, and appeared no longer to remember why
he was there, nor the crime he had instigated. He heard not the words
of his companion, his gaze was fixed upon vacancy, the breath seemed to
leave him, and he would have fallen to the ground, had not the other,
alarmed at this strange lethargy, seized the young man's arm, and again
whispered "Look!" Then slowly lifting the shroud from the face of the
corpse, he added, "Convince yourself. Is it this lady?"

At this instant the moon burst forth from behind the clouds, and its
pale, mysterious light fell full upon the lineaments of her whom
Maurice had idolised, and for whose sake he had committed this horrible
deed. Her features bore still the sad, sweet expression he knew so
well; the colour of her cheeks had lost little of its rosy tint, and,
though her eyes were closed, her lips were half parted, as if about to
speak.

Flinging himself upon his knees beside the body, Maurice wept tears
which brought his anguish some relief. With passionate sobs he recalled
the story of their love, of their young hopes, of their betrothal, and
of their sudden and piteous separation, and he bitterly reproached
himself for having yielded obedience to her father's commands, and left
her to be sacrificed a victim to that father's unbending will.

As he spoke he gently raised her in his arms and looked closely in
her face. At that instant memory brought back to him her parting
words, years before, when, as they said farewell, he had pressed his
lips to hers. The scene flashed across his brain with the rapidity of
lightning, and, as if urged by some sudden inspiration, he stooped and
kissed her, as he had kissed her on that too well remembered night.

No sooner had his lips touched hers than he uttered a terrible cry,
and rose to his feet, trembling convulsively. Then, with a wild laugh,
he seized the body, and before the astonished grave-digger could
interpose, the young officer fled from the spot with his burden in his
arms, springing over the graves, and threading his rapid course among
the tombs, as if the weight he bore were no more encumbrance to his
flight than a flake of falling snow. With almost supernatural force and
rapidity the madman, as the amazed and bewildered grave-digger now felt
assured he was, made good his escape, like a tiger carrying off his
prey.

[Illustration: "WITH A WILD LAUGH HE SEIZED THE BODY."]

Seeing that pursuit was useless--even if he had contemplated such a
course--the poor man hastened to remove the evidence of the sacrilege
in which he had played so prominent a part. Lowering the empty coffin
into the open grave, he rapidly threw in the earth, and in a short time
the spot showed no trace of having been disturbed since the interment
of the preceding morning. Then the grave-digger gathered together
the implements of his trade and stole back to his lodge, muttering
imprecations upon his mad visitor, and upon himself for having assisted
in committing a crime fraught with such formidable danger to its
perpetrators, should the horrible deed ever be brought to light.


IV.

Nearly five years had passed away since that eventful night, and,
during that long period, nothing had occurred to revive the fears of
the conscience-stricken grave-digger, or to give rise to his misgivings
that the theft of Madame du Bourg's corpse might by some means be
discovered. In fact, after carefully weighing all the circumstances,
he had finally come to the conclusion that he had been the victim of a
conspiracy hatched by medical students, one having played the principal
part in the abominable transaction, and the other or others waiting
outside the cemetery to assist in making off with the "subject," should
the nefarious plot succeed. The students (if this hypothesis were
correct) would never betray the secret, for obvious reasons; and so
long a time having now elapsed since the burial of the unhappy lady,
the contingency of an authorised exhumation for any cause whatever
became daily more and more remote.

On All Souls' Day the bereaved husband came regularly each year to pray
at his dead wife's tomb, and each year the grave-digger observed him
with feelings of remorse, as if it were adding to his weight of guilt
in standing near while the worthy President du Bourg knelt reverently
beside the mound beneath which was buried only an empty coffin. The
sight of this futile annual pilgrimage possessed for the repentant
grave-digger a fascination impossible to resist, and amongst all the
mourners who visited the cemetery on that solemn day, he took note of
none save M. du Bourg, before whom he more than once felt tempted to
throw himself and confess all.

When the anniversary came round again, the grave-digger stationed
himself at his usual post of observation, and saw the President draw
near to his wife's tomb, over which he immediately bent in prayer.
Both he and the contrite grave-digger were so deeply absorbed in
thought that they did not notice the approach of a woman, who uttered
a suppressed cry as she caught sight of the recumbent figure. Turning
involuntarily and looking quickly up, M. du Bourg instantly recognised,
in the person who had interrupted his meditations, no other than
the wife whose death he had mourned so long. The grave-digger also
remembered well the pale, beautiful face, from which he had removed
the shroud five years before, and he instantly fell to the ground,
insensible. But before the startled husband could recover from his
amazement, Gabrielle, for it was she, swept past him like the wind and
was gone. Following her retreating form in the distance, the President
reached the cemetery gates in time to see her leap into a carriage with
emblazoned panels, which, before he could reach the spot, was driven
rapidly away towards the centre of Paris. M. du Bourg then returned
to the place where he had seen the grave-digger fall in a swoon,
hoping to derive some information from the stranger who had been thus
terror-struck at sight of the unexpected apparition, but the man had
been already carried to his lodge, and died an hour afterwards without
recovering consciousness.

Losing no time, the President addressed himself to the
Lieutenant-General of Police, by whom inquiries were set on foot
without delay, and it was speedily established that the carriage, which
many persons had observed in waiting at the cemetery gates, bore the
arms of the noble house of de Serres. As M. du Bourg was aware of his
late wife's early attachment to the young officer whose death abroad
had been officially reported a few months previous to her marriage,
the motive of her disappearance, if she were still alive, was clearly
explained. But the mystery of her existence five years after her
supposed death and burial must now be immediately unravelled.

By order of the authorities, the grave in which Madame du Bourg had
been interred was opened, and the empty, broken coffin was found. This
discovery fully confirmed the suspicions of the President du Bourg, and
prompted him in the course he now resolved to pursue.


V.

Meanwhile Madame Julie de Serres, the young and lovely wife whom
Captain Maurice de Serres had married abroad five years previously,
and now brought to Paris for the first time, returned that day to her
husband's house in a state of the utmost alarm and agitation. Pale and
trembling, she begged to be conducted to Maurice, and the pair remained
closeted together for several hours. At last, in outward semblance
perfectly calm, she rejoined the Countess, her husband's mother, and
from that day resumed the ordinary current of life as though nothing
had arisen to mar its serenity.

About a fortnight had elapsed since the occurrences above related,
and the incident in the cemetery appeared to have been forgotten, or
if remembered by the chance witnesses of the scene, it was generally
supposed that the mysterious lady who had been seen by M. du Bourg
merely bore a fortuitous resemblance to the President's deceased wife.
But during these few days, aided by all the power in the hands of the
Lieutenant-General of Police, M. du Bourg instituted a searching and
systematic investigation, firmly resolved as he was to know the truth.
Without in the least suspecting that their every movement was watched,
Captain de Serres and his wife were surrounded with spies, who rendered
a daily report of their minutest actions. Maurice having come to the
conclusion that it would be imprudent to leave Paris, there was no
difficulty in keeping him under constant observation. Setting to work
like an experienced lawyer, M. du Bourg rapidly collected evidence of
the greatest importance. Through the Minister of War, he ascertained
the exact date of Captain de Serres' return to France, after his
captivity and supposed death in the Indies. At the passport office he
found out the day of the young officer's departure shortly after his
arrival in Paris. The postillions whom he had employed on his journey
to Havre were discovered and interrogated. From them it was elicited
that the traveller had been accompanied to the coast by a lady closely
veiled, who never left the carriage until the pair reached their
destination. The name of the vessel in which M. de Serres and a lady
inscribed as his cousin had taken passage to South America was ferreted
out, and the ship's journal was brought to Paris.

[Illustration: "SHE BEGGED TO BE CONDUCTED TO MAURICE."]

Armed with these formidable proofs, the President du Bourg demanded
from the High Court of Paris the dissolution of the illegal marriage
between Captain Maurice de Serres and the pretended Julie de Serres,
who, as M. du. Bourg solemnly declared, was Gabrielle du Bourg, his
lawful wife.

The extraordinary novelty of this cause created an immense sensation
throughout Europe, and pamphlets were exchanged by the faculty, some
maintaining that a prolonged trance had given rise to the belief
in the apparent death of Madame du Bourg, whilst others as stoutly
affirmed that resuscitation under such circumstances was an absolute
impossibility. This latter theory secured the majority of partisans
amongst medical men, and after calculating the number of hours which
it was stated that Madame du Bourg had continued to exist in her
grave, the fact was conclusively established that no case of a similar
lethargy had ever previously been recorded. M. de Serres himself
expressed the most profound and unaffected pity for his adversary, and
acknowledged that when he had first met the lady who now bore his name,
her marvellous likeness to Gabrielle de Launay had struck him with awe
and amazement. This declaration was made with such evident sincerity
that it carried conviction to the minds of all who heard it, and few
doubted but that the President du Bourg had either lost his reason or
was the instigator of a corrupt and knavish conspiracy.

[Illustration: "MAMMA, WON'T YOU KISS ME?"]


VI.

In due course the hearing of this extraordinary suit came before
the high tribunal of Paris, and Madame Julie de Serres was summoned
to appear in court, and answer the questions of the judges. She was
confronted with M. du Bourg, and was surprised and indignant at his
pretensions. The father of Gabrielle de Launay came from Toulouse, and
burst into tears at the sight of one who bore so wondrous a resemblance
to his dead daughter; nor could he find words in which to address the
lady who seemed the living image of his only child, and who calmly
denied all knowledge of him. The judges, in much perplexity, looked at
each other in troubled silence and indecision. Madame de Serres, in
simple language, told the story of her entire life. She was an orphan,
she said, born in South America, of a French father and a Spanish
mother, and had never left her native country until her marriage.
The legal certificate was produced, attesting the marriage of Maurice
de Serres and Julie de Nerval, and, with other formal documents, was
laid before the court. After hearing the pleas of the distinguished
advocates engaged on both sides, the judges consulted together for a
short time, and announced that their decision would be given at the
next sitting of the tribunal.

On the following day the court was crowded to excess, and it was
rumoured amongst the many ladies and gentlemen of position who were
present that a majority of the judges were so thoroughly convinced
of the preposterous character of the President du Bourg's claim
as to render certain a decree in favour of Captain de Serres and
his wife. Amidst a sympathetic silence--for popular opinion was
almost unanimously enlisted on the side of the defendants in this
unprecedented case--the President of the High Court commenced in a
grave voice the delivery of the judgment, when suddenly M. du Bourg,
who had not been present at the commencement of that day's proceedings,
entered the court, leading by the hand a little girl of five or six
summers. At this moment Madame de Serres, her face lighted up with a
smile of exultation, was seated by the side of her advocate, directly
in front of the Bench, and in full view of the public. Conversing in
animated tones with her counsel, she did not observe the entrance of
M. du Bourg; but in a moment a tiny hand was placed in her own, and a
child's soft voice said timidly--

"Mamma, won't you kiss me?"

Madame de Serres turned quickly, uttered a sharp cry, and, clasping the
child in her arms, covered it with tears and caresses. The daughter and
wife had complete control over the emotions of Nature, but the mother's
heart had not the strength to resist the sudden strain.

From that moment the case before the court, and still undecided,
assumed a totally different aspect. Springing to his feet in an
instant, the advocate of the unhappy lady unhesitatingly proclaimed
the identity of his client, and now called upon the judges to annul
her marriage with M. du Bourg, which had been dissolved, he declared
solemnly, by the hand of death. Turning towards M. du Bourg, he
exclaimed with fiery eloquence--

"Sir, you have no right to demand from the earth the body you have
consigned to the grave. Leave this woman to him by whose act, and by
whose act alone, she lives. Her existence belongs to him, and you can
only claim a corpse."

Had the brilliant advocate been pleading the cause of a beautiful
woman before a modern Parisian jury, he might have indulged some hope
of success, but a hundred and fifty years ago the law of France was
not swayed by sentiment. The judges were unmoved by this vehement
outburst, and prepared to alter their decree in conformity with the
facts elicited through the presence of the child. The wretched wife and
mother then entreated permission to spend the remainder of her days
in the seclusion of a convent. This, too, was refused, and she was
formally condemned to return to the house of her first husband.

Two days after this judgment had been rendered, she obeyed. The gates
swung wide open before her, and, dressed in white, pale and weeping,
she entered the great hall, where the President du Bourg, surrounded by
his entire household, stood awaiting her arrival.

Approaching him, and pressing a phial to her lips, she gasped forth the
words, "I restore to you what you lost"--and fell dead at his feet,
poisoned.

The same night, despite his devoted mother's efforts to save him,
Captain du Serres died by his own hand.

[Illustration]




_A Day with an East-End Photographer._


"HERE y'are now, on'y sixpence for yer likeness, the 'ole thing,
'strue's life. Come inside now, won'tcher? No waitin'. Noo
instanteraneous process."

Thus, with the sweet seductiveness of an East-end tout, was a
photographer endeavouring to inveigle 'Arry and 'Arriet into his
studio, which was situated--well, "down East som'ere," as the
inhabitants themselves would describe the locality. It was somewhere
near the Docks; somewhere, you may be sure, close bordering upon that
broad highway that runs 'twixt Aldgate and the Dockgates, for within
those boundaries the tide of human life flows most strongly, and the
photographer hoped, by stationing himself there, to catch a few of
the passers-by, thrown in his way like flotsam and jetsam. He was
not disappointed in this expectation. While daylight lasted there
was generally a customer waiting in his little back parlour, enticed
thither by the blandishments of the tout outside.

The establishment was not prepossessing to an eye cultivated in the
appearance of the artistic façades of photographers in the West. The
frontage consisted of a little shop, with diminutive windows, which
it was the evident desire of the proprietor to make the most of by
engaging in other commercial pursuits.

[Illustration: THE ESTABLISHMENT.]

There seemed to be an incongruity in the art of the photographer being
associated with the sale of coals, firewood, potatoes, sweets, and
ginger-beer, but the East-enders apparently did not trouble themselves
to consider this in the least. There was, indeed, a homely flavour
about this miscellaneous assortment of useful and edible articles,
which commended itself to their mind. What was more natural than that
'Arry, having indulged in the luxury of a photograph, should pursue
his day's dissipation by treating his 'Arriet to a bottle of the
exhilarating "pop," to say nothing of a bag of sweets to eat on their
holiday journey.

The coals, firewood, and potato department, so far from being regarded
as in any way derogatory to the photographer's profession, was rather
calculated to impress the natives, who were accustomed to look upon
a heap of coals--to say nothing of the firewood and potatoes--as a
material sign of prosperity.

So far as the photographer was concerned it was a matter of necessity
as well as choice that he came to be thus associated, for it transpired
that he had married the buxom woman, whom we now see behind the
counter, at a time when he was trying hard to make ends meet in the
winter season, when photography is at a discount. She, on the other
hand, had a thriving little business of the general nature we have
indicated, and was mourning the loss of the partner who had inaugurated
the shop, and for a time had shared with her his joys and sorrows.
The photographer had won her heart by practising his art on Hampstead
Heath the last Bank Holiday, and the happy acquaintance thus formed
had ripened into one of such mutual affection that the union was
consummated, and another department was added to the little general
business by the conversion of the yard at the back into a photographic
studio.

The placards announcing the price of coals and firewood, and the
current market rates of potatoes, were elevated to the topmost panes
of the window, and the lower half was filled with a gorgeous array of
specimen portraits in all the glory of their tinsel frames.

From that day the shop was a huge attraction, and the proprietor of
the wax-work show over the way cast glances of ill-concealed envy and
jealousy at the crowd which had deserted his frontage for the later
inducements opposite.

The incoming vessels from foreign ports brought many visitors, and
generally a few customers. To the foreign element the window was
especially fascinating. Many a face of strange mien stared in at
the window, and the photographer being somewhat of an adept with an
instantaneous camera, would often secure a "snap shot" of some curious
countenance, the owner of which could not be enticed within. These
would duly appear in the show cases, and served as decoys to others of
the same nationality.

There was the solemn-faced Turk in showy fez, and with dainty cigarette
'twixt his fingers, who surveyed the window with immutable countenance,
and was impervious to all the unction of the tout. This latter worthy
was not aware that it was against the religion of the "unspeakable
Turk" to be photographed, or he would not have wasted his energy on
such an unpromising customer.

The negro sailor was apparently struck with the presentments of the
other members of his race, but asseverated that he was "stone broke,"
and did not own a cent to pay for a photograph. He had spent such small
earnings as he had received, and was now on his way back to his vessel.
"Me no good, me no money," he told the tout, who turned away from him
in disgust.

There has so far been a good many passers-by to-day for every likely
customer, and the tout is almost in despair. "Rotters," he mutters;
"not a blessed tanner among 'em."

[Illustration: IN THE SHOW CASE.]

Ah! here's his man, though, and he is on the alert for his prey, as he
sees a dapper little figure with unmistakable Japanese features come
sauntering down the street. He is dressed in the most approved style of
the East-end tailor, who no doubt has assured him that he is a "reg'lar
masher." So evidently thinks the little Jap, as he shoots his cuffs
forward, flourishes his walking cane, and displays a set of ivory white
teeth in his guileless Celestial smile. The tout rubs his hands with a
business-like air of satisfaction as he sees the victim safely handed
over to the tender mercies of the operator within. "Safe for five bobs'
worth, that 'un," he soliloquises, winking at no one in particular, but
possibly just to relieve his feelings by the force of habit.

The next customer attracted was an Ayah, or Hindoo nurse, a type often
to be seen in the show-case of the East-end photographer. These women
find their way to England through engagements as nurses to Anglo-Indian
families coming home, and they work their way back by re-engagements to
families outward bound. Whenever a P. & O. boat arrives there will most
probably be seen one or more of these women, whose stately walk and
Oriental attire at once attract attention.

Prominent also among the natives who find their way up from the Docks
are the Malay sailors, in their picturesque white dresses. Sometimes
the photographer secures a couple for a photo, but as a rule they have
little money. "Like all the rest o' them blessed haythens," says the
tout, "not a bloomin' meg among a 'ole baker's dozen of 'em."

[Illustration: "NOW, LOOK PLEASANT!"]

The faces of such types are not, however, interesting to the
East-enders. Their interest in the window display is only heightened
when familiar faces make their appearance in the tinsel frames. There
was, for instance, positive excitement in the neighbourhood when a
highly-coloured portrait of the landlord of a well-known beer-shop in
the same street was added to the collection.

Everyone recognised the faithfulness at once, though it was
irreverently hinted that in the colouring the exact shade of the
gentleman's nose had not been faithfully copied.

One can imagine the feelings of pride with which the photographer had
posed his worthy neighbour, who had arrayed himself in all the glory of
his Sunday best suit.

"Head turned a little this way, please! Yes--now--look at
this--yes--now, look pleasant!"

Everything would have gone well at this point, but the dog, which it
was intended should form an important adjunct to the picture, and
symbolically typify the sign of the house--"The Jolly Dog"--set up a
mournful howl, and made desperate efforts to get away from the range
of that uncanny instrument in front of him. However, the photographer
waited for a more favourable moment, and while the dog was considering
the force of his master's remarks, the exposure was successfully made.
The result was regarded as quite a _chef d'oeuvre_ in the eyes of those
who stopped to gaze at it as it hung in a place of honour in the window
of the little front shop.

The "reg'lar" East-enders, as distinguished from the foreign element,
were, indeed, very easy to please; but, unfortunately, they were not
the mainstay of the photographer's business. He must needs look for
other customers to eke out a living. And here his difficulties began.
He had to be careful not to take a certain low type of Jewish features
in profile, for the foreign Jew, once he has been acclimatised, does
not like to look "sheeny"; and the descendants of Ham--euphemistically
classed under the generic term of "gentlemen of colour"--were always
fearful lest their features should come out too dark. One young negro
who came to be photographed expressly stipulated that he should not be
made to look black. To obviate this difficulty, the photographer wets
his customer's face with water, so as to present a shiny appearance
to the lens of the camera, and a brighter result is thus secured. On
this particular occasion the ingenious dodge failed, and the vain young
negro loudly denounced it as representing him a great deal blacker
than he was in the flesh. Indeed, the tears sparkled in his eyes as he
protested that he was "no black nigger." There is a subtle distinction,
mark you, between a "nigger" and a "black nigger" in the mind of a
"coloured person," and no greater insult can be levelled at him than to
apply the latter epithet.

[Illustration: Too, too black.]

The tout's thoughts are soon distracted by the appearance of a German
fraulein, evidently of very recent arrival in England, who is admiring
the photos in the window. She is arrayed in a highly-coloured striped
dress, which is not of a length that would be accepted at the West-end,
for it reaches only to the ankles, and shows her feet encased in a
clumsy pair of boots. An abnormally large green umbrella which she
carries is another characteristic feature that seems inseparable from
women of this type.

The tout has a special method of alluring the women folk within the
studio. He has a piece of mirror let into one of the tinsel frames
which he carries in his hand as specimens. He holds this up before the
woman's face, and asks her to observe what a picture she would make.
This little artifice seldom fails to attract the women, whatever their
nationality, for vanity is vanity all the world over.

John Chinaman is quite as easily satisfied, and the tout has no
difficulty in drawing him within, but the drawback to his custom is
that he seldom has any money, or, if he has any, is not inclined to
part with it. It is just a "toss-up," as the tout says, whether he will
pay, if he gets the Celestial inside, though it is worth the risk when
business is not very brisk.

Here is one fine specimen of a Celestial coming along. Western
civilisation, as yet, has made no impression upon him, and he looks for
all the world the Chinaman of the willow-pattern plate in the window
of the tea shop. John falls an easy prey to the tout, who ushers him
inside, and whispers to the "Guv'nor" in a mysterious aside: "Yew du
'im for nothin', if ye can't get him to brass up. Lots o' Chaneymen
about to-day, an' 'e'll advertise the business." The customer is
thereupon posed with especial favour, the photographer feeling that the
reputation of the business in the Celestial mind depends on the success
of this effort. Chinese accessories are called into play; John Chinaman
is seated in a bamboo chair, against a bamboo table, supporting a
flower vase which looks suspiciously as though it had once served as
a receptacle for preserved ginger. Overhead is hung a paper lantern,
and the background is turned round so that the stretcher frame of the
canvas may give the appearance of a Chinese interior. There is no need
to tell the sitter to look pleasant, for his features at once expand
into that peculiar smile which Bret Harte has described as "child-like
and bland."

The photo is duly completed and handed over to the customer for his
inspection and approval. He manifests quite a childish delight, and
is about to depart with it, when he is reminded by word and sign that
he has not paid. John very well understands the meaning of it all,
but smiles vacuously. When, however, the photographer begins to look
threatening, he whines in his best English that he has no money. The
photographer slaps him all round in the hope of hearing a jingle of
concealed coins, but to no purpose. "Another blessed specimen, gratis!"
he mutters, as he allows his unprofitable customer to depart with the
photo, in the hope that it will attract some of his fellow-countrymen
to the studio. This seems quite likely, for the Chinaman goes off in a
transport of delight. He stops now and again to survey the photo, and
the appearance of it evidently gives such satisfaction that he goes
dancing off like a child to show it to his Celestial brethren. They
straightway resolve also to go and have a photograph for nothing.

A group of chattering Chinamen soon appear in front of the
photographer's shop, with the late customer in the midst explaining how
the trick is done. It seems to be finally resolved that they should
go in one at a time, the others waiting outside. One young member of
the party accordingly steps forward, and the tout, delighted to find
the bait has so soon taken, never considers the possibility that this
customer likewise has no money.

The same scene is enacted as in the previous case, but when it comes
to the point of paying for the photo, and John Chinaman is found to
be absolutely penniless, there is an unrehearsed ending to the little
comedy. The proprietor of the photographic establishment seizes the
Chinaman by the collar and drags him into the front shop, where the
tout, in instant comprehension of the state of affairs, takes the
offender in hand and very neatly kicks him over the doorstep, whence
he falls into the midst of his compatriots, who all take to their
heels, screaming in a high-pitched key. The tout looks at their rapidly
retreating figures with a countenance eloquently expressive of mingled
sorrow and anger, vowing vengeance on any other of "them haythen
Chaynees" who might choose to try the game of securing photos for
nothing. "Ought to be all jolly well drownded in the river," he remarks
to his colleague indoors.

[Illustration: "KICKED OUT."]

On the other hand, the heavy-browed, gaunt-cheeked, male Teuton is not
so easy to attract, but the photographer can trust the course of things
to bring him eventually to the studio. When first imported he stares in
at the window in a stolid, indifferent manner. His face has a hungry
look, and is shadowed by a heavily slouched hat; his hair is unkempt;
he wears an untidy and unclean scarf; his boots are big and heavy, and
his trousers several inches too short for him.

[Illustration: A TEUTON.]

[Illustration: SOME FOREIGN IMMIGRANTS.]

[Illustration: AN ORIENTAL.]

In a short time, however, he will blossom forth into a billycock hat,
with broad and curly brim of the most approved East-end cut; patent
leather boots to match, and a very loud red tie. The hungry look has
by this time given way to a sleek, well-fed nature, and he will stroll
along with a Teuton sweetheart, likewise transformed very much from
her former self. The short, gaudily-striped dress has given way to
the latest "'krect thing" in East-end fashion, and the green stuff
umbrella has gone the way of the striped skirt, to be replaced by the
latest novelty in "husband beaters." Then it is that the Teutonic 'Arry
and 'Arriet patronise the photographer, and rejoice his heart with,
perhaps, a five-shilling order.

The show-case of the East-end photographer gives one a very fair idea
of the evolution of the foreign immigrant.

The tout seemed to know the history of every person whose photograph
was displayed in the show-case, and he was rattling it off to us
at a rate which precluded any possibility of storing it up in our
memory, when a slight diversion was created by a coster's barrow,
drawn by a smart little pony, being driven up to the front of the
photographer's. The driver was Mr. Higgins, we learnt, and the other
occupants of the barrow were Mrs. Higgins and the infant son and heir
to the Higgins' estate, which was reputed to be something considerable
in the costermongers' way, as was evidenced by the fact that Mr.
Higgins was enabled to keep a pony to draw his barrow. Mrs. Higgins
had determined that 'Enery--_ætat_ one year and eight months--should
have his photograph taken and afterwards be glorified in a coloured
enlargement. Mr. Higgins had assented to this being done regardless
of expense. It was a weighty responsibility for the photographer, who
always considered the taking of babies was not his strong point. But he
reflected upon the increased fame which would accrue to his business if
he was successful, and he determined to do it or perish in the attempt.

[Illustration: "YOUNG HIGGINS."]

He made hasty preparations by selecting the most tempting stick of
toffy he could find in the sweet-stuff window, and the tout was
instructed to procure from a neighbouring toy shop a doll, a rattle, a
penny trumpet, and other articles dear to the juvenile mind.

The youthful Higgins was duly placed in a chair, behind which Mrs.
Higgins was ensconced with a view to assisting the photographer by
preserving a proper equilibrium in the sitter, and also ensuring
confidence in the infantile mind.

So far, the child had been quietly sucking his thumb and surveying the
studio with an interested air, but no sooner was his attention directed
to the photographer than a distrustful frown settled upon his face, and
his irritation at the photographer's presence found expression in a
yell of infantile wrath. The more the photographer tried to conciliate
by flourishing the toys the more the child yelled. The photographer
danced and sung, and blew the penny trumpet, and was about to give up
the operation in despair, when it dawned on him that he had forgotten
the toffy stick. It was produced, and had its effect. On being assured
by Mrs. Higgins, behind the chair, that the "ducksy darling would have
its toffy stick," the youthful sitter held that prospective joy with
his tear-glistening eye, and the photographer seizing a favourable
moment performed the operation with a sigh of satisfaction. Baby
Higgins had its toffy stick, Mrs. Higgins had a pleasing photo of her
infant offspring, and the photographer proudly congratulated himself
on having so successfully performed his task. The production of such
elaborate efforts as the coloured enlargements was, however, attended
with disadvantages and disappointments at times. It was hard to give
entire satisfaction to such exacting critics in these matters as the
East-end folk, and there was always the risk that the picture might be
thrown upon his hands if not liked.

Taking it all round, his time was much more profitably employed out of
doors on high days and holidays, in taking sixpenny "tintypes" "while
you wait."

We have seen him on a Bank Holiday beaming with good luck. He has
started out early in the morning with the intention of proceeding
to Hampstead, but instead of going direct thither, he pitches his
camera near the walls of the Docks, and manages to catch a good many
passers-by before they have had the opportunity of spending their money
in the pleasures of a London Bank Holiday. Here he has succeeded in
inducing 'Arry and 'Arriet to have their photos taken.

Such is a chapter in the life of an East-end photographer. To-day he
may be doing a "roaring" business, but to-morrow he may be reduced to
accepting the twopences and threepences of children who club together
and wait upon him with a demand that he will take "Me, an' Mary Ann,
an' little Mickey all for thruppence." He invariably assents, knowing
that, though there can be little profit, the photo will create a
feeling of envy in the minds of other children who will decide on
having a "real tip topper" at sixpence.

The stock-in-trade of an East-end photographer is not a very elaborate
one. He may pick up the whole apparatus second-hand for about £5, and
the studio and fittings are not expensive. The thin metal plates cost
not more than 10s. per gross, and the tinsel binding frames about 3s.
per gross, while the chemicals amount to an infinitesimal sum on each
plate. On a good day a turnover of £2 to £3 may be made, but there are
many ups and downs, and trials of temper and patience, to say nothing
of the unhealthy nature of the business, all going to make up many
disadvantages associated with the life of an East-end photographer.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:




The NOTORIOUS MISS ANSTRUTHER]


By E. W. HORNUNG.

IT is prejudicial to the nicest girl in this unjust world to be asked
in marriage too frequently. Things come out, and she gets the name
of being a heartless flirt; her own sex add, that she cannot be a
very nice girl. A flirt she is, of a surety, but why heartless, and
why not a nice girl? So grave defects do not follow. The flirt who
doesn't think she is one--the flirt with a set of sham principles
and ideals, and a misleading veneer of soul--is heartless, if you
like, and something worse. Now the girl who gets herself proposed to
regularly once a week in the season is far less contemptible; she is
not contemptible at all, for how could she know that you meant so much
more than she did? She only knows a little too much to take your word
for this.

A sweetly pretty and highly accomplished young girl, little Miss
Anstruther came to know too much to dream of taking any man's word on
this point. She was reputed to have refused more offers than a good
girl ought to get; for what in the very beginning conferred a certain
distinction upon her, made her notorious at a regrettably early stage
of her career. The finger of feminine disapproval pointed at her,
presently, in an unmistakable way; and this is said--by women--to be a
very bad sign. Men may not think so. Intensely particular ladies, in
the pride of their complete respectability, tried to impress upon very
young men in whom they were interested that Miss Anstruther was not at
all a nice girl. But this had a disappointing effect upon the boys. And
Miss Anstruther by no means confined herself to rejecting mere boys.

The moths that singed themselves at this flame were of every variety.
They would have made a rare collection under glass, with pins through
them; Miss Anstruther herself would have inspected them thus with the
liveliest interest. Her detractors also could have enjoyed themselves
at such an exhibition. But the more generous spirits among them--those
who had been young and attractive too long ago to pretend to be either
still--might have found there some slight excuse for Miss Anstruther.
Of course, it was no excuse at all, but it was notable that almost
every moth had some salient good point--something to "account for it"
on _her_ side, to some extent--say a twentieth part of the extent to
which she had gone. Nearly all the moths had _something_ to be said for
them--looks, intellect, a nice voice, an operatic moustache, or an
aptitude for the informal recitation of engaging verses; their strong
points, sorted out and fitted together, would have made a dazzling
being--whom Miss Anstruther would have rejected as firmly and as
finally as she had rejected his integral parts.

For there was no pleasing the girl. Apparently she did not mean to be
pleased--in that way. She had neither wishes nor intentions, it became
evident, beyond immediate flirtation of the most wilful description.
Her depravity was shocking.

Her accomplishment was singing. She sang divinely. Also she had
plenty of money; but the money alone was not at the bottom of many
declarations; her voice was the more infatuating element of the two;
and her "way" did more damage than either. She was not, indeed, aware
what a "way" she had with her. It was a way of seeming desperately
smitten, and a little unhappy about it; which is quite sufficient to
make a man of tender years or acute conscientiousness "speak" on the
spot. Thus many a proposal was as unexpected on her part as it was
unpremeditated on his. He made a sudden fool of himself--heard some
surprisingly sensible things from her frivolous lips--decided, upon
reflection and inquiry, that these were her formula--and got over the
whole thing in the most masterly fashion. This is where Miss Anstruther
was so much more wholesome than the flirt who doesn't think she flirts:
Miss Anstruther never rankled.

She had no mother to check her notorious propensity in its infancy,
and no brother to bully her out of it in the end. Her father, an
Honourable, but a man of intrinsic distinction as well, was queer
enough to see no fault in her; but he was a busy man. She had, however,
a kinsman, Lord Nunthorp, who used to talk to her like a brother on the
subject of her behaviour, only a little less heavily than brothers use.
Nunthorp knew what he was talking about. He had once played at being
in love with her himself. But that was in the days when his moustache
looked as though he had forgotten to wash it off, and before Miss
Anstruther came out. There had been no nonsense between them for years.
They were the best and most intimate of friends.

"Another!" he would say, gazing gravely upon her as the most
fascinating curiosity in the world, when she happened to be telling him
about the very latest. "Let's see--_how_ many's that?"

There came a day when she told Nunthorp she had lost count; and she
really had. The day was at the fag-end of one season; he had been
lunching at the Anstruthers' and Miss Anstruther had been singing to
him.

[Illustration: "LET'S SEE--HOW MANY'S THAT?"]

"I'm afraid I can't assist you," said he, with amused concern. "I only
remember the first eleven, so to speak. First man in was your rector's
son in the country, young Miller, who was sent out to Australia on the
spot. He _was_ the first, wasn't he? Yes, I thought that was the order;
and by Jove, Midge, how fond you were of that boy!"

"I was," said Miss Anstruther, glancing out of the window with a
wistful look in her pretty eyes; but her kinsman said to himself that
he remembered that wistful look--it went cheap.

"The next man in," said Nunthorp, who was an immense cricketer, "was
_me_!"

"I like that!" said Miss Anstruther, taking her eyes from the window
with rather a jerk, and smiling brightly. "You've left out Cousin Dick!"

"So I have; I beg Dick's pardon. It was very egotistical of me, but
pardonable, for of course Dick never stood so high in the serene
favour as I did. I came after Dick then, first wicket down, and since
then--well, you say yourself that you've lost tally, but you must have
bowled out a pretty numerous team by this time. My dear Midge," said
Nunthorp, with a sudden access of paternal gravity, "don't you think it
about time that somebody came in and carried his bat?"

"Don't talk nonsense!" said Miss Anstruther, briskly. She added, almost
miserably: "I wish to goodness they wouldn't ask me! If only they
wouldn't propose I should be all right. Why do they want to go and
propose? It spoils everything."

Her tone and look were quite injured. She was more indignant than
Nunthorp had ever seen her--except once--for the girl was of a most
serene disposition. He looked at her kindly, and as admiringly as ever,
though rather with the eye of a connoisseur; and he found she had still
the most lovely, imperfect, uncommon, and fragrant little face he had
ever seen in his life. He said candidly:

"I really don't blame them, and I don't see how you can. If you are to
blame anybody, I'm afraid it must be yourself. You must give them some
encouragement, Midge, or I don't think they'd all come to the point as
they do. I never saw such sportsmen as they are! They walk in and walk
out again one after the other, and they seem to like it----"

"I wish they did!" said Miss Anstruther, devoutly. "I only wish they'd
show _me_ that they liked it; I should have a better time then.
They wouldn't keep making me miserable with their idiotic farewell
letters. That's what they _all_ do. Either they write and call me
everything--rudely, politely, sarcastically, all ways--or they say
their hearts are broken, and they haven't the faintest intention of
getting over it--in fact, they wouldn't get over it if they could.
That's enough to make any person feel low, even if you know from
experience what to expect. At one time I daren't look in the paper for
fear of seeing their suicides; but I've only seen their weddings. They
all seem to get over it pretty easily; and that doesn't make you think
much better of yourself, you know. Of course I'm inconsistent!"

"Of course you are," said Nunthorp, cordially. "I approve of you for
it. I'd rather see you an old maid, Midge, than going through life in a
groove. Consistency's a narrow groove for narrow minds! I can do better
than this about consistency, Midge; I'm hot and strong on the subject.
But you're not listening."

"Ah!" cried Miss Anstruther, who had not listened to a word, "they're
driving me crazy, between them! There's Mr. Willimott, you know,
who writes. Of course he had no business to speak to me. There were
a hundred things against him at the time--even if I'd cared for
him--though he's getting more successful now. Well, I do believe he's
put me into every story he's written since it happened! I crop up in
some magazine or other every month!"

"'Into work the poet kneads them,'" murmured Nunthorp, who was not a
professional cricketer. "Well, you needn't bother yourself about _him_.
You've made the fellow. He now draws a heroine better than most men.
It's a pity you don't take to writing, Midge, you'd draw your heroes
better than women do as a rule; for don't you see that you must know
more about us than we know about ourselves?"

"They wouldn't be much of heroes!" laughed the girl. "But I heartily
wish I _did_ write. Wouldn't I show up some people, that's all! It
would give me something to do, too; it would keep me out of mischief,
and really I'm sick of men and their ridiculous nonsense. And they all
say the same thing. If only they wouldn't say anything at all! Why do
they? You might tell me!"

Nunthorp put on his thinking-cap. "You see, you are quite pretty," said
he.

"Thanks."

"Then you sing like an angel."

"Please don't! That's what _they_ all say."

"Ah, the singing has a lot to do with it; you oughtn't to sing so well;
you should cultivate less expression. And then--I'm afraid you like
attention."

"Well, perhaps I do."

"And I'm sure it must be very hard _not_ to be attentive to you," said
Nunthorp, with a rather brutal impersonality; "for I should fancy you
have a way--quite unconscious, mind--of giving your current admirer the
idea that he's the only one who ever held the office!"

"Thanks," said she, with perfect good-humour; "that's a very pretty way
of putting it."

"What, Midge?"

"That I'm a hopeless flirt--which is the root of the whole matter, I
suppose!"

She burst out laughing, and he joined her. But there had been a pinch
of pathos in her words, and he was weak enough to make a show of
contradicting them. She would not listen to him, she laughed at his
insincerity. The conversation had broken down, and, as soon as he
decently could, he went.

That was at the very end of a season; and Lord Nunthorp did not see his
notorious relative again for some months. In the following February,
however, he heard her sing at some evening party; he had no chance of
talking with her properly; but he was glad to find that he could meet
her at a dance the next night.

"Well, Midge!" he was able to say at last, as they sat out together at
this dance. "How many proposals since the summer?"

She gravely held up three fingers. Nunthorp laughed consumedly.

[Illustration: "SHE GRAVELY HELD UP THREE FINGERS."]

"Any more scalps?" he inquired.

This was an ancient pleasantry. It referred to the expensive presents
with which some young men had paved their way to disappointment. It
was a moot point between Miss Anstruther and her noble kinsman whether
she had any right to retain these things. She considered she had every
right, and declared that these presents were her only compensation for
so many unpleasantnesses. He pretended to take higher ground in the
matter. But it amused him a good deal to ask about her "scalps."

She told him what the new ones were.

"And I perceive _mine_--upon your wrist!" Nunthorp exclaimed, examining
her bracelet; and he was genuinely tickled.

"Well!" said she, turning to him with the frankest eyes, "I'd quite
forgotten _whose_ it was--honestly I had!"

He was vastly amused. So his bracelet--she had absolutely forgotten
that it was his--did not make her feel at all awkward. There was a
healthy cynicism in the existing relations between these two.

She had nothing very new to tell him. Two out of the last three had
proposed by letter. She confessed to being sick and tired of answering
this kind of letter.

"I'll tell you what," said her kinsman, looking inspired, "you ought
to have one printed! You could compose a very pretty one, with blanks
for the name and date. It would save you a deal of time and trouble.
You would have it printed in brown ink and rummy old type, don't you
know, on rough paper with coarse edges. It would look charming. 'Dear
Mr. Blank, of course I'm greatly flattered'--no, you'd say 'very'--'of
course I'm very flattered by your letter, but I must confess it
astonished me. I thought we were to be such _friends_.' Really, Midge,
it would be well worth your while!"

Miss Anstruther did not dislike the joke, from him; but when he added,
"The pity is you didn't start it in the very beginning, with young Ted
Miller"--she checked him instantly.

"Now don't you speak about _him_," she said, in a firm, quiet little
way; but he appreciated the look that swept into her soft eyes no
better than he had appreciated it six months before.

"Why not?" asked Nunthorp, merely amused.

"Because _he meant_ it!"

Nunthorp wondered, but not seriously, whether that young fellow, who
had gone in first, was to be the one, after all, to carry out his bat.
And this way of putting it, in his own head, which was half full of
cricket, carried him back to their last chat, and reminded him of a
thing he had wanted to say to her for the last twenty-four hours.

"Do you remember my telling you," said he, "when I last had the
privilege of lecturing you, that you sang iniquitously well? Then
I feel it a duty to tell you that your singing is now worse than
ever--in this respect. No wonder you have had three fresh troubles; I
consider it very little, with your style of singing. Your songs have
much to answer for; I said so then, I can swear to it now. Your voice
is heavenly, of course; but why pronounce your words so distinctly?
I'm sure it isn't at all fashionable. And why strive to make sense of
your sounds? I really don't think it's good form to do so. And it's
distinctly dangerous. It didn't happen to matter last night, because
the rooms were so crowded; but if you sing to one or two as you sing to
one or two hundred, I don't wonder at them, I really don't. You sing as
if you meant every word of the drivel--I believe you humbug yourself
into _half_ meaning it, while you're singing!"

"I believe I do," Miss Anstruther replied, with characteristic candour.
"You've no idea how much better it makes you sing, to put a little
heart into it. But I never thought of this: perhaps I had better give
up singing!"

"I'll tell you, when my turn comes round again," said he, leading her
back to the ballroom. "I'll think of nothing else meanwhile."

He did not dance; he was not a dancing man; but he did think of
something else meanwhile. He thought of a young fellow with a pale
face, darkly accoutred, with whom Miss Anstruther seemed to be dancing
a great deal. Lord Nunthorp hated dancing, and he had only come here to
sit out a couple of dances with his amusing relative. He had to wait a
good time between them; he spent it in watching her; and _she_ spent
it in dancing with the pale, dark boy--all but one waltz, during which
Nunthorp removed his attention from the bow to its latest string, who,
for the time being, looked miserable.

"Who," he asked her, as they managed to get possession of their former
corner in the conservatory, "is your dark-haired, pale-faced friend?"

"Well," whispered Miss Anstruther, with grave concern, "I'm very much
afraid that he is what _you_ would call the next man in!"

"Good heaven!" ejaculated Nunthorp, for once aghast. "Do you mean to
say he is going to propose to you?"

"I feel it coming; I know the symptoms only too well," she replied, in
cold blood.

"Then perhaps you're going to make a different answer at last?"

"My _dear_ man!" said Lord Nunthorp's sisterly little connection; and
her tone was that of a person rather cruelly misjudged.

The noble kinsman held his tongue for several seconds. Man of the
world as he was, he looked utterly scandalised. Here, in this fair,
frail, beautiful form, lay a depth of cynicism which he could not equal
personally--which he could not fathom in another, and that other a
quite young girl.

"Midge," he said at last, with sincere solemnity, "you horrify me!
You've often told me the kind of thing, but this is the first time I've
seen you with a fly actually in the web: for I don't think I myself
counted, after all. That boy is helplessly in love with you! And you
were smiling upon him as though you liked him too!"

Nunthorp was touched tremulously upon the arm. "Was I?" the girl asked
him, in a frightened voice. "_Was_ I looking--like that?"

"_I_ think you were," said Nunthorp, frankly. "And now you calmly scoff
at the bare notion of accepting him! You make my blood run cold, Midge!
I think you can have no heart!"

"Do you think that?" she asked, strenuously, as though he had struck
her.

"No, no; you know I don't; only after seeing you look at him like
that----"

"Honestly, I didn't know I was looking in any particular way." Miss
Anstruther added in a lowered, softened voice: "If I was--well, it
wasn't meant for _him_."

Lord Nunthorp dropped his eye-glass.

"And it wasn't meant for _you_, either!" she superadded, smartly enough.

Lord Nunthorp breathed again, and ventured to recommend an immediate
snub, in the pale boy's case.

[Illustration: "BUT I'VE GOT IT DOWN."]

When he had led her back to her chaperone, he felt easier on her
account than he had been for a long time. It was obvious to him that
the biter was bit at last. The right man was evidently in view, though
he was not there at the dance--which was hard on the white-faced youth.
Perhaps she was not the right girl for the right man--perhaps he
refused to be attracted by her. That would be odd, but not impossible;
and a girl who had refused to fall in love with every man who had
ever fallen in love with her, was the likeliest girl in the world to
care for some man who cared nothing for her--primarily to _make_ him
care. That is a woman, through and through, reflected Lord Nunthorp,
out of the recesses of a _recherché_ experience. But Midge would most
certainly make him care: she was fascinating enough to capture any
man--except himself--if she seriously tried: and he sincerely hoped
she was going to try, to succeed, and to live happily ever after. For
Nunthorp had now quite a paternal affection for the girl, and he wished
her well, from the depths of his man-of-the-world's prematurely grey
heart. But he did not like a little scene, with her in it, which he
witnessed just before he quitted that party.

"My dance!" said a boy's confident, excited voice, just behind him; and
the voice of Miss Anstruther replied, in the coldest of tones, that he
"must have made a mistake, for it was not his dance at all."

"But I've got it down," the boy pleaded, as yet only amazed; his face
was like marble as Nunthorp watched him; Miss Anstruther was also
slightly pale.

"She's doing her duty, for once," thought Nunthorp, to whom the pathos
of the incident lay in its utter conventionality. "But she plays a
cruel game!"

"You've got it down?" said Miss Anstruther, very clearly, examining
her card with ostentatious care. "Excuse me, but there is really some
mistake; _I_ haven't got _your_ name down for _anything_ else!"

For an instant, Nunthorp held himself in readiness for a scene: he half
expected to see the boy, whose white face was now on fire, snatch the
card from her, expose her infamy, tear up the card and throw the pieces
in her face. His face looked like it for a single instant, and Nunthorp
was prepared to protect him if he did it. But the boy went away without
a word.

Nunthorp met the girl's eyes with his. He knew she was looking for his
approval: he knew she had earned it, by preventing one poor fellow from
going the whole humbling length, and he was glad to think that she had
taken his advice: but the glance he gave her was very grim. He could
not help it. He went away feeling quite unlike himself.

Just outside, in the street, someone brushed past him, sobbing an
oath. And Lord Nunthorp became himself again; for the person was Miss
Anstruther's last victim.

"_That's_ all right," he muttered; "not a broken heart--only broken
pride. That's all that's breakable, after all, and it will mend!" He
walked home rather pleased with Midge, as he called her, for having
done her duty, no matter how late, in at least _one_ case. He was vexed
with himself for having been stupid about it at the moment. But it
delighted him to think that most likely this would be the last case--of
the kind. For Lord Nunthorp took always the most good-natured interest
in his conspicuous cousin (or whatever she was), with whom he had once
played at love himself.

[Illustration: "SHE HAD FOUND A LETTER ON THE MANTELPIECE."]

How plain it was to the world that Miss Anstruther was motherless! No
mother would have allowed her to behave as she did. With a mother, she
would have married one of the many, whether she loved him or not. Her
father, whose time was much taken up, was so blind as to see no harm in
her. The only people she had to remonstrate with her were her married
sisters. One of these had been Miss Anstruther's chaperone at this
dance, where she sat out twice with her kinsman, Lord Nunthorp, and
broke a silly youth's pride. This sister ventured to remonstrate--but
very gently--when they got home, in the small hours of the February
morning.

Miss Anstruther had been silent and subdued during the drive home. She
was considerably ashamed of herself. She was more ashamed of having
ill-treated the white-faced boy over that dance--now that it was
done--than she would have been to reject him after encouragement; use
had blunted her feelings to this sort of sin; but the wrong of breaking
cold-bloodedly an engagement to dance was altogether out of harmony
with her character and her practices. She was notorious for leading men
on to certain humiliation; she was celebrated for the punctilio with
which she kept her word in the smallest matter. She had injured the
good reputation in snapping the backbone of the bad one; and she did
not feel at all pleased with Lord Nunthorp, who had said or implied
one thing, and then stated its opposite. She had cheered up, however,
on her arrival at the house: she had found a letter for herself, with
three bright blue stamps in the corner, stuck up on the mantelpiece.
Her hand had closed eagerly over this letter before the lamp was turned
up. She was twisting it between her fingers, under her shawl, while her
sister reproved her, not too seriously, for her treatment of that boy.

"I know it," she answered, rather dolefully; "I know well enough what a
flirt I am! I have never denied it in my life, not even to _them_. But
I really never mean them to go so far. And--and I don't think I'm so
heartless as I make myself out to be!"

Her sister gazed at her fondly. Her own family, at all events, loved
and believed in Miss Anstruther, and held that her faults were on the
surface. The sister now saw in the sweet, flushed face the look that
Lord Nunthorp had seen (and underestimated) more than once.

"Is there someone you care for after all, Midge dear?" she asked softly.

"There may have been someone all the time," the young girl whispered,
her eyelids fallen, her hand squeezing the letter under her shawl.

"Is it--is it Ted Miller?"

[Illustration: "IS IT--IS IT TED MILLER?"]

Midge looked up into her sister's eyes. Her lip was quivering. She was
a girl who seldom cried--her detractors would have told you why. She
controlled herself before speaking now.

"It was the most hopeless affair of them all," she said simply;
"but--but he was the only one who really meant it!"

His letter was against her bosom.

The married sister's eyes had filled. "You write to each other still,
don't you, Midge?"

"Yes--as friends. Good night, Helen!"

"Good night, darling Midge; forgive me for speaking!" Helen whispered,
kissing her eyes.

"Forgive you? You've said nothing to what I deserve!"

The girl was running up to her room two steps at a time. Ted Miller's
letter was pressed tight to her heart.

Ted Miller had been four years in Australia. He had written to her
regularly, the whole time, as her friend; and she had written fairly
regularly to him, as his. His was the one refusal in which she had
not been a free agent; she had been but seventeen at the time. There
was love between them when they parted; there was never a word of it
in their letters. He wrote and told her all that he was doing: he was
roughing it in the wilderness; he was not making his fortune: he never
spoke of coming home. She wrote and told him--nearly all.

A pleasant fire was burning in her room. She lit the candles, and sat
down just as she was, in her very extravagant ball-dress, to read his
present letter. She felt, as always in opening a letter from Ted, that
she was going to open a window and let in a cool current of fragrant,
fresh air upon an unhealthy, heavy atmosphere; and she noticed, what
she had not noticed before, through hiding the letter before the lamp
was turned up, that its superscription was not in Ted's hand; the
bright blue stamps of New South Wales were really all she had looked
at before. She now tore open the envelope with strange misgivings; and
the letter turned out to be from the squatter's wife on Ted Miller's
station, telling how a buck-jumper had broken Ted Miller's back; and
how, before his death, which ensued in a matter of hours, he had
directed her to write to his family, and also--but separately--to "his
greatest friend."

The fire dulled down, the candles shortened, and in their light Miss
Anstruther sat in her dazzling ball-dress, her face as grey as its
satin sheen. Her rounded arms were more florid than her face. She
moaned a little to herself--she could not cry.

At last she stirred herself. Her limbs were stiff. As she crossed the
room, she saw herself from head to foot in her pier-glass--with all
her grace of form and motion dead and stiff within her dress. She saw
herself thus, but at the time with senseless eyes; the sight first came
back to her when she next used that mirror. She was going to a certain
drawer; she unlocked it, and drew it out bodily; she carried it to the
table where the candles were slowly burning down. The drawer was filled
with Miller's letters.

"His greatest friend!" They had been merely friends from the day they
parted. He had nothing. Out there he had found fortune but a little
less inaccessible than at home; he had written her no words of love,
for how could there be any hope for them? She had plenty of money, but
that was all the more reason why he must have some. His letters were
not vulgarised by a single passionate, or sentimental, or high-flown
passage. They were the letters of an honest friend; they were the
letters of a good soldier--on the losing side, but fighting, not
talking about fighting--talking, indeed, of quite other matters. And
because these letters had been just what they were, Ted Miller himself
had been to a frivolous girl, through frivolous years, what no one
else had ever been--not even himself as she had known him best. Their
friendship had been pure and strong and strengthening; their love
idealised by improbability, and further by not being discussed, and yet
further by being written "friendship." His tone to her had been: "Enjoy
yourself. I want to hear you're having a good time. _I_ am--there's
nothing like work." She had answered, very truthfully, that she was
doing so; and now he knew how! That was the bitterest thought: that the
new knowledge was now his, and she, in his eyes, just what she had been
in the eyes of the throng!

She sat down and read all his letters. The pure breath of heaven rose
from every leaf. They did not touch her yet: her heart was numb. But
the tones that had once come to her ears from every written word came
no longer--the voice was silenced. She returned the letters to the
drawer. She would keep them till her death.

And yet--would he like that?

She sat very still, trying to answer this question. The candles went
out, but a leaden light had crept into the room through the blinds. She
thought that he saw her, that he had seen her for weeks, that she had
been grieving him the whole time, that she might please him now. There
had been nothing morbid in Miller. He was the one man she had known who
would wish her _not_ to keep his letters.

She rose resolutely from her chair, and with difficulty rekindled
her fire; it ruined her elaborate dress, but she was glad never to
wear this one again. It did not seem to her that she was about to do
anything cruel or unnatural. She was going to do violence to her own
feelings only. It would please the strong soul of Miller that she was
not going to keep his letters, to read them in her better moods, and
less and less as the years went on. For her own part, she felt she
would like to have them a little longer. It was a subtle sense of
sacrifice for Miller's sake--her first--which nerved her to burn his
letters. Over-strung as she was, she burnt them every one, and without
a tear.

A half-leaf happened to escape. She picked it out of the fender when
the rest were burnt black, and her heart was beginning to ache for
what she had done. She took it to the window, and read on the crisp,
scorched paper the ordinary end of an ordinary letter--the end of all
was, as ever: "Yours always, E. M."

Without a moment's warning, her tears rattled upon the hot paper; she
pressed it passionately to her lips; she flung herself upon the bed in
a paroxysm of helpless agony.

[Illustration]




_The Guest of a Cannibal King._

By J. E. MUDDOCK, F.R.G.S.

(A PERSONAL EXPERIENCE IN THE SOUTH SEAS.)


WHEN it was announced some years ago that the Germans had annexed the
large group of islands lying to the north and west of the Solomon
Group, and known as the New Britain Group, in the South Pacific, I was
enabled to give, through the columns of _The Daily News_, a number
of particulars of New Britain and New Ireland, derived from personal
experience. At the time some controversy arose as to whether the
natives were or were not cannibals. That they _were_ cannibals there
is not the shadow of a doubt; but what they are now, since they became
subjects of the German Fatherland, I know not.

It did not fall to my lot, unhappily, to be able to make any
exploratory examination of the islands, but I had an experience on
the largest of the group--that is, New Britain--which was perhaps
sufficiently interesting and exciting to warrant its being narrated in
detail.

If the reader will take a glance at a map of the Pacific Ocean, he can
hardly fail to be astonished at the immense number of islands, large
and small, that stud that glorious home of the sun, while due north
of Australia, and separated by Torres Strait, is New Guinea, which is
practically unexplored. To the eastward of this immense island lies the
group collectively known as the Solomon Islands, the southern section
of which was first discovered by the Spanish navigator, Mendana, in
1567. To the north and west of these, and much nearer to the coast
of New Guinea, are situated the two magnificent islands known as New
Ireland and New Britain. These were discovered and named by Captain
Cook, and ought now to have been in possession of Great Britain. They
are situated within ten degrees south of the equator, and are amongst
the most beautiful islands of that island-studded sea. The two islands
form a roughly shaped horseshoe, the inside of the shoe facing the
north-west. The northern end of New Britain is separated by a very
narrow passage, known as St. George's Channel, from the southern end
of New Ireland. Lying off the north-western extremity of New Ireland,
and separated from it by only a few miles of sea, is a small upheaval
covered with dense vegetation, and known as New Hanover. About two
hundred miles from this, almost in a direct line, west and by north,
is Admiralty Island, which is within two hundred miles of the equator.
New Britain is the most extensive of the cluster, and is probably
little short of three hundred miles in length, with a maximum breadth
of about forty miles. Both it and its sister island are of volcanic
origin, and there are still active craters in both of them. Like most
tropical islands, and more particularly those of the Southern Pacific,
they are marvellously fertile, and clothed with dense and luxuriant
jungle. The coast lines are exceedingly bold and rocky, deeply indented
with bays and inlets, and protected by the inevitable outer barrier
of coral reefs. The climate is intensely hot, almost insupportably so
at times by white people. Earthquakes are very common, and cyclones
of terrific force frequently sweep over the country. The natives are
probably allied to the Papuans. They have very dark brown skins, black
woolly hair; but amongst them are to be found men and women with wavy
and occasionally straight hair, and this is probably due to Polynesian
blood. They are--or were--fierce and savage, and great head hunters.
Being divided into tribes scattered over the islands, tribal wars were
incessant. The flora and fauna were, at the time of my visit, hardly
known to Europeans; but there are some most beautiful fruits and
flowers; while ferocious animals abound, together with noxious insects
and deadly snakes.

Many years ago I was cruising amongst these glorious islands in a
trading vessel. It was in the very hottest season of the year, and
for some weeks we had alternated between dead calms, when air and
sea seemed to be aflame with heat, and terrific hurricanes that blew
themselves out in an hour or two, but necessitated our stripping every
rag of canvas from the ship (an ill-found, patched-up barque), in order
that we might not lose our sails, of which we only had one suit, and
that a very old one; while our stock of new canvas consisted of about
a dozen bolts, which had to be used for patching purposes. Of food,
we had a fairly plentiful supply of "salt-horse," that was something
more than _high_--it was putrid. But after towing it in the sea for a
couple of days, and then boiling it for twelve hours, we managed to eat
it and live. Our biscuits harboured live stock to such an extent that
it was somewhat difficult to tell which was the live stock and which
the biscuit. However, even weevils are fattening and sustaining, and
it did not do to be too Epicurean in taste. Then, as to the water, I
need only say that, in order to get it down, it was necessary to stifle
the nostrils and shut one's eyes. We were a small crew, numbering, all
told, seventeen hands, including two boys and a black cook. We were
very ill provided with arms. We had half a dozen or so of rusty old
cutlasses; three or four Enfield rifles, one of which, I remember,
had a broken lock; and one or two smooth-bore guns. There were also a
few revolvers amongst us, I myself being the fortunate possessor of
two, both of them being Colt's regulation cavalry pistols, which I had
picked up in Sydney. Besides these, we had a brass cannon, for which
we had no proper ammunition; but we loaded it to the muzzle with old
bolts, nuts, screws, nails, &c., and mounted it on the rail at the
break of the poop on a swivel.

[Illustration: "AS IDLE AS A PAINTED SHIP UPON A PAINTED OCEAN."]

Our position was not a very pleasant one, jammed as we were amongst
the islands, and unable to sail during the fierce squalls, and lying
"as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean" during the calms. We
were, therefore, subject to the powerful currents which flow there,
and which drifted us amongst the coral reefs, until we expected every
moment to rip our timbers out. What with this ever-present danger, and
the manifest desire of the natives to have our blood, we had rather a
lively time of it. We had endeavoured to get on shore at Choiseul (of
the Solomon Group) for fresh water and fruit, but the natives opposed
our landing, and we deemed it prudent to beat a retreat. Then, as we
drifted north, nearly all day long we were surrounded by a fleet of
canoes, their occupants armed with arrows, spears, and tomahawks. We
tried to barter, but without avail, and it was clear that our black
friends were smacking their lips at the prospect of dining off us.
A ceaseless vigilance, however, on our part, together with a rather
boastful display of our armoury kept them at a respectful distance.
And at last, a light breeze springing up, it carried us clear until we
found ourselves at the mouth of St. George's Channel, which cuts New
Britain and New Ireland in two nearly in the centre of the horseshoe.
Here we lost the breeze, and once more found ourselves in the midst
of a fleet of canoes. Owing to the narrowness of the channel and the
absence of wind we were in danger of drifting on to the reefs, so
we offered the natives a large number of empty bottles, principally
beer bottles, if they would tow us, and we succeeded in getting two
big canoes, containing about twenty natives each, hitched on to our
bows; and with a wild, fierce, and rhythmical chant they plied their
paddles vigorously and kept it up for some hours, until on rounding
a promontory we found ourselves in a deep bay, with a strong current
setting dead inshore; and, as we could see the coral beneath us, we
dropped anchor, after taking soundings, in twelve fathoms of water.
Fresh canoes now came off filled with natives, for the most part
absolutely naked, and all fully armed with spears, poisoned arrows, and
tomahawks. As they appeared to be more curious than hostile, however,
we decided, after holding a council of war, to go on shore and procure
a supply of fresh water and vegetables, or fruit, of which we stood in
desperate need. We thereupon got out the lifeboat, loaded her up with
empty casks and beakers, and seven of us, including myself, manned the
boat. Of course we took with us our revolvers, guns, and cutlasses;
but the guns and cutlasses we put into the boat before lowering her
from the davits, and covered them up with canvas, as we did not want to
provoke a conflict if we could possibly avoid it, though we were all
quite prepared to fight hard for our lives.

[Illustration: "AN ECSTASY OF DELIGHT."]

We were followed to the shore by dozens of canoes, and on reaching the
land the natives swarmed round us in hundreds. But presently there was
a great shouting. The people parted, forming a lane down which marched
as superb a specimen of a man it has ever been my lot to see. His
physique was simply magnificent, and his broad chest and massive limbs
gave evidence of immense strength. His teeth were stained red with
betel-nut, and round his neck, arms, and ankles he wore ornaments made
of shells, but with these exceptions his costume was that of our first
parents before the fall. His movements were the perfection of grace,
and his bearing wonderfully dignified.

It soon became apparent that this man was a petty king or chief, from
the deference that was paid to him. Hoping to secure his good offices,
I moved towards him and made a sort of salaam, which seemed to please
him mightily. Round my neck I wore a lanyard, to which was attached
a large, brand-new jack-knife, and, as this seemed to attract his
attention, I took the lanyard and knife off my neck and put it round
his. Whereupon he was seized with an ecstasy of delight, and executed
a wild sort of dance, shouting, and halloing, and patting the knife as
though it had been a sentient thing.

Having thus expressed his delight and thankfulness, he made certain
signs which I interpreted as a desire on his part that I and my
comrades should follow him. This they resolutely declined to do, but
the spirit of adventure had too strong a hold on me for me to say
no; and so, against the protests and persuasions of my companions,
I signified to him that I would follow. I had two revolvers at my
belt, and I also carried a long, lithe Malacca cane, armed at one end
with a formidable knob of lead worked over with string. I considered,
therefore, that in a fair stand-up fight I should be able to give a
good account of myself. However, there was no hostile appearance on the
part of the natives and the chief placed me on his left-hand side, and
thus, followed by a yelling rabble, we struck inland. For about four
miles we marched through a forest, till we suddenly came to a clearing
where there was a village screened by tall palms from the fierce rays
of the sun.

[Illustration: "WE STRUCK INLAND."]

My arrival was the signal for a general rush from the huts of crowds
of natives--men, women, and children. They pressed forward with eager
curiosity, examined me from head to foot, made remarks one to the
other, and yelled in a perfectly diabolical manner. But presently the
king seemed to get angry, and he uttered a sort of war-whoop, while his
suite, with a sweep of the heavy sticks they carried, scattered the
crowd and made a passage through them. I was then led to a large shed
or hut, which I gathered was the Grand Council Chamber, where weighty
social and political matters were discussed and the head-hunting
expeditions planned. The roof of this building was composed of palm
leaves and some species of grass dyed various colours. It was supported
by stems of young palm-trees, also ornamented with coloured grasses,
which had a most pleasing effect. The walls were composed of sticks and
flag-leaves, thickly plastered with mud on the outside. The floor was
covered with matting, dyed yellow, and worked into a striking pattern
by means of different coloured feathers. At the main entrance was a
tall bamboo pole crowned with a human head. The head had belonged to a
powerful chief who had been killed in battle, and the victors preserved
his skull as a trophy. A little later, during an investigation I
made, I found, in a heap at the back of the Council House, a large
number of skulls and human bones. Many of the skulls were marked with
dints of the tomahawk, thus showing how the victims had been slain.
That their bodies had also been eaten there can be little doubt.
And in this connection I may mention that, in 1882, New Britain was
visited officially by Captain C. Bridge, R.N., and he reports that the
inhabitants of that island are the only cannibals he knows of who are
not ashamed of their taste for human flesh.

When the king and I and his suite had crossed the portal of the
Council Chamber, I was glad to see that a number of men were stationed
outside armed with clubs to keep the crowd off. The air was thick with
mosquitoes, gnats, sandflies, and other insects. Seeing that they
annoyed me, my host ordered one of his attendants to wave over my head
a fan made of a palm-leaf attached to a long handle. The chief then
squatted on his haunches on a raised platform which ran half-way round
the building, and he invited me to do the same, placing me on his
right, which I understood was the position of honour. Then he made a
speech, though what it was all about I could form but little idea, but
two or three times, from the way his followers eyed me, I thought he
was telling them that I was in excellent condition for cooking.

He continued to hold forth for about half an hour, and then it was
evident that he gave some orders, for men entered and made preparations
for a feast. Having heard so much of their cannibalistic propensities,
I confess that my feelings at that moment are not capable of being
adequately described; for I thought I was about to have ocular
demonstration of their love for human flesh. But suddenly it flashed
across my mind that I myself was to provide them with the material
for the feast; that is, that I was to be sacrificed in order that
they might dine, for they were credited with preferring their meat
freshly killed. Through the long slits that served for windows in the
bamboo walls I could see the surging crowd of natives, and it seemed
to me that all their faces depicted the eagerness with which they were
looking forward to seeing the white man despatched. And when I turned
towards the chief I fancied I read the same signs in his face, and I
blamed myself then for so fatuously allowing myself to be lured into
such a trap. The chief still squatted beside me, and I managed to
get about a yard further from him; and, with my hand on the stock of
one of my revolvers, I waited developments. Indeed I am not ashamed
to say that I contemplated making a bolt for liberty and life, and I
calculated what my chances would be, if, with a revolver in each hand,
I suddenly sprang for the door, and, keeping the rabble at bay, rushed
at my topmost speed towards the shore, which was at least four miles
away, though all down hill. But a wiser course immediately suggested
itself to me, and that was to remain still until I saw signs of attack,
then blaze away, and in the confusion bolt.

[Illustration: "A PIECE OF WHITE ROUND FLESH."]

But by the time I had revolved these things in my mind four or five
natives entered bearing wooden trays on which were roasted yams,
breadfruit, young cocoanuts, sugar cane, plantains, roasted wild hog,
and some kind of fish baked in leaves. And bringing up the rear was a
woman carrying on her head a huge calabash which, as she lowered it
to the ground, I saw was filled with crystal water. These things were
placed between me and the chief, and by signs he invited me to fall to.
When I learned that I was not to be used as the material for a feast
but to be feasted instead, my mind was considerably relieved, and I
set to work on the good things provided with a very keen appetite. In
a few minutes two other women entered bearing between them suspended
from a bamboo, a large earthenware pot, in which was something smoking
hot. This pot was set before us, and into it the chief plunged a wooden
skewer; bringing up a piece of white round flesh, dripping with hot
oil, and which I took to be part of an eel for the moment, but only for
a moment, as I suddenly divined that the steaming pot contained a mess
of stewed snakes. The chief handed me the piece he had fished up, and
I took it and tasted it, and, finding it palatable in itself, although
the grease it had been cooked in was nauseating, I managed to get it
down, but respectfully declined a repeat.[1]

The appetite of my host was, as Dominie Sampson would have said,
prodigious! Having lived for weeks on bad salt junk and rotten biscuit,
I was in a condition to do full and ample justice to the good things
spread before me. And I am satisfied that I did so; but it was nothing,
a mere picking, a mouthful, when compared with what the chief stowed
away. He gorged to such an extent that I almost expected to see him
roll over in a fit of apoplexy. But the capacity of his stomach was
apparently unlimited. And at each fresh bout he came up smiling, until
there was little left to eat, and that little was distributed to the
crowd outside, who snarled and wrangled for the pieces like angry
wolves.

[Illustration: "I WANDERED ABOUT THE VILLAGE."]

When the important ceremony of dining was over, I rose with a tighter
waistband than I had had for weeks; and I gave my entertainer to
understand that I should like to see the village. Thereupon he gave
some instructions, and led the way outside, and I wandered about the
village for some little time. The huts I noted were built in clusters.
They were formed by digging a pit that was plastered with wet mud like
cement, and allowed to dry in the sun. Then above this pit was reared
a roof of sticks and leaves, the top being rounded off dome fashion.
I peeped into some of these dwellings, and saw immense quantities of
clubs, spears, and arrows, which might be taken as good evidence of
the warlike character of the people. The interior of the huts was
astonishingly cool, and it was quite refreshing to step into one out of
the fearful heat of the sun.

My host next took me to his own residence, which was larger and
superior to the others. There he had several wives and children. One of
the women was not only handsome, but, as a model of a perfectly formed
figure, she would have sent an artist into ecstasies. Her limbs were
adorned with shells, and her raven tresses were relieved by the scarlet
feathers of a parrot.

On approaching this island from the south, the first land one sees is
a high mountain, probably between four and five thousand feet. It is
known as Mount Beautemps Beaupré. I was exceedingly anxious to reach
this mountain, and if possible ascend it, so as to get a bird's-eye
view of the island. I therefore signified my wish to the chief, who,
apparently comprehending my meaning, armed himself with a club and
spear, and, calling his followers together, we started towards the
interior. For some distance our way ran through a jungle of the most
luxuriant tropical foliage. There were trees of an enormous girth
and height, and they were covered with ferns and orchids; while from
tree to tree tendrils stretched in graceful festoons, and hung down
in a perfect and all but impenetrable network. Occasionally birds
were seen with plumage of perfectly marvellous colours, and I had
the good fortune to see two birds of paradise. As we pursued our
journey we occasionally disturbed a large snake or two, and on the
trunks of some of the trees I saw great green lizards with eyes like
saucers. Peccaries, or wild pigs, abounded, and there was a bird that
went in flocks, and was not unlike a partridge. Amongst the trees I
distinguished breadfruit, cocoa palms, plantains, guavas, mangoes,
custard apples. Amongst the undergrowth grew a peculiar fibrous grass
of great length, and I learned afterwards that the natives twist this
in a primitive fashion and manufacture ropes from it.

We continued our journey for several miles, gradually rising until the
road became steep and difficult. After an exhausting climb under a
fierce sun, we gained the summit of a hill, when there burst upon my
astonished gaze a panorama of wonderful grandeur. Afar off, inland,
was the mountain I had hoped to gain; but its summit was shrouded in
light feathery mists that masked its height. Between our standpoint and
the mountain dense forests rose up for thousands of feet until they
suddenly broke off and gave place to bald volcanic cones and serrated
crags, shattered into fantastic outline. I longed to plunge down into
the intervening valleys and explore their hidden mysteries, but I had
to recognise the impossibility of doing so under the circumstances.

Turning seaward, other islands were visible, floating in dreamy mist;
and, looking to the north-west, we beheld the lofty volcanic peaks
of New Ireland. After spending some time in studying the marvellous
picture, I wished to proceed further inland, but my host and his
followers resolutely declined to go another step, and gave me to
understand that, if we went on, inland tribes would attack and kill us.
In spite of that danger--if it really existed--I should have pushed
forward if one or two of the natives had been willing to accompany me.
But they would not budge, and reluctantly I was compelled to retrace my
steps. We did not, however, return exactly the same way, although there
was no difference in the features of the jungle scenery. On passing
through one part of the jungle I was much struck by gorgeous flowers
that grew in the undergrowth. Their colours were surprisingly rich and
brilliant, but on plucking some of them I was amazed to find that they
instantly shrivelled up in my hands, like a piece of dried skin, and
their wonderful colours faded away as if by magic.

We stopped at another village on our return, and my presence caused
intense excitement and curiosity. Men, women, and children gathered
round me, yelling and gesticulating, and, as I thought, menacingly. My
hand instinctively wandered to my revolver, but I did not draw it, for
I recognised at once that they had no arms, and I concluded therefore
that they meant no harm, in spite of their seeming fierce looks. Their
pressing attentions, however, were far from pleasant, and I was glad
when I had got clear of them.

On arriving back at our starting-point, night was closing in. I found
that another feast had been prepared in the council chamber, and the
chief invited me to partake of it. Amongst other things were vast
quantities of all sorts of fruit, and a huge bowl of kava, which I
tasted. The place was lighted by means of torches made of some fibre
soaked in oil. These were held by men who squatted on their haunches.
The torches flared and sputtered, producing a most intolerable smell
and dense fumes, which, however had the good effect of keeping the
mosquitoes at bay.

When the feast was ended, the chief made a sign, and twenty young women
filed in, taking up their position in the centre of the chamber. They
were handsome, well-formed girls, and were ornamented with necklaces
of many rows of shells and sharks' teeth. Their dress consisted of a
small kind of pliable mat, held round the hips by a belt of grass. To a
low monotonous chant of the assembled natives, the girls commenced to
go round in file, beating time with their feet, and swaying their arms
about with a graceful rhythmical motion. This lasted for about five
minutes. Then the chant quickened, as did also the movements of the
dancers, until at last they joined in with the singers, beating time
with their hands. Their mats were flung on one side, and their sole
costume was a thin fringe of coloured grass tied round the loins.

The chant now swelled into a wild song. The singers grew excited and
clapped their hands, making a peculiar sharp sound like that produced
by two cocoanut shells when struck smartly together. The girls became
infected with the excitement, and whirled round like humming tops,
shrieking in their loudest key. At the end of half an hour the dance
ceased. The perspiration was literally pouring off the girls, but
apparently they were not exhausted. Gathering up their mats, they
made a profound bow to the chief and retired. I was next favoured
with a war-song and dance. In obedience to the orders of the chief,
two powerful fellows stepped into the centre armed with spears. They
commenced by giving a war-whoop, and then made themselves horrible by
facial contortions that would have made a pantomimic clown envious.
Next, they threw themselves into every conceivable attitude, their
limbs seeming to be as flexible as india-rubber. They brandished their
spears in dangerous proximity to each other's heads; they howled,
twisted, jumped, and grimaced in such a hideous manner that I was glad
when the performance ended.

[Illustration: "THE GIRLS COMMENCED TO GO ROUND IN FILE."]

Soon after this the natives retired, saluting the chief as they
went out. In a few minutes more women entered, and made a bed of
palm-leaves, on which they spread the skin of a wild animal. The chief
then intimated that it was my sleeping-place, if I chose to remain
there, an invitation that I was not slow to accept, and very soon I
found myself alone. It was pitch dark at first, but there were flashes
of pale points of light as the fire-flies flitted about, and from the
jungles came a chorus of indescribable sounds. But there was one sound
I shall never forget. It was made by a bird, and resembled a plaintive
wail, occasionally varied by what resembled a shrill scream of pain.
Anything more saddening or melancholy than that wail from out of the
depths of the tropical forest in the darkness of the night could not
well be imagined. It was suggestive of somebody suffering the keenest
agony--the cry of a lost soul.

[Illustration: "AS FLEXIBLE AS INDIA-RUBBER."]

Presently the moon rose, and I went to the door to gaze out on the
scene that was revealed. It seemed almost unearthly in its sublime,
weird beauty. A lace-like vapour veil appeared to hang over the
landscape, but it served to impart a dreamy, visionary appearance that
was fascinating. Indeed, it was like a land of dreams, for in the
crystalline light of that tropical moon everything seemed transfigured.
Overhead the great stars palpitated with a splendour of brilliancy
unknown in temperate latitudes, and the tops of the great trees were
clearly and sharply silhouetted against the dark sapphire sky.

Returning to my humble couch, I threw myself down, feeling thoroughly
fagged out after the hard day's work. The heat was intense, and the
air thick with mosquitoes. Nevertheless I fell asleep, but later on
was awakened by some disturbing sound, and where the bars of silver
light flecked the floor as the moon rays poured through the slits in
the bamboo, I saw crouching figures. An instinct of danger caused me
to spring to my feet and draw my revolver. For some time I stood on
the defensive, ready to fire, if need be; but the figures remained
motionless and still. Preferring certainty to suspense, I cautiously
approached them, and to my surprise saw they were women. There were six
of them. But they gave no sign, uttered no sound, and, save for their
eyes that were turned on me and glowed like jewels, they might have
been statues.

Not knowing what the nocturnal visit of these dusky beauties meant,
I went back to my corner, determined to keep on the alert, fearing
treachery; but tired nature asserted herself, and I fell asleep. When I
next awoke it was broad daylight, and the sky was aflame with amethyst
and gold, with great fields of crimson lying between. My lady visitors
had gone, and save for the awakening voices of the day that came from
the jungles, all was silent.

Not for a full hour after this did the king and his followers put in
an appearance, and when we had breakfasted, he accompanied me to the
beach, and I was taken off by the ship's boat. My companions were
agreeably surprised when I turned up sound in wind and limb, for they
had come to the conclusion that I had been served, boiled or roasted,
as a dainty dish for his sable majesty.

As the dead calms continued for several days, we remained at anchor.
And I strengthened my friendship with the king by presenting him with
a small hand saw, with which he was immensely delighted. I also gave
him a belt that he took a fancy to, and an india-rubber tobacco pouch,
together with a pocket-knife that contained a gimlet, a hook, and a
tiny saw: this pleased him more than anything else.

One day I made an excursion with him in his canoe, and we coasted
inside of the coral barrier for a long distance. Everywhere the shore
was thickly fringed with cocoanut trees and palms. So clear was the
water that the branching coral could be seen many yards below. We
landed in a little bay, and proceeded to a friendly village hidden in
the jungle. Here I was as much an object of curiosity as I had been in
the other places; but it also seemed to me that I was regarded with a
certain shyness and reserve, and there was an evident desire that I
should not go about and look into the houses. Before one of the largest
of the houses I noticed several human heads stuck on bamboos, and as
these heads were fresh, it suddenly occurred to me that the villagers
had just returned from a head-hunting expedition, and had been dining
off human flesh. I therefore determined to keep my eyes open, and very
soon I came across unmistakable evidence that I was right, for behind
one of the huts in the centre of the village I discovered a very old
man and a middle-aged woman busily engaged enveloping portions of human
flesh in leaves preparatory to cooking it, which is done in a sort of
oven built of loose stones. In another part of the village I saw a heap
of human bones, including thigh and leg bones, and an arm to which the
flesh still adhered. It was not a very pleasant sight, and I was glad
to get away.

[Illustration: "WE COASTED INSIDE OF THE CORAL BARRIER."]

I subsequently heard in China that the natives of these islands scrape
the inside of the kernels of the young cocoa nuts into a gourd, and,
adding pounded sago to it, they mix human brains with the mess, and
diluting it with goat's milk, drink the compound. I attached little
credence to this statement at the time, but within the last few years
it has been amply confirmed, especially by Mr. H. H. Romilly, who paid
several visits to the islands. He says that the disgusting decoction is
known as dak-dak.

I parted from my friendly chief, or king, with regret, and I promised
myself that I would return at no distant date, and endeavour to explore
the island. Circumstances, however, arose which made the fulfilment of
that promise impracticable at the time.

On leaving New Britain we nearly came to grief on a coral reef near
the Duke of York Island, which lies off the western end of the larger
island. But, having got clear, we coasted along New Ireland in order to
get the land breeze. When at the extreme or eastern end of the island,
I went with some of the crew into a small bay, where we effected a
landing, our object being to replenish some empty water-casks, and
obtain fruit and vegetables. With this object in view we made our way
towards a village, but were speedily surrounded with natives, who
showed such a hostile spirit, and would have attacked us but for our
firearms, that we deemed it prudent to return to the shore. The New
Irelanders bear the reputation of being much more fierce and savage
than their neighbours. In this island there are still several active
volcanoes, and hot sulphur springs are numerous. While sailing along
the shores of New Ireland, a violent shock of earthquake occurred, and
the sea was greatly agitated, causing the ship to roll heavily. Slight
shocks are almost of daily occurrence.

The people of all this group of islands are exceedingly interesting
as ethnological studies. They are amongst the most intelligent of the
South Sea islanders, and display great ingenuity in ornamenting their
spears, clubs, and other weapons, as well as their canoes. These latter
are fitted with outriggers, whereas in the Solomon Group, a little
further to the south, the outrigger is unknown. The men are finely
built, and seem capable of sustaining great fatigue. Many of them
whiten their woolly hair by sprinkling powdered seashells on it, having
first soaked the hair in grease. The effect of this whitened hair is
very remarkable. The women of all the groups are handsome and well
formed when young; but, like all natives of tropical countries, they
age quickly. They marry very early, often before they are twelve years
of age. Some of the tribes, both men and women, go entirely naked.

A very curious custom prevails in the New Britain Group, in compelling
a man who has neglected his wife and children to run the gauntlet.
Two rows of women extend for a distance of several hundred feet, each
woman being armed with a lithe stick. Down the avenue thus formed, the
culprit, in a state of absolute nudity, has to make his way; and, as he
darts past, the women belabour him savagely, and by the time he reaches
the end of the row he is exhausted and covered with blood.

This punishment is greatly dreaded, not so much on account of the
physical suffering it entails, as the disgrace that follows, for the
man is an outcast afterwards for several weeks. No one of his tribe
dare speak to him; he must betake himself to the jungle, where he lives
naked, and as best he may, until the expiration of his sentence.

The currency of the islands is small shells, exceedingly delicate
and pretty; and as they are only found in small quantities at one
particular spot, they have a high value. They are strung on strings
made of fibre, and, when anything has to be paid for, a length is
measured off. A piece that will stretch across a man's breast will
purchase two or three cocoanuts. At present, the chief trade of the
island, I am informed, is in copra, that is, the dried kernels of
the cocoanut, which is collected by the traders and despatched to
Europe, where it is made into cocoanut oil, while the refuse is used
for cakes for fattening cattle. On all these islands sago grows wild,
as does also the sugar cane; but so fertile is the soil that tropical
productions of every description would flourish amazingly. On New
Britain the yam and sweet potato are cultivated extensively, and grow
to an immense size.

In building canoes the natives of this part of the Pacific have no
equal. The body of the canoe is generally made out of the trunk of
a tree, the sides being built up from this body. The planks forming
the sides are sewn together with the tough grass I have spoken of,
and they are afterwards caulked and made watertight by means of a
peculiar cement, which I understand is the kernel of a nut which grows
extensively in the forests. The nuts are pounded in a large mortar. The
powder is then mixed with boiling water, and in that state is worked
into the seams. On drying, it becomes perfectly hard and watertight.
The war canoes will carry from forty to sixty men. These are invariably
decorated with human heads and carved crocodiles. The crocodile, which
abounds in the centre of the islands, is an object of veneration, as
is also the shark, which grows to an enormous size in these warm seas,
and is most ferocious. The natives navigate their canoes very expertly
amongst the coral reefs. From a very early age children of both sexes
are accustomed to the water, and they will swim about for hours without
showing any signs of fatigue. They seem to have no fear of the sharks
that infest the waters. Whether it is that the sharks do not attack
them, I really cannot say. What is certain is that a white man would
very soon be gobbled up. Perhaps these South Sea sharks do not like
black men.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[1] On mentioning this circumstance of the dish of stewed snakes
some months later to friends of mine in China, they insisted that
I must have been mistaken, as none of the South Sea Islanders were
snake-eaters. But that some of the tribes do eat snakes has been amply
proved since by Mr. C. M. Woodford, who visited the Solomon Group of
Islands several times, and lived for months on some of the smaller
islands. It appears that it is only certain tribes who eat the snakes;
and they are held in contempt by the other tribes who do not use
snakes. After my friends so persistently averred that I was mistaken,
I came to that conclusion myself; but now I have no longer a doubt
that I partook of boiled snake on that memorable day, and, as far as I
remember, I found it a toothsome dish, but I bar the oil it was cooked
in. That oil, I believe, was made from the blubber of shark.--THE
AUTHOR.




_Old Stone Signs of London._


THOUGH the predictions of John Dryden were not always fortunate, one
stanza in the "Annus Mirabilis," 1666, which refers to the future of
London City, may here be appropriately quoted:--

    "More great than human now and more August,
    New deified she from her fires does rise:
    Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
    And, opening, into larger parts she flies."

It may be observed that Augusta was the Roman name for London.

Now of the old stone signs of London yet extant, one or two only bear
date anterior to the Great Fire. Many of those which still remain,
fixed either on the outside walls or within the houses they originally
marked, are undated, but their age may be guessed with a tolerable
degree of accuracy. It is also known that the custom of denoting houses
by carved stone signs built into the outer walls did not come into
general use until the rebuilding of the city subsequent to the year
1666.

The inconvenience of the old swinging signs, which blocked the
daylight, and which, by their creaking noises, made day and night alike
hideous, had long been felt--nay, more, their danger to passers-by,
when wind and decay had caused a downfall, had been not a few times
painfully apparent. Hence the Act of Charles II., which forbade
swinging signboards, was both wise and salutary. The signboards,
however, died hard, and prints as late as the middle of the eighteenth
century show the streets full of them. But signs had their use in those
days of unnumbered streets, and it was not until the numbering of the
houses was enforced that the quaint, historic, and, in some cases, even
highly artistic, landmarks vanished.

As years have rolled by, the stone signs themselves, built though they
were into the walls of the houses, have in a great measure disappeared.
Some are luckily preserved in the Guildhall Library Museum, others
are in private hands, many have been carted away as rubbish during
rebuilding, and only a few now remain _in situ_. It is with these few
that this paper is now concerned, and of which illustrations are given.

[Illustration: BOY AND PANYER.]

The use of the curious sign known as the "Boy and Pannier," in
Panyer-alley, is threefold. It was a street sign, a trade sign, and
also, it would seem, a landmark. Stow, writing in 1598, mentions a
street sign there, probably the upper portion only of the present sign.
He writes, "... Is another passage out of Pater Noster row, and is
called, of such a sign, Panyer-Alley, which cometh out into the north
over against St. Martins Lane." Along this alley the bakers' boys
were wont to sit, with their baskets or panniers of bread exposed for
sale, the sale of loaves at the bakers' shops for some reasons being
prohibited by law. On the lower slab there yet remains a barely legible
inscription, which in modern English runs thus:--

    When you have sought the city round,
    Yet still this is the highest ground.

                            August 26, 1688.

Cheapside and its tributaries are, as times go, rather rich in stone
signs. On the external wall of No. 37 may be seen a well carved swan
with collar and chain. This is a sign of heraldic origin without
doubt; it was, in fact, one of the badges of Henry IV., and was also
heraldically one of the charges of Buckingham, Gloster, and others.
Hitherto, however, efforts to trace the exact history of this sign
have been without avail. Far different is it with the White Bear,
now to be seen within the house of business of Messrs. Gow, No. 47,
Cheapside. This most interesting sign was discovered while making
alterations as lately as 1882. The house itself stands at the corner
of Soper's-lane (modern designation, Queen-street), and was once the
shop of the far-famed merchant, Sir Baptist Hicks, Kt., subsequently
Viscount Campden. Baptist Hicks was the successful son of a wealthy
father, and succeeded to what was in those days a most thriving silk
mercer's business. His career is remarkable in more ways than one, for
though a favourite at Court, immensely wealthy and knighted, he was the
first London merchant who after knighthood took the resolution to still
continue in business.

[Illustration: THE SWAN.]

[Illustration: WHITE BEAR.]

It is also worthy of notice that the stone figure of the bear faces
in the opposite direction to all other heraldic signs now standing in
London. At No. 28, Budge-row, will be found one of the best preserved
of all the London signs, "The Leopard" (otherwise Lizard or Lazarde).
This is the crest of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, and as
Budge-row took its name from the skin of newly-born lamb, which was
termed Budge, the origin of this sign can be in no way a matter of
doubt. The Skinners' Hall, too, was close by, and quite early in the
fourteenth century it may be noted that enactments were in force
against the wearing of "cloth furred with Budge or Wool" by persons
(women) of inferior rank.

Lower Thames-street, known in the time of Stow as Stock
Fishmonger-street, still possesses two very good examples of signs:
one, the "Bear," with its collar and chain, carved in very high relief,
and surmounted by initials and date (1670).

[Illustration: THE LEOPARD.]

On the borders of Islington and Clerkenwell there are a group of signs
which belong to houses celebrated in past days. The first is the "Old
Red Lion." Here there are two carved shields, one of which only is
antique--_i.e._, that on the north gable. This house has memories and
traditions both literary and artistic. Within its walls Tom Paine wrote
the "Rights of Man." This is, however, a questionable honour. Here
Hogarth was wont to stay, and has even introduced its gables into one
of his prints--"Evening." The house, too, was the haunt at times of
Thomson, Goldsmith, and Johnson.

Another sign is the "Pelican," of which there is an example in
Aldermanbury. The fabulous story of the pelican "vulning" (_i.e._,
wounding) its breast to feed its young endured for ages, and even as
late as the reign of George I., at Peckham Fair, there was advertised
to be on view "A pelican that suckles her young with her heart's blood,
from Egypt." In the same district as the "Pelican," at the corner of
Addle-street, E.C., may be seen yet another "Bear"--how popular as
signs and how enduring these bears seem! This carving is dated 1670
(not 1610), and bears initials N.T.E. The N., which is the surname,
is reversed; the T. and the E. standing in all probability, as was
customary, for the Christian names of the builder and his wife. The
"Elephant and Castle," irreverently called the "Pig and Pepper-box,"
in Belle Sauvage-yard, is the crest of the Cutlers' Company, to whom
the house was left in 1568 by John Craythorne. The "Belle Sauvage Inn,"
over the origin of whose name and sign so much antiquarian ink has been
spilt, vanished years ago. This hostelry was memorable among other
things for being opposite the spot at which the rebel Wyat rested on
the occasion of his unsuccessful attempt to penetrate Ludgate. It was
also a celebrated stopping-place for the northern carriers. In Belle
Sauvage-yard for a time dwelt Grinling Gibbons, and there he carved,
according to Walpole, "a plot of flowers which shook surprisingly with
the motion of the coaches that passed by."

[Illustration: THE BEAR.]

[Illustration: THE OLD RED LION.]

[Illustration: THE PELICAN.]

[Illustration: BEAR AND CHAIN.]

[Illustration: THE ELEPHANT AND CASTLE.]

Two or three outlying stone signs remain now to be mentioned. One is
the "Cock and Serpents," at No. 16, Churchlane, Chelsea. This sign,
evidently religious in its origin, is very remarkable, both in its
design and also from its date, 1652. It does not appear to have any
history, though the road in which it is to be found teems with memories
of not a few of England's worthies. Another, the sign of the "Dog and
Duck," now built into the garden wall of Bethlem Hospital in Southwark,
is important from the fact that it records the precise sport (duck
hunting) which was the attraction of the house, and also because on
the same stone, and dated 1716, we find the arms of the Borough and
Southwark--a conjunction of which the history of signboards offers no
other example.

[Illustration: COCK AND SERPENTS.]

[Illustration: DOG AND DUCK.]

One illustration is given of a sign which is not stone, _i.e._, the
"Leather Bottle," at the corner of Leather-lane, Hatton Garden. There
appear to be doubts whether the present sign is the original, but as
one branch of sign lore deals with signs appropriate to places, it
may be well to mention this one, which is certainly of respectable
antiquity, as an example. Space is wanting for more than mere mention
of the "Marygold" of Messrs. Child's, the "Golden Bottle" of Messrs.
Hoare's, and the three quaint iron squirrels of Messrs. Gosling's.
Nor can the traditions of the ancient "Cock" Tavern in Fleet-street,
with its carved wooden sign (possibly the work of Gibbons), be here
related. The writer, however, may perhaps be permitted in conclusion to
acknowledge with gratitude his indebtedness to the only standard book
on the subject, and also to kind assistance rendered to him by many
with whom he has come in contact while tramping the now modern streets
of our historic metropolis in search of its ancient signs.

[Illustration: THE LEATHER BOTTLE.]




_Captain Jones of the "Rose."_

By W. CLARK RUSSELL.


SEVEN men sat in a gloomy wooden cave. Under a massive beam that ran
athwart the ceiling swung a sort of coffee-pot, from the spout of which
sputtered a smoking and stinking flame, whose disgusting fumes were to
be everywhere tasted in the atmosphere of the darksome wooden cave. The
seven men were seated, not on morocco chairs or velvet sofas, but on
rude boxes, whose lids were scored by the cutting up of cake tobacco.
There were one or two pillars or stanchions in this gloomy wooden cave,
from which dangled several oilskin coats and oilskin leggings, and
under the ceiling hung a number of bags called hammocks, with here and
there a ragged blanket peeping over the edge, or an old shoe showing
through the nettles. In the midst of the ceiling was a square hole
called a hatch, down which this day there floated very little daylight,
owing partly to the hatch being small and partly to the sky being
overcast with clouds.

[Illustration: "SEVEN MEN SAT IN A GLOOMY WOODEN CAVE."]

Had those seven men seated in this interior been cleanly shaved, and
had they been apparelled in well-washed coloured shirts, sleeved
waistcoats, comfortable trousers, and caps with naval peaks, they would
have passed as a harmless, respectable body of seafaring men--persons
who would say "mum" to a lady when addressed by her, and answer
intelligently and respectfully when asked about the weather. But as
they now sat they looked as sulky and wild a set of fellows as one
could imagine, strangely and fearfully attired, grimy of face and
hairy, booted with half-Wellingtons and belted in Wapping fashion,
and timid people would have thought that they carried a murderous air
because each man wore a sheath upon his hip, in which lay a very sharp
blade.

The wooden cave in which these men sat, rose and fell as though it
were the extreme end of a long board violently see-saw'd; and this
motion, combined with the smell of the fumes of the slush-fed lamp and
a vapour rising out of a small tub of boiled pork, not to mention other
odours such as might be produced by well-worn, newly-greased sea-boots,
bedding which had made several voyages round the world, sooty clay
pipes, old ropes, stale salt water, and many mysteries of malodorous
commodities stowed below in the hold and forepeak, must instantly have
upset the stomach of any landsman who out of curiosity should have put
his head into the little hatch to see what was inside of it.

This cave was indeed a ship's forecastle, but the seven men who sat
in it were mariners who had for many years been tossed by the various
oceans of the world, and could not possibly have been sea-sick, even
though they should have been offered a handsome reward to try.

One of them was a large, strong man, with a shaggy head of hair and
a beard like rope-yarns. He looked as though he had taken a header
and come up again to blow crowned with black seaweed. This strong man
suddenly, and with a sulky fury of gesture, whipped the knife out of
the sheath that was strapped to his hip, and, plunging it into a lump
of pork, lifted the horrid block into the air, and cried out--

"Here it is agin!"

As he pronounced these words, the little square of hatch was obscured
by the interposition of a man's body.

[Illustration: "THIS IS SWEET MEAT TO PETER."]

"The smell of that there pork," said the voice belonging to the body in
the hatch, "is something to sit upon, something strong enough to lean
agin. Why, a man might turn to and chop them fumes into first-class
bunk-boards. Talk o' strength!"

"Come below, cook!" bawled one of the seven men.

"No; I've got to see to the capt'n's dinner. But I'm _of_ ye if there's
to be trouble. When I signed it was for wittles and a dry bottom and
a ship's company. Pump, pump, and nothen to eat! Nothen to eat and
pump, pump! Here's logic as don't tally with this covey's reckoning
for _one_." And the man, violently smiting himself upon the breast,
disappeared.

The powerful sailor who had held the pork aloft whilst the cook
discoursed, shook it off the blade into the tub again and spat.

"It's about time," said he, "that all hands was agreed."

"All hands is agreed," said one of the sailors, "'cepting that blooming
Dutchman Peter. But if he don't come into it it'll be a bad job for one
of us if, on some dark night, him and me happens to be aloft together."

"That there Peter," said a sailor, "was a-boasting to me that he'd ha'
shipped for a pound a month; d'ye know he'd eat a shipmate's shirt
if by so doing he thought he would airn a shilling by saving his
allowance."

"This is sweet meat to Peter," said one of the seven, pointing to the
pork, "and a pound a month is good money to Peter; and if Peter and the
likes of him could get their way, then if ye wanted to see what sort of
man an English sailor looked like ye'd have to ask the master of the
fust workhus as hove in sight to show ye him."

"What a blazing fool a fellow makes of hisself when he goes to sea!"
exclaimed a man with red hair and a broken nose. "I might ha' been a
market-gard'ner had I stayed ashore. Think o' that! What did I run away
from home for? For the likes of this for a parlour," said he, waving
his hand round the forecastle, "and for the likes of yon," pointing
to his hammock, "for a bed, and the likes of that muck," he added,
pointing to the pork, "for a meal. But no growling's allowed. Ho no!
Tell 'em that pickled dog ain't pork, and that wermin ain't ship's
bread, and you're taken afore the magistrate and committed, and locked
up, and left to rot whilst the blooming Dutchmen are getting all the
jobs, because pickled dog to them _is_ pork, and wermin a relish." He
struck his fist heavily upon the chest on which he sat, and fastened
his eyes upon his huge knuckles whilst he turned them about, as though
he were inspecting a sample of coal.

"No use keeping all on growling," exclaimed a quiet-looking seaman,
addressing the others over his folded arms. "What's to be the order of
the day?"

"A bust-up," answered the strong man, who bore the nickname of Black
Sam. "Here we are, sixteen days out, two hands overboard, and not
enough men by six able seamen to work the ship, wessel making water,
and requiring to be pumped every four hours, meat fit to make a wulture
ill, ship's bread old and wormy, and the rest of us men's stores
shop-sweepings. Now this being so, I'm agoing to knock off work for
one."

"And me for another----" "And me for another," went, in a growl, from
mouth to mouth.

"There's the mate and there's the carpenter," continued Black Sam. "If
the capt'n can work the ship with them two, well and good. But Peter he
shan't have. Rather than that cuss of a Dutchman should be agin us, and
on the capt'n's side, I'd--" He projected his arm, and seemed with his
powerful hairy hand to strangle something in the air.

At this point the square of hatchway was again darkened, and the salt,
husky voice of the carpenter called down: "Be--low there. Hain't the
starboard watch got their dinner yet? Tumble up! Tumble up! The wind's
drawed ahead, and the yards want trimming."

"Tumble up!" exclaimed Black Sam. "Don't you be holding your nose too
long over the hatch, or it'll be you as'll be tumbling down. Can't ye
smell it? Oh, it's nothen but us men's dinner. There's plenty left if
ye've a mind for a bite."

"Who's that a-jawing?" exclaimed Mr. Chips, who combined the duty of
second-mate with that of ship's carpenter. "Tumble up, I tell you. The
wind's drawed ahead."

"Catch it and smell it for yourself," shouted a seaman, plunging his
hand into the mess-kid and hurling a lump of pork through the hatch.
The sailors heard the hurried steps of Mr. Chips as he went aft.

"He'll be telling the old man," said Black Sam; "let's go on deck and
have it out, lads. I'll do the talking part, with your good leave.
We don't want no language. Civility's a trump card in these here
traverses. We all knows what we mean to get, and I'll say it for ye."

He led the way, his shipmates followed; they gained the forecastle and
stood in a group gazing at the after part of the ship.

The vessel was the _Rose_, from Liverpool to an East African port. She
was an old-fashioned, composite ship, but her lines were those of a
yacht's, and there were few vessels then afloat which could look at her
on a bowline. Her yards were immensely square, and she carried swinging
booms and main-skysail-mast, and her burthen was between six and seven
hundred tons. Such a ship as this demanded eighteen of a crew at least,
not to mention master, mates, and "idlers." Instead of eighteen the
_Rose_ had sailed with ten men in the forecastle, and a cook in the
galley, and the others were a carpenter, who acted as second-mate, an
Only Mate, and the captain. Of the slender crew, two had been swept
overboard in a gale of wind. They were foreigners, and the English
Jacks did not lament their shipmates' end, but on the contrary grinned
fiendishly when it was discovered that the foreigners were gone, and
they hideously wished that all Dutchmen who signed articles for the red
ensign of England would go and fall overboard as those two foreigners
had, and as promptly, too, so that nobody concerned might be kept
waiting.

During the gale in which the two Dutchmen had perished, the ship had
been so strained as to oblige the hands to serve the pumps every four
hours. Undermanned, leaky, the provisions rotten! There must be a limit
to patience and endurance, even though the sufferer be a sailor. The
seven seamen lumped together on the forecastle of the _Rose_ stood
staring aft. The cook, a pale man, lounged in his galley door, half
in and half out, and his face wore an expression of sour expectation.
The carpenter, as I may call him, was talking to the captain, and the
Only Mate was slowly rising through the companion hatch as the body of
seamen stood staring.

[Illustration: "IS THIS FOOD FOR A MAN?"]

The captain, whose name was Jones, was a tall, lean, gaunt man, his
face of the colour of sulphur, his appearance decidedly Yankee, though
he happened to belong to Limehouse. He wore square-toed boots, a cloak
that might have been taken from the shoulders of a stage bandit, and a
sugar-loafed hat. The hair on his face consisted of a beard that fell
from under his chin like a goat's, and his eyes were black, brilliant,
and restless.

The Only Mate, whose name was Johnson, was about half the captain's
height. The ocean had done its work with him, had withered up his face,
dried the marrow out of his bones, put a turn in either leg, so that
his walk was like a pantomime clown's. Instead of being an Only Mate,
he should have formed the eighth part of a mate. You would have thought
that eight at least of such men as Mr. Johnson should go to the making
of an Only Mate for the _Rose_, had you sent your glance from his
dried and kinked figure to the body of men forward, more particularly
to the giant Black Sam, who, with the rest, continued to gaze aft.
The carpenter, or second mate, was a brown-faced man of about fifty,
but brine had taken the place of blood in his veins, and he looked
sixty, with his white locks and rounded back and long, hanging arms,
whose fingers were curled in the manner of fish-hooks. At the wheel
stood the Scandinavian seaman, Peter, the like of whom you may see any
day blowing in a German band in the streets of London: veal-coloured,
freckled, yellow-haired, a figure loosely put together, and as
meaningless an expression of countenance as a dab's.

The captain was puffing at a long cigar that drooped between his lips.
Presently he pulled his cigar from his mouth, and shouted: "We don't
want all hands. The starboard watch can trim sail. Trim sail, the
starboard watch!" and replacing his cigar, he fell to swiftly striding
the quarter-deck to and fro.

The seven sailors marched aft, and came to a stand a little abaft the
mainmast. Black Sam advanced himself by a step, and exclaimed:--"Capt'n
Jones, us men don't mean to do no more work until our wrongs are
righted."

The captain, speaking with his cigar in his mouth, halted opposite
the men, and said: "What are your wrongs? Are ye too well fed? Are ye
growing too fat for the want of work? Say the word, and I'll right them
wrongs for you fast enough."

"Ye've got a sow under that there long-boat, Capt'n Jones," said Black
Sam. "Would ye give her the wittles us men have to live on and work
hard on? No. And vy? Because the life and health of a sow is of more
consequence to the likes of such men as you and the owners of this
wessel than the life and health of a sailor."

Captain Jones clenched his fist and glared. But what is the good of one
man clenching his fist and glaring at seven savage, hairy, resolved
British seamen, and the captain might well know that he was but one
man to the whole ship's company, for the Only Mate stood at the rail
looking over the side as though he were a passenger, willing to listen,
but rather anxious not to be "involved," whilst the carpenter had
stepped aft, and was dividing his attention between the compass-card
and the main-royal. The captain looked around him. He then puffed for
some moments in silence at his cigar, whilst an expression entered his
face that would have persuaded shrewder observers than the sailors he
confronted that he intended to keep his temper.

"What have you to complain of?"

Several sailors spoke at once. Black Sam elevated his immense, hairy
fist.

"We complain of this," said he; "first, the ship ain't seaworthy."

"Lie number one," said the captain.

"She ain't seaworthy," continued Black Sam, with a menacing note of
storm in his deepening voice. "You're as good a sailor as we are, I
suppose, and ye must know that a ship that needs to be pumped out every
four hours ain't seaworthy."

"Next?" said the captain.

"All the wittles is rotten to the heart. Is this food for a man?" and
Black Sam, putting his hand in his breast, pulled out a biscuit and
extended it to the captain. But the captain looked elsewhere, and Black
Sam, with his face full of blood, dashed the biscuit on to the deck at
the captain's feet, on which one of the sailors cried out, "See how
they run!"

"Lie number two," said the captain. "Next?"

"Your ship's stores are rotten to the heart," said Black Sam. "The
wessel's taking in water faster than she should, and you _know_ it. The
crew are about seven less than the complement of such a vessel ought
to be, and that you know also. And here we are to tell you this; that
we're willing to go on pumping the wessel out for the next three days
for our lives' sake, but not for yourn; but that we don't do another
stroke of work unless you shifts your hellum and heads for the nearest
port, where ye can ship more hands and wittles fit for men to eat.
But if at the end of three days nothen's done, then we shall give up
pumping, take the boats, and leave you, and Mr. Chips, and the mate to
keep the ship afloat by yourselves, if ye can. That's your mind, mates?"

"That's our mind!" was echoed in a hurricane chorus.

The captain looked up aloft at his canvas, then around at the sea,
then at his Only Mate, and at Chips the carpenter, and at Peter at the
wheel. His sulphur-coloured face was dark with temper. Nevertheless he
spoke deliberately:

"This ship's going to make her passage. The leak's nothing, the stores
are first-class, and there are more of you than are wanted to do the
work of the vessel."

He called to Mr. Johnson, the Only Mate, who approached him with a
glance at the men that was certainly not remarkable for spirit.

"Mr. Johnson," said the captain, "you've heard what's passed?"

"I have, sir," answered the Only Mate.

"These fellows will go forward," continued the captain; "they will
swing in their hammocks, and they will smoke their pipes; but no more
stores are to be served out to them--no, not so much as a fragment of
that excellent bread which lies wasted on the deck here--until they
consent to turn to. Then, I don't doubt, it will be all plain sailing
again. Go forward now!" he cried, in a voice the sudden ring of which
was like the report of a pistol. "Mr. Johnson, I'll take the wheel;
whilst you, Mr. Chips and Peter, trim sail."

"Peter!" roared Black Sam, "we men have knocked off work till we're
righted. If you lend the capt'n a hand, and side with him agin us----"

And again he advanced his enormous arm and caused his fist to writhe.

"Mr. Cheeps," said Peter, "take this vheel; I am onvell;" and letting
go the spokes, the Dutchman marched forward and joined his shipmates,
who roared out a defiant huzza as the whole eight of them, with the
cook in their wake, made their way to the forecastle and disappeared.

Sailors have no friends, and Captain Jones knew it. There are societies
in Great Britain for the prevention of the ill-usage of most things
living, from women to dogs, from children to dickybirds, but there is
no society for the prevention of cruelty to sailors. Captain Jones knew
that he had the power to starve his men into compliance. Nevertheless,
he passed a very uneasy night. When the morning broke, he and the Only
Mate and Mr. Chips were nearly dead of fatigue, for wind had risen
in the hours of darkness, and the ship was a big one, and there were
but two men, the third being at the wheel, to let go and clew up, and
haul down and make snug as best two men might. When the morning broke,
Captain Jones looked as if he had just come out of hospital; Mr. Chips,
who stood at the wheel, might readily have passed for a man of seventy;
and the Only Mate, who was lighting the galley-fire, showed as if he
had been towed overboard during the greater part of the night.

"Those blackguards in the forecastle will be wanting their breakfast,"
said the captain, "and you'll have them laying aft presently and asking
to turn to."

The men, however, did not show themselves. They perfectly understood
that the ship could not be navigated as things went, and that the
captain must come round to their views before the day had passed,
and, indeed, long before the day passed should a change of weather
happen presently, and they grinned man after man as they furtively
peeped through the scuttle and saw old Chips at the wheel looking
seventy years old, and Captain Jones as though he was just come out of
hospital, and the Only Mate as though he had been towed overboard; and
they preserved their grin, man after man, as they looked aloft and saw
the unfurled royals and topgallant-sails fluttering, and the staysails
hanging loose, and the yards very ill-braced indeed.

[Illustration: "MR. CHIPS STOOD AT THE WHEEL."]

"We've got yesterday's muck of pork," said Black Sam, "and the bread
barge ain't empty. If the old man were the devil himself, we'd weather
him out. But the ship mustn't be allowed to sink this side of three
days;" and forthwith the sailors grimly rose through the hatch, and
in silence walked to the pumps, which they plied until they sucked,
and then returned to the forecastle. But there was no novelty in this
proceeding, for they had kept their faith with the captain, and at
every four hours throughout the night a gang had turned out to pump the
ship.

Whilst Captain Jones, sitting on the skylight, was drinking some coffee
which the Only Mate had boiled, the carpenter (Mr. Chips) munching a
biscuit at his side, and the Only Mate munching another biscuit at the
wheel, a sail hove in view. The breeze was light and the sea smooth.
Captain Jones hoisted the English ensign union down, and at about
nine o'clock in the morning the two vessels were nearly abreast of
each other, the _Rose_ with her topsail to the mast, the yards having
been swung by Captain Jones and Mr. Chips taking the braces to the
quarter-deck capstan. The stranger was a large, light barque, painted
black. She, too, had backed her topsail.

"There is no use in hailing," said Captain Jones, addressing the Only
Mate; "lower that quarter-boat, Mr. Johnson, and go aboard with Mr.
Chips. Tell the captain of the barque that my men have refused duty;
and ask him if he can oblige us with the loan of a couple of hands to
carry the barque to ----," and he named a convenient port.

Forthwith a boat was lowered, and in a few minutes Mr. Chips and the
Only Mate were pulling away as for their lives for the big, light
barque. The captain, grasping the wheel, stood watching. Now and again
a hairy head showed in the forecastle hatch, and the noise of a hoarse
laugh floated aft to the ears of Captain Jones. The boat gained the
side of the barque, a rope's end was thrown, and the Only Mate made the
boat fast to it. Both men then clambered over the side of the vessel
and disappeared.

[Illustration: "NOW AND AGAIN A HEAD SHOWED IN THE FORECASTLE HATCH."]

The captain gazed eagerly, and whilst he stood looking a hoarse
voice roared the following weather-worn lines through the forecastle
scuttle:--

    "You Parliament of England, you Lords and Commons too,
    Consider well what you're about, and what you mean to do;
    You're now at war with Yankees: I'm sure you'll rue the day
    You roused the sons of Liberty in North Americay."

The time passed, Captain Jones stood at the wheel with his eyes
fixed upon the barque. Suddenly he ran to the companion way, picked
a telescope out of its brackets, and, kneeling at the rail, directed
the glass at the barque. He remained motionless with his eye at the
telescope for some minutes, then stood up and sent a glance aloft, and
a look that swept the wide platform of his own decks, and his hollow,
gaunt countenance wore an expression of perplexity, dismay, and wrath,
all combining in a look that made him appear more than ever as though
just out of hospital.

"By this and by that and by t'other," he roared, using words which,
as they cannot be described, must be left to the imagination, "who'd
ha' thought it of two such this and that and something else sniggering
whelps?" and even as he thus used language which cannot be written,
the barque swung her yards so as to fill upon the sails, and letting
go Captain Jones's boat, which dropped quietly rocking astern, slided
along her course, her flying jibboom end pointing at something west of
north.

Captain Jones stood looking as though bereft of his reason, and many
and awful were the sea-words which leapt from his lips. Again he looked
along his deserted decks. There was nothing to be seen in the shape of
human nature but a single head showing in the fore-scuttle, and this
head appeared to be graphically describing what its eyes beheld to
the hidden mob beneath, else how should Captain Jones account for the
continuous roar of derisive laughter which saluted his ears? He stood
alone upon his deck: either the Only Mate and the carpenter had been
kidnapped or they had deserted him; and Captain Jones was perfectly
right in not doubting for a moment that they _had_ deserted him.

He rushed forwards.

"Men," he bawled, "up with ye! You shall have your way. I'm a lonely
man. Don't stop to consider. Ye shall have your way, but you must bear
a hand."

Upon this, up through the hatch, with the agility of a seaman, sprang
Black Sam. He was followed by the cook and Peter, and in a jiffy all
hands were on deck.

"See that barque?" roared the captain. "The mate and Mr. Chips have
deserted me for her. They've stolen my boat. No! I'm not going to stop
to pick her up. She'll be fifteen pound against Mr. Johnson, and six
months atop of it for robbery. I'm going to follow that barque; I'm
going to get those two men out of her. If the barque don't surrender
'em I'm going to run her down. Turn to now, my lads, and you shall have
your way."

"Well, we see you're in a hurry, capt'n," said Black Sam, "and as ye
know what our wrongs is, and as ye mean to right 'em in the manner I
took the liberty of pointing out yesterday, vy, we'll turn to. Give
your orders, and you'll find us willing."

[Illustration: "SEE THAT BARQUE?"]

The captain forthwith gave his orders. His commands would not be
understood by the landsman. Enough if I say that in a very short time
the _Rose_, fully clothed in canvas, was standing with her head direct
for the barque, an able seaman at her wheel, the captain pacing the
quarter-deck, the cook preparing breakfast for the men in the galley,
and the sailors, each of them with a glass of grog in him, looking at
the distant figure of the barque over the bows.

The _Rose_, as I have said, was a clipper. The wind had somewhat
freshened, and in this pursuit the vessel brought it about a point
before the beam. Far ahead leaned the barque, tall and unsightly,
heeling out to the sun a space of green copper, whilst at this moment
a foretopmast studdingsail went slowly soaring to the yardarm. Captain
Jones gave a loud laugh of contempt. He knew that his ship could sail
three feet to the barque's one, even though the chase should heap the
canvas of a _Royal George_ upon herself. He went on to his forecastle
and sent a man aft for a large black board, upon which he wrote in
chalk:--

       *       *       *       *       *

                         GIVE 'EM UP OR--I'LL
                             RUN YOU DOWN.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the _Rose_ overhauled the barque--and had she been a steamer she
could not have overtaken her more swiftly--the black board was held
on high by a couple of seamen so that it could be read on board the
stranger. Captain Jones on the forecastle head watched the chase
through his glass. The words "_Martha M. Stubbs_, Windsor, N.S.," were
written in large white letters upon her stern. Nothing was to be seen
of Mr. Chips and the Only Mate. A man wearing a fur hat, resembling
Robinson Crusoe's, paced the short poop of the barque. He carried a
glass in his hand, and to judge by the frequent glances he directed
at the _Rose_, it was to be guessed that he had interpreted the
handwriting on the black board.

The breeze freshened. Sheets and tacks strained to the increased
pressure. The _Rose_, with foam midway to the hawsepipe, went shearing
alongside the barque within pistol shot.

"Hard up!" shrieked the man in the Robinson Crusoe cap, and the fellow
at the helm made the spokes spin like the driving wheel of a locomotive.

"Hard up and into him!" roared Captain Jones, and round fizzed the
wheel of the _Rose_ in true firework fashion.

For the next two hours the _Rose_ was occupied in endeavouring to
run down the barque, the barque on her side cutting a hundred nimble
nautical capers to evade the shearing stem of the enraged Jones. But
at the end of two hours it had become plain to the man in the Robinson
Crusoe hat that the _Rose_ was in earnest. He then gave up, backed
his maintopsail yard, and sent the Only Mate and Mr. Chips aboard the
_Rose_ in a boat pulled by two men. Captain Jones at once put Mr. Chips
into irons and sent the Only Mate to his cabin. He then called to the
two fellows who were sitting in the boat under the gangway: "Are ye
undermanned?"

"Fearful--ly," was the answer.

"I thought so," said Captain Jones. "Step on board, my livelies, and
have a glass of grog afore you return."

The two men cheerfully crawled over the side, but instead of giving
them a glass of grog apiece, Captain Jones ordered them forward to turn
to with the rest of his crew, and with his own hand let go the line
which held the barque's boat to the _Rose_. Sail was then trimmed, and
in less than three hours the barque was hull down, though still in
pursuit of the _Rose_.

The Only Mate admitted, with a countenance of hate and loathing, that
he was sick of the _Rose_, sick of Captain Jones, that he hadn't any
intention of working a big vessel of 700 tons single-handed with old
Chips, the carpenter, and that when he boarded the Nova Scotiaman
and heard that she was very short-handed, he accepted the captain's
handsome offer of a number of dollars for the rest of the run to
Windsor, as did Mr. Chips. The Only Mate added that both he and Mr.
Chips were in debt to the _Rose_ as it was, and that Captain Jones
would have been welcome to their clothes and nautical instruments had
the Nova Scotiaman succeeded in getting clear off.

Captain Jones's troubles were not yet at an end. He wished to put into
Lisbon, but the crew refused to work the ship unless he returned to
England.

[Illustration: "STEP ON BOARD, MY LIVELIES."]

"We're not going to be converted into blooming distressed mariners,"
said the crew of the _Rose_. "No Consuls for us. We know them gents.
They'll find everything all right, stores sweet, crew plentiful, ship
tight, and we know how it'll be: a blooming Portugee jail, then a trip
home, and a blooming magisterial inquiry, and six weeks' o' quod;" and
so blooming, they forced Captain Jones to sail his ship home.

He arrived at Swansea, and handed the Only Mate and Mr. Chips over
into the hands of justice. He offered to ship two more hands if his
old crew would sail with him, but they said no, not if he shipped two
hundred more hands; and so they were taken before the magistrates,
who found the captain in the right, and punished the men by a term of
imprisonment far in excess of any penalty of jail and hard labour which
they would have inflicted upon a man who had merely broken his wife's
skull with his heel, or who had only been systematically starving
and cruelly beating his child of ten ever since the neighbours could
remember.

Captain Jones shipped a fresh crew and another Only Mate and a new
carpenter, but though he stopped his leak he did not ship fresh stores.
He sailed out of Swansea Bay October 11, 1869, and has not since been
heard of.




_Child Workers in London._


THIS article does not profess to be an exhaustive account of all the
employments in which London children are engaged. The limits of a
magazine article do not allow of a full and detailed account of this
very comprehensive subject. No individual or body of individuals has
any precise information about the hundreds of children engaged as
ballet dancers, acrobats, models, and street venders, to give only a
few names in the vast army of child workers.

[Illustration: A CHILD NURSE.]

Nothing can be harder and drearier than the lot of little servants,
employed in many cases in lodging-houses. They are on their feet all
day long, at everyone's beck and call, and never expected to be tired
or to sit down properly for a meal; the food is of the poorest quality;
they have heavy weights to drag up and down stairs in the shape of
coal-scuttles, and the inevitable strapping baby; their sleeping
apartment is as often as not a disgraceful hole, and such requisites to
health as are generally considered necessary in the shape of exercise,
fresh air, and baths are unknown quantities. There is a strong
prejudice against the "factory girl" in many quarters, and "service"
is indiscriminately extolled as far more suitable for a respectable
girl of the lower classes. It would be, if there were any chance of
the docker's child or the coster's child obtaining a decent situation;
but, as a matter of fact, the life of the much-pitied match-worker is
infinitely easier than that of these little drudges. At eight o'clock
the factory girl is at any rate free to get out into the open air for
a couple of hours, or to sit down and rest. The little "general" is
never free. One child told me--she was the daughter of a docker who
was the happy owner of eleven children, and was herself an under-fed,
anæmic-looking creature--that she got up at six every morning to "make
the gen'l'm's brakfast--it was a lodging-house; after that there's the
steps, 'ouse work, peeling potatoes, and sich like, till dinner. I
never sits down till we 'ave a cup o' tea after the lodgers 'ave 'ad
their suppers. But the missis--oh, she is a nice, kind laidy, and she
works with me, she do."

"I suppose," I said, "you are able to get out on Sundays?"

"Once a month I goes 'ome, but I nusses the baby on Sunday, as we ain't
so busy. 'E's such a beauty; I'll ask missis if I can bring 'im down;
e' can't walk by 'isself." And off darted the little maid to the top
of the house as if she were not on her thin legs from morn to night,
returning presently with a huge and well-fed baby, about three times
as fat as herself. I am bound to say this girl seemed contented, and,
as lodging-house landladies go, her mistress seemed a fairly good one;
but what a life of exhaustive and unremitting labour, even under these
conditions, for a child of thirteen; and what a life of horrors if her
mistress had been a brutal or cruel woman! The usual payment is 2s.
6d. a week, but I found in a number of cases the girls only received
1s., or even 9d., their mistresses deducting the rest of their salary
for the payment of the clothes which they have been compelled to buy
for them on arrival, the little servant being too often in possession
of a hat with feathers, a fur boa, and a brass locket, which, with the
garments she stands up in, form her entire outfit. A pathetic little
story was told me about a bright-faced girl I happened to come across.

"I got to know of her," said my informant, a lady who does much quiet
good, and whose name is unknown to newspaper readers, "last year. A
friend of mine whose Sunday-school she attended in Deptford asked me to
look her up. I happened quite by chance to call in at the coffee-tavern
where she was to act as servant, a few moments after she had arrived,
and I was told I might go up to the 'bedroom.' Well, I won't go into
particulars about that 'bedroom.' It was nearly dark, and I found the
poor little soul sitting on the only available piece of furniture in
the room--her own little tin hat-box. I shall not easily forget that
dazed, bewildered look with which she met me. It was all so strange;
everyone had been too busy to attend to her, and, though she had come
from a wretched home, where the playful father had been in the habit of
making her a target for his boot-shying, still there had been familiar
faces round her. She seemed to realise in the sort of way young people
do not, as a rule, the intense loneliness of her lot; and, when I put
my arm round her, she clung to me with such sobs that I could hardly
help crying too."

Fortunately, sensitive child-servants are tolerably rare, and I am
bound to say I failed to find any answering to this description. They
were generally what one might describe as decidedly "independent!" One
girl--she was barely fifteen--told me she had been in six places.

"Are you so fond of change?" I asked.

"'Tain't that so much," returned the young lady; "but I can't put up
with 'cheek,' and some o' my missises do go on awful. I says: 'Ave yer
jaw, and 'ave done with it.'"

[Illustration: ON THE ROPE.]

This certainly was rather an awful specimen; but she could not have
been very bad, as her present mistress--who, I presume, has not up to
the present "cheeked" her--assured me that the girl handed over her
2s. 6d. a week regularly to her mother. This seems to be the usual
practice with the girls. Their mothers buy their clothes, and give them
a shilling on Bank Holidays and a few pence every week to spend on
themselves. A large proportion of these little drudges marry dockers
and labourers generally, and, as their training has not been exactly
of the kind to render them neat, thrifty housewives, it is perhaps not
surprising that their _cuisine_ and domestic arrangements altogether
leave much to be desired.

There is perhaps no form of entertainment more popular amongst a
large class of playgoers than that afforded by the clever acrobat,
of whose private life the public has only the vaguest knowledge. The
general impression, derived from sensational stories in newspapers and
romances, is that the profession of the gymnast is a disreputable one,
involving a constant danger of life and limb; and that young acrobats
can only be made proficient in the art by the exercise of severity and
cruelty on the part of trainers.

The actual facts are that the owners, or, as they are called,
"fathers," of "troupes" are, in a number of cases, respectable
householders, who, when not travelling over Europe and America, occupy
little villas in the neighbourhood of Brixton and Clapham; that the
danger is immensely exaggerated, particularly in the case of boys, who
are always caught when they fall; and that the training and discipline
need not be any severer than that employed by a schoolmaster to enforce
authority.

"Of course," said a trainer of long experience to me, "I sometimes get
an idle boy, just as a schoolmaster gets an idle pupil, and I have my
own methods of making him work. But I would lay a heavy wager that
even a lazy lad sheds less tears in his training with me than a dull
schoolboy at a public school. I have never met with a single boy who
didn't delight in his dexterity and muscle; and you will find acrobats
as a whole enjoy a higher average of health than any other class."

There are no "Schools of Gymnastics" for training acrobats in London,
the regular method being that the head of each troupe--which usually
consists of five or six persons, including one or more members of the
family, the acrobatic instinct being strongly hereditary--trains and
exhibits his own little company. The earlier a boy begins, of course,
the better; and, as a general rule, the training commences at seven or
eight years old. Many of the children are taken from the very lowest
dregs of humanity, and are bound over by their parents to the owner
of a troupe for a certain number of years. The "father" undertakes to
teach, feed, and clothe the boy, whilst the parents agree not to claim
him for a stipulated number of years. A boy is rarely of any good for
the first couple of years, and it takes from five to six years to turn
out a finished gymnast.

[Illustration: "ONE OF THE YOKOHAMA TROUPE."]

"Is it true," I asked of the head of the celebrated "Yokohama Troupe,"
"that the bones of the boys are broken whilst young?"

Mr. Edwin Bale, who is himself a fine specimen of the healthy
trapezist, smiled pityingly at my question, and asked me to come
and watch his troupe practise. All gymnasts practise regularly for
two hours or more every day. The "Yokohama Troupe" includes three
boys, all well-fed looking and healthy, one of them being Edwin,
the fifteen-year-old son of Mr. Bale, a strikingly handsome and
finely-developed boy, who has been in the profession since he was two.

[Illustration: "SHOULDER AND LEGS."]

[Illustration: "FULL SPREAD."]

The first exercise that young boys learn is "shoulder and legs," which
is practised assiduously till performed with ease and rapidity. After
this comes "splits." This exercise looks as if it ought to be not only
uncomfortable but painful; but a strong proof that it is neither
was afforded me involuntarily by one of the little boys. He did it
repeatedly for his own benefit when off duty! After this the boy learns
"flip-flap," "full-spread," and a number of intricate gymnastics with
which the public is familiar. In all these performances boys are very
much in request, partly because they are more popular with the public,
and partly because in a variety of these gymnastic exhibitions men are
disqualified from taking any part in them owing to their weight. In
the figure technically known as "full spread" (shown in illustration),
it is essential that the topmost boy shall be slightly made and light
in weight; but even under these conditions the strain on the principal
"supporter" is enormous. As regards danger, so far as I have been
able to learn from a good deal of testimony on the point, there is
very little of any kind. The only really dangerous gymnastic turn is
the "somersault," which may have serious results, unless done with
dexterity and delicacy. There is no doubt that exercise of this kind is
beneficial to the boys' health. Several boys in excellent condition,
with well-developed muscles and chests, assured me they were often in
the "'orspital" before they became acrobats.

[Illustration: THROWING KNIVES.]

Their improved physique is possibly in a great measure due to the
capital feeding they get, it being obviously to the advantage of the
"father" to have a robust, rosy-faced company. Master Harris, of the
"Yokohama Troupe," informed me that he generally has meat twice a day,
a bath every evening (gymnasts are compelled by the nature of their
work to keep their skins in good condition by frequent bathing), that
Mrs. Bale was as kind to him as his own mother, and that he thought
performing "jolly." He further informed me that he got three shillings
a week for pocket-money, which was put into the bank for him.

[Illustration: BALL EXERCISE.]

Another boy in the same troupe told me he had over £9 in the bank. Of
course, all companies are not so well looked after as the boys in Mr.
Bale's troupe; but I have failed to discover a single case where the
boys seemed ill-used. Where the troupe travelled about Europe, the lads
were exceptionally intelligent, and several of them could talk fair
French and German. A really well-equipped acrobat is nearly always
sure of work, and can often obtain as much as £30 a week, the usual
payment being from £20 to £25 a week. As a rule, the boys remain with
the master who has given them their training, and who finds it worth
while, when they are grown up, to pay them a good salary. A troupe
gets as much as £70 or £80 a day when hired out for fêtes or public
entertainments. There is one point which will possibly interest the
temperance folk, and which I must not forget. The boys have constantly
before them moderation in the persons of their elders.

"Directly an acrobat takes to drinking," said Mr. Bale, impressively,
"he is done for. I rarely take a glass of wine. I can't afford to have
my nerves shaky." Altogether there are worse methods of earning a
livelihood than those of the acrobat; and, _à propos_ of this point, an
instructive little story was told me which sentimental, fussy people
would do well to note. There was a certain little lad belonging to a
troupe the owner of which had rescued him from the gutter principally
out of charity. The boy was slight and delicate-looking, but good
feeding and exercise improved him wonderfully, and he was becoming
quite a decent specimen of humanity when some silly people cried out
about the cruelty of the late hours, and so on, and insisted that he
should be at school all day. The lad, who was well fed, washed, and
clothed, was handed back to the care of his parents. He now certainly
attends school during the day, but he is running about the gutter every
evening, barefooted, selling matches till midnight! On the subject of
ballet children there is also a great deal of wasted sentiment. All
sorts and descriptions of children are employed in theatres, from the
respectable tradesman's child to the coster's child in Drury-lane; but
the larger proportion are certainly of the very poorest class, and it
must be remembered that these children would not be tucked up safely
in their little beds, if they were not earning a few badly-wanted
shillings; they would be running about the London streets.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FIRST STEPS.]

Mr. D'Auban--who has turned out a number of our best dancers, such
as Sylvia Grey, Letty Lind, and others--was kind enough to call a
rehearsal of his children, who are now performing at the Lyric, Prince
of Wales, Drury-Lane, and other theatres, so that I was enabled to see
a very representative gathering of these useful little bread-winners.
Whatever else may be urged against the employment of children in
theatres, there is not the least doubt that dancing is a pure pleasure
to them. Out of all the little girls I questioned, not a single one
would admit that she ever felt "tired." A good many of the children
belong to theatrical families, and have been on the stage since they
were babies; they were distinguished by a calmness and self-possession
which the other little ones lacked; but in the matter of dancing there
was very little difference, and it was difficult to believe that a
large proportion of the children now playing in "La Cigale," knew
nothing about dancing six months ago. Mr. D'Auban has no apprentices,
no agreements, and no charges, and he says he can make any child of
fair intelligence a good dancer in six months. The classes begin in
May, and, as soon as it is known that Mr. D'Auban wants children, he is
besieged by parents with little maids of all sizes. The School Board
only allows them to attend two days a week; but Mr. D'Auban says:
"Everything I teach them once is practised at home and brought back
perfect to me." The children wear their ordinary dress, and practising
shoes of any kind are allowed. First the positions are mastered, then
chassés, pirouettes, and all the rest of the rhythmic and delicate
movements of which ballets consist.

[Illustration: FINISHING STEPS.]

Many of these graceful little dancers are the real bread-winners of the
family. Little Minnie Burley, whose charming dancing in the "Rose and
the Ring" will be remembered, though only eleven years old, has for
more than a year practically supported herself and her mother by her
earnings. The mother suffers from an incurable spinal complaint, and,
beyond a little help which she gets from another daughter who is in
service, has nothing to live upon but the little one's earnings. During
the double performance of the "Rose and the Ring," Minnie earned £1 5s.
a week; now she is earning as a Maypole dancer in "Maid Marian" 12s.
a week; but her engagement will soon end, and the poor little maiden,
who has the sense and foresight of a woman of thirty, is getting rather
anxious.

She is a serious-faced, dark-eyed child, very sensible, very
self-possessed, and passionately fond of dancing. Her mother is devoted
to her, and keeps her exquisitely neat. I asked her whether she did not
feel a little nervous about the child coming home alone every night
from the Strand.

"No," said Mrs. Burley, "you see, she comes by 'bus, and she _knows
how_ to take care of herself--she knows she is not to let anyone talk
to her."

[Illustration: A FIGURE OF PAVANNE.]

Minnie is a type of dozens of other hard-working, modest little
girls who are supporting themselves, and very often their families,
by dancing. As a rule, the mothers fetch the children, or make
arrangements for several to come home together. Many of them, whose
husbands have been out of work, or who are widows, or deserted, have
assured me they could not possibly have got through the winter without
the children's earnings, whilst the children themselves are immensely
proud of "helping" mother. The pride they take in their parts is also
very amusing. One small girl ran after me the whole length of a street.
She reached me breathless, saying, "Don't forget I'm _principal_
butterfly." Another small mite gave me a most crushing reply. She made
some allusion to her mother, and I said innocently, "I suppose your
mother is a dresser?" She looked daggers at me, and said indignantly,
"My mother's a lady wots in the ballet."

[Illustration: AT PLAY.]

The wages of the children range from 6s. to 16s. a week, and, as their
engagements often last for four months at a time, it will be seen that
their money is a valuable, and in many instances an essential, addition
to the mother's purse.

[Illustration: AT TEA.]

Child models, being required almost exclusively in the daytime, are,
thanks to the vigilance of the School Board authorities, becoming
more and more scarce. The larger number of them comes from "model
families," the mother having sat herself, and having from an early
age accustomed her children to "sitting." The children of these
families have no difficulty in obtaining regular work; they get a
reputation in the painting world, and one artist recommends them to
another. In the neighbourhood of Fitzroy-square, Holland-park, and St.
John's Wood these families abound, and are mostly in very respectable
circumstances. A pretty little girl, whose mother is a well-known
model, and who has herself figured in several of Millais' pictures,
told me with condescension that she had so many engagements she didn't
know which artist to go to first.

[Illustration: AT THE LYRIC.]

Mary M----, whose face is familiar to admirers of Miss Kate Greenaway's
pictures, is, except for a couple of months in the summer, never out
of work. She is a beautiful child of fourteen, the daughter of a
cab-driver, who is not always in regular employment; and, as Mary has
a tribe of little brothers, her earnings are of the utmost usefulness.
For several months she has been sitting to three artists, and making
the very respectable sum of £1 10s. a week. In her spare moments Mary
takes music lessons, and her great ambition is to become an illustrator
in black and white. All her earnings are cheerfully handed over to her
mother, who is as careful of her little daughter's welfare as she can
be.

"I don't sit as a nude model," Mary said, "but only for my head, and
mother doesn't let me go into _any_ studio."

As a matter of fact, children are not used as nude models to any great
extent; they do not sit still enough, and their limbs are too thin and
unformed to be of much use. Besides the regular professional models,
who get 5s. a day, and are pretty sure of engagements, except in the
summer, there is a fairly large class of street children who call at
the different artists' studios, and are taken on occasionally.

"I get any number," said a well-known artist. "They come down to me,
and are kind enough to _suggest_ ideas. One small girl said to me the
other day, 'Could you do me in a blue dress, sir; mother says it would
go well with my golden 'air.'"

Many artists prefer these children to the regular model, who get a
stereotyped expression and artificial poses from long habit. Mr. T.
B. Kennington, whose pictures of poor London children are familiar to
the public, told me that he always actually paints from the class of
children that he depicts on his canvas. The boy who figured in that
painful and powerful picture of his, "Widowed and Fatherless," is a
real little London waif. His mother is said to have been pitched out
of the window by her husband, and the boy, whose sad face arrests the
attention of the most careless observer, lives with his grandmother,
who does washing.

"Do you make the children 'put on' this sad expression?" I asked Mr.
Kennington.

"No, indeed; my great difficulty is to make them smile, except
momentarily. Haven't you ever noticed how very melancholy children look
in repose?"

This may be true about children who are constantly half-starved and
ill-treated, but surely it is not true of children in general, or even
of the majority of children of the lower classes, who contrive to
wear an air of marvellous brightness, in spite of cold, hunger, and
even blows. "Sitting" does not seem to be an occupation that commends
itself to children, who naturally dislike keeping perfectly still in
one position. Nearly all the little models prefer ladies, who keep them
quiet by telling them stories, and bestowing sweets and cakes on them;
whereas male painters have less persuasive methods of making them do
what they want. These latter, however, make many attempts to reform
the manners and morals of their small models, many of whom, they say,
evince an appalling amount of depravity. Mr. F. W. Lawson, who painted
some veritable little slum waifs, in his series of pictures called
"Children of the Great Cities," told a good little story of one of
his attempts in this direction. His model was a small, bright-faced,
black-eyed street boy.

"Well, Fred, what have you been doing to-day?" asks Mr. Lawson.
"Playing on Battersea Bridge, sir, and chucking stones at mad old
Jimmy," was the reply of the urchin, who then proceeded with much gusto
to describe the details of this sport. Mr. Lawson, on learning that
mad old Jimmy added blindness to his other infirmities, spoke strongly
about the cruelty and cowardice of such an entertainment; and ended up
by telling the story of a heroic deed performed by a blind man. "When I
looked up," said Mr. Lawson, "I saw the boy's eyes were full of tears,
and I thought to improve the occasion by asking, 'And now, Freddy, what
will you do if you meet mad old Jimmy again?' The little scamp looked
up with a wink, and said, chuckling, 'Chuck stones at 'im, sir.'"

Professional models, especially those who have sat to eminent artists,
have an exaggerated idea of their comeliness, and they will draw your
attention to their good points with much frankness.

"I've got beautiful 'air," said one little girl, modestly pointing
to her curly chestnut locks; whilst a small boy, usually called the
"Saint," from having figured in several religious pictures, requested
me to observe his "fine froat," as if he had been a prize beast.

In London, owing to the numerous restrictions imposed upon employers,
there are only a comparatively small number of children working in
factories. Girls of thirteen and upward are employed in confectionery,
collar, jam, and match and other factories where skilled labour is
not required, whilst small boys are principally found at rope works,
foundries, and paper-mills, where their chief business is to attend to
the machinery. It is almost impossible to mistake the factory-girl, and
even at a glance one notes certain characteristics which distinguish
her from her sister workers. Contrast her, for instance, with the
theatre child out of Drury-lane. The little actress may be as poor as
the Mile-end factory-girl, but in nine cases out of ten she will be
very neatly clad, with spotless petticoats and well-made boots and
stockings. If you watch her, you will notice she walks gracefully,
and instinctively assumes, whenever she can, a picturesque and taking
attitude. The little factory-girl is decently enough attired so far as
her frock is concerned, but she, or her mother, cares nothing about her
boots, which are invariably cheap and untidy, whilst any superfluous
coin is devoted to the adornment of her hat, an article of great
importance amongst factory-girls--young as well as old. But a still
more characteristic feature, which, so far as I know, is peculiar to
factory-girls, is their curious method of walking, which is carefully
cultivated and imitated by the young ones. It is a sort of side "swing"
of the skirts, and has one of the ugliest effects that can be produced,
especially when executed by half a dozen young ladies walking abreast
on the pavement.

[Illustration: PACKING CHOCOLATE.]

[Illustration: PICKING SWEETS.]

At Messrs. Allen's chocolate and sweet factories, in Mile-end, some two
hundred women and girls are employed. Referring to the strike, I asked
a highly respectable, intelligent-looking girl why she joined it:

"Well, I don't hardly know," was the candid reply. "It was all done in
a rush, and the other girls asked me to come out."

This girl was earning, by the bye, 17s. a week.

[Illustration: FLOWER SELLER.]

The quite young girls are principally employed in packing chocolate
into boxes, covering it with silver paper, which operation they
perform with great dexterity, labelling, and other easy work of this
nature. The rooms are large and well ventilated, and each department
is under the care of a forewoman, who not only keeps a sharp look-out
on the work, but exercises what control she can over behaviour and
conversation. The discipline did not strike me as particularly severe,
considering that the girls left their work _en masse_, as soon as one
of their number had announced, referring to the artist, "She's takin'
Em'ly's likeness." The hours, from 8 to 7, are certainly too long for
girls in delicate health; but the work itself is light, and a capital
dining-room is provided on the premises, where the girls can cook their
dinners and make themselves tea. Nor are the prospects at all bad. Here
is Alice C----, a girl of fourteen, the daughter of a flower carman,
not always in work. She is a packer, and gets 6s. a week, which she
hands over to her mother. She says she likes doing things with her
hands, and would not like to be in service, as then she wouldn't
have her Sundays to herself. If she stays on at Messrs. Allen's, her
wages will be steadily raised to 18s. a week; and, if she ultimately
becomes a piece-worker, she may make as much as 24s. or 25s. a week.
Considering that a good many educated women are teaching in High
Schools for salaries of £65 per annum, this is surely not bad.

Of course all factories are not as well managed as these chocolate
works, and where the hardship comes in is where hands are turned
off at certain periods of the year, or when the work itself, like
match-making, is injurious to health.

Still more unfortunate is the lot of some of the little girl workers
who assist their mothers at home in tailoring, button-holing, and
dolls'-clothes making. The united work of mother and child yields only
a wretched pittance, and, carried on as it is in a room where sleeping,
eating, and living go on, is, of all forms of labour, the saddest and
most unhealthy. Meals consist of bread and tea, and work is prolonged
till midnight by the light of one candle, with the consequence that the
children are prematurely aged and diseased. This is the most painful
kind of child-labour that I have come across, and would be unbearable,
if it were not ennobled by the touching affection that almost
invariably exists between the worn-out mother and her old-woman-wise
little daughter.

The lot of the child-vender in the streets would be almost as hard, if
it were not, at any rate, healthier. Terrible as are the extremes of
weather to which the little flower-girl or newspaper boy is exposed,
the life is in the open air, and a hundred times preferable, even if it
results in death from exposure, to existence in a foul-smelling garret
where consumption works its deadly way slowly. Children find an endless
variety of ways of earning a living in the streets. There are the
boot-black boys, who form a useful portion of the community; newspaper
boys, of whom the better sort are careful little capitalists, with an
immense fund of intelligence and commercial instinct; "job chaps," who
hang about railway stations on the chance of earning a few pence in
carrying bags; flower-girls, match-girls, crossing-sweepers, who can
make a fair living, if they are industrious; and lastly, although this
enumeration by no means exhausts the list--street prodigies, such as
pavement painters and musicians. All Londoners must be familiar with
the figure of little Master Sorine, who sits perched up on a high stool
diligently painting away at a marine-scape in highly coloured chalks.

This clever little artist of eleven is the principal support of his
parents, who do a little in the waste-paper line when there is anything
to be done. As a rule, Master Sorine is _finishing_ his marine picture
or landscape when I pass by, so that I have not had an opportunity
of judging of his real ability; but his mother, who keeps guard over
him, assures me that he can draw "anything he has seen"--an assertion
which I shall one day test. The little fellow is kept warm by a pan
of hot charcoal under his seat, which would seem to suggest rather an
unequal distribution of heat. However, he seems to think it is "all
right." His artistic efforts are so much appreciated by the multitude
that on a "good day" he earns no less than 9s. or 10s., which mounts
up to a respectable income, as he "draws in public" three days a
week. Master Sorine, however, is exceptionally fortunate, and indeed
there is something particularly taking about his little stool, and
his little cap, and the business-like air with which he pursues his
art studies. Nothing can be said in praise of such "loafing" forms
of earning a livelihood as flower-selling, when the unhappy little
vender has nothing but a few dead flowers to cover her begging; or of
"sweeping," when the "crossing" of the young gentleman of the broom is
often dirtier than the surrounding country. Now and again one comes
across industrious, prosperous sweepers, who evince a remarkable
amount of acuteness and intelligence. It may have been chance, but
each of the three crossing-sweepers I questioned were "unattached,"
disdained anything in the way of families, and declined to name their
residences on the ground that they were "jes' thinkin' o' movin'." This
is a very precarious method of earning a livelihood, and is generally
supplemented by running errands and hopping in summer. In a wealthy
neighbourhood, frequented by several members of Parliament, who were
regular customers, a very diligent young sweeper told me he made on
an average in winter 2s. 6d. a week; but he added contemptuously:
"Business ain't what it used to be. Neighbour'ood's goin' down,
depend on it. I'm thinkin' of turnin' it up." This young gentleman
supplemented _his_ income by successful racing speculations, obtaining
his information about "tips" from his good-natured clients. It seems
sad to think how much good material is lost in these smart street
boys, whose ability and intelligence could surely be turned to better
account. The most satisfactory point--and one which no unprejudiced
person can fail to recognise--in connection with the subject of
child-labour is that healthy children do not feel it a hardship to
work; and that, therefore, considering, in addition, how materially
their earnings add to their own comfort, all legislation in the
direction of restriction and prohibition ought to be very carefully
considered.

I must express my best thanks to Mr. Redgrave, of the Home Office, for
his help in obtaining entrance to factories, and to Mr. Hugh Didcott,
the well-known theatrical agent, for his kind services in the matter of
acrobats.

[Illustration: MASTER SORINE.]




_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._


WILSON BARRETT.

BORN 1846.

MR. WILSON BARRETT, who is the son of a gentleman who farmed his own
estate in Essex, received his education at a private school. During
his school-days, at the age of thirteen, he one night spent his only
sixpence in visiting the gallery of the Princess's Theatre, where
Charles Kean was playing _Hamlet_; and he has himself described how he
was therewith fired with two ambitions--to play _Hamlet_, and to marry
Miss Heath, a charming actress who was appearing in the piece--and
how he afterwards achieved both objects. His first appearance as the
Prince of Denmark took place in 1884, on the very stage on which he
had first seen the character performed. At twenty-two, the age of
our first portrait, Mr. Wilson Barrett was studying his art in that
great school for actors--the provincial stage. At the present day, as
represented in our second portrait, his fine features are well known to
every playgoer, as equally adapted to the picturesque melancholy of the
_Silver King_, the classical countenance of _Claudian_, or the boyish
and pathetic beauty of the _Chatterton_ of seventeen.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by_| AGE 22. |_Window & Grove._]

[Illustration: _From a Photo._| PRESENT DAY. |_by J. Thomson._]

For these portraits we are indebted to the kindness of Mr. Wilson
Barrett.


SIR PROVO WALLIS.

BORN 1791.

[Illustration: _From a_| AGE 22. |_Painting._]

SIR PROVO WILLIAM PARRY WALLIS, R.N., G.C.B., Senior Admiral of the
Fleet, was a hundred years of age on the 12th of last month. Sir Provo,
now the oldest naval officer alive, was born at Halifax, in Nova
Scotia. At thirteen he fought his first engagement, at seventeen was
made lieutenant, and went through several fierce encounters with the
French. At twenty-two, the age at which our first portrait shows him,
he was second lieutenant of the _Shannon_ on the famous day when that
gallant vessel was challenged by the American frigate _Chesapeake_.
The ships met; a desperate fight ensued; the captain of the _Shannon_
was disabled, and Lieutenant Wallis was called upon to take command,
both of his own ship and of the captured enemy. For his gallantry
on this occasion he was made commander. Subsequently he rose to be
vice-admiral, admiral, and admiral of the fleet. It is the rule for
admirals to retire from active service at the age of seventy; bu

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