← catalogue

The Harmsworth Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1898-1899

by Various · English · Gutenberg #49796 · 295,777 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Harmsworth Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1898-1899
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Harmsworth Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1898-1899

Author: Various


        
Release date: August 27, 2015 [eBook #49796]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49796

Credits: Produced by Richard Tonsing, Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial
        Magazines, Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARMSWORTH MAGAZINE, VOL. 1, NO. 3, 1898-1899 ***

The
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL
MAGAZINE

VOLUME I.

1898-9.

No. 3

PUBLISHED BY
HARMSWORTH BROS. Limited, London, E.C.




FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES.
BEYOND THE SUNSET.
THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.
TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.
HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.
LITTLE MAID.
PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.
GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE.
THE MOST REMARKABLE FORTRESS IN THE WORLD.
MY FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.
THE TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER.
SOME INCRIMINATING DOCUMENTS.
A TINY SHOE.
IAN'S SACRIFICE.
"PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS.
THE STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL.
A VERY QUEER CRICKET MATCH.
POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.
OUR MONTHLY GALLERY OF BEAUTIFUL AND INTERESTING PAINTINGS.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.





[Illustration: WHY THE ANTELOPES STAMPEDED!

_From the Painting by William Strutt._

_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., Bond Street, W_]

[Illustration:




FAMOUS RAILWAY SMASHES

THIS ENGINE WENT OVER THE EMBANKMENT IN THE HEATHFIELD ACCIDENT.
_Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]

By Frederick A. Talbot.

_Illustrated by Remarkable Photographs._


Sir Fredrick Bramwell once calculated that if a man made up his mind
to be killed in a railway accident, he would have to travel night and
day in express trains for 900 years in order to fulfil his purpose. But
such a happy state of affairs did not always exist.

In 1859, when there were only some 10,000 miles of railway in
the United Kingdom, and the number of persons carried was about
175,000,000, it was calculated that one out of every 8,708,411
passengers was killed _from causes beyond his own control;_ while
in 1897, when over 21,000 miles of railway were in operation, and
considerably over 1,000,000,000 passengers were carried, the average
was one in about every 26,500,000.

Indeed, in the sixties railway disasters were of such frequent
occurrence that, on December 27th, 1867, Her Majesty wrote to the
directors of the various railway companies in London requesting them
"to be as careful of other passengers as of herself." Now, owing to
the stringent regulations of the Board of Trade, the infallible block
system, and interlocking of signals and points, it is impossible for
a signalman to err without the grossest culpable negligence. The
railway companies, too, have considerably improved their permanent
ways, constructed heavier rolling stock, while the contrivances for
controlling and maintaining the trains in check are of the most perfect
description.

But there is an old adage that "accidents will happen in the best
regulated families." The railway is no exception to the rule, and,
notwithstanding multitudinous and careful precautions, and the extreme
vigilance displayed by officials, the community is startled now and
again by the news of some dreadful catastrophe that has overwhelmed the
iron steed. Fortunately, accidents are few and far between, while the
number of passengers killed is infinitesimal--the total last year was
only thirty-four.

It is a fortunate circumstance that in these days of lightning
travelling a train very seldom comes to grief through travelling too
rapidly. Yet such a disaster occurred between Heathfield and Mayfield
on the Eastbourne section of the London, Brighton, and South Coast
Railway last year. For the length of about twenty miles this railway
is a single line, and meanders along through the valleys among the
hills, so as to avoid tunnelling, in the most zigzag manner. Between
Heathfield and Mayfield, a distance of about four miles, there are a
series of steep rising and falling gradients, many of one in fifty, and
sharp ~S~ curves.

It was while travelling round one of these curves of nearly a third of
a mile radius at a speed of from twenty-five to thirty miles an hour,
that a train was derailed and the greater portion of it precipitated
down an embankment sixty feet high. The engine fortunately fell over
and remained by the side of the permanent way. Our tail-piece conveys a
very good idea of the sharp curve, and also of the gradient. Although
many of the carriages were smashed, only the driver was killed, and
possibly, had he stuck to his engine, his life might have been spared.

Some of the passengers, as is generally the case in railway disasters,
had marvellous escapes. One gentleman, who was sitting reading,
suddenly felt the carriage give a lurch and then roll over and over
down the embankment, while he was tossed violently about, till it
crashed into another, when the superstructure was torn from its
foundations. Considering the gravity of the accident it was a wonder
that there was not a heavier death roll. As it was, it cost the company
£13,000 for compensation to the injured.

The most shocking disaster that has ever happened upon any railway in
the United Kingdom, excelling even the famous Tay Bridge disaster, when
74 passengers were killed by the bridge having collapsed, occurred on
the North of Ireland Railway on June 12th, 1889, at Killooney. It is
known as the Armagh accident.

[Illustration: A SMASH WHICH COST £13,000 FOR COMPENSATION.

_Lankester, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]

A holiday excursion had been arranged by the teachers connected with
a Sunday-school in Armagh. The place selected was Warrenpoint, on
Carlingford Bay. The number of excursionists was about 1,200, mostly
children of both sexes, with a few parents. The first train, consisting
of 13 carriages and a brake-van, drawn by one engine, set off at 10
o'clock with 940 passengers. The officials at the station had been
rather sceptical of the adequacy of one engine to draw the train,
especially as there is a steep incline of 1 in 75, running along an
embankment 60 feet high, at Killooney, two miles from Armagh. The
driver, however, expressed absolute confidence in the capability of his
engine.

Shortly after the excursion had left Armagh, an ordinary passenger
train followed it from the same station at its scheduled time; but,
owing to the excursion being heavily laden and unable to proceed very
rapidly, the ordinary gained upon it, and was pulled up at Annaclare
Bridge, at the foot of the incline. Meanwhile the first train was
proceeding up the incline with great difficulty, and when halfway up
came to a dead stoppage, the load proving too heavy for the engine.

The traffic master of the line, who was travelling with the train,
knowing that the ordinary must be but a short distance behind,
rendering shunting back to Armagh for additional locomotive power
impossible, ordered the train to be divided, in spite of the objection
and remonstrances of the guard and some of the passengers. As a
precaution, he ordered stones to be placed under the wheels of the
last carriage of the detached section to prevent its running away. The
first part of the train, in starting, set back a trifle--not much, but
sufficient to give the second half, consisting of seven carriages,
crammed with its full complement of passengers, a start. The brakes
were immediately applied, but were absolutely ineffectual, and the
train, gathering momentum every minute, ran backwards towards Annaclare
Bridge. Who shall describe the feelings of the unfortunate passengers,
many of whom knew they were rushing to inevitable destruction, and yet
were unable to do anything to prevent it or to save themselves?

[Illustration: THE ARMAGH ACCIDENT IN WHICH 80 PERSONS WERE KILLED AND
400 INJURED.

_Hunter & Co., Armagh, Photo_]

After running a mile and a half, it dashed into the stationary train
with a frightful crash. The force of the impact was terrific, and,
although no one in the ordinary train was seriously hurt, the engine
was overturned, crushing four children beneath it. All the carriages in
the excursion train were wrecked. Some were smashed to atoms, scarcely
one timber being left joined to another; many were telescoped, and
formed a fearful pile, which in turn was mounted by one carriage almost
intact.

The scene that followed baffles description. There being few men among
the unfortunate party, and some of the officers accompanying the train
having been seriously injured, a terrible panic ensued. The agonising
cries of the wounded, and the frantic shrieks and exhortations for
help from the imprisoned children, were sufficient to make the boldest
shudder. But the teachers soon regained their presence of mind, and,
help having arrived from Armagh, the work of rescue was begun.

It was fraught with great difficulty, and attended with grave danger,
as the huge pieces of timber were poised in the most dangerous
positions, threatening to fall every minute, and bury both rescuers and
rescued beneath them.

Some fragments of the carriages and a few of the bodies had been thrown
promiscuously down the embankment by the force of the collision,
but the bulk of the wreck and the greater part of the unfortunate
victims were to be found within a limited area. Eighty persons were
killed, nearly all children, and about 400 were injured. The work of
extrication was horrible, many of the passengers being so crushed and
battered as to be absolutely unrecognisable, but they were eventually
laid out on the bank with care.

Great honour is due to the heroic conduct and intrepidity displayed
by a soldier--Private Cox, of the Royal Irish Fusiliers--who was in
the runaway train. When he realised that no human power could avert
the appalling disaster, he stepped out on to the foot-board, and,
with death staring him in the face, withdrew the frightened children
from the compartments as rapidly as he could, and dropped them on to
the bank, where they were afterwards discovered almost unhurt. Nor
did he desist until the trains had almost met, when he sprang off
just in the nick of time to save his own life, and worked arduously
in the extrication of the dead and injured. This was truly a splendid
exhibition of courage.

Norton Fitzwarren, a short distance from Taunton on the Great Western
Railway, was the scene of a calamitous catastrophe on November 11th,
1890, when the Cape Mail from Plymouth dashed into a stationary goods
train while hurtling along at 50 miles an hour. The 6.45 goods train
from Bristol had been shunted on to the up line at Norton Fitzwarren
to let the 9.55 express goods train from Bristol pass by. It was about
2 o'clock in the morning, and while the slow goods was thus waiting
on the up line, the signalman received warning of the approach of the
special express train carrying passengers from the Cape liner _Norham
Castle_, which had arrived at Plymouth the evening before, to London,
and, forgetting all about the goods train, signalled "all clear." The
result was a frightful collision.

[Illustration: A TERRIBLE EMBRACE--THE SMASH UP OF THE CAPE MAIL
EXPRESS.

_Petherick, Taunton, Photo_]

[Illustration: CARRIAGE WRECKED AT NORTON FITZWARREN, SHOWING INTERIOR
AND LUGGAGE ON THE RACK.

_Petherick, Taunton, Photo_]

Both engines were locked firmly together and completely wrecked; all
the exterior fittings, including the funnel on the boiler of the
express, were demolished and carried away, while the boiler itself
was torn open. The broken carriages, trucks, and other débris made an
awful pile about 30 feet in height. Neither the fireman nor driver
of the mail were killed, though they were terribly injured, owing to
the fact that the engine had a heavy coal tender, which telescoped
into the carriages immediately behind it, that bore the brunt of the
crash from the rear. The driver of this train certainly was not born
to be killed in a railway smash, having been in two serious accidents
anterior to the Norton disaster, narrowly escaping with his life each
time. A party of miners returning from the South African mines to the
North of England were travelling in the first carriage, and were nearly
all killed on the spot. So were also a party of card players in the
same coach, with the exception of one young fellow who, having suffered
great losses, had the good sense to give up playing and to leave the
compartment at Exeter for another one in the rear of the train, and
thus he probably saved his life. In one compartment the occupants,
including women and children, had a most marvellous escape, the glass
in the windows not even being broken, while that in every other
compartment was shivered to fragments.

Another frightful accident, due to the negligence of the signalman,
happened at Manor House Cabin, near Thirsk, on the North-Eastern
Railway, in a dense fog, on the night of November 2nd, 1892, by which
ten persons lost their lives. A goods train was standing in the station
on the main line. The signalman, being fatigued, dropped asleep at his
post. Presently he was awakened rather sharply by the ominous rumbling
of the Scotch express, which had left Edinburgh for London at 10.30,
and was now travelling at full speed. The signalman jumped to his feet,
and, forgetting all about the stationary goods train waiting in the
station on the same set of metals, signalled the approaching train.

[Illustration: THE DÉBRIS OF THE THIRSK DISASTER ON FIRE.

_Clarke, Thirsk, Photo_]

On came the express through the dense fog, and crashed into the goods
train with such force that the engines and all the carriages, with the
exception of a Pullman sleeping-car, were thrown off the line. The
carriages were all piled up, and the horrors of the catastrophe were
accentuated by the broken and splintered wreckage catching fire. In our
illustration the engine may be descried on the right, but a skeleton of
its former majestic self, surrounded by a heterogeneous mass of broken
wheels, iron joists, twisted and fashioned into the most fantastic
shapes by the joint agencies of the collision and fire.

[Illustration: THE PULLMAN CAR AND ENGINE AFTER THE THIRSK COLLISION.

_Clarke, Thirsk, Photo_]

The Pullman car, or rather the charred remains of it, presents a
most bizarre though painful object, being quite destitute of those
many sumptuous embellishments which characterised it but a few hours
previously. The Marquesses of Tweeddale and Huntly were travelling in
this car, but they fortunately escaped without injury.

Some commiseration should be extended to the signalman, however, as he
had been up at home since six o'clock that morning, his youngest child
having died the day before. When he went on duty at eight o'clock in
the evening he begged the stationmaster to excuse him under the painful
circumstances, but no substitute could be found, and he resumed his
duties in the ordinary course of things, with the result that Nature,
who would not be denied, caused the signalman to sleep. The railway
company were severely censured in the subsequent inquiry for the long
hours of duty inflicted upon signalmen.

January 3rd of this year recorded another deplorable disaster on the
Scottish extension of the Great Northern Railway, the North British
Railway, in which the East Coast express, which left King's Cross the
previous night, came to grief outside Dunbar station, not far from
Edinburgh. The night was foggy, and owing to this and other violent
inclemencies of the weather it arrived at the border town of Berwick
twenty-five minutes late. At Dunbar station a mineral train was being
shunted across the main line into a siding to allow this express to
pass by, when one of the waggons became derailed. It was into this
that the express dashed, completely knocking the obstacle into a
thousand pieces, but the force of the collision caused the first of the
two engines to leave the metals and plough through the sleepers and
permanent way for about thirty yards, when it fell over on to its side,
leaving the tender upright.

[Illustration: THE SCOTCH EXPRESS WHICH DASHED INTO A MINERAL TRAIN.

_W. Crooke, Edinburgh, Photo_]

The second engine, although it did not share the fate of its leader,
was greatly damaged. The carriage next to the engine was telescoped
by the heavier corridor coaches behind. By the force of the impact
many of the waggons fell upon a corridor coach, staving in the side
and smashing the framework and glass of the windows to atoms. In this
carriage the intercommunicating corridor extended longitudinally down
one side of the car, and fortunately it was this side that bore the
brunt of the violence of the collision.

Had it been otherwise the death roll would have been increased
terribly. As it was, one lady was killed. Curiously enough this
unfortunate lady, who was travelling with her sister, had only just
changed her seat with the latter. Had she retained her seat her sister,
in all probability, would have been killed instead.

A runaway goods-waggon was the cause of another very extraordinary
accident on the London and North-Western Railway at Chelford, near
Crewe, on Dec. 22nd four years ago, by which the Manchester mail was
completely wrecked. A violent gale was raging at the time, and a waggon
standing in a siding at Chelford station was blown on to the main line,
along which the mail was signalled to pass. The express, dashing along
at the rate of a mile a minute, struck the waggon with tremendous
force, literally jumping over it and then falling over.

The engine-driver had a most Providential escape, being hurled off
his engine over a hedge into a ploughed field, with no more serious
injuries than a few bruises. The truck was tossed on one side into the
air and struck the pillars of the station, ripping a portion out of
the side of a heavy coach during its aerial flight. It then rebounded
into a carriage in the centre of the train with direful effect. One
coach, as will be seen in the illustration, was utterly smashed, the
flooring, wheels, and interior being swept entirely away, while the
sides were torn out. All the remaining carriages in its rear were
completely wrecked.

[Illustration: THE CHELFORD ACCIDENT, CAUSED BY A SINGLE WAGGON.

_Leech, Macclesfield, Photo_]

Some were overturned on their sides, and one was so turned over as to
stand on end, while an eye-witness stated "that some of the carriages
were broken through by the carriage behind causing both sides of the
interior compartments to meet and demolish the fittings." All together
fourteen persons were killed and about forty or fifty injured, one lady
having both her legs cut off.

Abbots Ripton, near Huntingdon, on the Great Northern Railway, was
the scene of a terrible collision--or, rather, two collisions--on
January 21st, 1876. A coal train of 33 waggons and a brake-van left
Peterborough for London at 6 p.m. It was 18 minutes late in starting.
The weather was extremely boisterous and stormy, while the snow fell in
large flakes thickly and fast, seriously obscuring the outlook of the
driver and guard of the train. The latter had seen the signals at Holme
Station, and at the blocks at Conington and Wood Walton, which showed
"all clear."

[Illustration: BULLHOUSE BRIDGE DERAILMENT--CAUSED BY THE BREAKING OF
AN AXLE.

_Bamforth, Holmfirth, Photo_]

At Abbots Ripton the train slackened speed, as it was signalled to
cross into a siding to permit the Scotch express, which was due from
Edinburgh for London, to go by. The greater part of the goods train
had passed safely into the siding when the Scotch express dashed into
it at full speed with most disastrous results. By the force of the
collision the engine of the Scotch express jumped across the down line
on to the bank, where it fell on to its broadside, dragging with it the
tender and three or four succeeding carriages. Hunt, the guard of the
coal train, displayed great presence of mind. He asked the signalman
if he had blocked the down line, but the latter was so agitated by the
disaster--which had happened within a few yards of his box--that he
inadvertently declared he had.

[Illustration: THE SMASH AT NEW CROSS, IN WHICH THREE PEOPLE WERE
KILLED.

_Thiele, Photo_]

Hunt, feeling satisfied thereupon, left the box and rejoined his train,
but, as a further precaution, thrust some fog signals into his pocket,
which he placed on the rails of the down line. In less than ten minutes
after the collision the driver and guard of the coal train set off to
Huntingdon for assistance. They had not proceeded more than 800 yards
when the Leeds down express, which had started from London at 6 p.m.,
was discerned dashing at top speed through the blinding storm. The
driver of the coal train furiously sounded his whistle, while the guard
waved his red lamp frantically to arrest the express. But it was too
late, and it plunged into, and literally cut its way through, the wreck
of the Scotch train.

The scene was a terrible one. The howling storm, the heartrending
shrieks of the injured, the shouts of the rescuers and cries for help,
the lurid glare of the burning wreckage, produced a scene never to be
forgotten by those who witnessed it. All together fourteen persons were
killed.

[Illustration: THE SCENE OF THE HEATHFIELD DISASTER.

_Lancaster, Tunbridge Wells, Photo_]

The South-Eastern Railway has long enjoyed a remarkable immunity from
railway smashes, but this record was sadly marred a few months ago,
when three persons were killed in a stationary train while standing
outside St. John's station, near New Cross, by the Hastings express,
through the inadvertence of the signalman, crashing into it from
behind. Fortunately, owing to the dense fog prevalent, the express
was only travelling at about eight miles an hour; but even then the
concussion was sufficiently violent to telescope the guard's van into
the carriage immediately preceding it, smashing it to pieces as if it
were constructed of cardboard. It is wonderful that more lives were not
lost.

[Illustration:




BEYOND the SUNSET.]


    I remember yet a window
      Looking out across the sea,
    Where I used to sit in childhood,
      In the days that used to be;
    And the crimson glow of sunset
      Fell along the dark'ning bay,
    As I watched the great ships sailing
      Far away at close of day.

    Then my heart would fill with wonder
      As they passed across the foam.
    To what countries were they sailing--
      Would they ever more come home?
    Were there hearts on board them aching,
      For the loved ones left on shore?
    Then the golden sunset hid them,
      And I saw the ships no more!

    I remember, too, a window,
      Looking out across a lawn,
    Where I oft at break of morning
      Watched the first red gleam of dawn;
    And I saw those great ships sailing,
      All the pain and peril o'er,
    Through the golden gates of morning,
      Into harbour, safe once more!

    And it seems, now I no longer
      Am the child I used to be,
    Like the lives of men and women
      Were those ships upon the sea.
    For the golden years have taught me,
      As with joy and care they pass'd,
    There is Dawn beyond the sunset,
      And a Harbour fair, at last!

                                                        CLIFTON BINGHAM.




THE BEHAVIOUR OF WARRINGTON, V.C.:

(1) ON THE FIELD, AND (2) AT HOME.

BY PERCY E. REINGANUM.

_Illustrated by W. B. Wollen, R.I._


(1) ON THE FIELD.

A pitch-black night in a rocky valley of Afghanistan: a few stars in
the heavy, black, moonless sky only intensifying the almost palpable
darkness. A mile or two southwards, where the rocky valley swelled into
rocky heights, little flashes of light recurring at intervals, followed
by sharp little cracks, showed where the late skirmish and retreat was
fighting itself out round about the camp.

Where one of the innumerable broken ridges that seamed the valley made
a darker wall across the darkness, two figures were dimly discernible
(when you knew where to look for them), the one semi-recumbent, propped
against a boulder, the other tall and straight beside him.

[Illustration: "HE EMPTIED HIS REVOLVER INTO THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT."]

"Clear out, Warrington--please go, sir," the voice came faintly from
the recumbent figure. "You can get back to camp and send 'em out for
me."

"Not likely, young 'un," observed the other. "What says the great R.K.:

    "'When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan plains,
    And the women come out--to cut up what remains--
    Just----'"

"Don't!" said the wounded man, and almost succeeded in stopping a groan
between his clenched teeth.

"Poor old Vicary," said Warrington, bending over him. "Let me undo your
belt.... Now grab yourself with both hands."

"Fellows in books," said the weak voice, drowsily, "never get hit in
the tummy.... Always--head in a bandage--or--arm in sling.... Those
Johnnies that write books--ought to come out with us."

There was silence for a time: the far-off flashes grew more rare. The
wounded man shifted himself a little and spoke again.

"You're a brick, Warrington!" he said.

"Slightly different from Piccadilly and the Strand this, eh, Vic?"

"I wish the mater could see us now," said Vicary; "she's going to
bye-bye just about now. She'd stick you pretty high up in her prayers
if she knew."

"The next time you start talking nonsense," said Warrington, "I shall
consider you delirious and past hope; and I shall turn tail and make
tracks for camp."

A long silence.

"It's getting beastly cold," said Vicary, with a shiver; "I shall
never pull through to-night."

[Illustration: "A HOWLING HILLMAN STUMBLED OVER VICARY'S LEGS."]

"Cheer up, lad," said Warrington, and pulled at his moustache and
glared at the darkness; "only a few hours till daybreak.... Pity you're
six foot four in your boots and solid in proportion. I'm not equal to
two miles with you on my back, my dainty midget."

"Can't see how you got me this far.... Why don't you sheer off now and
get back, and----Oh, God! No! Warrington!... You're not going?"

"Another word like that, my son, and I leave you for Mr. and Mrs.
Pathan and all the little Pathans to play with."

"All right--all right, I won't.... Let me hold your boot--I can hardly
see you. Oh, Warry, what a funk I am; all the bit o' pluck I had's run
out of the leak in my tunic--and I am beastly cold."

Warrington knelt beside him and cursed beneath his breath, and felt his
head and hands. The former was very cold and damp, the latter were very
wet and warm.

"I must let them know they're wanted, Vic!" he muttered.

The latter did not hear him.

"It'll be in to-morrow's despatches," he murmured. "'Missing:
Lieutenant Beverley Warrington and Second Lieutenant Vicary of the
----' What's up, Warry?"

His companion had touched his forehead lightly with his lips, had risen
to his feet, and, with his arm raised above his head, had emptied his
revolver into the silence of the night.

"They'll know there's a British officer where that revolver is," he
said, cheerily.

"But--but, you fool--you dear old silly fool--so will those brown
devils!"

"Can't help that!" said Warrington, with a little laugh, "it's too
chilly to stop out late to-night." Then in a lower tone, "For the sake
of auld lang syne, Vic, my boy."

He reloaded his revolver. When the echoes had rattled away into deeper
silence they heard the distant shots suddenly recommence, and distant
shouts and howls came to them like whispers. From the invisible hills
facing them came dim and confused scuffling and scraping sounds as of
cats scrambling down rocks. A moving white blur appeared somewhere in
the thick darkness, then another, and another; and a suggestion of
low-toned guttural conversation reached Warrington's straining ears. He
shifted his revolver to his left hand and gently drew his sword. Then
from over there where he knew the camp lay came six revolver shots in
quick succession.

"That's Welby!" he said to himself.

Vicary's hand had been grasping the heel of his foot tightly. Now he
felt the grip relax; and in a moment more the wounded subaltern slipped
a little with a slight tinkle of steel on rock, and groaned.

In another moment a dozen howling hillmen were blazing away at random
towards the spot whence the groan seemed to have come. They aimed low
and erratically, and Warrington held his fire for a few interminable
seconds.

Then they closed in, and one stumbled over Vicary's outstretched legs
before they could realise that two British officers were within a yard
of them. Warrington felt the man grab at him as he fell, and fired with
the barrel of his revolver touching bare skin. After that he fired and
slashed very much at random, and the darkness around him shrieked and
howled and spat fire, and long graceful knives suggested themselves to
the imagination of the man who had seen them at work before.... For ten
long minutes Warrington was busy--wondering all the time what Vicary
was doing down there between his legs, and how he liked it, and which
of them would die first.

Then suddenly in a lull he heard faintly a sound that sent the blood
to his head with a rush--the scraping of many boots over rocks some
hundreds of yards away, and the dim echo of a word of command. He
shouted, and fired his last cartridge above his head that they might
see the flash, and flung the empty weapon at a white eyeball that was
too near to be pleasant, and cut and pointed and slashed away with
renewed vigour. Down the valley and over the rocks came a hoarse,
breathless cheer, and pith helmets gleamed faintly in the near
distance. He answered the cheer with a croak, and went on carving and
hacking as though his foes still confronted him. But they did not wait
to meet his friends. They left. All but five, to whom even British
troops were a matter of indifference now, as they stayed behind,
huddled into a grim semicircle round Lieut. Warrington and Second
Lieut. Vicary. When his men came up to him they found him with Vicary
in his arms leaning against the wall of rock, "looking," as Private
Billimore said, "as though 'e'd 'ad a nasty messy accident with the red
paint."

Vicary opened his eyes as he entered the camp feet foremost.

"Warrington, _V.C._," he said, and tried to cheer. But the others did
it for him.


(2) AT HOME.

An afternoon in early November: a cosy room, bright fire, big
armchairs, piano, pipes, photographs, and decanters: a male figure
extended to enormous length in one armchair, with feet stretched out on
the hearthrug: another male figure with back turned towards the room,
gazing out of window at the unceasing rain. Thick clouds of tobacco
smoke, and silence.

"Of all the brutal, filthy, miserably depressing days!" said the man at
the window, suddenly.

[Illustration: "'I'M IN AN AWFUL FUNK,' SAID WARRINGTON."]

"Weather seems to worry you, old man," said the gentleman by the fire,
settling down a little deeper into the depths of his armchair. "Third
time in twenty minutes you've got up to look at it--and talk about it."

"Sorry, Vic," said the other, and, turning, he came slowly towards the
fire. "I must be lively company to-day; but this weather seems to upset
one altogether."

"Not me," said Vicary, blowing a cloud. "I'm pretty comfy, thanks. I
prefer rain in St. James' to starlight in Chukundra."

The other did not answer, but stood nervously opening and shutting his
hands over the cheerful blaze.

"By George!" said Vicary, meditatively, "it seems almost like a dream
now--all but the souvenirs we carry--eh, Warry?"

Warrington's hand went up to the livid band that ran across forehead,
nose, and cheek, and almost bisected his strong face.

"One comfort," Vicary went on, "mine don't show. Not but what that has
its drawbacks," he added, with a chuckle; "no one seems to believe
they touched me--think I got my sick-leave on the bounce. And I can't
continually strip to prove it."

Still his senior was silent. Vicary edged round a little to look at his
face. Then his eyes opened and his voice changed.

"Warrington," he said, "d'you remember that very first dust up we had
the second day out from Kir Wallah?"

Warrington nodded.

"That was my first taste of the walk-up-and-down-as-a-target business,"
said Vicary, solemnly; "and I was in a blue funk. Couldn't help
it. Knees all flabby and face all twitchy when those bullets began
whispering and pattering."

Warrington laughed nervously.

"I gave you the right sort of a dressing down," he said.

"It pulled me through," said Vicary; then, leaning forward, and still
more solemnly, "I say, what did I look like?--all drawn up and ghastly?"

"A bit," admitted Warrington.

"Look in the glass now," said Vicary, in an awestruck voice, for
Warrington was senior officer and brother and Ajax and Wellington and
Lord Roberts all rolled into one, in the subaltern's estimation.

Warrington started, and looked not at the glass, but at Vicary.

"You're right, young 'un," he said in a moment, and dropped into the
other armchair. "I'm in an awful funk at this very moment."

[Illustration: "'I SHOULD ADVISE YOU TO HAVE IT OUT WITH HER.'"]

"Oh!" breathed Vicary, and allowed the amazing fact to sink into his
consciousness.

"Fact," said Warrington, and dragged at his moustache and gnawed the
end.

"In heaven's name," said Ensign Vicary, "what are _you_ frightened of?"

"Of one little girl I could pick up and carry under one arm," said
Lieutenant Warrington, V. C.

Vicary drew a long breath.

"You gave me quite a turn," he said.

"It's serious, boy," said the other man, bending his long, gaunt body
forward, his grey eyes all alight. "I haven't the pluck to face her."

"Name?" said Vicary, judicially.

"Rivers," said Warrington, with reverence; "Catherine Rivers."

"Pretty Kitty Rivers!" cried Vicary. "Old man, I congratulate you."

"Don't be a fool!" said Warrington, angrily, and walked to the window.

"On your good taste, of course," said Vicary, with a grin. "Is it a bad
case?"

"I shall--ask her to be my wife," said Warrington with a rush, "as soon
as I dare call--which I haven't done since we've been back--more than a
week."

Vicary whistled, rose, and strolled over to the piano.

"Well, I should advise you to go and have it out with her," he said,
twisting himself round on the music-stool. "Come back when it's over,
and sparkle up a bit."

"Shut up!" growled his senior.

Vicary shrugged his shoulders and struck a few aimless notes. This sort
of timidity was strange to him. In matters relating to the opposite sex
his senior was a child compared with that good-looking boy at the piano.

Suddenly Vicary grinned, struck a chord, and broke into a music-hall
song, accentuating the twang of Cockayne to exaggeration:

    "'O-ownly _one_ gurl--_in_ the world fer me;
    O-ownly _one_ gurl--_'as_ my sympathee;
    She m'yn't be vairy pritty----'"

"Shakespeare" between the shoulder-blades cut his efforts short. He
twisted round, chuckling and rubbing himself.

[Illustration: "'HADN'T WE BETTER--ER--WALK?' SAID WARRINGTON,
NERVOUSLY."]

"Steady on, old chap! What's up?"

"I came here to-day for your help," said Warrington, and stopped short.

"Warry!" said Vicary, nervously. He had never seen him like this before.

"Vic, I'm longing to see her--to say it! I've been longing for months,
and now--I simply daren't call."

"Bulldog--heavy father--comic papers," murmured Vicary, quite
uncomprehending.

Warrington glared.

"If you're going to be a drivelling young idiot," he said, icily.

"No--no! Drive ahead," said Vicary.

"It's just _her_ I'm frightened of," said Warrington. "I'd rather go
through a week of Chukundras than speak; but I'd go through a lifetime
of them with her at the far end."

"But, Warrington," said Vicary, puzzled, "she's not such a Tartar."

"She's the best girl in the world," said Warrington, V.C.; "and the
only thing in it I'm afraid to face."

"Why, what would she do?" said Vicary.

"Do?" said Warrington, with both hands at his moustache. "Do? Why,
she'll drop her eyelashes, or she'll curl the corners of her mouth, or
she'll glance at me over her shoulder with her chin up, and then--and
then----"

"And then?" said Vicary, twinkling.

"Then I shall sweat like a coolie, and stand gaping like a stuck pig,"
said Warrington, savagely; "and my knees will go flabby and my face
twitchy, as you elegantly put it. Good-bye."

"Eh?"

"I'm going there now. I mean to go there now."

"Yes," said Vicary; "and directly you're outside you'll stand still
for a quarter of a hour, and then cut off home and spend the evening
practising profanity in solitude."

Warrington stood in front of his junior, and dared not contradict.

"Unless----" said Vicary, and stopped and grinned.

"Unless?" said Warrington, with painful eagerness.

"Unless," said Vicary, coolly, knocking his pipe out into the grate,
"unless I come with you."

Warrington drew a long breath.

"Thanks," he said, shortly, and watched Vicary putting on hat and
coat, and pulled his moustache violently.

As they left the room he slipped his hand through Vicary's arm.

"This is my Kir Wallah," he said, gravely.

Vicary laughed round at him.

"There's a whacking big balance on the Chukundra side," he said.

"Needn't say good-bye to the mater," he went on, as they descended the
stairs; "you'll come back to dine."

"To be cheered up," said Warrington, with pathos.

Vicary did not deign to reply to such an absurd remark. He hailed a
hansom.

"Hadn't we better--er--walk?" said Warrington, nervously.

"You jump in," said Vicary; "don't be frightened. I'm coming to hold
your hand."

He gave the address, and they bowled away through the grey wetness.
Warrington was trying to see the whole of his person at once in a
six-inch strip of looking-glass.

"Now, I ask you, Vic," he said, plaintively, "is it likely she'd have
an object like me?"

"Fishing!" said the subaltern. "You're not an Adonis, but a V.C. covers
a multitude of sins."

"Pooh! what does a girl care about that?" said Warrington; and Vicary
laughed aloud at him. To himself he said, "The girl that gets you
will get the bravest, cleanest, best gentleman that wears the Queen's
uniform; and the girl that will refuse you doesn't exist."

"Why, we're there," said Warrington, flushing and fidgeting; "how that
horse has been going!"

"Three doors down the square," said Vicary to the cabman through the
trap.

"Tell him to drive once round first," said Warrington, pulling a glove
off and then beginning to put it on again. "I--I've got something to
say to you----"

"It'll keep," said Vicary. "Out you get."

"No--I say--half a minute. Vicary! Is my tie straight? I ought to
have changed my collar. Hang it--all right, I'm coming. Wait for us,
cabby--we shan't be five minutes. Vicary, don't ring. I--I don't think
I'll call to-day, after all--it's a bit late, don't you think? You have
rung? Dash it! I--I--let me ask." The door was opened. "Is Mr. Rivers
in? No? Oh, thank you. It don't matter--I'll call again. Good----"

[Illustration: "'SAY LIEUTENANT BEVERLEY WARRINGTON WISHES TO SEE HER
ON MOST IMPORTANT BUSINESS.'"]

Vicary caught him as he turned and held him fast.

"Is Miss Rivers in?" he asked.

"Yessir," said the man, who knew him well.

"Say Lieutenant Beverley Warrington wishes to see her for a few
moments on most important--come here, you old idiot--on most important
business."

Inside the house Warrington mopped his face and rehearsed speeches in a
low monotone until the man reappeared.

"Will you walk up, sir, please?"

"Walk up," said Vicary, sternly, and marched him out of the room.
"Right half face! Quick march! Go on, you conquering hero, and good
luck attend you."

Warrington did not answer, but breathed stertorously and fingered the
balustrade.

"Up you go!" said Vicary. "There's no retreat. She's waiting for you."

"I--I wish you could come too," said Warrington in a loud, hoarse
whisper.

[Illustration: "HE FLEW UPSTAIRS AS FAST AS HIS WOUND WOULD ALLOW HIM."]

Vicary grinned, shaking with internal laughter. Warrington glared at
him, groaned, and went slowly upstairs, where the man stood patiently
waiting to announce him.

Vicary heard him say breathlessly, "Wait a minute"; but the man
preferred not to hear him, and opened the door with a most portentous
"Lieutenant Beverley Warrington."

Vicary waited in the library. He smoked one cigarette, and another, and
another. He tried to read, but gave it up. He tried to laugh at the
scene in which he had just taken part, but gave that up too. After all,
he was in no laughing mood where Warrington's happiness was concerned.

And at last, when the hands of the clock showed three-quarters of an
hour gone, Warrington's voice from upstairs called hoarsely, "Vicary!"

He paused a moment, breathless. Then another voice, far clearer and
sweeter, but with just a faint tremor in it, repeated, "Vicary!"

And then he flew upstairs as fast as his wound would allow him.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Lodge, photo_

PARTRIDGE'S NEST WITH THIRTEEN EGGS.]




TRAINING OUR FIRE BRIGADE HEROES.

DESCRIBED AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE LONDON BRIGADE.

BY ALFRED ARKAS.


[Illustration: THE LIFTING DRILL

Attention!]

[Illustration: Raising the body to the knees.]

The most fascinating of the multitudinous institutions with which
the Mother City of the Empire abounds is unquestionably that which
preserves her millions from the risk of fire. In these days, when we
have awakened to a sense of appreciation of the Navy, Army, and other
national institutions for our protection and well-being, it is to be
feared that we do not sufficiently recognise the vast debt we owe to
the Metropolitan Fire Brigade and those who rule its destinies.

[Illustration: Lifting the body to the feet.]

London is to all intents and purposes an impregnable city--impregnable,
that is to say, as regards an outside foe. The possibility of internal
destruction by fire, although by no means so great as in the days
of the Great Fire of London, still exists, in spite of fire-proof
buildings, stone walls, and wide streets. Although the possibility
exists, the risk of such a catastrophe will not be worth consideration
so long as the Metropolitan Fire Brigade maintains its present high
state of efficiency. It is to London what the Fleet is to the Empire,
and the analogy is appropriate in more respects than one. It may be
aptly described as the Navy of the Metropolis--the protecting genius
of six million people, and the richest city the world has seen. To
adequately realise its importance one has only to remember that the
destruction of London would be a calamity to the Empire.

[Illustration: Safely lifted on to the back.]

Every night its existence is threatened by the relentless fire demon.
Every night the Fire Brigade as certainly combats and disarms it.
Surely a strange, weird warfare, scarcely realised, since it is only on
occasions when the demon temporarily gets the upper hand that we are
reminded of its existence.

Opportunities for the display of heroism and conspicuous devotion to
duty are comparatively rare in the Army and Navy. So when they occur we
hear of them, and the heroes are received with acclaim. In the Fleet
that never goes to sea such matters are common incidents of the day's
work.

It is part of the ordinary duty of a London fireman to be a hero, and
he never fails when it is expected of him.

It is natural to think of the brigade as a miniature Navy. It smells of
the sea in every way. The captain is a naval man. Its crew of 1,009 are
seamen, and the work of the brigade is of a nature readily performed by
sailors, who are used to danger, and skilled in the art of hanging on
to the skyline by their teeth.

Even the apparatus is peculiarly adapted for the use of the
horny-handed sons of the sea.

It is therefore easy to understand how it is that these
well-disciplined, hard-nerved men are pressed into the service of the
brigade.

Many who have read of the marvellous rapidity with which the engines
are turned out to a fire, or those who have been fortunate enough to
see these splendid fellows at their work, may be interested in learning
how a London fireman is made.

By the kindness of Commander Wells, R.N.--one of the most popular
officers that ever donned the Queen's uniform--I have been able to
observe the whole process, and pick up a good deal of interesting
matter respecting the brigade into the bargain.

There is no objectionable formality about entering the brigade.
Provided a sailor possesses the initial qualifications--he must be over
21 and under 31 years of age; have been at sea for at least five years;
measure 37 inches round the chest; and be able to read and write--he
simply walks into the yard of the central station at Southwark and
inquires for the chief officer. The Commander examines his "discharges"
and testimonials as to character and general intelligence. If he be
a likely man, he is passed into the hands of the Brigade Doctor, who
certifies his soundness of wind and limb. If he emerges successfully
from this ordeal, he has yet a final and more trying one before
him--the test of strength.

[Illustration: TWO METHODS OF CARRYING--A WOMAN OR A MAN.]

Sheer physical strength is a desideratum in all branches of public
service, but especially so in the Fire Brigade, where lives and
property almost always depend upon nerve and muscle. Accordingly the
strength test is necessarily a heavy one. A fire escape is brought into
the yard, and is rested lengthwise on the flagstones. To a ring-bolt
in the stones a tackle is hooked, the other end being made fast to
the foot of the escape. The candidate is then requested to haul the
escape bodily from the ground into its normal vertical position. It is
an immensely trying pull of 240 lbs. If the candidate manages it, he
becomes a probationer at a salary of 24_s._ per week.

The Southwark instructors reckon that it takes three months' hard
work and unceasing drill before a man is competent to leave the yard,
even as a fireman of the fourth class. During this period he is not
permitted to attend a fire in any capacity.

No other sort of drill equals in fascination that which the embryo
M.F.B. man must go through. Unlike a soldier or sailor, he must
undertake many of the actual dangers of warfare during ordinary drill
on the parade-ground. The instruction, conducted by superintendents who
have gone through the mill themselves and know every detail of the
work, is divided into two parts--theoretical and practical.

The room in which most of the theory is taught is particularly
interesting. It contains a half section of every apparatus or device
used by or in connection with the brigade. There is a half section of
the boiler of the familiar steamer, a half section of a street lamp,
indicating the position of a hydrant, and half sections of hose,
nozzles, fire-plugs, flanges, and all the complicated machinery forming
parts of the various types of engines in use.

That very important part of instruction, the use of steam, is
undertaken in the yard, so that practical demonstration with a steamer
under way may accompany the lesson.

Hand in hand with theoretical instruction, a daily grounding goes on in
what may be termed emergency drill. To the layman, this is perhaps the
most interesting part of the work.

Everything must be rehearsed over and over again. Every movement, every
action must be practised again and again till it becomes automatic,
before a man can feel sure of doing the right thing at the right time
under circumstances of difficulty and danger. Most of us have seen a
fireman descend an escape, bearing on his back a human burden, possibly
heavier than himself; we wonder how it is done, but it does not occur
to us that this same evolution is practised every day at Southwark in
all its separate movements.

Our illustrations of this drill show how a fireman is taught to lift
and carry a human body. In the first picture, the men under instruction
are at "Attention." The second shows the first movement, the body
being lifted on to its knees. In the third it is raised to its feet.
In the final evolution the prostrate figure is bodily lifted on to the
rescuer's back. The whole operation scarcely occupies a moment of time.
By this method, the strain of lifting is reduced to a minimum, and the
position of the body across the shoulders leaves both hands free.

When the men are thorough masters of this lifting drill, they have to
go through the nerve-trying ordeal of performing it as though in actual
practice. Escapes are run into the yard. Some of the old hands mount to
the roof, and the embryo firemen are ordered to go aloft and save them
from an awful death. That this is a very considerable feat, I think
our photograph of the operation will amply demonstrate. To an old hand
who has performed the operation amid all the exciting surroundings of
an actual fire it is simple enough. He skips up the creaking, bending
ladder, lightly tosses a twelve-stone colleague on his back, in the
most unconcerned manner, and as blithely skips down again.

But although there is an element of very real danger in it to the
beginner, yet he generally gets through it satisfactorily, though
his progress is necessarily slow. It is in such drills that his sea
training stands him in good stead.

[Illustration: NERVOUS WORK FOR RECRUITS--NEW FIREMEN RESCUING OLD
FIREMEN.]

However, the most nerve-trying work is the jumping-sheet drill. As our
illustration shows, some eighteen or twenty men at a given order man
the canvas jumping-sheet.

Beckets, or rope handles, are supplied all round the edge of the sheet.
Each man holds one of these in either hand, and as the jumper alights
in the centre of the canvas, all simultaneously give a little, and so
break the force of the fall. The men are required to jump 20 feet from
a parapet into the sheet. It is nervous work, both for the jumpers and
those who catch them.

The instructor tells you that there is no danger. In fact a forty-foot
jump into the sheet would be very unlikely to result in injury.

It is easy to listen to such statements, but it is another thing to
stand on that narrow ledge and gaze contemplatively into the tiny
sheet, twenty feet below.

Every possible method of saving life is the subject of a special set of
drills, and all are constantly practised by all hands alike. They are
designed to meet every possible contingency, and when lives are lost by
fire it is generally attributable to delay in summoning the brigade.

[Illustration: STILL MORE NERVOUS WORK--JUMPING-SHEET DRILL, A 20-FEET
DROP.]

One of the most interesting systems of rescue is that in which the
chair knot is used. It is an extreme method only resorted to when the
fierceness of the fire renders the use of the escape impracticable.

This method is shown in actual operation in one of our photographs. You
are invited to suppose that the whole face of the building is alight,
and that a person is in the top front room calling for assistance.
Several men ascend to the roofs of the houses on either side of the
doomed building. Each party has a rope, the two ends of which are tied
in a knot consisting of two loops. The person in danger is instructed
how to fasten the loops about him. He is now suspended in a sort
of cradle or chair, and is lowered away, a guy rope to the ground
controlling the angle of descent.

In some extreme cases where the chair knot cannot be used another
method is resorted to. Several of the brigade ascend to the roof of the
opposite house with a line. This has a knot similar to that already
described at one end, and is swung or thrown across into the window at
which the unfortunate individual stands. If this cannot be managed the
brigade use a special rocket apparatus which enables them to shoot a
line to any given spot.

The man or woman, as the case may be, gets into the knot and swings off
the window-ledge. The rescue party know beforehand by the length of
the line exactly where he or she will strike the wall of the opposite
house, and a mattress is suspended at this spot to break the impact.
At a middle window a long projecting fork catches the rope in the
centre as it swings across the street, and plays an important part in
lessening the shock to the human burden in the knot below.

Needless to say there must always be an element of risk in this method,
and it is only resorted to when every other expedient has failed.

New hands are constantly exercised in the work of turning out, getting
apparatus to work, and performing in every detail the duties likely to
be met with at an ordinary fire. There is a great deal of _esprit de
corps_ among them, and this and natural love of competition soon place
them on a footing with the older hands as regards rapidity, stability,
and general smartness.

Wednesday is the most interesting day of the week. This is a sort of
At Home day at Southwark, and during the afternoon all the drills are
gone through for inspection by the Commander. The picturesque incident
of this dress rehearsal is the dummy fire. Without the slightest
warning the onlooker is startled by a shrill whistle, the mad ringing
of bells, and cries of "Fire." From an upper story of one of the
buildings volumes of dense black smoke pour forth, and before he has
time to realise that the whole thing is nothing more than an elaborate
rehearsal, a steamer clatters into the yard, an escape is run up, and
the men are aloft with the hose. A moment later two persons are rescued
from the burning room, the fire is got under, and the brigade pack up
their traps and disappear as quickly as they came. The photograph on
the next page illustrates the scene a few seconds after the first alarm.

This very realistic outbreak is produced by means of a little oil and
straw, ignited in an alcove in the wall. The two men who attend it have
a lively time between fire and water, and if appearance counts for
anything they are not rescued a moment too soon.

While one cannot but smile at the humorous side of this mock rescue,
there is much of tragedy in the actual work of this kind which most
members of the brigade are called upon to perform at one time or
another.

I cannot help emphasising my conviction that the brigade is taken too
much as a matter of course. At all big fires some member of the brigade
is sure to receive injury; this is amply proved by statistics. For
example, in 1897 the number of accidents to members of the brigade was
111. That is to say, one man in ten received a more or less serious
hurt in the execution of his duty. Fortunately, no fatal case is
reported.

In spite of this percentage the men are the happiest of fellows. They
love and respect their Commander, at which there is no reason for
surprise, and they go to their duty cheerfully, no matter what the
danger or inconvenience may be.

The most pathetic record of heroism I know is that contained in a
corner cupboard of the Instruction Room. Here are the helmets of men
who have died at their posts. In more cases than one their lives have
been sacrificed for others.

Bent, battered, twisted, and torn into every conceivable shape, they
intimate only too clearly the awful nature and suddenness of such a
death.

The appended label describes how every man met his death. It is the
story we always hear of the British sailor, whether he be afloat or
ashore--blind, unfailing devotion to duty, no matter how hopeless his
case.

The remnants of uniform and equipment in the foreground of the picture
are all that was found of Jacobs, the poor fellow who was burned like a
rat in a hole at the Wandsworth fire in 1889.

I will not enlarge upon this distressing subject. They were grand
fellows all of them, worthy of our reverence and respect.

[Illustration: A PROMPT RESCUE--USING THE CHAIR KNOT.]

There are many more like them, and if this gruesome illustration
reminds our readers that our firemen are every bit as deserving of
praise as Thomas Atkins or Jack Tar it will not have been published in
vain.

[Illustration: RECEIVING SUPERINTENDENTS' REPORTS.]

Improvements are constantly being made in the apparatus of the brigade.
There is a tendency to do away with the canvas shute once generally
used on fire escapes. Commander Wells believes in ladders. He is
striving to horse all escapes, an advantage which must strike the most
casual observer of fire brigade work. At the present moment experiments
are being made with telephonic street alarms. In the ordinary street
alarm you smash the glass, press the button, which rings a bell in
the nearest station, and wait till the engine comes. By the new plan
it will be possible to speak directly through a telephone to the
superintendent of the nearest station--an enormous advantage.

Needless to say the telegraphic and telephonic arrangements of the
brigade are the most perfect in the world. One of our illustrations
shows the gigantic switchboard, which directly connects the chief
officer with the sixty odd stations situated all over London. The men
at the tables are engaged in receiving the daily reports sent to the
chief officer by the district superintendents.

The canteen van is now taken to every great fire. Formerly, when the
men were working drenched to the skin for twelve or thirteen hours on
end, they had no means of obtaining much-needed refreshment.

[Illustration: DUMMY FIRE AT HEADQUARTERS, WITH REAL SMOKE.]

Commander Wells has altered all that. If the conflagration is one
likely to keep the brigade going for some hours, the canteen takes up
a convenient position and serves out hot cocoa or hot tea and other
light refreshments.

[Illustration: HELMETS OF FIRE BRIGADE HEROES]

What a benefit this is only those who have been on fire duty know.

Much more might be said of this, the most interesting of our public
services, but my space is limited. I have not even room to deal with
the floating fire stations and engines on the River Thames, worthy in
themselves of an article.

In conclusion, I may tell those who are fond of figures that there are
in the service of the Metropolis 235 escapes, 59 steam fire engines, 70
manuals, 115 hose carts, 36 miles of hose, 8 steam tugs, 12 barges, 5
floating stations, 8 floating engines, 12 skiffs, 5 long fire ladders,
7 ladder vans, 156 watch boxes, 159 horses, 114 telephone lines between
stations, 592 fire alarm call points, and a host of other apparatus too
numerous to mention.

The two most powerful steamers have a capacity of 580 gallons per
minute, the ordinary engines 360 gallons per minute.

The horses are the finest in the world, and, as most people know, they
stand on duty ready harnessed. The weight of collar and harness is
taken off the animals by means of a mechanical contrivance which swings
upward immediately the alarm bell is rung.

In the superintendent's room there is a huge map of London. It is
dotted with little spots coloured red, green, and blue. The red marks
denote what are called by the brigade "working fires," _i.e._ where
engines have been used. The green spots indicate small fires, and there
are left a host of yellow marks--in some districts there are dozens
within a few hundred yards of each other.

I regret to say that they represent "malicious false alarms." The
punishment for wilfully playing a trick of this kind is a fine of £20
or three months' imprisonment.

[Illustration: THE FIRE BRIGADE CANTEEN.]




HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.

THE STORY OF A BIT OF DIPLOMACY.

BY BEATRICE HERON-MAXWELL.

_Illustrated by Fred Pegram._


"It is like this, Frederic," said the United States Minister,
button-holing Sir Frederic Rawnsley, and leading him to a deserted
cosy-corner, "I am in a nasty hole! It must not be known, of course,
but a slip of paper containing some important notes has got lost, and I
have a horrible misgiving that it may have slipped inside the despatch
we have just sent to Lord Westfaling. It won't do to ask, because it
will only ensure their attention being attracted to it if it's there,
and will betray our own laxity if it's not. Yet it must be found. What
would you do?"

Sir Frederic thought for a moment; under his trivial exterior were some
brains, as the Minister knew well.

"I should place the whole matter in the hands of Berend," he said,
decisively.

The Minister looked dissatisfied.

"A mere lad, and quite raw," he said; "he has only been with us two
days."

"I knew his father," continued Sir Frederic; "one of the cleverest
Secretaries who ever handled a Legation. He would have made his mark if
he had not died too soon. This boy is exactly like him. I fancy he will
do well."

Some guests were entering: a private discussion was no longer possible.
The American Minister wandered away, still dissatisfied and irresolute.

Half an hour later he crossed the ballroom, with the young attaché at
his heels, and made his way to a girl in white, who was the centre of
attraction there.

"You are interested in diplomacy, Lady Anstiss," he said; "may I
present to you our latest arrival, Mr. Julius Berend?--Lady Anstiss
Carlyon."

The girl raised a pair of lovely, indifferent eyes, and bowed; the
Minister moved away as though the introduction were a matter of casual
insignificance.

A few steps further on he stopped and glanced back.

Mr. Berend, his face devoid of expression, though he had just been
introduced to the most beautiful girl in Brussels, was looking down
silently.

Lady Anstiss, her shoulder turned to him, was bestowing her slow, sweet
smile, the smile that had already made her famous as a beauty, on
someone in the distance.

"What stage of acquaintanceship must one reach," he said, gravely,
"before being promoted to the honour of a smile from Lady Anstiss
Carlyon?"

She looked a little annoyed.

"Some people never reach it," she answered; "the majority in fact. I
reserve it for my personal friends--and they are few."

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Berend. "I hate majorities: to escape
from them is something worth striving for. To me a barrier of any
sort is delightful; it arouses a corresponding amount of energy; and
indolence is my detestation and my failing at the same time."

Lady Anstiss made a little gesture of impatience. This sententious
boy was going to be a bore, and to give her the trouble of crushing
him. Her programme, dangling from her fan, attracted his attention; he
raised it and took the pencil, saying, "May I have the pleasure? Which
dance?"

There were still two vacant places on the card; Lady Anstiss did not
intend them for a chance-comer.

"I am sorry----" she began; but quite courteously he interrupted her.

"I should have preferred a waltz," he said; "but I am fortunate to find
you disengaged at all," and wrote his name down.

Lady Anstiss looked at him critically as he did so.

A young man of middle height, with a graceful figure, and a face
that might be called blameless, so inoffensive were the features and
colouring. Fair, youthful-looking, with an air of mild freshness about
it that seemed peculiarly unsuited to his profession. A partner claimed
Lady Anstiss before she had made up her mind precisely how to subdue
this apparently unconscious offender.

"Lord Westfaling is still away, and can't have had your despatch yet;
so if Berend can get round Lady Anstiss," said Sir Frederic Rawnsley,
with oracular significance, a little later, "the thing might be worked
somehow."

[Illustration: 'YOU ARE INTERESTED IN DIPLOMACY, LADY ANSTISS. MAY I
PRESENT TO YOU OUR LATEST ARRIVAL?' SAID THE AMERICAN MINISTER.]

The American Minister shook his head.

"If!" he repeated. "There is a very wide margin for probability, I am
afraid."

"I don't know," replied Sir Frederic. "Women move the levers nowadays,
though men make 'em. Westfaling gives in to her in everything. If she
so insisted on his retiring from political life to-morrow, he would do
it."

Nevertheless, and in spite also of the fact that Lady Anstiss was
dancing for the second time that night with Mr. Berend, the Minister
still felt as hopeless at the conclusion of the Diplomatic Ball as he
had at its commencement.

The day following the ball happened to be the occasion of a weekly
reception at Lord Westfaling's, where the part of hostess was played by
his only daughter, Lady Anstiss Carlyon. She was at home from four to
seven, and it was as the clock struck the former hour that her first
visitor was announced--Mr. Julius Berend.

She had parted from him the night before still undecided as to the
precise nature and extent of his offence, and the precise measure of
punishment. His presumption appeared to be involuntary, as in the case
of his calling so early--a privilege he ought to have hesitated to take.

She greeted him with the faintest perceptible effort of memory, as
though she hardly recalled who Mr. Julius Berend was; but he was so
little disconcerted that the reproof was wasted, and he took the chair
nearest to her, which was unnecessary. She felt, in the few moments'
conversation that ensued, as though she were a skilled fencer foiling
the aimless thrusts of a tyro who did not know he was fencing.

Presently she handed him some tea, and in accepting it he calmly
detained her fingers with his left hand.

"Pardon me," he said, "is that a genuine scarabæus in your ring? If so,
it is a very perfect specimen."

"My father gave it to me," she said, coldly, "and he believes it to be
a real one, but I cannot answer for its genuineness."

She attempted to withdraw her fingers; really, this young man was
impossible.

But he still held them with firm gentleness, and having placed his cup
of tea on a table, he now ventured to touch the ring with his right
forefinger.

"Singular!" he said. "I thought I knew the genus scarabæus fairly well,
but I do not remember seeing an intaglio quite like this before. May
I----" He was about to draw the ring off.

"I would rather not," Lady Anstiss said, hastily, while his audacity
brought the slightest addition of rose-flush to her cheek. "My father
placed the ring there himself on my last birthday."

Again she strove to release her hand, and her eyes--grey eyes, with
depths of violet in them--darkened with surprised vexation.

This young man seemed incapable of appreciating his own transcendent
presumption. He was still replacing the ring, when the door, opening
wide and swiftly, disclosed another visitor.

"Lady Lomond!" announced the footman; and a Scotchwoman, of ready
eye and potent tongue, entered. The hand of Lady Anstiss was her own
again simultaneously; but she rose to greet the newcomer with an
uncomfortable sensation of having been caught and compromised.

Her hope that the situation had escaped Lady Lomond's notice was
shattered with the first words.

"Palmistry?" inquired that lady, briefly, with a glance at Mr. Berend.

Lady Anstiss smiled with outward composure, but with inward rage.

"Oh, no!" she said; "this is Mr. Berend, who is learned in Egyptian
lore, and doubts the quality of my scarabæus."

But even as she said it, she rebelled against all that her words must
imply.

It would seem to Mr. Berend that she was acknowledging his right to
have held her hand, to have behaved in fact unpardonably; that she was
mitigating, explaining, condoning the offence all in one breath, and
leaguing herself, as it were, with him against any insinuations that
Lady Lomond might make.

Whether Mr. Berend perceived the situation or not it was impossible to
tell.

He handed some tea to Lady Lomond, made one of his subtly inane
remarks, and took his leave, saying, as he bowed over Lady Anstiss's
hand, which he pressed more closely than the farewell warranted--

"I should like to feel quite certain about that scarabæus. Perhaps you
will let me examine it again at leisure another day; it is exceedingly
interesting to me."

And under the watchful eyes of the most ruthless scandal-promoter in
Brussels, Lady Anstiss was obliged to assent, to appear quite friendly
and at ease with him, when all the time she felt every word he uttered
as a fresh provocation.

"Quite new, is he not?" said Lady Lomond; "that is, out here, I mean.
An old friend of yours, no doubt?" Which was embarrassing when Lady
Anstiss was secretly making up her mind to cut him dead from that
moment.

The door reopened before she answered, and Mr. Berend was back again.

"I forgot," he said, "I am the bearer of a message to Lord Westfaling.
Might I give it to him personally?"

"My father is away for three days," replied Lady Anstiss; "I thought
General Standish was aware of that."

She intended a reproof, and this time Mr. Berend did not ignore it.

"Quite so," he answered; "my message was not from my chief; it was
of a more private nature. Perhaps I might be permitted to have Lord
Westfaling's address, or if I might send a note here could it be
forwarded?"

"We are not forwarding any letters to him this time; they would only
have missed him, perhaps," she answered, "but if you write here he will
receive it on arrival."

"Thanks," said Mr. Berend, laconically, and took his final departure.

For thirty-six hours Lady Anstiss did not see him again, and during
that period, in the intervals between her social distractions, the
thought of him recurred so often that at last she positively wished to
see him. She intended to show him plainly that he had transgressed,
that she was not to be approached in the easy fashion he had adopted,
and that the idea of friendship between them was quite out of the
question.

She meant, in fact, to snub him as never had any young rising diplomat
been snubbed before.

Armed with these pleasant resolutions, she felt really gratified when,
at a dinner to which she had gone under Lady Lomond's chaperonage, she
found that Mr. Berend was sitting on her left hand.

She was fully prepared for any advances he might make, and it took her
some time to realise that he was evidently not going to make any at all.

He acknowledged her presence with polite gravity, and thereafter
devoted himself to the lady on his other side, taking part also in
the general conversation at table, and taking it well, but never once
addressing a remark to Lady Anstiss.

She found herself listening to his conversation, acknowledging with
unwillingness that it was clever, and betrayed no immaturity such as
his face suggested; finally she began to feel piqued that he should
ignore her, and to think that if Lady Lomond noticed it, that good lady
would be sure to weave a new romance from his conduct.

[Illustration: "HE CALMLY DETAINED HER FINGERS WITH HIS LEFT HAND."]

After dinner the same thing occurred. Mr. Berend, without seeming to do
so in any marked manner, contrived to avoid her, and, strange to say,
this chafed her, although she was surrounded all the evening by other
men.

It vexed her, too, that Mr. Berend should appear to be concentrating
himself on Lady Lomond, and Lady Anstiss wondered that he should be
content to listen to such lengthy discourse from a woman who was
nothing if she was not gossiping.

She felt a sort of relief when at last the moment for departure came,
and, passing Mr. Berend with the slightest bow as he held the door
open, swept downstairs in a less equable frame of mind than was her
wont. To her surprise, when she followed Lady Lomond down the steps to
the carriage, Mr. Berend, running lightly after them, jumped in too.

"I asked Mr. Berend to come with us," said Lady Lomond, "because if you
do not mind I should like you to drive me home first, and I thought
he could then escort you on to the Rue de la Place." The smile which
accompanied this remark conveyed that she thought she had done a very
clever and acceptable thing in giving these two an opportunity for a
_tête-à-tête_.

"Thanks," responded Lady Anstiss, stiffly, "but I am afraid that will
be taking Mr. Berend quite out of his way; and I am accustomed to drive
alone often."

The matter, however, appeared to be settled, and she could only invoke
silent anathemas on Lady Lomond's head for her officiousness, and
determine that she would match Mr. Berend in behaviour, and would
ignore him even when they were left to each other's society. But she
reckoned without her host.

For, the moment after Lady Lomond had entered her own house and the
carriage had started again, Mr. Berend, calmly taking the vacant place
beside Lady Anstiss, said in an earnest tone, quite different from his
usual one--

"I have longed for and yet dreaded this moment. Lady Anstiss, I felt
to-night that there was only one subject I could speak to you about,
and that I did not care to touch on it in the presence of others. It
is a matter of indifference to you, but to me it is not only a serious
one--it is a very distressing one."

He paused; and she tried to remember some of the chill and cutting
remarks with which she had intended to show him how great was the
distance that divided them.

But she had been wholly unprepared for this new method of advance, and,
as only irrelevant replies occurred to her, she contented herself with
silence.

"I am going away," he continued, "to-morrow."

"Going away," she echoed, involuntarily; "you have only just come. How
is that?"

"I have pledged myself to fulfil a certain task in a certain space of
time; the time ends to-morrow morning, and the task is uncompleted.
Therefore I shall leave Brussels in the afternoon. Failure is quite as
insupportable to me as to those above me. But I should not mind it so
much if it were not for two things."

Again he paused, and again she was silent. They were nearing the Rue de
la Place now; he knew that a few moments more only remained to him.

"You do not ask what they are," he said, with reproach, "and you
will probably add it to my other iniquities if I tell you. Yet, Lady
Anstiss, I must tell you."

His manner was strangely eager; she wished that she could feel more
annoyed at it than she did.

"One reason is because when I leave Brussels I feel like the moth who
goes out into the dark night and who longs to be fluttering his wings
still round the light that dazzled him, that would have scorched him if
he could have reached it. And the other--may I tell you the other?"

"You have not waited for my permission so far," she answered, half
petulantly, half relentingly.

"There is no time to wait," he said; "the other is that I have added to
my failure an unnecessary piece of stupidity which I deplore, and which
is all the more aggravating because it is not yet irretrievable."

"What do you mean, Mr. Berend?" Her voice sounded softened even to
herself; yet she had not quite intended it.

"I mean that it is in your power to do me an inestimable service; to
soften my disgrace, and give me, in fact, another chance with the
powers that be. I wrote a note--the note of which I spoke to you--to
your father, on a private matter; and at the same time I was copying
an important and strictly private paper for my chief. An important and
strictly private paper is now missing, and the question is, could it
by any carelessness have been placed in the envelope directed to Lord
Westfaling. If so----" He made an expressive gesture of hopelessness.

"But what can I do?" She looked at him in real astonishment. This
strange young man had the faculty of exciting interest, certainly, as
well as displeasure.

[Illustration: "'IT IS IN YOUR POWER TO SOFTEN MY DISGRACE.'"]

"You can allow me to open my own letter--in your presence--to seal it
up again, after taking out the accidental enclosure if it is there, and
so to retrieve what will otherwise be a very disastrous piece of bad
luck."

"I do not see how it would be possible for me to do this," she said,
after a moment's thought; "my father returns at ten to-morrow; I should
find it difficult to explain it to him, to give him a sufficient reason
for having ventured to interfere with his letters."

"If you would allow me to call and say good-bye to you at a quarter to
ten," he pleaded, "in any case it would be a favour that I should prize
immensely, and it is the last I shall ever ask of you."

It was extraordinary! This was in reality only the third time she had
seen him, yet he was speaking to her with all the force and fervour of
a long-tried lover.

And the amazement she felt at him was equalled by that which she felt
at herself; for, to her own surprise, she was neither indifferent nor
resentful. There was a magnetic force about him which carried all
before it. They had turned into the Rue de la Place; a moment more and
they must part.

"A mere formal visit of farewell," Mr. Berend urged. "Lady Anstiss, you
do not know what it means to me, or you would not hesitate. It is not
only my career--it is my life!"

The carriage had stopped--the footman had opened the door; before she
had time to answer, Mr. Berend had descended and was handing her out.

"Then I will call shortly before ten to-morrow," he said, in a clear
voice, "to see if you have any messages for England. Good night, Lady
Anstiss."

He was away up the street, and she was in her own boudoir before she
realised that she had tacitly granted his request.

And the feeling of annoyance with him that had been hers a few hours
before was gone; in its place was one of pity for this daring young man
whose essay in diplomacy had come to an untimely end.

He was of course nothing--less than nothing to her, but it would seem
too unkind to refuse to see him in the morning.

She went to sleep at last, still undecided as to what she would or
would not do.

But Mr. Julius Berend was troubled by no misgivings, and when he
presented himself at a quarter to ten the next morning, a flicker of
satisfaction tempered the pensive sadness of his gaze.

She was in the garden, and as he stepped out through the French
windows towards her he thought--as he had thought on the night of his
introduction to her--that for such a face as this, and such a smile, he
would go to the end of the world.

And she? A grave sweetness had taken the place of her former manner to
him, and she said, after giving him her hand, "Mr. Berend, I have been
thinking over what you asked me, and--I think I can make it right with
my father. You will promise me, of course, not to take anything out of
the letter that ought to remain there?"

"I promise," he answered, quietly.

They went into the library together, and she brought him the tray of
letters that were awaiting Lord Westfaling's arrival.

He drew a long envelope from his pocket, an official one, already
addressed to Lord Westfaling.

[Illustration: "A LOOSE PAPER FLUTTERED TO THE FLOOR."]

"It matches this," he said, "the one I want to open."

There were two similar envelopes amongst the pile of correspondence.
He selected one, opened it, and, taking out the contents, shook them,
stooped to pick up a loose paper that fluttered from them to the floor,
and then placed them in the fresh envelope he had brought.

"May I seal this?" he asked. He had brought an official seal with him.

She brought him sealing wax and taper.

"Thanks," he said, when this was finished. "The paper was there, as I
thought. I am glad to have retrieved it."

He folded it up, and put it, with the old envelope, into his pocket.

"Good-bye." He was holding out his hand to her quite coolly.

She felt hurt, disappointed. She would have deprecated his gratitude
for the service she had rendered him, but the absence of its expression
chilled her.

"Good-bye." She gave him her hand.

He clasped it for an instant, then raised it, saying, "We did not
settle the vexed question of the ring. I am inclined, now I see it
again, to think it is a genuine old scarabæus."

A sudden access of shyness, strange and new, came to her. The coldness
of his voice did not match the warm clasp of his hand, the nearness of
his approach.

She felt that the colour was mounting to her cheeks, and turned her
face aside to hide it. And the next instant she felt the touch of his
lips on her hair just where it swept away from her white neck.

"Mr. Berend!" she said, breathlessly, and would have started away, but
he still held her hand.

"You can either never forgive me," he said, quickly, "or you must do so
fully and freely. There can be no half measures between us any longer."

She was speechless; a storm of mixed feelings possessed her.

"I set myself to win you from the first moment that I saw you," he
continued, impetuously. "The other task was nothing. I determined it
should be both or neither with me. The failure that I spoke of to you
last night is redeemed, and I am no longer under a cloud. It was a
question of my word, and I have kept it. But for you I should not have
done so. My fate is in your hands entirely."

Still no answer.

He drew her a little closer. "I have seen you four times," he went
on, "and each time I have said to myself, 'There is only one woman in
the world for me, and she is so sweet and lovely and perfect, that I
dare only say good-bye to her--unless she tells me to stay.' Anstiss,
good-bye!"

There was a stir in the house, and steps approaching in the hall. Lord
Westfaling had returned, and was coming to the library. Mr. Berend
released the hand he held, and Lady Anstiss turned in confusion to
greet her father at the door.

"This is Mr. Berend, of the United States Embassy, father," she said.
"He has brought a letter for you. It is there amongst your other ones."

She could not look at him; she was still in a tumult of indecision. Mr.
Julius Berend had shaken hands with her father, apologising for his
early call, and was saying to her--

"I am going to town this afternoon on business. May I call again at a
more opportune moment on my return?"

She lifted her eyes to his, and he saw that he had won her.

"Yes," she said, simply; and with a bow he was gone.

"A nice-looking young fellow," commented her father, leisurely turning
over his letters. "Son of Max Berend, I suppose. Very clever and smart,
I am told."

       *       *       *       *       *

"I told you you could not do better than pin your faith on Berend,"
said Sir Frederic Rawnsley to the United States Minister, a few days
afterwards. "He managed that little affair for you very cleverly; and
seems to be managing another little affair very cleverly, too."

He put up his eyeglass to watch the greeting between Mr. Julius Berend
and Lady Anstiss Carlyon.

"Lady Lomond tells me it is almost a settled thing," he remarked. "And,
after all, Anstiss might do a good deal worse. Berend will never stop
half way; he is bound to reach the top of the tree."

[Illustration: "SHE LIFTED HER EYES TO HIS, AND HE SAW THAT HE HAD WON
HER."]

[Illustration:




LITTLE MAID]


    You've crept in the dusk to my knee, little maid,
    And you've something you want to ask me, little maid.
            In your babyland eyes
            I'm so clever and wise,
    And you're certain as certain can be, little maid,
    If there's anyone knows what is right, little maid,
    It is I--you are sure of that quite, little maid;
            And I wish, pretty elf,
            I believed in myself
    As you do in me, dear, to-night, little maid.

    You have heard that the angels have wings, little maid.
    Was it wisdom to tell you such things, little maid?
            You're too sweet and too small
            Yet to understand all
    Or one half the surprises time brings, little maid.
    But you've heard and are anxious to know, little maid,
    If sleepy at bedtime they grow, little maid,
            If they take off their wings
            With their everyday things,
    When to by-bye in heaven they go, little maid.

    Your lips to my cheek then you lay, little maid,
    And you wonder I've nothing to say, little maid;
            But I couldn't reply
            Were I even to try
    For the space of a year and a day, little maid.
    You give me a shake of the head, little maid,
    And I feel there's no more to be said, little maid;
            But I know this is true,
            That our earthly ones do--
    And it's time one was tucked up in bed, little maid.




PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.

PROVING THE USELESSNESS OF THE CAMERA AS A WITNESS.


There is a popular notion abroad that the art of photography is a
first cousin to George Washington, and cannot tell a lie. The wider
knowledge of the art, due to its adoption by hundreds of thousands
of amateurs as a hobby, has largely shown the fallaciousness of this
belief. Yet photographic fakes of a most absurdly simple nature still
continue to impose upon the credulity of thousands of people, among the
number being many who have gone so far as to accept such inventions as
irrefutable evidence, in their ignorance of the possibilities of this,
perhaps, the most elastic of all arts.

A striking instance of this is seen in the so-called "spirit"
photographs, published some years ago by Mr. W. T. Stead. The
brilliant editor of the _Review of Reviews_, a deep believer in spirit
manifestations, argued that these photographs afforded the most
conclusive proofs of the playful habit spooks have of returning to the
scenes of their earthly labours.

He said that they were on the photographic plate, and, that being so,
they must have been there "in the flesh," or "in the fog," as Mark
Twain has it.

Unfortunately, this apparently conclusive argument was completely upset
by Mr. Labouchere, who possessed a greater knowledge of the ways of
photographs and photographers than his colleague, and explained how it
was done.

As a matter of fact, the photographic ghost is an easily explained
phenomenon, and any amateur can turn out creepy spooks by the thousand
at the expense of a little time and patience.

A photograph is absolutely inadmissible as evidence of anything, unless
it is proved conclusively that it was in nowise faked after being taken.

The faking can be carried on almost to any extent. In fact, nothing is
impossible to the clever knight of the camera.

If a photographer wished to show that you were in a particular
street at a certain time, he could do it with the greatest ease,
notwithstanding that you were a thousand miles away at the moment in
question.

[Illustration: A RAILWAY IN HOLBORN, LONDON!]

If he wished to prove that your dog or pony had trespassed on his
flowerbeds, it would be a simple matter to do so, and if cleverly done
I doubt if the "fake" could be detected.

[Illustration: A GHOST WHICH WAS NOT A GHOST.]

Anyway, I have seen many faked photographs that experienced
photographers themselves were at a loss to explain.

In this article I propose to give some examples of extraordinary faked
photographs, and explain to some extent how they are done. In each case
they have been specially prepared for the illustration of this article,
and amateur photographers who read this might do worse than copy them.

Many of these required considerable technical skill and inventive
resource.

These qualities are exhibited to a high degree in the illustration of
the railway in Holborn, for while we are glad that an electric train is
to run _under_ Holborn, no living or dead man has ever seen a train in
Holborn itself. Such fakes occupy a considerable time in manufacture.

While the explanation is simple, the carrying out of this fake was a
matter of some difficulty.

First a picture of a railway junction was taken. Then it was necessary
to take a photograph of Holborn. This in itself is a simple enough
matter, but in this case it was necessary to obtain a picture of
exactly the same scale, in order that the railway lines might be fitted
to appear as a natural part of the picture.

This was only managed after several ineffectual shots. Then the latter
negative was placed in the printing frame with the roadway masked. When
sufficiently printed the railway negative was placed in the frame on
the same paper. That part of Holborn already printed was masked, and
thus the rails were printed in the space where the roadway should have
been. The result will make Londoners rub their eyes.

The two ghost photographs are specially calculated to puzzle not a few
who are unacquainted with the tricks of the art. Like most puzzling
things, they are simplicity itself when explained. There is not a
suspicion of mystery about them. By the same method any amateur may
manufacture a whole gallery of family ghosts for his delectation.

The invocation of our ghosts was on this wise.

A nice, quiet, suitable sort of churchyard not a dozen miles from
London was chosen, and, with a couple of assistants, I hied myself to
it one bright and anything but ethereal morning.

First, the lady was posed till we were satisfied that she looked scared
enough for a ghost to be turned on. A second later my other assistant,
with the best dining-room tablecloth thrown over his head, came on the
scene, glided with healthy earthly steps to a pre-arranged spot, and
took up his position.

Snap went the pneumatic shutter. The photographic plate, one of an
extremely rapid variety, was exposed for the space of a second, and the
ghost hid himself behind the camera and took off his tablecloth. The
lady meanwhile remained in the same position, and directly the ghost
disappeared, snap went the shutter again on her. So in the interval of
nine seconds this wonder was perpetrated.

Those who have not dabbled in photography will require a further
explanation of the need of two exposures of the same plate. In the
first place, then, I assume that everybody knows that a photograph is
the result of light acting on a glass plate coated with a sensitive
preparation. When the photographer says, "Now then, a smile, please.
Thank you. Steady," you may have noticed that he touches an indiarubber
ball. This is a pneumatic release, which momentarily exposes the plate
to the light. In that brief period the light eats or rots the sensitive
material, at the same time faithfully imprinting upon it an exact image
of whatever may be before it.

Now the whole secret of successful photography may be said to depend on
this exposure being of the right length. If it is too short, the light
has insufficient time to clearly impress the plate with the picture. If
it is too long, the image will be too dense.

[Illustration: PROVING A MAN TO BE TRANSPARENT.]

So much technique is necessary to a proper explanation of ghost
pictures. Now the one second exposure given to our friend the ghost was
much too short a time in which to obtain a good portrait of him, but
quite long enough to obtain a faint shadowy image, which was just the
thing desired.

On obtaining this he quietly walks out of the picture, and we then
open the plate for another eight seconds, which is just long enough
to obtain a clear and normal photograph of the rest of the picture,
including the startled sitter, who has not moved in the meantime. And
what is of still greater importance, it gives sufficient time for the
foliage and end of the seat to impress themselves through the first
picture, and so produce that shadowy transparent texture beloved of all
aristocratic varieties of the ghost species.

The tombstone spirit was produced in the same way, a second exposure
being given to the tomb, the grass, and the ivy-covered wall behind.

It will be seen that the ghost picture is a particularly simple example
of the "fake" photograph.

In the beginning of this article I spoke of the futility of admitting
the photograph as evidence.

To prove my assertion, I have been at some pains to prepare a faked
photograph that will show how a subject might be "doctored" and put in
as conclusive proof.

I have assumed, for the purpose of this example, that a prisoner
charged with an offence, say in the North of England, has sought to set
up an alibi by producing a portrait of a street in which he himself
is seen. For the sake of argument, we will say that the photograph was
taken by a friend who is prepared to swear that the picture was made on
the day of the crime. Supposing this to be the case, if the photograph
were accepted as evidence it would undoubtedly be instrumental in
getting the accused off.

[Illustration: SHOWING HOW A MAN CAN BE IN TWO PLACES AT ONCE.]

Now such a picture might readily be faked so as to deceive the most
experienced. In order to realise this, you have only to glance at the
photograph on this page.

The scene is a street at Richmond, and in the foreground two men are
standing. If you look at them for a moment you will observe that they
are in reality one and the same person. As we have not yet discovered a
method of creating a double, it is perfectly clear that one at least of
these figures has been "faked" or printed into the original photograph,
and I don't know that it is very clear which.

As a matter of fact the one on the left-hand side was taken in the
original picture, and the other is faked. Two figures of the same
individual are shown, because, had we published one, and stated that
the other was "printed in," it is possible some people might question
the statement.

As it is, the duplicate clinches the matter, and the obvious deduction
is that if one photograph can be faked in this manner, so can another.

However, we doubt if photographers, amateur or otherwise, were ever
guilty of using their knowledge of fakes for any purpose other than
that of amusement, and that indeed was our idea in shedding light on
this comparatively unknown subject.

By the simple expedient of faking in the printing operation you may do
what you will with friend or foe.

Cecil Rhodes may shake hands with Oom Paul, and the nation may be
persuaded that they have forgotten their little amenities. It is only
necessary to obtain suitable photographs of the two, the rest is
comparatively simple.

The figure in the bottle would in the middle ages have burned its
creator at the stake, but there is no witchcraft in it in reality.
Indeed, it is one of the simplest photographic freaks to produce. In
this case the figure is printed somewhat deeply on paper in the usual
way, except that a mask of paper is cut to fit all round it to keep the
remaining portion of the sensitive paper from contact with the light.
When the print is deep enough it is taken out of the printing-frame,
then placed behind a negative of the bottle, and a light print is made,
with the result that the effect shown in the illustration is produced.

[Illustration: AN EXTRAORDINARY MIXTURE.]

Few, save those who have had practice in instantaneous photography,
realise the enormous rapidity necessary to the successful portraying of
rapid movement by means of the camera.

One of the most interesting experiments in trick photography is that
devoted to the evolving of composite portraits. The production of a
successful composite practically means the creation of a new face. The
method is similar to that employed in the making of ghost pictures. It
is necessary to obtain, say, four portraits--the more used the greater
the difficulty. These are all photographed one over the other on the
same plate. The difficulty consists in regulating the exposures, that
photographed first requiring a longer exposure than the next, and so on
through the series. The example we give is a composite of photographs
of well-known actors, and the face contains portraits of Sir Henry
Irving and Mr. Forbes Robertson.

The composite photograph has been of great scientific value in
determining the characteristic predominant features of different types
of physiognomy. Our illustration is an excellent example of the typical
actor's face.

A well-known professor recently composed a series of these types. One
was a face containing the portraits of twelve eminent mathematicians;
another contained portraits of sixteen notable naturalists.

Very extraordinary photographic freaks often result from mere accident.
On the next page is given a picture of Hastings pier in a storm. A very
good negative was obtained in the first instance, but unfortunately
when developed it was placed on the oven to dry. The heat contracted
the sensitive film of the negative, and when printed it presented the
curious appearance seen in the illustration.

As a picture of a storm it is splendid, surpassing in exaggeration
anything ever invented by the resourceful Munchausen.

[Illustration: COMPOSITE PORTRAIT OF WELL-KNOWN ACTORS.]

"A Study in Boots" is an excellent example of one of the most effective
methods of photographic faking. Like many things which border on the
marvellous, it is as simple as A B C. The explanation is that when
taking the photograph the operator used a short focus lens and made
a point of specially focussing the boots instead of the picture as a
whole. The result was that the rest of the figure was thrown out of
focus, and consequently out of proportion.

This effect is only too well known to most beginners in the art, for it
often appears unbidden in their early efforts, to the utter ruin of an
otherwise good picture. Amateurs frequently spoil portraits of their
friends in this way, the feet or hands appearing treble their proper
size in the picture. The defect is usually the result of working with a
lens of too short a focus. This explanation is somewhat technical for
those who have not embraced the fascinating art, but it cannot be put
in any other way.

[Illustration: HASTINGS PIER WHEN SUFFERING FROM HEAT.]

There are many other possibilities in photographic faking. In fact, an
amateur of an inventive disposition may evolve them _ad libitum_.

For example, there is the "long and short of it" style of fake, that
will surely result in much amusement. By the use of concave and convex
mirrors the face of a friend may be abnormally lengthened or widened
in the portrait until it reminds one of the pictures displayed outside
eating-houses, bearing the inscriptions, "Before dining at Z----'s,"
"After dining at Z----'s."

However, all these things are by way of amusement. I have never come
across any deliberate case of photographic faking with intent to
mislead or bear false witness; but, as I have already stated, what may
be done for recreation is also possible of application in more serious
affairs, and therefore it is a fallacy to suppose that a photograph
cannot lie.

Very little has been done, comparatively speaking, in the direction of
photograph faking. It is an amusement I can recommend to every devotee
of the art; for there are few pastimes more completely fascinating.

[Illustration: A STUDY IN BOOTS.]

[Illustration: _Bourne and Shepherd, Calcutta, photo_

SUTTEE CHOWRA GHAT, CAWNPORE, WHERE THE MASSACRE TOOK PLACE.]




GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.

BY J. F. CORNISH.

_Illustrated by Vereker M. Hamilton, R.P.E._


Dinner was preparing in the camp under the toon-trees which covered the
foot-hills of the Himalayas.

Here, where the northern edge of the Terai was beginning to become more
alpine in its character, the camp was pitched on the fringe of the
jungle. Below were magnificent forests of sal, sisoon, and toon-trees;
above, pine, spruce, and oak trees proclaimed a more tempered climate.

The spot had been chosen as healthy, well supplied with water, and
because the best shooting in the district was fairly accessible from it.

As the Colonel sat in his tent, he saw emerging from the belt of jungle
below an extraordinary figure. He called to the Captain and Subaltern,
and they watched it as it advanced towards them. The shikaris and
native bearers also paused in their various duties, and jabbered among
themselves, intent on the approach of the solitary man.

"No Nepaulese, that," asserted the Captain.

"It's a white man," said the Subaltern.

"Wait," said the Colonel.

The figure drew nearer, and at last came into full view. Clad in native
dress, weatherbeaten, brown, and lean, with a snow-white beard that
swept to his girdle, looking as like a native as a native could look,
there was a certain indefinable _something_ about him which told these
Englishmen that a compatriot stood before them. Yet, when the Colonel
greeted him and bade him welcome to the camp, he stared vacantly and
absently at him and made no reply, but squatted gravely on the ground.

The Subaltern quietly mixed a stiff peg and handed it to the stranger,
who shook his head; but the Subaltern persisted, and at length he
took the glass, looked at it gravely a moment, and then put it to
his lips--paused, and then, drinking the whole at a draught, gravely
held out the glass to the Subaltern. As he did so, the sleeve of his
dress shortened, and his wrist and part of his forearm were bared. The
Colonel went to the man, seized the slowly retreating arm, and, pushing
the sleeve farther back, showed the others a device tattooed thereon in
red and blue. It was two roses intertwined, and underneath the motto,
"_Aucto splendore resurgo_."

In great agitation the Colonel said, "What's your name, sir?"

The newcomer shook his head. But the Colonel, overcoming a passive
resistance, dragged him to his feet, looked again at the device, and
then closely scanned the face, on a level with his own. He turned pale
under his bronze, dropped the hand he held, and turning to the two
others, devoured with curiosity, said--

"It's Gascoyne, of the 53rd!"

Then the man, speaking for the first time, said quietly, "Yes, I am
Gascoyne," and, so speaking, collapsed on the grass at the Colonel's
feet. They took him up and carried him into the largest tent, and after
some time, following on the ministrations of the Subaltern, who had
been initiated into Red Cross ways, he opened his eyes with a weary
sigh, but the dull light in them changed to one of bright recognition,
and looking at the Colonel he said--

"Ewan Campbell?"

"That's right, old fellow," said the Colonel, "God bless you, that's
right, and you--you're Philip Gascoyne of the 53rd; but don't speak;
drink this and then go to sleep, and we'll talk in the morning."

And, like an obedient child, the wanderer did as he was bid, and the
drink had been so cunningly medicated by the Subaltern that he slept
all that night and through many hours of the next day, the camp being
commanded to absolute silence by the Colonel, who meanwhile explained
to his wondering companions that this man who had quietly wandered into
their midst had, as all thought, perished in the Massacre at Cawnpore.

"But," added the Colonel, "if he wakes in his senses, we shall
doubtless hear something strange. He and I were pretty close friends,
and he was engaged to one of the sweetest girls ... She was butchered
by the order of Nana Sahib."

[Illustration: "HE SHOWED A DEVICE TATTOOED ON THE ARM IN RED AND
BLUE."]

At that moment the servant who had been left in charge of the recovered
Gascoyne came up and told them that the Sahib was awake and was asking
to see the Colonel. In a moment the three men stood by the side of the
wanderer's bed.

"How are you now, Gascoyne?" said the Colonel. "Had a good sleep?"

Gascoyne's eyes turned inquiringly to the other two.

"We're shooting up here, you know," replied the Colonel to his look.
"This is Cameron," indicating the Captain, "and Dogan of the 74th--so
you're among friends, old fellow."

He smiled, and said quietly, "It is many years since I heard the voice
of a friend," and held out his hand, which the Colonel took and pressed.

"I feel very feeble," he resumed.

"We'll doctor you up all right. Dogan knows all the rigs of the
medicine man."

Gascoyne protested with a feeble shake of the head.

"No, no," he said, "my mission's ended--but thank God I've met you
fellows before going out." He paused, and then went on again, "I have
something to tell you; but first tell me, was any attempt made to find
the devil who--who----"

"I know whom you mean," said the Colonel, "Nana Sahib, the man who gave
orders for the massacre at Cawnpore. Yes, every effort was made, and
a very large reward was offered, but I am sorry to say he was never
captured, and his fate remains a mystery to this day."

"I can clear that mystery for you," said the sick man, smiling grimly;
and then with many pauses he told his three wondering listeners the
tale I here set down as the Captain told it me:--

"England need not waste another wish for vengeance," Gascoyne said,
"I have taken it. Listen. I was amongst those who, wearied out with
famine, fatigue, and wounds, trusted to Nana's oath, and embarked on
the boats only to be treacherously fired on and brought back, such of
us as survived, to face death, with no chance of showing fight, and
after our suffering to die, shot down like dogs. I had been wounded in
the neck, and, though the wound was slight, it bled profusely and I was
covered with the crimson stain. You, Campbell, knew Miss Lindsay?" His
voice broke, and the Colonel nodded with bright eyes, but in silence.
"She had been among the unhappy ladies brought back, and all my fears
and agony of mind on her account utterly outbalanced any consideration
for myself.

[Illustration: "NERVED WITH HATE AND PASSION, I STRUCK HIM UNDER THE
EAR."]

"Had all gone well, in a few short weeks we should have been married,
but she was basely murdered in my very arms.

"After the fusillade which killed a number of people, our boat was the
first to be brought back. As Miss Lindsay was stepping over the side
she slipped and fell into the water. I sprang after to help her, when
a ruffianly Sepoy seized her by the hair, which had become unfastened,
and dragged her to her feet, and with a brutal laugh kissed her on
the cheek. The laugh died on his lips, for, maddened by all that had
occurred, and by this last outrage, I sprang upon him, and, nerved with
hate and passion, struck him with all my force under the ear.

"He fell as if shot, face downward into the shallow water, and lay
there dead. Miss Lindsay turned, threw her arms around me, and with
a sob buried her face on my shoulder. But though I had avenged her
momentarily, my triumph was short, for a fellow named Survur Khan,
whose brother it was that I had killed, with a cry of rage struck Miss
Lindsay on the head with a club he carried, smashing her skull and
covering me with her blood and brains. It was horrible, horrible, and
with the horror of it I must have lost consciousness, for I remember no
more until I found myself seated on the ground with others. You know
what happened. By Nana's orders, after a momentary respite, we were
shot by the cowardly miscreants, who would have fled in terror from
us, had we been unbound with weapons in our hands. But during that
moment's pause I had been thinking, thinking, my heart seemed bursting
in my body, my brain throbbed and reeled, my whole being was inflamed
with the rage of anger and hatred that consumed me. Oh! if I were but
free for a few moments to wreak a vengeance on these cowardly hounds,
and die killing, killing.

"I resolved, if I could, to save my life, even at this moment, to live
for _vengeance_. I watched every movement of our destroyers. I knew
every dialect of the Indian language, and listened to every syllable
they said. You know the story how, there and in cold blood, close to
the well they shot us. At the instant the word of command was given,
while the finger pressed the trigger, I sprang round and fell on my
face unhurt. I feebly beat the ground with my feet, and then lay still.

"I heard groans, a few more shots, and then stillness. They came to me;
one fellow turned me over and felt in my pockets. I had nothing; they
tore open my shirt and took from my neck a light gold chain, with a
locket containing Miss Lindsay's miniature. I would have given worlds
to have jumped up, snatched the locket from him, and served him as I
had served the butcher's brother; but I wanted a wider vengeance, and
I restrained myself. To them I was dead. The fellow who had taken the
locket kicked me disdainfully, and made a scurrilous remark about the
Mem Sahib whose face he saw in it; but, even under that provocation, I
was able to control myself.

"I knew, I felt, I should be able to take vengeance; how, I did not
try to think, but I was certain of it; and I lay calm--calm as one who
knows that nothing will stand between him and the desire of his heart.
At length they went away and left us as we lay.

"That night, when all was still, and I only heard the howlings of the
jackals without the walls, I began to think it time to make a move.
I had lain for hours in the terrible sun--my limbs were racked by an
agonising cramp, a maddening thirst parched my throat and vitals, my
lips and tongue were baked and cracked, and my first movement gave me
pain unspeakable; then as I moved again I heard a stealthy step, and a
voice said very softly--

"'Is any Sahib or Mem Sahib alive?'

"I lay still. I knew the infernal treachery of these demons only too
well, and gave no sign. In another moment I felt a hand on my breast. I
controlled myself, I held my breath, but I could not still the beating
of my heart. A voice whispered, as if of a person talking to himself--

"'This poor Sahib lives.'

"Then my head was raised, and in spite of my clenched teeth a few drops
of some stimulant was forced into my mouth--which, cracked and parched,
tasted nothing--I only felt the burning sensation of some powerful
spirit.

"'Drink, sir,' said the voice; 'I am your friend; it will restore your
strength.'

"I ventured to open my eyes. I saw bending over me a venerable form,
and the face of a Brahmin I had seen before.

"'Do not fear, sir; I am Nanukchund; I have no part with these
murderous men. But let us not talk; I will take you and hide you if it
is possible that you can walk, but we must not be seen.'

"The thought of the possibility of living for the vengeance which had
kept me alive through the horrors of that day nerved me afresh; the
cramping pains that shot agony through my frame were forgotten; I
almost stood upright, but Nanukchund pulled me down.

"'In the name of Budda, caution,' he whispered; 'there may be some who
look; if I am seen it will be thought (and he shuddered) that I plunder
the dead; but if you, then death will come for both. See, I go to the
shadow of yonder house; lie still for a moment, and then crawl like the
snake until you reach it; but first drink.'

"I drank, and the fire ran through my veins, and renewed my strength.
He, looking to the right and to the left and crouching, soon gained the
shadow he had indicated. After the lapse of what seemed an age, I began
to crawl thither too, with pain and difficulty indescribable. At length
I stood beside my rescuer.

"'Not yet are you safe,' said he, and from underneath his garments he
produced a bundle. 'Put on this.' I unfolded it, and found a garment
similar to his own, with cloth for a turban.

"In a few moments I had become a native. The bronze of my face, with
added dust and blood, made my complexion dark as his own. In a few
words I told him I was Captain Gascoyne of the 53rd.

"'Then,' said he, quickly, 'you can speak as one of us, and none can
know any difference.' From that moment, except on three occasions, I
have spoken no English until now.

"Proceeding with infinite caution, once or twice scanned by straggling
mutineers, all of whom were more or less under the influence of bhang,
we at length reached his house, a secluded one by the river. There
for some days I lay in a stupor of sleep, yet with the one idea of
vengeance running like a dark thread through my slumbers, in which I
saw again my poor girl's fair hair clotted with blood, and felt it
clinging round my neck and face.

"When my weary limbs and brain were rested, I was able to talk to
Nanukchund, my preserver. He told me much that of course you know--of
the outbreak, of the excesses of the mutineers, which he deplored, for
he knew how the reckoning would be, and that he was the friend of the
Sahibs, and after we had been shot down, came to see if life remained
in any of us.

"He was a far-sighted man, and he knew that the yoke these fiends were
trying to throw off would be only the more strongly riveted round their
necks, and he knew that the English raj was more wise, more just and
merciful, than the divided tyrannies of their own Princes. One day he
came to the room where I lay, and, with tears running down his face,
told me with terror, lest I should rise up and slay him because of his
kinship with such demons, of the massacre of the women and children by
the order of the bastard Raja of Bithoor, Nana Sahib--how the Sepoys,
commanded to shoot them, thrust their guns through the windows, and
fired a volley over their heads, and then, sickened of the horror,
refused to have anything more to do with it; and no one at first could
be found to carry out the brute's orders, until at last Survur Khan,
the butcher--the same who had killed my little Madge--volunteered for
the murderous job. Then another monster was found, and with swords they
went into the slaughter pen, Survur coming out to replace one sword he
had broken, by another."

[Illustration: "THE COLONEL CRIED OUT, 'FOR GOD'S SAKE, STOP.'"]

At this point of Gascoyne's narrative, so the Captain told me, the
Colonel cried out, "For God's sake, stop," and got up and went out of
the tent, and Gascoyne said--

"Yes, I remember; he lost a wife and a little girl there."

And then the Captain and the Subaltern understood the Colonel's silence
generally, and his fierce anger when he did speak of those days.

It was the next day before Gascoyne resumed his story.

"After Nanukchund's story," he went on, "a dull feeling of hatred,
mingled with my purpose of vengeance, took possession of me; and though
I loathed the sight of a black face, I found myself under the necessity
of assuming one myself. With great care I stained myself all over, and
at length both Nanukchund and I were satisfied that my disguise was
perfect.

"Some of our men had spent months among the natives undetected; and
my own perfect knowledge of the languages spoken in the Gangetic
districts, and of the habits and customs of the people, rendered me
secure. To Nanukchund I said nothing of my project. So far as he knew,
I was only going to join my countrymen where-ever I could find them in
force. I said good-bye to him, and promised, when things were settled,
he should be gratefully remembered, and I gave him a letter that should
have insured his safety in case our people laid hands on him. The next
day I was one amongst the ruffians who had butchered my comrades and
my countrywomen. That very night I had a chance of killing Survur Khan
the butcher. I found him drunk in the doorway of a deserted house. No
one was near. I dragged him inside. He laid like a log on the floor. I
stood over him, and was about to plunge my knife into his heart, but I
reflected.

"He would die insensible to his end; he would not know why he died. So
I altered my mind, and on his forehead I made two deep incisions in the
form of a cross. The brute moved and groaned, but he was too far under
the influence of bhang to be conscious. When I next saw him, although
the wound was covered by his turban, I knew by the look in his eyes
there was a terror in his heart, which would remain with him until his
hour came. The next day Nana retreated on Bithoor, accompanied by the
Begum. Then after Futtehpore he retreated with about 3,000 followers
into Nepaul, whither I accompanied him."

"From this," said the Colonel, "nothing certain of him was known."

"You shall hear now," said Gascoyne, and continued--

"From the first, dissensions and quarrels arose, which, with
desertions, soon reduced their followers to half their number. With
the remainder, for nearly two years Nana lived like an outlaw, moving
from place to place, his followers slowly diminishing in numbers, from
desertion and deaths, disease and hunger, for provisions were terribly
scarce and dear. Nana and the Begum were both carried, whenever a
move was made, in dhoolies, but now it began to be difficult to find
bearers; and here my great opportunity opened for me.

"With the money supplied to me by Nanukchund I paid certain of the
ablest-bodied bearers to become my servants. These I humbly placed
at the Rajah's disposal. With gratitude he accepted my offer, for he
looked with the anticipation of terror toward the time when he might be
compelled to walk, for his obesity was now so great, as also was the
Begum's, and his Oriental hatred of exertion was so pronounced, that
death would almost be preferable. I kept my bearers fed and ready at
his will, and I became his favoured slave, but I laughed in my heart,
for I was preparing his sacrifice.

"After another year of wandering, the word spread of a great reward
offered by the English Government for the Nana, dead or alive, also of
pardon for all not actually guilty of murder. Then a conspiracy among
the hundred or so followers left was set on foot to earn the reward,
but, still determined to feed my unsatisfied vengeance, I betrayed it
to the Rajah, and, heading those who were still faithful to him, I fell
on the conspirators the night before their projected outbreak, and
slaughtered them to a man; and no word can paint the fierce joy I felt
as my sword found its sheath in the hearts of the murderous villains.
Our numbers now scarcely reached 50, amongst whom was Survur Khan. This
man's life had now become a terror to him. I haunted his sleeping and
his waking hours. I always made him feel that Nemesis hovered near. He
had long ago found that I knew of the scar on his forehead.

"'How comes it, brother,' I had asked him, 'that you have the sign of
the Christian on your forehead?'

"At first he eyed me askance, and was surly; then, after, he told me
how, waking from his orgie, he had found himself thus marked. I said,
'Then surely some accursed Feringhee has marked you, that he may know
you again one day.'

"'Nay,' he answered, 'that cannot be, for none were left alive in
Cawnpore at the time.'

"'No, nor any women or children, as you know. See!' I cried, thrusting
back his turban, 'See! thy scar is white and livid! It is some god of
the Feringhees who has marked thee for his vengeance.'

"Thereafter his life was hell. And so we wandered again--how long I
cannot tell--months, years--I don't know--until at last there were
left, besides the Nana and the Begum, only three or four more who
performed menial offices, and myself. Then a tiger killed two of these,
and the other two ran away.

"For me, I had become lean and burnt to almost Indian blackness. They
did not suspect me. I had carefully kept my weapons in order, and I was
now master of the situation.

"One night, after the last two men had gone, Nana, whose inability to
walk had become a real terror, told us we must remain in the clearing
by the river bank where we were, and there live.

"That night, while they slept, I waked, and without awakening them I
bound them all, so that when they woke they would be unable to move
more than a hand. Then I went to the river and cleansed myself as
thoroughly as I could, and, secure in my preparations, lay down and
slept soundly. Shortly after, I heard Nana's voice calling me. I rose,
and my eye fell on Survur Khan. He knew his hour had come; he was livid
with fear; he did not know who had bound him--he only knew he was
unable to move. He saw me--he saw the expression in my eyes--it was
enough. Then I passed to where the Nana and Begum lay. He demanded what
this meant.

"'Get up,' I said, 'and you shall know.'

"Shaking with fear, the Begum stood upright. I led them to the opening.
When they saw Survur Khan they turned ashen grey.

"'See,' I cried in English, 'you three, I am an English officer. All
this time I have followed you, helped you, fed you, shielded you in
danger, that I might avenge on you the murder of the woman I loved,
and of my countrywomen, with my own hand. Look,' I cried, tearing off
Survur Khan's head covering, 'ask him where he got that scar. He does
not know, but I can tell you. I found him drunk and could have killed
him, but I put my mark on him instead. Directly, you shall see what I
have saved him for. I was one of those whom you shot down after you
took us from the boats, but I feigned death and escaped.'

[Illustration: "'LOOK,' I CRIED, TEARING OFF HIS HEAD COVERING, 'ASK
HIM WHERE HE GOT THAT SCAR.'"]

"The fear of death was on them all. The Begum and Nana grovelled at my
feet; they offered me countless gems, they would tell me where they
were hidden, if I would but let them live--only spare their lives. I
could not mean to kill them in cold blood--I was an Englishman.

"I let them go on until they had exhausted themselves with cries and
tears and entreaties, and then I said, 'I do not mean to kill you yet,
but that you may feel certain of your end, see this man die. He dashed
out the brains of my lover while she lay in my arms. The death he gave
her is now meted out to himself.'

"Survur Khan was now a shaking jelly of fear. I went to him, and, with
a mace I had always carried, struck him full and fair on the scar. So
perished the butcher of our sisters.

"Then commenced the penance of the other two. To walk a hundred yards
was pain and misery to them, but for two hours I made them walk; when
they would have stayed, a prick from the point of my knife urged them
on, and groaning and stumbling they went forward.

"That evening when I drove them back to the little clearing they knew
what hunger, thirst, and fatigue were. Their clothes were already in
rags, their feet bleeding and sore.

"The corpse of Survur Khan lay there. The crows had been busy on it.

"'Look,' I cried; 'as his fate was, so shall yours be.'

"They groaned, and falling on the ground lay there stunned with the
horror of their situation.

"'Henceforth you are my slaves,' I continued. 'Get up and throw that
fellow into the river.' They hesitated, but the point of the knife
persuaded them, and they in shuddering disgust did as I commanded.

[Illustration: _Frith & Co. Photo_

THE MONUMENT OVER THE CAWNPORE WELL.

(This was the well into which the bodies of the massacred women and
children were thrown.)]

"Then I fed them sparingly with rice and water, and the next day they
recommenced their pilgrimage. In spite of their cries and groans I
drove them like cattle.

"Day after day, month after month, I drove them until they were reduced
to the shadows of what they were, and then I began to think it time
they died. I was aweary of my own vengeance.

"Long before, I had found a young panther cub. As it grew it evinced a
strange love for me. No dog that ever attached itself to a man could
have been more absolutely devoted to him than the panther to me. In
proportion as it loved me, so it hated my victims. In all our trampings
it followed at my heels. At night I had to fasten it up, or it would
have forestalled me.

"Now I began to brood what should be their end.

"I hesitated, and for a time almost wavered. After all, the Begum was
a woman, and I could not kill a woman, though both she and the other
had entreated me to do so a hundred times, for the fatigue and hunger
and sleeplessness I subjected them to had made such a horror of their
lives, that, curs as they were, death seemed preferable. Moreover I
never ceased to remind them of their hellish deeds, and I embittered
their every hour by recalling to them how I had waited for those hours,
and of their certain deaths.

"While I hesitated, his master the devil put it into the Nana's head to
help me. He saw and divined my hesitation.

"One day he stood before me, gaunt and starving.

"'You cannot kill her,' he said.

"'No,' I replied, 'she is a woman.'

"A hideous sneer made his gaunt jaws horrible.

"'I will kill her if you will let me go.'

"There he was, devil to the last. He trembled with the eagerness of
anticipated freedom.

"'Go,' I said. He hesitated, but my look was firm, and he went.

"Once or twice since their fat was gone they had attempted to escape,
but the last time I lashed the man unmercifully, and said if they tried
to escape again I would let the panther deal with them. That cowed them
thoroughly, and thenceforward they hung on every glance of my eye.

"But their enforced marchings were no longer such a terror as they had
been, and I determined to make an end. But while I thought of it he
came before me again.

"'Master,' he said, 'let me kill her; give me my life for hers.'

"I did not reply, neither did my glance forbid him. I could only think
of Margaret, with the blood on her fair hair. I turned from him without
a word.

"'Master,' he said again, 'will you set me free if I do?'

"He turned and left me. I sat on the river bank and waited. In half an
hour he returned and said--

"'Master, come and see.' And I followed him to a small open space in
the jungle. What had been the Begum, lay there cold and still. The
arch-villain had strangled her.

"I made a sign to the panther. With a bound he was on him; and the
head that had conceived the horrors of Cawnpore cracked between the
panther's teeth. My vengeance was complete.

"After that, it seems, I must have wandered for years, until you found
me. I remember nothing, except that the panther was always with me."

       *       *       *       *       *

When he had finished his story he lay back and closed his eyes, and
then sank into a stupor. From this all the Subaltern's medicinal arts
could not rouse him.

The next day at dawn he cried out, and they all ran to him.

"Carry me to the jungle edge," he said, "the end has come."

They carried him, and laid him on a mattress, for he could not stand.

Then he raised his voice in a shrill and piercing cry, that echoed
through the jungle.

A dead silence followed.

Then again, as if in an expiring effort, he raised another cry, louder
and shriller, and more prolonged than the other.

Then, far off in the gloomy depths of the jungle, a dull muffled roar
responded.

They waited, and once again Gascoyne sent up the cry.

Then the leaves of the jungle parted, and a panther, black and mangy,
but with the fierce light still alive in the topaz eyes, bounded to the
side of the recumbent figure, and began to lick its face, snarling at
the three men.

Gascoyne lifted his hand, and the great beast crouched beside him.
And so the group remained while a man might have counted twenty. Then
Gascoyne raised himself, and stretched out his arms, as if to someone
at the foot of his couch, "Madge, Madge," he cried hoarsely, "I am
coming," and so fell back and moved no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

They buried him that evening with the panther, which they had been
compelled to shoot.

It was very old, its teeth and claws were worn to stumps; and how they
had lived together, and whether the beast had hunted for the man, or
the man for the beast, none ever knew.

[Illustration: "GASCOYNE LIFTED HIS HAND, AND THE GREAT BEAST CROUCHED
BESIDE HIM."]




THE MOST REMARKABLE FORTRESS IN THE WORLD.

SOME ADVENTURES IN SCALING ITS WALLS.

BY PERCY L. PARKER.


[Illustration: SHOWING HOW THE FORTRESS IS ASCENDED AND THE GROOVES
WHERE THE GALLERY RAN.]

Perhaps the most remarkable rock in the world is to be found in the
centre of the Island of Ceylon, and its story is full of romance. It was
fortified 1,400 years ago to shelter a cowardly parricide, and when
he died it became a Buddhist monastery. But for centuries no human
foot rested on its summit; it was the abode of silence; its walls were
buried beneath the dust of ages, birds built their nests on it and the
beasts of the field haunted the jungle which grew about its base.

Now British officials have scaled its walls, excavated its ruins,
and revealed the ancient splendour of the place, and so doing have
discovered that this rock fortress is one of the most wonderful pieces
of engineering of ancient times.

It is called the Sigiri or Lion Rock, and lies fourteen miles
north-east of Dambutta. It is cylindrical in shape, and rises up nearly
600 feet sheer from the ground, while the area of the summit is little
over an acre. Its scarped walls are nearly perpendicular, and in some
places they overhang their base.

Recent excavation shows that all round the foot of the rock there was
a fortified city, surrounded by a moat. But the most wonderful feature
of this fortress was the terrace, ornamented with lions, which ran
round the north face of the rock at its smallest diameter. At one part
it stood upon the rock which projected below, and at the same time was
protected by that part which overhung it. The terrace then zig-zagged
up the rock at an easy gradient, and so gave access to its otherwise
inaccessible summit, to which, in the last resort, the fugitive
intended to flee.

One hundred yards of this terrace still remains, and its structure of
several courses of brick can clearly be seen in one of the photographs,
while the grooves in the rock show where the rest of it ran. Professor
Davids says that the path was on the top of a solid brick wall, four or
five feet broad, which was carried along the face of the cliff. "The
cliff being perpendicular, this wall had to descend far below the path
before it found a resting-place on the edge of the rock. As the path
was gradually carried forward and upward, a line was dropped from it to
the rock beneath, and where the line first touched the cliff--however
far below--a flat place was scooped out, large enough to support a
single brick. This was done along the whole breadth of the path, and
then the solid wall was built up to the requisite height, while some of
the outer rows of bricks were carried high enough to form a wall breast
high on the outer side."

[Illustration: THE SIGIRI ROCK FORTRESS AS IT STANDS TO-DAY.]

Half way up the rock, or 160 feet from the ground, was another
extraordinary feature. There can be seen, by means of a telescope,
in two caves or pockets some vividly painted frescoes. How they were
painted in such a position no one knows; but, despite their clearness
of outline and freshness of colour, it is certain that they were
painted by artists 1,400 years ago.

But though we do not know how these frescoes were painted so long ago,
thrilling stories can be told of how two artists made copies of them
not long since.

Mr. Alick Murray, of the Ceylon Civil Service, was requested by the
Governor of the Island to make an attempt to reach these frescoes,
and he succeeded in an amazing manner. The first part of the way lay
through the forest, which was cleared with billhooks by the natives. At
the outset the resident chiefs and local population would have nothing
to do with the disturbance of a rock chamber which they believed to be
inhabited and protected by demons, so Tamils had to be brought from
India.

Three Tamil stone-cutters bored holes in the rock face, one above the
other, and therein placed iron "jumpers," which were secured with
cement. To these wooden staging was lashed. "The man of lightest
weight," says Mr. Murray, "was selected to make the necessary holes,
but after a while even he declared that it was impossible for him to
ascend any higher. But he said that if he were allowed to devote three
days to fasting and prayer to his gods, he thought he might succeed,
and so he did.

"But when the pocket was at last reached it was found that the floor
was at too steep an angle to admit of anyone standing or even sitting
on it. Iron stanchions were therefore let into the floor, and a strong
trestle or framework made secure to them. On this framework was placed
a platform, and from the platform the work of tracing thirteen of the
frescoes in the biggest cave was carried out."

[Illustration: PART OF THE WONDERFUL GALLERY WHICH LED TO THE TOP OF
THE FORTRESS.]

Mr. Murray's task was surely unique. From sunrise to sunset for a week
he did his copying lying on his back.

"Below me," he says, "was a sheer drop of 160 feet. The wind at times
was terrific, and I literally held my breath as some blast swept into
and around the chamber, and ruthlessly tore and carried off the work of
hours. On one occasion a blast fiercer than the rest shook the platform
to its very base, and the lashings, slackened by the dryness of the
atmosphere, allowed the platform to sink suddenly a few inches, when
its downward progress was happily arrested by the bracing underneath.
The only inmates of the chamber were swallows, who occasionally pecked
at me resentfully."

The frescoes are life-size figures of women, arranged singly or in sets
of two. Each couple represents a mistress and maid, the maid wearing in
each case a jacket exactly similar to that used by Tamil girls to-day.

When Mr. Murray had finished his work it was suggested that it would
be a good thing to leave something in the "pocket," in the shape of a
memento. A bottle was therefore obtained, and in it papers of the day
and local coins were placed. As he was leaving with his companions a
Buddhist priest asked to be allowed to pray for the preservation of the
bottle, and while he prayed Mr. Murray and his companions sang "God
save the Queen," by way of dedication--a characteristically British
proceeding.

Mr. Murray's tracings caused so much interest in the wonderful Rock
Fortress, that the Government of Ceylon instructed its Archæological
Commissioner, Mr. H. C. P. Bell, to survey and excavate it--a work of
much adventure. Hair-breadth escapes inevitably occurred, and all
the time the work was in hand Mr. Bell declares that he was on mental
"tenter-hooks."

He first reached the top of the rock by means of jungle wood ladders
(such as those shown in the photos) and six-inch grooves cut in the
rock. But once up, iron ladders and an iron rail were fixed so that
constant ascent and descent could be made.

During the first fortnight the workers were attacked by swarms of
bees, which drove them from the rock. These had to be burned out
before the work could proceed. But the greatest trial was the dreadful
heat of the sun, from which there was no shelter. The work began at
6.30 in the morning and continued till 3 o'clock, and 8½ hours in the
scorching sun, day after day, and week after week, was no light task.
The whole day was spent aloft, for too much time would have been wasted
if "lunch" had been "served" below. Fortunately a big cistern was
discovered at the top, from which beautiful water could be obtained.

When the first prejudice had died away, plenty of workers could be
found, and sometimes over a hundred of them were at work and swarmed
up the rock with as little excitement as English workmen pass through
their factory door.

[Illustration: SUMMIT OF FORTRESS AS RECENTLY EXCAVATED.]

The top was found to be covered with forest trees and a dense
undergrowth, neck high, so a gang of Singhalese were engaged to burn
them down. When the summit was excavated it was found that buildings
covered it to the very edge of the cliff, and every basketful of earth
had therefore to be spilt over the side of the rock--otherwise it would
have to be moved twice over. The depth of earth cutting varied from
five to twenty feet, and when the whole area was cleared the plan of
the long lost buildings was easily seen, virtually as perfect as when
first laid out. The natives declared that there was a passage from the
summit into the bowels of the rock, but that is not the case.

"The rooms and courtyards," says Mr. Bell, "stretch the whole length
of the ridge, in generally ascending tiers, from the small chamber
directly above the rock cistern at the south to the penultimate and
uppermost room near the north end. All are oblong, and all--or nearly
all--the chambers had corridors completely round them.

"Many passages were paved throughout with quartz slabs; though much of
this choice pavement has been displaced by the waste of centuries, or
from being deliberately put to other uses by Buddhist monks when the
fortune of war found them located in the 'marble halls' of royalty."

Even around the summit of this inaccessible rock a remarkable wall was
built. It rose from the brink of the precipice, for its foundations
were some feet and even yards below the level of the summit.

Accompanying Mr. Bell on this expedition was Mr. D. A. L. Perera,
whose purpose was to paint in oils facsimiles of all the frescoes
in both caves. Both were anxious to photograph the two pockets at a
distance, and, as they could not stand in the air, a four-inch hawser
was lowered from the summit of the rock to the ground, and a strong
iron block bound to the end. Through the block a new two-inch rope was
passed, and an improvised chair firmly tied to it, and in this the
photographer took his seat. The hawser was then pulled halfway up to
the west rock till the chair was over 150 feet from the ground and 50
feet clear of the cliff. Swaying in mid-air through the force of the
wind, the photographer exposed his negative, but as the shutter worked
too slowly the pictures taken were more or less blurred.

[Illustration: THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY STUDIO IN THE WORLD--MR. PERERA
AT WORK.]

Mr. Perera then decided to do an oil painting of the pockets to scale
while swinging at the end of the rope, and after rocking in space for
a week succeeded in his task. But the exposure day after day to the
intense glare of the rock's summit affected his eyesight, and he was
compelled to take complete rest for some weeks.

One of our photographs shows Mr. Perera at work. Thirteen of the
pictures were painted from the floor of the cave; to do the others
"it was necessary to construct a cantilever of jungle timber firmly
lashed to a stout iron cramp let into the rock floor. To the extremity
of this projection was tied a rough 'cage' of sticks; and from this
uncomfortable and perilous perch the loftiest fresco was made." This
was painting "in the open" with a vengeance.

Enormous difficulty was experienced in painting the frescoes in the
small cave (which was only three feet wide) and in getting to that
cave from the other. The ledge between them was only a cubit in width.
But by paying special remuneration Mr. Bell got some men to risk their
lives in making a "stick shelf." One-inch iron bars supported the
woodwork, which was banded strongly to thick iron cramped into the
rock. But in addition it was held up by a central hawser, and side
ropes hauled taut round trees on the summit of the rock nearly 300 feet
up. When finished this improvised platform stood out from the cliff 15
feet horizontally!

In these wonderful, dangerous, and eerie open-air studios, Mr. Perera
spent nineteen weary weeks painting on canvas a complete set of the 22
frescoes which were first painted 1,400 years ago. These are marvellous
in their faithfulness and colour.

Before Mr. Perera began to paint the frescoes, iron standards 3 feet 4
inches in height, with a single top rail, were driven along the edge of
both pockets and the connecting ledge between them; for without such
handrail a slip on the smooth inclined floor of the pocket would have
meant instant death on the rocks below.

Yet another adventure was the outcome of this exciting survey, and Mr.
Bell vividly tells the tale. "High up on the eastern face of the rock,"
he says, "may be noticed a dark streak betokening caves, and these we
resolved to survey. But the rock scarp below them being nowhere less
than 30 degrees in slope, and in places sheer, ascent without the aid
of a rope was impossible. The four-inch hawser was therefore let down
to the ground as before over the brow of the caves.

"Up this stout rope half a dozen of the strongest and most sure-headed
coolies swarmed to the apparent mouth of the caves. The measured
distance was 294 feet, climbed hand over hand the whole way up. But
arriving at this height they found that they were 50 feet distant from
the caves and still below their floor, with no means of getting nearer,
owing to the projecting crag above, and the rope's own weight keeping
it taut.

"Ultimately a brave Singhalese lad with a light rope round his waist
swung himself on to the rock as high as he could, and crawled crocodile
fashion the rest of the way up the steep smooth slope while the men
held the other end of the rope. Once in the caves he noosed the rope to
a piece of fallen rock, and next day a strong iron ring was driven into
the floor, and a hawser passed through it.

"Then Mr. Perera and I made the ascent. The largest cavern was 197
feet long, with a floor width averaging 11 feet. No vegetation grows
therein. But we did find under a rock in the cave three eggs of the
peregrine falcon, which vary strangely in hue from chocolate to almost
white. The eggs of this bird have never been taken in Ceylon before.

"We were grievously disappointed with our search, and had to be
content with a bare negative gain--the absolute assurance that the
caves contained no trace of previous human occupation. The foot of man
never desecrated this sanctuary of the eagle and falcon before. Being
virtually inaccessible, it was left to bird and bat and mountain bee.
Overhead the beetling crag jutted out forty feet and more, while under
foot the rock floor was polished and slippery from untold centuries of
wear by the feet of myriads on myriads of birds."

If, however, in years to come an adventurous climber climbs to this
chamber of the winds he will find in a niche a sealed record of its
daring exploration, and in just such a way the buried buildings on the
Sigiri Rock are the record of a crime of 1,400 years ago.

A king of Ceylon was buried alive with his face to the east by his
brutal son, who became king in his place. This in its turn was said to
be a punishment because the old king buried alive a holy man who was in
his way when building a great tank.

But, dreading the revenge of his brother, the young king fortified the
Sigiri rock. There he lived for eighteen miserable years, and at the
end of that time his brother came and slew him.

He happened to turn his elephant to avoid a pit, and, thinking he was
running away, his people lost heart and the enemy cried out, "They're
running away."

Instead of hiding within his fortress, when the critical moment came,
the man it was to protect had lost faith in it, and in his misery went
out to his last fight.

Our photos were taken by Messrs. Skeen and Co., Colombo.

[Illustration: MR. BELL EXAMINES A CAVE--LET DOWN FROM THE TOP OF THE
ROCK.]

[Illustration: _By Permission of Messrs. S. Hildesheimer & Co., London
and Manchester._

OVERTAKEN!

_From the Painting by John A. Lomax._]




MY FAIR NEIGHBOUR'S PIANO, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.

BY HENRY MARTLEY.

_Illustrated by F. H. Townsend._


[Illustration]

When I heard that a lady had taken the flat over mine, I feared the
worst. The worst had come. Dum-dum-dum went the throbbing piano above.
The former occupants of that flat has possessed a baby which I used to
anathematise, but even its merry crowings or midnight howls were better
than this.

The lady--an elderly lady of the spinster persuasion--had passed me
several times on the stairs, and I heartily wished that Providence
had blessed her with a husband and several children to occupy her
spare time. If I ever wanted to go into Parliament, I should have
only one item in my programme, and that would be to make a licence
as necessary for music in a private as in a public house. There it
went--dum-dum-dum--with intervals in which that detestable old maid
picked up dropped bars as though she were picking up dropped stitches.

Three times I sat down to tackle the Settled Land Acts, and three times
I angrily shut the book without having comprehended a single section.

I was going in for my final at the end of six weeks, and the result of
the examination would be of considerable importance to me.

My uncle had paid for most of my education, and held out prospects
of a partnership, but as time went on his beneficent intentions had
lost their keenness, and a failure would produce considerably less
likelihood of those prospects becoming actual facts. He was an old
gentleman who judged by results, and the creditable results of my
life had hitherto been few. A decent place in the Honours List would
mean a probability, a prize would mean a certainty, of a comfortable
income for life; and if I was to work, that infernal noise must stop.
Legal redress I had none, nor would complaint to the landlord be of
any use. There were clauses in the leases against keeping canaries,
or even window-boxes, but none forbidding pianos. There was only one
course open to me, and that was to appeal to the better feelings of the
elderly spinster.

At first I thought of writing a note, and made some attempts at
composing one, but they were either too violent or too unconvincing,
and I felt that in dealing with a person of her description a personal
interview would produce better fruit. On considering the matter, I
decided that the interview had better take place at once. It was an
unconventional hour to call, but I was not certain that I should
have the courage to protest except in the heat of indignation, and I
had decided on an effective _rôle_. I intended to appeal to her as a
hard-working young man whom she was depriving of a livelihood, and to a
certain extent to be appealingly distressed.

Armed with these intentions, I mounted the stairs, knocked at the
door, and asked for Miss Ormerod, which I had gathered was the lady's
name. The servant looked at me a little doubtfully, but finally the
piano stopped, and she asked me to come in. I put on my most pathetic
expression, and entered. I confronted a lady who had just risen from
the piano. With some surprise I noticed that it was not the elderly
spinster, but a little damsel of prepossessing attributes, and with big
merry-hearted eyes.

"I came to see Miss Ormerod," I explained.

"I am Miss Ormerod," she answered.

I am never a very self-possessed young man, and this sudden upsetting
of my plans took me aback. The elderly spinster was obviously only a
frequent visitor. It is one thing to appeal pathetically to the better
feelings of a lady of advanced years, and another to explain matters to
a young damsel.

"I live in the flat down below," I continued, "and I came to call
to--er----"

"Came to call?" she answered, with an amused air, and a glance at the
clock.

"Not to call in the ordinary way," I stammered, "but I couldn't help
it. You see, you were playing the piano, and--and----"

"Wasn't it sufficiently audible down below?" she inquired, chillingly.

[Illustration: "I PUT ON MY MOST PATHETIC EXPRESSION, AND ENTERED."]

"Quite audible," I answered, catching eagerly at the chance of
explanation. "In fact it was too audible--that was just it. It's rather
disturbing in my flat."

"And may I ask why I am not to play the piano?" she replied. "There was
a noise in your flat the night before last considerably less melodious
than a piano."

"I suppose there was. Ellis and some other men came to a farewell
dinner with me before his departure to India. It shan't occur again," I
said; "and you see, I'm reading for my final, and if you could----"

She looked at me somewhat doubtfully.

"The Solicitor's final," I added--it was a fragment of my intended
appeal to the elderly spinster--"is a very difficult examination, and
requires concentrated attention."

"You're reading for the Solicitor's final?" she exclaimed, with a
sudden change of expression. "Oh, then you must know a lot of law."

"That scarcely follows," I began to protest, in some surprise.

"And you can explain to me what a negotiable instrument really is," she
went on, delightedly.

I began to think she must be mad.

"I've been trying to make it out since tea time," she said, "and I
can't. That's why I was strumming."

"Has something gone wrong with a cheque?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she laughed, "you don't understand. I'm reading law too.
I'm going in for an exam at the London University. You won't mind
explaining about negotiable instruments, will you, if I promise not to
play the piano? Please sit down."

I sat down and explained the matter as lucidly as I could. The
explanation took some little time, but though it was nearly eleven when
I left, the proceeding seemed to strike her as perfectly natural, and I
did not complain, particularly as it meant deliverance from the piano.

The next night, however, I had scarcely settled down when the strumming
began once more. After the trouble that I had taken the night before
it was ungrateful of the damsel, and she had distinctly promised that
the noise should not occur again. I stood it for half an hour, and then
went up to make another protest.

"I thought you were never coming," the damsel said, in an aggrieved
way; "I want you to tell me the difference between a cheque and a bill
of exchange payable at a banker's. Have some tea, won't you?"

I had some tea, and furnished her with further information. We
discussed the Bills of Exchange Act at some length. It was a much
pleasanter way of imbibing the law than by one's self, and her _vivâ
voce_ examination was not without its uses. However, the situation was
unconventional, and I had my doubts on its advisability.

The next afternoon, when I came back from the office, I was informed
that a lady was waiting to see me. In my room, sitting perpendicularly
on the edge of an armchair, was the elderly spinster.

"Is your name Arbuthnot?" she inquired, abruptly and severely.

I admitted the accusation.

"Then, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, grimly, "I wish to have a word with
you. I hear you have been forcing yourself on my niece."

"I beg your pardon?" I said, in astonishment.

"Forcing yourself on that poor misguided child," she continued, "and
taking advantage of her folly in the most ungentlemanly way."

"If you mean Miss Ormerod," I answered, "perhaps I might explain."

"Perhaps you might," she replied, acidly.

I told her what had happened, and how the mistake had occurred. I was
never very remarkably tactful; and, even if I had been, any other
explanation than the truth would have been difficult.

[Illustration: "THE EXPLANATION TOOK SOME LITTLE TIME."]

"So you supposed," she answered, "that I should have allowed young men
to call on me at a late hour?"

That was rather a poser, and I made no answer.

"Your excuse," she went on, "only confirms my previous opinion of you.
You have deliberately forced yourself on a crazy, motherless child, who
does not understand the ways of the world, nor, I regret to say, what
is due to herself."

"I have done nothing of the kind," I said, indignantly.

"I might have known that it was degrading myself to talk to an
attorney's clerk," she said, with an awful emphasis on the last two
words. Then she strode away.

That evening the piano began again, but I sat stolidly and endured it.
After all, there was something in what the old lady said. The strumming
continued for an hour, and then stopped. In a few minutes the servant
brought me a note.

"Dear Mr. Arbuthnot,

"I cannot understand when a banker is liable for a forged cheque.

"Yours sincerely,

"MARJORIE ORMEROD."

I wrote back to say that I had had an interview with her aunt, and
appended the law on the subject of forged cheques. My note had not been
dispatched more than five minutes when a knock came at the door, and
Miss Ormerod walked in.

"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, "will you kindly tell me the meaning of this
note?"

"I thought I had made my meaning clear," I answered. "A banker----"

"I was not referring to bankers," she replied, "but to what you say
about my aunt."

"I supposed she would have told you," I said. "She did me the honour of
visiting me this afternoon, and--well--she suggested that there were
conventionalities."

"She's been gossiping with my servant," she exclaimed; "but why do you
pay any attention to what she says?"

"You see," I ventured to protest, "there are conventionalities."

"Conventionalities," she replied, firmly, "are some of the things
that I do not intend to have in my life. If I were a man, and I wished
to--to ask you a polite question about forged cheques, wouldn't you
answer it?"

[Illustration: "'I HEAR YOU HAVE BEEN FORCING YOUR ATTENTIONS ON MY
NIECE.'"]

As a matter of fact, if a man had asked for instruction under pain of
playing the piano, I think I should have refused; but to say no would
have resulted in embarrassing explanations of my previous readiness to
enlighten her. So I replied diplomatically--

"Perhaps so."

"Then," she said, "I insist on your coming upstairs at once. You will
insult me, Mr. Arbuthnot, if you refuse."

Since she put it in that way, I was compelled to give in, however
much I agreed with the old lady. When I had finished my exposition of
the law, Miss Ormerod expounded some of her theories of life, with
autobiographical illustrations. The fundamental theory seemed to be
that a girl ought to be allowed to do anything without taking the
consequences. As a deduction from this great truth, she had decided
to live alone and become a London University Portia. At one time she
had intended to pursue her ambitions at an Oxford college, but inquiry
had revealed the fact that the girls there were still in swaddling
clothes. It was only in London, and in a flat, that the true woman--she
disclaimed the term new woman--could possibly realise herself. Most
of her life she had spent in the country, a fact which I might have
guessed. One of the main fallacies which the true woman was going to
expose, and which had been intruded on her that night, was the notion
that no girl could associate with a man without some foolish idea of
love-making. This fallacy she denounced vigorously, and, as I thought,
with a purpose. It was naturally not a conversation in which I could
take much part, and I listened mostly in silence.

The situation was more unpleasant than the piano. It was hard to avoid
further interviews, and at the same time I knew that I ought to do
so. The little girl had contracted some diseased modern notions, and
I had no business to aid and abet her. However, if she persisted in
regarding it as an insult for me to do my duty, I saw no alternative
but to acquiesce. I could only hope that in future she might find fewer
difficulties in the law. In this hope I was disappointed. Regularly
for the next fortnight the piano demanded instruction every evening,
and with more and more misgiving I obeyed it. The fact was that I felt
myself beginning to take a disquieting interest in her, and at the
end of the fortnight I acknowledged frankly to myself that, as far as
concerned me at least, her favourite fallacy had been proved true.

Matters were in this condition, and were already sufficiently
complicated, when a further complication was added to them. Shortly
after my arrival home one evening, a person of Hebraic appearance was
shown in, who announced himself as Mr. Hart.

"Good evening," he began, greasily; "I have been consulted by Miss
Prentice in regard to a rather delicate matter. Miss Prentice has, I
believe, already spoken to you on the subject."

"Has she?" I inquired. "Who is Miss Prentice?"

"She is the aunt of Miss Ormerod, the young lady who lives above you,"
he went on. "She informs me that at her interview with you she found
you--shall we say?--unreasonable."

"Well?" I said curtly, for I disliked the man.

"Now," he continued, "of course we know that Miss Ormerod, though
holding these peculiar views, is a young lady possessed of a
considerable fortune--not very large, but considerable."

"Do we?" I answered. "I know nothing of the kind."

"Come, come," he said, "let us talk as men of the world--in a friendly
way--but as men of the world."

"If you'd kindly tell me the object of your visit, I should be
obliged," I replied.

"Oh, I can quite see your point of view," he said, with an oily leer.
"Miss Ormerod, being, as I say, possessed of some fortune--not so large
as some people might suppose, but some fortune--her relations are
naturally anxious that she should not marry without seeing a little
more of the world than--shall we say?--can be seen in these flats."

"Are you incapable of saying what you mean, sir?" I inquired, with
gathering suspicion.

"As a brother professional, you must know that things cannot always
be put crudely," he said. "Of course, Miss Prentice is not a lady to
be parsimonious where her niece is in question. At the same time, she
is not a lady of unlimited means. I may, however, remind you, Mr.
Arbuthnot, that a bird in the hand----"

"Do you mean," I burst out angrily, "that I am supposed to be
attempting to inveigle Miss Ormerod into a marriage, and that you've
come here to offer me a bribe?"

"Gently, Mr. Arbuthnot, gently," he protested.

[Illustration: "'WILL YOU KINDLY LEAVE THE ROOM AT ONCE?' I ROARED."]

"Will you kindly leave the room at once?" I roared.

"I was afraid this might happen," he answered, "so we made a few
inquiries and took precautions. There are such things, Mr. Arbuthnot,
as unpaid Oxford debts, eh? And tradesmen are sometimes so distrustful
as to sell those debts. Now, here's a tailor's bill--dear me, where's
the schedule? Yes, a tailor's bill for £57 odd."

"What on earth do you mean?" I said.

"And you can have all these bills and a little ready money," he went
on, "if you'd only be reasonable."

"Get out!" I exclaimed again.

"Do be reasonable, Mr. Arbuthnot," he purred on, "or otherwise I may
be compelled to follow my instructions and sue, and--I regret to say
it--sell you up, and prevent your inhabiting this delightful little
flat any longer."

"I give you just one minute," I said, taking out my watch.

"Oh, very well, very well," he answered; "a gold watch--I must remember
that."

I sat down and cursed that elderly spinster. The position was quite
delightful. Those bills, as far as I remembered them, amounted to
something over £300; and, if my uncle discovered their existence, my
prospects of a partnership, and probably even my allowance, would be at
an end. Never having been at a university himself, he held strong views
on the subject of getting into debt. That evening the piano played
again, and I went up to explain Miss Ormerod's difficulties as usual.
With dramatic irony, they concerned the sale of goods.

Borrowing the money was out of the question, and I resolved
desperately to allow the law to take its course, and to spend the few
remaining days in Miss Ormerod's company as far as I could. Our legal
discussions, and sometimes our discussions on other things, became
more protracted, but the time went swiftly, and in the course of a
fortnight or so there was a man in possession. Probably if that elderly
spinster had been gifted with any capacity for sitting tight, I should
now be in South Africa, but as I sat burning my letters preparatory to
the sale, Miss Ormerod burst in.

[Illustration: "'I'M VERY ANGRY,' SHE SAID."]

"Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, "I should like to have a few words with you.
I'm very angry."

I followed her meekly.

"My aunt has been here this afternoon," she began, when we had reached
her flat, "and I hear that you are in debt, and that your furniture is
going to be sold."

"It is quite true," I said, wearily. "You see, I got into debt at
Oxford----"

"Do you think I'm a fool?" she asked, indignantly. "What has my aunt
got to do with it?"

"Your aunt?" I answered. "What should she have to do with it? I suppose
someone informed her----"

"You suppose nothing of the kind," she answered, hotly. "I know why;
she told me. It was because she disapproved of--of your tuition, and
I'm sure she had something to do with this, or she wouldn't have been
so pleased with herself. I know my aunt only too well. On your word of
honour, isn't she concerned in this, Mr. Arbuthnot?"

"What in the world," I replied, attempting to parry the question,
"should a respectable elderly lady like your aunt have to do with
debt-collecting?"

"There are very few things," she answered, "with which my aunt has not
to do if she gets within measurable distance of them. Now, will you
please explain?"

"How can I," I said, "if there's nothing to explain?"

"I think you told me the other night," she answered, "that _suppressio
veri_ sometimes amounts to _suggestio falsi_."

"Miss Ormerod," I said, "I've got a lot of letters to burn to-night,
and I am rather busy----"

"Oh, very well," she observed, "then I must find out for myself."

She hurried down to my flat along the passage, and burst open the
kitchen door. The sheriff's man had already drained the beer-cask, and
was sitting smoking with his feet on the kitchen range.

"Now," Miss Ormerod remarked, "please tell me why you're here."

"If you open your mouth," I broke in, "I'll throttle you."

"You're a witness, young lady," the man said, "he's threatened to
assault an officer of the law in the execution of his duty."

"Perhaps this might soothe your feelings," Miss Ormerod said, slipping
something into his hand.

"I'll give you a sovereign to hold your tongue," I exclaimed,
desperately.

"Very well, sir," he said, "hand it over."

"I'll give it you to-morrow," I replied. As a matter of fact my cash in
hand amounted to some fifteen shillings.

"Oh, I daresay," he replied, with a grin. "Make it five shillings more,
young lady."

He got the five shillings, and then began as though he were unfolding
a portentous secret.

"I'm in for a matter of £300 recovered in the action of Prentice
_versus_ Arbuthnot."

There was no false delicacy about Miss Prentice; she had gleefully sued
as assignee in her own name.

"Miss Ellen Prentice?" Miss Ormerod asked, quickly.

"I fancy that's the name," he said, searching among some greasy papers.

"Oh, that will do," Miss Ormerod replied, with a flushed face. "Mr.
Arbuthnot, I want to speak to you."

She swept upstairs again, and I accompanied her in silence.

"Now, perhaps," she remarked, "you'll be good enough to tell me the
truth."

I told her a part of it, including the visit of my Hebraic friend, but
I omitted his suggestions of the matrimonial objects of my visits. Miss
Prentice's proceedings, I suggested, were all due to her regard for the
conventionalities and her niece's welfare.

"Of course," she began, sitting down and taking a chequebook from a
drawer, "you'll let me lend you this money."

"Thank you very much," I said, "but it's quite out of the question."

"How preposterous!" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "If a man were to
offer you the money----"

"Very likely," I said; "you are not a man."

"But what difference in the world can that make?" she inquired,
indignantly.

"In the world," I said, "it makes a considerable difference."

"But we've been friends, Mr. Arbuthnot," she said, appealingly, "and
this is my fault. Won't you take this wretched money to please me?"

"I'd do most things to please you," I answered, "but I can't do this."

"I--I don't understand," she said, in a half-broken voice, and looked
at me dolorously for a moment or two.

"Will you be able to be a solicitor after this?" she asked.

"Oh, I haven't thought about things yet," I answered.

"Surely you might tell me," she said, tearfully; "I think I've ruined
your life."

"Miss Ormerod," I remarked, getting up, "what's happened was my own
fault, and you're not to blame in the least; but I think it would be
better if I went down to my place and finished looking things over."

[Illustration: "'PLEASE TELL ME WHY YOU'RE HERE,' SAID MISS ORMEROD TO
THE SHERIFF'S MAN."]

"Oh, but I can't let you go like this," she pleaded, tearfully; "it's
so silly of you. I've got such a lot of money, and surely you'll do me
a favour and let me lend you a little of it."

"It's out of the question," I said.

"And," she pursued, a little timorously, "how am I to get through
my examination if you won't help me? You've helped me so much, Mr.
Arbuthnot, you really have."

"Good-bye," I said, holding out my hand.

"It's cruel of you, very cruel," she went on, without noticing it;
"and--and you don't seem to mind in the least."

"What's done is done. Good-bye," I said again.

"And I suppose you'll go somewhere--quite away from this?" she
continued, "quite far away?"

"Probably," I said.

"But don't you mind--at all?" she asked.

"It's not particularly pleasant," I admitted.

"We've been good friends, haven't we?" she said, with a little quiver
of her lips.

"The best of friends," I agreed.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand.

As I took it our eyes met, and she drew her hand back. It was hard,
under the circumstances, not to look something more than the best of
friends.

"I suppose," she said, "that you refused to take that money
because--because it would have hurt your self-respect."

"I think so," I answered.

"Well," she went on, slowly, and half turning away, "girls have their
self-respect too."

"What manner of man must you think I am?" I asked, understanding a
little what she meant, but refusing to take advantage of what I thought
the little girl's mistaken chivalry.

"And what manner of girl must you think me?" she replied, and burst out
crying.

"Don't think I don't understand and don't appreciate," I said, lamely.

"Go away, go away," she sobbed.

"I can't go," I said, "till I have explained. I don't quite know how
to, but our friendship began with bills of exchange, and don't you
think a debtor would sometimes prefer not to have an acceptance for
honour when he cannot pay his debts?"

"It depends," she said, softly, and with a lamentable disregard of the
law, "whether it's supra protest."

"Don't tempt me too far," I urged.

"I am not tempting you," she said, getting up and turning on me angrily.

"If you only knew," I protested, bitterly, and her face changed.

"How am I to know," she asked, "if you refuse to tell me?"

"What right have I?" I burst out.

"A right," she murmured, "implies an obligation, and of course----"

Well, well, the rest of the conversation was commonplace except to
ourselves. The man in possession exhausted most of my capital in
getting extremely drunk that night, my uncle insisted for the first
time in his life in regarding me as a clever fellow after all, and
Miss Prentice has been confirmed in her opinion that I am a scheming
scoundrel.

[Illustration: "'GO AWAY, GO AWAY,' SHE SOBBED."]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




AMERICAN WIVES OF ENGLISH HUSBANDS.

SOME CHARMING LINKS IN THE ANGLO-AMERICAN ALLIANCE.


Those who scout the notion of an Anglo-American Alliance should
remember that in a considerable number of cases the question has been
solved, and in a very satisfactory manner, by the contracting parties
themselves. Every year Anglo-American marriages become more frequent,
and there can be no doubt that, on more than one occasion, this fact
has told significantly when affairs of moment were in question.

In this matter, at least, the United Kingdom has remained faithful to
her "oldest colony," and latterly distinguished Englishmen have sought
wives in America, rather than in Greater Britain.

[Illustration: MRS. ARTHUR PAGET.

                                                     _J. Thomson, Photo_]

At the present time three of the most prominent personalities in the
House of Commons--Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Sir William Harcourt, and Mr.
George Curzon--are each married to an American, and the only difficulty
that meets those who would attempt to draw up a list of these informal
Anglo-American alliances is to choose from the large number of names
that presents itself. To take the peerage only, there are at the
present time three American duchesses, and Lady Francis Hope (Miss
May Yohe) may one day be Duchess of Newcastle. The only transatlantic
marchioness is Lady Anglesey, but there are three American countesses,
four baronesses, and many other ladies whose husbands are in possession
of courtesy titles.

Of the three American ladies who have worn and are wearing the
strawberry leaves, perhaps the most interesting, from several points of
view, is the lady who is still known to the world as Lilian, Duchess of
Marlborough.

_Née_ Miss Price, the future duchess was married when very young to a
wealthy American, Mr. Hammersley. His death occurred comparatively soon
after the marriage, and he left his young wife his entire fortune. Some
years later, she greatly astonished her friends by marrying the then
Duke of Marlborough; but, contrary to general expectation, no part of
her immense fortune was squandered, for Her Grace proved herself an
excellent woman of business, and though considerable sums were spent
on putting and keeping Blenheim in repair, it was arranged that an
insurance covering the whole amount should, in each case, be effected
on the duke's life. Consequently, at his death, his widow found herself
an even wealthier woman than she was before she became his wife.

After the late Duke of Marlborough's death, the duchess lived very
quietly; but, as she was still a comparatively young woman, her
marriage to Lord William Beresford was considered to be, on her part,
a very judicious step. Her stepson, the young Duke of Marlborough,
gave her away, and she has remained on very good terms with her second
husband's family.

Lord William Beresford was believed, until comparatively lately, to be
a confirmed Anglo-Indian, for he managed, as Military Secretary, the
households of several Viceroys, and he is known, both among Europeans
and Indians all over the Queen's Eastern Empire, as a man possessing
not only exceptional business capacity, but remarkable _savoir faire_.
He has taken part in many campaigns, and was the prototype of "Soldier
Bill" in one of Whyte Melville's best known novels.

Since his marriage, he and his wife have lived at the Deep Dene, Lord
Francis Hope's beautiful place near Dorking, and it was there that
their infant son was born last year. The duchess has adapted herself
completely to the conditions of English country life. The Deep Dene
was described by Aubrey as "an epitome of Paradise," and a "Garden of
Eden." Accordingly, the lines of Lord William Beresford and his wife
are laid in pleasant places. The latter devotes a good deal of her time
to the collection and growth of orchids. Under her supervision a fine
orchid-house has been erected, and she is fast becoming a formidable
rival to the most noted growers in the kingdom.

[Illustration: LADY NAYLOR-LEYLAND.

                                                   _Alice Hughes, Photo_]

At the present moment the personality of Consuelo, Duchess of
Manchester, as she will henceforth be known, is of peculiar interest.
Although the engagement of the young duke was lately announced, his
mother is still one of the youngest looking women in society, and she
has scarcely changed since the day, twenty-two years ago, when she took
London by storm as the bride of Viscount Mandeville, the then Duke of
Manchester's eldest son and heir.

[Illustration: (1) LADY HARCOURT.

_Elliot and Fry, Photo_

(2) LADY TERENCE BLACKWOOD.

_J. Thomson, Photo_

(3) THE DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

_Russell & Sons, Photo_

(4) LADY ARTHUR BUTLER.

_Faulkner, Photo_]

Unlike most Americans who have married Englishmen, Miss Consuelo Yznaga
had only once paid a flying visit to London before her marriage. Her
mother, who had been a noted belle of New Orleans in the fifties, on
her marriage to a distinguished Spaniard went to Cuba, where the future
British duchess was born in the little village of Sant Espiritu.

As has been the case with almost every family connected with Cuba,
the Yznagas sustained great losses, which led to their settling once
more in America, and it was there that Miss Yznaga first met Lord
Mandeville, then travelling in the States. When visiting at her
father's house he fell ill, and was very kindly nursed and entertained
till his recovery. The engagement excited exceptional interest owing
to the fact that Lady Mandeville, as she became, was the first
Anglo-American peeress.

In spite of the fact that after their marriage Lord and Lady Mandeville
had no London house, the latter soon took a very prominent place in
society; she became a great favourite both with the Prince and with
the Princess of Wales, and she was constantly included in the lists of
house parties invited to meet their Royal Highnesses.

Many years of Lady Mandeville's married life were spent in Ireland.
She was devoted to her three children, twin daughters and one son,
known during his childhood as Lord Kimbolton; and though she often paid
flying visits to London, she did not revisit America for a long time.

On the death of the seventh Duke of Manchester, in 1890, Lady
Mandeville became at once the reigning Duchess of Manchester, and she
was for a time the only American duchess in the peerage; during the two
years which elapsed before the duke's death, the duchess gave a series
of splendid entertainments both in her London house in Great Cumberland
Street, and at Kimbolton Castle, in Huntingdonshire, the splendid place
which was, for so many years, the home of poor Catherine of Arragon
after her divorce from Henry VIII.

Her mother-in-law, now the Duchess of Devonshire, always proved a firm
and loyal friend to her son's beautiful American wife; and on the death
of the eighth duke, which occurred in the August of 1892, it was his
mother who persuaded the young duchess that she should continue to live
in London, and not retire, as she thought of doing, to her son's Irish
seat.

The greatest grief of the Duchess of Manchester's life was the death of
Lady Mary Montagu, one of her beautiful twin daughters, whose charming
portraits by Lady Granby and Mr. Edward Hughes have made their features
familiar. Since her death, which occurred very suddenly in Rome, the
duchess has lived very quietly until this spring, only emerging from
her retirement in order to introduce her young daughter to society.

It is a curious fact that the young Duchess of Marlborough, _née_
Miss Vanderbilt, is the godchild and namesake of Consuelo, Duchess
of Manchester, owing to the circumstance that the latter and Mrs.
Vanderbilt were intimate friends. The Duke of Marlborough first met
Miss Vanderbilt when she was visiting her godmother, but the engagement
and marriage took place, as all the world knows, in New York.

The Duchess of Marlborough, like most of her fellow countrywomen, has
shown remarkable powers of adaptability. She is very much liked, both
round Blenheim and in the more critical London world where her rank
gives her a very important place.

Everyone is aware that Lady Randolph Churchill is one of three
beautiful sisters who all married Englishmen. The brilliant younger son
of a Duke of Marlborough first met Miss Jennie Jerome in Paris. Like so
many American women, she was and is a very excellent conversationalist;
in fact, during Lord Randolph's lifetime, it used to be said that the
only woman who was his match in repartee was his own wife. Although
brought up in an intensely republican atmosphere, she developed, after
her marriage, into an enthusiastic Tory, and a pillar of the Primrose
League.

When her husband decided to enter Parliament, his wife set herself to
promoting his interests in every way; and it was openly averred at the
time, that he owed his appointment as Chancellor of the Exchequer to
her efforts, for in those days Lady Randolph Churchill may be said to
have had a _salon_ in the true sense of the word, and her beautiful
house in Connaught Place was a rendezvous for her husband's friends
and supporters. She showed American thoroughness in everything about
the establishment, keeping the best _chef_ in town and being a perfect
hostess from every point of view.

Since the premature death of Lord Randolph Churchill, his widow has
continued to make her home in London. She is very devoted to her two
sons, and is said to be as ambitious for them as she was for their
father. It was at one time widely asserted that Lady Randolph was about
to become the second wife of her millionaire fellow-countryman, Mr.
William Waldorf Astor, but up to the present time the rumour has not
been confirmed.

[Illustration: (1) LADY GREY-EGERTON.

_A. Hughes, Photo_

(2) LADY RANDOLPH CHURCHILL.

_A. Hughes, Photo_

(3) THE COUNTESS OF CRAVEN.

_Lafayette, Photo_]

Lady Randolph's great interest in life is music. She is a very fine
pianist, and sings almost as well as she talks. She has of late devoted
a great deal of her spare time to private theatricals, her first
appearance having taken place at Blenheim, during the now historical
visit of the Prince and Princess of Wales to the Duke of Marlborough
and his young American bride.

Lady Randolph has preserved an extraordinary look of youth, and, though
the eldest of the three, she looks younger than either of her sisters,
Mrs. Jack Leslie, and Mrs. Morton Frewen.

Among the American women who have been called upon to take an active
interest in British political life, Mrs. Joseph Chamberlain certainly
deserves the foremost place. She is devoted to her husband, and has
made herself thoroughly conversant with all that affects or that may
affect his political ambitions. But she is quite content--unlike, it
must be admitted, most American women--to take a second place, and she
is liked and respected by many people who still retain their prejudice
against the Colonial Secretary.

Mrs. Chamberlain, _née_ Miss Mary Endicott, belongs to one of the
oldest families in New England, one of her forebears having been the
first English governor of Massachusetts. Mr. Chamberlain, then a
widower for the second time, first met Miss Endicott in 1887, when
he was one of the British delegates on the Fishery Commission; but
their engagement did not take place till the following year, and Mr.
Chamberlain returned to America to be married, the wedding being
celebrated at Salem, Mass., the residence of the bride's father.

At the present moment it is interesting to recall that Mr. W. C.
Endicott was Secretary for War in President Cleveland's first
administration, and perhaps Mr. Chamberlain's openly expressed
sympathies with America during the Hispano-American war are greatly
owing to the fact that his wife's family have always been ardently
patriotic.

Mrs. Chamberlain has now become quite an Englishwoman. Her husband's
people have become her people, and she has even gathered Birmingham to
her heart, for although Highbury has become a very "smart" house, its
mistress is always ready to welcome there her husband's old supporters
and early friends; Mrs. Chamberlain has also ever been on the happiest
terms with her step-children, one of whom, Mr. Austen Chamberlain, is
older than herself.

What orchids are popularly supposed to be to the Colonial Secretary,
roses are to his charming American wife; and the rosery at Highbury
is one of the most beautiful in the United Kingdom, and this although
Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain spend a considerable portion of the year in
Prince's Gardens, where they are always reminded, however, of their
much-loved Warwickshire home, great baskets full of roses being sent
them almost daily from Highbury.

Mrs. Chamberlain does not see very much of what may be called the
American colony. On all important occasions she is to be seen in the
Ladies' Gallery of the House of Commons, and during the famous Home
Rule Bill debates she was as faithful in her attendance as was Mrs.
Gladstone herself. She is one of the very few American women for whom
the Queen has shown a distinct partiality, and she often accompanies
her husband when he receives a "dine and sleep" invitation to Windsor.

Lady Harcourt belongs to an altogether older and more serious
generation than that from which have been drawn those American women
who now leaven English society. She was the daughter of the famous
American historian, Motley, and much of her youth was spent in Europe,
where her father, who was a diplomat as well as a student, was seeking
materials for his great history, "The Rise of the Dutch Republic."

Miss Motley married Mr. Ives when quite a girl, and after becoming a
widow continued to live in England; and thus it fell about that Mr.
Vernon Harcourt, himself a widower with one little boy, had the good
fortune to win as his second wife one of the most charming and kindly
of women.

The Liberal ranks are, when compared with their rivals, poor in
hostesses; but it is universally admitted that in Lady Harcourt they
are exceptionally blessed, and her house parties at Malwood have done
much to make Sir William popular with the party, the more so that Lady
Harcourt does not confine her interest to politics. She is devoted
to literature and art, and accordingly she is very eclectic in her
choice of guests. Thus Sir William and Lady Harcourt were on intimate
terms with Disraeli, and after the great Tory leader's death, a very
valuable and unique miniature of Byron which had been in the possession
of the author of "Lothair" was given to the Squire of Malwood by Lord
Beaconsfield's executors.

Lady Harcourt also frequently entertained Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, and
in her garden is a walnut tree planted by the Grand Old Man, while
close by is an ash which is known as Mrs. Gladstone's tree.

It is an interesting fact that, through the Vernons, Lady Harcourt
is the only American who can claim relationship with Royalty. The
story goes that on one occasion, to his annoyance rather than to his
amusement, a friend of the Liberal Leader once proposed at a Radical
gathering the health of "Mr. Vernon Harcourt and the rest of the Royal
Family!"

Mrs. George Curzon is the latest addition to the group of American
women which is now playing so prominent a part in English political
society. The future Lady Scarsdale is the daughter of a great Chicago
millionaire, whose home, however, has now been for many years in
Washington. It was said at the time of the marriage that Mr. Leiter had
settled on his daughter £10,000 a year.

As Miss Leiter, Mrs. Curzon spent several winters in Europe, and she
met her future husband first in London, although their engagement and
marriage took place at the bride's own home in Washington. Even in
America, that land of beautiful women, Miss Leiter was distinguished
for her exceptional good looks, and she was also said to be, as a
girl, one of the best conversationalists in Washington. Owing to her
intimate friendship with Mrs. Cleveland, she was constantly at the
White House, and while there became acquainted with all the diplomatic
world; indeed, at one time every foreign attaché in Washington was
said to aspire to the honour of becoming Miss Leiter's husband. She
speaks French and German perfectly, and has always been interested in
literary matters; indeed, her interest in Mr. George Curzon's literary
work first caused them to become friends. Their engagement lasted some
months, and aroused great interest throughout the States.

The marriage took place in Washington four years ago, and ever since
Mrs. George Curzon has entirely identified herself with her husband's
aims and interests. When he was standing for Southport she was the most
energetic of canvassers, and her beautiful London house is becoming
quite a rendezvous of the Conservative party.

Of all the American women who have married Englishmen none has a more
interesting house than has the Countess of Essex; indeed, Cassiobury
Park, which is near Watford, is not only one of the loveliest country
houses in the United Kingdom, but is said to date its name and fame
from the days of the early Britons. The house itself is of recent
construction, having been built by Inigo Jones, while the gardens were
laid out by Le Nôtre, who was persuaded to leave Versailles for a brief
period in order that he might lend his aid to beautifying the property
of the Lord Capel from whom the present Earl of Essex is descended.

Lady Essex, _née_ Miss Adele Grant, has fine taste. Her special hobby
is the collecting of miniatures, and in her boudoir at Cassiobury are
over a hundred exquisite portraits of the dead and gone beauties and
beaux of a former day. Curiously enough, the title of Countess of
Essex has been invariably borne by a beautiful woman, and one of the
most charming pictures in the house is a portrait of the lovely Kitty
Stephens, who became the wife of the fifth earl.

The Countess of Essex, although belonging to a well-known American
family, has lived in London from her earliest girlhood, and she was at
one time regarded as the prospective bride of the late Lord Cairns. Her
marriage, five years ago, to the seventh Earl of Essex was a social
sensation of 1893.

[Illustration: _Alice Hughes, Photo_

COUNTESS OF ESSEX AND BABY.]

Lord and Lady Essex are both keenly interested in sport and in animals.
They have no town house, but entertain a great deal in their beautiful
Hertfordshire place.

The young Countess of Craven is the daughter of an immensely wealthy
American couple, Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Martin; even before their
daughter's marriage, they generally spent half the year in Europe,
and their entertainments and house parties became notable for almost
"Ouidaesque" lavishness. Mrs. Bradley Martin possesses the most
valuable collection of jewels belonging to any American woman. Her
rubies alone are valued at £40,000, and a fan which she gave her
daughter, and which is encrusted with pearls, rubies, emeralds, and
diamonds, is intrinsically worth £2,000.

Since the marriage of Miss Cornelia Bradley Martin to the fourth Earl
of Craven, the young American countess has taken a prominent place
among the country hostesses of the day. She has already entertained
Royalty several times.

One of the most attractive American women who have made their home on
this side of the Atlantic is Lady Terence Blackwood, the pretty young
daughter-in-law of the Marquis of Dufferin. Before her marriage, Miss
Flora Davis was for some time a member of the American colony in Paris,
and her marriage took place while Lord Dufferin still occupied the
British Embassy.

Miss Davis, though the daughter of a very wealthy man, was not, in the
ordinary sense of the word, an heiress; and since her marriage she
and her husband, who is Lord Dufferin's second son, have lived quite
quietly either in a pretty flat in Paris, or more lately in Cadogan
Square, where their house is one of the prettiest in London, each room
representing a different period, the curious and valuable furniture
having been a present from Lady Terence's father.

Lady Naylor-Leyland is the most beautiful American in society. As Miss
Jennie Chamberlain her loveliness was the talk of two continents, and
her beauty has an exquisite setting in her present London house, for
her father-in-law was one of the foremost art collectors in Europe.

Mrs. Arthur Paget takes a very leading place among the American women
who have made England their home, for to exceptional loveliness
she joins great vivacity and charm of manner. This latter quality
is probably owing to the fact that her mother, Mrs. Paran Stevens,
was always surrounded in New York by a circle of intellectual and
interesting people.

Mrs. Arthur Paget is celebrated for her wonderful collection of jewels,
which includes a rope of the largest pearls in the world. She is also
very fond of emeralds, and is often seen wearing a tiara of these
beautiful stones. Like Lady Naylor-Leyland, she is a very successful
London hostess, and she has revived the fashion of _poudré_ and fancy
dress balls. Colonel Paget is a cousin of Lord Anglesey.

The same year that witnessed the marriage of the Earl of Essex to Miss
Adele Grant witnessed another interesting Anglo-American alliance,
that of Miss Mary Caroline Cuyler to Sir Philip Grey-Egerton. Lady
Grey-Egerton, who is the proud mother of twin sons, born two years
after her marriage, is very fond of society. She is an enthusiastic
cyclist.

                                                                 IGNOTA.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BIRDS OF THE MONTH.]




THE TRAGEDY OF A THIRD SMOKER.

A STORY OF THE METROPOLITAN RAILWAY.

BY CUTCLIFFE HYNE.

_Illustrated by J. Finnemore, R.B.A._


[Illustration]

"I abominate detective stories," said the Q.C., laying down his cue
along the corner of the billiard-table and going across to the shelf
where the cigar-boxes stood. "You see, when a man makes a detective
story to write down on paper, he begins at the butt-end and works
backwards. He notes his points and manufactures his clues to suit
'em, so it's all bound to work out right. In real life it's very
different,"--he chose a Partaga, looking at it through his glasses
thoughtfully--"and I ought to know; I've been studying the criminal
mind for half my working life."

"But," said O'Malley, "a defending counsel is a different class of
animal from the common detective."

"Oh, is he?" said the Q.C.; "that's all you know about it." He dragged
one of the big chairs up into the deep chimney corner and settled
himself in it, after many luxurious shruggings; then he spoke on,
between whiffs at the Partaga.

"Now I'll just state you a case, and you'll see for yourself how we
sometimes have to ravel out things. The solicitor who put the brief in
my hands was, as solicitors go, a smart chap. He had built up a big
business out of nothing, but criminal work was slightly out of his
line. He had only taken up this case to oblige an old client, and I
must say he made an uncommonly poor show of it. I never had such a thin
brief given me in my life.

"The prisoner was to be tried on the capital charge; and if murder
really had been committed, it was one of a most cold-blooded nature.
Hanging would follow conviction as surely as night comes on the heels
of day; and a client who gets the noose given him always damages his
counsel's reputation, whether that counsel deserves it or not.

"As my brief put it, the case fined down to this:

"Two men got into an empty third-class smoking compartment at Addison
Road. One of them, Guide, was a drain contractor; the other, Walker,
was a foreman in Guide's employ. The train took them past the
Shepherd's Bush and Grove Road Hammersmith stations without anything
being reported; but at Shaftesbury Road Walker was found on the floor,
stone dead, with a wound in the skull, and on the seat of the carriage
was a small miner's pickaxe with one of its points smeared with blood.

"It was proved that Guide had been seen to leave the Shaftesbury Road
station. He was dishevelled and agitated at the time, and this made the
ticket collector notice him specially amongst the crowd of out-going
passengers. After it was found out who he was, inquiries were made at
his home. His wife stated that she had not seen him since Monday--the
morning of Walker's death. She also let out that Walker had been
causing him some annoyance of late, but she did not know about what.
Subsequently--on the Friday, four days later--Guide was arrested at
the West India Dock. He was trying to obtain employ as coal trimmer on
an Australian steamer, obviously to escape from the country. On being
charged he surrendered quietly, remarking that he supposed it was all
up with him.

"That was the gist of my case, and the solicitor suggested that I
should enter a plea of insanity.

[Illustration: "THE TICKET COLLECTOR SPECIALLY NOTICED HIM."]

"Now, when I'd conned the evidence over--additional evidence to
what I've told you, but all tending to the same end--I came to the
conclusion that Guide was as sane as any of us are, and that, as a
defence, insanity wouldn't have a leg to stand upon. 'The fellow,' I
said, 'had much better enter a plea of guilty and let me pile up a long
list of extenuating circumstances. A jury will always listen to those,
and feeling grateful for being excused a long and wearisome trial,
recommend to mercy out of sheer gratitude.' I wrote a note to this
effect. On its receipt the solicitor came to see me--by the way, he was
Barnes, a man of my own year at Cambridge.

"'My dear Grayson,' said he, 'I'm not altogether a fool. I know as well
as you do that Guide would have the best chance if he pleaded guilty;
but the difficult part of it is that he flatly refuses to do any such
thing. He says he no more killed this fellow Walker than you or I did.
I pointed out to him that the man couldn't very conveniently have slain
himself, as the wound was well over at the top of his head, and had
obviously been the result of a most terrific blow. At the P.M. it was
shown that Walker's skull was of abnormal thickness, and the force
required to drive through it even a heavy, sharp-pointed instrument
like the pickaxe, must have been something tremendous.

"'I tell you, Grayson, I impressed upon the fellow that the case was
as black as ink against him, and that he'd only irritate the jury by
holding out; but I couldn't move him. He held doggedly to his tale--he
had not killed Andrew Walker.'

"'He's not the first man who's stuck to an unlikely lie like that,' I
remarked.

"'The curious part of it is,' said Barnes, 'I'm convinced that the man
believes himself to be telling the absolute truth.'

"'Then what explanation has he to offer?'

[Illustration: "GUIDE WAS ARRESTED AT THE WEST INDIA DOCK."]

"'None worth listening to. He owns that he and Walker had a fierce
quarrel over money matters, which culminated in a personal struggle.
He knows that he had one blow on the head which dazed him, and fancies
that he must have had a second which reduced him to unconsciousness.
When next he knew what was happening, he saw Walker lying on the floor,
stone dead, though he was still warm and supple. On the floor was the
pickaxe, with one of its points slimy with blood. How it came to be so
he couldn't tell. He picked it up and laid it on a seat. Then in an
instant the thought flashed across him how terribly black things looked
against himself. He saw absolutely no chance of disproving them, and
with the usual impulse of crude minds resolved at once to quit the
country. With that idea he got out at the Shaftesbury Road Station,
and being an ignorant man and without money, made his way down to the
Ratcliff Highway--beg its pardon, St. George's High Street. Using that
as a centre, he smelt about the docks at Limehouse and Millwall trying
for a job in the stokehold; but as that neighbourhood is one of the
best watched spots on earth, it is not a matter for surprise that he
was very soon captured. That's about all I can tell you.'

"'I'm afraid it doesn't lighten matters up very much.'

"'I never said it would. The gist of this is down in your brief,
Grayson. I only came round to chambers because of your letter.'

"'Still,' I persisted, 'you threw out a hint that Guide had offered
some explanation.'

"'Oh, yes; but such a flimsy, improbable theory that no sane man could
entertain it for a minute. In fact, he knew it to be absurd himself.
After pressing him again and again to suggest how Walker could have
been killed (with the view of extorting a confession), he said, in
his slow, heavy way, "Why, I suppose, Mr. Barnes, someone else must
ha' done it. Don't you think as a man could ha' got into the carriage
whilst I was lying there stupid, and hit Walker with the pick and got
out again afore I come to? Would that do, sir?"

"'I didn't think,' added Barnes, drily, 'that it was worth following
that theory any deeper. What do you say?'

"I thought for a minute and then spoke up. 'Look here, Barnes; if in
the face of this cock-and-bull story Guide persists in his innocence,
there may be something in it after all; and if by any thousand-to-one
chance we could bring him clear, it would be a red feather in the caps
of both of us. Do you object to my seeing the man personally?'

"'It's a bit irregular,' said Barnes, doubtfully.

"'I know it is bang in the teeth of etiquette. But suppose we
compromise, and you come with me?'

"'No, I won't do that. My time's busy just now; and besides, I don't
want to run up the costs of this case higher than necessary. But if you
choose to shove your other work aside and waste a couple of hours, just
go and interview him by yourself, and we'll waive ceremony. I'll get
the necessary prison order, and send it round to you to-morrow.'

[Illustration: "THEY HAD A FIERCE QUARREL OVER MONEY MATTERS."]

"Next afternoon I went down to see Guide in the waiting-room at the Old
Bailey. He was a middle-aged man, heavy-faced, and evidently knocked
half stupid by the situation in which he found himself. He was perhaps
as great a fool to his own interests as one might often meet with.
There was no getting the simplest tale out of him except by regular
question-and-answer cross-examination. What little he did tell seemed
rather to confirm his guilt than otherwise; though, strange to say, I
was beginning to believe him when he kept on assuring me between every
other sentence that he did not commit the murder. Perhaps it was the
stolid earnestness of the fellow in denying the crime which convinced
me. One gets to read a good deal from facial expression when a man has
watched what goes on in the criminal dock as long as I have done; and
one can usually spot guilt under any mask.

"'But tell me,' I said, 'what did you quarrel about in the first
instance?'

"'Money,' said Guide, moodily.

"'That's vague. Tell me more. Did he owe you money?'

"'No, sir, it was t'other way on.'

"'Wages in arrear?'

"'No, it was money he had advanced me for the working of my business.
You see Walker had always been a hard man, and he'd saved. He said he
wanted his money back, he knowing that I was pinched a bit just then
and couldn't pay. Then he tried to thrust himself into partnership with
me in the business, which was a thing I didn't want. I'd good contracts
on hand which I expected would bring me in a matter of nine thousand
pounds, and I didn't want to share it with any man, least of all him. I
told him so, and that's how the trouble began. But it was him that hit
me first.'

[Illustration: "HE KEPT ON ASSURING ME THAT HE DIDN'T COMMIT THE
MURDER."]

"'Still, you returned the blow?'

"Guide passed a hand wearily over his forehead. 'I may have struck him
back, sir--I was dazed, and I don't rightly remember. But before God
I'll swear that I never lifted that pick to Andrew Walker--it was his
pick.'

"'But,' I persisted, "Walker couldn't very conveniently have murdered
himself.'

"'No, sir, no--no, he couldn't. I thought of that myself since I been
in here, and I said to Mr. Barnes that perhaps somebody come into the
carriage when I was knocked silly, and killed him; but Mr. Barnes he
said that was absurd. Besides, who could have done it?'

"'Don't you know anybody, then, who would have wished for Walker's
death?'

"'There was them that didn't like him,' said Guide, drearily.

"That was all I could get out of him, and I went away from the prison
feeling very dissatisfied. I was stronger than ever in the belief that
Guide was in no degree guilty, and yet for the life of me I did not
see how to prove his innocence. He had not been a man of any strong
character to begin with, and the shock of what he had gone through had
utterly dazed him. It was hopeless to expect any reasonable explanation
from him; he had resigned himself to puzzlement. If he had gone
melancholy mad before he came up to trial, I should not have been one
whit surprised.

"I brooded over the matter for a couple of days, putting all the rest
of my practice ou

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/49796