Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III, April 1893 - An Illustrated Monthly
Author: Various
Language: English
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       *       *       *       *       *


THE IDLER MAGAZINE.
AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.

April 1893.


       *       *       *       *       *



CONTENTS.


No. 1.--THE QUEEN'S ANIMALS.
    BY G. B. BURGIN AND E. M. JESSOP.

PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.
    BY SCOTT RANKIN.

THE RECLAMATION OF JOE HOLLENDS.
    BY ROBERT BARR.

MY FIRST BOOK.
    DAWN.
    BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

TOLD BY THE COLONEL.
    XII.
    THE CAT'S REVENGE.
    BY W. L. ALDEN.

"LIONS IN THEIR DENS."
    J. L. TOOLE.
    BY RAYMOND BLATHWAYT.

NOVEL NOTES.
    BY JEROME K. JEROME.

THE STORY OF AN HOUR.
    BY HILDA NEWMAN.

RUM PUNCH AT PODBURY'S.
    BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

THE IDLERS CLUB.
    "AWKWARD PREDICAMENTS."


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[Illustration: CHESTNUT CHARGER OF THE LATE EMPEROR FREDERIC OF GERMANY,
AND "NINETTE," THE PRINCESS VICTORIA'S LITTLE WHITE DONKEY.]



[Illustration: ROYAL PETS.]

No. 1.--THE QUEEN'S ANIMALS.

          -----

BY G. B. BURGIN AND E. M. JESSOP.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. M. JESSOP.

          -----


The February wind blows keenly, as we lean from the window of our railway
carriage, and watch dismantled house-boats, drawn up on the river bank
just outside Windsor, being prepared for the forthcoming season. Some Eton
boys--it is evidently a holiday--stand looking on with lively interest.
Several people get out of the train, walk into the quaint old-fashioned
street, and disappear. We follow them, charter a hansom, and are driven
along a picturesque road in the direction of the late Prince Consort's
Shaw Farm. This road is almost deserted, save for half-a-dozen cavalrymen
who come riding down it, their brilliant red uniforms lighting up the dull
air through which the sunlight vainly endeavours to struggle. Their horses
are bespattered with mud; there is mud everywhere--a thick, glutinous mud;
but when we enter the precincts of the Shaw Farm everything gives place to
an ordered and dainty neatness which is thoroughly characteristic of the
Royal domains.

We are received by Mr. W. Tait, the Queen's Land Steward at Windsor, whose
handsome stalwart figure is so well known to all leading agriculturists,
and conducted to a natty little office decorated with water-colour
drawings of prize cattle, and various other reminiscences of past
triumphs. Mr. Tait's drawing-room, in common with those of his
_confrères_ at Windsor, is embellished by various signed portraits of Her
Majesty and the Royal family.

From here, we cross the road and enter a stable where two beautiful old
grey carriage horses are being prepared by one of the farm hands for our
inspection, to a continuous accompaniment of sibilant ostler language.
They have evidently been running wild in the park for some time; each
white coat is stained with mud, and burrs stick tenaciously to their long
tails. An attendant at the farm is rubbing them down, talking to them, and
making them generally presentable. He is evidently on good terms with his
charges, for one playfully nibbles his broad back, whilst the other tries
to steal his red pocket-handkerchief. "Flora" and "Alma" were presented to
Her Majesty by the late King Victor Emanuel of Italy. They are about
fourteen hands high, tremendously powerful, and beautifully shaped. One of
them has also been used to draw the Queen's chair about the grounds; but
they are both now regarded as honoured pensioners, and do no work at all.

The kindliness and affection with which Her Majesty speaks of favourite
animals in her various writings may well assure us that in the midst of
state and family cares, manifold though they be, her old pets, even after
death, are not forgotten. Of this we have evidence later on.

The next shed to that of the old greys is occupied by a magnificent
chestnut charger over seventeen hands high, once the property of the late
Emperor Frederic of Germany. In appearance, this charger is as fresh and
vigorous as a horse of five. It was given by the Emperor to Prince
Christian, who rode it for four years. The charger has a sprightly, though
somewhat incongruous, companion in the shape of "Ninette," a little white
donkey which was purchased at Grasse by Her Majesty, and presented to the
Princess Victoria of Connaught, for whose use it is now being broken in.
Directly the donkey is taken out of the stable for educational purposes,
the charger becomes restless and unhappy, races round the paddock attached
to his loose box in evident distress, and refuses to be comforted until
his beautiful little companion returns. Then he playfully nibbles her
back, joyfully flings up his heels, and careers wildly round the paddock,
neighing shrilly as he goes, his long tail floating in the breeze. What
will happen when "Ninette" leaves her companion it is difficult to say. At
present she takes little notice of this exuberant display of affection,
beyond running beneath the charger's belly, and playfully trying to plant
her tiny heels in his lofty side. When they have been twice round the
paddock, "Ninette" plodding gamely on, a long way in the rear, the couple
halt at the shed entrance, and look at us with exuberant curiosity, the
donkey's long ears shooting backwards and forwards with great rapidity.

After inspecting this somewhat incongruous couple, we are taken to another
stable to see "Jenny," a white donkey, twenty-five years old. "Jenny"
belongs to the Queen, and was bred at Virginia Water. Her Majesty saw
"Jenny" when she was a foal, had her brought to Windsor and trained, and
there the docile old animal has remained ever since. She is pure white in
colour, with large, light, expressive grey eyes. One peculiarity about her
is an enormous flat back, soft and almost as wide as a moderate-sized
feather bed. A handsome chestnut foal is temporarily quartered with her.
This foal was bred from a mare belonging to the late Mr. John Brown, and
promises to grow into a very beautiful animal.

[Illustration: "JENNY."]

"Jenny," although rather reserved, affably condescends to partake of a
biscuit, pensively twitching her long ears after us as we depart along
the road leading to the Royal dairy. As we leave the trimly built and
picturesque outbuildings there is a brave burst of sunshine; chaffinches
"chink-chink" in the trees around, producing a sharp, clear sound as if
two pebbles were struck against each other; rooks sail majestically
overhead, their sentinels, posted in the trees around, giving notice of
our approach; and the pale petals of a rathe primrose gleam shyly out from
a sheltering hedge. The park is filled with Scotch cattle with beautiful
heads and matted, shaggy hides. In the next paddock a handsome Jersey cow
thrusts her head over the intervening rails and licks the shaggy frontlet
of a small dun bull, who gives a gentle low of satisfaction, and
endeavours to follow us as we pass through the gate in the direction of
the Queen's dairy. At this section of the farm, in the buildings, we find
"Tewfik," a very fine white Egyptian donkey, with large black eyes and
tremendous ears. He is one of those enormous asses which are so greatly
esteemed in the East for their powers of endurance. It is a curious fact
that a donkey of this kind will do as much work as a horse, last twice the
time on a long march, and never break down. "Tewfik" was purchased by Lord
Wolseley in Cairo, and sent to England, gay with magnificent Oriental
trappings, and clipped all over in most extraordinary patterns, resembling
Greek architectural ornaments. These patterns are a source of great
trouble to the unsophisticated traveller in the East. He learns one side
of his donkey by heart, and never thinks of looking at the other;
consequently, when he sees the hitherto unknown side of the animal, he is
inclined to think that some wight has been playing a practical joke, and
substituted a different beast for the one he has bestridden. "Tewfik" was
much admired at the Jubilee Agricultural Show in Windsor Great Park, and
seems really a very amiable, well-mannered, aristocratic animal. He is
delighted to see us, and prefers sweet biscuits to plain. Indeed, it is
with regret that he watches us depart. His long mobile ears shoot out from
the stable door as he endeavours to follow us into the box of his
neighbour, a dainty Shetland pony, some three feet six inches high, which
is usually known as "The Skewbald." This diminutive little lady welcomes
us in the most charming manner, and is as frolicsome as a kitten, romping
about and playing all sorts of tricks. Her mission in life, besides being
everyone's pet, is to draw a small two-wheeled cart for Her Majesty's
grandchildren. The dainty, trim, little brown-and-white beauty possesses
enormous strength, and takes existence very philosophically. The first
time she was put into harness she acted as if she had been accustomed to
it all her life, and never required the slightest breaking in. There is
another Shetland pony in one of the neighbouring paddocks, but she is dark
brown in colour, and, with her long-flowing mane and tail, looks like a
miniature carthorse. Like most of Her Majesty's animals, she is fond of
society, and objects to be separated from a large handsome grey donkey
which was bought on one of the Continental journeys, and now occupies the
same paddock as the Shetland. In order to take the pony's portrait
comfortably, it was found necessary to invite the donkey to be present as
a spectator.

[Illustration: "TEWFIK."]

[Illustration: "THE SKEWBALD."]

[Illustration: THE SHETLAND MARE.]

The next pet to be inspected is an animal which most people would prefer
to cultivate at a distance, being none other than the enormous bison named
"Jack," a magnificent specimen of his race, who was obtained in exchange
from the Zoological Society. The Canadian grew savage, and had to be sent
away. "Jack," in spite of his immense strength, is of a very peaceful,
almost timorous, disposition. Strictly speaking, he can hardly be called a
pet, as the artist prudently takes his likeness from behind a high wall.
All friendly overtures to this last of his race are vain. He remains
pensively gazing at the opposite wall, a tear trickling down his broad
nose. Even the joyful bellow of his next-door neighbour, a half-grown
Jersey bull, fails to attract his attention, although the animal, as it
recognises its keeper's step, climbs half over the wall to be fondled.

[Illustration: JACK.]

Here we must not pass without examination some most beautiful little
Jersey calves with silky coats and great wondering eyes, which look as if
the world was a charming mystery to them.

In the next stall to the Jersey bull stands an eccentric-looking little
animal called "Sanger," a pony presented to Her Majesty by the well-known
circus proprietor of that name. "Sanger" is now nine months old. This
strange little animal's breed is practically unknown, and his appearance
most eccentric; indeed, his legs show a tendency to stride to all points of
the compass. In colour he is cream; his eyes are grey, with pink lids; and
he has white eyelashes like an albino. His manners are not demonstrative,
but coldly courteous.

[Illustration: "SANGER."]

Outside, in the park, is another pet, which was presented to Her Majesty
by Lord Wolseley, a peculiarly tall, deerlike-looking animal, a Zulu cow,
bred from a bull which was originally the property of Dabulamanzi,
Cetewayo's brother. Cetewayo, curiously enough, when paying a visit to the
Shaw Farm, saw his brother's cattle, but did not appear to admire them
much when compared with the English. A well-bred English cow has four
times the substance and breeding of her Zulu sister.

Attention may also be called to some magnificent red Spanish cattle, whose
noble heads and gigantic horns are in themselves a study for the artist.

It should be mentioned here that when Her Majesty drives through the
private road which leads from the Castle past the kennels and dairy to the
Shaw Farm, she likes to see the animals as they come up to the railings,
and is thus able to observe how former favourites bear the burden of their
years. The Queen names most of them herself, and never forgets an old
friend.

Before going on to the kennels, by permission of the courteous manageress,
we enter the beautiful Royal dairy, which was built under the direction of
His Royal Highness the late Prince Consort in the twenty-first year of Her
Majesty's reign. It is more like an apartment in fairyland than a dairy.
The walls and ceiling are composed of exquisitely shaded Minton tiles, the
dairy itself being about forty-five feet long and thirty wide. Long marble
tables run right round the sides and up the centre. On these tables are
some 90 white earthenware pans, each of which contains about seven quarts
of milk. The butter is sent to Osborne every day, and averages about
twenty pounds weight in winter and forty in summer. A small supply for the
Queen's own breakfast table is also made in a special churn every morning.

Around the walls of the dairy are medallions of the Royal family, with the
monogram V.R. between. At each end of the dairy stands a beautiful
fountain; there is also one at the side. All these fountains came from the
Exhibition of 1851; the design is a stork supporting a lily leaf into
which the water falls. The roof is supported by three pairs of arched
pillars, and the windows are double, the inner set being stained with
designs of Tudor roses, hawthorn, primroses, white marguerites, the rose,
shamrock, thistle, and Scotch harebell. The outer windows are plain glass.
Beyond the glass is another window of wire gauze, so minute that in hot
weather both windows can be thrown open to admit the air, and yet all
intrusive insects kept at a distance. The Royal herd generally consists of
about fifty cows when they are all in milk, principally shorthorns and
Jerseys, twenty-five of each. Last year there were fifty-four cows in
milk, but the number usually averages about fifty.

The recesses in the dairy walls are filled with lovely old Crown Derby
and Worcester, together with a few Oriental china plates and dishes.
There is also a dish bearing the inscription, "Chamberlain, Worcester,
Manufacturer to His Royal Highness the Prince Regent." Close to the
dairy, stands an apartment devoted to churns and huge milk-cans. Each
milk-can bears the following inscription on the top:--

[Illustration: V.R. Home Park, Windsor.]

After exhausting the wonders of the Royal dairy, we pass out into the
sunshine once more, but, before leaving the shrubbery, notice two little
monuments to the memory of long-deceased favourites, the inscriptions on
which are as follows:--

[Illustration]

  +-----------------------------------------------------------------+
  |                                                                 |
  |                              BOY,                               |
  |                    Died February 20, 1862,                      |
  |                        Aged five years.                         |
  | The favourite and faithful dog of the Queen and Prince Consort. |
  |                                                                 |
  +-----------------------------------------------------------------+


[Illustration]

  +-----------------------------------------------------------------+
  |                                                                 |
  |                             BOZ,                                |
  |                                                                 |
  | The favourite Scottish terrier of the Duchess of Kent, to whom  |
  |   he had been given in 1857 by the Queen and Prince Consort.    |
  |                                                                 |
  | On March 16, 1861, he was taken back, and from that time till   |
  |   he died, Oct. 26, 1864, remained the faithful dog of the      |
  |   Queen.                                                        |
  |                                                                 |
  +-----------------------------------------------------------------+

Surely, two touching and blameless little records!

Leaving these pets to their well-earned rest, we walk along the
trimly-kept private road leading to the Royal kennels. Here, when Her
Majesty drives along, she can see the Spanish oxen and other pets as they
come up to the railings and peer curiously over, the long horns of the
oxen especially making a formidable show which is entirely belied by their
peaceful disposition.

At the Royal kennels we are received by Mr. Hugh Brown, the manager, and
his able assistant, Mr. Hill, and shown into the apartment which is
sometimes occupied by Her Majesty when visiting the kennels. It is a
quaint, medium-sized room, with old oak rafters and oak furniture,
comfortable chairs and foot-rests predominating. The curtains are a
warm, deep red, the carpet to match, and a couple of little oak tables
occupy the centre of the room. But the unique feature about this
apartment is the number of dog portraits on the walls. There are dogs of
every race, shape and colour; dogs large and small; dogs lying down or
standing up; dogs in oils; dogs in watercolours; all of them labelled
with the animal's name and the artist who painted it. One or two special
favourites have a lock of their hair let into the woodwork of the frame.

[Illustration: Sleeping compartment & Yard in front.]

Outside, the tiled walk called the "Queen's Verandah" is covered over as
a protection against the weather. Her Majesty is accustomed to walk up
and down here, and inspect the various occupants. There are several dogs
in every compartment. Each front yard measures ten feet by twelve; the
sleeping compartment is ten feet by ten. The wall in front stands nearly
three feet high, and has a rail on the top. Each yard is paved with red
and blue tiles. In the sleeping compartments, which are warmed by
hot-water pipes, are benches raised about a foot from the ground. Facing
the "Collie Court," as it is called, is a large paddock which contains
the bath--a curious aperture in the ground, with sloping sides, so that
a dog can run down, swim through the middle, and walk up again on the
other side. The sides of this bath are lined with little round stones.
There is also an umbrella-shaped structure of wood, under which the dogs
can lie and sun themselves after the bath. Near the road is a curious
looking seat called "The Apron Piece," with a railing in front. The
Queen sometimes sits here and watches the gambols of the dogs when they
are let loose in the paddock.

[Illustration: The Apron Piece.]

There does not appear to be any hard and fast rule as to the housing of
the dogs. It all depends how they agree with each other. For instance,
in one compartment will be found a collie, Spitz, and dachshund; in the
next, three Spitzes and a pug; then two Skye terriers, three pugs, one
dachshund; then two lovely white collies; then one solitary collie whose
coat is out of order, and who comes up with big, beseeching eyes, as if
imploring us to put an end to her solitude. The most attractive sight
is, of course, the twelve or thirteen beautiful collies in one big
compartment. In all there are about fifty-five dogs, fifty-four of whom
are in robust health, the hospital containing one whippet. A beautiful
little black Pomeranian "Zeela" inhabits a huge cage in solitary state,
and barks herself all over it at once. In the paddock outside her cage
are four beautiful black and tan collie pups, all eager for a romp.

Every dog in the Queen's kennels is exercised twice a day, morning and
afternoon. The little dogs generally go out first, and then give place
to the big ones. Feeding time for the whole establishment is four
o'clock in the afternoon, but during very cold weather each animal is
given some dry biscuit every morning. The food is prepared in a kitchen
reserved expressly for this purpose, and consists of soaked biscuits,
vegetables, meat, bullock's head, pluck, and sometimes a little beef.
Oatmeal is also added to this _la podrida_. The dogs are all in hard
condition, and look the picture of health. It is difficult to tear
oneself away from the collies, especially the two lovely white ones and
the little buff-coated Pomeranians, with tightly curling tails and
small, sharp ears.

[Illustration: "SPOT."]

Her Majesty's love for dogs is so well known that it would be
superfluous to dwell upon such a topic. Wherever the Queen goes, she is
accompanied by "Spot" (a fox-terrier), "Roy" (a black and tan collie),
and a lovely little brown Spitz called "Marco." Her favourite dogs are
collies, and she possesses a magnificent specimen in "Darnley," who is
now being exhibited at the Agricultural Hall dog show. "Darnley" is a
beautiful black and tan in colour, with heavy white ruff. He has a most
curious habit, inherited from his father, of wrinkling up the skin of
his nose and showing all his teeth when pleased. Another animal away at
the show is the little eight-months old Skye terrier, "Rona." "Rona" is
iron-grey in colour, has a very long body, and is extremely intelligent
and good natured.

[Illustration: "ROY."]

On one of the artist's visits, "Beppo," a white Pomeranian, was brought
out to have his portrait taken. Dog-like, he at once pretended, when
required to sit still, that it was an excessively difficult operation
causing great physical discomfort. Talking did not interest him, shaking
of keys and rolling of coppers had lost their charm; in fact, tail
between legs, he voted existence a mistake. Just then, up strolled dear
little "Rona," and with bright intelligent eyes seemingly enquired into
the matter. In a few seconds everything was put right again. The sun
once more shone, and the portrait was taken. Surely, these little Skyes
are the most lovable and intelligent of all dogs. To any one who has
read "Rab and his Friends," however, such a remark is unnecessary.

[Illustration: "MARCO."]

[Illustration: "BEPPO."]

In appearance, little tiny "Gena" bears the palm from all the
Pomeranians. She is one mass of white, silky wool, and has the most
charming manners. With one tiny paw uplifted she immediately decides
that artists are not as photographers, and may be trusted to take
portraits without the intervention of any snappy and nerve-shaking
apparatus. "Gena" and "Glen," an old black and tan collie, live in the
house, the inseparable companions of genial Mrs. Hugh Brown.

The late Prince Consort's favourite dogs were dachshunds, a specimen of
which invariably accompanied him on his walks. The Prince of Wales
favours the odd-looking bassets, of which he has many fine specimens.

[Illustration: "GENA."]

[Illustration: "GENA."]

But the kennels, with all their joyousness, have sad little tragedies at
times. For instance, after the death of the late well-loved Emperor
Frederick, two of his favourite Italian dogs, charming creatures,
something like Italian greyhounds, were sent to Her Majesty, but,
unfortunately, did not long survive their illustrious master. Many old
pets have tombs in various parts of the Royal domain. Among others which
may be seen on the Slopes is that of "Sharp," a handsome collie, who
lies, as in life, guarding the Queen's glove.

It is related of "Sharp" that he was greatly attached to the late Mr.
John Brown, whose room he jealously guarded. If, by chance, strangers
entered during Mr. Brown's absence they were not allowed to leave until
his return, and under no circumstances must anything be taken from the
room while "Sharp" was on guard. A housemaid, indeed, once picked up
some little article with the intention of putting it on the table, and
the dog, although he knew her well, refused to allow her to leave the
room.

[Illustration]

In noticing the display of prize certificates won by the dogs, we hear
of another instance of Her Majesty's thoughtfulness for her pets.
Although frequently exhibited for the pleasure of her subjects, they are
never allowed to pass the night from home, being taken to and from the
place of exhibition each day by their careful guardians, Messrs. Brown
and Hill.

After an inspection of the well-kept stud-book, we at last turn to leave
the happy scene, a process viewed, evidently, with much relief by a
funny little, black-faced pug, to whom our presence and proceedings
throughout have seemingly caused the greatest astonishment.

But we have still Her Majesty's pets at the stables to look at before
returning to town, so we walk blithely down Herne's Walk toward the
Castle, putting up a huge hare, who leisurely retreats as if feeling
secure within the Royal precincts. As we go down the walk, we notice a
comparatively juvenile-looking tree in marked contrast to the giants
around. At its foot is the following inscription:--

              This tree was planted by
             Her Majesty Queen Victoria
      To mark the spot where Herne's Oak stood.
            The old tree was blown down
                 August 31st, 1863.

    There is an old tale goes that Herne the Hunter,
    Some time a keeper here in Windsor Forest,
    Doth all the winter time at still midnight
    Walk round about an oak.

                                  --_Shakespeare._

[Illustration]

After lunch at the nearest hostelry, we walk up to the Castle, and
enquire for Mr. John Manning, the superintendent of the Royal mews. Mr.
Manning first takes us to the harness-room, a well-lighted, pleasant
building with sanded floor, a stove burning brightly in the centre of
the room, and all round the walls harness and saddles symmetrically
arranged. The first set of double harness which he shows us is seldom
used, and is made out of black leather, richly embroidered in designs of
the Royal Arms, &c., with split porcupine quills, the work of some
Tyrolese artists who visited this country many years ago. Next to the
porcupine harness hangs a set of Russian leather sledge harness,
beautifully mounted with silver, and as soft as a kid glove. High over
the saddles (the saddles are hung up with what is known as a crutch) are
the collars of the Queen's carriage horses. In order to prevent
confusion, the name of each horse is printed above the collar, _i.e._,
"True," "Ronald," "Sheridan," "Beau," "Force," "Belfast," "Middy,"
"Bashful," and so on.

Next door to the harness-room is a huge coach-house containing the
Queen's carriages, among them being a landau, sociable, driving landau,
waggonette, and a driving phaeton with curtains, which was much used by
the late Prince Consort. In one corner is a covered perambulator
belonging to Her Majesty's grandchildren, and close to it stands the
vehicle which is generally known as "the Queen's Chair," although it is
in reality a little four-wheeled carriage, with rubber tyres, and a low
step, the interior lining and cushions being a plain dark blue in
colour.

[Illustration: "JACQUOT."]

This vehicle is much used by Her Majesty when driving about the grounds,
and is drawn by an exceedingly strong, handsome donkey called "Jacquot,"
in colour a very dark brown, with white nose and curiously knotted tail.
"Jacquot," who is a very intelligent animal, with a rather strong
objection to work, and a great love of good living, accompanies Her
Majesty whenever she goes abroad, his next destination being Florence.

In an adjoining paddock stands a nice, pleasant-looking grey donkey, who
munches an apple philosophically while having his portrait drawn. He is
a great favourite, the son of Egyptian "Tewfik," and takes his share of
garden work and in carrying the Queen's grandchildren.

The adjoining stable contains eighteen harness horses, most of them
grey. The stables themselves are beautifully kept, one groom being
generally allowed to every two horses. At the edge of each stall is an
artistically plaited border of straw. Close by is the riding school, a
handsome building sixty-three yards in length and eighteen yards wide.
The roof is supported on handsome oak brackets; at one end is a balcony
where it is said Her Majesty and the late Prince Consort were accustomed
to sit and watch the horses being exercised. In this gallery are
medallions of favourite horses, the frames containing locks of their
hair. The riding school is lit with gas, and the lower part of the walls
lined with kamptulicon, which never wears out, and prevents a horse
being much injured should he by any chance kick or fall against it. The
centre of the tan-covered floor is occupied by a mounting block.

This school is occasionally used for circus performances, and,
splendidly decorated, was the scene of the grand entertainment given to
the Belgian volunteers some years since.

[Illustration: A SON OF "TEWFIK."]

In a solitary loose box, warmly wrapped in rugs, her own natural coat
being like very thick, soft, black plush, placidly stands "Jessie," the
Queen's favourite old riding-mare. With her splendid coat, silky mane
and tail, lofty crest, and soft mild eyes, she looks indeed worthy of
her Royal mistress. "Jessie's" pedigree is unknown to us, but she was
bred near Balmoral. She is about fifteen hands three inches in height,
black as a coal, and with peculiar white markings on forehead and back.
She is now twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and, until within the
last twelve months, has carried Her Majesty for many years. The Queen is
very fond of "Jessie," who, although now, from old age, past work, is
invariably sent to the Castle for inspection when Her Majesty is at
Windsor.

[Illustration: JESSIE 1892.]

A very different-looking animal is the grey Arab in the next stable.
This magnificent horse was presented to Her Majesty by the Thakore of
Morvi, and does not bear the best of stable reputations, but when
mounted he is docility itself, and a very faithful worker. The grey's
wardrobe, when he came to England, consisted of the following gorgeous
trappings:--Saddle of red and green cloth, under felt, pad for saddle,
embroidered saddle-cloth, embroidered bridle, plume, hood in cloth of
gold, leg-ring and pad, embroidered neckpiece, embroidered
quarter-piece, four bunches of woollen tassels, and a silk scarf.
Arrayed in all this splendour and ridden by a native attendant, he was
brought into the Grand Quadrangle at Windsor to be presented to Her
Majesty with due and appropriate ceremonies. He is tall for an Arab,
with whitish body, dark grey legs, pink muzzle, and silky black mane,
which hangs over the near or left side of his neck. In the next stable
stand twelve beautiful brougham horses, ranging from dark brown to light
chestnut in colour. Next to the brougham horses are four brown ponies,
about fourteen hands high. These animals were all bred from a pony
called "Beatrice," which the Princess Beatrice was accustomed to ride.

[Illustration: THE GREY ARAB.]

In the next carriage-house stands a gorgeous _char-à-banc_, presented to
Her Majesty by Louis Philippe. Then come the carriages of the household,
weighing about fifteen hundredweight each. The most curious-looking
vehicles, however, are the long-shafted Russian droschkies, meant to be
drawn by three horses abreast.

In another carriage-house is a vehicle replete with historical and
pathetic interest. This is none other than the post-chaise in which Her
Majesty and the late Prince Consort travelled all through Germany about
seven years after their marriage. It is fitted up with a writing-case,
and all sorts of conveniences, and hung on C springs.

The cheerful tap-tap of a hammer, and a keen, pungent scent as of
something burning, warn us that we are in the vicinity of the Royal
smithy. A handsome grey carriage-horse is being shod, one hoof doubled
up between the farrier's legs, as that worthy, with quick taps, drives
in a long nail, and makes the shoe fast.

The Royal mews, which were built in 1841, cover a space of no less than
four acres of ground, and, together with those at Buckingham Palace, are
under the able supervision of Colonel Sir George Maude, K.C.B., R.A.,
&c., who also purchases most of Her Majesty's horses. It is no light
testimonial to the care of their management when we hear that, although
sometimes as many as one hundred horses are accommodated at Windsor, the
veterinary surgeon's account only amounts for the year to a most
insignificant sum.

We cannot take our leave, for the present, of the Royal pets without
again returning our hearty thanks to all with whom we have been brought
in contact, for their kindness, courtesy, and desire to assist us in our
mission. To all loyal subjects who wish to see a model of a good Queen's
home we can give no better advice than to go to Royal Windsor.

[Illustration: DIEU ET MON DROIT.]

(The Editors of _The Idler_ return their most sincere thanks to General
Sir Henry Ponsonby, G.C.B., &c., &c., for his kind correction and
revision of the above article.)



PEOPLE I HAVE NEVER MET.

BY SCOTT RANKIN.

          -----

[Illustration: HEINRIK IBSEN.]

"We are all of us ghosts.... It is not only what we have inherited from
our father and mother that 'walks' in us. It is all sorts of dead ideas,
and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they
cling to us all the same, and we can't get rid of them. Whenever I take
up a newspaper I seem to see ghosts gliding between the lines. There
must be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sands of the
sea."--IBSEN.



THE RECLAMATION OF JOE HOLLENDS.

BY ROBERT BARR.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. GREIG.

          -----


[Illustration: "THE WRONGS OF THE WORKING MAN."]

The public-houses of Burwell Road--and there were many of them for the
length of the street--were rather proud of Joe Hollends. He was a
perfected specimen of the work a pub produces. He was probably the most
persistent drunkard the Road possessed, and the periodical gathering in
of Joe by the police was one of the stock sights of the street. Many of
the inhabitants could be taken to the station by one policeman; some
required two; but Joe's average was four. He had been heard to boast
that on one occasion he had been accompanied to the station by seven
bobbies, but that was before the force had studied Joe and got him down
to his correct mathematical equivalent. Now they tripped him up, a
policeman taking one kicking leg and another the other, while the
remaining two attended to the upper part of his body. Thus they carried
him, followed by an admiring crowd, and watched by other envious
drunkards who had to content themselves with a single officer when they
went on a similar spree. Sometimes Joe managed to place a kick where it
would do the most good against the stomach of a policeman, and when the
officer rolled over there was for a few moments a renewal of the fight,
silent on the part of the men and vociferous on the part of the
drunkard, who had a fine flow of abusive language. Then the procession
went on again. It was perfectly useless to put Joe on the police
ambulance, for it required two men to sit on him while in transit, and
the barrow is not made to stand such a load.

Of course, when Joe staggered out of the pub and fell in the gutter, the
ambulance did its duty, and trundled Joe to his abiding place, but the
real fun occurred when Joe was gathered in during the third stage of his
debauch. He passed through the oratorical stage, then the maudlin or
sentimental stage, from which he emerged into the fighting stage, when
he was usually ejected into the street, where he forthwith began to make
Rome howl, and paint the town red. At this point the policeman's whistle
sounded, and the force knew Joe was on the warpath, and that duty called
them to the fray.

It was believed in the neighbourhood that Joe had been a college man,
and this gave him additional standing with his admirers. His eloquence
was undoubted, after several glasses varying in number according to the
strength of their contents, and a man who had heard the great political
speakers of the day admitted that none of them could hold a candle to
Joe when he got on the subject of the wrongs of the working man and the
tyranny of the capitalist. It was generally understood that Joe might
have been anything he liked, and that he was no man's enemy but his own.
It was also hinted that he could tell the bigwigs a thing or two if he
had been consulted in affairs of State.

One evening, when Joe was slowly progressing as usual, with his feet in
the air, towards the station, supported by the requisite number of
policemen, and declaiming to the delight of the accompanying crowd, a
woman stood with her back to the brick wall, horror-stricken at the
sight. She had a pale, refined face, and was dressed in black. Her
self-imposed mission was among these people, but she had never seen Joe
taken to the station before, and the sight, which was so amusing to the
neighbourhood, was shocking to her. She enquired about Joe, and heard
the usual story that he was no man's enemy but his own, although they
might in justice have added the police. Still, a policeman was hardly
looked upon as a human being in that neighbourhood. Miss Johnson
reported the case to the committee of the Social League, and took
counsel. Then it was that the reclamation of Joe Hollends was determined
on.

Joe received Miss Johnson with subdued dignity, and a demeanour that
delicately indicated a knowledge on his part of her superiority and his
own degradation. He knew how a lady should be treated even if he was a
drunkard, as he told his cronies afterwards. Joe was perfectly willing
to be reclaimed. Heretofore in his life, no one had ever extended the
hand of fellowship to him. Human sympathy was what Joe needed, and
precious little he had had of it. There were more kicks than halfpence
in this world for a poor man. The rich did not care what became of the
poor; not they--a proposition which Miss Johnson earnestly denied.

It was one of the tenets of the committee that where possible the poor
should help the poor. It was resolved to get Joe a decent suit of
clothes and endeavour to find him a place where work would enable him to
help himself. Miss Johnson went around the neighbourhood and collected
pence for the reclamation. Most people were willing to help Joe,
although it was generally felt that the Road would be less gay when he
took on sober habits. In one room, however, Miss Johnson was refused the
penny she pleaded for.

"We cannot spare even a penny," said the woman, whose sickly little boy
clung to her skirts. "My husband is just out of work again. He has had
only four weeks' work this time."

Miss Johnson looked around the room and saw why there was no money. It
was quite evident where the earnings of the husband had gone.

The room was much better furnished than the average apartment of the
neighbourhood. There were two sets of dishes where one would have been
quite sufficient. On the mantelshelf and around the walls were various
unnecessary articles which cost money.

[Illustration: "'WE CANNOT SPARE EVEN A PENNY.'"]

Miss Johnson noted all this but said nothing, although she resolved to
report it to the committee. In union is strength and in multitude of
counsel there is wisdom. Miss Johnson had great faith in the wisdom of
the committee.

"How long has your husband been out of work?" she asked.

"Only a few days, but times are very bad and he is afraid he will not
get another situation soon."

"What is his trade?"

"He is a carpenter and a good workman--sober and steady."

"If you give me his name I will put it down in our books. Perhaps we may
be able to help him."

"John Morris is his name."

Miss Johnson wrote it down on her tablets, and when she left the wife
felt vaguely grateful for benefits to come.

The facts of the case were reported to the committee, and Miss Johnson
was deputed to expostulate with Mrs. Morris upon her extravagance. John
Morris's name was put upon the books among the names of many other
unemployed persons. The case of Joe Hollends then came up, and elicited
much enthusiasm. A decent suit of clothing had been purchased with part
of the money collected for him, and it was determined to keep the rest
in trust, to be doled out to him as occasion warranted.

[Illustration: "THE LADIES WERE VERY PERSUASIVE."]

Two persuasive ladies undertook to find a place for him in one of the
factories, if such a thing were possible.

Joe felt rather uncomfortable in his new suit of clothes, and seemed to
regard the expenditure as, all in all, a waste of good money. He was
also disappointed to find that the funds collected were not to be handed
over to him in a lump. It was not the money he cared about, he said, but
the evident lack of trust. If people had trusted him more, he might have
been a better man. Trust and human sympathy were what Joe Hollends
needed.

The two persuasive ladies appealed to Mr. Stillwell, the proprietor of a
small factory for the making of boxes. They said that if Hollends got a
chance they were sure he would reform. Stillwell replied that he had no
place for anyone. He had enough to do to keep the men already in his
employ. Times were dull in the box business, and he was turning away
applicants every day who were good workmen and who didn't need to be
reformed. However, the ladies were very persuasive, and it is not given
to every man to be able to refuse the appeal of a pretty woman, not to
mention two of them. Stillwell promised to give Hollends a chance, said
he would consult with his foreman, and let the ladies know what could be
done.

Joe Hollends did not receive the news of his luck with the enthusiasm
that might have been expected. Many a man was tramping London in search
of employment and finding none, therefore even the ladies who were so
solicitous about Joe's welfare thought he should be thankful that work
came unsought. He said he would do his best, which is, when you come to
think of it, all that we have a right to expect from any man.

Some days afterwards Jack Morris applied to Mr. Stillwell for a job, but
he had no sub-committee of persuasive ladies to plead for him. He would
be willing to work half-time or quarter-time for that matter. He had a
wife and boy dependent on him. He could show that he was a good workman
and he did not drink. Thus did Morris recite his qualifications to the
unwilling ears of Stillwell the box maker. As he left the place
disheartened with another refusal, he was overtaken by Joe Hollends. Joe
was a lover of his fellow-man, and disliked seeing anyone downhearted.
He had one infallible cure for dejection. Having just been discharged,
he was in high spirits, because his prediction of his own failure as a
reformed character, if work were a condition of the reclamation, had
just been fulfilled.

"Cheer up, old man," he cried, slapping Morris on the shoulder, "what's
the matter? Come and have a drink with me. I've got the money."

"No," said Morris, who knew the professional drunkard but slightly, and
did not care for further acquaintance with him, "I want work, not beer."

"Every man to his taste. Why don't you ask at the box factory? You can
have my job and welcome. The foreman's just discharged me. Said I
wouldn't work myself, and kept the men off theirs. Thought I talked too
much about capital and labour."

"Do you think I could get your job?"

"Very likely. No harm in trying. If they don't take you on, come into
the Red Lion--I'll be there--and have a drop. It'll cheer you up a bit."

Morris appealed in vain to the foreman. They had more men now in the
factory than they needed, he said. So Morris went to the Red Lion, where
he found Hollends ready to welcome him. They had several glasses
together, and Hollends told him of the efforts of the Social League in
the reclamation line, and his doubts of their ultimate success. Hollends
seemed to think the ladies of the League were deeply indebted to him for
furnishing them with such a good subject for reformation. That night
Joe's career reached a triumphant climax, for the four policemen had to
appeal to the bystanders for help in the name of the law.

[Illustration: "HE FOUND HOLLENDS READY TO WELCOME HIM."]

Jack Morris went home unaided. He had not taken many glasses, but he
knew he should have avoided drink altogether, for he had some experience
of its power in his younger days. He was, therefore, in a quarrelsome
mood, ready to blame everyone but himself.

He found his wife in tears, and saw Miss Johnson sitting there,
evidently very miserable.

"What's all this?" asked Morris.

His wife dried her eyes, and said it was nothing. Miss Johnson had been
giving her some advice, which she was thankful for. Morris glared at the
visitor.

"What have you got to do with us?" he demanded rudely. His wife caught
him by the arm, but he angrily tossed aside her hand. Miss Johnson
arose, fearing.

"You've no business here. We want none of your advice. You get out of
this." Then, impatiently to his wife, who strove to calm him, "Shut up,
will you?"

Miss Johnson was afraid he would strike her as she passed him going to
the door, but he merely stood there, following her exit with lowering
brow.

[Illustration: "TOLD HER EXPERIENCE."]

The terrified lady told her experience to the sympathising members of
the committee. She had spoken to Mrs. Morris of her extravagance in
buying so many things that were not necessary when her husband had work.
She advised the saving of the money. Mrs. Morris had defended her
apparent lavish expenditure by saying that there was no possibility of
saving money. She bought useful things, and when her husband was out of
work she could always get a large percentage of their cost from the
pawnbroker. The pawnshop, she had tearfully explained to Miss Johnson,
was the only bank of the poor. The idea of the pawnshop as a bank, and
not as a place of disgrace, was new to Miss Johnson, but before anything
further could be said the husband had come in. One of the committee, who
knew more about the district than Miss Johnson, affirmed that there was
something to say for the pawnbroker as the banker of the poor. The
committee were unanimous in condemning the conduct of Morris, and it
says much for the members that, in spite of the provocation one of them
had received, they did not take the name of so undeserving a man from
their list of the unemployed.

The sad relapse of Joe Hollends next occupied the attention of the
League. His fine had been paid, and he had expressed himself as deeply
grieved at his own frailty. If the foreman had been less harsh with him
and had given him a chance, things might have been different. It was
resolved to send Joe to the seaside so that he might have an opportunity
of toning up his system to resist temptation. Joe enjoyed his trip to
the sea. He always liked to encounter a new body of police unaccustomed
to his methods. He toned up his system so successfully the first day on
the sands that he spent the night in the cells.

Little by little, the portable property in the rooms of the Morrises
disappeared into the pawnshop. Misfortune, as usual, did not come
singly. The small boy was ill, and Morris himself seemed to be unable to
resist the temptation of the Red Lion. The unhappy woman took her boy to
the parish doctor, who was very busy, but he gave what attention he
could to the case. He said all the boy needed was nourishing food and
country air. Mrs. Morris sighed, and decided to take the little boy
oftener to the park, but the way was long, and he grew weaker day by
day.

At last, she succeeded in interesting her husband in the little fellow's
condition. He consented to take the boy to the doctor with her.

"The doctor doesn't seem to mind what I say," she complained. "Perhaps
he will pay attention to a man."

Morris was not naturally a morose person, but continued disappointment
was rapidly making him so. He said nothing, but took the boy in his
arms, and, followed by his wife, went to the doctor.

"This boy was here before," said the physician, which tended to show
that he had paid more attention to the case than Mrs. Morris thought.
"He is very much worse. You will have to take him to the country or he
will die."

"How can I send him to the country?" asked Morris, sullenly. "I've been
out of work for months."

"Have you friends in the country?"

"No."

"Hasn't your wife any friends in the country who would take her and the
lad for a month or so?"

"No."

"Have you anything to pawn?"

"Very little."

"Then I would advise you to pawn everything you own, or sell it if you
can, and take the boy on your back and tramp to the country. You will
get work there probably more easily than in the city. Here are ten
shillings to help you."

"I don't want your money," said Morris, in a surly tone. "I want work."

"I have no work to give you, so I offer you what I have. I haven't as
much of that as I could wish. You are a fool not to take what the gods
send."

Morris, without replying, gathered up his son in his arms and departed.

"Here is a bottle of tonic for him," said the doctor to Mrs. Morris.

He placed the half-sovereign on the bottle as he passed it to her. She
silently thanked him with her wet eyes, hoping that a time would come
when she could repay the money. The doctor had experience enough to know
that they were not to be classed among his usual visitors. He was not in
the habit of indiscriminately bestowing gold coins.

[Illustration: "'HERE IS A TONIC FOR HIM.'"]

It was a dreary journey, and they were a long time shaking off the
octopus-like tentacles of the great city, that reached further and
further into the country each year, as if it lived on consuming the
green fields. Morris walked ahead with the boy on his back, and his wife
followed. Neither spoke, and the sick lad did not complain. As they were
nearing a village, the boy's head sunk on his father's shoulder. The
mother quickened her pace, and came up to them, stroking the head of her
sleeping son. Suddenly, she uttered a smothered cry and took the boy in
her arms.

"What's the matter?" asked Morris, turning round.

She did not answer, but sat by the roadside with the boy on her lap,
swaying her body to and fro over him, moaning as she did so. Morris
needed no answer. He stood on the road with hardening face, and looked
down on his wife and child without speaking.

The kindly villagers arranged the little funeral, and when it was over
Jack Morris and his wife stood again on the road.

"Jack, dear," she pleaded, "don't go back to that horrible place. We
belong to the country, and the city is so hard and cruel."

"I'm going back. You can do as you like." Then, relenting a little, he
added, "I haven't brought much luck to you, my girl."

[Illustration: "IT WAS A GLORIOUS VICTORY."]

She knew her husband was a stubborn man, and set in his way, so,
unprotesting, she followed him in, as she had followed him out,
stumbling many times, for often her eyes did not see the road. And so
they returned to their empty rooms.

Jack Morris went to look for work at the Red Lion. There he met that
genial comrade, Joe Hollends, who had been reformed, and who had
backslid twice since Jack had foregathered with him before. It is but
fair to Joe to admit that he had never been optimistic about his own
reclamation, but, being an obliging man, even when he was sober, he was
willing to give the Social League every chance. Jack was deeply grieved
at the death of his son, although he had said no word to his wife that
would show it. It therefore took more liquor than usual to bring him up
to the point of good comradeship that reigned at the Red Lion. When he
and Joe left the tavern that night it would have taken an expert to tell
which was the more inebriated. They were both in good fighting trim, and
both were in the humour for a row. The police, who had reckoned on Joe
alone, suddenly found a new element in the fight that not only upset
their calculations but themselves as well. It was a glorious victory,
and, as both fled down a side street, Morris urged Hollends to come
along, for the representatives of law and order have the habit of
getting reinforcements which often turn a victory into a most
ignominious defeat.

"I can't," panted Hollends. "The beggars have hurt me."

"Come along. I know a place where we are safe."

Drunk as he was, Jack succeeded in finding the hole in the wall that
allowed him to enter a vacant spot behind the box factory. There
Hollends lay down with a groan, and there Morris sank beside him in a
drunken sleep. The police were at last revenged, and finally.

When the grey daylight brought Morris to a dazed sense of where he was,
he found his companion dead beside him. He had a vague fear that he
would be tried for murder, but it was not so. From the moment that
Hollends, in his fall, struck his head on the kerb, the Providence which
looks after the drunken deserted him.

But the inquest accomplished one good object. It attracted the attention
of the Social League to Jack Morris, and they are now endeavouring to
reclaim him.

Whether they succeed or not, he was a man that was certainly once worth
saving.

[Illustration]



MY FIRST BOOK.

DAWN.

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. AND B. HUTCHINSON.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY MESSRS. FRADELLE AND YOUNG.


I think that it was in an article by a fellow-scribe, where, doubtless
more in sorrow than in anger, that gentleman exposed the worthlessness
of the productions of sundry of his brother authors, in which I read
that whatever success I had met with as a writer of fiction was due to
my literary friends and "nepotic criticism." This is scarcely the case,
since when I began to write I do not think that I knew a single creature
who had published books--blue books alone excepted. Nobody was ever more
outside the ring, or less acquainted with the art of "rolling logs,"
than the humble individual who pens these lines. But the reader shall
judge for himself.

[Illustration: THE FRONT GARDEN.]

To begin at the beginning: My very first attempt at imaginative writing
was made while I was a boy at school. One of the masters promised a
prize to that youth who should best describe on paper any incident, real
or imaginary. I entered the lists, and selected the scene at an
operation in a hospital as my subject. The fact that I had never seen an
operation, nor crossed the doors of a hospital, did not deter me from
this bold endeavour, which, however, was justified by its success. I was
declared to have won in the competition, though, probably through the
forgetfulness of the master, I remember that I never received the
promised prize. My next literary effort, written in 1876, was an account
of a Zulu war dance, which I witnessed when I was on the staff of the
Governor of Natal. It was published in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and
very kindly noticed in various papers. A year later I wrote another
article, entitled "A Visit to the Chief Secocoeni," which appeared in
_Macmillan_, and very nearly got me into trouble. I was then serving on
the staff of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, and the article, signed with my
initials, reached South Africa in its printed form shortly after the
annexation of the Transvaal. Young men with a pen in their hands are
proverbially indiscreet, and in this instance I was no exception. In the
course of my article I had described the Transvaal Boer at home with a
fidelity that should be avoided by members of a diplomatic mission, and
had even gone the length of saying that most of the Dutch women were
"fat." Needless to say, my remarks were translated into the Africander
papers, and somewhat extensively read, especially by the ladies in
question and their male relatives; nor did the editors of those papers
forbear to comment on them in leading articles. Shortly afterwards,
there was a great and stormy meeting of Boers at Pretoria. As matters
began to look serious, somebody ventured among them to ascertain the
exciting cause, and returned with the pleasing intelligence that they
were all talking of what the Englishman had written about the physical
proportions of their womenkind and domestic habits, and threatening to
take up arms to avenge it. Of my feelings on learning this news I will
not discourse, but they were uncomfortable, to say the least of it.
Happily, in the end, the gathering broke up without bloodshed, but when
the late Sir Bartle Frere came to Pretoria, some months afterwards, he
administered to me a sound and well-deserved lecture on my indiscretion.
I excused myself by saying that I had set down nothing which was not
strictly true, and he replied to the effect that therein lay my fault. I
quite agree with him; indeed, there is little doubt but that these bald
statements of fact as to the stoutness of the Transvaal "fraus," and the
lack of cleanliness in their homes, went near to precipitating a result
that, as it chanced, was postponed for several years. Well, it is all
done with now, and I take this opportunity of apologising to such of the
ladies in question as may still be in the land of life.

[Illustration: THE BACK GARDEN.]

This unfortunate experience cooled my literary ardour, yet, as it
chanced, when some five years later I again took up my pen, it was in
connection with African affairs. These pages are no place for politics,
but I must allude to them in explanation. It will be remembered that the
Transvaal was annexed by Great Britain in 1877. In 1881 the Boers rose
in rebellion and administered several thrashings to our troops, whereon
the Government of this country came suddenly to the conclusion that a
wrong had been done to the victors, and subject to some paper
restrictions, gave them back their independence. As it chanced, at the
time I was living on some African property belonging to me in the centre
of the operations, and so disgusted was I, in common with thousands of
others, at the turn which matters had taken, that I shook the dust of
South Africa off my feet and returned to England. Now, the first impulse
of an aggrieved Englishman is to write to the _Times_, and if I remember
right I took this course, but my letter not being inserted, I enlarged
upon the idea and composed a book called "Cetewayo and his White
Neighbours." This semi-political work, or rather history, was very
carefully constructed from the records of some six years' experience,
and by the help of a shelf full of blue books that stare me in the face
as I write these words; and the fact that it still goes on selling seems
to show that it has some value in the eyes of students of South African
politics. But when I had written my book I was confronted by a
difficulty which I had not anticipated, being utterly without experience
in such affairs--that of finding somebody willing to publish it. I
remember that I purchased a copy of the _Athenæum_, and selecting the
names of various firms at hazard, wrote to them offering to submit my
manuscript, but, strange to say, none of them seemed anxious to peruse
it. At last--how I do not recollect--it came into the hands of Messrs.
Trübner, who, after consideration, wrote to say that they were willing
to bring it out on the half profit system, provided that I paid down
fifty pounds towards the cost of production. I did not at all like the
idea of parting with the fifty pounds, but I believed in my book, and
was anxious to put my views on the Transvaal rebellion and other African
questions before the world. So I consented to the terms, and in due
course Cetewayo was published in a neat green binding. Somewhat to my
astonishment, it proved a success from a literary point of view. It was
not largely purchased--indeed, that fifty pounds took several years on
its return journey to my pocket, but it was favourably, and in some
instances almost enthusiastically, reviewed, especially in the colonial
papers.

[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD AND DAUGHTERS.]

About this time the face of a girl whom I saw in a church at Norwood
gave me the idea of writing a novel. The face was so perfectly
beautiful, and at the same time so refined, that I felt I could fit a
story to it which should be worthy of a heroine similarly endowed. When
next I saw Mr. Trübner I consulted him on the subject.

"You can write--it is certain that you can write. Yes, do it, and I will
get the book published for you," he answered.

Thus encouraged I set to work. How to compose a novel I knew not, so I
wrote straight on, trusting to the light of nature to guide me. My main
object was to produce the picture of a woman perfect in mind and body,
and to show her character ripening and growing spiritual, under the
pressure of various afflictions. Of course, there is a vast gulf between
a novice's aspiration and his attainment, and I do not contend that
Angela as she appears in "Dawn" fulfils this ideal; also, such a person
in real life might, and probably would, be a bore--

                "Something too bright and good
                 For human nature's daily food."

[Illustration: THE HALL.]

Still, this was the end I aimed at. Indeed, before I had done with her,
I became so deeply attached to my heroine that, in a literary sense, I
have never quite got over it. I worked very hard at this novel during
the next six months or so, but at length it was finished and despatched
to Mr. Trübner, who, as his firm did not deal in this class of book,
submitted it to five or six of the best publishers of fiction. One and
all they declined it, so that by degrees it became clear to me that I
might as well have saved my labour. Mr. Trübner, however, had confidence
in my work, and submitted the manuscript to Mr. John Cordy Jeaffreson
for report; and here I may pause to say that I think there is more
kindness in the hearts of literary men than is common in the world. It
is not a pleasant task, in the face of repeated failure, again and again
to attempt the adventure of persuading brother publishers to undertake
the maiden effort of an unknown man. Still less pleasant is it, as I can
vouch from experience, to wade through a lengthy and not particularly
legible manuscript, and write an elaborate opinion thereon for the
benefit of a stranger. Yet Mr. Trübner and Mr. Jeaffreson did these
things for me without fee or reward. Mr. Jeaffreson's report I have lost
or mislaid, but I remember its purport well. It was to the effect that
there was a great deal of power in the novel, but that it required to be
entirely re-written. The first part he thought so good that he advised
me to expand it, and the unhappy ending he could not agree with. If I
killed the heroine, it would kill the book, he said. He may have been
right, but I still hold to my first conception, according to which
Angela was doomed to an early and pathetic end, as the fittest crown to
her career. That the story needed re-writing there is no doubt, but I
believe that it would have been better as a work of art if I had dealt
with it on the old lines, especially as the expansion of the beginning,
in accordance with the advice of my kindly critic, took the tale back
through the history of another generation--always a most dangerous
experiment. Still, I did as I was told, not presuming to set up a
judgment of my own in the matter. If I had worked hard at the first
draft of the novel, I worked much harder at the second, especially as I
could not give all my leisure to it, being engaged at the time in
reading for the Bar. So hard did I work that at length my eyesight gave
out, and I was obliged to complete the last hundred sheets in a darkened
room. But let my eyes ache as they might, I would not give up till it
was finished, within about three months from the date of its
commencement. Recently, I went through this book to prepare it for a new
edition, chiefly in order to cut out some of the mysticism and tall
writing, for which it is too remarkable, and was pleased to find that it
still interested me. But if a writer may be allowed to criticise his own
work, it is two books, not one. Also, the hero is a very poor creature.
Evidently I was too much occupied with my heroines to give much thought
to him; moreover, women are so much easier and more interesting to write
about, for whereas no two of them are alike, in modern men, or rather,
in young men of the middle and upper classes, there is a paralysing
sameness. As a candid friend once said to me, "There is nothing manly
about that chap, Arthur"--he is the hero--"except his bull-dog!" With
Angela herself I am still in love; only she ought to have died, which,
on the whole, would have been a better fate than being married to
Arthur, more especially if he was anything like the illustrator's
conception of him.

In its new shape "Dawn" was submitted to Messrs. Hurst and Blackett, and
at once accepted by that firm. Why it was called "Dawn" I am not now
quite clear, but I think it was because I could find no other title
acceptable to the publishers. The discovery of suitable titles is a more
difficult matter than people who do not write romances would suppose,
most of the good ones having been used already and copyrighted. In due
course the novel was published in three fat volumes, and a pretty green
cover, and I sat down to await events. At the best I did not expect to
win a fortune out of it, as if every one of the five hundred copies
printed were sold, I could only make fifty pounds under my
agreement--not an extravagant reward for a great deal of labour. As a
matter of fact, but four hundred and fifty sold, so the net proceeds of
the venture amounted to ten pounds only, and forty surplus copies of the
book, which I bored my friends by presenting to them. But as the
copyright of the work reverted to me at the expiration of a year, I
cannot grumble at this result. The reader may think that it was
mercenary of me to consider my first book from this financial point of
view, but to be frank, though the story interested me much in its
writing, and I had a sneaking belief in its merits, it never occurred to
me that I, an utterly inexperienced beginner, could hope to make any
mark in competition with the many brilliant writers of fiction who were
already before the public. Therefore, so far as I was concerned, any
reward in the way of literary reputation seemed to be beyond my reach.

[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD'S STUDY.]

It was on the occasion of the publication of this novel that I made my
first and last attempt to "roll a log," with somewhat amusing results.
Almost the only person of influence whom I knew in the world of letters
was the editor of a certain society paper. I had not seen him for ten
years, but at this crisis I ventured to recall myself to his memory, and
to ask him, not for a favourable notice, but that the book should be
reviewed in his journal. He acceded to my prayer; it was reviewed, but
after a fashion for which I did not bargain. This little incident taught
me a lesson, and the moral of it is: never trouble an editor about your
immortal works; he can so easily be even with you. I commend it to all
literary tyros. Even if you are in a position to command "puffs," the
public will find you out in the second edition, and revenge itself upon
your next book. Here is a story that illustrates the accuracy of this
statement; it came to me on good authority, and I believe it to be true.
A good many years ago, the relation of an editor of a great paper
published a novel. It was a bad novel, but a desperate effort was made
to force it upon the public, and in many of the leading journals
appeared notices so laudatory that readers fell into the trap, and the
book went through several editions. Encouraged by success, the writer
published a second book, but the public had found her out, and it fell
flat. Being a person of resource, she brought out a third work under a
_nom de plume_, which, as at first, was accorded an enthusiastic
reception by previous arrangement, and forced into circulation. A fourth
followed under the same name, but again the public had found her out,
and her career as a novelist came to an end.

[Illustration: "CURIOS."]

To return to the fate of "Dawn." In most quarters it met with the usual
reception of a first novel by an unknown man. Some of the reviewers
sneered at it, and some "slated" it, and made merry over the
misprints--a cheap form of wit that saves those who practise it the
trouble of going into the merits of a book. Two very good notices fell
to its lot, however, in the _Times_ and in the _Morning Post_, the first
of these speaking about the novel in terms of which any amateur writer
might feel proud, though, unfortunately, it appeared too late to be of
much service. Also, I discovered that the story had interested a great
many readers, and none of them more than the late Mr. Trübner, through
whose kind offices it came to be published, who, I was told, paid me the
strange compliment of continuing its perusal till within a few hours of
his death, a sad event that the enemy might say was hastened thereby. In
this connection I remember that the first hint I received that my story
was popular with the ordinary reading public, whatever reviewers might
say of it, came from the lips of a young lady, a chance visitor at my
house, whose name I have forgotten. Seeing the book lying on the table,
she took a volume up, saying--

"Oh, have you read 'Dawn'? It is a first-rate novel, I have just
finished it." Somebody explained, and the subject dropped, but I was not
a little gratified by the unintended compliment.

[Illustration: A STUDY CORNER.]

These facts encouraged me, and I wrote a second novel--"The Witch's
Head." This book I endeavoured to publish serially by posting the MS. to
the editors of various magazines for their consideration. But in those
days there were no literary agents or Authors' Societies to help young
writers with their experience and advice, and the bulky manuscript
always came back to my hand like a boomerang, till at length I wearied
of the attempt. Of course I sent it to the wrong people; afterwards the
editor of a leading monthly told me that he would have been delighted to
run the book had it fallen into the hands of his firm. In the end, as in
the case of "Dawn," I published "The Witch's Head" in three volumes. Its
reception astonished me, for I did not think so well of the book as I
had done of its predecessor. In that view, by the way, the public has
borne out my judgment, for to this day three copies of "Dawn" are
absorbed for every two of "The Witch's Head," a proportion that has
never varied since the two works appeared in one volume form.

"The Witch's Head" was very well reviewed; indeed, in one or two cases,
the notices were almost enthusiastic, most of all when they dealt with
the African part of the book, which I had inserted as padding, the fight
between Jeremy and the Boer giant being singled out for especial praise.
Whatever it may lack, one merit this novel has, however, that was
overlooked by all the reviewers. Omitting the fictitious incidents
introduced for the purposes of the story, it contains an accurate
account of the great disaster inflicted upon our troops by the Zulus at
Isandhlwana. I was in the country at the time of the massacre, and heard
its story from the lips of survivors, also, in writing of it, I studied
the official reports in the blue books and the minutes of the Court
Martial.

[Illustration: MR. RIDER HAGGARD.]

"The Witch's Head" attained the dignity of being pirated in America, and
in England went out of print in a few weeks, but no argument that I
could use would induce my publishers to re-issue it in a one-volume
edition. The risk was too great, they said. Then it was I came to the
conclusion that I would abandon the making of books. The work was very
hard, and when put to the test of experience the glamour that surrounds
this occupation vanished. I did not care much for the publicity it
involved, and, like most young authors, I failed to appreciate being
sneered at by anonymous critics who happened not to care for what I
wrote, and whom I had no opportunity of answering. It is true that then,
as now, I liked the work for its own sake. Indeed, I have always thought
that literature would be a charming profession if its conditions allowed
of the depositing of manuscripts, when completed, in a drawer, there to
languish in obscurity, or of their private publication only. But I could
not afford myself these luxuries. I was too modest to hope for any
renown worth having, and for the rest the game seemed scarcely worth the
candle. I had published a history and two novels. On the history I had
lost fifty pounds, on the first novel I had made ten pounds, and on the
second fifty; net profit on the three, ten pounds, which in the case of
a man with other occupations and duties did not appear to be an adequate
return for the labour involved. But I was not destined to escape thus
from the toils of romance. One day I chanced to read a clever article in
favour of boys' books, and it occurred to me that I might be able to do
as well as others in that line. I was working at the Bar at the time,
but in my spare evenings, more for amusement than from any other reason,
I entered on the literary adventure that ended in the appearance of
"King Solomon's Mines." This romance has proved very successful,
although three firms, including my own publishers, refused even to
consider it. But as it can scarcely be called one of my first books, I
shall not speak of it here.

[Illustration: THE DRAWING ROOM.]

In conclusion, I will tell a moving tale, that it may be a warning to
young authors for ever. After my publishers declined to issue "The
Witch's Head" in a six-shilling edition, I tried many others without
success, and at length in my folly signed an agreement with a firm since
deceased. Under this document the firm in question agreed to bring out
"Dawn" and "The Witch's Head" in a two-shilling edition, and generously
to remunerate me with a third share in the profits realised, if any. In
return for this concession, I on my part undertook to allow the said
firm to republish any novel that I might write, for a period of five
years from the date of the agreement, in a two-shilling form, and on the
same third-profit terms. Of course, so soon as the success of "King
Solomon's Mines" was established, I received a polite letter from the
publishers in question, asking when they might expect to republish that
romance at two shillings. Then the matter came under the consideration
of lawyers and other skilled persons, with the result that it appeared
that, if the Courts took a strict view of the agreement, ruin stared me
in the face, so far as my literary affairs were concerned. To begin
with, either by accident or design, this artful document was so worded
that, _prima facie_, the contracting publisher had a right to place his
cheap edition on the market whenever it might please him to do so,
subject only to the payment of a third of the profit, to be assessed by
himself, which practically would have meant nothing at all. How could I
expect to dispose of work subject to such a legal "servitude." For five
long years I was a slave to the framer of the "hanging" clause of the
agreement. Things looked black indeed, when, thanks to the diplomacy of
my agent, and to a fortunate change in the _personnel_ of the firm to
which I was bound, I avoided disaster. The fatal agreement was
cancelled, and in consideration of my release I undertook to write two
books upon a moderate royalty. Thus, then, did I escape out of bondage.
To be just, it was my own fault that I should ever have been sold into
it, but authors are proverbially guileless when they are anxious to
publish their books, and a piece of printed paper with a few additions
written in a neat hand looks innocent enough. Now no such misfortunes
need happen, for the Authors' Society is ready and anxious to protect
them from themselves and others, but in those days it did not exist.

[Illustration: THE FARM.]

This is the history of how I drifted into the writing of books. If it
saves one beginner so inexperienced and unfriended as I was in those
days from putting his hand to a "hanging" agreement under any
circumstances whatsoever, it will not have been set out in vain.

The advice that I give to would-be authors, if I may presume to offer
it, is to think for a long while before they enter at all upon a career
so hard and hazardous, but having entered on it, not to be easily cast
down. There are great virtues in perseverance, even though critics sneer
and publishers prove unkind.



TOLD BY THE COLONEL.

XII.

THE CAT'S REVENGE.

BY W. L. ALDEN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY R. JACK.

          -----


We had been discussing the Darwinian hypothesis, and the Colonel had
maintained a profound silence, which was sufficient evidence that he did
not believe in the development of man from the lower animals. Some one,
however, asked him plumply his opinion of Darwinianism, and he
sententiously replied, "Darned nonsense."

[Illustration: "DARNED NONSENSE."]

Feeling that this view of the matter possibly merited expansion, the
Colonel caused his chair to assume its customary oratorical attitude on
its two rear legs, and began to discourse.

"There are some things," he remarked, "which do look as if there might
be a grain of truth in this monkey theory. For instance, when I was in
France I was pretty nearly convinced that the monkey is the connecting
link between man and the Frenchmen, but after all there is no proof of
it. That's what's the matter with Darwinianism. When you produce a man
who can remember that his grandfather was a monkey, or when you show me
a monkey that can produce papers to prove that he is my second cousin,
I'll believe all Darwin said on the subject, but as the thing stands
I've nothing but Darwin's word to prove that men and monkeys are near
relations. So far as I can learn, Darwin didn't know as much about
animals as a man ought to know who undertakes to invent a theory about
them. He never was intimate with dogs, and he never drove an army mule.
He had a sort of bowing acquaintance with monkeys and a few other
animals of no particular standing in the community, but he couldn't even
understand a single animal language. Now, if he had gone to work, and
learned to read and write, and speak the monkey language, as that
American professor that you were just speaking of has done, he might
have been able to give us some really valuable information.

"Do I believe that animals talk? I don't simply believe it, I know it.
When I was a young man I had a good deal to do with animals, and I
learned to understand the cat language just as well as I understood
English. It's an easy language when once you get the hang of it, and
from what I hear of German the two are considerably alike. You look as
if you didn't altogether believe me, though why you should doubt that a
man can learn cat language when the world is full of men that pretend to
have learned German, and nobody calls their word in question, I don't
precisely see.

"Of course, I don't pretend to understand all the cat dialects. For
example, I don't know a word of the Angora dialect, and can only
understand a sentence here and there of the tortoiseshell dialect, but
so far as good, pure standard cat language goes, it's as plain as print
to me to-day, though I haven't paid any attention to it for forty years.
I don't want you to understand that I ever spoke it. I always spoke
English when I was talking with cats. They all understand English as
well as you do. They pick it up just as a child picks up a language from
hearing it spoken.

"Forty years ago I was a young man, and, like most young men, I fancied
that I was in love with a young woman of our town. There isn't the least
doubt in my mind that I should have married her if I had not known the
cat language. She afterwards married a man whom she took away to Africa
with her as a missionary. I knew him well, and he didn't want to go to
Africa. Said he had no call to be a missionary, and that all he wanted
was to live in a Christian country where he could go and talk with the
boys in the bar-room evenings. But his wife carried him off, and it's my
belief that if I had married her she would have made me turn missionary,
or pirate, or anything else that she thought best. I shall never cease
to be grateful to Thomas Aquinas for saving me from that woman.

"This was the way of it. I was living in a little cottage that belonged
to my uncle, and that he let me have rent free on condition that I
should take care of it, and keep the grounds in an attractive state
until he could sell it. I had an old negro housekeeper and two cats. One
of them, Martha Washington by name, was young and handsome, and about as
bright a cat as I ever knew. She had a strong sense of humour, too,
which is unusual with cats, and when something amused her she would
throw back her head and open her mouth wide, and laugh a silent laugh
that was as hearty and rollicking as a Methodist parson's laugh when he
hears a grey-haired joke at a negro minstrel show. Martha was perhaps
the most popular cat in the town, and there was scarcely a minute in the
day when there wasn't some one of her admirers in the back yard. As for
serenades, she had three or four every night that it didn't rain. There
was a quartette club formed by four first-class feline voices, and the
club used to give Martha and me two or three hours of music three times
a week. I used sometimes to find as many as six or seven old boots in
the back yard of a morning that had been contributed by enthusiastic
neighbours. As for society, Martha Washington was at the top of the
heap. There wasn't a more fashionable cat in the whole State of Ohio--I
was living in Ohio at the time--and in spite of it all she was as simple
and unaffected in her ways as if she had been born and bred in a Quaker
meeting-house.

[Illustration: "I HAD AN OLD NEGRO HOUSEKEEPER AND TWO CATS."]

"One afternoon Martha was giving a four o'clock milk on the verandah
next to my room. I always gave her permission to give that sort of
entertainment whenever she wanted to, for the gossip of her friends used
to be very amusing to me. Among the guests that afternoon was
Susan's--that was the young lady I wanted to marry--Maltese cat. Now
this cat had always pretended to be very fond of me, and Susan often
said that her cat never made a mistake in reading character, and that
the cat's approval of me was equivalent to a first-class Sunday-school
certificate of moral character. I didn't care anything about the cat
myself, for somehow I didn't place any confidence in her professions.
There was an expression about her tail which, to my mind, meant that she
was insincere and treacherous. The Maltese cat had finished her milk
when the conversation drifted around to the various mistresses of the
cats, and presently someone spoke of Susan. Then the Maltese began to
say things about Susan that made my blood boil. It was not only what she
said but what she insinuated, and, according to her, Susan was one of
the meanest and most contemptible women in the whole United States. I
stood it as long as I could, and then I got up and said to Martha
Washington, 'I think your Maltese friend is needed at her home, and the
sooner she goes the better if she doesn't want to be helped home with a
club.' That was enough. The Maltese, who was doing up her back fur when
I spoke, stopped, looked at me as if she could tear me into pieces, and
then flounced out of the house without saying a word. I understood that
there was an end to her pretence of friendship for me, and that
henceforth I should have an enemy in Susan's house who might, perhaps,
be able to do me a good deal of harm.

[Illustration: "I USED TO FIND OLD BOOTS IN THE YARD."]

[Illustration: "THE SOONER SHE GOES THE BETTER."]

"The next time I called to see Susan the Maltese was in the room, and
she instantly put up her back and tail and swore at me as if I was a
Chinaman on the look out for material for a stolen dinner. 'What can be
the matter with poor pussy?' said Susan. 'She seems to be so terribly
afraid of you all of a sudden. I hope it doesn't mean that you have been
doing something that she doesn't approve of.' I didn't make any reply to
this insinuation, except to say that the cat might perhaps be going mad,
but this didn't help me any with Susan, who was really angry at the idea
that her cat could be capable of going mad.

[Illustration: "POOR PUSSY'S NERVES ARE THOROUGHLY UPSET."]

"The same sort of thing happened every time I went to the house. The cat
was always in the room, and always expressed in the plainest way the
opinion that I was a thief and a murderer, and an enemy of the
temperance society. When I asked her what she meant to do, she would
give me no reply except a fresh oath, or other bad language. Threats had
no effect on her, for she knew that I could not touch her in Susan's
house, and she didn't intend that I should catch her outside of the
house. Nothing was clearer than that the Maltese was bound to make a
quarrel between me and Susan in revenge for what I had said at Martha's
four o'clock milk.

"Meanwhile Susan began to take the thing very seriously, and hinted that
the cat's opposition to me might be a providential warning against me.
'I never knew her to take such a prejudice against anyone before,' she
said, 'except against that converted Jew who afterwards turned out to be
a burglar, and nearly murdered poor dear Mr. Higby, the Baptist
preacher, the night he broke into Mr. Higby's house and stole all his
hams.' Once when I did manage to give the Maltese a surreptitious kick,
and she yelled as if she was half-killed, Susan said, 'I am really
afraid I shall have to ask you to leave us now. Poor pussy's nerves are
so thoroughly upset that I must devote all my energies to soothing her.
I do hope she is mistaken in her estimate of you.' This was not very
encouraging, and I saw clearly that if the Maltese kept up her
opposition the chances that Susan would marry me were not worth a rush.

"Did I tell you that I had a large grey cat by the name of Thomas
Aquinas? He was in some respects the most remarkable cat I ever met.
Most people considered him rather a dull person, but among cats he was
conceded to have a colossal mind. Cats would come from miles away to ask
his advice about things. I don't mean such trifling matters as his views
on mice-catching--which, by the way, is a thing that has very little
interest for most cats--or his opinion of the best way in which to get a
canary bird through the bars of a cage. They used to consult him on
matters of the highest importance, and the opinions that he used to give
would have laid over those of Benjamin Franklin himself. Why Martha
Washington told me that Thomas Aquinas knew more about bringing up
kittens than the oldest and most experienced feline matron that she had
ever known. As for common sense, Thomas Aquinas was just a solid chunk
of it, as you might say, and I got into the habit of consulting him
whenever I wanted a good, safe, cautious opinion. He would see at a
glance where the trouble was, and would give me advice that no lawyer
could have beaten, no matter how big a fee he might have charged.

"Well! I went home from Susan's house, and I said to Thomas Aquinas,
'Thomas,' for he was one of those cats that you would no more have
called 'Tom' than you would call Mr. Gladstone 'Bill'--'Thomas,' I said,
'I want you to come with me to Miss Susan's and tell that Maltese beast
that if she doesn't quit her practice of swearing at me whenever I come
into the room it will be the worse for her.'

"'That's easy enough,' said Thomas. 'I know one or two little things
about that cat that would not do to be told, and she knows that I know
them. Never you fear but that I can shut her up in a moment. I heard
that she was going about bragging that she would get square with you for
something you said to her one day, but I didn't feel called upon to
interfere without your express approval.'

"The next day Thomas and I strolled over to Susan's, and, as luck would
have it, we were shown into her reception room before she came down
stairs. The Maltese cat was in the room, and began her usual game of
being filled with horror at the sight of such a hardened wretch as
myself. Of course, Thomas Aquinas took it up at once, and the two had a
pretty hot argument. Now Thomas, in spite of his colossal mind, was a
quick-tempered cat, and he was remarkably free spoken when he was
roused. One word led to another, and presently the Maltese flew at
Thomas, and for about two minutes that room was so thick with fur that
you could hardly see the fight. Of course, there could have been only
one end to the affair. My cat weighed twice what the Maltese weighed,
and after a few rounds he had her by the neck, and never let go until he
had killed her. I was just saying 'Hooray! Thomas!' when Susan came into
the room.

[Illustration: "SUSAN CAME INTO THE ROOM."]

"I pass over what she said. Its general sense was that a man who
encouraged dumb animals to fight, and who brought a great savage brute
into her house to kill her sweet little pussy in her own parlour, wasn't
fit to live. She would listen to no explanations, and when I said that
Thomas had called at my request to reason with the Maltese about her
unkind conduct towards me, Susan said that my attempt to turn an
infamous outrage into a stupid joke made the matter all the worse, and
that she must insist that I and my prize fighting beast should leave her
house at once and never enter it again.

"So you see that if it had not been that I understood what the Maltese
cat said at Martha Washington's milk party, I should probably never have
quarrelled with either Susan or her cat, and should now have been a
missionary in Central Africa, if I hadn't blown my brains out, or taken
to drink. I have often thought that the man Susan did marry might have
been saved if he had known the cat language in time, and had made the
acquaintance of the Maltese."

The Colonel paused, and presently I asked him if he really expected us
to believe his story. "Why not?" he replied. "It isn't any stiffer than
Darwin's yarn about our being descended from monkeys. You believe that
on the word of a man you never saw, and I expect you to believe my story
that I understand the cat language on my unsupported word. Perhaps the
story is a little tough, but if you are going in for science you
shouldn't let your credulity be backed down by any story."

[Illustration: IDLERS]



[Illustration: J. L. Toole "Walker. London" "Oh Sarah I'm slipping"]



"LIONS IN THEIR DENS."

J. L. TOOLE.

BY RAYMOND BLATHWAYT.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY LOUIS GUNNIS.

(_Photographs by Messrs. Fradelle & Young, and Falk, of Sydney._)


[Illustration: MR. TOOLE IN "THE STEEPLECHASE."]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE'S HOUSE.]

[Illustration: "I CAN'T LAY MY HANDS ON 'EM."]

Every one who writes an article upon Mr. Toole begins by telling his
readers how entirely lovable a man he is, and I do not know why I should
differ from every one else, for, in this case at all events, what every
one says is true. There are few actors, either in the past or present,
who have so thoroughly succeeded in placing themselves upon a footing of
the most friendly and cordial nature with their audience as Mr. John
Lawrence Toole. And not only has he succeeded in establishing such
relations between himself and his audience, but he has been to the full
as successful in endowing the characters he has undertaken with those
same lovable qualities which have endeared him both to the public and to
his own private friends. Few actors so entirely breathe into their parts
the very spirit of their nature and essence of their being as Mr. Toole
breathes into his. With high and low, rich and old, young and poor
alike, he is a never-failing favourite, and the moment his kindly face
appears upon the stage, and the familiar voice once again awakens the
memories of bygone years, a burst of affectionate applause breaks out in
welcome of the dear old favourite of our English stage. No matter where
a man has been; in the Great Republic over the water, or in the burning
lands of India, or in the New World under our feet; when he returns,
after years of absence, to the old country, and the familiar faces have
passed away, and all things have become new, yet there is still one face
that is the same, one voice in which there is still the old familiar
ring, and to many such a wanderer old "Johnny Toole" becomes the one
connecting line between the dear old past and the cold new present. And
who does not know the aspect of the man himself--the short, sturdy
figure, the slight limp in his walk, the kind, pleasant face with the
mobile mouth and the eyeglass screwed in the smiling eye, and the hair,
now sprinkled with grey, brushed back from the broad open forehead? The
genial, pleasant manner, the entire ease of the man, and the utter
absence of all that detestable putting on of "side" which is too often
characteristic of the young actor of the present day, how all these
things go towards the explanation of his universal popularity! A great
sorrow has overshadowed the latter years of his life, a sorrow from
which he will never shake himself free, but which has only deepened the
tenderness of the nature which is so characteristic of the man. I spent
a morning with him very recently in his house at Maida Vale. As he
entered the room and I asked him how he was, he replied, "Oh, well, I am
pretty middling, thanks; an actor's is such a hard life, you know," he
went on, confidentially, as he pushed me into a chair and took one
himself upon the opposite side of the hearthrug. "I have just been
reading a whole bundle of manuscript plays, and you never saw such
rubbish in your life. And then"--he went on, plaintively enough--"I lose
the things, you know; put 'em into a drawer, or with a lot of other
manuscripts and papers, and I can't lay my hands on 'em when they are
sent for, and then, oh, goodness! there's the deuce and all to pay; for
I can assure you that no mother thinks more of her first-born baby than
a young author thinks of his first play, and if you are not of the same
opinion he regards you as the biggest idiot in the world." "Well, but,"
I ventured to remark--"why on earth do you bother about the things?"
"Oh, well," said he--"you know I can't help myself; you never can get
away from them. For instance, I go out to a harmless evening party, and
a country parson comes up to me, the most unlikely man in all the world,
you'd think, and he'll say to me, 'My brother has just written a play,
Mr. Toole; I wish you'd just cast your eye over it.' And I can't say No,
Mr. Blathwayt, I can't say No. Well, now you're here," he went on after
a moment, "you'll like to have a look round, won't you? I've got lots of
interesting things here. Come into what I call my study--although,"
continued he, with a laugh, "I am afraid I don't get through much study.
I am too busy to write, you know," he rambled on in a voice and manner
that was amusingly reminiscent of "Walker London." So into the study we
went, encountering on our way a big Australian black bird, which was
wandering about the house in an aimless and irresponsible fashion,
crooning to itself memories of its Antipodean home. Before we entered
the study, Mr. Toole drew my attention to a beautiful model of the
picturesque old Maypole Inn in "Barnaby Rudge," with a number of the
characters in the novel wandering about in front of the house. There was
Barnaby Rudge himself, there was his supernaturally wicked old raven;
old Joe Willet, the landlord, stood smoking in his shirt-sleeves, while
pretty Dolly Varden herself was tripping down to town. "There," said my
host, "isn't that clever? It stood for many years at the 'Hen and
Chickens' in Birmingham, and Dickens used to admire it very much when he
used to visit that town on his reading tours." Two little Japanese
figures, reposing upon the top of the case which contained this model,
looked down upon Mr. Toole as he stood beneath them. He set their arms
and heads moving, observing, as he did so, "Often, when I am studying a
part, I set those little figures going, they do for the public
applauding." In the study itself, the walls were thickly hung with
pictorial reminiscences--chiefly of the theatrical past. There were
portraits of Macready in character, with his small, neat writing
beneath; there was Charles Matthews in some character as a boy, and a
portrait of old John Reeve, a celebrated comedian in his day; there was
Mr. Toole as _Paw Clawdian_; there was Liston as _Paul Pry_; there were
any amount of portraits of his dear old friend Henry Irving. I was much
interested in an old theatrical bill of 1813 announcing Edmund Kean's
appearance as _Hamlet_. And then Mr. Toole brought in a large framed
letter which hung up in the hall. It was a letter from Thackeray to
Charles Matthews when he was lessee of Covent Garden Theatre, and it was
written on the occasion of the Queen's first state visit to Covent
Garden after her marriage in 1840. A pen and ink sketch by Thackeray
adorned a large half of the page, in which he had represented Her
Majesty with an enormous crown upon her head, and two or three queer
sceptres in her hand, talking to the Prince Consort, who sat with her in
the royal box, in the rear of which stood the members of the royal
suite. In another corner of the hall there hung a letter, carefully
framed, which bore the signature of "Nelson and Brontë," and close
beside it there was a clever pencil sketch by George Cruikshank,
representing a London 'bus full of people of that period, and with the
price, one shilling, marked up in large figures outside it--a curious
glimpse of bygone days. In Mr. Toole's dining room we found that clever
lady artist, Folkard, who some time ago painted so faithful a likeness
of old Mrs. Keeley, engaged in giving the finishing touches to an
equally admirable portrait of my genial host himself. The dining room,
no less than the other room, was crammed with "virtuous and bigoted
articles." There was some beautiful old china which had once belonged to
Charles Dickens, and some handsome ivory elephants which Mr. Toole had
brought with him from Columbo stood upon the sideboard. A very lovely
oil painting by Keeley Halswelle, not in the least in his usual style,
represented a far stretch of country, over the blue sky of which vast
cumuli were massing themselves in snowy piles. There was a portrait, by
Clint, of Stephen Kemble, who, like Mark Lemon, used to play _Falstaff_
without padding. A painting of Joseph Jefferson, the celebrated American
Rip Van Winkle, reminded me of a splendid picture of his which I always
used to admire so much in the "Players' Club" in New York, and I
observed, as Mr. Toole pointed out a clever sketch by Mr. Weedon
Grossmith, that it was curious to notice how many actors were also good
painters. "Why, yes," replied Toole with a quizzical smile, "I have
painted a good many years myself." "Oh, indeed," said I--not immediately
catching his meaning--"may I ask what you have painted?" "My face," said
he, with an amused chuckle of much enjoyment at having caught me. Mr.
Toole then pointed out to me James Wallack, the father of the celebrated
American actor, Lester Wallack, in his favourite character of _The
Brigand_. "Ah!" said Mr. Toole, "that reminds me of an anecdote that's
told about James Wallack, and which ought to be a warning to actors
never to make speeches from the stage. Wallack was playing _The Brigand_
one night, and he was in the midst of his great dying scene, when an old
gentleman, who was sitting in the stalls, got up and put on his hat,
tied a scarf round his neck, and buttoned up his coat with great
deliberation. Wallack got very irritated, and just as the old gentleman
was going out, he called out to him, 'The piece is not finished yet,
sir.' The old gentleman, who was not in the least disconcerted, replied,
'Thank you, Mr. Wallack, I have seen _quite_ enough.'" When we returned
to the drawing room, into which I had first been shown, having specially
noted on my way through the hall Keeley Halswelle's sketch of Mr. Toole
as _The Artful Dodger_ in 1854, and a few pages from Thackeray's MSS. of
"Philip" which hung upon the wall, Mr. Toole took out an enormous
photographic album which contained the portraits of all the celebrities,
big and little--and some of them were very big indeed, and some of them
were very small--who had been present at a great banquet which was given
in Mr. Toole's honour before he left England for his Australian tour.
Everyone was there--noblemen, journalists, and actors; legal luminaries
and ecclesiastical dignitaries, people of social prominence and
scientific fame; all the principal figures, indeed, that go to the
making of this vast body politic. "I told a gentleman on board ship,"
humorously remarked Mr. Toole, "that these were all the members of my
company. I don't know if he believed me or not." Then came albums full
of autographs, old playbills, portraits of celebrated actors long since
crumbled into the dust, letters the writing of which was fast fading
away, a characteristic letter from Charles Dickens acknowledging a
beautiful paper knife which Toole had sent him.

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AND HIS "RAVEN."]

[Illustration: MR. J. L. TOOLE.]

[Illustration: THE HALL.]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE IN "ARTFUL CARDS."]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AND HIS JAPANESE AUDIENCE.]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE IN "OFF THE LINE."]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AS "THE DON."]

One of the letters which Mr. Toole most prizes, and the prayer of which,
with Mr. Hollingshead's assistance, he was delighted to grant, is the
following characteristic epistle:--

                   "Belle Vue Mansions, Brighton, August 6th, 1873.

     "My dear Toole,--Were you ever in a mess? If you never were I can
     explain it to you, having been in several; indeed, I don't mind
     confessing to you that I am in one now, and, strange to say, you are
     perhaps the only man who can get me out of it. You need not button
     up your pockets, it isn't a pecuniary one. Only fancy! after thirty
     years' practice and experience I have made a mistake in my dates,
     and for the first time in my life find myself engaged to two
     managers at the same time. Now, they say a man cannot serve two
     masters, but I CAN if they will come one after the other, only one
     at a time, one down, t'other come on; but to play at Bristol and the
     Gaiety on the same night (and keep it up for a week) I don't see my
     way to accomplish. In a moment of enthusiasm I engaged to begin with
     Chute on September 29th, and I had scarcely done so when
     Hollingshead reminded me that I was booked to begin with him on that
     date, and that it could not be altered. Conceive my dismay. Chute
     holds fast--'can't be altered.' So does Hollingshead--'can't be
     altered.' Now, Toole--_dear_ Toole, BELOVED Toole--can't you stay a
     week longer at the Gaiety? CAN'T you let me begin there on Monday,
     October 6th (as I thought I did), and get me out of my dilemma?
     Can't you make this sacrifice to friendship, and put three or four
     hundred more into your pocket? Virtue is not its own reward, but an
     extra week of fine business is. Now, Toole--adored Tooley--the best
     of men--first of comedians--most amiable of your sex--burst into
     tears--throw your arms and sob out, 'Do with me as thou wilt--play
     me another week--pay me another three hundred, and be happy.'
     Breathless with anxiety, yet swelling with hope, I must await your
     answer. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, and even telegraph
     'Yes,' rather than keep me in suspense. What's a week to an
     able-bodied low comedian? Child's play! Why, you'll be wanting to
     throw in morning performances as well to keep you from rusting. It
     really is a _chance_ for you. Avail yourself of it and bless me, and
     I'll bless _you_, and Hollingshead will bless us both, and Chute
     will bless us all.

     "With my intermediate blessing, ever faithfully yours,
                                                      "C. J. MATTHEWS."

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AS "IBSEN."]

This letter Mr. Toole read to me, exactly mimicking the tone and manner
of his old friend whom he still misses. I laughed heartily. "Well, now,
Mr. Toole," said I, as we settled down for a conversation on the art he
loves so well and has served so faithfully, "has the public taste
altered much since you first started in your theatrical career?" "No,"
he replied, "upon my word I don't think it has very much. My dear old
friend Irving, however, has effected as great a change as any man, and
his influence has always been for good." "And what of the other Henry?"
said I, "Hendrik Ibsen?" "Henry _Gibson_?" said Toole, looking up; "why,
I never heard of him." "No! _Ibsen_," I explained, "_Ibsen_," smiling as
I mentally contrasted the great Norwegian physiologist and social
Reformer, and the simple-minded, homely, old-fashioned Englishman whom
we all love so well. "Oh! Ibsen, Ibsen," said Mr. Toole, "I didn't catch
what you said; I thought you said Gibson, and I couldn't think who on
earth you meant. Well," he said, "I don't like his work myself. It's so
unwholesome, you know. It seems to me such a vitiated taste. They put it
down to my ignorance; but if you ask me what I think," he went on
confidentially, "I should say there are very few who really care about
him. He happens to be the fashion just at present. I played _Ibsen_ in
'Ibsen's Ghost,'" he continued, "and they said it was a beautiful
make-up. I don't know what the old gentleman would have thought of it
himself. Have you seen Irving's _Lear_?" he suddenly remarked, after a
moment of silence. "I can remember many _Lears_, but I have never seen
anything like his. I have been tremendously moved by it; but it is far
too great a strain for him." Mr. Toole then drifted into eulogy of his
almost life-long friend, upon whose generosity and the beauty of whose
character he never wearies of expatiating. "And how do you think the
comedy of to-day compares with that of past years, Mr. Toole?" said I.
"Oh, well," he replied; "I don't think things have altered much. It is
true that there was a great gap when Keeley, Buxton, Benjamin Webster,
Sothern, and Charles Matthews all passed away within a few years of each
other. But we've lots of good comedians now, to say nothing of the vast
increase in the number of theatres, which, of course, gives far more
opportunities to new men than was the case in my early days. For my own
part, though I almost invariably play low comedy parts, yet, as a rule,
I prefer pathos, I think." And, as he spoke, Mr. Toole handed me a
photograph which represented him in that very pathetic character _Caleb
Plummer_ in "Dot." "There," said he, "that's one of my favourite
characters, but people come to see me for fun, they don't look much for
pathos in me, except, perhaps, in the provinces. Ah! I like the
provinces," he continued. "I have many friends in them. The Scotch are a
splendid people to play to, but then English people, by which I mean
English and Scotch alike, are very clannish, and very tender to an old
friend. I always feel when I appear upon the stage that I am in the
presence of friends. I don't think that French actors are so much
regarded as English actors. We feel the affection of our people so much.
But, then, we go in and out as private friends amongst the people, more
than the Frenchmen do. Their best actors go out to a party, and they act
for money, just as they would in the theatre. I think that is very
_infra dig._ myself. It seems to me that as soon as the curtain is down
the actor's work is over for the night, and when you go out to a man's
party you are his guest, but you cease to be so if you take his money.
With singers, however, the case is quite different. Some say I am over
fastidious, but, mind you," went on Mr. Toole, very earnestly, "I think
it would be very snobbish not to join in the fun that is going on as a
friend, and help to make everything go pleasantly. As a rule, however, I
consider that on this account the English actor's social position is
higher than that of a French actor. You ask me about criticism," said
Mr. Toole a little later, as we wandered on through different fields of
thought, over our wine and cigars. "Well," he continued, "it is very
difficult to say whether it has improved or not during late years. In
the old days, you know, we had some very good men; there was Oxenford,
there was Bayle Bernard, there was Laman Blanchard, all very good men
indeed. In the present day, Clement Scott is exceedingly clever, of
course; but some of the young men are too much up in the clouds for
me--they are very smart, I daresay, but I don't know what they're
driving at, you know; all the same, I don't think criticism has any more
influence than it had of old, in some cases not so much." And then,
branching off on another line, Mr. Toole said--"Did you notice those
remarks in the paper the other day about Fanny Kemble's father, and how
he came to grief as a theatrical manager? I smiled when I read them. I
knew well enough how it was; it was that infamous 'order' system. Kemble
actually gave 11,000 orders in one season. It's altogether a rotten, bad
system. Hundreds apply to me every week for orders who haven't the
slightest claim upon me, and especially wealthy people, who are
invariably the greatest offenders in this respect, and yet, when they
are refused orders, they at once book seats for the play. Of course
there are certain people who are thoroughly entitled to orders, and I am
only too glad to give them in such cases, but I draw the line at giving
them to _any_ one who chooses to ask me. _I_ can't go into a restaurant
and get a dinner for nothing--I wish I could; a tailor won't make me a
coat for nothing--why should I play to people for nothing? They cannot
have any idea how much it costs to keep up a theatre, or perhaps they'd
have a little more consideration for one. It's a rotten, bad system, and
it ought to be done away with." Later on in the evening Mr. Toole and I
drove down to the theatre together, and we resumed our conversation in
his very interesting little dressing-room. I congratulated him on the
long run which "Walker London" was having; "but don't long runs tend to
artificiality?" I asked. "No," said Mr. Toole; "a new audience every
evening saves you from that, to a great extent, especially with an
earnest man. Earnestness is everything in an actor, but if you're
apathetic you're lost. Still, I sometimes look at _Paul Pry's_
umbrella," continued Mr. Toole, pointing to the quaint, queer, green old
article that answered to that description, and which stood by itself in
a corner of the room, "and wish I could play _Paul Pry_ again, but I
don't see much chance of that at present. Why, it will soon be
'Walker's' first birthday. I suppose they'll want me to make a speech.
And speech-making always bothers me, for I am very nervous. But I
daresay I shall 'gammon' through somehow." I observed, "Well, I must say
you 'gammon' through very well, for I always think you are one of the
easiest speakers of the day." To which Mr. Toole replied, "Well, for my
part, I think repose is everything. Quiet humour is always much more
telling than noisy fun, and to feel your part deeply is far more than
mere elocution." "Do you think that the training that young people on
the stage get, now-a-days, is as thorough as it was in your early days,
Mr. Toole?" "Well," he said, "I don't think that young actors get so
much practice as they did in the old days when Irving and I used to be
for years together on a stock company in Edinburgh. He and I and Helen
Faucit have played all the parts in Shakespeare together. But travelling
companies have altered all that now-a-days. Still I think I must say
that I've got a very fairly good _répertoire_ for my people. Did you
ever hear how I took to the stage?" he continued. "I used to be clerk in
a wine merchant's office, and I was also a member of the City Histrionic
Club. Well, one night I went to the Pavilion; one of the actors who used
to give imitations of popular favourites didn't turn up, and so I was
persuaded by a man, who knew that I had been in the habit of giving
imitations myself to our little club, to take his place. It was then
that I first tasted the sweets of an actor's life. It was then I
resolved to quit the merchant's desk for the stage. Do you see that
playbill?" he continued, pointing up to an old time-stained paper which
hung upon the wall. "There," said he, "that's the first time my name
ever appeared on a London playbill. I appeared on that occasion for 'one
night only' at the Haymarket Theatre, where a benefit was being given
for Mr. Fred Webster, in July, 1852." I glanced round the little room,
in which are gathered so many memories of the picturesque past, and in
which so many of the best known men of the present day are so frequently
to be found having a chat with "Dear Old Johnny Toole." There was an
amusing photograph of Toole up to his waist in a hot lake in New Zealand
surrounded by a number of Maoris. There was a portrait of himself in his
first part in "My Friend the Major." Charles Matthews, in "My Awful
Dad," smiled across the room at Paul Bedford and Toole, who were
standing within a picture frame together. There was a quaint old
coloured print representing Grimaldi--for whom Mr. Toole has a great
admiration, and whose snuff-box he regards as quite a treasure--in
private life, and in his clown's costume. But to enumerate further the
interesting pictures that hang upon the walls of his little
dressing-room would be to far exceed my allotted space. I happened on
the following night to be delivering a lecture at the Playgoers' Club on
the Church and Stage, and before I left I asked Mr. Toole his opinion on
the subject. "Why," he said, "I think that the Church and the Stage have
a great deal in common, and I think that they ought to be great friends,
but I don't see that we need reforming any more than any other branches
of the community. For my own part, I have the greatest respect for the
clergy, and a great many friends amongst them, and I always go to church
when I can. I am very fond of going to Westminster Abbey. I like the
music; it's so solemn, you know--it always stirs me. I was very much
amused at an incident which occurred to me the other day. I was playing
in York, so on Sunday I went to the Minster as usual; on the following
day, a man I knew came up to me and said, quite in good faith, 'Why, I
saw you in church yesterday, and you were behaving quite quietly!' Just
as though he had expected me to go in costume, and behave as though I
were on the stage. But that is one of the ridiculous ideas that people
get into their heads about actors. Still, I think, all that kind of
thing is dying down now-a-days."

[Illustration: TOOLE AND IBSEN.]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AS CALEB PLUMMER IN "DOT."]

[Illustration: THE LIBRARY.]

[Illustration: "IT'S A ROTTEN SYSTEM."]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE IN HIS DRESSING ROOM.]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AS "PAUL PRY."]

[Illustration: THE DINING ROOM.]

[Illustration: MR. TOOLE AS "REV. AMINADAB SLEEK."]

[Illustration]



NOVEL NOTES.

BY JEROME K. JEROME. ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. GÜLICH.

-----

PART XII.


How much more of our--fortunately not very valuable--time we devoted to
this wonderful novel of ours I cannot exactly say. Turning the
dogs'-eared leaves of the dilapidated diary that lies before me, I find
the record of our later gatherings confused and incomplete. For weeks
there does not appear a single word. Then comes an alarmingly
business-like minute of a meeting at which there were--"Present:
Jephson, MacShaugnassy, Brown, and Self"; and at which the "Proceedings
commenced at 8.30." At what time the "proceedings" terminated, and what
business was done, the chronicle, however, sayeth not; though, faintly
pencilled in the margin of the page, I trace these hieroglyphics:
"3·14·9--2·6·7," bringing out a result of "1·8·2." Evidently an
unremunerative night.

[Illustration: "TEARS STREAMING DOWN."]

On September thirteenth, we seem to have become suddenly imbued with
energy to a quite remarkable degree, for I read that we "Resolved to
start the first chapter at once"--"at once" being underlined. After this
spurt, we rest until October fourth, when we "Discussed whether it
should be a novel of plot or of character," without--so far as the diary
affords indication--arriving at any definite decision. I observe that on
the same day, "Mac told story about a man who accidentally bought a
camel at a sale." Details of the story are, however, wanting, which,
perhaps, is fortunate for the reader.

(Copyrighted in the United States of America by Jerome K. Jerome.)

On the sixteenth, we were still debating the character of our hero; and
I see that I suggested "a man of the Charley Buswell type."

Poor Charley, I wonder what could have made me think of him in
connection with heroes; his lovableness, I suppose--certainly not his
heroic qualities. I can recall his boyish face now (it was always a
boyish face), the tears streaming down it as he sat in the schoolyard
beside a bucket, in which he was drowning three white mice and a tame
rat. I sat down opposite and cried too, while helping him to hold a
saucepan lid over the poor little creatures, and thus there sprang up a
friendship between us, which grew.

Over the grave of these murdered rodents, he took a solemn oath never to
break school rules again, by keeping either white mice or tame rats, but
to devote the whole of his energies for the future to pleasing his
masters, and affording his parents some satisfaction for the money being
spent upon his education.

Seven weeks later, the pervadence throughout the dormitory of an
atmospheric effect more curious than pleasing led to the discovery that
he had converted his box into a rabbit hutch. Confronted with eleven
kicking witnesses, and reminded of his former promises, he explained
that rabbits were not mice, and seemed to consider that a new and
vexatious regulation had been sprung upon him. The rabbits were
confiscated. What was their ultimate fate, we never knew with certainty,
but three days later we were given rabbit-pie for dinner. To comfort him
I endeavoured to assure him that these could not be his rabbits. He,
however, convinced that they were, cried steadily into his plate all the
time that he was eating them, and afterwards, in the playground, had a
stand-up fight with a fourth form boy who had requested a second
helping.

That evening he performed another solemn oath-taking, and for the next
month was the model boy of the school. He read tracts, sent his spare
pocket-money to assist in annoying the heathen, and subscribed to "The
Young Christian" and "The Weekly Rambler, an Evangelical Miscellany"
(whatever that may mean). An undiluted course of this pernicious
literature naturally created in him a desire towards the opposite
extreme. He suddenly dropped "The Young Christian" and "The Weekly
Rambler," and purchased penny dreadfuls; and, taking no further interest
in the welfare of the heathen, saved up and bought a second-hand
revolver and a hundred cartridges. His ambition, he confided to me, was
to become "a dead shot," and the marvel of it is that he did not
succeed.

Of course, there followed the usual discovery and consequent trouble,
the usual repentance and reformation, the usual determination to start a
new life.

Poor fellow, he lived "starting a new life." Every New Year's Day he
would start a new life--on his birthday--on other people's birthdays. I
fancy that, later on, when he came to know their importance, he extended
the principle to quarter days. "Tidying up, and starting afresh," he
always called it.

[Illustration: "A DEAD SHOT."]

I think as a young man he was better than most of us. But he lacked that
great gift which is the distinguishing feature of the English-speaking
race all the world over, the gift of hypocrisy. He seemed incapable of
doing the slightest thing without getting found out; a grave misfortune
for a man to suffer from, this.

Dear simple-hearted fellow, it never occurred to him that he was as
other men--with, perhaps, a dash of straightforwardness added; he
regarded himself as a monster of depravity. One evening I found him in
his chambers engaged upon his Sisyphean labour of "tidying up." A heap
of letters, photographs, and bills lay before him. He was tearing them
up and throwing them into the fire.

I came towards him, but he stopped me. "Don't come near me," he cried,
"don't touch me. I'm not fit to shake hands with a decent man."

It was the sort of speech to make one feel hot and uncomfortable. I did
not know what to answer, and murmured something about his being no worse
than the average.

"Don't talk like that," he answered excitedly; "you say that to comfort
me, I know; but I don't like to hear it. If I thought other men were
like me I should be ashamed of being a man. I've been a blackguard, old
fellow, but, please God, it's not too late. To-morrow morning I begin a
new life."

He finished his work of destruction, and then rang the bell, and sent
his man downstairs for a bottle of champagne.

"My last drink," he said, as we clicked glasses. "Here's to the old life
out, and the new life in."

He took a sip and flung the glass with the remainder into the fire. He
was always a little theatrical, especially when most in earnest.

For a long while after that I saw nothing of him. Then, one evening,
sitting down to supper at a restaurant, I noticed him opposite to me in
company that could hardly be called doubtful.

He flushed and came over to me. "I've been an old woman for nearly six
months," he said, with a laugh. "I find I can't stand it any longer.

[Illustration: "IN COMPANY THAT COULD HARDLY BE CALLED DOUBTFUL."]

"After all," he continued, "what is life for but to live? It's only
hypocritical to try and be a thing we are not. And do you know"--he
leant across the table, speaking earnestly--"honestly and seriously, I'm
a better man--I feel it and know it--when I am my natural self than when
I am trying to be an impossible saint."

That was the mistake he made; he always ran to extremes. He thought that
an oath, if it were only big enough, would frighten away Human Nature,
instead of serving only as a challenge to it. Accordingly, each
reformation was more intemperate than the last, to be duly followed by a
greater swing of the pendulum in the opposite direction.

Being now in a thoroughly reckless mood, he went the pace rather hotly.
Then, one evening, without any previous warning, I had a note from him.
"Come round and see me on Thursday. It is my wedding eve."

I went. He was once more "tidying up." All his drawers were open, and on
the table were piled packs of cards, betting books, and much written
paper, as before, all in course of demolition.

I smiled; I could not help it, and, no way abashed, he laughed his usual
hearty, honest laugh.

"I know," he exclaimed gaily, "but this is not the same as the others."

Then, laying his hand on my shoulder, and speaking with the sudden
seriousness that comes so readily to shallow natures, he said, "God has
heard my prayer, old friend. He knows I am weak. He has sent down an
angel out of heaven to help me."

He took her portrait from the mantelpiece and handed it me. It seemed to
me the face of a hard, narrow woman, but, of course, he raved about her.

As he talked, there fluttered to the ground from the heap before him an
old restaurant bill, and, stooping, he picked it up and held it in his
hand, musing.

"Have you ever noticed how the scent of the champagne and the candles
seems to cling to these things?" he said lightly, sniffing carelessly at
it. "I wonder what's become of her?"

"I think I wouldn't think about her at all to-night," I answered.

He loosened his hand, letting the paper fall into the fire.

"My God!" he cried, vehemently, "when I think of all the wrong I have
done--the irreparable, ever-widening ruin I have perhaps brought into
the world--O God! spare me a long life that I may make amends. Every
hour, every minute of it shall be devoted to your service."

As he stood there, with his eager boyish eyes upraised, a light seemed
to fall upon his face and illumine it. I had pushed the photograph back
to him, and it lay upon the table before him. He knelt and pressed his
lips to it.

"With your help, my darling; and His," he murmured.

The next morning he was married. She was a well-meaning girl, though her
piety, as with most people, was of the negative order; and her antipathy
to things evil much stronger than her sympathy with things good. For a
much longer time than I had expected she kept him straight--perhaps, a
little too straight. But at last there came the inevitable relapse.

I called upon him, in answer to an excited message, and found him in the
depths of despair. It was the old story, human weakness, combined with
lamentable lack of the most ordinary precautions against being found
out. He gave me details, interspersed with exuberant denunciations of
himself, and I undertook the delicate task of peacemaker.

It was a weary work, but eventually she consented to forgive him. His
joy, when I told him, was boundless.

"How good women are," he said, while the tears came into his eyes. "But
she shall not repent it. Please God, from this day forth, I'll----"

He stopped, and for the first time in his life the doubt of himself
crossed his mind. As I sat watching him, the joy died out of his face,
and the first hint of age passed over it.

"I seem to have been 'tidying up and starting afresh' all my life," he
said, wearily; "I'm beginning to see where the untidiness lies, and the
only way to get rid of it."

I did not understand the meaning of his words at the time, but learnt it
later on.

He strove according to his strength, and fell. By a miracle his
transgression was not discovered. The facts came to light long
afterwards, but at the time there were only two who knew.

[Illustration: "LYING DEAD."]

It was his last failure. Late one evening I received a hurriedly
scrawled note from his wife begging me to come round.

"A terrible thing has happened," it ran; "Charley went up to his study
after dinner, saying he had some 'tidying up,' as he calls it, to do,
and did not wish to be disturbed. In clearing out his desk he must have
handled carelessly the revolver that he always keeps there, not
remembering, I suppose, that it was loaded. We heard a report, and on
rushing into the room found him lying dead on the floor. The bullet had
passed right through his heart."

Hardly the type of man for a hero! And yet I do not know. Perhaps he
fought harder than many a man who conquers. In the world's courts, we
are compelled to judge on circumstantial evidence only, and the chief
witness, the man's soul, cannot very well be called.

I remember the subject of bravery being discussed one evening at a
dinner party, when a German gentleman present related an anecdote, the
hero of which was a young Prussian officer.

"I cannot give you his name," our German friend explained--"the man
himself told me the story in confidence; and though he personally, by
virtue of his after record, could afford to have it known, there are
other reasons why it should not be bruited about.

"How I learnt it was in this way. For a dashing exploit performed during
the brief war against Austria he had been presented with the Iron Cross.
This, as you are well aware, is the most highly-prized decoration in the
German Army; men who have earned it are usually conceited about it, and,
indeed, have some excuse for being so. He, on the contrary, kept his
locked in a drawer of his desk, and never wore it except when compelled
by official etiquette. The mere sight of it seemed to be painful to him.
One day I asked him the reason. We are very old and close friends, and
he told me.

"The incident occurred when he was a young lieutenant. Indeed, it was
his first engagement. By some means or another he had become separated
from his company, and, unable to regain it, had attached himself to a
Landwehr regiment stationed at the extreme right of the Prussian lines.

"The enemy's effort was mainly directed against the left centre, and for
a while our young lieutenant was nothing more than a distant spectator
of the battle. Suddenly, however, the attack shifted, and the regiment
found itself occupying an extremely important and critical position. The
shells began to fall unpleasantly near, and the order was given to
'grass.'

"The men fell upon their faces and waited. The shells ploughed the
ground around them, smothering them with dirt. A horrible, griping pain
started in my young friend's stomach, and began creeping upwards. His
head and heart both seemed to be shrinking and growing cold. A shot tore
off the head of the man next to him, sending the blood spurting into his
face; a minute later another ripped open the back of a poor fellow lying
to the front of him.

"His body seemed not to belong to himself at all. A strange, shrivelled
creature seemed to have taken possession of it. He raised his head, and
peered about him. He and three soldiers--youngsters, like himself, who
had never before been under fire--appeared to be utterly alone in that
hell. They were the end men of the regiment, and the configuration of
the ground completely hid them from their comrades.

"They glanced at each other, these four, and read each other's thoughts
in each other's eyes. Leaving their rifles lying on the grass, they
commenced to crawl stealthily upon their bellies, the lieutenant
leading, the other three following.

"Some few hundred yards in front of them rose a small, steep hill. If
they could reach this it would shut them out of sight. They hastened on,
pausing every thirty yards or so to lie still and pant for breath, then
hurrying on again, quicker than before, tearing their flesh against the
broken ground.

"At last they reached the base of the slope, and slinking a little way
round it, raised their heads and looked back. Where they were it was
impossible for them to be seen from the German lines.

"They sprang to their feet and broke into a wild race. A dozen steps
further they came face to face with an Austrian field battery.

"The demon that had taken possession of them had been growing stronger
and stronger the further and further they had fled. They were not men,
they were animals mad with fear. Driven by the same frenzy that prompted
other panic-stricken creatures to once rush down a steep place into the
sea, these four men, with a yell, flung themselves, sword in hand, upon
the whole battery; and the whole battery, bewildered by the suddenness
and unexpectedness of the attack, thinking the entire battalion was upon
them, gave way, and rushed pell-mell down the hill.

[Illustration: "COMMENCED TO CRAWL STEALTHILY."]

"With the sight of those flying Austrians the fear, as independently as
it had come to him, left him, and he felt only a desire to hack and
kill. The four Prussians flew after them, cutting and stabbing at them
as they ran; and when the Prussian cavalry came thundering up, they
found my young lieutenant and his three friends had captured two guns
and accounted for half a score of the enemy.

"Next day, he was summoned to headquarters.

"'Will you be good enough to remember for the future, sir,' said the
Chief of the Staff, 'that His Majesty does not require his lieutenants
to execute manoeuvres on their own responsibility, and also that to
attack a battery with three men is not war, but damned tomfoolery. You
ought to be court-martialled, sir!'

"Then, in somewhat different tones, the old soldier added, his face
softening into a smile: 'However, alertness and daring, my young friend,
are good qualities, especially when crowned with success. If the
Austrians had once succeeded in planting a battery on that hill it might
have been difficult to dislodge them. Perhaps, under the circumstances,
His Majesty may overlook your indiscretion.'

"'His Majesty not only overlooked it, but bestowed upon me the Iron
Cross,' concluded my friend. 'For the credit of the army, I judged it
better to keep quiet and take it. But, as you can understand, the sight
of it does not recall very pleasurable reflections.'"

To return to my diary, I see that on November fourteenth we held another
meeting. But at this there were present only "Jephson, MacShaugnassy,
and Self"; and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace. On
Christmas Eve we three met again, and my notes inform me that
MacShaugnassy brewed some whiskey-punch, according to a recipe of his
own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us. No
particular business appears to have been accomplished on either
occasion.

Then there is a break until February eighth, and the assemblage has
shrunk to "Jephson and Self." With a final flicker, as of a dying
candle, my diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much
light upon that evening's conversation.

Our talk seems to have been of many things--of most things, in fact,
except our novel. Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.

"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these
columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about
books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship
of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling
over playwright Harry. There is no soberness, no sense in it all. One
would think, to listen to the High Priests of Culture, that man was made
for literature, not literature for man. Thought existed before the
Printing Press; and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read
them. Books have their place in the world, but they are not its purpose.
They are things side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea,
the touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all the other items in
the sum total of our three-score years and ten. Yet we speak of them as
though they were the voice of life instead of merely its faint,
distorted echo. Tales are delightful _as_ tales--sweet as primroses
after the long winter, restful as the cawing of rooks at sunset. But we
do not write 'tales' now; we prepare 'human documents' and dissect
souls."

He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade. "Do you know what
these 'psychological studies' that are so fashionable just now always
make me think of?" he said. "One monkey examining another monkey for
fleas.

[Illustration: "'REMEMBER FOR THE FUTURE, SIR.'"]

"And what, after all, does our dissecting pen lay bare?" he continued.
"Human nature? or merely some more or less unsavoury undergarment,
disguising and disfiguring human nature? There is a story told of an
elderly tramp, who, overtaken by misfortune, was compelled to retire for
a while to the seclusion of Portland. His hosts, desiring to see as much
as possible of their guest during his limited stay with them, proceeded
to bath him. They bathed him twice a day for a week, each time learning
more of him; until at last they reached a flannel shirt. And with that
they had to be content, soap and water proving powerless to go further.

"That tramp appears to me symbolical of mankind. Human Nature has worn
its conventions for so long that its habit has grown on to it. In this
nineteenth century it is impossible to say where the clothes of custom
end and the man begins. Our virtues are taught to us as a branch of
'Deportment'; our vices are the recognised vices of our reign and set.
Our religion hangs ready made beside our cradle to be buttoned upon us
by loving hands. Our tastes we acquire, with difficulty; our sentiments
we learn by rote. At cost of infinite suffering, we study to love
whiskey and cigars, high art and classical music. In one age we admire
Byron and drink sweet champagne: twenty years later it is more
fashionable to prefer Shelley, and we like our champagne dry. At school
we are told that Shakespeare was a great poet, and that the Venus di
Medici is a fine piece of sculpture; and so for the rest of our lives we
go about saying what a great poet we think Shakespeare, and that there
is no piece of sculpture, in our opinion, so fine as the Venus di
Medici. If we are Frenchmen we adore our mother; if Englishmen we love
dogs and virtue. We grieve for the death of a near relative twelve
months; but for a second cousin, we sorrow only three. The good man has
his regulation excellencies to strive after, his regulation sins to
repent of. I knew a good man who was quite troubled because he was not
proud, and could not, therefore, with any reasonableness, pray for
humility. In society one must needs be cynical and mildly wicked: in
Bohemia orthodoxly unorthodox. I remember my mother expostulating with a
friend, an actress, who had left a devoted husband and eloped with a
disagreeable, ugly, little low comedian (I am speaking of long, long
ago).

[Illustration: "'YOU MUST BE MAD.'"]

"'You must be mad,' said my mother; 'what on earth induced you to take
such a step?'

"'My dear Emma,' replied the lady; 'what else was there for me? You know
I can't act. I had to do _something_ to show I was an artiste!'

"We are dressed up marionnettes. Our voice is the voice of the unseen
showman, Convention; our very movements of passion and pain are but in
answer to his jerk. A man resembles one of those gigantic bundles that
one sees in nursemaids' arms. It is very bulky and very long; it looks a
mass of delicate lace and rich fur and fine woven stuffs; and somewhere,
hidden out of sight among the finery, there is a tiny red bit of
bewildered humanity, with no voice but a foolish cry.

"There is but one story," he went on, after a long pause, uttering his
own thoughts aloud rather than speaking to me. "We sit at our desks and
think and think, and write and write, but the story is ever the same.
Men told it and men listened to it many years ago; we are telling it to
one another to-day; we shall be telling it to one another a thousand
years hence; and the story is: 'Once upon a time there lived a man and a
woman who loved him.' The little critic cries that it is not new, and
asks for something fresh, thinking--as children do--that there are
strange things in the world."

At that point, my notes end, and there is nothing in the book beyond.
Whether any of us thought any more of the novel, whether we ever met
again to discuss it, whether it were ever begun, whether it were ever
abandoned--I cannot say. There is a fairy story that I read many, many
years ago that has never ceased to haunt me. It told how a little boy
once climbed a rainbow. And at the end of the rainbow he came to the
most wonderful land that was ever dreamt of. Its houses were built of
gold, and its streets were paved with silver. Its palaces were so
beautiful that no language could describe them, but to merely look at
them satisfied all yearnings. And all the men who dwelt in this city
were great and good; and the women fairer than the women of a boy's
dream. And the name of the city was "The city of things men meant to
do."

[Illustration: THE END]



THE STORY OF AN HOUR.

BY HILDA NEWMAN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY V. W. NEWMAN.

          -----


And this is the end of it all!

The sharp queries and sullen answers, the sobs, tears, and bickerings are
over, and in their stead reigns the cold silence of resolution.

How did it all begin? Neither could tell. Yet the torture of an unworthy
suspicion, and a pride that scorns to answer the doubts of an exacting
love, have apparently sufficed to obliterate the memory of the happiness
of three unclouded years of kindness and love.

[Illustration: "IDLY LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW."]

They are going to separate. There is nothing else to do, She says, and
He tacitly agrees, for he knows it is impossible to go on living in this
atmosphere of discontent. And they calmly arrange their affairs, as
though it were merely a question of a few weeks' absence, instead of the
breaking up of their home. He will travel, and She will stay on at their
house a little longer, till her mother goes abroad, when she will join
her, dismissing all the servants, excepting the old nurse who looks
after their child. Ah! it is the thought of their child that makes the
separation so hard, and He feels that the last link between them is
broken, when he yields that little life into the hands of the wife who
does not trust him, thinking bitterly in his heart that he may be taught
to hate him.

She sits in the drawing-room, idly looking out of the window, surprised
at the dead calm that seems to have come over the house. An organ is
playing in the street, and the notes jar on her strained nerves till she
could scream; but she sits still with her hands in her lap, trying to
believe that she is utterly indifferent to present, past, or future, yet
unconsciously listening to the hurried, heavy footsteps overhead, where
her husband is packing his portmanteau. She is quite anxious for a
moment as she remembers she has put away his fur-lined coat that might
be useful if he goes travelling in chilly regions, but she recollects
herself with a start, and does not stir from her seat. She lets the
bitter thoughts come uppermost in her heart now, for she is convinced,
of course, that this parting is the best thing that could take place.
Upstairs, He, quite helpless as to the locality of many necessaries that
have hitherto been prepared for him by thoughtful hands, and not feeling
able to confront his servant's inquiring eyes, is savagely thrusting
linen into an unwilling receptacle, whence ties and collars stick out
provokingly at odd corners, and trying to subdue a queer feeling that
oppresses him when he thinks of her stony indifference.

So the packing goes on, and the organ grinds merrily, and is inwardly
but emphatically cursed by at least two ungrateful people.

At last He is ready, and comes slowly down the stairs, giving some very
audible and offhand orders in the hall respecting his particular
belongings. A close observer might notice that he speaks and laughs a
little too readily. The little, pale woman, sitting motionless in the
room, hears him, and in her heart of hearts hears what he strives to
hide.

[Illustration: "COMES SLOWLY DOWN THE STAIRS."]

After all, it is a great wrench for a man to leave his--well, then,
whose fault is it? And the old arguments and suspicions rise again in
her mind and deaden all other feelings.

He comes into the drawing-room, hat in hand, very firm and very calm.
She does not move.

"Good-bye," he says, holding out his hand.

"Good-bye," she answers, taking it mechanically.

He pauses at the door, and their eyes meet. "It is much better so," she
says, faintly. And he is gone.

Then there is a rushing and singing in her ears. The notes of the organ
rise louder and louder, till they swell into a rich anthem--the garish
daylight changes to the dim light of a church--she walks up the aisle in
a glistening white dress, on which pearldrops shake and tremble. She
hears a dim murmur of voices and rustling of garments, and the scent of
white flowers is heavy in the air. There rises a clear voice, whose
fervour moves her inmost heart, exhorting her to love, honour and
obey--and out of the fulness of her soul she promises. _Oh! God, oh!
God, she meant to keep that promise._

Then comes a confused din of voices and rolling of carriages, but she is
only conscious of the strong arm to which she clings, and the clear face
that bends so tenderly over hers.

With a little sobbing gasp she opens her eyes. Has she been asleep? No,
but the organ has stopped and is rumbling down the street, followed by a
crowd of small boys and girls, whose ears are not sensitive to the
quality of music.

[Illustration: "A WHITE, WILD-LOOKING FACE."]

She rises. Her knees are shaking as she drags herself painfully across
the room, catching a glimpse of a white, wild-looking face in the tall
pier-glass as she clutches the handle of the door, and then the sight of
the empty hat-rack in the hall, the absence of coat and stick, or
fragrant whiff of cigar, bring the irrevocableness of the parting home
to her more vividly than anything--more than the few words of farewell,
the cold handshake, and the slam of the hall door half-an-hour ago. "Was
it only half-an-hour?" she murmurs, staring stupidly at the clock; "it
seems an eternity! And now he is going farther and farther from me,
never to return--never to tease, and praise and love me, for (she sobs)
he did love me once, in spite of everything--never to laugh at me and
call me 'little woman'--never to hold my hand or ask my help again! He
is thinking of his wasted life and love; yes, he will believe he has
wasted it on _me_. He is thinking of our little child--he did not bid
him good-bye--how could he bear to?" Ah! there is still something left
for her to love; but what is left for him? And with bitter tears she
remembers how quietly he gave the child up to her, and how she accepted
the sacrifice as a matter of course, though she knew what it cost him.

[Illustration: "THE NURSERY IS EMPTY."]

With beating heart she goes upstairs. The cosy, pretty nursery is empty.
The nurse has taken the child to Kensington Gardens as usual. She passes
on into their bedroom. It is still in disorder, and she has not the
heart to put it straight, though she feels that a little occupation
would do her good. The sun shines warmly into the room, but she shivers.

There is nothing but loneliness in the house, and that she cannot bear,
for it brings thoughts, and she dares not think.

Hardly knowing what she does, she finds and puts on her hat and gloves,
and turns to go, but, at the very threshold, she stumbles over
something--why, it is the little silver match-box he always uses--and
loses. She must take it to him--then she remembers, and, oh! strange
woman, covers it with tears and kisses. She hurries down the stairs, and
out of the house, and a long way down the street before she knows that
she is hurrying, because she cannot bear to be alone. An awful feeling
of restlessness, of reproach, will not let her be still, and yet she was
so calm a little while ago.

On--on--regardless of curious looks, for her cheeks are tear-stained,
and now and then there is a little catch in her breath, that she cannot
repress.

On--past the quaint old red brick palace, whose history they read
together, past the pond with its toy navy and anxious captains, past
nursemaids, children, and mooning philosophers she hurries, feverishly
longing to reach the chosen nook where a joyous welcome awaits her.

[Illustration: "THE POND AND ITS TOY NAVY."]

Now she is near--but the seat is empty, and the nurse is gossiping in
the distance. She runs on angrily--and stops! For, under a sheltering
tree, He stands bidding their little child good-bye. She can hear his
gentle words, and the soft, cooing answers, and she dumbly stretches out
her arms, as a great wave of love surges in her heart and drowns the
bitter thoughts for ever. In a little while he will go, and then this
tide of love and repentance will have come too late.

She calls him faintly--and he turns. Her hat is awry, her hair coming
down, and she has torn her pretty dress on some projecting branch, yet
He thinks she never looked more beautiful, as he answers the mute appeal
of those tearful eyes, and takes her in his arms. Deep silence reigns.
Then, from the depths of a penitent heart, she sobs out loving,
passionate words: "Forgive me--my husband!"

[Illustration: "'FORGIVE ME--MY HUSBAND!'"]



RUM PUNCH AT PODBURY'S.

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY RONALD GRAY.

[Illustration]


Some West Indian insects have an almost human strength of purpose. For
three consecutive nights I suffered from a sort of vampire cockroach,
who crept under my pyjamas whilst I slept, and nibbled my chest. When I
awoke, I could feel him hurrying off by way of my arm or leg. The moment
worn-out nature reasserted itself in me, and I dozed again, that ghoul
of a cockroach came back and proceeded with its fell banquet. At length,
weakened no doubt by loss of blood and frantic with the thought that a
mere piece of determined vermin should thus habitually sup off me, I
rose in the dead of a moonless night, turned on the electric light,
selected a handy shoe, and then started to have it out, once for all,
with that man-eating cockroach. He broke cover from under some
curiosities, and went away at a killing pace. But I had stopped his
"earths" all round the cabin, and after a ten minutes' burst in the
open, he settled down, evidently feeling that I meant business. Though
not his equal in pace, I hoped to find myself a better stayer. He caught
my eye once, when he was jumping over my sponge with a view to getting
into some very difficult country under my bunk. The expression in it
evidently alarmed him, and he redoubled his efforts. Twice I had made
play with the shoe. Once I nearly landed him upon the side of his head;
the other time I broke a rather valuable curiosity. Finally, the
cockroach began to fly; then, for a while, he had matters his own way. I
struck out to the right and left with a view to winging him, but he
certainly showed great ability in the air, and dodged under the shoe and
over it, and then hit me in the face, and was out again before I could
get a blow back. Now, from being a sort of fox-hunt, the affair had
degenerated into a prize-fight; and it seemed utterly impossible to say
who would win. On the one side were ranged weight and science and a
shoe; on the other, wings and astounding agility and utter
unscrupulosity. After the first round, I heard people in adjacent cabins
waking up and murmuring unkind things--not about the cockroach, but
concerning me. Then I called "Time," and walked out to the centre of the
room. The cockroach did not come. I looked round and saw him sitting in
my open port, twirling his moustache and gazing out upon the sea. I said
"Time" again, but he paid no attention; so I stole upon him, with the
stealth of a wild Indian, and smote him behind. This action was
unsportsmanlike, but conclusive. He shot out into the ocean, where
probably some not over-particular tropic fish attempted to digest him
and failed.

[Illustration: "SMOTE HIM BEHIND."]

As the "Rhine" approached Dominica, the Fourth Officer, according to his
pleasant custom, approached me, armed with facts. On this occasion,
however, I had taken measures to be before him. I had read up the island
rather carefully, and, knowing that Columbus was always a safe card, had
acquired some information on the subject of that great navigator also.
So I waited with quiet confidence for the Fourth Officer to start. He
said:

"Here we are at Dominica--an interesting and beautiful spot."

"True," I replied, "Christopher Columbus discovered the place in 1493."

The Fourth Officer looked startled and uneasy, but I pushed on:

"The French and hurricanes between them have done much to wreck this
island's chances. Matters, however, are more hopeful now. Dominica
abounds in sulphur springs, and vast sulphurous accumulations occur
inland. Even the bed of the River Roseau is not free from these volcanic
outbursts. Formerly the place produced very famous and high-class
coffee, but this cultivation was ruined by an insect pest. Now, you
shall find that sugar-cane, cocoa, and limejuice are the principal
products. The manioc root, of which cassava bread is made, also grows
abundantly here, and basket work is rather an important industry too. In
the year 1881, there were still a hundred and seventy-three pure
aboriginal Caribs left in Dominica, but they have not been counted
lately. I don't fancy they like it. The port of the isle is Roseau,
named after the river. We shall presently anchor off this town. I don't
know that there is anything more to say."

[Illustration: "THE FOURTH OFFICER LOOKED STARTLED AND UNEASY."]

Then I looked at the Fourth Officer inquiringly. He was evidently hurt.
He said:

"No, I don't fancy that there is anything more to say." Then he shook
his head rather reproachfully, and walked off to the other end of the
ship. In fact, he went as far away from me as he possibly could without
getting into the sea. I felt sorry, and followed him, and begged him to
tell me about his younger days, when he was an apprentice, and first
sailed the ocean. This cheered him up, and he recounted a mad freak off
Cape Horn by night. It happened that another sailing ship was following
his vessel, so he and a friend began hanging out signal lamps to her,
and waving green and blue and yellow and crimson lights over the stern
of their ship. The approaching barque stood this display for some time,
and then, probably under the impression she was running into a chemist's
shop, grew frightened, and changed her course, and was no more seen. Our
Fourth Officer, I should think rightly, regards this as one of his
happiest efforts.

The Doctor has already arranged a programme for Roseau. One Podbury
dwells there, and this Podbury brews the best rum punch in the West
Indies. The Doctor knows and esteems him. My brother is also familiar
with the Bishop of Dominica, and says that he is a genial, lovable
Irishman of admirable parts, and the best company in the world. It is
agreed, therefore, that we first call upon the Bishop, then see the
town, and finally cheer our exhausted systems with Podbury's rum punch.
Neither the Bishop nor Podbury has invited us, or knows we are here at
all; but that is a sort of detail which counts for nothing in foreign
parts.

Dominica is very beautiful, with the same beauty as many other islands
already mentioned. Great wooded hills rise, peak upon peak, to the
clouds, and between them lie deep gorges and fertile ravines. The
margins of the sea are fringed with palms; Roseau itself lies glimmering
upon the shore, with white walls and red and grey roofs. Inland, winding
out under low cliffs behind the town, flows forth the river over a rocky
bed to the sea. This stream produces some very noble scenery towards the
interior, and is rather a large volume of water for such a small island.
As a result Dominica is extremely damp at seasons of much rain, and
grows, among other things, frogs of majestic size.

By kind permission of the Captain, I was allowed to avail myself of the
mail-boat at all ports; and now, tumbling into this vessel, the Doctor
and I soon reached dry land.

[Illustration: "THE DOCTOR WAS FUSSING ABOUT."]

"Let us bolt straight off to the Cathedral," he said; "ten to one the
Bishop's there; if not, we can go on to his house."

Roseau appeared to be rather a languishing little town. The stony
streets were all overgrown with grass; the place generally lacked any
air of enterprise; the negro children, who swarmed everywhere, were more
than usually destitute of attire.

Upon reaching the Bishop's place of business, we found to our dismay
that a funeral was going on. The Cathedral doors were wide open, a crowd
was gathered within, and over a flower-laden bier stood the Bishop,
singing away, and as fully occupied as a man could be.

I noticed that the Doctor was fussing about, trying to catch his
friend's eye. I therefore said:

"Don't; it isn't decent. You can't expect even a bishop to be genial and
effusive at a time like this. Consider the survivors."

"He sees me!" whispered my brother.

"Sees you; yes, not being blind he couldn't help it. Everybody in the
Cathedral sees you; and they very naturally resent the sight. Come away;
you're making the Bishop nervous."

It really was most annoying. There he stood, so close that we could
almost touch him, and yet separated from us by a gulf only to be bridged
by the end of his burial service.

The Doctor became illogical and childish about it. When I had dragged
him away from these last sad rites, he gave it as his opinion that any
other bishop would have stopped, just for a moment at least, and been
friendly and enthusiastic, if only in an undertone.

"He may get thousands of opportunities to bury people, but he will never
have a chance of seeing you again," said my brother. Then he added, as
an afterthought, "And very probably you will never get another
opportunity of talking to an Irish bishop."

[Illustration: "WE MET PODBURY."]

After that he sneered at the local medical practitioner, and said that
likely enough the deceased would not have died at all in proper hands.

Then a thought struck me, the horror of which reduced my brother to
absolute despair. I said:

"Perhaps the Bishop is interring Podbury. In that case everybody you
know on this island will be busy, and we shan't get any hospitality, or
punch, or anything."

"Just my luck if he is," answered the Doctor gloomily. He then kept
absolute silence for half-an-hour, during which time we walked to the
Roseau River and beheld many black laundresses out in mid-stream washing
clothes. Turning from this spectacle, he spoke again and said:

"Our present state of suspense is destroying me. I've a terrible
presentiment that they _were_ burying Podbury. If so, we're done all
round. I'm going right away to Podbury's now. I shall see in a moment by
the blinds if the worst has happened."

We sought out Podbury's desolate home, and the Doctor asked bitterly why
Providence should have snatched away one whose skill in the matter of
rum punch was a household word. I said:

"Try and feel hopeful. We cannot yet be absolutely certain that he has
gone."

And then we met Podbury in the Market Place. He was thoroughly alive,
and apparently in good health.

"Ah, Doctor!" he exclaimed, "back again. Glad to see you. How are the
boys on the 'Rhine?' Who's your friend?"

I was made known to Podbury, and explained how the sight of him had
turned our mourning into joy, and how I had come out from England as
much to taste his celebrated rum punch as anything else. He appeared
gratified at this, and led the way to his house.

[Illustration: "'MAGNIFICENT!'"]

We asked him who the Bishop was burying, and he did not even know. He
said:

"A nigger, for certain. Can't be anybody of much account or I should
have heard tell of it."

Then we reached his home, and while he brewed cold punch, we talked to
his wife and daughters and some aunts that he had, on his father's side.

The Treasure dropped in too. He knew Podbury well, and Podbury regarded
him as an authority on punch. The liquid was presently placed before us.
Podbury showed pleasure when I said what I thought about it; but he did
not feel quite contented until he had expert's opinion.

"Magnificent!" the Treasure presently declared; "why it's equal to the
1890 brew--you remember."

Podbury's eye brightened at this allusion to one of his greatest past
triumphs. He tasted the punch himself, and admitted that it certainly
seemed "about right."

With a desire to be entertaining, I volunteered a fact or two concerning
punch generally. I said:

"Our word 'punch,' as you are doubtless aware, is derived from the
Hindustani '_panch_' or Sanskrit '_panchan_'; which mean simply 'five.'
Punch is a mixture of five ingredients, hence the name."

Everybody was rather impressed with this apposite remark, excepting
Podbury. He answered:

"Yes, that's so. I've known it years and years. You bet what I don't
know about punch isn't worth knowing."

This I took to be sheer conceit on the part of Podbury. His successes
with punch were making the man egotistical. I did not believe that he
had heard of these interesting points before, whatever he said to the
contrary. At any rate, they were quite new to his wife and daughters and
aunts. So I turned my attention to them, and told them several other
things worth knowing. They doubtless retailed my information to Podbury
after we had departed. Still the punch was good and cooling, and, with a
heart that rises above trifles, I here deliberately bless the man who
brewed it. To be thus publicly blessed in print ought to content even
Podbury.

[Illustration: "THE PUNCH WAS GOOD."]

When we returned to the "Rhine" night had shaken out her starry skirts,
and land and sea were very dark. But great electric eyes glared down
from either side of the ship, facilitating the business of loading, and
shining upon a struggling crowd of lighters, and a yelling, swearing
assembly of negroes. Steam cranes groaned and shrieked and rattled; new
passengers were coming aboard, driven to madness with luggage; and
sundry Dominica tradesmen bustled about, selling curiosities. These
people vended stuffed frogs, the skins of humming-birds, Brazilian
beetles, and gigantic Rhinoceros beetles also.

Five or six of them hemmed in the Doctor immediately he arrived, but,
finding that he had already laid in frogs and beetles, they turned upon
me with grim determination to do business, or perish in the attempt. My
knowledge of the "Rhine" enabled me to escape from all save one, but he
was as familiar with our vessel as I, and finally, penning me in a
corner, he produced a frog as big as a lap-dog, and declared that it was
his almost suicidal intention to practically give me the thing for
half-a-dollar. I said:

"No, John. I am perhaps as good a judge of a bull-frog as anybody
living, and I tell you without hesitation that your frog is worth ten
shillings. Don't dream of parting from it for less."

He grinned, and asked:

"Massa gib me ten shillin' for him?"

[Illustration: "'MASSA GIB ME TEN SHILLIN' FOR HIM?'"]

"Again, no, John. I do not need this Goliath of a frog. I am merely
valuing the reptile for your future guidance. Let me see those beetles."

He showed me a weird creature, which looked as if nature had begun an
insect and then changed her mind and finished it off like a crab. This
thing, with the ferocious claw-like nose and chin, was a female
Rhinoceros beetle, so the owner explained. The male beetle appeared to
be a harmless, mild concern of much smaller size, and with no warlike
appendages whatever. I never saw any insect of the sterner sex labour
under such crushing disadvantages. Personally, did I belong to this
order of coleoptera, I should sing extremely small, and remain a
bachelor, and creep or fly about quietly after dark, and not affect
ladies' society much. Probably, most gentlemen Rhinoceros beetles do so.
It must always be Leap Year with these concerns. If the males had to
propose, the race would long since have become extinct.

I bought a beetle or two, and then my merchant, with strange
pertinacity, returned to the bull-frog. Not far distant stood our Model
Man, working for his life. So I said:

"You see that gentleman there--the one ordering everybody about and
making so much noise? Take your frog to him, tell him it is a
ten-shilling frog, and he will probably buy it on the spot."

But this frog vendor knew the Model Man from experience. He evidently
had no inclination to attempt any business with him.

"Dat gem'man no buy nuffing, sar. He berry sharp wid me 'fore to-day."

Indeed, the near presence of the Model Man discouraged my friend to such
an extent that he presently withdrew. I told his enemy afterwards, and
the Model Man said:

"Offer his beastly frogs to ME! If he had dared to, I should have
pitched him into the sea, stock and all. I did once, when he began
bothering people to buy things they had no wish for."

"Ah," I said, "doubtless he alluded to that circumstance when he told me
you had been sharp with him before to-day."

Among the passengers who joined us at Dominica was an old friend, an
ample, full-bodied, admirable gentleman who travelled from England with
us, and found the ocean extremely monotonous and trying upon the voyage
out. The same trouble still dogged his footsteps. He came aboard quite
wild and haggard, and declared the universal and appalling lack of
variety was telling upon his health.

[Illustration: "A FULL-BODIED GENTLEMAN."]

"Just think of it," he said, "wherever you turn, nothing but negroes and
cocoanut palms, cocoanut palms and negroes. Every place is exactly like
the last; every palm tree exactly like every other; every negro
identical with the rest. I never saw such a monotonous set of islands in
my life."

"Look at their beauty," I said.

"I have, until I'm out of all heart with it," he replied. "A pinnacle or
two, with clouds round the top; a field of sugar-cane; hundreds of
palms, hundreds of blacks; mean houses and a paltry pier--that's a West
Indian island. I liked the first; I tolerated the second; I even bore
with the third; but the fourth wearied me; the fifth harrowed me; the
sixth sickened me; the seventh--that is this one--has absolutely
maddened me; and the eighth or ninth will probably kill me."

I said:

"You ought not to have come here. Why did you?"

"I took advice," he answered drearily. "So-called friends assured me
that what I wanted was constant change of scene, with variety and
novelty. They asserted that these things were to be found in the West
Indies, and I believed them. Look at the climate, too; even that never
changes. Look at the sky; English people cannot stand this eternal
surface of dead blue. They are not accustomed to it, and it frets their
optic nerves. In fact, the whole scheme of things here sets the nervous
system on edge from morning till night. There is a cannon somewhere in
this steamer, and it will fire in a moment; for no reason, that I can
see, except a nautical love of unnecessary noise. These ships cannot
come to a place or depart again without firing off their wretched brass
guns."

[Illustration: "'WITHOUT FIRING OFF THEIR WRETCHED BRASS GUNS.'"]

He went moaning away to his cabin, saying that he never knew one room
from another on board ship: they were all so exactly alike; and I
proceeded to scan further fresh arrivals.

One party consisted of a man and his wife. They had recently been turned
out of Venezuela, upon political grounds, and were now going up to St.
Thomas, to meet some friends there and arrange a Revolution. A very
pretty little French girl and her mother were also among the passengers.
The Treasure knew them well, and, when he heard they were coming, grew
excited, and hurried away to shave and change his clothes.

The Treasure's Enchantress was certainly very beautiful, with a slight,
trim figure, great wealth of raven hair and flashing eyes. Moreover, she
appeared to like him, and told me that he always gave her mother the
best cabin in the ship.

There was a scene that night, after we started, between the Treasure and
my brother. It happened thus:

The Enchantress proved to be but an indifferent sailor, and sent for the
Doctor. He was just starting to comfort her when the Treasure arrived.

[Illustration: "THE TREASURE'S ENCHANTRESS."]

"Ill?" he asked. "Ah, I knew she would be, poor girl; she always is.
Tell her to drink a pint of salt water. It's the only thing. If that
fails, tell her to drink another."

The Doctor immediately showed anger. He said:

"Thanks very much. It saves a medical man such a deal of bother when he
has got a chap like you always handy to do the prescriptions. Should you
think two pints of salt water would be enough? Hadn't we better say a
bucket of it?"

"You may be nasty, but it's none the less true that salt water is
right," answered our Treasure. "Just because the thing is a simple,
natural remedy, you doctors turn up your noses at it. I know this case
better than you do. The girl has often sailed with us. Sea-water is what
she wants to steady her. I told her so before dinner."

The Doctor departed, and when he had gone, I asked the Treasure all
about his Enchantress. I said:

"Of course it's no business of mine, but I'm very interested in your
welfare, and might be useful. Where does she live?"

He answered:

"She has two addresses: one in Martinique and one in Paris. I know them
both; but I hardly think I should be justified in divulging them."

"Certainly you would not," I said. "I should be the very last to suggest
it."

"It is a little romance in a small way--I mean her life and her
mother's. The father was a French Count, and died in a duel. That shows
some French duels are properly carried out. She is awfully rich, and not
engaged. At least, she doesn't wear a ring. She likes tall men. Of
course that's nothing, but I happen to be fond of small women."

"Merely a coincidence," I said, and he looked rather disappointed.

[Illustration: "'SHE LIKES TALL MEN.'"]

"We think curiously alike in a good many directions," he continued. "I
taught her to play deck quoits, and shot a few things for her with my
gun. And she gave me a photograph recently."

"Of herself?" I asked. "Well, no," he admitted, "not exactly that. She
takes pictures sometimes in a little pocket camera. She did one of an
old negro woman--ugly as sin; but it was not so much the subject as the
thought of giving it to me. It argued a friendly feeling--at any rate, a
kindly feeling. Don't it strike you so?"

"Undoubtedly it did. You're a lucky man. How far is she going with us?"

"To St. Thomas. She has a temporary address there, by-the-bye. I know
that too."

"Go in and win at St. Thomas. I believe it is a certainty for you; I do,
indeed."

The Treasure absolutely blushed. He was a very big man indeed, and
produced the largest extent of blush I ever saw.

Then my brother came back, looking extremely grave.

"How is she?" we asked simultaneously.

"Very ill," he answered shortly. "She was all right when we started, and
never better in her life; but, after dinner, she drank half a wineglass
of salt water, and the natural result has been disaster. I understand
some fool urged her to try this as a preventive of _mal-de-mer_. Her
mother thinks it must have been a coarse practical joke, and is going to
speak to the Captain about it. I wouldn't be the man who prescribed that
insane dose for a thousand pounds."

Then an expression of abject dismay stole over the Treasure's face as,
despite his great size, he appeared to shrivel and curl up into nothing.

[Illustration: "HE APPEARED TO SHRIVEL AND CURL UP."]



[Illustration: THE IDLERS CLUB
           SUBJECT FOR DISCUSSION
          "AWKWARD PREDICAMENTS."]


[Sidenote: The Rev. Dr. Parker pays a visit.]

My "predicament" was first "awkward," then "foolish." "It was all along
of" a woman. I may even say a "woman in white." "I was a pale young
curate" then, but of a dissenting type. Twenty-two years of age. Very
white in the face. Dark brown hair, enough to fill a mattress. Very high
collars, compared with which Mr. Gladstone's are mere suggestions. Huge
white neckerchief. Black cloth from top to toe. I was sent to visit an
invalid lady somewhere in City Road. A total stranger. Place: A shop.
Room: At the tip-top of the house. The last part of the staircase was
exceedingly narrow and steep, the stairs themselves little broader than
a ladder. Tableau: A lady in bed, the only occupant of the room; a young
minister, nearly all head and shirt collar, the rest of him a mere
detail; the minister very shy and, as it were, "struck all of a heap" by
the novelty of his position. The young minister, nervously shy, sat
down, and the woman in white breathed a deep sigh. If my mother could
have spoken to me then, it would have been such a comfort. I felt as if
up in the clouds and the ladder had been stolen. There was not enough of
me to break into perspiration, or I should have broken. I know I should.
On this point I will brook no contradiction. There I sat. There were but
two of us, and oh! I felt so very high up, and so very far from the
police. Even the street noises seemed to be in another world, and that
world next but one to this. The silence was painful. At length the young
mother, not so very, very young, perhaps, turned her large brown eyes
upon me in a fixed and devouring way, and I can tell you what she said.
Shall I? Can you bear it? I could not. She said, with malignant
slowness, "I feel such a strong desire to kill somebody." I was the only
"body" in the room. How that young man got out of the chamber I could
never tell. He never revisited it. He was in the City Road as if by
magic. Did he pray with the woman? Not a word. Or she might have preyed
upon him.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Burgin recalls an incident.]

I remember a couple of incidents, both of which gave me unpleasant
dreams for some time. The first was in connection with that noble animal
which is so useful to man--when it suits him. I was staying out at the
Constantinople fortifications with my friend, Colonel A----, in a
delightfully picturesque little Turkish village called Baba Nakatch. We
had no drains, no amusements, no post--nothing but an occasional death
from typhoid to vary the monotony. When we tired of playing chess, we
rode out and inspected fortifications, _i.e._, my friend the Colonel
rode into a place with earthworks round it, majestically acknowledged
the salutes of the soldiers, and then rode out again. It generally took
four or five hours to go the rounds, and I humbly remained outside each
fort, only catching distant glimpses of the frowning guns as I sat on an
Arab steed at the entrance, and tried to look military. One day, another
Colonel, whose horse was pining for that exercise which his somewhat
indolent master felt disinclined to give him, suggested that I should
ride his grey charger and "take the devil out of him." I couldn't see
any devil in the horse when he was brought round. He was apparently calm
and sleepy, and tolerated me for about ten minutes. Then, without any
warning, the brute swerved round, and bolted back at a mad gallop in the
direction of the village. His mouth was like cast-iron, so I soon gave
up pulling at it. The gallop was exhilarating. Why trouble to stop? So I
simply sat well back, and awaited events. I hadn't to wait very long. We
cut round a corner, and dashed up a muddy lane leading to the stables.
Ten yards ahead of me, I suddenly noticed a thick telegraph wire
stretched across the road, a little higher than a horse's shoulders,
which had evidently been diverted from its original uses by an ingenious
but unprejudiced Turkish soldiery for the purpose of suspending their
washed shirts. Rip! rip! Z--z--z--z! as I ducked to the saddle-bow, and
something scraped across my back with a sound as of rending garments.
When I was able to reflect, I found the horse standing almost asleep in
the yard, with my soldier-servant respectfully holding my stirrup in his
hand. "Shall I sew up the back of the Effendi's jacket?" he placidly
remarked; and the incident terminated.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Also another.]

On the second occasion, I was badly scared. I reached Montreal one hot
summer night before the English steamer started. She was timed to leave
at three in the morning, and all passengers had to be on board the night
before. It was so hot that I was nearly suffocated in the close harbour.
When I went down to my cabin I left the door open, put my purse and
watch at the foot of the bed, under the mattress, and tumbled off to
sleep. There was no light in the cabin, as the steamer was moored
alongside the wharf. When I awoke, I lay quite still for a moment,
vaguely conscious of impending evil. I could hear someone breathe in the
darkness--stealthy steps--then a hand groping lightly about feeling for
my throat. It rested there for a moment. There was a momentary
tightening of the fingers. Should I keep still, or make an effort? I
kept still, trying to breathe naturally. The fingers left my throat, and
fumbled under the pillow as if searching for something, then gradually
retreated, the breathing of the man became less distinct, and I was
alone. With one bound I reached the door, bolted it, and sat down on the
floor in a helpless and chaotic condition. The next day a new steward
was missing; so were several other things.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: F. W. Robinson has a predicament.]

Oh, yes, I have had my awkward predicament too--you, gentlemen, have not
had it all your own way. It happened in "the dead of the night" at a big
hotel in a Lancashire watering-place, and my first notice of the
forthcoming event was given to me by a loud hammering at the front door.
"Gentleman home late, decidedly noisy, and probably drunk," I
soliloquised, and was about to resume my slumbers when someone ran along
the corridor outside, his or her naked feet sounding oddly enough as
they pattered, at a great rate, past my door. "Somebody ill," was my
next thought. "Very ill," was thought number three, as more feet--also
in a hurry--went bounding by. "Perhaps a lunatic at large," was my
fourth reflection, as various voices sounded in the distance, several of
them in a high falsetto. I got out of bed, opened my door, and looked
down the corridor towards the big wide staircase in the distance. There
was smoke coming along the passage, a smell of burnt wood, and then a
woman's voice giving out a bloodcurdling shriek of "Fire!" That was
quite enough notice for me. Two minutes afterwards I was downstairs in
the hall of that sensational establishment.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: It necessitates unconventional attire.]

I was not alone. I was in a mixed assembly of a hundred men, women, and
children, who very quickly became two hundred, presently three hundred,
all told; visitors, waiters, chambermaids, hotel officials, huddled
together in the most incongruous and comic costumes, and thirty per
cent. of them with no costumes at all, unless night-shirts and
curl-papers count. I was decorous by comparison. I _had_ on a pair of
trousers (buttoned up the wrong way, certainly), a billycock hat, a
surtout coat, a walking-stick, and no shoes or socks. The hall, being
paved with marble, struck exceedingly cold to bare feet, and with a
total disregard for other people's property I took down an ulster from a
rack, and stood on it until a gentleman from upstairs, who was
singularly distraught, emptied a whole pail of water over the balusters
under the impression that we were flaring somewhere below there. The
conflagration was on the first floor above a shop, which had caught
light to begin with, and burned through to the hotel bedrooms. Here were
plenty of smoke, plenty of "smother," and a few flames in the corner,
but no one knew what might be the end of the business, and we were all
prepared to march on to the breezy Parade should the fire gain too much
sway over the premises.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: But is not very serious.]

The characters in this little domestic scene I found highly amusing
after my first scare, as I have no doubt I was a very amusing spectacle
to others. The most agile of the company tore up and down stairs with
utensils of all kinds, full of water, from the kitchen; sometimes they
fell up the stairs, or clashed against each other, and an awful mess was
the consequence. One lady was brought solemnly down in a large clothes
basket, fright having deprived her of the use of her limbs; two men in
night-shirts stood against the front door with small portmanteaus under
their arms, extremely anxious to be the first to get out alive; one old
gentleman, also scantily clad, harangued us from the first landing in a
feeble and bleating fashion. "Has any-any-body se-ent for the fiiire
brigade?" he asked every two or three minutes, always forgetting that he
had been answered in the affirmative. He was sure that the fire brigade
had escaped every one's memory but his own, and presently--it _had_
seemed a long while--the firemen in their brass helmets arrived, and
brought their hose into the premises and lumbered upstairs with it, and
the engines began pumping and thumping in the street. A
quarter-of-an-hour finished the proceedings so far as one's personal
safety was concerned, and by twos, threes, and fours we slunk away to
our respective rooms considerably ashamed now of our get-up, and
thankful in our hearts that the worst was over.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Gribble's predicaments have been very common-place.]

Most of my predicaments have been very common-place predicaments, and
the ways in which I have got out of them very ordinary and obvious ways.
Once, when I was a child in petticoats, I wanted to walk through a
tunnel at the same time as an express train, but my nurse ran after me
and pulled me back. Once, before I had learnt to swim, I was caught by
the tide between Broadstairs and Ramsgate; but some sailors came and
took me off in a boat. Once again, I, who cannot claim to be physically
robust, was challenged to single combat by a truculent Belgian miner of
six foot three, with whom I had refused to drink pecquet; but a steam
tram happened to pass opportunely, and I escaped in it. Lastly, there
was my Alpine brigand. He, with all his faults, was picturesque.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: With one exception.]

I believe--and I shall be glad to be contradicted if I am mistaken--that
I am the only living man who has ever been "stuck up" by a brigand in
the middle of a glacier. I had no idea that the man was a brigand until,
by behaving as such, he gave himself away; otherwise, I have no doubt I
should have risen to the occasion and taken to my heels. As it was, he
gave me, as the gods gave Demodocus, "both good and evil." That is to
say, he deprived me of my money, leaving me in exchange a new sensation,
and something interesting to write about. If I were to generalise about
brigands, I should do so thus: Brigands, I should say, are of medium
height, slightly but firmly built; they wear mutton-chop whiskers, and
are dressed in brown; they carry their luggage--their shaving tackle, I
suppose, and their pyjamas--in red and white handkerchiefs slung behind
their backs; their appearance is ferocious, and they go about with guns.
They spend most of their time sitting on the lateral moraines,
pretending to be chamois-hunters. When they see solitary strangers, they
come down on to the glacier and accost them without introduction, their
usual form of salutation being, _Donnez-moi tout l'argent que vous
avez?_ The ideal way to treat a brigand is to arrest him, drag him to
the nearest police station, and give him into custody. A more practical
plan is to humour him by relieving his necessities, and afterwards to
recoup yourself by holding him up to contumely in the press. But you
must not expect him to be caught. The Department of Justice and Police
will show great energy in sending you his _dossier_ in several
languages, so that you may be able to give chapter and verse when you
denounce him in print. The Chief of the Department may even invite you
to drink an absinthe with him in the Sion Casino. But, as for catching
your brigand, that request is much too unreasonable to be seriously
entertained.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Frank Mathew tells the truth.]

I can lay no claim to the honesty that has made the other members of
this club so eager to expose their most awkward and ludicrous
adventures. Why should I publish my least pleasant memories to
strangers? That is a task I would leave to my enemies. Besides, whenever
I have come to grief, some other fellow has been to blame. When I fell
into Hampton Lock, before the eyes of a multitude, it was because that
ungainly lout Jones let the boat swing. Jones laughed then, and many
times after when he told the story; but why should I help him to spread
it? But that is neither here nor there. If I had been always as lucky as
the other members of this club, who seem to have remained dignified in
their misfortunes, then I might be less reticent. And if I were so
unscrupulous as to speak only of things less bitter to remember, then I
might tell how on a Bavarian railway I was once waked at midnight by an
excited official who--with an air as if life and death hung on my
answers--plied me with questions in spite of my explaining to him that I
did not even know what language he was talking, and who at last rushed
away leaving me doubting whether he was a mad-man or a nightmare; or how
I lost my way among the hills by Bologna--at a time when I knew no
Italian--and wandered for hours along dusty roads, cursing the ignorance
of the natives; or how, dining at Lugano--in the open air and under a
vine-covered trellis--I ordered a cheap wine, new to me,
"Château-neuf-du-Pape," and was delighted when it was brought to me
reverently cradled and in an immemorial bottle, and when it proved to be
a wine of wonderful merit, and how my blood turned cold when the waiter
gave me the bill, for he had mistaken my order, and I had been drinking
Château-something-or-other, a priceless vintage.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Alden is not sure which.]

I am not sure what was my most awkward predicament, for the choice lies
between a prayer-meeting and Folkestone. This may seem obscure, but it
isn't, as you will presently see. My Folkestone experience was as
follows:--The baby--I decline to specify whose baby, for the law of
England does not compel any man to confess that he is a grandfather--had
been ill for a week, and the physician said that we must take her to the
seashore instantly. In half-an-hour we had caught a train for
Folkestone, which the baby's mother, remembering her sensations when
landing from the Boulogne boat after a rough passage, felt sure was "all
that there is of the most seashore," as the French idiom has it. It was
just about to rain when we reached Folkestone, and, putting the baby and
her attendant slaves in a carriage, I told them to drive at once to the
private hotel, which we had selected, and I would follow with the
luggage. It took some time to pile a mountain of boxes and bundles on
the top of the carriage, but, finally, just as the rain began to pour, a
self-sacrificing friend who had remained to help got into the cab with
me, and we told the driver to go to number 33, such-a-street. It was at
the furthest extremity of the town, and when we reached there, after two
or three attempts on the part of the top-heavy cab to upset, I was
greeted by the information that no such person as the landlady of whom I
was in search lived there. What was worse, nobody had ever heard of her,
and no cab containing a baby had called at the house that day. Where
then was the baby, and its mother, and my wife, and its other slaves?
Obviously, they were lost somewhere in the town of Folkestone, and our
two cabs might drive up and down for months without ever once meeting
one another. I looked at my companion, and he looked at me in silence.
No language could do justice to the occasion, and we both recognised the
fact. I told the cabman to go to all the hotels in the neighbourhood,
and enquire for a missing baby. He explained that there were nothing but
hotels and boarding-houses in Folkestone, and that to visit them all
would take the greater part of our lives; still, he would try. So we
went to at least a dozen different places, and, although twice a sample
of the resident babies was brought out for our inspection, we did not
find the one for which we were in search. Then the driver, seeing our
despair, said that perhaps he had better drive to the pier, and we said
that perhaps he had. I think he had a vague idea that we were lunatics,
and could possibly be lured on board the Boulogne boat, and so got rid
of. But he thought better of it before reaching the pier, and suggested
that if we went back to the station, perhaps the stationmaster might
help us. So we went back to the station, merely to be told by the
stationmaster that he knew nothing about the missing landlady or the
missing baby, and didn't want to, either. Once more the driver suggested
the pier, and we told him to drive us anywhere. It was now after dark,
and being wet and hungry, as well as devoid of wives and babies, we were
beginning to be reckless. All at once, a joyful cry sounded from a
passing cab. It was the voice of my wife, who was patrolling Folkestone
in the hope of meeting us. Our nightmare was over, and in a few more
minutes we were clasped in the arms of the baby--or, at any rate, we
would have been had she been old enough to learn the use of her arms. To
the unmarried man the experience may not seem quite so dreadful as it
did to me, but let a married man mislay a valuable baby, not to speak of
a wife and daughter, in a strange town on a stormy night, and he will
know how near he can come to having a nightmare without preliminary pork
and sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: And tells of a prayer meeting.]

Once, when I was an undergraduate, a prayer-meeting was held in
somebody's room, which I attended. I do not recollect what was the
occasion of the holding of this meeting, but I do remember that it was a
particularly solemn one. There were about thirty of us in the room, and
the meeting had been in progress for about half-an-hour, when it
suddenly occurred to me that were someone to burst into a laugh, the
astonished expression of the others would be something worth seeing.
Then I thought how painful would be the feelings of the man who laughed,
and how he would be covered with shame and remorse. All at once an
irresistible desire to laugh came upon me. There was nothing whatever to
laugh at, and the mere idea of laughing in such a place filled me with
horror, but still the desire--a purely nervous one, of course--to break
out in a peal of laughter grew stronger and stronger. I bit my lips, and
tried to think of the most solemn and depressing subjects, but that
laugh could not be conjured in any such way; presently I knew that I was
smiling--a broad, complacent, luxurious smile. Just then, a man sitting
opposite to me saw my smile, and a look of cold horror spread over his
face. At this I laughed aloud, in a choking, timorous way, but loudly
enough to attract the attention of every one in the room. The mischief
was now done, and, in the estimation of my comrades, I was disgraced for
ever, as the man ought to be who insults pious people at their prayers.
Being ruined, I thought that there was no longer any necessity for
prolonging that terrible effort to suppress a laugh, and so I leaned
back in my chair and laughed loud, long, and, in fact, uproariously. The
meeting came to a sudden pause. The first expression on every face was
that of amazed horror, but my laugh was contagious, and presently
someone else joined in, and before order was restored the room rang with
the laughter of a dozen men. All this time I was in an agony of
self-reproach in spite of my laughter. I virtually broke up the meeting,
and it was not until the clergyman, who presided, had dismissed us, that
I could command myself sufficiently to try to explain to him the purely
involuntary nature of my laughter. He was kind enough and intelligent
enough to understand the matter, but the greater part of those who heard
me believe to this day that I was a bold blasphemer of a peculiarly
brutal character. I could never begin to tell what mental suffering the
affair caused me, but I can safely say that I was never more miserable
than I was at the very moment when I was laughing the most thorough and
ecstatic laugh that ever came to me.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Zangwill refuseth to be drawn, and runneth amuck.]

I never was in an awkward predicament. I have seen it stated that I once
wrote "To be concluded in our next" without having the slightest idea
how to extricate my characters from the mess I had got them into, but
that is another story. There is not a word of truth in it. An awkward
predicament is as unfamiliar to me as a crinoline; I have never been in
one. It is absurd, therefore, to ask me what is the _most_ awkward
predicament I have ever been in; besides, it is always so invidious to
select. I really must refuse to pander to editorial flippancy, and to
add myself to the April fools who will scribble seriously upon the
subject. I think, if this sort of thing is to take the place of our
sensible symposia, it is time the Idlers' Club was abolished. The
intrusion of ladies has spoilt everything. Once we sat with our feet on
the mantelpiece smoking. (My own cigar was always given me by the
artist.) Now we never smoke--Angelina won't permit it. Tea replaces the
whiskey of yore, and the horizon is bounded by thin bread and butter. We
are expected to stick to one predetermined subject--doubtless for fear
we might wander off into the improper--and we are almost encouraged to
bring our sewing. No more we enjoy those delightful excursions to
everywhere--interrupting one another _apropos des bottes_, and capping
an appreciation of Wagner with an anecdote about a mad turtle. Yet this
is the only natural style of conversation. Who ever keeps to the point
in real life? It is bad enough in examinations for the examiners to ask
you about Henry II. when you are anxious to tell them about Elizabeth;
or to demand your ideas on the manufacture of hydrochloric acid when the
subject nearest your heart is the composition of ammonia. But
conversation will not bear such inquisitorial pinning down to a
particular point. It becomes a dead specimen butterfly instead of a
living, fluttering creature. I think someone ought to tell the editors
that they are simply ruining the club. I shudder to think what will
become of it in five years' time, when nobody will belong to it but
ladies and parsons. I would resign at once if it were not for sheer
generosity. The generosity of the editors is, indeed, beyond all cavil.
But even their generosity has its limits. It is as certain as
quarter-day that if I do not fill my allotted space I shall not get
paid. And yet, in the absence of any experience of the requisite nature,
it is quite impossible for me to say one word on the subject I have been
asked to talk about. I don't wish to tell a lie or to throw away money,
but it looks as if I must do one or the other. Really, it's the most
awkward predicament I was ever in.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Idler Magazine, Volume III, April 1893 - An Illustrated Monthly" ***

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