[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 156.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE UNSEEN REGIONS OF A THEATRE.
That part of a theatre which is concealed from the view of the audience
is always a subject of interest and speculation to the uninitiated, and
most playgoers experience a desire to explore the mysterious region.
When, therefore, some years ago, an opportunity presented itself to
me of gratifying my curiosity in this respect, I did not fail to take
advantage of it. Since then, I have been behind the scenes of various
theatres, and my experience has convinced me that the public is not
aware how small a portion of the house behind the curtain is exposed to
the view of the audience, the regions both above and below the stage
being more extensive than is usually imagined. Indeed, when, several
years ago, the Opera House in Paris was burned, it was with surprise
that the public learned from the newspapers that the edifice had no
fewer than four separate underground floors.
At the present day, in most first-class theatres in London and New
York the subterranean portion of the building consists of at least two
or three distinct stories. The fact is, it is now quite impracticable
to meet the requirements of a grand spectacular piece without ample
space being provided for the scenery underneath the stage. Many, too,
of the finest plays are so constructed that several changes of scene
are required in every act; and each scene must be a masterpiece of the
stage-carpenter’s art, to satisfy the exacting demands of a modern
audience. The old system, when an alteration of scene was necessary,
was primitive enough. In some instances, there descended from the
‘flies’ a large curtain, on which was painted a landscape, or the
interior or exterior of a building, as circumstances might require. In
other cases, wooden frames, termed flats, with canvas tightly stretched
upon them, were pushed upon the stage from either side, meeting at
the centre, and frequently presenting an ugly seam at the place of
junction. No little skill was demanded in handling a huge frame many
yards in height and width; for if it once lost its perpendicular,
it became unmanageable, and fell—then requiring the exertions of
several men to restore it to its proper position. The scenes also
had a tendency to stick in the grooves in which they ran, and when
this occurred, the disapprobation of the audience was incurred. It is
said that a mishap of this kind having once taken place at one of the
transpontine theatres, a spectator in the gallery called out: ‘We don’t
look for grammar at this ’ere ’ouse, but we think yer might see that
yer “flats” jine properly.’
All this is now altered. At the London theatres of the better class,
when a change of scene is requisite, it is effected in a few seconds
and in an admirable manner. An extensive landscape, or a lofty
battlemented castle—so strongly constructed that it seems as if it were
built of solid masonry—or a spacious apartment completely furnished,
is, as if by magic, placed before the audience.
It has often struck us that playgoers scarcely adequately realise the
extraordinary mechanical ingenuity displayed in the production of
many of the pieces of late years presented to the public. Take, for
instance, the fairy spectacle entitled _Le Roi Carotte_. In it there
was a scene in which an old magician was dismembered in the presence of
the audience. The situation was this: an aged sorcerer, in order to be
rejuvenated, requests his friends to cut him into pieces and throw him
bit by bit into a red-hot oven; after which process he expects to come
out a young man. His wishes are complied with; he is put piecemeal into
the furnace without his leaving the stage or ceasing to talk. Seated in
an armchair, the old man asks that a large volume shall be brought in
and laid on a table in front of him. The book, on being placed in the
required position, becomes immediately vivified; living gnomes issue
from the pictures on its pages and skip about the stage; after which
they re-enter the book, and it is closed and carried away. Then the
legs and arms of the magician are cut off and thrown into the furnace;
next he is decapitated, and his head is placed on the table, where it
continues talking, giving instructions with regard to the trunk. After
this the head is cast into the oven, which bursts open with a loud
report, and a young and handsome man comes out of it.
The transformation is so ingeniously effected that the manner in which
it is executed is incomprehensible to the ordinary spectator. This is
the way in which the feat is accomplished: when the volume is placed
on the table, the sorcerer, seated in the armchair, quietly withdraws
his legs from sight, placing them on a trap beneath the level of
the stage; at the same time he slips his arms under his loose gown,
_papier-mâché_ limbs being substituted in both instances for the real
ones. This is done whilst the attention of the audience is diverted to
the book and its animated pictures, which are little boys who come up
from underneath the stage, through holes in the table and book, which
is furnished with india-rubber springs, which close directly the gnomes
have emerged from the volume. After the magician’s legs and arms have
been taken off and thrown into the fire, nothing is left but his trunk
and his head. The latter is a mask which fits the actor’s face, leaving
nothing visible but his lips and eyes. One of the persons on the stage
tugs at the magician’s head until he pulls it off—that is to say, he
removes the mask. As this is being done, the sorcerer has sunk down a
trap, and he rises again through the table. The performer, with his
head inserted in the mask, continues to talk, giving instructions with
respect to the disposition of the trunk, which remains in the chair.
Finally, the artificial head and the trunk, which are also of _papier
mâché_, are thrown into the furnace. The magician in the meanwhile has
reascended by means of another trap farther back, slipping on a rich
dress on the way; and when the oven bursts, the old man steps forth
rejuvenated.
The reader must now see what skill and ingenuity the feat demands—what
careful attention to every detail, what precautions against the
slightest error, what rapidity in working of the traps, and what
accuracy of movement on the part of the actor who plays the old
magician. But, indeed, the skill and dexterity demanded of those to
whom are intrusted the mechanical arrangements of some pieces, are far
greater than are supposed by the public, who content themselves with
admiring the results, without reflecting upon the care and labour they
have involved.
In an opera called _Les Amours du Diable_, produced in Paris some years
ago, there was a curious scene which puzzled all who saw it. A slight
palanquin—constructed in such a manner that it was obvious that there
was no possibility of its having a double bottom—was brought upon the
stage supported on the shoulders of slaves. The actress, who occupied
it, withdrew the curtains and gave some orders to her attendants. Then
the curtains were closed for an instant, and again re-opened. But the
occupant of the palanquin had disappeared. What had become of her?
The feat had been executed close to the front of the stage, and under
a brilliant light; and the spectators could plainly see that it was
certain that the lady had not gone down a trap. The mystery remained
for some time unsolved. The explanation of the puzzle was simply this:
the pillars of the palanquin appeared to be very slight, but instead of
being wood, they were hollow metal tubes. Through these tubes, ropes
ran on pulleys at the top of the palanquin, descending in the inside,
and fastened to the frame, on which was placed the silk cushion on
which the actress reclined. To the other end of the ropes was attached
a heavy weight which exactly balanced that of the lady. One of the
slaves was impersonated by an expert machinist. So soon as the curtains
were drawn, he pulled a cord which released the counterpoise, and the
frame, together with its burden, rose to the dome of the palanquin.
There the actress lay quite comfortably, a wire-gauze overhead enabling
her to breathe freely. Pains had been taken in the constructing of
the palanquin to make it appear frail, whilst in reality it was very
strongly built, that the roof might bear the strain upon it of the
weight it had to support. The bearers were men selected for their
muscular strength, and they were drilled in the practice of taking up
the palanquin—after the disappearance of its occupant—and carrying it
off the stage at a sharp trot, as if it were empty.
Of recent years, great improvements have been made upon the old plan
of representing the motion of the waves in a sea-scene. When, some
years ago, a comedy called _Surf, or Summer Scenes at Long Branch_,
was brought out at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, there was
a scene in which the heavings of the ocean and the breaking of the
waves upon the shore were imitated with excellent effect. Miss Logan,
the authoress of the play, has described the ingenious mechanical
appliances that were made use of on the occasion; she says: ‘There was
a large cylinder, reaching across the stage from wing to wing on either
side, and garnished with curling stiffened canvas, running around the
cylinder after the fashion of the threads of a screw. This was put in
revolution by means of a crank at the end, which was turned by a man
behind the wing. The curling canvas was painted to represent the foamy
surf. Behind the first cylinder were two others of similar character
which revolved in like manner. When the three were in motion together,
with a peculiar arrangement of light and shade upon them, the effect
was strikingly like the rolling in of the waves upon the beach. There
were various other appliances employed to heighten the illusion, such
as a large box of pebbles tilted to and fro behind the scenes in a
manner to closely imitate the sound of the waves; a gauzy painted
cloth worked up and down an inclined plane, and represented the thin
wave that rushes up the sands and retires again; rows of broom-corn,
painted green, simulated the seaweed. The characters of the play, who
are supposed to go in bathing at Long Branch dressed in the usual
costumes, sprang through openings made of india-rubber—painted like the
rest—which closed behind them as water might, could, or should do;
and a little later, the actors, having passed under the stage by means
of traps, reappeared at the back of the scene between the revolving
cylinders, and jumped up and down, as if disporting themselves in
the surf.’ The scene was very effective, and conduced largely to the
success of the play.
Conflagrations on the stage are now so realistic as occasionally to
alarm the spectators, who can scarcely believe that some portion of the
scenery has not taken fire. But the precautions taken against danger
are so thorough that there is no likelihood of an accident happening
on these occasions. In a piece entitled _La Madonna des Roses_, which
the writer once saw in Paris, there was the best representation on the
stage of a conflagration he has ever witnessed. A fire was supposed
to break out suddenly in an apartment in a ducal palace. Smoke and
flame in a few moments poured forth in volumes from the windows and
doors, and extending quickly to the walls, they fell in. They were
constructed of two layers of wood, held together by thin cords, passing
through holes. At the proper time, certain portions of the scenery
were removed, leaving the others apparently burning fiercely—an effect
produced by small gas jets arranged in rows around the edges of the
frames. Behind the heavy set-piece at the back of the stage was a
transparent curtain, on which flames were painted; and when the wall
tumbled down, this scene being lit up, glowed with a lurid light in a
very natural manner. At the same time, burning naphtha projected sheets
of flame four or five yards in height, and large funnels overhead
poured out torrents of black smoke mixed with sparks. It was indeed
difficult for an audience to realise that the fire was not real, and
that the whole of the scenery was not a heaving mass of flame.
In the description of the various mechanical contrivances resorted to
in order to produce the scenic effects, the writer has been in some
measure indebted to the theatrical reminiscences of Miss Olive Logan,
an American actress.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER XX.—CONCLUSION.
Turning into Holborn, he ran on blindly, never noticing another figure
following in his footsteps. It was getting very late now, and as he
hurried into the Strand, St Clement’s Danes struck midnight. Through
the crowd there blindly, on to the water-side, the snaky figure close
behind never off his track; on to the Embankment, and towards Waterloo
Bridge. Then he stopped for one brief moment to regain his spent breath
and think.
The following footsteps halted too; and then some instinct told him
he was followed. Turning round again, full under the lamplight, he
encountered Paulo Salvarini, determination in his face, murder in his
eyes. In an agony of sudden fear, Le Gautier ran down the steps on to
the Temple Pier, standing there close by the rushing water. A second
later, with a clutch like iron, Salvarini was upon him.
‘Ah!’ he hissed, as they struggled to and fro, ‘you thought to escape
me, you murderer of innocent women, the slayer of my wife! Now I have
you. Back you go into the river, with a knife in your black heart!’
The doomed man never answered; breath was too precious for that. And so
they struggled for a minute on the slimy pier, Salvarini’s grip never
relaxing, till, suddenly reaching down, he drew a knife. One dazzling
flash, a muttered scream, and Le Gautier’s lifeblood gushed out.
Footsteps came down the stairs, a shrill shout from a woman’s voice.
Salvarini started. In one moment, Le Gautier had him in a dying clasp,
and with a dull splash, they fell backwards into the rushing flood.
Down, down, they went, the tenacious grip never relaxing, the water
singing and hissing in their ears, filling their throats as they sucked
it down, turning them dizzy, till they floated down the stream—dead!
Some boatmen out late, attracted by the scream, rowed to the spot; and
far down below Blackfriars, they picked up the dead bodies, both locked
together in the last clasp of death. They rowed back to the pier, and
carried the two corpses to a place for the night, never heeding the
woman who was following them.
Next morning, they saw a strange sight. Lying across the murdered man,
her head upon his breast, a woman rested. They lifted her; but she was
quite dead and cold, a smile upon her face now, wiping out all trace of
care and suffering—a smile of happiness and deep content. Valerie had
crept there unnoticed to her husband’s side, and died of a broken heart.
* * * * *
For a few days people wondered and speculated over the strange tragedy,
and then it was forgotten. A new singer, a noted poisoning case,
something turned up, and distracted the frivolous public mind from the
‘mysterious occurrence,’ to use the jargon of the press.
Maxwell lost no time in getting to Grosvenor Square the following
morning, where his greeting may be better imagined than described. He
told Enid the whole story of his mission, omitting nothing that he
thought might be of interest to her; and in his turn heard the story
of Le Gautier’s perfidy, and the narrow escape both had had from his
schemes.
‘I do not propose to stay any longer in London,’ Sir Geoffrey said.
‘After what we have all gone through, a little rest and quietness is
absolutely necessary.—Enid, would you care to go down to Haversham?’
‘Indeed, I should. Let us go at once. I am absolutely pining for a
little fresh air again. The place must be looking lovely now.’
‘All right, my dear,’ the baronet replied gaily; sooth to say, not
sorry to get back to a part of the world where Sir Geoffrey Charteris
was some one.
‘Then we will go to-morrow, and Maxwell shall join us.’
‘But Isodore? I have not seen her yet.’
‘Oh, she can come down there some time, directly we are settled.’
Later on in the same day, Maxwell heard the strange tale of Le
Gautier’s death. He did not tell the news to Enid then, preferring
to wait till a time when her nerves were more steady, and she had
recovered from the shock of the past few days. So they went down to
Haversham, and for three happy months remained there, ‘the world
forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and at the end of that time, when the
first warm flush of autumn touched the sloping woods, there was a quiet
wedding at the little church under the hill.
Gradually, as time passed on, Sir Geoffrey recovered his usual flow of
spirits, and was never known to have another ‘manifestation.’ He burned
all his books touching on the supernatural, and gradually came to view
his conduct in a humorous light. In the course of time, he settled down
as a model country gentleman, learned on the subject of short-horns
and top-dressing, and displaying a rooted aversion to spiritualism. It
is whispered in the household—only it must not be mentioned—that he is
getting stout, a state of things which, all things considered, is not
to be regarded with incredulity.
Nearly two years later, and sitting about the lawn before the grand
old house, were all our friends—Salvarini, mournful as usual, little
altered since we saw him last; Maxwell, jolly and hearty, looking
with an air of ill-disguised pride at Enid, who was sitting in a
basket-chair, with a little wisp of humanity in her arms, a new
Personage—to use the royal phrase—but by no means an unimportant one.
Lucrece was there, happy and gay; and Isodore, glorious Isodore,
unutterably lovely as she walked to and fro, followed by Salvarini’s
dog-like eyes. The baronet made up the party, and alas! truth must out,
looking—but we will be charitable, and say portly.
‘How long are you going to stay with us, Isodore?’ Enid asked. She
would always be Isodore to them.
‘Really, I cannot say, Enid. How long will you have me?’
‘As long as you like to stay,’ Maxwell put in heartily.—‘By the way, I
suppose I am still a member of the League?’
‘No, not now. Conditionally upon your promising never to reveal what
you have seen and heard, you are free; Sir Geoffrey likewise.—Luigi
here has resigned his membership.’
‘I am so glad!’ Enid cried. ‘I must come and kiss you.—Fred, come and
hold baby for a moment.’
‘No, indeed’—with affected horror. ‘I should drop him down, and break
him, or carry him upside down, or some awful tragedy.’
‘You are not fit to be the father of a beautiful boy; and everybody
says he is the very image of you.’
‘I was considered a good-looking man once,’ said Maxwell with
resignation. ‘No matter. But if that small animal there is a bit like
me, may I’——
They all laughed at this, being light-hearted and in the mood to laugh
at anything. Presently, they divided into little groups, Isodore and
Luigi together. All her cold self-possession was gone now; she looked a
very woman, as she stood there nervously plucking the leaves from the
rose in her hand.
‘Isodore—Genevieve’——
At this word she trembled, knowing scarcely what. ‘Yes, Luigi.’
‘Five years ago, I stood by your side in the hour of your trouble, and
you said some words to me. Do you remember what they were?’
‘Yes, Luigi.’ The words came like a fluttering sigh.
‘I claim that promise now. We are both free, heaven be praised! free as
air, and no ties to bind us. Come!’ He held out his arms, and she came
shyly, shrinkingly, towards them.
‘If you want me,’ she said.
With one bound he was by her side, and drew her head down upon his
breast. ‘And you are happy now, Genevieve?’
‘Yes, I am happy. How can I be otherwise, with a good man’s honest
love?—Carlo, my brother, would you could see me now!’
‘It is what he always wished.—Let us go and tell the others.’
So, taking her simply by the hand, they wandered out from the deepness
of the wood, side by side, from darkness and despair, from the years of
treachery and deceit, out into the light of a world filled with bright
sunshine and peaceful, everlasting love.
DIAMOND-SMUGGLING.
In accordance with rules of concealment laid down by Edgar Allan Poe,
some ‘clever things’ have of late years been done in the smuggling of
precious stones into the United States of America, the philosophy which
pervades Poe’s story of the _Purloined Letter_ having evidently been
studied to some purpose by the professional diamond-smugglers, who are
known to form a comparatively numerous body.
Poe’s tale, the scene of which is laid in Paris, the characters
introduced being of course French, contains what may be called a novel
theory of ‘hide-and-seek,’ which, stated briefly, is, that the greater
the importance of the article which has been stolen, the simpler should
be its mode of concealment. On the assumption that an important state
document, or criminatory letter involving serious consequences to some
one, and the possession of which would enable another person to make
use of its contents for his own benefit, has been purloined, the more
conspicuous the place chosen to conceal it the better, till it can be
made use of. Should the recovery of the stolen document be a matter
of importance, which may be assumed, it will, of course, be carefully
sought for, and those searching for it will no doubt pry with care into
every secret hiding-place, with the hope of finding it; whilst—to put
the case in a homely way—it is ‘all the time staring them in the face,’
those in search of it overlooking it because of their idea that, in
consequence of its great importance, the utmost care will have been
exercised in its concealment.
Much incidental and curiously instructive information is contained in
Poe’s _Purloined Letter_ as to the modes of criminal search adopted
in France, where magnifying-glasses of great power, and microscopes,
play a part; where beds are dismantled and chairs are disjointed to see
that what is wanted has not been concealed in some part of them; where
libraries of books are turned over leaf by leaf, and picture-frames are
tapped to see that they contain no foreign material. As Poe points out,
that is all in the way of routine, and is traditionary among French
criminal investigators in the matter of every-day crime. It requires
a mastermind, however, to fathom the doings of a really well-educated
thief who purloins an important document in order to hold it in
terrorem over a political enemy or social foe.
So in the matter of diamond-smuggling. Artists—if we may profane
the word—have come to the front, men far ahead of the original
stereotyped smugglers, who were contented to carry on their business
in old-fashioned ways; ever cudgelling their brains to find out modes
of concealment so elaborate as to make sure they would be discovered.
All the more extraordinary devices of concealment, as they were
thought to be at the time, were one by one found out and battled with
by the custom-house officers of the United States. Some of them were
thought rather remarkable, as, for instance, those managed by means
of artificial teeth—a set of these useful implements of mastication
being fashioned in such a manner that every tooth possessed a cavity
which contained one or more diamonds or other precious stones: the hole
being deftly filled up with cement, discovery was thought impossible.
By this ingenious mode of procedure, a large number of the rarer gems
were at first smuggled into the States without paying duty (ten per
cent. on diamonds), chiefly by means of female aid. Waxing bolder by
long-continued immunity from any discovery of their fraud, the officers
on duty began to wonder why the same ladies had so often occasion to
cross the Atlantic; and one of their number surmising that it was ‘for
no good purpose,’ determined to have a particular female carefully
watched during the voyage. A stewardess with whom the officer had a
friendly acquaintance was enlisted in the service; and this person
did all she could to find out why the suspected ladies so frequently
visited Europe, but to little purpose, as she thought, all she was able
to discover being apparently not of much consequence. One day, however,
whilst carefully examining the berth in which the traveller slept, she
found a broken tooth, which was hollow and exceedingly fragile. As the
stewardess used artificial teeth, she naturally enough felt interested
in the matter, and spoke to the voyager about the circumstance. The
lady at first looked embarrassed, but then said she had been cheated
by the dentist. At the end of the voyage the stewardess reported the
circumstance to the officer, who, after thinking it over, came to the
conclusion that there was more in the affair of the hollow tooth than
met the eye. New York, in fact, is celebrated for its dentistry; and
on consulting one of the professors, the officer discovered that teeth
of the sort had been made in quantity and from different moulds to
the order of a very ’cute man, who said they were wanted to be sent
to Europe. This statement afforded a sufficient cue; and accordingly,
at the termination of the next voyage, two ladies, sisters, were
respectfully but firmly requested to take out their artificial teeth.
Remonstrance was unavailing; the teeth were made to disclose their
hidden treasures; the result being that thirteen valuable brilliants
were confiscated, much to the chagrin of the fair smugglers. That
little episode put an end to that mode of smuggling diamonds.
There is a never-ending demand throughout the United States for these
gems; and several of the earlier adventurers were known to have made
money by means of the smuggling business. In reality, diamonds are a
passion with many American ladies, who must have them, no matter what
they may cost. These gem-loving dames, in their eagerness to ‘trade’
for jewels of all kinds, are not unfrequently cheated by persons who
sell them ‘bogus’ diamonds, made of paste, at a comparatively cheap
rate, under pretence of their being smuggled stones, and that, having
escaped the payment of duty, they are a bargain at the sum demanded.
Wealthy American ladies vie with each other at the various fashionable
resorts of the United States in their displays of costly jewels and
gems. It was stated a few months ago in an American paper that a rich
man’s wife wore upon her neck and breast every evening precious stones
of the value of forty thousand pounds; other ladies displaying jewels
to a lesser amount. Nor are American ladies free from the charge of
smuggling; many of them, indeed, are adepts at the business, able
to impart a secret or two to ‘the professionals.’ During a recent
Saratoga season, one lady was heard to boast that she had brought
over a suite of diamonds in the heels of several pairs of slippers
which she had made on purpose to contain them. These dainty articles
were ostentatiously displayed, and taken notice of by the searchers;
but the heels were not suspected to be hollow or to contain diamonds.
Hollow-heeled boots were at one time greatly in use as a part of the
smuggling machinery. That mode of carrying on the illicit traffic was
ultimately discovered by an under-steward of an American liner, who,
for ‘a consideration,’ communicated the secret to the custom-house
authorities. Then followed a series of contrivances in the shape of
double-bottomed trunks, valises with secret pockets, desks with hidden
drawers, and guns and pistols which were so contrived as to contain
a few of the much-coveted gems. All these contrivances were in turn
discovered: they were just the kind of concealments which the officers
had their thoughts fixed upon. For a time, we believe, the professional
diamond-carriers were discomfited; but their discomfiture was not
for long; the business was too profitable to be easily relinquished,
however great the risks might be.
Just as the customs’ authorities were under the impression that they
had suppressed the illicit traffic, a new era in gem-smuggling was
inaugurated, and more diamonds reached the United States ‘duty free’
than before. Smuggling, it may be said, developed into a fine art; at
all events, the incidence of the trade for a brief period became so
simple as to seem like child’s play; indeed, children were made to
play an important part in the business. A story which lately became
public shows how well the modern diamond-smugglers had laid to heart
Poe’s precepts. ‘Please to hold my baby whilst my husband helps me to
open my trunks; he will be quite good if you will shake his rattle,’
said a lady passenger to the officer who was waiting to look over
her travelling gear. And that officer good-humouredly did as he was
requested, shaking the rattle, to the great delight of the little one.
The rattle in question, which, fastened to a ribbon, was tied to the
child’s waist, was filled with gems of great value, a mode of smuggling
that at the time was too too simple for detection.
A clever female attired in the costume of a Sister of Mercy was passed
over by the officers because she had no luggage worth examining. She
possessed, however, a fine string of beads, which, with downcast eyes,
she kept telling. Safe on land, she was affectionately welcomed by
two persons dressed in costumes similar to her own. Need it be told
that she was a smuggler, and that her beads were so constructed that
each held a diamond weighing seven or eight carats. Another ingenious
person hit upon the plan of placing a few precious stones in a toy
kaleidoscope which had been given to a child, who carried it ashore in
safety. A number of homing pigeons kept in cages, and purchased at a
village in Belgium, and brought to the United States by way of Paris
and Havre, also played a profitable part, each of the pigeons being
freighted with a cargo of exquisite gems, concealed in quills, and
carefully fastened to the message-bearing dove. An extensive system
of diamond-smuggling was at one time carried on from Canadian ground
by the aid of homing pigeons. The discovery of this illicit trade was
made accidentally by a farmer, who happened to shoot one of the birds,
and on examining it found that there was fastened to its leg a quill
containing a number of diamonds! A clue being obtained, the local
habitation of the pigeon proprietors was discovered and their mode of
business put an end to. The scheme, stated simply, was to fly every
week or ten days a flock of a dozen or fifteen pigeons, each carrying
about half-a-dozen gems. As the duty on diamonds amounts to ten per
cent., the trouble taken to smuggle these gems into the United States
does not seem so very remarkable. The value of the precious stones
honestly imported into the States is between eight and nine million
dollars per annum, and it has been calculated that gems to half that
sum escape payment of the duty.
Many tales have been circulated with regard to diamonds, some of them
of a rather curious kind. We have read of faithful messengers who,
rather than yield up the stone they carried, swallowed it. The owner
of a slave who had done so, and who had been killed by robbers, was so
convinced of his servant’s fidelity, that he gave directions for the
opening of the body, and found that the honest fellow had swallowed
the precious gem. Dishonest servants employed at the diamond mines
frequently display wonderful ingenuity in concealing stones which they
have purloined while at their work. About a year ago, a rough diamond
weighing four hundred and fifty-seven carats was stolen by a person
in the employment of the Central Diamond Mining Company at Kimberley
(South Africa), who sold it for the sum of three thousand pounds to
four persons who dealt in stolen stones. It was then sold at Cape
Town to a firm of illicit dealers in diamonds for nineteen thousand
pounds; and was ultimately purchased for forty-five thousand pounds
by a syndicate of London brokers in precious gems. The means by which
this magnificent brilliant was smuggled from the mines and ultimately
got to England was never made known. It is notorious enough, however,
that a large trade in fraudulently obtained stones is carried on at
the South African gold-fields; and stories are told of buyers around
the diamond mines who have made large fortunes by purchasing stones at
nominal prices from labourers who possessed the cunning and the courage
to successfully brave the authorities and bring to the resetters their
stolen goods.
It has been calculated by persons engaged in the business that
twelve per cent. of the fall in the price of rough diamonds, which
has taken place within the last few years, should be set down to the
sale of stolen gems, which, to the value of more than half a million
sterling, annually find their way to the markets. These stones
are the direct fruits of theft, those selling them having made no
contribution whatever to the cost of obtaining them. When first the
work of diamond-seeking at Kimberley began, there were no thefts of
any importance, because each man was then working for his own hand,
or as one of a limited but friendly partnership. It was not till the
work of diamond-mining required the aid of hired labour that the work
of systematic robbery commenced, and ‘I. D. B.’ (illicit diamond
buying) became an institution of the Diamond Fields. Many of the
persons employed, soon fell into habits of peculation, not being able
to withstand the temptation presented by the appearance of a little
bit of stone that might be worth, perhaps, a thousand pounds, if they
could succeed in carrying it away without being detected. In every
branch of the process of gem-finding, valuable diamonds, it has to
be explained, are always at the mercy of the men employed, some of
whom are never slow to take advantage of any chance that may present
itself of securing a stone. Such thefts during the last few years have
proved a source of serious annoyance and trouble in connection with the
industry. The ‘I. D. B.’ trade, as it is locally termed, has tended to
sap the morality of the place, and given rise to the many evils which
result from resetting. There is an old adage which says that ‘if there
were no resetters, there would be no thieves.’
Great precautions are taken by the various diamond-digging Companies at
Kimberley to prevent the theft of stones; whilst the crime of reset is
always punished with much severity. A license to deal in rough diamonds
costs a sum of fifty pounds per annum; and dealers, in addition to
procuring this authority to trade, are required to find security to a
large amount. Dealers are bound by the terms of their license to make
exact entries in their books of every parcel of stones they purchase,
and also how they dispose of them. Large diamonds must be described in
detail and minutely. Should the detective department suspect any dealer
of illicit traffic, that dealer may at any moment be visited, and have
his books and stock overhauled and compared; and should he possess a
few stones which he is unable to account for, he is liable to have his
whole stock seized. Upon a late occasion, a friend of the writer’s,
while on a visit to the Kimberley Diamond Fields, was informed that two
well-known diamond dealers had just been visited by the detectives;
and one of these persons having about eight hundred carats, and the
other about seventy carats, not accounted for in their books, the
police seized their stocks—upwards of ten thousand carats in all; and
within one month from the date of the seizure, both dealers were tried,
convicted, and sentenced; and if still alive, they are now working out
their time on the breakwater at Cape Town. One of these men was reputed
to be worth over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. At the present
time, there is quite a colony of convicted ‘illicits,’ as they are
sometimes designated, working out their sentences on the harbour-works
at Cape Town, a goodly proportion of the gang being worth large sums of
money.
Although there is a considerable and clever detective staff on the
Diamond Fields, there are those at Kimberley who can outwit the police,
at anyrate for a time, and so it happens that such a number of stones
is annually stolen as to prove a factor in disturbing the market price.
The chances of detection are no doubt great; but the hope of securing
a few hundred pounds by a little peculation is so tempting, that there
are always hundreds of men at ‘the game.’ Some of the thieves—that is,
the men who steal the stones they are paid for unearthing—display great
ingenuity in carrying away the gems. The business of diamond-digging
is naturally of a rough-and-ready kind, and presents opportunities
for fraud which are not available in other industries. When
diamond-stealing first became a business, those interested, suspecting
no evil, were easily cheated. Stones were then carried away concealed
about the person of the labourers. But, as the thefts increased,
greater precautions were taken to insure the detection of the thieves.
Some of the ‘dodges’ which have been resorted to in order to carry
diamonds from the diggings have been not a little remarkable; we have
only room, however, for a sample or two. Upon one occasion, it is
related that an ingenious labourer wrapped the stones in a small piece
of soft bread, the morsel being greedily snapped by a dog. The dog
was carefully looked after till the mine was left behind, when it was
ruthlessly killed, to obtain the hidden diamonds which were contained
in its stomach. Domestic fowls have been trained to swallow the smaller
stones, which have afterwards been cut out of their crops. A parcel
of stolen gems has been known to have been got out of a well-watched
digging by having been ingeniously fastened to the hair of a horse’s
tail!
Any individual suspected of being an ‘I. D. B.’ may expect, on leaving
the Fields, to be overtaken on his road to the coast by detectives,
who will search him in order to find if he be in possession of any
stones. Many devices have been resorted to for the concealment of the
diamonds. A Dutch Boer who had been for some time under suspicion,
on leaving the Fields with his wagon was followed by some detectives
who had determined to search him. Just before he was overtaken by the
officers, he was seen to detach one of the bullocks from his team and
deliberately shoot it. By the time the police came up the Boer was busy
removing the hide. A thorough search was made by the detectives; but
no gems were found. The phlegmatic Dutchman had placed the diamonds in
the barrel of his gun, and had fired them into the body of his bullock,
from which of course he had to extract them; and he did so as soon as
the police turned their backs upon him.
The various modes of diamond-smuggling revealed in the foregoing
narrative present no peculiar features of endurance or romance; but
cases have occurred in which pain and suffering have played a part
in the business of diamond-hiding. There is, for instance, the story
of the magnificent gem which in its rough state formed the eye of
an idol in a temple near Trichinopoli, and which was stolen by a
Frenchman, who escaped with his prize to Persia, and who, fearful of
being discovered, was glad to dispose of his ill-gotten gear for a sum
of about two thousand pounds sterling. The man who bought the stone,
a Jewish merchant, sold it to one Shafras, an astute Armenian, for
twelve thousand pounds sterling. Shafras had conceived the idea that
by carrying the stone to Russia, he would obtain from the Empress
Catharine the Great a princely sum for it. How to travel in safety
with the stone, the theft of which had of course been discovered and
proclaimed, became a grave consideration. It was too large to swallow,
and no mode of concealment presented itself to Shafras that seemed
secure from discovery. The way in which he solved the problem was
remarkable. He made a deep incision in the fleshy part of his left
leg, in which he inserted the stone, closing the wound carefully by
sewing it up with silver thread. When the wound healed, the Armenian
merchant set out on his travels quite boldly, and although more than
once apprehended, rigorously searched, and even tortured a little, he
was obdurate, and firmly denied having the stone in his possession.
Having at length reached his destination, he asked from the Empress
the sum of forty thousand pounds for the gem, an amount of money
which Catharine was unable to raise at the moment. We next find the
Armenian at Amsterdam with the intention of having his diamond cut.
Here the stone was seen by Count Orloff, who determined to purchase
it for presentation to his royal mistress, the Empress Catharine. The
sum ultimately paid for the gem was about seventy thousand sterling in
cash, together with an annuity of five hundred pounds, and a patent of
nobility. Shafras flourished exceedingly, and died a millionaire. Such,
in brief, is the story of the Orloff Diamond.
‘DOUBLEWORKS.’
A STORY OF ATHLONE.
Who has not heard of the old historic town on the Shannon called
Athlone, believed by its inhabitants to be the exact centre of Ireland;
celebrated at one time—for it has been now some years removed—for the
old bridge built in the reign of Queen Bess, whose arms and monogram,
E. R., were engraved on a stone built into a kind of monument on the
parapet. Celebrated also for its old church bell, bearing in relief
the inscription—THIS: FOR: ST: MARY’S: CHVRCH: IN: ATHLONE: 1683—this
being the identical bell which, at six o’clock in the afternoon of the
30th of June 1691, clanged the signal for the attack on the forces of
King James, commanded by the French general, St Ruth, and holding the
castle, &c., by the troops of the Prince of Orange under Ginkell. The
old house occupied by him as headquarters during the siege is still
in existence, having the date of its erection, 1626, carved on the
doorway. We might go on detailing many other things for which the old
town is celebrated, but _cui bono_? Enough that it is celebrated in
song as the residence of ‘The Widow Malone, Ochone!’
Often as we have been reminded of the existence of Athlone by hearing
the above-mentioned humorous ditty trolled forth at mess by one of
Ours, who, being a genuine son of the soil, was fully qualified to
do it ample justice, it had never been our good fortune to cast eyes
upon it until some forty years ago, when, one fine afternoon, we found
ourselves, with some thousand or so other candidates for martial glory,
marching gaily through the by no means sweet-smelling town, over the
beautiful new bridge which spans the river, and under the walls of the
ancient castle, to the merry strains of the _Lass o’ Gowrie_. These
forty years are a long time to look back upon; many a long march under
foreign suns have we made with the old regiment, and in many a stirring
scene and hard-fought field have we accompanied it since then; but
somehow our memory recalls few things more vividly than the appearance
of that long column of dusty, travel-stained men, who were finishing
their hot day’s march that summer afternoon, tramping along briskly and
cheerily to the old familiar air of the regimental quick step.
We quickly settled down in our new quarters, and before long, had
formed many pleasant acquaintances, all only too delighted to show
us every civility in their power; and jolly nights at mess followed
fishing and boating parties during the summer, while, as the days began
to shorten, there was good hunting and shooting; and dinner-parties and
dances were by no means unfrequent.
In most garrison towns in which we have been quartered in Ireland,
there were generally one or two peculiar hangers-on loafing about the
barracks, queer nondescript bipeds, ever ready to run messages all over
the country, or carry a fishing-basket or a game-bag, who eked out a
precarious existence by tips from the officers and others who employed
them, and picking up odd meals at the different barrack-rooms of the
men. Athlone was not singular in this respect; and you constantly
met, shambling across the barrack square, at a kind of half-trot,
or lurking in rear of the officers’ quarters, an odd, half-witted,
but quite harmless creature, who went by the curious appellation of
‘Doubleworks.’ Who gave him that name, or whence it was derived, we are
unable to say; we only know that he answered to it, and we had it from
the regiment in whose place we had come. There was a kind of sporting
air about this poor creature; he always wore an old hunting-cap and a
shooting-suit, evidently the gift of some former patron of far burlier
proportions than the poor attenuated frame which they now enveloped;
and an ancient pair of Wellington boots, much down at heel, into which
the ends of the trousers were shoved, completed the costume, which,
however, was varied on hunting-days, when the hounds met in the square
or neighbourhood of the barracks, when, in honour of the occasion, an
aged and much stained, once scarlet hunting-coat took the place of the
shooting-jacket.
Like the other hangers-on of the Athlone barracks, poor Doubleworks
subsisted, as we have said, upon the benevolence of his military
patrons and friends; but, unlike the others, he was possessed of
an accomplishment, not an elegant one, perhaps, or suitable for
very refined society, but nevertheless one that brought him by its
performance many an odd sixpence or shilling—he could hunt the badger!
or was supposed to give a truthful representation of the ‘drawing’ of
the above-named quadruped by a canine foe. This performance was vocal,
and commenced by a series of whines, growls, and impatient barkings,
mingled with grunts and low savage yelps, which we believe were meant
for cries of rage and defiance from the badger; these, after lasting
with variations for some time, gradually increased in intensity, at
length culminating in an unearthly din, perfectly indescribable, but
which was stated by the ‘fancy’ and capable authorities to be quite
true to nature. For ourselves, not having had experience in such
matters, we are unable to offer a personal opinion, and can only
observe that the din was marvellous as the production of a single pair
of human lungs, and once heard was not likely to be ever forgotten.
His performance was not confined to any particular part of the
barracks; it might be heard at any hour of the day in the artillery
square, the cavalry square, the infantry square, or amongst the
barracks occupied by the scientific arm of the service, the Royal
Engineers; but it took place most frequently at the officer’s
guardroom; for in those days there used to be an officer’s guardroom
and an officer in it at the main barrack gate, which led directly from
the infantry square into the market-place of the town. This guardroom
was in the centre of a small block of buildings to the left of the
gate as you went out, having on its right the regimental orderly-room,
where the colonel administered justice every morning, and where the
orderly-room clerks smoked strong tobacco, and filled in forms and
sketched caricatures of regimental and other authorities every day. The
men’s guardroom adjoined that occupied by the officer, from which it,
as well as the orderly-room, was separated by a partition wall, the end
wall of the men’s guardroom being next the street. In front of these
rooms was a small veranda, and beyond this the guardroom sentry paced
his ‘lonely round.’ We are thus particular in describing the locality,
as it pleases us to recall it after so many years, because it will give
our readers a better idea of what is to follow.