SCENE I.--_Entrance-hall leading to corridor. Stained glass windows.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

_An Illustrated Monthly_

EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES

Vol VII., Issue 41.

May, 1894

[Illustration: "HE RUSHED THROUGH THE POOL OF BLAZING OIL."

(_See page 456._)]

[Illustration:

ANTONIO'S ENGLISHMAN]

Antonio was young, handsome, and a gondolier. He lacked but two

things; a gondola of his own, and an Englishman. He was too poor to

buy a gondola, and though he occasionally hired an old and extremely

dilapidated one, and trusted to his handsome face to enable him to

capture a party of foreign ladies, his profits had to be divided

with the owner of the gondola, and were thus painfully small. The

_traghetto_ brought him in a few francs per month, and he picked up

other small sums by serving as second oar, whenever tourists could

be convinced that a second oar was necessary. Still, Antonio was

desperately poor, and he and his young wife were often uncomfortably

hungry.

Now, if the Madonna would only send him an Englishman, even if it were

only for a single year, Antonio could easily save enough money to buy

himself a beautiful gondola, besides living in the lap of luxury. His

brother Spiro had owned an Englishman for only seven months and a half,

and already he was a capitalist, with his own gondola, and, figure it

to yourself!--with four hundred francs in the savings bank! And Spiro

had done nothing to deserve this blessing, for he was notoriously an

unbeliever, and never went inside a church except when he was escorting

English ladies, when, of course, he prayed with fervour at the most

conspicuous shrine, which was worth at least ten extra soldi of _buona

mano_. Whereas, Antonio was deeply religious, and at least once a year

gave a wax candle to the Blessed Virgin of Santa Maria Zobenigo. "But

patience!" said Antonio daily to himself. "Some day the Madonna will

grow weary, and will say, 'Give that Antonio an Englishman, so that

I can have a little peace and quiet.' And then the Englishman will

appear, and Antonio's fortune will be made."

Of course Antonio knew of every foreigner who came to Venice with the

intention of making a prolonged stay. There is no detective police in

the world that can be compared with the Venetian gondolier in learning

the ways and purposes of tourists. To know all about the foreigner

is at once his business and his capital. The Englishman who comes to

Venice and determines to spend six months or a year in that enchanted

city, may reach this decision on a Saturday night and mention it to no

living soul. Yet by the following Monday morning all the gondoliers in

Venice know that there is an Englishman to be striven for, and they

have even settled in their own minds precisely what apartment he will

probably hire. How they arrive at this knowledge it is not for me to

say. There are mysteries in the Venice of to-day, as there were in the

Venice of the Ten and of the Three.

Now, it fell out that one day Antonio learned that an Englishman and

his wife, a young couple, who had every appearance of sweet temper

and scant knowledge of the world, had arrived at the Albergo Luna,

and had told the porter that they intended to take a house and live

forever in Venice. The porter was an intimate friend of Antonio, and

had been promised a handsome commission on any foreigner whom he might

place in Antonio's hands. Within an hour after receiving the precious

information, Antonio had put on his best shirt, had said ten Aves at

lightning speed, had promised the Blessed Virgin two half-pound wax

candles in case he should land this desirable Englishman, and was back

again at the Luna and waiting to waylay his prey.

[Illustration: "THE PORTER PRESENTED ANTONIO."]

The porter presented Antonio, and asserted that, as a combination of

professional skill and moral beauty, Antonio was simply unique. Mr.

Mildmay, the Englishman in question, was pleased with Antonio's clean

shirt, and Mrs. Mildmay was captivated by his chestnut curls, and the

frank, innocent expression of the young fellow's face. He was hired

on the spot, with the new gondola which he professed to own, for 150

francs per month, including his board. He was to bring his gondola

and his recommendations to the hotel to be inspected that afternoon,

and was to begin his duties on the following day, the Mildmays having

already secured an apartment in advance of their arrival in Venice.

The long-hoped-for fortune had arrived at last. "He is a man of

excellent heart, the _paron_," said Antonio to the porter. "He will

be as wax in my hands: already I love him and the sweet _parona_. You

shall have your share of him, my Zuane. No one can say that I am not a

just man."

Antonio hurried at once from the hotel with a note from the porter to

a dealer in gondolas, certifying that the bearer had secured a most

eligible Englishman. He had to pay a heavy price for the hire by the

month of a nearly new gondola, but the payments were to form part of

the purchase-money, and Antonio did not grudge the price. Then he

stopped at his house to show the new gondola to his wife, and tell her

the blessed news, and then, armed with his baptismal certificate, and

an old letter from a notary, informing him that the funeral expenses

of his father must be paid or serious consequences would follow, he

returned to the hotel.

The Mildmays were satisfied with the gondola, and with Antonio's

recommendations; for they could not read Italian handwriting, and when

Antonio informed them that the notary's letter was a certificate that

he was the most honest man in Venice, and that it had been given him

by a German Prince whom he had served ten years, they were not in a

position to contradict the assertion. Moreover, they were already half

in love with the handsome and happy face of their gondolier, and would

have taken him without any recommendation at all, sooner than have

taken an old and ugly gondolier with the recommendation of the British

Consul and the resident chaplain. The next day Antonio entered upon his

duties, and began the joyous task of making hay while the sun of the

Englishman shone on him.

[Illustration: "HE SHOWED THE NEW GONDOLA TO HIS WIFE."]

The gondolier in private service in Venice does many things wholly

unconnected with his boat. He usually waits on his master's table;

he polishes the concrete floors, and he is sent on every variety

of errand. Antonio was tireless, respectful, and cheerful, and the

Mildmays agreed that he was an ideal servant. Of course they responded

to his suggestion that he needed a livery, and he was soon furnished at

their expense with a handsome suit of heavy blue cloth, a picturesque

hat, a silk sash, and an overcoat. He looked very handsome in his new

dress, and the difference between what he paid the tailor and what he

charged his master provided his wife and his little boy with their

entire wardrobe for the coming winter.

Venice is a cold city after the winter fogs begin, and when Antonio

advised the Mildmays to lay in their entire stock of firewood in

September instead of waiting until the price should be higher, they

said to one another what a comfort it was to have a servant who

really looked after their interests. So Antonio was commissioned to

buy the wood, and he bought it. He made a handsome commission on the

transaction, and, in addition, he had about one-fifth of the whole

amount of wood delivered at his own residence. It is true that this was

not quite enough to provide him fuel for the entire winter, but the

deficiency could easily be remedied by simply carrying home three or

four sticks under his coat every night, and Antonio was not a man who

shrank from any honest labour when the good of his family was in view.

About ten days after the arrival of his Englishman, Antonio informed

him that the gondola needed to go to the _squero_ to have its bottom

cleaned, at a cost of ten francs. This, however, he insisted upon

paying out of his own pocket, because the foulness of the bottom had

been incurred before he entered Mr. Mildmay's service. This scrupulous

display of honesty still further convinced the Englishman that he had

the pearl of gondoliers, and when the next day Antonio asked him to

give him as a loan, to be deducted from his future wages, fifty francs,

wherewith to make certain essential but wholly unintelligible repairs

to the gondola, Mr. Mildmay was of his wife's opinion that it would be

a shame to require the poor man ever to repay it.

The first thing that shook the Mildmays' confidence in Antonio was a

little incident in connection with a chicken. They had had a pair of

roast fowls for dinner and had eaten only one, intending to have the

other served cold for luncheon the next day. When late in the evening

Mrs. Mildmay accidentally discovered Antonio in the act of going out

of the house with the cold fowl stuffed under his coat, she demanded

an explanation. "It is true, _parona_," said Antonio, "that I took the

fowl. And why? Because all the evening I had seen you and the _paron_

sitting together in such love and happiness that my heart bled for poor

Antonio, who has no happy fireside at which to sit. And so I said to

myself, 'Antonio! surely you deserve a little happiness as well as

these good and noble people! Take the cold fowl, and eat it with love

and gratitude in your heart!'"

[Illustration: "TAKE THE COLD FOWL, AND EAT IT."]

Mrs. Mildmay could not scold him after this defence, and she simply

contented herself with telling him that he might keep the fowl for this

time, but that such a method of equalizing the benefits of fortune

must not occur again. Antonio promised both her and himself that it

should not, and though he continued to keep his wife's table fully

supplied from that of the Mildmays, the latter never again found him in

possession of surreptitious chickens.

One day Antonio found a gold piece, twenty francs in fact, on the floor

of his gondola. He knew it must have been dropped by the _paron_, and

he promptly brought it to him. "How wrong I was," said Mrs. Mildmay,

"to doubt the poor fellow because of that affair of the chicken. No one

would ever have been the wiser if he had kept that twenty-franc piece,

but he brought it to us like an honest man." For once she was right in

believing Antonio to be honest. Nothing could have induced him to sully

his soul and hands by unlawfully detaining his master's money. He was

determined to make all the money out of his providential Englishman

that he could make in ways that every gondolier knows to be perfectly

legitimate, but he was no thief, and Mr. Mildmay could fearlessly have

trusted him with all the money in his purse.

Antonio was now one of the happiest men in Venice, but one morning he

came to Mr. Mildmay with a face of pathetic sadness, and asked for a

day's holiday. "It is not for pleasure that I ask it," he said; "my

only pleasure is to serve the best of masters. But my little boy is

dead, and is to be buried to-day. I should like to go with the coffin

to San Michele."

Mr. Mildmay was unspeakably touched by the man's sorrow and the quiet

heroism with which he bore it. He gave him the day's holiday and fifty

francs towards the funeral expenses of his child. When Antonio appeared

in the morning, quiet, sad, but scrupulously anxious to do his whole

duty, the Mildmays felt that they really loved the silent and stricken

man.

Misfortune seemed suddenly to have run amuck at Antonio. A week after

the death of his child, he announced in his usual quiet way that his

wife was dead. It was very sudden, so he said. He did not know exactly

what was the disease, but he thought it was rheumatism. The Mildmays

thought it strange that rheumatism should have carried off a woman only

twenty-two years old, but strange things happen in Venice, and the

climate is unquestionably damp. Antonio only asked for half a holiday

to attend the funeral, and he added that unless the _paron_ could

advance him two hundred francs of his wages, he should be unable to

save his wife from being buried in the common ditch. Of course, this

could never be permitted, and Antonio received the two hundred francs,

and Mrs. Mildmay told her husband that if he should think of deducting

it from the unhappy man's wages, she could never respect him again.

For a time the darts of death spared the household of Antonio. The

gondola made its alleged monthly visit to the _squero_ to have its

bottom cleaned at Mr. Mildmay's expense, and the amount of repairs and

paint which it needed did seem unexpectedly large. But Antonio was

not foolishly grasping. So long as he doubled his wages by tradesmen's

commissions, and by little devices connected with the keeping of the

gondola, he felt that he was combining thrift with prudence. He made,

however, one serious mistake, of which he afterwards repented when

it was too late. Instead of giving the Madonna the two wax candles

which he had promised her, he gave her two stearine candles, trusting

that she would not notice the difference. It was not in keeping with

his honest and religious character, and there were times when the

recollection of it made him feel uneasy.

As the winter wore on Antonio's devotion to his employers never

slackened. Beyond the commissions which it is but just and right that

the faithful gondolier should exact from those dogs of tradesmen,

even if they did charge the same commissions in his master's bills,

he was tireless in protecting the Mildmays from imposition. He was

never too tired to do anything that he was asked to do, and although,

when his brother Spiro was temporarily out of employment, Antonio

discovered that there was nearly always too much wind to render it

safe to take the gondola out with a single oarsman, and that he would

therefore furnish a second oarsman in the person of Spiro at his

master's expense, he never intimated that he was not ready to row hour

after hour while the Mildmays explored the city and the lagoon. Mr.

Mildmay was fascinated by the narrow Venetian streets, and spent hours

exploring alone every part of the city. He was probably perfectly safe

in so doing, for highway robbery and crimes of violence are almost

unknown in Venice; but for all that he was always, though without his

knowledge, accompanied on his walking excursions by the stealthy and

unsuspected Antonio, who kept out of sight, but in readiness to come to

his assistance should the necessity arise.

Toward spring Antonio thought it best to have his wife's mother die,

but to his surprise Mr. Mildmay did not offer to pay the old lady's

funeral expenses. He drew the line at mothers-in-law, and Antonio

received only his half-holiday to accompany the corpse to the cemetery.

This miscarriage made Antonio think more than ever of that failure to

keep his promise to the Madonna in the matter of the wax candles, and

he sometimes wondered if she were capable of carrying her resentment so

far as to take his Englishman from him.

[Illustration: "ANTONIO WONDERED."]

There is gas in Venice, but the judicious householder does not use it,

save when he desires to enshroud his rooms in a twilight gloom. If he

wishes a light strong enough to read by, he burns petroleum. It was, of

course, Antonio who supplied the petroleum to the Mildmay household,

and equally of course, he bought the poorest quality and charged for

the dearest. Now, in spite of all the care which a timid person may

lavish on a lamp burning cheap petroleum, it is nearly certain sooner

or later to accomplish its mission of setting somebody or something on

fire, and Antonio's petroleum, which was rather more explosive than

gunpowder, unaccountably spared the inmates of the _casa_ Mildmay until

late in the month of March, when it suddenly asserted itself.

It happened in this way. One evening Mrs. Mildmay took a lamp in

her hand, and started to cross the wide and slippery floor of her

drawing-room. The rug on which she trod moved under her, and she came

near falling. In the effort to save herself she dropped the lamp. It

broke, and in an instant she was in a blaze.

Antonio was in the ante-room. The door was open and he saw the

accident. He sprang to Mrs. Mildmay's assistance. He did not attempt

to avoid the flames, but rushed directly through the pool of blazing

oil, burning his feet and ankles horribly. He seized Mrs. Mildmay, and

tore away her dress with his bare hands. He had nothing to wrap around

her, for he was wearing no coat at the time, but he clasped her close

in his arms, and smothered the flames that had caught her petticoat by

pressing her against his bosom. She escaped with nothing worse than

a slightly burned finger, but Antonio's hands, arms, feet and ankles

were burned to the bone. By this time Mr. Mildmay, who had been in his

study, heard his wife calling for help, and made his appearance.

Antonio asked the _parona's_ permission to sit down for a moment, and

then fainted away. The cook was called and sent for the doctor. She

met Antonio's brother in the _calle_, close to the house, and sent him

upstairs. With his help Antonio was carried to Mrs. Mildmay's bedroom,

and laid on the bed, and before the doctor came the wounded man had

regained consciousness, and had thanked the Mildmays for their care of

him.

The doctor, after dressing the wounds, said that the man might very

probably recover. But Antonio announced that he was about to die, on

hearing which decision the doctor changed his mind.

"When a Venetian of the lower class gives up, and says he is going to

die," said the doctor, "no medical science can save him. Your man will

die before morning, if he has really lost all hope. There! he says he

wants a priest; you might as well order his coffin at once. I can do

nothing to save him."

"_Paron_," said Antonio, presently, "would you, in your great goodness,

permit my wife to come to see me for the last time?"

"You shall have anything you want, my brave fellow," replied Mr.

Mildmay, "but I thought your wife was dead."

"I was mistaken about it," said Antonio. "It was her twin sister who

died, and they were so much alike that their own mother could not tell

them apart. No, my poor wife is still alive. May she bring my little

boy with her?"

"Tell her to bring anybody you may want to see," replied his master,

"but I certainly thought your little boy was buried last January."

"The _paron_ is mistaken, if he will pardon me for saying so. It was my

little girl who died. Was it not so, Spiro?"

Spiro confirmed Antonio's statement, like a loyal brother who is afraid

of no fraternal lie, and Mr. Mildmay had not the heart to trouble the

sufferer with any more suggested doubts of his veracity.

Antonio was duly confessed, and received absolution. "Did you tell the

father about the candles?" whispered Spiro after the priest had gone.

"I thought," answered Antonio, "that perhaps the Madonna had not yet

noticed that they were not wax, and that it would not be wise to tell

her of it, just as one is going where she is."

In the early morning Antonio died. His family, and Mr. and Mrs.

Mildmay, were at his bedside. He died bravely, with the smile of an

innocent little child on his face. "I have served the dear _paron_

faithfully," he said, just as he died. "I know he will take care of my

wife and child. And he will take Spiro as his gondolier."

Mr. Mildmay religiously carried out Antonio's dying request. He

installed Spiro in the place of the dead man, and he settled an annuity

on Zanze, the disconsolate widow. He gave Antonio a grave all to

himself in San Michele, and a beautiful white marble tombstone, with

the epitaph, "Brave, Faithful, and Honest." He came to know somewhat

later how Antonio had enriched himself at his expense, but he said to

his wife: "After all, my dear, Antonio was strictly honest according

to his own code. I think I have known some Englishmen of unblemished

reputation, whose honesty, according to the English code, could not be

compared with that of the poor boy who gave his life for yours."

W. L. ALDEN.

[Illustration:

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO

By Arthur Morrison and J A Shepherd]

XXIII.--ZIG-ZAG SIMIAN.

Whence has arisen the notion that monkeys are happy creatures? Probably

from the inadequate fact that they pull one another's tails and

run away. But a being may be mischievous without being happy. Many

mischievous boys are never happy: possibly because the laws of Nature

won't permit of half the mischief they are anxious to accomplish.

Still, the monkey, at any rate in a state of freedom, is looked

upon as a typically happy creature. "And watch the gay monkey on

high," says Bret Harte; and Mr. Kipling addresses the monkey as "a

gleesome, fleasome thou," which latter looks like an attempt to make

an admissible adjective pass in an unwarranted brother. I have seen

monkeys fleasome, treesome, freesome, keysome (opposite adjectives

these, you will perceive on reflection), and disagreesome, but cannot

call to mind one that looked in the least gleesome. Everything that

runs up a fence or swings on a rope is not necessarily jolly, much as

the action would appear to justify the belief. Many a human creature

has stormed a fence with a lively desire to attain the dogless side,

but no noticeable amount of jollity; and a man escaping from fire

by a rope wastes no time in unseasonable hilarity, dangle he never

so quaintly. Look at their faces; look also at the monkey's face.

If a monkey grin, it is with rage; his more ordinary expression of

countenance is one of melancholy reflection--of sad anxiety. His most

waggish tricks are performed with an air of hopeless dejection. Now,

this may be due to any one of three causes, or even to a mixture of

them. It may be that, like the boy, he dolorously reflects that, after

all, mischief has its limits; that you cannot, so to speak, snatch the

wig of the man in the moon, upset the Milky Way, or pull the tail of

the Great Bear. Or it may be that a constant life of practical jokes,

and of watchfulness to avert them, is a wearying and a saddening thing

after all. Or it may be that every ape, meditating on his latest

iniquity, tries for ever to look as though it were the other monkey.

[Illustration: RATHER SHY.]

With many people, to speak of the Zoo monkeys is to speak of Sally.

Poor Sally! Who would not weep for Sally? For Sally is dead and

hath not left her peer. A perversion of Milton is excusable in the

circumstances. Why is there no memorial of Sally? "Is the spot marked

with no colossal bust?" as they say on invitations to bachelor

small-hour revels. There should, at least, be a memorial inscription to

Sally.

Sally, when first she came here in 1883, was a modest and, indeed,

rather a shy chimpanzee. A few years of elementary education, however,

quite changed Sally's character, for she learnt to count up to five,

and to be rather impudent. Wonderfully uniform are the results of

elementary education.

[Illustration: SALLY ON A BUST.]

The chimpanzees, orang-outangs, and such near relatives of humanity

are kept, when they are alive to keep, in the sloths' house. Such as

are there chiefly occupy their time in dying. It seems to be the only

really serious pursuit they ever take to. Sudden death is so popular

among them, that it is quite impossible to know how many are there

at any particular time without having them all under the eye at the

moment. A favourite "sell" among them is for a chimpanzee or orang to

become a little educated and interesting, then wait till some regular

visitor invites all his friends to inspect the phenomenon, and die just

before they arrive at the door. This appears to be considered a most

amusing practical joke by the dead monkey, and is much persevered in.

[Illustration: A STAGE IRISHMAN.]

Sally was a black-faced chimpanzee. The white-faced kind is more

common, and in the days of its extreme youth much more like a stage

Irishman, except that his black hair gives him the appearance of

wearing dress trousers very much frayed at the ankles.

[Illustration: A DECEPTIVE BRAIN-PAN.]

[Illustration: WHAT WILL HE BECOME?]

The orang-outang is less intellectual as a rule than the chimpanzee;

but he has a deceptive appearance of brain-pan--an illusory height

of forehead--that earns undeserved respect. Many a man has conducted

a successful business with credit on the strength of a reputation as

easily earned. With the orang as with the chimpanzee, it is in infancy

that he presents the most decently human appearance. But even then

he is a low, blackguard sort of baby--worse than the precocious baby

of the Bab Ballad could possibly have been. He should have a pipe

for a feeding-bottle and a betting-book to learn his letters from.

These anthropoid apes come with such suddenness and die with such

uncertainty that I cannot say whether there are any in the Zoo now or

not--I haven't been there since yesterday. But wanderoos there are, I

feel safe in saying, and Gibbons. The wanderoo is a pretty monkey, and

usually gentle. He has a grave, learned, and reverend aspect as viewed

from the front, and this is doubtless why, in India, his is supposed

to be a higher caste, respected and feared by other monkeys. That same

wig, however, that looks so venerable in the forefront view, is but

a slatternly tangle in profile, like unto the _chevelure_ of a dowdy

kitchenmaid. But a wanderoo, well taught, and of good-temper, is as

clean and quaint a pet as you may desire, and as delicate as the poet's

gazelle, with its incurable habit of dying. The same may be said of the

Gibbon. In this climate he Declines and Falls on the smallest excuse,

although, perhaps, not quite so readily as the chimpanzee, who may

almost be said to Decline and Fall professionally, like Mr. Wegg.

[Illustration: GRAVE AND LEARNED.]

The Diana monkey, too, makes a pleasant pet, and is not so confirmed a

dier as some. The Diana monkey here is over in the large monkey-house,

in the middle of the Gardens. Her name is Jessie, and her beard is

most venerable and patriarchal. But just outside the eastern door of

the big house, John, the Tcheli monkey, occupies his separate mansion.

John is a notable and a choleric character. He dislikes being made

the object of vulgar curiosity, and is apt to repel an inspection of

his premises with a handful of sawdust. Any unflattering remark on

his personal appearance will provoke a wild dance about his cage and

a threatening spar through the wires. But once threaten him with a

policeman--do as much as mention the word, in fact--and John becomes a

furious Bedlamite, with the activity of a cracker and the intentions

of dynamite. Against floor, walls, ceiling, and wires he bounces

incontinent, flinging sawdust and language that Professor Garner would

probably translate with hyphens and asterisks. John is the most easily

provoked monkey I know, and the quaintest in his rage. He is also the

hardiest monkey in the world, being capable of enjoying a temperature

of ten degrees below zero; but there is a suitable penalty provided in

the by-laws for any person so lost to decency as to suggest that this

Tcheli monkey is a very Tcheli monkey indeed. For John's benefit I

would suggest an extra heap of sawdust on Bank Holidays. On an occasion

of that sort it is little less than cruelty to keep him short of

ammunition.

[Illustration: DOWDY.]

[Illustration: THE DIANA.]

Of the big monkey-house, who remembers more than a nightmare of tails,

paws, and chatterings? Here are monkeys with beards, monkeys with

none, big monkeys, little monkeys, monkeys with blue faces, monkeys

who would appear to have escaped into the grounds at some time and

to have sat on freshly painted seats; all thieving from visitors and

each other, pulling tails, swinging, turning somersaults, with faces

expressive of unutterable dolor and weariness of the world. The wizen,

careworn face of the average monkey appeals to me as does that of the

elderly and rheumatic circus-clown, when his paint has washed off. The

monkey, I am convinced, is as sick of his regulation jokes as is the

clown of his. But he has a comic reputation to keep up, and he does it,

though every mechanical joke is a weariness and a sorrow to the flesh.

"There is somebody's tail hanging from a perch," reflects the monkey,

looking lugubriously across the cage. "I am a joker, and several human

creatures are looking at me, and preparing to laugh; consequently,

I must pull that tail, though I would prefer to stay where I am,

especially as it belongs to a big monkey, who will do something

unpleasant if he catches me." And with an inward groan he executes the

time-honoured joke and bolts for his life. It is a sad affliction to be

born a wag by virtue of species. There is one monkey here who for some

weeks displayed a most astonishing reluctance to snatch things through

the wires, and a total disinclination to assist or share in the thefts

of his friends by "passing on" or dividing. For some time I supposed

him to be a moral monkey strayed from a Sunday-school book, and

afflicted with an uncomfortable virtue. But afterwards I found that his

conscientiousness was wholly due to his having recently grabbed a cigar

by the hot end, and imbibed thereby a suspicion of the temperature of

everything. Beware especially, in this house, of the paws of Marie,

the Barbary ape. She has a long reach, and quickness enough to catch

a bullet shot Poole-fashion--softly. Only Jungbluth, her keeper, can

venture on familiarities, and him she takes by the eyebrows, gently

stroking and smoothing them.

[Illustration: IS IT CONSCIENTIOUSNESS?]

[Illustration: SOMETHING LIKE A MOUSTACHE.]

Behind the large room Jungbluth keeps sick monkeys, delicate monkeys,

tiny monkeys, and curious monkeys, who have no room outside. Here is a

beautiful moustache monkey, segregated because of a slight cold, and

at liberty to train his moustache without interference, if only it

would grow sufficiently long. Watch the light fur under the chin of a

moustache monkey; it is tinted with a delicate cobalt blue, a colour

that would seem impossible, except in feathers.

[Illustration: NERVES.]

But the little marmosets and the Pinche monkey, all in a cage together,

are chiefly interesting here. The Pinche monkey is badly afflicted

with nerves, and, as he is undisputed chief of the community, the

marmosets have to be careful how they sneeze, or cough, or blink,

or his indignation may be aroused. So that the whole performance in

this cage is a sort of eccentric knockabout act, by the celebrated

Marmosetti Eccentric Quartette. Marmoset No. 1 ventures on a gentle

twitter, and the rest join in the song. Promptly the irritated Pinche

bounds from his inmost lair, and the songsters are scattered. Everybody

doesn't know, by-the-bye, that the marmoset is consumed with an eternal

ambition to be a singing bird, and practises his notes with hopeless

perseverance. Another thing that many seem to be ignorant of, even some

who keep marmosets as pets, is that a marmoset's chief food should

consist of insects. In a state of freedom he also eats small birds; but

for a pet, cockroaches and bluebottles will probably be found, as a

dietary, preferable in some respects to humming-birds and canaries.

[Illustration: ENTER.]

[Illustration: ENTER ALSO.]

[Illustration: THE MARMOSETTI TROUP.]

[Illustration: EXIT.]

[Illustration: SOLILOQUY.]

Among the sick in this place is a spider monkey. Mind, I say he _is_

there. To-morrow, or in five minutes, he will probably be somewhere

else, for that is the nature of a monkey. Sickening, recovering,

dying, snatching, jumping, tail-pulling, bonnet-despoiling, everything

a monkey does is done in a hurry. This particular spider monkey has

two or three names, as Jerry, Tops, and Billy, whereunto he answers

indifferently; but I prefer to call him Coincidence, because of his

long arms, and he answers as well to that name as to another. He came

in here because of a severe attack of horizontal bar in the stomach. I

have never seen a monkey fall, and, for that reason, wish I had seen

the attack, as a curiosity. For, by some accident, unparalleled in

monkey history, Coincidence managed to miss his hold, and fell on his

digestive department across a perch. He is a long, thread-papery sort

of monkey, and it took a little time to convince him that he wasn't

broken in half. When at last he understood that there was still only

one of him, he set himself to such a doleful groaning and rubbing and

turning up of the eyes, that Jungbluth put him on the sick list at

once. But it took a very few hours to make him forget his troubles;

and, indeed, I have some suspicion that the whole thing was a dodge to

secure a comfortable holiday in hospital. That certainly is the opinion

of Coincidence's friend, the Negro monkey, as his face will tell you,

if you but ask him the question. It may interest those who already know

that Coincidence has a long arm, to know also that he has but four

fingers to each hand and no thumb; it is a part of his system. His tail

is another part of his system, and you mustn't touch it. There is no

more affable and friendly monkey alive than Coincidence, although he is

a little timid; but once touch his tail (it is long, like everything

else belonging to Coincidence), and you lose his friendship for ever.

He instantly complains to Jungbluth, and points you out unmistakably

for expulsion.

[Illustration: COINCIDENCE.]

[Illustration: SPIDERS.]

[Illustration: ON THE SICK LIST.]

[Illustration: "COINCIDENCE? HE'S ALL RIGHT."]

It is this house that witnesses most excitement on Bank Holidays. Who

would be a monkey in a cage set in the midst of a Bank Holiday crowd?

I wouldn't, certainly, if there were a respectable situation available

as a slug in some distant flower pot, or a lobster at the bottom of the

sea. Is a monkey morally responsible for anything he may do under the

provocation of a Bank Holiday crowd? Is he not rather justified in the

possession of all the bonnets and ostrich feathers he can grab by way

of solatium? Bank Holiday is the _dies iræ_ of these monkeys, and then

is Professor Garner avenged. The Professor shut himself in an aluminium

cage, and the cage littered about Africa for some time, an object of

interest to independent monkeys--a sort of free freak show. Here the

monkeys, secure in _their_ cage, study the exterior freaks, collecting

specimens of their plumage, whiskers, spectacles, and back hair. But it

is hard work--and savage.

[Illustration: RECOVERING.]

It takes even a cageful of monkeys a few days to recover from a Bank

Holiday, and for those few days trade is slack indeed. At such times it

is possible to observe the singular natural phenomenon of a monkey in a

state of comparative rest. But he is more doleful than ever.

[Illustration: DIES IRÆ.]

_Stories From the Diary of a Doctor._

_By the Authors of_ "THE MEDICINE LADY."

XI.--TRAPPED.

On a certain evening in the winter of the year before last, I was sent

for in a hurry to see a young man at a private hotel in the vicinity of

Harley Street. I found my patient to be suffering from a violent attack

of delirium tremens. He was very ill, and for a day or two his life was

in danger. I engaged good nurses to attend him, and sat up with him

myself for the greater part of two nights. The terrible malady took a

favourable turn, the well-known painful symptoms abated. I persevered

with the usual remedies to insure sleep, and saw that he was given

plenty of nourishment, and about a week after his seizure Tollemache

was fairly convalescent. I went to visit him one evening before he left

his room. He was seated in a great armchair before the fire, his pipe

was near him on the mantelpiece, and a number of _Harper's Magazine_

lay open, and face downwards, on a table by his side. He had not yet

parted with his nurse, but the man left the room when I appeared.

"I wish you'd give me the pleasure of your company for half an hour or

so," said Tollemache, in a wistful sort of voice.

I found I could spare the time, and sat down willingly in a chair

at the side of the hearth. He looked at me with a faint dawning of

pleasure in his sunken eyes.

"What can I order for you?" he asked. "Brandy-and-soda and cigars? I'll

join you in a weed, if you like."

I declined either to smoke or drink, and tried to draw the young man

into a light conversation.

As I did so, finding my efforts, I must confess, but poorly responded

to, I watched my patient closely. Hitherto he had merely been my

patient. My mission had been to drag him back by cart-ropes if

necessary from the edge of the valley of death. He was now completely

out of danger, and although indulgence in the vice to which he was

addicted would undoubtedly cause a repetition of the attack, there was

at present nothing to render me medically anxious about him. For the

first time, therefore, I gave Wilfred Tollemache the critical attention

which it was my wont to bestow on those who were to be my friends.

He was not more than twenty-three or twenty-four years of age--a big,

rather bony fellow, loosely built. He had heavy brows, his eyes were

deeply set, his lips were a little tremulous and wanting in firmness,

his skin was flabby. He had a very sweet and pleasant smile, however,

and notwithstanding the weakness caused by his terrible infirmity, I

saw at once that there were enough good points in him to make it worth

any man's while to try to set him on his legs once more.

I drew the conversation round to his personal history, and found that

he was willing enough to confide in me.

He was an American by birth, but had spent so much time in Europe, and

in England in particular, that no very strong traces of his nationality

were apparent in his bearing and manner. He was an only son, and had

unlimited wealth at his command.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Twenty-three, my last birthday."

"In short," I said, rising as I spoke, standing before the hearth, and

looking down at him, "no man has brighter prospects than you--you have

youth, money, and I doubt not, from the build of your head, an abundant

supply of brains. In short, you can do anything you like with your

life."

He gave a hollow sort of laugh, and poking the ashes out of his pipe,

prepared to fill it again.

"I wouldn't talk cant, if I were you," he said.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, that sort of speech of yours would befit a parson."

"Pardon me," I rejoined, "I but express the sentiments of any man who

values moral worth, and looks upon life as a great responsibility to be

accounted for."

He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. He was in no mood for any further

advice, and I prepared to leave him.

"You will be well enough to go out to-morrow," I said, as I bade him

good-bye.

He scarcely replied to me. I saw that he was in the depths of that

depression which generally follows attacks like his. I said a word or

two to the nurse at leaving, and went away.

It seemed unlikely that I should see much more of Tollemache; he would

be well in a few days and able to go where he pleased; one more visit

would probably be the last I should be obliged to make to him. He

evidently did not respond to my overtures in the direction of moral

suasion, and, much occupied with other matters, I had almost passed him

from my mind. Two days after that evening, however, I received a short

note from him; it ran as follows:--

"Will you come and see me as a friend? I'm like a bear with a sore

head, but I promise not to be uncivil.

"Yours sincerely,

"WILFRED TOLLEMACHE."

I sent a reply by my man to say that I would have much pleasure in

visiting him about nine o'clock that evening. I arrived at Mercer's

Hotel at the hour named. Tollemache received me in a private

sitting-room. Bottles containing wines and liqueurs were on the table.

There was a box of cigars and pipes.

[Illustration: "I BADE HIM GOOD-BYE."]

"You have not begun that again?" I could not help saying, glancing

significantly at the spirits as I spoke.

"No," he said, with a grim sort of smile, "I have no craving at

present--if I had, I should indulge. These refreshments are at your

service. At present I drink nothing stronger or more harmful than

soda-water."

"That is right," I said, heartily. Then I seated myself in a chair and

lit a cigar, while Tollemache filled a pipe.

"It is very good of you to give up some of your valuable time to a

worthless chap like me," he said.

There was a strange mingling of gratitude and despair in the words

which aroused my sympathy.

"It was good of you to send for me," I rejoined. "Frankly, I take an

interest in you, but I thought I had scared you the other night. Well,

I promise not to transgress again."

"But I want you to transgress again," said Tollemache. "The fact is,

I have sent for you to-night to give you my confidence. You know the

condition you found me in?"

I nodded.

"I was in a bad way, wasn't I?"

"Very bad."

"Near death--eh?"

"Yes."

"The next attack will prove fatal most likely?"

"Most likely."

Tollemache applied a match to his pipe--he leant back in his chair and

inhaled the narcotic deeply--a thin curl of blue smoke ascended into

the air. He suddenly removed the pipe from his mouth.

"Twenty-three years of age," he said, aloud, "the only son of a

millionaire--a dipsomaniac! Craving comes on about every three to four

months. Have had delirium tremens twice--doctor says third attack will

kill. A gloomy prospect mine, eh, Halifax?"

"You must not sentimentalize over it," I said; "you have got to face

it and trample on the enemy. No man of twenty-three with a frame like

yours and a brain like yours need be conquered by a vice."

"You know nothing about it," he responded, roughly. "When it comes

on me it has the strength of a demon. It shakes my life to the

foundations. My strength goes. I am like Samson shorn of his locks."

"There is not the least doubt," I replied, "that the next time the

attack comes on, you will have to make a desperate fight to conquer

it. You must be helped from outside, for the fearful craving for drink

which men like you possess is a form of disease, and is closely allied

to insanity. How often do you say the craving seizes you?"

"From three to four times a year--in the intervals I don't care if I

never touch a drop of strong drink."

"You ought never to touch wine, or strong drink of any kind; your frame

does not need it, and with your peculiar bias it only acts as fuel to

the hidden fire."

"You want me to be a teetotaler?" responded Tollemache. "I never will.

I'll take no obligatory vow. Fifty vows would not keep me from rushing

over the precipice when the demon is on me."

"I don't want you to take a vow against drink," I said, "as you say

you would break it when the attack comes on. But if you are willing to

fight the thing next time, I wish to say that all the medical skill

I possess is at your service. I have a spare room in my house. Will

you be my guest shortly before the time comes? You are warned of its

approach, surely, by certain symptoms?"

"Yes, I have bad dreams; I am restless and nervous; I am consumed by

thirst. These are but the preliminary symptoms. The full passion, as a

rule, wakens up suddenly, and I am, in short, as a man possessed."

Tollemache looked deeply excited as he spoke. He had forgotten his

pipe, which lay on the table near. Now he sprang to his feet.

"Halifax," he said; "I am the wretched victim of a demon--I often wish

that I were dead!"

[Illustration: "I AM THE WRETCHED VICTIM OF A DEMON."]

"You must fight the thing next time," I said. "It will be an awful

struggle, I don't pretend to deny that; but I believe that you and I

together will be a match for the enemy."

"It's awfully good of you to take me up--'pon my word it is."

"Well, is it a bargain?" I said.

"If you'll have it so."

"You must consider yourself my patient," I continued, "and obey me

implicitly from this moment. It is most important that in the intervals

of the attacks your health should be built up. I should recommend you

to go to Switzerland, to take a sea voyage, or to do anything else

which will completely brace the system. You should also cultivate your

intellectual qualities, by really arduous study for a couple of hours

daily."

"The thing I like best is music."

"Very well, study the theory of music. Don't weaken yourself over the

sentimental parts. If you are really musical, and have taken it up as

a pastime, work at the drudgery part for the next couple of months as

if your bread depended on it. This exercise will put your brain into a

healthy condition, and help to banish morbid thoughts. Then you must

take plenty of exercise. If you go to Switzerland, you must do all the

walking and the tobogganing which the weather will permit. If you go

into the country, you must ride for so many hours daily. In short, it

is your duty to get your body into training condition in order to fight

your deadly enemy with any chance of success."

I spoke purposely in a light, matter-of-fact tone, and saw to my

satisfaction that Tollemache was impressed by my words--he seemed

interested, a shadow of hope flitted across his face, and his view of

his own position was undoubtedly more healthy.

"Above all things, cultivate faith in your own self," I continued.

"No man had ever a stronger reason for wishing to conquer the foe," he

said, suddenly. "Let me show you this."

He took a morocco case out of his pocket, opened it, and put it into my

hand. It contained, as I expected, the photograph of a girl. She was

dark-eyed, young, with a bright, expectant, noble type of face.

"She is waiting for me in New York," he said. "I won't tell you her

name. I have not dared to look at the face for weeks and weeks. She has

promised to marry me when I have abstained for a year. I am not worthy

of her. I shall never win her. Give me the case." He shut it up without

glancing once at the picture, and replaced it in his breast pocket.

"Now you know everything," he said.

"Yes."

Soon afterwards I left him.

Tollemache obeyed my directions. The very next evening a note in his

handwriting was given to me. It contained the simple information that

he was off to Switzerland by the night mail, and would not be back in

England for a couple of months.

I did not forget him during his absence. His face, with its curious

mingling of weakness and power, of pathetic soul-longings and strong

animalism, often rose before me.

One evening towards the end of March I was in my consulting-room

looking up some notes when Tollemache was announced. He came in,

looking fresh and bronzed. There was brightness in his eyes and a

healthy firmness round his lips. He held himself erect. He certainly

was a very fine-looking young fellow.

"Well," he said, "here I am--I promised to come back, and I have kept

my word. Are you ready for me?"

"Quite ready, as a friend," I replied, giving him a hearty shake of the

hand; "but surely you don't need me as a doctor? Why, my dear fellow,

you are in splendid case."

He sat down in the nearest chair.

"Granted," he replied. "Your prescription worked wonders. I can sleep

well, and eat well. I am a good climber. My muscles are in first-class

order. I used to be a famous boxer in New York, and I should not be

afraid to indulge in that pastime now. Yes, I am in capital health;

nevertheless," here he dropped his voice to a whisper, "the premonitory

symptoms of the next attack have begun."

I could not help starting.

"They have begun," he continued: "the thirst, the sense of uneasiness,

the bad dreams."

"Well," I replied, as cheerfully as I could, "you are just in the

condition to make a brave and successful fight. I have carefully

studied cases like yours in your absence, and I am equipped to help you

at all points. You must expect a bad fortnight. At the end of that time

you will be on _terra firma_ and will be practically safe. Now, will

you come and stay with me?--you know I have placed a bedroom at your

disposal."

"Thanks, but it is not necessary for me to do that yet. I will go to my

old quarters at Mercer's Hotel, and will give you my word of honour to

come here the first moment that I feel my self-control quite going."

"I would rather you came here at once."

"It is not necessary, I assure you. These symptoms may vanish again

completely for a time, and although they will inevitably return, and

the deadly thing must be fought out to the bitter end, yet a long

interval may elapse before this takes place. I promised you to come to

England the moment the first unpropitious symptom appeared. I shall

be in your vicinity at Mercer's, and can get your assistance at any

moment; but it is unfair to take possession of your spare room at this

early date."

I could not urge the matter any farther. Helpful as I wished to be to

this young man, I knew that he must virtually cure himself. I could not

take his free will from him. I gave him some directions, therefore,

which I hoped might be useful: begged of him to fill up all his time

with work and amusement, and promised to go to him the first moment he

sent for me.

He said he would call me in as soon as ever he found his symptoms

growing worse, and went away with a look of courage and resolution on

his face.

I felt sure that he was thinking of the girl whose photograph he

held near his heart. Was he ever likely to win her? She was not a

milk-and-water maiden, I felt convinced. There was steel as well as

fire in those eyes. If she ever consented to become Tollemache's wife,

she would undoubtedly keep him straight--but she was no fool. She knew

the uselessness of throwing herself away on a drunkard.

Tollemache came to see me on the Monday of a certain week. On the

following Thursday morning, just after I had finished seeing the last

of my patients, my servant brought me a letter from him.

"This should have been handed to you yesterday," he said. "It had

slipped under a paper in the letter-box. The housemaid has only just

discovered it."

I opened it quickly. It contained these words:--

"DEAR HALIFAX,--The demon gains ascendency over me, but I still hold

him in check. Can you dine with me to-night at half-past seven? "Yours

sincerely,

"WILFRED TOLLEMACHE."

The letter was dated Wednesday morning. I should have received it

twenty-four hours ago. Smothering a vexed exclamation, I rushed off to

Mercer's Hotel.

I asked for Tollemache, but was told by one of the waiters that he was

out. I reflected for a moment and then inquired for the manager.

He came out into the entrance-hall in answer to my wish to see him, and

invited me to come with him into his private sitting-room.

"What can I do for you, Dr. Halifax?" he asked.

"Well, not much," I answered, "unless you can give me some particulars

with regard to Mr. Tollemache."

"He is not in, doctor. He went out last night, between nine and ten

o'clock, and has not yet returned."

"I am anxious about him," I said. "I don't think he is quite well."

"As you mention the fact, doctor, I am bound to agree with you. Mr.

Tollemache came in between six and seven last night in a very excited

condition. He ran up to his rooms, where he had ordered dinner for two,

and then came down to the bureau to know if any note or message had

been left for him. I gathered from him that he expected to hear from

you, sir."

[Illustration: "IN A VERY EXCITED CONDITION."]

"I am more vexed than I can express," I replied. "He wrote yesterday

morning asking me to dine with him, and through a mistake the letter

never got into my possession until twenty-four hours after it was

written."

"Poor young gentleman," replied the manager, "then that accounts for

the worry he seemed to be in. He couldn't rest, but was up and down,

watching, as I gather now, for your arrival, doctor. He left the house

soon after nine o'clock without touching his dinner, and has not since

returned."

"Have you the least idea where he is?" I asked.

"No, sir, not the faintest; Mr. Tollemache has left all his things

about and has not paid his bill, so of course he's safe to come back,

and may do so at any moment. Shall I send you word when he arrives?"

"Yes, pray do," I answered. "Let me know the moment you get any tidings

about him."

I then went away.

The manager had strict orders to give me the earliest information with

regard to the poor fellow, and there was now nothing whatever for me to

do but to try to banish him from my mind.

The next morning I went at an early hour to Mercer's to make inquiries.

The manager came himself into the entrance-hall to see me.

"There's been no news, sir," he said, shaking his head: "not a line

or a message of any sort. I hope no harm has happened to the poor

gentleman. It seems a pity you shouldn't have got the letter, doctor,

he seemed in a cruel way about your not turning up."

"Yes, it was a sad mistake," I answered, "but we must trust that no

disaster has occurred. If Mr. Tollemache were quite well, I should not,

of course, trouble my head over the matter."

"He was far from being that," said a waiter who came up at this moment.

"Did you tell the doctor, sir, about the lady who called yesterday?"

continued the man, addressing the manager.

"No, I had almost forgotten," he replied. "A lady in deep

mourning--young, I should say, but she kept her veil down--arrived here

last evening about eight o'clock and asked for Mr. Tollemache. I said

he was out, and asked if she would wish her name to be left. She seemed

to think for a moment and then said 'No,' that it didn't matter. She

said she would come again, when she hoped to see him."

In his intercourse with me, Tollemache had never spoken of any lady

but one, and her photograph he kept in his breast pocket. I wondered

if this girl could possibly have been to see him, and, acting on the

conjecture that the visitor might be she, I spoke.

"If the lady happens to call again," I said, "you may mention to her

that I am Mr. Tollemache's medical man, and that I will see her with

pleasure if she likes to come to my house in Harley Street." I then

further impressed upon the manager the necessity of letting me know the

moment any tidings came of Tollemache, and went away.

Nothing fresh occurred that evening, but the next morning, just when I

had seen the last of my patients, a lady's card was put into my hand.

I read the name on it, "Miss Beatrice Sinclair." A kind of premonition

told me that Beatrice Sinclair had something to do with Tollemache. I

desired my servant to admit her at once.

The next moment a tall girl, in very deep mourning, with a crape veil

over her face, entered the room. She bowed to me, but did not speak

for nearly half a minute. I motioned her to seat herself. She did so,

putting up her hand at the same moment to remove her veil. I could not

help starting when I saw her face. I bent suddenly forward and said,

impulsively:--

"I know what you have come about--you are anxious about Wilfred

Tollemache."

She looked at me in unfeigned surprise, and a flood of colour rushed

to her pale cheeks. She was a handsome girl--her eyes were dark, her

mouth tender and beautiful. There was strength about her face--her

chin was very firm. Yes, I had seen those features before--or, rather,

a faithful representation of them. Beatrice Sinclair had a face not

easily forgotten.

"If this girl is Tollemache's good angel, there is undoubtedly hope for

him," I murmured.

[Illustration: "I COULD NOT HELP STARTING WHEN I SAW HER FACE."]

Meanwhile, the astonished look on her face gave way to speech.

"How can you possibly know me?" she said. "I have never seen you until

this moment."

"I am Tollemache's doctor, and once he told me about you," I said. "On

that occasion, too, he showed me your photograph."

Miss Sinclair rose in excitement from her seat. She had all the

indescribable grace of a well-bred American girl.

"The fact of your knowing something about me makes matters much

easier," she said. "May I tell you my story in a very few words?"

"Certainly."

"My name, as you know, is Beatrice Sinclair. I am an American, and have

spent the greater part of my life in New York. I am an only child,

and my father, who was a general in the American army, died only a

week ago. It is three years since I engaged myself provisionally to

Wilfred Tollemache. We had known each other from childhood. He spoke

of his attachment to me; he also told me"--here she hesitated and her

voice trembled--"of," she continued, raising her eyes, "a fearful vice

which was gaining the mastery over him. You know to what I allude.

Wilfred was fast becoming a dipsomaniac. I would not give him up,

but neither would I marry a man addicted to so terrible a failing. I

talked to my father about it, and we agreed that if Wilfred abstained

from drink for a year, I might marry him. He left us--that is three

years ago. He has not written to me since, nor have I heard of him. I

grew restless at last, for I--I have never ceased to love him. I have

had bad dreams about him, and it seems to me that his redemption has

been placed in my hands. I induced my father to bring me to Europe and

finally to London. We arrived in London three weeks ago, and took up

our quarters at the Métrôpole. We employed a clever detective to find

out Wilfred Tollemache's whereabouts. A week ago this man brought us

the information that he had rooms at Mercer's Hotel. Alas! on that

day, also, my father died suddenly. I am now alone in the world. Two

evenings ago I went to Mercer's Hotel to inquire for Mr. Tollemache.

He was not in, and I went away. I returned to the hotel again this

morning. Your message was given to me, and I came on to you at once.

The manager of the hotel told me that you were Mr. Tollemache's medical

man. If he needed the services of a doctor he must have been ill. Has

he been ill? Can you tell me anything about him?"

"I can tell you a good deal about him. Won't you sit down?"

She dropped into a chair immediately, clasping her hands in her lap;

her eyes were fixed on my face.

"You are right in your conjecture," I said. "Tollemache has been ill."

"Is he alive?"

"As far as I can tell, yes."

Her lips quivered.

"Don't you know where he is now?" she asked.

"I deeply regret that I do not," I answered.

She looked at me again with great eagerness.

"I know that you will tell me the truth," she continued, almost in a

whisper. "I owe it to my dead father not to go against his wishes now.

What was the nature of Mr. Tollemache's illness?"

"Delirium tremens," I replied, firmly.

Miss Sinclair's face grew the colour of death.

"I might have guessed it," she said. "I hoped, but my hope was vain. He

has not fought--he has not struggled--he has not conquered."

"You are mistaken," I answered; "Tollemache has both fought and

struggled, but up to the present he has certainly won no victory. Let

me tell you what I know about him."

I then briefly related the story of our acquaintance. I concealed

nothing, dwelling fully on the terrible nature of poor Tollemache's

malady. I described to Miss Sinclair the depression, the despair, the

overpowering moral weakness which accompanies the indulgence in this

fearful vice. In short, I lifted the curtain, as I felt it was my duty

to do, and showed the poor girl a true picture of the man to whom she

had given her heart.

"Is there no hope for him?" she asked, when I had finished speaking.

"You are the only hope," I replied. "The last rock to which he clings

is your affection for him. He was prepared to make a desperate fight

when the next craving for drink assailed him. You were the motive which

made him willing to undergo the agony of such a struggle. I look upon

the passion for drink as a distinct disease: in short, as a species of

insanity. I was prepared to see Tollemache through the next attack.

If he endured the torture without once giving way to the craving for

drink, he would certainly be on the high road to recovery. I meant to

have him in my own house. In short, hopeless as his case seemed, I had

every hope of him."

I paused here.

"Yes?" said Miss Sinclair. "I see that you are good and kind. Why do

you stop? Why isn't Wilfred Tollemache here?"

"My dear young lady," I replied, "the best-laid plans are liable to

mishap. Three days ago, Tollemache wrote to me telling me that he was

in the grip of the enemy, and asking me to come to him at once. Most

unfortunately, that letter was not put into my hands until twenty-four

hours after it should have been delivered. I was not able to keep the

appointment which Tollemache had made with me, as I knew nothing about

it until long after the appointed hour. The poor fellow left the hotel

that night, and has not since returned."

[Illustration: "IS THERE NO HOPE?"]

"And you know nothing about him?"

"Nothing."

I rose as I spoke. Miss Sinclair looked at me.

"Have you no plan to suggest?" she asked.

"No," I said, "there is nothing for us to do but to wait. I will not

conceal from you that I am anxious, but at the same time my anxiety may

be groundless. Tollemache may return to Mercer's at any moment. As soon

as ever he does, you may be sure that I will communicate with you."

I had scarcely said these words before my servant came in with a note.

"From Mercer's Hotel, sir," he said, "and the messenger is waiting."

"I will send an answer in a moment," I said.

The man withdrew--Miss Sinclair came close to me.

"Open that letter quickly," she said, in an imperative voice. "It is

from the hotel. He may be there even now."

I tore open the envelope. There was a line from the manager within.

"DEAR SIR,--I send you the enclosed. I propose to forward the

dressing-case at once by a commissionaire."

The enclosed was a telegram. The following were its brief contents:--

"Send me my dressing-case immediately by a private messenger.--Wilfred

Tollemache."

An address was given in full beneath:--

"The Cedars, 110, Harvey Road, Balham."

I knew that Miss Sinclair was looking over my shoulder as I read. I

turned and faced her.

Her eyes were blazing with a curious mixture of joy, excitement, and

fear.

"Let us go to him," she exclaimed; "let us go to him at once. Let us

take him the dressing-case."

I folded up the telegram and put it into my pocket.

Then I crossed the room and rang the bell. When my servant appeared, I

gave him the following message:--

"Tell the messenger from Mercer's," I said, "that I will be round

immediately, and tell him to ask the manager to do nothing until I

come."

My servant withdrew and Miss Sinclair moved impatiently towards the

door.

"Let us go," she said: "there is not a moment to lose. Let us take the

dressing-case ourselves."

"I will take it," I replied; "you must not come."

"Why?" she asked, keen remonstrance in her tone.

"Because I can do better without you," I replied, firmly.

"I do not believe it," she answered.

"I cannot allow you to come with me," I said. "You must accept this

decision as final. You have had patience for three years; exercise it

a little longer, and--God knows, perhaps you may be rewarded. Anyhow,

you must trust me to do the best I can for Tollemache. Go back to the

Métrôpole. I will let you know as soon as I have any news. You will, I

am sure, trust me?"

"Oh, fully," she replied, tears suddenly filling her lovely eyes. "But

remember that I love him--I love him with a very deep love."

There was something noble in the way she made this emphatic statement.

I took her hand and led her from the room. A moment later she had left

me, and I was hurrying on foot to Mercer's Hotel.

The manager was waiting for me in the hall. He had the dressing-case in

his hand.

"Shall I send this by a commissionaire?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "I should prefer to take it myself. Tell the porter to

call a hansom for me immediately."

The man looked immensely relieved.

"That is good of you, doctor," he said; "the fact is, I don't like the

sound of that address."

"Nor do I," I replied.

"Do you know, Dr. Halifax, that the young lady--Miss Sinclair, she

called herself--came here again this morning?"

"I have just seen her," I answered.

The hall porter now came to tell me that the hansom was at the door. A

moment later I was driving to Balham, the dressing-case on my knee.

[Illustration: "A MOMENT LATER I WAS DRIVING TO BALHAM."]

From Mercer's Hotel to this suburb is a distance of several miles, but

fortunately the horse was fresh and we got over the ground quickly. As

I drove along my meditations were full of strange apprehensions.

Tollemache had now been absent from Mercer's Hotel for two days and

three nights. What kind of place was Harvey Road? What kind of house

was 110? Why did Tollemache want his dressing-case? And why, if he did

want it, could not he fetch it himself? The case had been a favourite

of his--it had been a present from his mother, who was now dead. He had

shown it to me one evening, and had expatiated with pride on its unique

character. It was a sort of _multum in parvo_, containing many pockets

and drawers not ordinarily found in a dressing-case. I recalled to mind

the evening when Tollemache had brought it out of his adjacent bedroom

and opened it for my benefit. All its accoutrements were heavily

mounted in richly embossed silver. There was a special flap into which

his cheque-book fitted admirably. Under the flap was a drawer, which

he pulled open and regaled my astonished eyes with a quantity of loose

diamonds and rubies which lay in the bottom.

"I picked up the diamonds in Cape Town," he said, "and the rubies in

Ceylon. One or two of the latter are, I know, of exceptional value, and

when I bought them I hoped that they might be of use----"

Here he broke off abruptly, coloured, sighed, and slipped the drawer

back into its place.

It was easy to guess where his thoughts were.

Now that I had seen Miss Sinclair, I felt that I could better

understand poor Tollemache. Such a girl was worth a hard fight to win.

No wonder Tollemache hated himself when he felt his own want of moral

strength, and knew that the prize of such a love as hers might never be

his.

I knew well that the delay in the delivery of the note was terribly

against the poor fellow's chance of recovery, and as I drove quickly to

Balham, my uneasiness grew greater and greater. Was he already in the

clutches of his foe when he sent that telegram? I felt sure that he was

not in immediate need of cash, as he had mentioned to me incidentally

in our last interview that he had drawn a large sum from his bank as

soon as ever he arrived in England.

We arrived at Balham in about an hour, but my driver had some

difficulty in finding Harvey Road.

At last, after skirting Tooting Bee Common we met a policeman who was

able to acquaint us with its locality. We entered a long, straggling,

slummy-looking road, and after a time pulled up at 110. It was a tall

house, with broken and dirty Venetian blinds. The hall door was almost

destitute of paint. A balcony ran round the windows of the first floor.

I did not like the look of the house, and it suddenly occurred to me

that I would not run the risk of bringing the dressing-case into it.

I had noticed the name of a respectable chemist over a shop in the High

Street, a good mile away, and desired the driver to go back there at

once.

He did so. I entered the shop, carrying the case in my hand. I gave the

chemist my card, and asked him if he would oblige me by taking care of

the dressing-case for an hour. He promised civilly to do what I asked,

and I stepped once more into the hansom and told the man to drive back

as fast as he could to 110, Harvey Road.

He obeyed my instructions. The moment the hansom drew up at the door, I

sprang out and spoke to the driver.

"I want you to remain here," I said. "Don't on any account leave this

door until I come out. I don't like the look of the house."

The man gave it a glance of quick interrogation. He did not say

anything, but the expression of his eyes showed me plainly that he

confirmed my opinion.

"I think you understand me," I said. "Stay here until you see me again,

and if I require you to fetch a policeman, be as quick about it as you

can."

The man nodded, and I ran up the broken steps of 110.

The door possessed no knocker, but there was a bell at the side.

I had to pull it twice before it was answered; then a slatternly and

tawdrily dressed servant put in an appearance. Her face was dirty. She

had pinned a cap in hot haste on her frowzy head of red hair, and was

struggling to tie an apron as she opened the door.

"Is Mr. Tollemache in?" I asked. "I wish to see him at once."

The girl's face became watchful and secretive--she placed herself

between me and the hall.

"There's a gentleman upstairs," she said; "but you can't see him, he's

ill."

"Oh, yes, I can," I answered. "I am his doctor--let me pass, please.

Mr. Tollemache has telegraphed for his dressing-case, and I have

replied to the telegram."

"Oh, if you have brought the parcel, you can go up," she said, in a

voice of great relief. "I know they're expecting a parcel. You'll find

'em all on the first floor. Door just opposite the stairs--you can't

miss it."

I pushed past her and ran up the stairs. They were narrow and dark. The

carpet on which I trod felt greasy.

I flung open the door the girl had indicated, and found myself in a

good-sized sitting-room. It faced the street, and the window had a

balcony outside it.

Seated by a centre table drawn rather near this window were three men,

with the most diabolical faces I have ever looked at. One of them was

busily engaged trying to copy poor Tollemache's signature, which was

scrawled on a half sheet of paper in front of him--the other two were

eagerly watching his attempts. Tollemache himself lay in a dead drunken

sleep on the sofa behind them.

My entrance was so unexpected that none of the men were prepared for

me. I stepped straight up to the table, quickly grabbed the two sheets

of paper, crushed them up in my hand, and thrust them into my pocket.

"I have come to fetch Mr. Tollemache away," I said.

The men were so absolutely astonished at my action and my words, that

they did not speak at all for a moment. They all three jumped from

their seats at the table and stood facing me. The noise they made

pushing back their chairs aroused Tollemache, who, seeing me, tottered

to his feet and came towards me with a shambling, uneasy gait.

"Hullo, Halifax, old man, how are you?" he gasped, with a drunken

smile. "What are you doing here? We're all having a ripping time: lots

of champagne; but I've lost my watch and chain and all my money--three

hundred pounds--I've telegraphed for my cheque-book, though. Glad

you've come, old boy--'pon my word I am. Want to go away with you,

although we have had a ripping time, yes, _awfully_ ripping."

"You shall come," I said. "Sit down first for a moment."

I pushed him back with some force on to the sofa and turned to one of

the men, who now came up and asked me my business.

"What are you doing here?" he inquired. "We don't want you--you had

better get out of this as fast as you can. You have no business here,

so get out."

"Yes, I have business here," I replied. "I have come for this man,"

here I went up to Tollemache and laid my hand on his shoulder. "I am

his doctor and he is under my charge. I don't leave here without him,

and, what is more," I added, "I don't leave here without his property

either. You must give me back his watch and chain and the three hundred

pounds you have robbed him of. Now you understand what I want?"

"We'll see about that," said one of the men, significantly. He left the

room as he spoke.

During his absence, the other men stood perfectly quiet, eyeing me with

furtive and stealthy glances.

Poor Tollemache sat upright on the sofa, blinking with his heavy eyes.

Sometimes he tried to rise, but always sank back again on his seat.

During the whole time he kept muttering to himself:--

"Yes, good fellows these: jolly time, champagne, all the rest, but _I'm

robbed_; this is a thieves' den. Don't leave me alone, Halifax. Want to

go. You undershtand. Watch and chain gone, and _all my money_; three

hundred in notes and gold. Yes, three hundred. Won't let me go till I

give 'em my cheque-book; telegraphed for cheque-book in dressing-case.

You undershtand, yes. Don't leave me, old boy."

"It will be all right," I said. "Stay quiet."

The position was one of extreme danger for both of us. There was

nothing whatever for it but to carry matters with a cool hand and not

to show a vestige of fear. I glanced round me and observed the position

of the room. The sofa on which Tollemache was sitting was close to the

window. This window had French doors, which opened on to the balcony. I

edged close to it.

I did not do this a moment too soon. The man who had left the room now

returned with a ruffian of gigantic build, who came up to me at once

with a menacing attitude.

[Illustration: "WHO ARE YOU?"]

"Who are you?" he said, shaking his brawny fist in my face. "We don't

want _you_ here--get out of this room at once, or it will be the worse

for you. We won't 'ave you a-interfering with our friends. This gent

'ave come 'ere of _his own free will_. We like him, and 'e's 'eartily

welcome to stay as long as 'e wants to. You'd best go, ef you value

your life."

While he was speaking I suddenly flung my hand behind me, and turning

the handle of the French window threw it open.

I stepped on to the balcony and called to the cabman: "Stay where you

are," I said, "I may want you in a moment." Then I entered the room

again.

"I don't wish to waste words on you," I said, addressing the burly man.

"I have come for Mr. Tollemache, and I don't mean to leave the house

without him. He comes away with me the moment you return his watch and

chain, and the three hundred pounds you have stolen from him. If you

don't fetch that watch and chain, and that money, I shall send the

cabman who is waiting for me outside, and who knows me, for the police.

You are best acquainted with what sort of house this is, and with what

sort of game you are up to. It is for you to say how near the wind you

are sailing. If you wish the police to find out, they can be here in

a minute or two. If not, give me the money and the watch and chain. I

give you two minutes to make your choice."

Here I took out my watch and looked at it steadily.

I stepped again on to the balcony.

"Cabby," I shouted, "if I am not with you in _three minutes from now_,

go and bring a couple of policemen here as quickly as ever you can."

The cabman did not speak, but he took out his watch and looked at it.

I re-entered the room.

"Now you know my mind," I said. "I give you two minutes to decide how

to act. If Mr. Tollemache and I are not standing on the pavement in

three minutes from now, the police will come and search this house. It

is for you to decide whether you wish them to do so or not."

I was glad to see that my words had an effect upon the biggest of

the ruffians. He looked at his companions, who glanced back at him

apprehensively. One of them edged near me and tried to peer over my

shoulder to see if the cabman were really there.

Tollemache went on mumbling and muttering on the sofa. I stood with my

back to the window, my watch in my hand, marking the time.

"Time's up," I said, suddenly replacing the watch. "Now, what do you

mean to do?"

"We'd best oblige the gent, don't yer think so, Bill?" said one of the

men to his chief.

"We'll see about that," said the chief. He came close to me again.

"Now, look you 'ere," he said, "you'd best go out quiet, and no

mischief will come. The gent 'ere 'e give us the watch and chain and

the money, being old pals of his as he picked up in New York City."

"That's a lie," shouted Tollemache.

"Stay quiet," I said to him.

Then I turned to the ruffian, whose hot breath I felt on my cheek.

"We do not leave here," I said, "without the watch and chain and the

money. My mind is quite made up. When I go, this gentleman goes, and we

neither of us go without his property."

These words of mine were almost drowned by the heavy noise of an

approaching dray. It lumbered past the window. As it did so, I stepped

on to the balcony to acquaint the cabman with the fact that the three

minutes were up.

I looked down into the street, and could not help starting--the cab had

vanished.

I turned round quickly.

The big man had also stepped upon the balcony--he gave me an evil

glance. Suddenly seizing me by the collar, he dragged me back into the

room.

"You ere a humbug, you ere," he said, "wid yer bloomin' cabs--there

ain't no cab there--no, nor never wor. Ef you don't go in one way you

go in another. It ain't our fault ef things ain't quite agreeable. Come

along, Sam, lend a 'and."

The next moment the ruffian had laid me flat on my back on the floor,

and was kneeling on my chest.

Tollemache tottered from the sofa, and made a vain struggle to get the

brute away.

"You get out of this," the fellow thundered at him. "I'll make an end

of you, too, ef you don't look out."

He fumbled in his pocket and took out a huge clasp-knife.

I closed my eyes, feeling sure that my last hour had come. At this

moment, however, the rapidly approaching sound of cab wheels was

distinctly audible. A cab drove frantically up and stopped at the door.

The four ruffians who were clustered round me all heard it, and the big

man took his knee off my chest.

Quick as thought I found my feet again, and before anyone could prevent

me, leaped out on to the balcony. Two policemen were standing on the

steps of the house--one of them had the bell-pull in his hand and was

just about to sound a thundering peal.

"Stop," I shouted to him; "don't ring for a moment--stay where you

are." Then I turned and faced the group in the room.

[Illustration: "I FELT SURE THAT MY LAST HOUR HAD COME."]

"It is not too late," I said; "I give you one minute's grace. Return

this gentleman's watch and chain and the three hundred pounds you have

stolen from him, and I say nothing to the two policemen who are now

waiting on the steps. If I have not the money back within a minute, the

police enter your house--now you can choose."

I saw by the expression on the face of the bully who had knocked me

down that he was only too eager to accede to my request.

"Come on, Bill," he said to one of his pals, "I suppose there ain't

nothing for it but to do what the gen'leman says. Yes, yes, you be

quiet, sir, and you'll have all the swag--lor', we only pulled you down

by way of a joke, and as to the money and the other waluables, we was

_keeping_ 'em for the gent. Who'd want to rob a poor innercent like

that? You promise not to peach on us, sir?"

"Be quick," I shouted. "I give you a minute, no more--give me the money

and the watch and chain. You had better hurry up."

They did hurry up with a vengeance. The big man was as great a coward

as he was a ruffian. As he thrust his hands deep into his trousers

pockets, I saw that he was absolutely shaking with fright. Tollemache's

magnificent watch and chain were laid on the table, and all four men

turned their pockets out and deposited gold and notes by the side of

the other property. I stepped up to the table and reckoned the money.

Two hundred and eighty pounds and the watch and chain were returned to

me. The remaining twenty pounds were, I plainly saw, hopelessly gone.

It was not worth fighting for them. I put the gold and notes and the

watch and chain into my pocket, and going up to Tollemache took his arm.

"Come," I said, "we can go now."

The terror which must have seized him when he saw me struggling on

the floor had partly sobered him, but now he had returned to the most

imbecile stage of his horrible vice. He struggled to his feet and

clutched hold of me.

"Want my pipe," he muttered. "I say, old boy, won't go without my

pipe."

I had hard work to keep my patience. He was a big man, and I could not

control him against his will. We were by no means yet out of the wood.

The four ruffians were eyeing us as if they would only too gladly kill

us both by slow torture. Never before had I encountered eight such

diabolical eyes as those which they fixed upon me. And there stood

Tollemache, with an idiotic smile on his face, and imagining that he

was doing a wonderful and clever thing when he refused to stir without

his pipe.

"Don't be a fool," I said, sternly, to him. "Come, now, I'll get you

your pipe to-morrow."

To my relief he seemed satisfied with this assurance, and suffered me

to drag him across the room.

When we reached the door the big ruffian came up and intercepted us.

"We have your word not to peach?" he said.

"Yes," I replied--"let me pass."

He did so, and I helped Tollemache as best I could downstairs.

The four men watched our descent over the banisters.

As soon as I had got my patient out on the steps, one of the policemen

came up to me.

"What's the trouble, sir?" he demanded. "Can we help you?"

"This gentleman is hopelessly drunk," I replied--"I thought it possible

I might need your assistance in getting him from the house. You will

oblige me much by helping me now to put him in the cab."

"No other trouble in there, sir?" asked the man, meaningly.

"None," I answered. "Will you kindly take the gentleman's other arm?"

The policeman did so--his eyes were full of significance. He guessed,

of course, that I was hiding something, but it was not for him to make

any further remarks.

I took Tollemache straight back to my own house, and for the next week

I had once again to lend him what aid I could in fighting the terrible

demons who attack the victims of delirium tremens. I engaged two

skilful men to nurse him, and, between us, we managed to drag the poor

fellow away from the shores of death.

All this time I was in daily communication with Beatrice Sinclair. I

got to know her well during these dark days. She was a girl to win the

respect and admiration of any man, and she undoubtedly won mine. There

was something grandly simple and unconventional about her.

"I am alone in the world," she said to me many times; "my mission in

life is to save Wilfred Tollemache."

"You will not save him by marrying him in his present state," I

answered her.

She raised her brows and looked at me in some slight surprise.

"I have no intention of marrying him at present," she said. "Nothing

would induce me to unite my lot with that of a drunkard--besides, I

promised my father. I will marry Wilfred when he has abstained from

drink for a year--not before."

"If he abstains for a year he will be cured," I replied.

There came an evening when Tollemache was sufficiently convalescent

to come downstairs. I had not yet said anything to him about Miss

Sinclair, but as I knew she was impatient to see him, I wondered if it

might be safe for me to break the news of her arrival on the scene to

him that evening. He sat in my consulting-room huddled up by the fire.

The evening was a warm one in April, but he looked chilly and depressed.

I drew a chair near him and sat down.

He looked at me with languid eyes out of a cadaverous face.

"I can't make out why you are so good to me," he said. "I am not worth

the thought of a man like you."

I did not reply for a moment. Then I said, tersely:--

"It would be a great victory to save you, and I believe it can be done."

"I have a sort of memory," said Tollemache, "of your having already

saved my life at the risk of your own."

"That is true," I answered.

"How can I pay you back?" he asked. "Will money----?"

"No," I interrupted, harshly, springing to my feet as I spoke--"money

won't. I want you to become a man again: that is my reward."

He seemed to shrink into himself; there was not a scrap of fibre about

him at present.

"Will you tell me," I said, "how you got into that den?"

He roused himself a little at this, and some animation came into his

eyes.

"That was partly your fault," he said. "You did not keep your word;

you never came to me when I wrote to you. I told you that I was losing

self-control----"

I interrupted him to explain why I had not received his letter.

"Well," he said, "I spent a day of fearful torture. I knew I was on

the brink of a precipice, and that unless you pulled me back, against

my will, over I must go. I returned to Mercer's in the evening and

looked eagerly for your note. None had arrived. I waited for you until

nine o'clock, and then in a sort of frenzy went out. I had a very stiff

brandy-and-soda, which pulled me together for a bit, and seeing a

music-hall in Oxford Street, I went in. There I was supplied with fresh

drink, and while I was indulging, a man of the name of Hawker, who had

once seen me in a drunken condition in New York, came up and claimed

acquaintance. I knew, the moment I looked at the fellow, that the demon

had got the upper hand. Hawker talked, and supplied me with fresh

drink. He introduced me to a companion as low as himself. I have a dim

remembrance of driving away with these men and of spending the night

over cards and unlimited drink. In the morning I wanted to leave, but

the fellows threatened me, and in my drunken state I was no match for

them. Hawker sat down near me and asked a lot of questions, to which I

replied as readily as if I were a baby. I don't know how that day or

the next passed. I gave Hawker the address of the hotel where I was

staying, and told him about my dressing-case and its valuable contents.

Hawker filled in a telegram to the manager of the hotel, which he made

me sign. When it was sent off, he gave me a sheet of paper and desired

me to write my signature on it. I did so--the men then sat round a

table and began to copy it. The horrors of delirium tremens were

already upon me, and my mind became filled with all manner of terrible

imaginings. I closed my eyes and dozed off. When next I opened them,

you were standing in the room."

[Illustration: "CAME UP AND CLAIMED ACQUAINTANCE."]

"You were practically out of your mind," I replied; "but the thing is

over, and well over. By the way, have you ever thought, during the last

terrible fortnight, of the photograph which you were good enough to

show me?"

Tollemache started and clenched his nerveless hand.

"Don't speak of it," he said. "The one thing left to me to be thankful

for, is that she has not linked her life with mine."

"You have undoubtedly much cause to be thankful," I replied. "The wife

of a drunkard is the most miserable woman on God's earth. Please pardon

me, however, if I pain you a little by speaking about the girl whose

photograph you showed me. Do you mind telling me her name?"

"Beatrice Sinclair."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty--there is really no use in this catechism, Halifax."

"I am sorry to pain you," I replied, briefly; "but the fact is, I was

struck with Miss Sinclair's face--there is a great deal of strength in

it. If you conquered your fault, she would be the woman of all others

to keep you straight. She is, I am certain, attached to you. To win a

girl like Beatrice Sinclair ought to be a motive strong enough to make

any man conquer a vice like yours."

Tollemache was now intensely agitated. He sprang to his feet.

"I tell you," he said, "she has forgotten all about me. It is three

years since she has heard my name. She has in all probability married

another man long ere this."

"I am sure she has not," I answered.

He thrust his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out the case which

contained the photograph.

"Many a time I have wanted to put this into the fire," he said. "I dare

not part with it, and yet I dare not look at it."

"Keep it," I said: "there is hope for you while you have it."

"There isn't a ghost of hope for me," he said. He threw himself back

again into his chair, and covered his face.

My servant came into the room and brought me a message.

"Tollemache," I said, "a lady has called who wishes to see me. Will you

forgive me if I leave you for a minute or two?"

He growled out some reply which was scarcely intelligible, and I left

the room.

I went into my library, where Beatrice Sinclair was waiting for me.

"Well," she said, coming up to me eagerly, "is he ready for me?"

"He thinks you have forgotten him," I said, "and that in all

probability you are married to another."

"What a cruel thought!"

"But he keeps your photograph in his breast pocket."

"Does he, indeed?" Her eyes blazed with sudden joy.

"He is tempted often to throw it into the fire," I continued, "for he

feels himself unworthy of you; but he neither dares to throw it away

nor to look at it."

"He shall look at me instead. Take me to him at once."

"You will see the wreck of the Tollemache you used to know."

"He shall not be a wreck long. I have vowed to save him. My life is at

his service."

"Remember your promise to your father."

"I remember it. I will not break it. Now take me to him."

She came up to me and held out her hand. I took it and went with her to

the door of the next room, opened it, and motioned to her to enter.

When she did so, I closed it softly and came away.

I had a firm conviction that with such unexpected aid, Tollemache would

have moral strength to overcome the vice which was ruining him.

Subsequent events proved that I was right.

_From Behind the Speaker's Chair_.

XIV.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

[Sidenote: THE QUEEN'S SPEECH.]

There is something gravely comical in the manner the London morning

newspapers deal with the Queen's Speech on the morning preceding its

communication to Parliament. They know all about it, and, as the event

proves, are able to forecast it paragraph by paragraph. Yet, withal,

they shrink from any assumption of positive knowledge, or even of

attempt to foretell what will take place. "Her Majesty," they write,

"must of necessity allude to the progress of events in Central Africa

and on the East of that dark but interesting continent." You learn half

a day in advance of the opening of Parliament exactly what Ministers

have resolved to say on this particular topic. Other events of current

interest at home and abroad are introduced in the same casual manner,

and are dealt with in similar detail. Mr. Wemmick had carefully studied

this style, and had successfully assimilated it with his ordinary

conversation and methods of transacting business.

The general impression is that editors of the principal London papers

receive a copy of the Queen's Speech on the night before the Session

opens, with the understanding that they are to treat it gingerly, and,

above all, to safeguard Ministers from suspicion of collusion in the

premature publication. To adopt the consecrated style, I may observe

that this will probably be found to be a misapprehension. Doubtless

what happens is that the editor of the morning paper meets at his club

a Cabinet Minister of his acquaintance, who, following immemorial

usage, feels at liberty to give his friend a conversational summary of

the points of the Speech. Or it may happen that an appointment is made

with the Whip authorized to make such communication. Certainly it will,

upon investigation, appear that there is no foundation for the fiction

of a written copy of the Speech being supplied for editorial use. Years

ago the editor, either of the _Times_ or the _Morning Chronicle_,

profiting by personal acquaintance, was able on the morning of the

meeting of Parliament to forecast the Queen's Speech. He invented, as

desirable in the circumstances, the roundabout style of communication

alluded to. The following year other papers, working the oracle on

the same lines, adopted the same primly mysterious style. There is

no reason why this should now be done; but done it is, as the eve of

the Session, still young, testified. New journalism has been a potent

agency in varying Press usages. It has not yet ventured to attack this

decrepit old farce.

[Illustration: "LOUNGING IN."]

[Sidenote: BEFORE DINNER AND AFTER.]

The only copy of the Queen's Speech which passes outside the

Ministerial ken before the Session opens is that forwarded, with

the compliments of the Leader of the House, to the Leader of the

Opposition. This is an act of grace and courtesy, happily and

accurately illustrating the spirit in which controversy is carried

on in English politics. Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone maintained

no social relations outside the House of Commons. But that was an

exception to the ordinary course of things. At this day the stranger

in the gallery hearing Mr. Chamberlain pouring contumely and scorn on

Sir William Harcourt, and observing the Chancellor of the Exchequer

almost savagely retorting, may be forgiven if he supposes the cleavage

in political relations has severed personal friendships. That is

certainly not the fact in respect of these two former colleagues, or

of other more or less prominent combatants in the Parliamentary arena.

It frequently happens, in the course of the Session, that two members

who, between the hours of five and seven-thirty, have been engaged in

fiercest controversy in the House of Commons, will be found at eight

o'clock sitting at the same dinner-table, discussing the situation

from quite another point of view. This is a condition of affairs which

does not exist, certainly not to equal extent, in any other political

battlefield, whether at home or abroad.

[Sidenote: THE FOURTH PARTY AND THE QUEEN'S SPEECH.]

When the Fourth Party was in the plenitude of its power, it pleased its

members to assume all the customs of those larger political factions

of which it was the microcosm. Since Ministers and the Leaders of the

regular Opposition were in the habit of meeting together on the eve

of a new Session, dining, and thereafter reviewing the situation and

settling their policy, the Fourth Party had their pre-Sessional dinner.

Lord Randolph Churchill tells me of a charming incident connected with

this custom. Meeting on the eve of the Session of 1881, they solemnly

agreed that they, as a Party, were at a disadvantage inasmuch as

they had not before them a copy of the Queen's Speech. Lord Randolph

accordingly wrote a formal letter, addressed to Lord Richard Grosvenor,

then Ministerial Whip, asking him to be so good as to favour him

and his colleagues with a copy of Her Majesty's gracious Speech, in

accordance with custom when the Leaders of Her Majesty's Opposition

were in conference on the eve of a Session. I do not know whether Lord

Richard, in the fashion of his reply, rose to the sublime height of

this joke. But the copy of the Speech was not forthcoming.

The Fourth Party at the beginning of their career went a step further

than the regular Leaders of the Opposition whom they, only half in

jest, affected to supersede. Her Majesty's Ministers, in accordance

with custom, went down to Greenwich for a whitebait dinner at the end

of the Session, the Leaders of the Opposition being content with a

festive gathering on the eve of the opening of Parliament. The Fourth

Party, equal to both occasions, not only convivially foregathered

at the opening of the Session, but had their whitebait dinner at

the end. In 1880, the year of their birth, they, never afraid of

creating a precedent, invited an outsider to join the feast. This was

Mr. Labouchere, Mr. Bradlaugh's standard-bearer, whom they had been

fighting hand to hand all through the turbulent Session.

But it is a poor heart that never rejoices, and in their young days the

Fourth Party were merry grigs.

[Sidenote: COUNTY GUY.]

Some time ago inquiry was made in the columns of a country paper

as to the origin of the cognomen "County Guy," as attached to Lord

Hartington. I happen to know that the phrase, much in vogue seventeen

or eighteen years ago, appeared in the series of papers entitled "Under

the Clock," published weekly in the _World_. It was suggested by Sir

Walter Scott's well-known lines:--

Bird, breeze, and flower proclaim the hour:

But where is County Guy?

Lord Hartington was at the time Leader of the Opposition, vice Mr.

Gladstone, convinced that "at my time of life"--he was sixty-five when

he wrote--his public work was finished, and he had earned the right to

spend his declining years in the comparative leisure of his library.

Even the eminence of the position, and the hitherto unbroken habit of

the Leader of a party being in his place when questions began, did not

overcome Lord Hartington's constitutional inability to come up to time.

It was characteristic of him that he scorned the opportunity provided

for quietly dropping into his place, without fixing attention upon his

delayed arrival. He might have entered from behind the Speaker's Chair

and taken his seat without any but those in the immediate neighbourhood

noting the moment of his appearance on the scene. He always walked in

from the doorway under the clock, in full view of the House, usually

with one hand in his pocket, his hat swinging in the other hand,

lounging towards his seat as if he were rather five minutes too soon

than half an hour too late. When, in the last Parliament, he returned

to the Front Opposition Bench as Leader of the Liberal Unionists, he

observed precisely the same custom. He was invariably late, even at

critical epochs, and always walked in by the front door.

On one occasion he arrived very early in the morning, but that was

an accident due to misunderstanding. It was during the passage of

the Coercion Act of the Salisbury Parliament. The Irish members had

kept things going all night. At five o'clock in the morning, Lord

Hartington, in common with other absentees of his party, received a

telegram to the following effect:--

"_Been on duty all night. Only us two here. Come down to relieve us._

(Signed) "CHAMBERLAIN,

"RUSSELL."

This was enough to make even Lord Hartington hurry up. The picture of

Mr. Chamberlain standing by the Government all night, warring with

the common enemy, whilst the Leader was comfortably in his bed, was a

reflection not pleasant to dwell upon. Hurrying on his clothes he made

his way down to the House, one of a steady stream of Liberal Unionists

like himself, abashed to think they had left Mr. Chamberlain in the

lurch. Entering the House, they came upon Mr. T. W. Russell and Mr.

Richard Chamberlain, keeping guard on the heights where the Liberal

Unionists encamp. It was all right, of course. But it was not Mr.

Richard Chamberlain who was in their mind when they hurried down in

obedience to the imperative command.

[Sidenote: THE PRIVILEGES OF M.P.'S.]

Apart from the question of wages members of the British House of

Commons do not condescend to acceptance of the various smaller

privileges which ameliorate the condition of legislators in other

countries. In some of the Continental Legislatures, and in most of the

Colonies, M. P.'s travel free on the railways. For the British member,

more especially for the Irish representative, the cost of locomotion

when going about the country's business is a serious item. Not to

speak of the occasional discomforts of the voyage, it costs an Irish

member over £5 to journey to and from Westminster. For many Dublin is

merely the starting point for a more or less prolonged trip over the

highly-priced and not conveniently-arranged home railways.

At Washington, members of the House of Representatives, in addition

to a fixed salary and liberal allowance for railway fares, have

various little pickings, in the way, for example, of stationery, which

is supplied _ad libitum_ for their private use. Another privilege,

indispensable to the due performance of their labours, is a bath.

Attached to the Legislative Chamber is one of the most luxurious

bathing establishments in the world. Anything, from the ordinary

cold tub to the most elaborate Turkish bath, is at the disposal of

members. The prospect of being able to retire from a heated debate

and enjoy the long luxury of a Turkish bath is sufficient to make a

British M. P.'s mouth water. Of course, there is the difficulty about

the imminence of divisions. The sound of the division bell, suddenly

clanging through the various chambers of a Turkish bath, would cause

dire consternation. But daily use would suggest a means of minimizing

possible inconvenience. There might, for example, come into existence

such a thing as a bath pair, corresponding with the present dinner pair.

[Illustration: "KEEPING GUARD."]

[Sidenote: A DRESSING-ROOM TRAGEDY.]

It will appear scarcely credible that the House of Commons, though

widely known as the best club in the world, lacks the accommodation,

common to an ordinary club, of dressing-rooms where members may change

their clothes for dinner. The convenience of such an arrangement is

particularly obvious in the case of a body of men, the majority of whom

dine out during the Session, and are frequently, by the imminence of

a division, kept waiting about to within a quarter of an hour of the

time at which they are due for dinner. Ministers have their private

room. But for this purpose it is of less use to them than to the

private member. They are not supposed to dine out whilst the House is

in Session, and if they, greatly daring, dine, they avail themselves of

the privilege of presenting themselves in morning dress. Occasionally

one lends his room to a private friend, hard pressed to keep a dinner

engagement, possible only if he can save the time involved in going

home to dress.

A few Sessions ago, a well-known Q.C. had an exciting adventure

consequent upon changing his dress at the House. He had arranged with a

friend in the Ministry, who had a chamber near the top of the staircase

leading into Palace Yard, to use it as a dressing-room. He anxiously

watched the course of the debate as it proceeded over seven o'clock,

hoping it would conclude in time for him to run into his friend's

room, and slip into his dinner-dress in time to keep his appointment.

At half-past seven things began to look bad. A member, usually good

for at least half an hour, had risen to continue the debate. On second

thoughts, here was a chance. Suppose he were to retire now, change his

clothes, and be ready to drive off as soon as the division lobby was

cleared?

He acted on the idea with characteristic promptitude, and had reached

an exceedingly critical stage in the change of raiment, when the

division bell rang. The member in possession of the House when he left

it had been unexpectedly merciful, had brought his remarks within the

limits of ten minutes, and the division was called. Only three minutes

elapse between the clearing of the House for a division and the putting

of the question. Supposing the Q.C. to be fully dressed, there was only

time comfortably to reach the House from the Minister's room. He was

certainly not dressed, and it was a nice question whether it would be

a shorter process to go back to the chrysalis state of morning dress,

or proceed to complete the butterfly development upon which he had

embarked when almost paralyzed by the sound of the division bell. One

thing was clear, he must take part in the division. An issue depended

on it which would not incline the Whips to accept frivolous excuse for

abstention.

Again a happy thought occurred to him. Suppose he were to put on an

overcoat and so hide his collarless condition? But his overcoat was

in the cloak-room, a flight lower down. The spectacle of a learned

and somewhat adipose Q.C. rushing downstairs in shirt and trousers

might lead to misapprehension. There was, however, nothing else to be

done, and the flight was successfully accomplished. The hon. member

safely reached the cloak-room, was helped on with his coat, and, with

collar turned up closely buttoned at the throat, he passed through the

Division Lobby, an object of much sympathy to his friends, who thought

his cold must be bad indeed to justify this extreme precaution on a

summer night.

[Sidenote: PRIVILEGE.]

It is a well-known fact, much appreciated in quarters personally

concerned, that no action for libel may be based upon words spoken

in the House of Commons. This understanding has been confirmed by an

action to which Mr. Arthur Balfour was an involuntary party. In the

course of debate, in which he took part as Chief Secretary, he had

spoken disrespectfully of a midwife in the south of Ireland. The lady's

friends rallied round her, and guaranteed funds to cover the expenses

of a civil action for damages brought against the Chief Secretary.

Had the case come before a Cork jury, as was inevitable if it went to

trial, it would doubtless have proved a profitable transaction for the

plaintiff. Mr. Balfour appealed to a higher Court, on the ground that

the words spoken in Parliamentary debate are privileged. The Court

sustained this view, and the trial was set aside.

I have high judicial authority for the statement that in spite of this

rule the position of a member of Parliament in the matter of libel is

not impregnable. He is quite safe, not only as far as words spoken in

the House are concerned, but is not responsible for their publication

in the newspapers, or their subsequent appearance in "Hansard."

"Hansard," however, is accustomed to send to each member a report of

his speech, leaving to him the option of revision. If the proof be not

returned within a few days it is assumed that no correction is desired,

and the speech goes down to posterity in the form it was handed in

by the reporter. When a member has revised his speech the fact is

intimated by a star.

It is herein the distinction in the matter of legal liability is

established. A member having voluntarily revised his speech is assumed,

by the fresh and independent action taken outside the House of Commons,

to have assumed a liability he would otherwise have escaped. An action

would lie against him, not for the speech delivered in Parliament,

but for the publication of the libel under his revision, and upon his

authority, in a widely circulated periodical. _Verb. sap._

[Sidenote: A PRECIOUS VOLUME.]

A glance over any volume of "Hansard" shows that it is only the new

or inconsiderable member, whose speeches are not likely to become the

texts of subsequent debate, who is at pains to revise reports of his

Parliamentary utterances. Old Parliamentary hands like Mr. Gladstone,

Mr. Balfour, and Mr. Chamberlain are, in the first place, too busy,

and, in the second, too wise, to commit themselves to the task.

Mr. Chamberlain once suffered from yielding to the temptation to

secure an accurate report of his deliverances on important political

questions. In 1885, on the precipice below which unexpectedly lay the

fissure in the Liberal Party, Messrs. Routledge brought out a series

of volumes containing reports of the speeches of some six or eight

statesmen on questions of the day. It was an "authorized" edition,

the various contributors revising their speeches. At this epoch Mr.

Chamberlain was the risen hope of the Radical Party. His vigorous

argument and incisive invective were directed against the Conservative

Party, its history, ancient and modern. It is from this little volume

that Mr. Gladstone, in his speech at Edinburgh just before the Winter

Session, drew the citation of Mr. Chamberlain's indictment of the House

of Lords. It was not the first time it had been remembered. But Mr.

Gladstone's joyous discovery sent it trumpet-tongued throughout the

English-speaking world. It is this compilation that rescued from the

obscurity of daily newspaper reports the happily conceived, perfectly

phrased, and now classical similitude drawn between Mr. Gladstone and a

mountain.

"Sometimes I think," Mr. Chamberlain said in a passage the perfect

literary form of which tempts to quotation, "that great men are like

mountains, and that we do not appreciate their magnitude while we are

still close to them. You have to go to a distance to see which peak it

is that towers above its fellows; and it may be that we shall have to

put between us and Mr. Gladstone a space of time before we shall know

how much greater he has been than any of his competitors for fame and

power. I am certain that justice will be done to him in the future,

and I am not less certain that there will be a signal condemnation

of the men who, moved by motives of party spite, in their eagerness

for office, have not hesitated to treat with insult and indignity the

greatest statesman of our time--who have not allowed even his age,

which entitles him to their respect, or his high personal character,

or his long services to his Queen and his country, to shield him from

the vulgar affronts and the lying accusations of which he has nightly

been made the subject in the House of Commons. He, with his great

magnanimity, can afford to forget and forgive these things. Those whom

he has served so long it behoves to remember them, to resent them, and

to punish them."

The speech in which this gem lies entombed was delivered at Birmingham,

on the 4th June, 1885. In the intervening nine years Mr. Chamberlain

has had opportunities of regarding the mountain from other points of

view, and has discovered quite new aspects.

This volume of Mr. Chamberlain's speeches has long been out of print.

The shilling edition and the half-crown edition command considerably

enhanced prices on the rare occasions when they come upon the market.

There is one precious copy in the Library in the House of Commons,

the condition of which testifies to the frequency of reference. The

existence of such a record may be occasionally embarrassing to the

politician, but if Mr. Chamberlain were vain, it must be gratifying

to the man. It is only a strong personality that could evoke such

testimony of eager interest.

[Sidenote: LORDS IN THE COMMONS.]

It is pretty to note the deathless attraction the House of Commons has

for members who have left it to take their seats in another place. They

may be peers privileged to sit in the stately Chamber at the other side

of the Octagon Hall. But their hearts, untravelled, fondly turn to the

plainer Chamber in which is set the Speaker's Chair. Even the Duke of

Devonshire has not been able wholly to resist the spell. Whilst he was

still member for Rossendale, it was only a heroic, predominant sense

of duty that brought him down to the Commons. Since he became a peer

scarcely an evening passes in the Session that he does not look in,

chatting with friends in the Lobby, sometimes sitting out an hour of

debate, watched from the gallery over the clock. Lord Rowton never had

a seat in the Commons other than that under the gallery allotted to

the Private Secretary of the Leader of the House. But in earlier days

he had much business in the Lobby of the House of Commons, and when

in town and in attendance on the House of Lords, he rarely misses the

opportunity of revisiting his old haunts.

[Illustration: "A CHAT WITH SIR HENRY JAMES."]

It is many years since Lord Morris was "the boy for Galway,"

representing the county through several Sessions. Through that avenue

he joked his way, first to be Solicitor-General, then Attorney-General,

next Lord Chief Justice of Ireland, and finally Lord of Appeal,

with a life peerage. During the debates in the Commons last Session

on the Home Rule Bill he was in constant attendance. Even when the

subject-matter of debate is not one that touches the heart of a

patriot, the ex-member for Galway is regularly seen in the Lobby of the

House of Commons, his presence being indicated by a ripple of laughter

in the group surrounding him.

For some Sessions after the House of Commons suffered the irreparable

loss of the counsel of Sir Richard Cross, the Lobby was occasionally

suffused by the air of wisdom and respectability inseparable from the

presence of Lord Cross. Last Session he intermitted this habit, the

Lobby becoming in his absence almost a resort for the frivolous. Lord

Monk-Bretton is another old Commoner who has not entirely overcome

the habit of strolling into the Lobby of the House in whose Chair

of Committees he once sat. Lord Playfair, another ex-Chairman of

Committees, is often seen there. The Earl of Aberdeen, before Canada

claimed him, was almost nightly in the Lobby and corridors of the House

of Commons, albeit he was not drawn thither by personal recollections

of former memberships. Dukes, except his Grace of Devonshire, rarely

descend on the level of the Lobby, and no Bishop has been seen there

since the Bishop of London, looking in surplice and bands after debate

in the House of Lords, was accosted by Mr. McClure and genially invited

to take a glass of sherry and bitters.

[Illustration: MR. JOHN M'CLURE.]

[Sidenote: OLD WHIPS AND NEW.]

Lord Battersea has rather cut the place in which he long lingered

as a Whip, and Lord Dartmouth is not often seen in the place where

through many Sessions Lord Lewisham used to walk about, Whips' book

in hand, endeavouring to keep a House through the dinner hour. Lord

Kensington is a regular frequenter of the Lobby, and instinctively

takes his stand near the door leading to the staircase where through

many Sessions he kept guard, barring the passage of unpaired members.

Lord Kensington is not a man of supercilious manner, but there was

something of unmistakable scorn in his eyes when they first alighted

on the screen which his successors in the Ministerial Whips' seat last

Session introduced. Certainly a searching wind creeps up the staircase

from Palace Yard when it is wintry weather. But Lord Kensington sat

there from 1880 to 1885 without so much as a rug on his knees. A more

degenerate race are inconsolable without some contrivance for warding

off the draught. In ordinary circumstances this object might easily

be attained. A screen of fair proportions flanking the bench by the

Whips' side would be fully effective. But this is the main entrance

to the Lobby. A full-sized screen would be impossible. Accordingly, a

something has been made considerably too tall for the base upon which

it stands. The consequence is embarrassing, sometimes appalling. Either

the Thing falls outward when the glass door is opened, scaring the new

arrival, or it flops inward, threatening to crush Mr. Causton, and cut

off, in its flower, a useful life.

[Illustration: LORD DENMAN AND MR. FARMER-ATKINSON.]

[Sidenote: LORD DENMAN AND MR. ATKINSON.]

Lord Cranbrook has long got over the habit once dominant of revisiting

the scenes in which his political fortunes were established. Lord

Denman never had a seat in the Commons, but his sad, grey figure,

crowned with the purple smoking cap, was familiar in the Lobby in

the last Parliament. The attraction for him was removed when Mr.

Farmer-Atkinson retired from the political stage. In the former member

for Boston, Lord Denman found a kindred spirit. They made a pact

together whereby the peer was to take charge of the Commoner's Bills

when they reached the Upper House, Mr. Atkinson performing a kindred

service for his noble friend when his Woman's Suffrage Bill had run

the gauntlet of the Lords. It came to pass that opportunity was not

forthcoming on either side for fulfilment of this pledge. The Peers

would not pass Lord Denman's Bill, nor did the Commons encourage Mr.

Atkinson's legislative efforts. Still, they took counsel together,

prepared for emergencies. Sometimes they would be found in consultation

by the big brass gates that shut off the House of Lords from common

people. Oftener Lord Denman, having fuller leisure, sought Mr. Atkinson

in the Lobby of the Commons. Beyond particular measures for the good of

the country in which they were interested, they cherished a dream of

a combination between really sensible men of both Houses, who, rising

above party purposes and prejudices, should devote themselves heart and

soul to placing the empire on a sounder foundation.

The development of this plan was interrupted by officious friends

placing some restraint on the movements of Mr. Farmer-Atkinson, and his

(only temporary it is to be hoped) withdrawal from public life.

[Illustration: LORD HERSCHELL.]

[Sidenote: TWO UMBRELLAS.]

Lord Herschell, once a regular frequenter of the Lobby, does not often

find time to look in now that he is Lord Chancellor, and in addition

to the ordinary weighty calls of his office, has in hand the revision

of the Commission of the Peace. Another peer, once a constant visitor,

who has abandoned the place, is the Earl of Ravensworth. He was long

known in the House of Commons as Lord Eslington, a representative of

the highest type of county member. When he succeeded to the peerage he

spent more time in the Lobby of the Commons than on the red benches of

the House of Lords. Whatever the season of the year or the prospect of

the weather, he brought his umbrella with him, a heavily constructed

article, capable of sustaining the weight of a properly tall man when

he leaned upon it, whilst he conversed with a circle of friends.

The only member whose faithful attachment to his umbrella equalled Lord

Ravensworth's was the late Mr. Tom Collins. Judging from the shade of

the gingham, the determination of the bulge in the middle where it was

tied round with a piece of tape, and the worn condition of the ferrule,

the umbrella dated back to the epoch of the Great Exhibition. So dear

was it to the heart of its owner that he would not risk accident or

loss by leaving it to take its chance with the miscellaneous multitude

in the cloak-room. Like Lord Ravensworth, he carried it with him in

all weathers, and before entering the House to take part in the solemn

institution of prayers, he reverently deposited it behind the chair

of the principal doorkeeper. Mr. Collins was not a man of abnormally

suspicious nature. All his colleagues in the House of Commons were

honourable men. Still, human nature is weak. To see an umbrella like

that hanging loosely on a peg, or to find it ready to hand mixed up

with a lot of ordinary articles, might prove too strong a temptation

for a weak brother. Mr. Collins spared many a possible pang by placing

his umbrella out of range of casual sight in personal charge of the

doorkeeper.

[Illustration: LORD SPENCER.]

[Sidenote: SOME OTHER PEERS.]

I never saw Lord Salisbury in the Lobby, and do not recall any time

when his burly figure was seen looking down from the gallery on the

arena in which the first Lord Robert Cecil played a lively part. Earl

Spencer comes over occasionally for consultation with his colleagues.

Lord Rosebery, with the cares of the Empire on his shoulders, finds

time occasionally to look in at the House, for a seat in which, as he

has sometimes hinted, he would gladly barter his coronet.

_A Bohemian Artists' Club._

BY ALFRED T. STORY.

London numbers many societies for artists; but there is not another so

quaint in its style and so characteristic in all its methods as the

Langham Sketching Club, or, as it is called in brief parlance, and,

in fact, more correctly, "The Langham," for the Sketching Club is in

reality only a part of the whole. It is a very modest and retiring

body, and does not make much ado, or call public attention to itself by

the usual and popular methods of gaining notoriety.

These have always been its leading characteristics. It thought so

little of itself, indeed, in the first instance that it allowed itself

to be ushered into existence in a lowly shed at the bottom of a mews,

or in a stonemason's yard, as some say. This humble abode was situated

in Clipstone Street, Fitzroy Square, and the society's nativity took

place what time the Sailor King ruled the land, some eight years before

Her present Gracious Majesty ascended the throne.

It was started by eight men, who wished by co-operation and emulation

to improve themselves and each other in the art which they had adopted

as their profession; and it is significant of the oddity which has ever

characterized the society and its proceedings that, no sooner had the

resolution been carried confining its membership to the eight founders,

than it admitted a ninth. These nine original members were: W. Kidd, F.

Gary, J. C. Zeitter, A. M. Huffam, John Knight, William Purser, William

Derby, J. Mimpriss, and William Brough, the latter being the honorary

secretary.

According to the rules they framed for their governance, the society

was to be "for the study of artistic human figures." It was to meet

three times a week, in the evening, and work for a couple of hours.

Each member on joining was called upon to subscribe ten shillings;

after which, his contribution consisted in paying his share of the

expenses. These were totted up at the end of the week, and then and

there settled. Fines were imposed for non-attendance, unless the

absentee were able to produce good and sufficient reason for his

non-appearance; and for a long time to come the chief business of the

committee appears to have been to impose these fines, then remit them,

or discuss the means of enforcing their payment upon men who were

generally light-hearted, except when weighed down by the lightness of

their pockets. Peace be to their souls! If there were not many Michael

Angelos among them, there was an infinite amount of good-fellowship.

The actual date of this simple and democratic constitution was March 9,

1830; but it had no sooner been framed than--as in the case of another

and more famous constitution--it was found necessary to go to work and

tinker it into shape and usability. Hence, between then and now, it has

undergone many changes, albeit nothing has been done to detract from

its broad fundamental characteristics. The club (for such, in fact, it

is) may be said to combine the greatest amount of good-fellowship with

the least possible restraint by rule and regulation.

A year after the society's foundation a somewhat radical change took

place. It had quickly been found impossible to confine its membership

to the original nine founders, and the number was gradually increased

to fifteen. Now it was decided to divide the society into members and

subscribers; the former paying a pound a quarter and constituting the

governing body; while the latter paid twenty-seven shillings and had no

part whatever in the management--in this also following the example of

our national Constitution as it then was.

At first members and subscribers were alike ten in number; but in

course of time the members were increased to fifteen, and a larger

proportion of subscribers admitted. This rule still obtains. A still

further development took place a month or two later, when it was

decided to elect a president, the first gentleman to be accorded the

honour being Mr. Knight.

Curiously enough, until this time it had never occurred to the

members that their society was without a name. The fact having been

accidentally discovered, it was resolved to adopt as style and title,

"The Artists' Society for the Study of Historical, Poetic, and Rustic

Figures."

From time to time the number of evenings devoted to study was

gradually increased, until every week-day evening was occupied.

Further developments had in the meantime taken place. In 1841, on

the suggestion of William J. Müller, the study of the antique was

included in what we may call the curriculum. This involved the renting

of another room (the society was still in its mews) at a cost of £25

a year. About the same time the study of the nude was introduced, and

became henceforth a leading feature of the society. In 1838 an attempt

had been made to form a society for ladies, in conjunction with the

Artists' Society, "for the study of costume and the draped figure,"

but although started with some _éclat_, it appears before long to have

ended without regret a brief and forlorn existence.

We soon begin to come across historical names. In 1835 Haydon presents

the society with a drawing of "The Gate Beautiful," by Raphael, made

by his pupil, C. Landseer. Mr. D. V. Riviere is elected, also a Mr. F.

Cruikshank, though he appears never to have attended. Two years later

Mr. E. Corbould becomes a subscriber, and in the year following, the

well-known watercolourist, Frank W. Topham, and Mr. W. Riviere. In 1839

Dodgson and Lee were elected subscribers; and the same year the veteran

Louis Haghe, still living, was made president.

[Illustration: JOHN ABSOLON.

_From the Picture by G. G. Kilbourne_]

During these early years courses of lectures on various subjects

connected with art were given by competent gentlemen. Mr. W. R. Toase,

F.L.S., discoursed on "Anatomy," illustrated by living models; Mr.

Benjamin R. Green lectured on "Perspective"; Mr. C. H. Smith, on the

"Importance of Trifles in Historical Design"; Mr. George Foggo, on

"Pictorial Composition"; and last, though not least, a Mr. R. Cull (one

fancies there should have been an "s" to this name), on "Phrenology

as Applicable to Art." At that time phrenology was in high favour,

was patronized by the great and the learned, and generally regarded

as going to do wonders. Many artists in those days, Blake and Linnell

among the number, devoted some attention to it; but now, with the

exception of one leading Academician, it would be difficult to find

any artist who had given so much as a passing glance at the science:

if they had, we should at least have been spared the sight of such

monstrosities of heads as we now see.

In 1841, under the presidency of John Absolon, another veteran member

who is still amongst us, it was decided to elect a certain number

of honorary members, and Mr. James R. Planché, the dramatist and

authority on costume and heraldry, was the first gentleman chosen. In

honour of this election a conversazione was held, to which a number of

distinguished guests were invited. This was the first entertainment of

the kind given by the society. Since then it has become noted for its

gatherings of a similar nature.

At one time the rule was to hold one every quarter. This was when the

treasury was in good order. When funds were low it was necessary to be

satisfied with two, or even one, a year. They were--and are still--the

very simplest of affairs, and Bohemian to the last degree. For this

reason it is that they are so much enjoyed by those who have the luck

to get an invitation. The invariable fare is bread and cheese and

salad--_au naturel_--with ale and stout _ad lib._, or, as a facetious

member once put it, _ad lip_. Anything of the nature of ceremony is

altogether dispensed with; and as there is always a crush, the feast

generally assumes the form of a scramble. City magnates have been known

to take part in these _sans façon_ regales, and to confess afterwards

that they found them more amusing and enjoyable than a Guildhall

banquet; while fashionable R. A.'s and A. R. A.'s have been seen to

retire into a corner with a hunk of bread and cheese in one hand and a

pot of porter in the other, and set to like costers--showing that we

are all built much on the same mould, under the clothes.

[Illustration: A CONVERSAZIONE SUPPER.

_Drawn by W. H. Pike_.]

On these occasions the members exhibit their works--sketches that have

been done in the classroom, or pictures destined for one or other of

the exhibitions--and receive the useful, and generally very generous,

criticisms of their friends. Then, to round off the evening, there

are singing, music, and recitations, or it may be a bit of character

acting. Once we had the pleasure of seeing a well-known A. R. A. and

another equally clever artist dress up from the club wardrobe (which

is a rich and varied one) as "Black Sall" and "Dusty Jim," and give an

improvised dance, to the infinite delight alike of members and guests.

But--to go back a little--in 1842 the most characteristic feature of

all in connection with the society had its beginning, namely, the

Sketching Club. This is, in reality, quite distinct from the society,

although members may belong to it; but its membership is recruited

chiefly from outside, and is practically unlimited. The club meets

every Friday evening, a subject--or, perhaps, two--is given, and each

artist realizes it as best he can. The sketch has to be completed in

two hours, and when the time is up, there is a general examination of

work, with free criticism, suggestion, and so forth. They may be done

in any manner--in oil, water-colours, black and white, or modelled in

clay. It is a capital school; every man is put on his mettle, and, of

course, does his best. Not a few pictures, now celebrated, had their

beginnings on these evenings.

Work being done, supper is discussed; the fare consisting of a cold

joint, bread and cheese, with, of course, ale and stout to wash them

down. It is at this time that new members are elected. Before a

candidate can be chosen he has to submit a sketch. This is carried

round by the honorary secretary and shown to each member in turn, his

vote for or against the candidate being thus taken.

These suppers are always interesting, and sometimes very amusing, as

they can hardly help being when so many men of varied talent, and some

of absolute genius, are constantly meeting together and exchanging

views. Sometimes, while the others are talking, or "chaffing," one

member will be quietly jotting down some characteristic faces in his

sketch-book, or taking a sly note on his cuff. At other times the fun

becomes a little uproarious, and the wildest pranks are indulged in.

[Illustration: "MUSIC AND SONG."

_Drawn by Robt. Sauber._]

On one occasion the late Charles Keene and Mr. Stacy Marks, both of

whom were members for many years, had a jumping match. A rod was laid

lightly from the rail round which the members work to a box at a

height of about three and a half feet from the ground. Marks cleared

the rod with ease at a standing jump. Keene, though he tried several

times, could not quite accomplish the feat. When he seemed to be on the

point of giving up the contest an artist named Wingfield, "a fellow

of infinite jest," and a great character to boot, said, very quietly,

"Take a pinch of snuff, Mr. Keene; that will enable you to do it." The

suggestion was given with such placid _sangfroid_ that it convulsed the

room. Keene, however, did not take the hint.

Keene was elected a full member of the society in 1853, though he had

already been a subscribing member for several years. He was one of the

quietest of men, and seldom had much to say for himself; howbeit, he

did occasionally come out with a dry, caustic remark, that told like

one of the sly, humorous touches of his pencil; as, for instance, when

he bade an old woman who was castigating her ill-mannered donkey,

hired for the evening as a model, that she might spare the rod there,

as none of them minded his behaviour, because they were not any more

thin-skinned than her "moke."

Tenniel, Keene's coadjutor on _Punch_, was president of the society so

far back as 1849.

Among other distinguished or notable men who have been, or still are,

members, may be mentioned Mr. Poole, R.A., some of whose sketches

are as grand as many of his finished pictures are weak. He was a

fellow-member with H. B. Pyne and James Müller. The latter was

president in 1844, and died during his year of office, killed, as it

was thought at the time, by the scant justice done to him by the

Academy; his works, now so highly esteemed, being invariably "skied."

While his pictures now fetch thousands, he died in debt to the society.

Alfred Fripp, the watercolour painter, and Fred Goodall became members

about the same time. Between 1846 and 1848, Stanfield, junr., W.

Goodall, W. Dyce, H. J. Boddington, and A. J. Lewis joined the society,

and J. P. Knight, R.A., was elected an honorary member. A little while

previously the same honour had been conferred upon Mr. G. Field, the

colour manufacturer, and Mr. J. H. Rogers, lecturer on anatomy.

[Illustration: CHARACTER DANCE BY ARTISTS.

_Drawn by J. Finnemore._]

In 1860 the society removed from the quarters it occupied in Clipstone

Street to its present abode in the Langham Chambers, Portland Place.

Of the men who were then members not many are left, but we may name

Charles Cattermole, nephew of the famous George Cattermole, and for

many years hon. secretary of the society, and J. A. Fitzgerald, son

of Byron's "hoarse" Fitzgerald,[1] and almost as noted as his father

for his histrionic gifts. Several who were then members have since

left, notably Mr. Lawlor, the sculptor, the late Vicat Cole, R.A., and

F. Weekes. A. J. Stark also was a member at that time. G. Kilburne

joined the society shortly after it removed to Langham Chambers; B. W.

Leader, R.A., Henry Telbin, the scene painter, and C. Armitage joined

a year later; while between then and 1865, Robert Landells, a man of

great ability, who went through the Franco-German War as artist for the

_Illustrated London News_, E. T. Coleman, J. T. Watson, F. Lawson, W.

M. Wyllie, G. G. Kilburne, E. Law, the engraver, James Gow, and Fred

Barnard became members or subscribers. Later, Sir James Linton joined

the society, the late Mr. C. B. Birch, A.R.A., and William Linnell, son

of the famous Linnell, and himself a distinguished painter.

[1] See "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers":

Still must I hear? Shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl

His creaking couplets in a tavern hall?

There is generally, just before "sending-in day," a special

conversazione, at which members exhibit their pictures before

forwarding them to the Academy to be accepted or rejected. In many

cases, of course, this is the only "show" they get; but not a few

famous pictures have there been submitted to public criticism for the

first time. At one such conversazione Mr. Stacy Marks exhibited his

famous "Gargoyle" before it went to the Royal Academy. Mr. Calderon,

R.A., thus exhibited his "Coming of Age," and Fred Walker his

celebrated "Philip in Church," the picture which was the beginning of

his fame. Calderon was a member of the Sketching Club; as was also Mr.

Poynter, R.A. Fred Walker was a regular member of the society. At one

time Mr. W. Gilbert, since become famous in another line of art, was

a member, though not for long. He had not yet found his true _forte_,

and so was trying his hand with the brush. What he did was chiefly in

the comic vein. He was an amusing companion, however, and noted as a

_raconteur_.

[Illustration: A TWO-HOURS' SKETCH BY CHAS. CATTERMOLE.]

An amusing story is told in this connection, albeit not of Mr. Gilbert:

At one of the Friday night suppers there was present an artist who had

been abroad for some time in connection with one of the illustrated

papers. He had been half round the world, and was, naturally, expected

to have much to say about his travels. But, no; not a word. "What

did you see in China, Mr. Ixe? What in Japan? Did you like the

Assyrian maidens, or the _Vrows_ of Batavia?" Thus was he questioned

on every side. But, like the needy knife-grinder, he had no story to

tell. Meanwhile, at the other end of the table was an artist who had

that afternoon been as far as Bedford Park, and was bursting with

adventures. "Fitz could make a better book of travels out of a walk up

Hammersmith Broadway than Ixe from a tour round the world," remarked

one of the wits of the club.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF J. D. WINGFIELD.

_From the Picture by Carl Haug_.]

This is the time to hear from the artists' own lips their varied

experiences--often highly amusing--in the pursuit of their profession.

One, who has a supreme hatred of dealers, tells how he once had one

delivered completely into his hands, _and he did not drown him_. He

and three others had taken a walk up the Wharfe to enjoy its beauties,

one of them being a dealer. The dealer and another eventually found

themselves on the wrong side of the stream, far from a bridge, and

it was necessary, in order to avoid a long détour, to wade across.

The dealer was no longer young, was unused to the water, except as

a beverage, being a teetotaler, and feared all sorts of evils as

the result of wetting his feet. He managed to get across in safety,

however.

"He reached our side of the river all right," continued the narrator;

"but as the bank was steep, he had to appeal to me to give him a hand

up; and I weakly did so, instead of putting a mop on him. I could

easily have done so, the water being quite deep enough to put him out

of his misery. But I didn't do it. Of course, I felt considerable

chagrin when I had let him escape. Then, to make matters worse, he

asked me for some of my whisky: he knew I carried a little in a

bottle--'for my stomach's sake.' Naturally, having been so weak as to

let him get out of the water, I could not refuse the whisky. And what

do you think he did? He washed his feet with it to prevent him catching

cold! I implore of you, should it fall to the lot of any of you to have

your enemy delivered into your hands in that way, do not do as I did,

but _put a mop on him_."

It is only needful to begin storytelling in this way to bring out

an endless variety. The mention of the Wharfe reminded one man of a

deep pool below a waterfall on a northern stream, where he had a most

gruesome experience. He had planted his easel, and was beginning to

work upon the scene--the waterfall, the black pool, dark surrounding

trees, and a blurred and reddening evening sky--when suddenly he

perceived a dark object bobbing up and down just in front of the fall.

Up and down it danced with the motion of the water, gyrating slowly

at the same time. At first he thought it must be a dead dog; then it

dawned upon him--and the thought produced an uncanny feeling--that

it might be a man's head. Suddenly a stronger wave, a more violent

gyration, and there was no longer any doubt. A man's face, with its

dead, glassy eyes and streaming hair, was presented to his gaze--and he

instantly sprang to his feet and ran, leaving easel, canvas, palette,

and brushes to take care of themselves.

Another man tells how, when he was busy upon a choice bit of landscape,

a couple of yokels approached, and, after watching for a short time,

moved off, remarking that it was a pity such a broad-shouldered fellow

could not find something better to do than waste his time like that.

[Illustration: POSING THE MODEL.

_Drawn by W. A. Breakspear._]

Naturally, there are some stock anecdotes told of fellow-members, which

never cease to create a laugh. One hears of the sculptor who, having

been too deep in his potations, made his way home late at night with

a large codfish under one arm and a lobster under the other, and who

found them lying in bed beside him when he awoke in the morning.

[Illustration: J. A. FITZGERALD.

_Drawn by Robert Sauber._]

Another artist, presumably in a similar condition of benignity,

arriving home very late, softly unlocks the street door, goes up

stairs, very softly enters his bedroom, and undresses--very softly, so

as not to disturb his wife, and finally creeps into bed--likewise very

softly and gently; to be startled by his better half asking him--very

softly and gently, no doubt--if he is aware that he has got into bed

with his top-hat on!

One member always raises a hearty laugh by his imitation of a

brother member--a man of the greatest good humour, but of third-rate

ability--who, debating with another artist on the great Whistler

question, thus sums the matter up: "If Whistler is right, then you, and

me, and Michael Angelo are all wrong."

Sometimes in this way one may pick up some interesting anecdotes of the

men of a past generation. Holland, the famous landscape painter, who

was once a member, used to have many anecdotes about Turner. On one

occasion he was sitting near to him at dinner, when a lady observed to

him that she admired his pictures very much, although she could not say

that she understood them. "Don't you wish you had the brains to do so?"

replied Turner--a little rudely, it must be confessed.

[Illustration: THE LIFE CLASS.

_Drawn by W. Douglas Almond._]

Members take it in turns to "set" the models, who generally pose for an

hour, then take a short rest, and afterwards sit for another hour. They

are placed on a raised platform under a top light, the artists being

ranged in a semicircle facing them. No one is allowed to speak to the

model except the member whose duty it is to set him or her, and the

utmost silence is enjoined. Some of the models take great interest in

the work of the artists, and like to see what they have made them look

like. Many curious characters are found amongst them, and the stories

of their humours and oddities are endless and infinitely diverting.

Not the least amusing is that of the man who had posed for apostles and

saints so long that he could not be induced to sit for a common coster.

"It would be such a come-down, sir," he said, with a rueful

countenance. There is also a story--possibly apocryphal--of a model who

had got beyond sitting deploring his changed estate, in that he who had

sat for "lords and cardinals" was reduced to "wet-nursing a kangaroo"

(having obtained employment at the Zoo).

But perhaps the best story of a model is one that used to be told by

Sir Edwin Landseer. It concerned a man named Bishop, a man who will be

remembered by nearly all the older generation of artists. Bishop was a

bit of a favourite with Landseer, and often sat for him. Once when so

employed he thus addressed the famous animal painter: "Sir Ed'n," said

he, "I sees from the papers as you of'n dines with Her Gracious Majesty

at Buckingham Palace, and as you gets on very well wi' her. Now, Sir

Ed'n, I've been a-thinking--if you wouldn't mind the trouble--you might

do me and my misses a very good turn--a very good turn, you might. You

know, Sir Ed'n, my misses is a rare good washer, and if, next time you

dines with Her Majesty--just when you gets cosy like, arter dinner--if

you would just pervail on her to give my misses her washing, it would

set us up, it would. Now, Sir Ed'n, you'll pard'n me for a-mentionin'

of it, but if you could do that for us, we'd take it very kind like."

It is not stated whether the request was ever put to Her Majesty.

[Illustration: E. C. CLIFFORD (SECRETARY AND LIBRARIAN).

_From a Photo by Scott & Sons, Exeter._]

It would be unpardonable to conclude without making mention of some

of the artists who are at present members, many of whose names

are doubtless familiar to readers of the illustrated papers and

periodicals, or from their pictures in the exhibitions. Among the

number may be noted W. Breakspear, Dudley Hardy, Robert Sauber,

George C. Haité (president of the Sketching Club), Bernard Evans, J.

Finnemore, W. Pike, Edward C. Clifford, and W. Douglas Almond--the

last two holding the positions respectively of honorary secretary and

curator of the society.

[Illustration: W. DOUGLAS ALMOND (CURATOR).

_From a Photo by Russell & Sons._]

_All the artists whose drawings have been used to illustrate

the above article are members of the Society or of the

Sketching Club, or both._

_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._

THE REVEREND CANON H. SCOTT HOLLAND.

BORN 1847.

[Illustration: AGE 11.

_From a Daguerrotype._]

[Illustration: AGE 20.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 32.

_From a Photo, by Sutcliffe, Whitby._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The Rev. Canon Henry Scott Holland was born at Ledbury, Herefordshire,

and was educated at Eton and Balliol College, Oxford. He was ordained

at Cuddesdon in 1872, and was afterwards Theological Tutor at Christ

Church. In 1882 he was appointed Canon of Truro and Examining Chaplain

to the Bishop, and in 1884 was made Canon of St. Paul's. Canon Holland

has published several volumes of sermons, an article on "Justin Martyr"

in the "Dictionary of Christian Biography," and an essay in "Lux

Mundi."

LORD ROSEBERY.

BORN 1847.

[Illustration: AGE 17.

_From a Photo by Hills and Saunders._]

[Illustration: AGE 21.

_From a Photo by Hills & Saunders, Eton._]

[Illustration: AGE 38.

_From a Photo by Russell & Sons, Baker Street._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The right Hon. Archibald Philip Primrose, Earl of Rosebery, LL.D.,

P.C., was born in London, and received his education at Eton, our first

portrait showing him at that time. He was appointed Under-Secretary

of State for the Home Department in August, 1881. He resigned the

Under-Secretaryship in 1883 and became First Commissioner of Works.

In 1886 he was appointed Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and

succeeded Mr. Gladstone as Prime Minister in March of this year.

MR. JUSTICE WILLS.

BORN 1828.

[Illustration: AGE 25.

_From a Photo by Maull & Fox._]

[Illustration: AGE 33.

_From a Photo by Disderi, Paris._]

[Illustration: AGE 48.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 55.

_From a Photo by H. J. Whitlock, Birmingham._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

The Hon. Sir Alfred Wills entered the Middle Temple, by which Inn

he was called to the Bar in 1851. He was made a Q.C. in 1872, and

was appointed Judge in 1884. He was made President of the Railway

Commission in 1888. Mr. Justice Wills was one of the founders, and is

one of the six remaining original members, of the Alpine Club, and

nearly all the happiest recollections of his life are connected with

the Alps, and more especially with his own Alpine home.

SIR CHARLES DILKE, M.P.

BORN 1843.

[Illustration: AGE 12.

_From a Daguerreotype by Antoine Claudet, 107, Regent Street, W._]

[Illustration: AGE 17.

_From a Photo by Antoine Claudet, 107, Regent Street, W._]

[Illustration: AGE 37.

_From a Photo by John Watkins, Parliament Street, W._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Dickinson, 114, New Bond Street, W._]

The Right Hon. Sir Chas. Wentworth Dilke, Bart., was born at Chelsea

September 4, 1843, being a grandson of Charles Wentworth Dilke, the

critic. He was educated at Trinity Hall, Cambridge; he graduated as

senior legalist in January, 1866. In the same year he was called to the

Bar at the Middle Temple. In 1868 he published a book in two vols.,

"Greater Britain: A Record of Travel in English-speaking Countries

During 1866-67," which deals with his observations during his travels

round the world. In 1868 he was elected as Radical member for Chelsea.

Among his many legislative achievements was the creation of School

Boards directly elected by the ratepayers. In December, 1882, he was

made President of the Local Government Board, with a seat in the

Cabinet. In 1885 he married Mrs. Mark Pattison. In 1887 he published

"The Present Position of European Politics"; in 1888, "The British

Army," and in 1890, "Problems of Greater Britain." In the General

Election of 1892 he was returned M.P. for Forest of Dean.

LADY DILKE.

[Illustration: AGE 2.

_From a Painting by Miss Atkins._]

[Illustration: AGE 10.

_From a Painting by W. B. Scott._]

[Illustration: AGE 25.

_From a Painting by Victor Pollet._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Elliot & Fry._]

Lady Dilke (_née_ Emilia Frances Strong), daughter of Major Henry

Strong, H.E.I.C.S., was born at Ilfracombe in 1842. She was educated by

Miss Bodwick, sister of the celebrated African traveller, and received

much friendly teaching in drawing from Mr. Mulready, R.A. She married

first, in 1862, the Rev. Mark Pattison, Rector of Lincoln College,

Oxford (who died on July 30th, 1884); and secondly, in 1885, the Right

Hon. Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, Bart. Lady Dilke was long a writer

in the _Saturday_ and _Westminster Reviews_, and afterwards, on the

foundation of the _Academy_, she edited the Art section for one or two

years, and also supplied original articles during that time. In 1879,

Lady Dilke published a work in two volumes illustrated by herself,

and entitled "The Renaissance of Art in France." In 1881 she wrote a

biography of Sir Frederick Leighton for the series of "Modern Artists,"

edited by Mr. Dumas; and in 1882 she lectured at the Birmingham and

Midland Institute on "The Industrial Policy of Colbert." In 1884 she

published in French, through the Librairie de l'Art, a monograph on

Claude. Lady Dilke subsequently published "The Shrine of Death," a

volume of stories, in 1886, and "Art in the Modern State," in 1888.

In subsequent years she contributed several stories to the _Universal

Review_, and wrote in the _Fortnightly Review_ and the _New Review_ on

Trade Unions for Women, in which she takes a deep interest.

_The Oxford and Cambridge Union Societies._

I.--OXFORD.

BY J. B. HARRIS-BURLAND.

The Oxford Union Society is one of the two most important debating

clubs in England, the other being the sister Society at Cambridge. It

has been estimated that nearly a fifth of the present House of Commons,

and a very considerable number of the House of Lords, have aired their

early efforts in the great debating hall in New Inn Hall Street. It

might not be uninteresting to our readers to know something of the

school in which so many distinguished speakers have been trained.

As the United Debating Society, its foundation dates from 1823; but in

1825 it was broken up to exclude turbulent members, and reconstituted

under its present name. It is nominally a social club, with reading,

writing, billiard, dining, and smoking rooms, and a good library of

25,000 volumes. But its true importance lies in the debates which are

held once a week in term time.

[Illustration: THE DEBATING HALL--OXFORD UNION.

_From a Photo by C. Court Cole, Oxford._]

The new debating hall is an exceedingly fine room, lit with the

electric light, and decorated with the portraits of the distinguished

men who have filled the President's chair, and presented by themselves.

There are two of Mr. Gladstone, one as the "rising hope of those stern

and unbending Tories," and one as the great leader of the Liberals of

England.

At one end of the hall three chairs of carved oak are raised on a

daïs, the central one higher than either of the others. Here sits the

President, with the Treasurer and Librarian on either side of him, and

the Secretary at a table at his feet. An electric bell is fixed to the

President's chair, with which he warns speakers that their allotted

time is drawing to a close. Members have been known to speak for twenty

minutes without launching into their subject, so the bell is not

without its use.

The gallery is reserved for visitors, chiefly ladies, and is crowded on

the night of an important debate. It has a reputation of being unsafe,

and whenever it is unusually full, someone is sure to rise in private

business and ask if any steps have been taken to strengthen it. The

alarm of the fair occupants is only allayed by the assurance of its

complete stability.

The Society consists of over 900 subscribing and 20,000 life members.

Its officers are elected by ballot, and canvassing is strictly

forbidden on pain of a heavy fine. It seems, however, to be a disputed

point as to what constitutes canvassing. There is considerable keenness

at election time, which occurs every term. The Librarian and Junior

Treasurer hold office for a year; the President, Secretary, and

members of Standing and Library Committees, for a term only.

[Illustration: THE LARGE LIBRARY--OXFORD UNION.

_From a Photo by C. Court Cole, Oxford._]

As the money which the Society receives and spends is no small sum, it

has been thought advisable to have as a permanent Senior Treasurer one

who does not come and go as undergraduates do. So the £3,000 odd, which

comes in yearly to the funds, is watched over by a Don. He is, however,

only a servant of the Society, and has no power of himself. Nominally

politics have nothing to do with the voting, and the officers are often

men of different views, but in reality the political clubs of the

'Varsity exercise no mean influence on the ballot. However, popularity

and distinction are still of the most weight, though it was said that

one club "ran" the elections for several years, and it is curious to

note that the last-elected President, Librarian, and Junior Treasurer

all belong to the same club.

The conduct of debates is as follows: The names of four members,

generally speakers who are known to have some ability, are printed on

the bills that are posted throughout the 'Varsity. It is etiquette for

these four and also for the officers of the Society to wear evening

dress. Only these four have a certainty of a place in the debate. The

first two may speak for twenty-five minutes, and the other two for

twenty minutes apiece. Those who follow have only fifteen minutes, and

have to jump to their feet to catch the President's eye. Some who have

prepared speeches never get a chance of firing them off.

[Illustration: MR. F. E. SMITH, President Lent Term, 1894.

_From a Photo, by Gillman, Oxford._]

Before the true work of the evening begins, private business is

discussed. This is the recognised hour of amusement, and members can

achieve no small reputation by excellence in the asking of ridiculous

questions. Many of these are personal. A young earl, who occupies

the President's throne, is chaffed about a certain celebrated pill

because the maker's name resembles his own. The Treasurer is worried

about new billiard balls, accommodation for dogs, and his portrait in

the _Lady's Pictorial_ when he came of age; the Librarian about the

contents of some strange book; the Secretary about his handwriting.

Lately the World's Fair at Chicago asked the Union to send two of its

members to the Show, but stipulated that they must be of the "highest

moral and social standing." The discussion lasted several evenings as

to who was fit, what the delegates would be required to do, and what

they would be paid. It was finally decided that no one person could

combine the two qualities. Such discussions as these occupy the lighter

moments of the Society.

[Illustration]

Then the debate of the evening begins: sometimes it is good, sometimes

bad--more often indifferent. Occasionally there is an orator of

unusual brilliance and power, and then the hall is crowded; but as the

evening wears on members drop out one by one, and someone moves that

the question be now put.

[Illustration]

Occasionally distinguished visitors are asked to speak, and then more

than ordinary interest is shown. Last year, Lord Winchilsea joined in

a debate on the state of agriculture, and spoke for over an hour. He

met with hearty support, but also candid criticism, and he defended

his scheme with great good humour and ability. Thus the undergraduates

have all the advantage of discussing leading questions with recognised

authorities on the subject, and the speaker has the opportunity of

influencing an audience that is larger than it looks, and which

is certainly one of more than average intellect. It is, moreover,

considered to be no small honour to be invited to speak at the Oxford

Union. And politicians find it a profitable way of spreading their

views. The undergraduates disperse and influence many districts, and

many, in a few years, will be themselves members of Parliament. We are

able to give a reduced facsimile of two pages of signatures of old

members who met for the 50th Anniversary Dinner, among which we find

many of the most famous men now living.

[Illustration: PAGE FROM THE MINUTE-BOOK, IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR.

GLADSTONE.]

Almost every subject under the sun has been dissected in this Society.

The Home Rule Bill met with the fate it was afterwards destined to

receive at the hands of the Lords. In some ways the result of the

voting in the Union is not entirely without importance. It shows the

current of thought among the future politicians of England.

The style of oratory has been condemned by outsiders as unsound. Great

importance is attached to brilliant epigrams and incisive phraseology.

Mere solidity and strength of argument produce more yawns than

applause. So it is said that the real object of debate is lost sight

of, and that flashy oratory takes the place of sound reasoning. There

is some truth in this, and probably the most popular speakers at the

Union will not become the leaders of Parliament. But, after all, it is

in speaking and not in thinking that young men need practice. When they

are older they will think more and speak less.

The Presidency is one of the most highly-prized distinctions at the

'Varsity, and one which a man may well be proud of in after life. And

this is not to be wondered at when we find among the list of those who

have held the office the names of Mr. Gladstone, Cardinal Manning,

Archbishop Tait, Lord Selborne, the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava,

the late Dukes of Cleveland and Newcastle, the late Earl Beauchamp,

Viscount Sherbrooke, Lord Coleridge, Mr. Goschen, the Right Hon. H.

Asquith, Samuel Wilberforce, the late Bishop of Durham, the Bishops of

Peterborough and Chichester, and a host of lesser celebrities, such

as deans, Under Secretaries of State, heads of colleges and public

schools, judges, etc. Such a list of ex-Presidents could hardly be

found in any debating society in the world. The Oxford Union Society is

justly proud of them.

[Illustration]

The preceding page from the minute-book kept by Mr. Gladstone when

Secretary is extremely interesting. It will be noted that the motion

was introduced by Mr. Gladstone himself and carried by a majority of

one vote, Mr. Gladstone being careful to note that the circumstance was

greeted with "tremendous cheering" and "repeated cheers."

II.--CAMBRIDGE.

BY ST. J. BASIL WYNNE WILLSON, M.A.

In 1886, in a speech made at the opening of the new buildings, the

late Duke of Clarence said: "The Union affords, not only opportunities

for social intercourse, but it is of great service for reading and

study, and in many cases has given the first lessons to men who

have afterwards ranked among our greatest orators." It is largely a

comfortable club, but primarily it is a debating society, and it is as

such that its history is of interest.

To discover the origin of the institution we must go far back to the

year 1815, when, in the big room of the Lion Hotel in Petty Cury,

three earlier societies combined in one Union. The large, bare room,

with its tables dinted by the "firing" of glasses at many a Masonic

dinner, forms a striking contrast to the fine buildings with handsome

apartments and club-land luxuries in which the present generation

revels. Founded by men known afterwards as Lord Langdale, the Hon. Sir

E. Hall Alderson, the Right Hon. Sir F. Pollock, and the Hon. and Very

Rev. H. Pakenham, the Society was happy in its early auspices, and

often since in the Presidential chair have sat men who shed on it such

lustre that they now draw some light therefrom.

[Illustration: THE DEBATING HALL--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

After a short sojourn at the Lion, the Society moved to the present

A. D. C. Theatre, and in 1850 migrated again to a disused Wesleyan

chapel in Green Street, where now is heard the click of billiard balls

instead of the voice of preacher or orator. In thrifty years a Building

Fund was amassed, and in 1866, Charles W. Dilke being President, the

bulk of the present buildings was erected at a cost of £10,700. Since

that time there have been added the laboratory block in 1882, and the

north wing, containing the library, in 1885. The illustrations must be

left to describe the appearance and size of the chief rooms, of which

successive Vice-Presidents have increased the comfort and splendour,

electric light and a luncheon-room being amongst the latest additions.

The library contains 25,000 volumes, covering a large range of

literature, but omitting three of Zola's works. However, "to provide a

library and reading-room" is only the secondary object of the Union:

its chief design always has been and is "to hold debates," and it is

for oratorical merit that the President, Vice-President, Secretary, and

Committee of six are terminally elected. It is as a debating society

that it has a claim to fame. That the elect of the Union are often also

the elect of the outer world, the following account will, I think, show.

[Illustration: THE SMOKING ROOM--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo, by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

In 1816 W. Whewell, a late Master of Trinity, was President. His was a

stirring reign on account of the strained relations between the Union

and the University authorities, who seem to have maintained a paternal

government in those days, looking with suspicious eyes on the young

innovators who met once a week to discuss men and manners. During a

debate, on March 24th, 1817, on the condition of the Army, a dramatic

and almost tragic event took place. Enter on a sudden the Proctors,

attended by bull-dogs: dim light, slow music and many excursions and

alarums, whilst the President in a stern voice bids strangers withdraw.

The intruders demand the dispersion of the meeting and the termination

of discussions. The result was that a deputation was sent to the

Vice-Chancellor to bear him a remonstrance, "consistently with perfect

obedience to University discipline." The deputation "believed that

the Vice-Chancellor interfered, owing to the circumstance of having

received a letter from one of the members, stating that the studies

of himself and of his friends had been checked and their prospects

blighted by attention to the Society." The Vice-Chancellor curtly

replied: "I do not think it necessary or, perhaps, proper to return any

answer to this statement. I had considered the matter fully in my own

mind."

Thus the Society was crushed for a time, but in 1821 re-asserted

itself, on the understanding that no questions of theology or of

politics except of a date previous to 1800 should be discussed. The

result was that contemporary politics were debated under a thin

disguise of similar circumstances in the past.

Macaulay and Praed were frequent speakers. The former upheld Hampden,

Burke, and the study of fiction; whilst the latter opposed him on the

subject of Burke, but showed admiration for the conduct of Napoleon--of

course, "previous to 1800." They both declared against armed

interference in France in 1792, Charles Austin and Alex. Cockburn being

on the other side. On this occasion Macaulay made a speech, of which

the late Lord Lytton wrote:--

"The greatest display of eloquence that I ever witnessed at that

club was made by a man some years our senior, the now renowned

Lord Macaulay, and it still lingers in my recollection as the most

heart-stirring effort of that true oratory that it has ever been my

lot to hear, saving perhaps a speech delivered by Mr. O'Connell to an

immense crowd in the open air. Macaulay, in point of power, passion,

and effect, never equalled that speech in his best days in the House of

Commons."

E. Strutt (Lord Belper), Macaulay, and Cockburn all supported the

reform of the Commons at the end of the last century. Cockburn and

Lytton prevailed on the House to carry a motion "that a systematic

opposition to the measures of an administration is beneficial to the

country." A great debate of this period had for its subject "that the

Constitution of America is more favourable to the liberties of the

people than that of England." Macaulay, Praed, and Cockburn approved,

and were carrying the House with them, when up rose Lytton so eloquent

and persuasive that he won his case for England by 109 votes to 37.

In Mr. Skipper's pamphlet may be found the following interesting

description of the Society in "an unpublished squib," written at this

time by Praed:--

The Union Club, of rhetorical fame,

Was held at the Red Lion Inn;

And there never was lion so perfectly tame,

Or who made such a musical din.

'Tis pleasant to snore, at a quarter before,

When the Chairman does nothing in state;

But 'tis Heaven, 'tis Heaven, to waken at seven,

And pray for a noisy debate.

The question is Reform, and after the opener has addressed the House,

Lytton's rising is thus described:--

Then the Church shakes her rattle and sends forth to battle

The terror of Papist and sinner,

Who loves to be seen as the modern Mæcenas,

And asks all the poets to dinner.

After one speaker has intervened, Macaulay rises:--

But the favourite comes with his trumpet and drums

And his arms and his metaphors crossed,

And the audience, O dear! vociferate Hear!

Till they're half of them deaf as a post.

Macaulay's speech is thus summarized:--

Oratoric,

Metaphoric

Similes of wondrous length.

Illustration--conflagration,

Ancient Romans, House of Commons,

Clever Uriel and Ithuriel,

Good old king, everything.

And Charles Austin rises:--

Then up gets the glory of us and our story,

Who does all by logic and rule,

Who can tell the true difference 'twixt twopence and threepence,

And prove Adam Smith quite a fool.

[Illustration: THE MAGAZINE ROOM--CAMBRIDGE UNION.

_From a Photo by Messrs. Stearn, Cambridge._]

Passing on, we come to the era of Trench, Sunderland, Monckton Milnes

(late Lord Houghton), S. Walpole, and Arthur Hallam. This is mainly a

literary period. Although Tennyson was a member of the club, he does

not seem to have taken part with his friend in any debates.

Milnes and Hallam both spoke in contention of Wordsworth's superiority

to Byron, but a majority of twenty-seven gave the palm to "Childe

Harold's" author. Trench (Archbishop) propounded the original question:

"Will Mr. Coleridge's Poem of the 'Ancient Mariner' or Mr. Martin's Act

tend most to prevent cruelty to animals?"

There is an episode of this time that has a peculiar interest. It was,

as the late Cardinal Manning described it, "a passage of arms got up by

the Eton men of the two Unions."

[Illustration: SIGNATURES FROM THE MEMBERS' BOOK.]

On March 26th, 1829, Cambridge sent to Oxford a deputation consisting

of Monckton Milnes, Arthur Hallam, and Sunderland, whom Milnes, when

Lord Houghton, once declared to be "the greatest orator I think I ever

heard, who only lives in the memory of his University." The relative

merits of Byron and Shelley were the subject of discussion.

The Cambridge men were entertained by Sir Francis Doyle and "a young

student named Gladstone." S. Wilberforce was in the chair. Our

champions spoke for the claims of Shelley, and so telling was their

oratory that Oxford sat silent and awestruck, until a young man with

a slight, boyish figure arose and turned the whole tide of discussion

by a speech of much grace and eloquence. His name was Manning. He has

himself described the occasion: "I can, however, well remember the

irruption of the three Cambridge orators. We Oxford men were precise,

orderly, and morbidly afraid of excess in word or manner. The Cambridge

oratory came in like a flood into a mill-pond. Both Monckton Milnes

and Arthur Hallam took us aback by the boldness and freedom of their

manner. But I remember the effect of Sunderland's declamation and

action to this day. It had never been seen or heard before among us--we

cowered like birds and ran like sheep. I acknowledge that we were

utterly routed." "The Oxford men didn't seem to know who Shelley was;

they thought he was Shenstone," was a remark that Lord Houghton once

made to Mr. Oscar Browning, my informant.

In an interesting little book, called "Conversations in Cambridge,"

published in 1836, there are preserved some criticisms of the Union of

the period.

"The Union--a word requiring no explanation to any member of the

University--reached an elevation in those days which it is not likely

soon to recover. Macaulay with his flashes of vigorous imagination;

Praed with his graceful irony and poetical fancy; and many others whose

names live in the memory of their companions, imparted an unusual charm

to its meetings."

But, better still, there are some fragments of speeches made by

Macaulay, in debates on Cromwell, Strafford, and Milton. The following

is an extract from the speech on the Protector:--

"I stand not here, sir, to-night, as the advocate or panegyrist of that

melancholy domestic tragedy, which was presented before this afflicted

nation in that tempestuous season. But, sir, I would ask: was there no

provocation, no exaction, no insult to the dignity of man; no invasion

of the sanctity of a Briton's fireside? Sir, the grave of Hampden has

a voice: let it answer for me! Tyranny had dashed its mailed hand upon

the mouth of every freeman; the lifeblood of the laws was drained out

by unnumbered wounds."

About 1848, Mr. Childers, Sir W. V. Harcourt, and Sir Fitzjames

Stephen were contemporaries. The present Chancellor of the Exchequer

spoke against the ballot, and with Sir Fitzjames Stephen opposed a

motion that asked the House to declare that "Mr. Cobden and his party

represent the rising good sense of the people." In 1855, H. Montague

Butler and J. E. Gorst were respectively President and Treasurer. Gorst

gained the chair in 1857. The next most interesting group of Union

"lights" is that which includes George O. Trevelyan, H. C. Raikes,

Oscar Browning, and H. and A. Sidgwick.

Mr. O. Browning says: "I remember in '56 sitting in the room in Green

Street ('cavernous tavernous' as Lord Houghton called it), thinking

of nothing in particular, when I suddenly awoke and heard a pleasing

voice saying some of the cleverest things I ever heard. It was G. O.

Trevelyan. When his speeches were prepared they were brilliant. He

was the hero of the great 'smoking-room question,' and headed the

opposition to the scheme. In an excited peroration he produced a black

clay pipe in one hand and some red tape in the other, declaring them to

be the symbols of the parties, and then proceeded dramatically to snip

the red tape to pieces. It was Trevelyan who was compelled to move the

suggestion-book temporarily, for at that time it was the receptacle of

homeless jokes, doggerel verses, and scurrilous remarks, of which 'You

rib-nosed baboon,' and 'Why not make Raikes Lord Mayor?' are examples."

In that brilliant periodical of one number, the _Bear_, Trevelyan has

burlesqued one of his own speeches amongst others. The motion is to

repair the Society's clock.

"This is no measure for the purpose of pampering an over-fed clerk,

or stuffing our shelves with Puseyite novels. But let them not think

they have gained the confidence of the House. _Timeo Danaos et dona

ferentes_. (Loud cheers from a Freshman, who seems to recognise the

quotation.) Shall we trust our clock to a committee reeking with

Ruskin? To an embryo architectural society?... Whom shall we dare

trust? There they will sit, grinning at their new clock--(a cry of

'Question'). Question?--(and the speaker turned to the Treasurer,

who was lolling alone on the opposite sofa). There you sit compact,

united--mouthing and blustering about Tennyson and Carlyle, and nobody

cries 'Question'; and if he does, he is snubbed by a partial President.

(Great confusion, and cries of 'Sit down,' 'Chair.')"

[Illustration: MR. CATHREW FISHER, President Lent Term, 1894.

_From a Photo by the London Stereoscopic Co._]

Passing reluctantly over Lord E. Fitzmaurice, A. S. Wilkins, A. W.

Verrall, J. E. C. Welldon, R. C. Lehmann, we come, in 1880, to an

interesting figure--J. K. Stephen, who re-appeared in Union life in

recent years, and scribbled off some of his Calverleian lines whilst

sitting on the Committee bench. On one occasion in his later years he

came into the House when one of many brilliant sons of a brilliant

ex-President had proposed nationalization of land. At the first

opportunity he rose, exclaiming:--

"I have not heard the speech of the honourable proposer, and I am very

glad I have not heard it. All I am come down here to do is to deny that

there can be any connection between his premisses and his conclusions:

conclusions which can only be reached by a total want of knowledge,

based upon an absolute ignorance of facts."

J. K. Stephen made many great speeches shortly before his death, and an

eminent M.P., Q.C., remarked, when he heard him, that after Gladstone

he was the greatest orator in the country.

Another incident of late years is worth recording as evidence of

the dangers of debate. During a big debate on the opium question, a

prominent anti-opiumist was speaking against the traffic to a crowded

House. Whilst discussing the treaties with China, he noticed a man

opposite vehemently dissenting, and at last remarked, "I don't know who

the hon. member is, but I can quote the authority of Sir Thomas Wade,

who made the treaties." After him the "gentleman opposite" arose, and,

revealing himself as Sir Thomas Wade, proceeded to make much mincemeat.

Owing to pressure of space, many well-known ex-Presidents and officers

have been passed by unnoticed: C. Rann Kennedy (Pr. 1832), Lord

Henniker (Pr. 1834), Sir W. F. Pollock (Pr. 1836), Bishop Ellicott (Pr.

1839), Prof. C. Babington (Pr. 1845), Lord R. A. Cross (Pr. 1845), Rev.

Ll. Davies (Pr. 1847), Hon. A. Gordon (Lord Stanmore) (Pr. 1849), Henry

Fawcett (Pr. 1855), Dr. Henry Jackson (Pr. 1864), and a long list of

others, statesmen, clergy, scholars, lawyers, whose early development

it would be interesting to trace.

It may not be out of place here to publish some reminiscences most

kindly sent by a distinguished ex-President, Sir Charles Dilke:--

"If somebody of the time were to talk to me about it (the Union), I

have no doubt my reminiscences would flow. At the present moment, with

the exception of my own disrespectful allusions in Prince Florestan

of Monaco.... I remember nothing except the terrible noises that my

friends used to make over my head when I was President in the old room

in Green Street. I often threatened to have the gallery cleared, but

as I had not the physical force at my command to sweep them out, they

used to sit on the ends of the tables with disastrous effect. The first

speech in the Union which I remember was one when I was a Freshman, by

Mr. George Trevelyan. He declared amid a tremendous storm of cheers,

in reference to the Government of the United States: 'That Union, Mr.

President--that Union has no Building Fund.' The Cambridge Union in

those days possessed a handsome Building Fund, which I forthwith spent,

and the result of the spending of which, and the borrowing of much

more, is visible in the present building."

Another old President (who wishes to be anonymous) says:--

"In '57 or '58 Trevelyan began to make a reputation, and perhaps still

more the American, Everett, with a really remarkable force which he

has still.... Fawcett spoke often; harshly and loud, but very ably.

Vernon Lushington was forcible, but not suave enough. Gorst (now Sir

J.) spoke well, but without much power. Ernest Noel (late member

for Dumfries) once or twice delighted us with a clear and cultured

fluency that we were not accustomed to. It shows the alteration of the

times that a sort of thrill of horror ran round the House when in one

debate he actually mentioned that he was not a member of the Church of

England.... We used _not_ to imitate the ways of the House of Commons

very closely, with the idea that it might be bad taste, and that we had

traditions of our own to be proud of."

[Illustration: MR. OSCAR BROWNING, Treasurer of the Cambridge Union.

_From a Photo by Branfort, Birmingham._]

Forty-five members of the Society are in the House of Lords, including

the Prince of Wales and the two Archbishops, and 58 in the Commons.

Our present-day debates, held once a week, are dignified and orderly.

They last for about two and a half hours, the proposer and opposer

occupying usually an hour between them. The private-business meetings

are generally more scenic, especially when we discuss Zola or finance.

A noticeable feature is the number of Orientals who take part, and a

very able, eloquent part too, in our debates. One has risen to the

Chair. The future historian will be at little trouble for material, for

the _Cambridge Review_ and the _Granta_, in different styles, record

each debate and change. Out of 237 Presidents, Trinity has provided 132

and St. John's 29.

The members of the Society are increasing, and between 400 and 500 new

members are enrolled annually. There is no exclusiveness and all types

of University life are represented.

Our relations with our younger Oxford sister are excellent. From term

to term there is an interchange of speakers between the two clubs.

In conclusion it may be said that, great as the past has been, the

future should be none the less brilliant. The usefulness of such an

institution is obvious. In 1994 it may be that the names that will be

honoured in an article in a flourishing _Strand_ will be those of men

whose promise is now so great, and whose friendship so many of us value

now so highly.

[In compiling this Article I have drawn much information from

"A Short History of the Union," by J. F. Skipper, Esq., B.A.,

ex-President. I would here acknowledge the great courtesy

of those distinguished old members who have contributed

reminiscences. Owing to the kind permission of the President,

Vice-President, and Librarian, I have had access to all the

documents of the Society. The Chief Clerk has also given me

much valuable assistance.--St. J. B. W. W.]

_Illustrated Interviews._

No. XXXIII.--MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM.

[Illustration: MANOR HOUSE, ST. JOHN'S WOOD.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

AT ST. JOHN'S WOOD. TIME--PRESENT DAY.

CHARACTERS:

The Modern Mathews MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM.

Interviewer HARRY HOW.

Coachman, Parrot, Dogs, etc.

SCENE I.--_Entrance-hall leading to corridor. Stained glass windows.

Grandfather's clock ticking away in the corner. Autographed portrait

of Prince of Wales. Pictures of Corney Grain and George Grossmith.

Millais' "Widow's Mite." Liston as "Moll Flannagan" and "Mawworm."

Numerous fine oils, including a sea piece by Weber. David Garrick

by Vandergucht. Fred Barnard's "Garrick." Old armour picturesquely

arranged. Bronzes in cosy niches, etc._

THE MODERN MATHEWS _enters by rushing downstairs. He is tall and

strongly built, character is written on every feature of his face,

his curly hair has not a single silver streak in it, his appearance

suggests all that is genial, good-natured, frank, and thorough.

Speaks deliberately and very rapidly, says much in as few words as

possible--in short, a man who trips through life with a light step, a

happy disposition, and a pleasant way of doing and saying all things._

THE MODERN MATHEWS (_taking last three steps at a bound and

"discovering"_ INTERVIEWER): Ah! there you are! What a foolish remark.

Of course you're there. Have a cigarette? Now, where's my case?

M.C.--my case! Capital way of remembering anything that, eh? See?

M.C.--my case, my cigar, my canary, Master of Ceremonies! I find it

infallible. I've got a shocking memory, so must have some system to

go upon. Where is that cigarette case? Bad memory for simple little

things like that, but I never forget my parts. Now, that's curious. Can

remember a long part, but can't remember where I put that confounded

cigarette case. Will find it yet. Come into the dining-room.

[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE-HALL.

_From a Photo by Elliott & Fry._]

_By a special journalistic contrivance--a contrivance which for

rapidity of change of scene has never been approached on the stage_--

[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.

_From the Photo by Elliott & Fry._]