CHAPTER I.

THE

STRAND MAGAZINE

_An Illustrated Monthly_

EDITED BY

GEO. NEWNES

Vol. I.

JANUARY TO JUNE

[Illustration]

London:

BURLEIGH STREET, STRAND

1891

THE

STRAND MAGAZINE.

JANUARY, 1891.

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Story of the Strand

A Deadly Dilemma

The Metropolitan Fire Brigade

Scenes of the Siege of Paris

Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives

A Fair Smuggler

The Maid of Treppi

At the Animals' Hospital

The Mirror

Fac-simile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning

The Queen of Spades

The Two Genies

[Illustration]

INTRODUCTION.

The Editor of THE STRAND MAGAZINE respectfully places his first number

in the hands of the public.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE will be issued regularly in the early part of each

month.

It will contain stories and articles by the best British writers, and

special translations from the first foreign authors. These will be

illustrated by eminent artists.

Special new features which have not hitherto found place in Magazine

Literature will be introduced from time to time.

It may be said that with the immense number of existing Monthlies there

is no necessity for another. It is believed, however, that THE STRAND

MAGAZINE will soon occupy a position which will justify its existence.

The past efforts of the Editor in supplying cheap, healthful literature

have met with such generous favour from the public, that he ventures to

hope that this new enterprise will prove a popular one. He is conscious

of many defects in the first issue, but will strive after improvement in

the future.

Will those who like this number be so good as to assist, by making its

merits, if they are kind enough to think that it has any, known to their

friends.

[Illustration: _The Strand from the Thames, Sixteenth Century_]

_The Story of the Strand._

The Strand is a great deal more than London's most ancient and historic

street: it is in many regards the most interesting street in the world.

It has not, like Whitehall or the Place de la Concorde, seen the

execution of a king; it has never, like the Rue de Rivoli, been swept by

grape-shot; nor has it, like the Antwerp Place de Meir, run red with

massacre. Of violent incident it has seen but little; its interest is

the interest of association and development. Thus it has been from early

Plantagenet days, ever changing its aspect, growing from a riverside

bridle-path to a street of palaces, and from the abiding-place of the

great nobles, by whose grace the king wore his crown, to a row of shops

about which there is nothing that is splendid and little that is

remarkable. It is not a fine street, and only here and there is it at

all striking or picturesque. But now, as of yore, it is the high road

between the two cities--puissant London and imperial Westminster. From

the days of the Edwards to this latest moment it has been the artery

through which the tide of Empire has flowed. Whenever England has been

victorious or has rejoiced, whenever she has been in sadness or

tribulation, the Strand has witnessed it all. It has been filled with

the gladness of triumph, the brilliant mailed cavalcades that knew so

well how to ride down Europe; filled, too, with that historic procession

which remains the high water-mark of British pageantry, in the midst of

which the king came to his own again. The tide of Empire has flowed

westward along the Strand for generations which we may number but not

realise, and it remains to-day the most important, as it was once the

sole, highway between the two cities.

What the Strand looked like when it was edged with fields, and the road,

even now not very wide, was a mere bridle-path, and a painful one at

that, they who know the wilds of Connemara may best realise. From the

western gate of the city of London--a small and feeble city as yet--to

the Westminster Marshes, where already there was an abbey, and where

sometimes the king held his court, was a long and toilsome journey, with

the tiny village of Charing for halting-place midway. No palaces were

there; a few cabins perhaps, and footpads certainly. Such were the

unpromising beginnings of the famous street which naturally gained for

itself the name of Strand, because it ran along the river bank--a bank

which, be it remembered, came up much closer than it does now, as we may

see by the forlorn and derelict water-gate of York House, at the

Embankment end of Buckingham-street. Then by degrees, as the age of the

Barons approached, when kings reigned by the grace of God, perhaps, but

first of all by favour of the peers, the Strand began to be peopled by

the salt of the earth.

Then arose fair mansions, chiefly upon the southern side, giving upon

the river, for the sake of the airy gardens, as well as of easy access

to the stream which remained London's great and easy highway until long

after the Strand had been paved and rendered practicable for wheels. It

was upon the water, then, that the real pageant of London life--a fine

and well-coloured pageant it must often have been--was to be seen. By

water it was that the people of the great houses went to their plots,

their wooings, their gallant intrigues, to Court, or to Parliament. Also

it was by water that not infrequently they went, by way of Traitor's

Gate, to Tower Hill, or at least to dungeons which were only saved from

being eternal by policy or expediency. This long Strand of palaces

became the theatre of a vast volume of history which marked the rise and

extension of some of the grandest houses that had been founded in

feudalism, or have been built upon its ruins. Some of the families which

lived there in power and pomp are mere memories now; but the names of

many of them are still familiar in Belgravia as once they were in the

Strand. There was, to start with, the original Somerset House, more

picturesque, let us hope, than the depressing mausoleum which now daily

reminds us that man is mortal. Then there was the famous York House,

nearer to Charing Cross, of which nothing but the water-gate is left. On

the opposite side of the way was Burleigh House, the home of the great

statesman who, under God and Queen Elizabeth, did such great things for

England. Burleigh is one of the earliest recorded cases of a man being

killed by over-work. "Ease and pleasure," he sighed, while yet he was

under fifty, "quake to hear of death; but my life, full of cares and

miseries, desireth to be dissolved." The site of Burleigh House is kept

in memory, as those of so many other of the vanished palaces of the

Strand, by a street named after it; and the office of this magazine

stands no doubt upon a part of Lord Burleigh's old garden. When

Southampton House, Essex House, the Palace of the Savoy, and

Northumberland House, which disappeared so lately, are added, we have

still mentioned but a few of the more famous of the Strand houses.

[Illustration: The Strand as we know it, looking west]

But the Strand is distinguished for a vast deal more than that. Once

upon a time, it was London's Belgravia. It was never perhaps the haunt

of genius, as the Fleet-street tributaries were; it was never an

Alsatia, as Whitefriars was, nor had it the many interests of the City

itself. But it had a little of all these things, and the result is that

the interest of the Strand is unique. It would be easy to spend a long

day in the Strand and its tributaries, searching for landmarks of other

days, and visiting sites which have long been historic. But the side

streets are, if anything, more interesting than the main thoroughfare,

and they deserve a special and separate visit, when the mile or so of

road-way between what was Temple Bar and Charing Cross has been

exhausted. Could Londoners of even only a hundred years ago see the

Strand as we know it, they would be very nearly as much surprised as a

Cockney under the Plantagenets, who should have re-visited his London in

the time of the Georges. They who knew the picturesque but ill-kept

London of the Angevin sovereigns found the Strand a place of torment.

In 1353 the road was so muddy and so full of ruts that a commissioner

was appointed to repair it at the expense of the frontagers. Even

towards the end of Henry VIII.'s reign it was "full of pits and

sloughs, very perilous and noisome." Yet it was by this miserable road

that Cardinal Wolsey, with his great and stately retinue, passed daily

from his house in Chancery-lane to Westminster Hall. In that respect

there is nothing in the changed condition of things to regret; but we

may, indeed, be sorry for this: that there is left, save in its

churches, scarcely a brick of the old Strand.

[Illustration: SNOW'S BANK: FROM A SKETCH, 1808.]

Still there are memories enough, and for these we may be thankful. Think

only of the processions that have passed up from Westminster to St.

Paul's, or the other way about! Remember that wonderful cavalcade amid

which Charles II. rode back from his Flemish exile to the palace which

had witnessed his father's death. Nothing like it has been seen in

England since. Evelyn has left us a description of the scene, which is

the more dramatic for being brief: "May 29, 1660. This day His Majesty

Charles II. came to London, after a sad and long exile and calamitous

suffering, both of the King and Church, being seventeen years. This was

also his birthday, and, with a triumph above 20,000 horse and foot,

brandishing their swords and shouting with inexpressible joy; the way

strew'd with flowers, the bells ringing, the streets hung with tapestry,

fountains running with wine; the mayor, aldermen, and all the companies

in their liveries, chains of gold, and banners; lords and nobles clad in

cloth of silver, gold, and velvet; the windows and balconies well set

with ladies; trumpets, music, and myriads of people.... They were eight

hours passing the city, even from two till ten at night. I stood in the

Strand, and beheld it, and bless'd God." A century earlier Elizabeth had

gone in state to St. Paul's, to return thanks for the destruction of the

Armada. Next, Queen Anne went in triumph up to St. Paul's, after

Blenheim; and, long after, the funeral processions of Nelson and

Wellington were added to the list of great historic sights which the

Strand has seen. The most recent of these great processions was the

Prince of Wales's progress of thanksgiving to St. Paul's in 1872.

Immediately we leave what was Temple Bar, the Strand's memories begin.

We have made only a few steps from Temple Bar, when we come to a

house--No. 217, now a branch of the London and Westminster Bank--which,

after a long and respectable history, saw its owners at length overtaken

by shame and ruin. It was the banking-house of Strahan, Paul & Bates,

which had been founded by one Snow and his partner Walton in Cromwell's

days. In the beginning the house was "The Golden Anchor," and Messrs.

Strahan & Co. have among their archives ledgers (kept in decimals!)

which go back to the time of Charles II.

In 1855 it was discovered that some of the partners had been using their

customers' money for their own pleasures or necessities. The guilty

persons all went to prison; one of the few instances in which, as in the

case of Fauntleroy, who was hanged for forgery, English bankers have

been convicted of breach of trust. Adjoining this house is that of

Messrs. Twining, who opened, in 1710, the first tea-shop in London. They

still deal in tea, though fine ladies no longer go to the Eastern

Strand in their carriages to drink it, out of curiosity, at a shilling a

cup.

One of the most interesting buildings in Essex-street, the "Essex Head"

tavern, has only just been pulled down. There it was that Dr. Johnson

founded "Sam's" Club, so named after the landlord, Samuel Graves. Dr.

Johnson himself drew up the rules of the club, as we may see in

Boswell's "Life." The chair in which he is reported to have sat was

preserved in the house to the end. It is now cared for at the "Cheshire

Cheese" in Fleet-street. A very redoubtable gentleman who formerly lived

in Essex-street was Dr. George Fordyce, who for twenty years drank daily

with his dinner a jug of strong ale, a quarter of a pint of brandy, and

a bottle of port. And he was able to lecture to his students afterwards!

[Illustration: 1890 S^t Clement-Danes]

Nearly opposite Essex-street stands one of the most famous of London

landmarks--the church of St. Clement Danes. Built as recently as 1682,

it is the successor of a far older building. Its most interesting

association is with Dr. Johnson, whose pew in the north gallery is still

reverently kept, and an inscription marks the spot. In this church it

was that Miss Davies, the heiress, who brought the potentiality of

untold wealth into the family of the Grosvenors, was married to the

progenitor of the present Duke of Westminster. St. Clement Danes is one

of the few English churches with a _carillon_, which is of course set to

psalm tunes. Milford-lane, opposite, was once really a lane with a

bridge over a little stream which emptied into the Thames. Later on it

marked the boundary of Arundel House, the home of the Dukes of Norfolk,

who have built Arundel, Norfolk, Howard, and Surrey streets upon its

site. In the time of Edward VI. the Earl of Arundel bought the property

for forty pounds, which would seem to have been a good bargain even for

those days. In Arundel House died "old Parr," who, according to the

inscription upon his tomb in Westminster Abbey, lived to be 152 years

old. Happily for himself he had lived all his life in Shropshire, and

the brief space that he spent in London killed him.

The streets that have been built upon the site of old Arundel House are

full of interesting associations. The house at the south-western corner

of Norfolk and Howard-streets--it is now the "Dysart Hotel"--has a very

curious history. A former owner--it was some sixty years since--was

about to be married. The wedding breakfast was laid out in a large room

on the first floor, and all was ready, except the lady, who changed her

mind at the last minute. The jilted bridegroom locked up the

banquet-chamber, put the key in his pocket, and, so the story runs,

never again allowed it to be entered. There, it was said, still stood

such mouldering remains of the wedding breakfast as the rats and mice

had spared. Certainly the window curtains could for many years be seen

crumbling to pieces, bit by bit, and the windows looked exactly as one

would expect the windows of the typical haunted chamber to look. It is

only of late that the room has been re-opened. The name of the supposed

hero of this story has often been mentioned, but, since the story may

quite possibly be baseless, it would be improper to repeat it. But there

is no doubt whatever that for nearly half a century there was something

very queer about that upper chamber.

[Illustration: 1890 S^t Marys-le-Strand]

This same Howard-street was the scene, in 1692, shortly after it was

built, of a tragedy which remained for generations in the popular

memory. It took place within two or three doors of the "Dysart Hotel."

The central figure of the pitiful story was Mrs. Bracegirdle, the famous

and beautiful actress. One of her many admirers, Captain Richard Hill,

had offered her marriage, and had been refused. But he was not to be put

off in that way. If he could not obtain the lady by fair means he was

determined to get her by force. He therefore resolved, with the

assistance of Lord Mohun--a notorious person, who was afterwards killed

in Hyde-park in a duel with the Duke of Hamilton--to carry her off. They

stationed a coach in Drury-lane, and attempted to kidnap her as she was

passing down the street after the play. The lady's screams drew such a

crowd that the abductors were forced to bid their men let her go. They

escorted her home (a sufficiently odd proceeding in the circumstances),

and then remained outside Mrs. Bracegirdle's house in Howard-street

"vowing revenge," the contemporary accounts say, but against whom is not

clear. Hill and Lord Mohun drank a bottle of wine in the middle of the

street, perhaps to keep their courage up, and presently Mr. Will

Mountfort, an actor, who lived in Norfolk-street, came along. Mountfort

had already heard what had happened, and he at once went up to Lord

Mohun (who, it is said, "embraced him very tenderly"), and reproached

him with "justifying the rudeness of Captain Hill," and with "keeping

company with such a pitiful fellow." "And then," according to the

Captain's servant, "the Captain came forward and said he would justify

himself, and went towards the middle of the street and drew." Some of

the eye-witnesses said that they fought, but others declared that Hill

ran Mountfort through the body before he could draw his sword. At all

events, Hill instantly ran away, and when the watch arrived they found

only Lord Mohun, who surrendered himself. He seems to have had no part

in the murder, and his sword was still sheathed when he was made

prisoner. It is said that Hill already had a grudge against Mountfort,

whom he suspected of being Mrs. Bracegirdle's favoured lover. But the

best contemporary evidence agrees that the lady's virtue was "as

impregnable as the rock of Gibraltar."

Nearly opposite the scene of this brutal tragedy, the church of St.

Mary-le-Strand was built some five-and-twenty years later. It is a

picturesque building, and makes a striking appearance when approached

from the west. It has of late been more than once proposed that it

should be demolished, at once by reason of the obstruction which it

causes in the roadway, and because of its ill-repair. But since it has

now been put into good condition, the people who would so gaily pull

down a church to widen a road will perhaps not be again heard from.

According to Hume, Prince Charles Edward, during his famous stolen visit

to London, formally renounced in this church the Roman Catholic

religion, to strengthen his claim to the throne; but there has never

been any manner of proof of that statement. The site of St.

Mary-le-Strand was long famous as the spot upon which the Westminster

maypole stood, and what is now Newcastle-street was called Maypole-lane

down to the beginning of the present century. At the Restoration, a new

maypole, 134 feet high, was set up, the Cromwellians having destroyed

the old one, in the presence of the King and the Duke of York. The pole

is said to have been spliced together with iron bands by a blacksmith

named John Clarges, whose daughter Anne married General Monk, who, for

his services in bringing about the Restoration, was created Duke of

Albemarle. Three or four suits were brought to prove that her first

husband was still living when she married the Duke, and that

consequently the second (and last) Duke of Albemarle was illegitimate,

but the blacksmith's daughter gained them all. Near the Olympic Theatre

there still exists a Maypole-alley.

[Illustration: SOMERSET HOUSE: FROM A DRAWING BY S. WALE, 1776.]

It is hardly necessary to say that the present Somerset House, which is

exactly opposite the church of St. Mary-le-Strand, is not the original

building of that name. People--praise to their taste!--did not build in

that fashion in the time of the Tudors. The old house, built by not the

cleanest means, by the Protector Somerset, was "such a palace as had not

been seen in England." After Somerset's attainder it became the

recognised Dower House of the English Queens. It was built with the

materials of churches and other people's houses. John of Padua was the

architect, and it was a sumptuous palace indeed; but if Somerset ever

lived in it, it was for a very brief space. One of the accusations upon

which he was attainted was that he had spent money in building Somerset

House, but had allowed the King's soldiers to go unpaid. It was close to

the Water Gate of Somerset House that the mysterious murder of Sir

Edmundbury Godfrey took place in 1678. The story of the murder is so

doubtful and complicated that it is impossible to enter upon it here.

Sir Edmundbury was induced to go to the spot where he was strangled

under the pretence that, as a justice of the peace, he could stop a

quarrel that was going on. Titus Oates, the most finished scoundrel ever

born on British soil, suggested that the Jesuits and even Queen

Henrietta Maria were concerned in instigating the murder, and three men

were hung at Tyburn for their supposed share in it. Around the Somerset

House of that day there were extensive gardens of that square formal

fashion which, although pleasing enough to the antiquary, are anathema

to the artistic eye. Old Somerset House was demolished in the early days

of George III., and the present building, of which Sir Wm. Chambers was

the architect, was commenced in 1776.

Another interesting bit of the southern side of the Strand is the region

still called The Savoy. The old Palace of the Savoy was built by Simon

de Montfort, but it afterwards passed to Peter of Savoy, uncle of Queen

Eleanor, who gave to the precinct the name which was to become

historical. There it was that King John of France was housed after he

was taken prisoner at Poictiers; and there too he died. The Palace of

the Savoy was set on fire and plundered by Wat Tyler and his men in

1381. It was rebuilt and turned into a hospital by Henry VII. In the new

building the liturgy of the Church of England was revised after the

restoration of Charles II.; but the most interesting association of the

place must always be that there Chaucer wrote a portion of the

"Canterbury Tales," and that John of Ghent lived there. After many

vicissitudes and long ruin and neglect, the last remains of the Palace

and Hospital of the Savoy were demolished at the beginning of the

present century, to permit of a better approach to Waterloo Bridge.

[Illustration: COUTTS' BANKING HOUSE, 1853: FROM A DRAWING BY T. HOSMER

SHEPHERD.]

A little farther west, in Beaufort-buildings, Fielding once resided. A

contemporary tells how he was once hard put to it to pay the parochial

taxes for this house. The tax-collector at last lost patience, and

Fielding was compelled to obtain an advance from Jacob Tonson, the

famous publisher, whose shop stood upon a portion of the site of

Somerset House. He returned home with ten or twelve guineas in his

pocket, but meeting at his own door an old college chum who had fallen

upon evil times, he emptied his pockets, and was unable to satisfy the

tax-gatherer until he had paid a second visit to the kindly and

accommodating Tonson. Another of the great Strand palaces stood on this

site--Worcester House; which, after being the residence of the Bishops

of Carlisle, became the town house of the Earls of Worcester. Almost

adjoining stood Salisbury, or Cecil House, which was built by Robert

Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury, a son of the sage Lord Burghley, whose

town house stood on the opposite side of the Strand. It was pulled down

more than two hundred years ago, after a very brief existence, and Cecil

and Salisbury streets were built upon its site. Yet another Strand

palace, Durham House, the "inn" of the Bishops Palatine of Durham, stood

a little nearer to Charing Cross. It was of great antiquity, and was

rebuilt as long ago as 1345. Henry VIII. obtained it by exchange, and

Queen Elizabeth gave it to Sir Walter Raleigh. The most interesting

event that ever took place in the house was the marriage of Lady Jane

Grey to Lord Guildford Dudley. Eight weeks later she was proclaimed

Queen, to her sorrow. Still nearer to Charing Cross, and upon a portion

of the site of Durham House, is the famous bank of the Messrs. Coutts,

one of the oldest of the London banks. The original Coutts was a shrewd

Scotchman, who, by his wit and enterprise, speedily became rich and

famous. He married one of his brother's domestic servants, and of that

marriage, which turned out very happily, Lady Burdett-Coutts is a

grandchild. Mr. Coutts' second wife was Miss Harriet Mellon, a

distinguished actress of her day, to whom he left the whole of his

fortune of £900,000. When the lady, who afterwards became Duchess of St.

Albans, died in the year of the Queen's accession, that £900,000 formed

the foundation of the great fortune of Miss Angela Burdett, better known

to this generation as Lady Burdett-Coutts. Messrs. Coutts' banking-house

is an interesting building, with many portraits of the early friends and

customers of the house, which included Dr. Johnson and Sir Walter Scott.

The cellars of the firm are reputed to be full of boxes containing

coronets and patents of nobility. Upon another part of the site of

Durham House the brothers Adam built, in 1768, the region called the

Adelphi. There, in the centre house of Adelphi-terrace, with its

wondrous view up and down the river, died in 1779 David Garrick.

[Illustration: 1890 Burleigh Street]

Buckingham-street and Villiers-street, which lie between the Adelphi and

Charing Cross Station, carry their history, like so many other of the

Strand tributaries, written in their names. They recall the

long-vanished glories of Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who lived at York

House, so called as having been the town palace of the Archbishops of

York. Wolsey lived there for a time; Bacon was living there when he was

degraded. The Crown granted it to George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,

by whom it was splendidly rebuilt. The second Duke sold it to pay his

debts, making it a condition that he should be commemorated in the names

of the streets placed on the site--George, Villiers, Duke, and

Buckingham streets. The only remaining relic of York House is the fine

water-gate at the bottom of Buckingham-street. Close to this water-gate,

in a house marked by a Society of Arts tablet, for a short time lived

Peter the Great; opposite lived Samuel Pepys; and No. 14 was occupied by

Etty. In Villiers-street both Evelyn and Steele lived; but it is now the

haunt of anything rather than genius. Northumberland House, the last and

best known of the riverside palaces, which was demolished only at the

end of 1874, was not, properly speaking, in the Strand at all. It may

therefore be sufficient to recall that it was built in 1605, and became

the home of the Percies in 1642. It was sold to the Metropolitan Board

of Works, with great and natural reluctance, for half a million of

money; and the famous blue lion of the Percies, which for so long stood

proudly over the building, was removed to Sion House.

[Illustration: 1890

A First Night at the Lyceum]

The northern side of the Strand is not quite so rich in memories as the

side which faced the river, but its associations with Lord Burleigh,

that calm, sagacious, and untiring statesman, must always make it

memorable. Burleigh House, the site of which is marked by Burleigh and

Exeter-streets, was the house from which he governed England with

conspicuous courage, devotion, and address. There, too, he was visited

by Queen Elizabeth. According to tradition she wore, on that occasion,

the notorious pyramidal head-dress which she made fashionable, and was

besought by an esquire in attendance to stoop as she entered. "For your

master's sake I will stoop, but not for the King of Spain," was the

answer which might have been expected from a daughter of Henry VIII.

Lord Burleigh lived there in considerable state, spending thirty pounds

a week, which in Elizabethan days was enormous. There, broken with work

and anxiety, he died in 1598. When his son was made Earl of Exeter he

called it Exeter House. This historical house was not long in falling

upon evil days. By the beginning of the eighteenth century a part of it

had been demolished, while another part was altered and turned into

shops, the new building being christened "Exeter Change." Nearer to our

own time the "Change" became a kind of arcade, the upper floor being

used as a wild-beast show. When it was "Pidcock's Exhibition of Wild

Beasts" an imitation Beef-eater stood outside, in the Strand, inviting

the cockney and his country cousin to "walk up." The roaring of the

animals is said to have often frightened horses in the Strand. "Exeter

Change" was the home of "Chunee," an elephant as famous in his

generation--it was more than sixty years since--as "Jumbo" in our own.

"Chunee," which weighed five tons, and was eleven feet high, at last

became unmanageable, and was shot by a file of soldiers, who fired 152

bullets into his body before killing him. His skeleton is still in the

Museum of the College of Surgeons, in Lincoln's-inn-fields. It should be

remembered that in Exeter-street Dr. Johnson lodged (at a cost of

4-1/2d. per day) when he began his struggle in London. A little farther

east once stood Wimbledon House, built some three centuries ago by Sir

Edward Cecil, Viscount Wimbledon, a cadet of the great house founded by

Lord Burleigh. Stow records that the house was burned down in 1628, the

day after an accidental explosion of gunpowder demolished the owner's

country seat at Wimbledon. Nearly all the land hereabouts still belongs

to the Cecils. Upon a portion of the site of Wimbledon House arose the

once famous "D'Oyley's Warehouse," where a French refugee sold a variety

of silk and woollen fabrics, which were quite new to the English market.

He achieved great success, and a "D'Oyley" is still as much a part of

the language as an "antimacassar"--that abomination of all desolation.

The shop lasted, at 346, Strand, until some thirty years ago. The Lyceum

Theatre, which also stands upon a piece of the site of Exeter House,

occupies the spot where Madame Tussaud's waxworks were first exhibited

in 1802.

With Bedford House, once the home of the Russells, which stood in what

is now Southampton-street, we exhaust the list of the Strand palaces.

There is but little to say of it, and it was pulled down in 1704.

Southampton-street--so called after Rachel, the heroic wife of Wm. Lord

Russell, who was a daughter of Thomas, Earl of

Southampton--Tavistock-street, and some others were built upon its site.

It was in Southampton-street that formerly stood the "Bedford Head," a

famous and fashionable eating-house. Pope asks:--

"When sharp with hunger, scorn you to be fed,

Except on pea-chicks at the 'Bedford Head'?"

He who loves his London, more especially he who loves his Strand, will

not forget that No. 332, now the office of the _Weekly Times_, was the

scene of Dickens' early work in journalism for the _Morning Chronicle_.

It would be impossible to find a street more entirely representative of

the development of England than the long and not very lovely Strand.

From the days of feudal fortresses to those of penny newspapers is a far

cry; and of all that lies between it has been the witness. If its stones

be not historic, at least its sites and its memories are; and still it

remains, what it ever has been, the most characteristic and distinctive

of English highways.

[Illustration]

_A Deadly Dilemma._

BY GRANT ALLEN.

When Netta Mayne came to think it over afterward in her own room by

herself, she couldn't imagine what had made her silly enough to quarrel

that evening with Ughtred Carnegie. She could only say, in a penitent

mood, it was always the way like that with lovers. Till once they've

quarrelled a good round quarrel, and afterwards solemnly kissed and made

it all up again, things never stand on a really firm and settled basis

between them. It's a move in the game. You must thrust in tierce before

you thrust in quarte. The Roman playwright spoke the truth, after all: a

lovers' quarrel begins a fresh chapter in the history of their

love-making.

It was a summer evening, calm, and clear, and balmy, and Netta and

Ughtred had strolled out together, not without a suspicion at times of

hand locked in hand, on the high chalk down that rises steep behind

Holmbury. How or why they fell out she hardly knew. But they had been

engaged already some months, without a single disagreement, which of

course gave Netta a natural right to quarrel with Ughtred by this time,

if she thought fit: and as they returned down the hanging path through

the combe where the wild orchids grow, she used that right at last, out

of pure unadulterated feminine perversity. The ways of women are

wonderful; no mere man can fathom them. Something that Ughtred said gave

her the chance to make a half petulant answer. Ughtred very naturally

defended himself from the imputation of rudeness, and Netta retorted. At

the end of ten minutes the trifle had grown apace into as pretty a

lovers' quarrel as any lady novelist could wish to describe in five

chapters.

[Illustration: "NETTA AND UGHTRED HAD STROLLED OUT TOGETHER."]

Netta had burst into perfectly orthodox tears, refused to be comforted,

in the most approved fashion, declined to accept Ughtred's escort home,

and bidden farewell to him excitedly for ever and ever.

It was all about nothing, to be sure, and if two older or wiser heads

had only stood by unseen, to view the little comedy, they would sagely

have remarked to one another, with a shake, that before twenty-four

hours were out the pair would be rushing into one another's arms with

mutual apologies and mutual forgiveness. But Netta Mayne and Ughtred

Carnegie were still at the age when one takes love seriously--one does

before thirty--and so they turned away along different paths at the

bottom of the combe, in the firm belief that love's young dream was

shattered, and that henceforth they two were nothing more than the

merest acquaintances to one another.

"Good-bye, Mr. Carnegie," Netta faltered out, as in obedience to her

wishes, though much against his own will, Ughtred turned slowly and

remorsefully down the footpath to the right, in the direction of the

railway.

"Good-bye, Netta," Ughtred answered, half choking. Even at that moment

of parting (for ever--or a day), he couldn't find it in his heart to

call her "Miss Mayne" who had so long been "Netta" to him.

He waved his hand and turned along the foot-path, looking back many

times to see Netta still sitting inconsolable where he had left her, on

the stile that led from the combe into the Four-acre meadow. Both paths,

to right and left, led back to Holmbury over the open field, but they

diverged rapidly, and crossed the railway track by separate gates, and

five hundred yards from each other. A turn in the path, at which Ughtred

lingered long, hid Netta at last from his sight. He paused and

hesitated. It was growing late, though an hour of summer twilight still

remained. He couldn't bear to leave Netta thus alone in the field. She

wouldn't allow him to see her home, to be sure, and that being so, he

was too much a gentleman to force himself upon her. But he was too much

a man, too, to let her find her way back so late entirely by herself.

Unseen himself, he must still watch over her. Against her will, he must

still protect her. He would go on to the railway, and there sit by the

side of the line, under cover of the hedge, till Netta crossed by the

other path. Then he'd walk quietly along the six-foot way to the gate

she had passed through, and follow her, unperceived, at a distance along

the lane, till he saw her back to Holmbury. Whether she wished it or not

he could never leave her.

[Illustration: "NETTA WAS STILL SITTING INCONSOLABLE."]

He looked about for a seat. One lay most handy. By the side of the line

the Government engineers had been at work that day, repairing the

telegraph system. They had taken down half a dozen mouldering old posts,

and set up new ones in their place--tall, clean, and shiny. One of the

old posts still lay at full length on the ground by the gate, just as

the men had left it at the end of their day's work. At the point where

the footpath cut the line, was a level crossing, and there Ughtred sat

down on the fallen post by the side, half-concealed from view by a tall

clump of willow-herb, waiting patiently for Netta's coming. How he

listened for that light footfall. His heart was full, indeed, of gall

and bitterness. He loved her so dearly, and she had treated him so ill.

Who would ever have believed that Netta, his Netta, would have thrown

him over like that for such a ridiculous trifle? Who, indeed? and least

of all Netta herself, sitting alone on the stile with her pretty face

bowed deep in her hands, and her poor heart wondering how Ughtred, her

Ughtred, could so easily desert her. In such strange ways is the

feminine variety of the human heart constructed. To be sure, she had of

course dismissed him in the most peremptory fashion, declaring with all

the vows propriety permits to the British maiden, that she needed no

escort of any sort home, and that she would ten thousand times rather

go alone than have him accompany her. But, of course, also, she didn't

mean it. What woman does? She counted upon a prompt and unconditional

surrender. Ughtred would go to the corner, as in duty bound, and then

come back to her, with profuse expressions of penitence for the wrong he

had never done, to make it all up again in the orthodox fashion. She

never intended the real tragedy that was so soon to follow. She was only

playing with her victim--only trying, woman-like, her power over

Ughtred.

So she sat there still, and cried and cried on, minute after minute, in

an ecstasy of misery, till the sunset began to glow deeper red in the

western sky, and the bell to ring the curfew in Holmbury Tower. Then it

dawned upon her slowly, with a shock of surprise, that after

all--incredible! impossible!--Ughtred had positively taken her at her

word, and wasn't coming back at all to-night to her.

At that, the usual womanly terror seized upon her soul. Her heart turned

faint. This was too terrible. Great heavens, what had she done? Had she

tried Ughtred too far, and had he really gone? Was he never going to

return to her at all? Had he said good-bye in earnest to her for ever

and ever?

Terrified at the thought, and weak with crying, she rose and straggled

down the narrow footpath toward the further crossing. It was getting

late now, and Netta by this time was really frightened. She wished with

all her heart she hadn't sent away Ughtred--if it were only for the

tramps: a man is such a comfort. And then there was that dreadful dog at

Milton Court to pass. And Ughtred was gone, and all the world was

desolate.

Thinking these things in a tumult of fear to herself, she staggered

along the path, feeling tired at heart, and positively ill with remorse

and terror. The colour had faded now out of her pretty red cheeks. Her

eyes were dim and swollen with crying. She was almost half glad Ughtred

couldn't see her just then, she was such a fright with her long spell of

brooding. Even her bright print dress and her straw hat with the poppies

in it, couldn't redeem, she felt sure, her pallor and her wretchedness.

But Ughtred was gone, and the world was a wilderness. And he would never

come back, and the dog at Milton Court was so vicious.

As she walked, or rather groped her way (for she couldn't see for

crying) down the path by the hedge, at every step she grew fainter and

fainter. Ughtred was gone; and the world was a blank; and there were

tramps and dogs; and it was getting dark; and she loved him so much; and

Mamma would be so angry.

Turning over which thoughts with a whirling brain, for she was but a

girl after all, she reached the little swing-gate that led to the

railway, and pushed it aside with vague numbed hands, and stood gazing

vacantly at the long curved line in front of her.

[Illustration: "SHE CRIED AND CRIED."]

Suddenly, a noise rose sharp in the field behind her. It was only a

colt, to be sure, disturbed by her approach, dashing wildly across his

paddock, as is the way with young horseflesh. But to Netta it came as an

indefinite terror, magnified ten thousand-fold by her excited feelings.

She made a frenzied dash for the other side of the railway. What it was

she knew not, but it was, or might be, anything, everything--mad bulls,

drunken men, footpads, vagabonds, murderers.

Oh, how could Ughtred ever have taken her at her word, and left her like

this, alone, and in the evening? It was cruel, it was wicked of him; she

hated to be disloyal, and yet she felt in her heart it was almost

unmanly.

[Illustration: "IT WAS A TERRIBLE POSITION."]

As she rushed along wildly, at the top of her speed, her little foot

caught on the first rail. Before she knew what had happened, she had

fallen with her body right across the line. Faint and terrified already,

with a thousand vague alarms, the sudden shock stunned and disabled her.

Mad bull or drunken man, they might do as they liked now. She was

bruised and shaken. She had no thought left to rise or recover herself.

Her eyes closed heavily. She lost consciousness at once. It was a

terrible position. She had fainted on the line, with the force of the

situation.

As for Ughtred, from his seat on the telegraph post on the side of the

line five hundred yards farther up, he saw her pause by the gate, then

dash across the road, then stumble and trip, then fall heavily forward.

His heart came up into his mouth at once at the sight. Oh, thank heaven

he had waited. Thank heaven he was near. She had fallen across the line,

and a train might come along before she could rise up again. She seemed

hurt, too. In a frenzy of suspense he darted forward to save her.

It took but a second for him to realise that she had fallen, and was

seriously hurt, but in the course of that second, even as he realised it

all, another and more pressing terror seized him.

Hark! what was that? He listened and thrilled. Oh no, too terrible. Yes,

yes, it must be--the railway, the railway! He knew it. He felt it. Along

the up line, on which Netta was lying, he heard behind him--oh,

unmistakable, unthinkable, the fierce whirr of the express dashing madly

down upon him. Great heavens, what could he do? The train was coming,

the train was almost this moment upon them. Before he could have time to

rush wildly forward and snatch Netta from where she lay, full in its

path, a helpless weight, it would have swept past him resistlessly, and

borne down upon her like lightning.

The express was coming--to crush Netta to pieces.

In these awful moments men don't think: they don't reason; they don't

even realise what their action means; they simply act, and act

instinctively. Ughtred felt in a second, without even consciously

feeling it, so to speak, that any attempt to reach Netta now before that

devouring engine had burst upon her at full speed would be absolutely

hopeless.

His one chance lay in stopping the train somehow. How, or where, or with

what, he cared not. His own body would do it if nothing else came. Only

stop it, stop it. He didn't think of it at all that moment as a set of

carriages containing a precious freight of human lives. He thought of it

only as a horrible, cruel, devouring creature, rushing headway on at

full speed to Netta's destruction. It was a senseless wild beast, to be

combated at all hazards. It was a hideous, ruthless, relentless thing,

to be checked in its mad career in no matter what fashion. All he knew,

indeed, was that Netta, his Netta, lay helpless on the track, and that

the engine, like some madman, puffing and snorting with wild glee and

savage exultation, was hastening forward with fierce strides to crush

and mangle her.

At any risk he must stop it--with anything--anyhow.

As he gazed around him, horror-struck, with blank inquiring stare, and

with this one fixed idea possessing his whole soul, Ughtred's eye

happened to fall upon the dismantled telegraph post, on which but one

minute before he had been sitting. The sight inspired him. Ha, ha! a

glorious chance. He could lift it on the line. He could lay it across

the rails. He could turn it round into place. He could upset the train!

He could place it in the way of that murderous engine.

No sooner thought than done. With the wild energy of despair, the young

man lifted the small end of the ponderous post bodily up in his arms,

and twisting it on the big base as on an earth-fast pivot, managed, by

main force and with a violent effort, to lay it at last full in front of

the advancing locomotive. How he did it he never rightly knew himself,

for the weight of the great balk was simply enormous. But horror and

love, and the awful idea that Netta's life was at stake, seemed to

supply him at once with unwonted energy. He lifted it in his arms as he

would have lifted a child, and straining in every limb stretched it at

last full across both rails, a formidable obstacle before the

approaching engine.

Hurrah! hurrah! he had succeeded now. It would throw the train off the

line--and Netta would be saved for him.

To think and do all this under the spur of the circumstances took

Ughtred something less than twenty seconds. In a great crisis men live

rapidly. It was quick as thought. And at the end of it all, he saw the

big log laid right across the line with infinite satisfaction. Such a

splendid obstacle that--so round and heavy! It must throw the train

clean off the metals! It must produce a fine first-class catastrophe.

As he thought it, half aloud, a sharp curve brought the train round the

corner close to where he stood, great drops of sweat now oozing clammily

from every pore with his exertion. He looked at it languidly, with some

vague, dim sense of a duty accomplished, and a great work well done for

Netta and humanity. There would be a real live accident in a moment

now--a splendid accident--a first-rate catastrophe!

Great heavens! An accident!

And then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, the other side of the

transaction flashed in one electric spark upon Ughtred's brain.

Why--this--was murder! There were _people_ in that train--innocent human

beings, men and women like himself, who would next minute be wrecked and

mangled corpses, or writhing forms, on the track before him! He was

guilty of a crime--an awful crime. He was trying to produce a terrible,

ghastly, bloody railway accident!

[Illustration: "IT WOULD THROW THE TRAIN OFF THE LINE."]

Till that second, the idea had never even so much as occurred to him.

In the first wild flush of horror at Netta's situation, he had thought

of nothing except how best to save her. He had regarded the engine only

as a hateful, cruel, destructive living being. He had forgotten the

passengers, the stoker, the officials. He had been conscious only of

Netta and of that awful thing, breathing flame and steam, that was

rushing on to destroy her. For another indivisible second of time

Ughtred Carnegie's soul was the theatre of a terrible and appalling

struggle. What on earth was he to do? Which of the two was he to

sacrifice? Should it be murder or treachery? Must he wreck the train or

let it mangle Netta? The sweat stood upon his brow in great clammy

drops, at that dread dilemma. It was an awful question for any man to

solve. He shrank aghast before that deadly decision.

They were innocent, to be sure, the people in that train. They were

unknown men, women, and children. They had the same right to their lives

as Netta herself. It was crime, sheer crime, thus to seek to destroy

them. But still--what would you have? Netta lay there all helpless on

the line--his own dear Netta. And she had parted from him in anger but

half an hour since. Could he leave her to be destroyed by that hideous,

snorting, puffing thing? Has not any man the right to try and save the

lives he loves best, no matter at what risk or peril to others? He asked

himself this question, too, vaguely, instinctively, with the rapid haste

of a life-and-death struggle, asked himself with horror, for he had no

strength left now to do one thing or the other--to remove the obstacle

from the place where he had laid it or to warn the driver. One second

alone remained and then all would be over. On it came, roaring, flaring,

glaring, with its great bulls' eyes now peering red round the corner--a

terrible, fiery dragon, resistless, unconscious, bearing down in mad

glee upon the pole--or Netta.

Which of the two should it be--the pole or Netta?

[Illustration: "THE DRIVER'S HEART STOOD STILL WITH TERROR."]

And still he waited; and still he temporised. What, what could he do? Oh

heaven! be merciful. Even as the engine swept, snorting and puffing

steam round the corner, he doubted yet--he doubted and temporised. He

reasoned with his own conscience in the quick short-hand of thought. So

far as intent was concerned he was guiltless. It wouldn't be a murder of

malice prepense. When he laid that log there in the way of the train, he

never believed--nay, never even knew--it was a train with a living

freight of men and women he was trying to imperil. He felt to it merely

as a mad engine unattached. He realised only Netta's pressing danger.

Was he bound now to undo what he had innocently done--and leave Netta to

perish? Must he take away the post and be Netta's murderer?

It was a cruel dilemma for any man to have to face. If he had half an

hour to debate and decide, now, he might perhaps have seen his way a

little clearer. But with that hideous thing actually rushing red and

wrathful on his sight--why--he clapped his hands to his ears. It was too

much for him--too much for him.

And yet he must face it, and act, or remain passive, one way or the

other. With a desperate effort he made up his mind at last just as the

train burst upon him, and all was over.

He made up his mind and acted accordingly.

As the engine turned the corner, the driver, looking ahead in the clear

evening light, saw something in front that made him start with sudden

horror and alarm. A telegraph pole lay stretched at full length, and a

man, unknown, stood agonised by its side, stooping down as he thought to

catch and move it. There was no time left to stop her now; no time to

avert the threatened catastrophe. All the driver could do in his haste

was to put the brake on hard and endeavour to lessen the force of the

inevitable concussion. But even as he looked and wondered at the sight,

putting on the brake, meanwhile, with all his might and main, he saw the

man in front perform, to his surprise, a heroic action. Rushing full

upon the line, straight before the very lights of the advancing train,

the man unknown lifted up the pole by main force, and brandishing its

end, as it were, wildly in the driver's face, hurled the huge balk back

with a terrible effort to the side of the railway. It fell with a crash,

and the man fell with it. There was a second's pause, while the driver's

heart stood still with terror. Then a jar--a thud--a deep scratch into

the soil. A wheel was off the line; they had met with an accident.

For a moment or two the driver only knew that he was shaken and hurt,

but not severely. The engine had left the track, and the carriages lay

behind slightly shattered. He could see how it happened. Part of the

pole in falling had rebounded on to the line. The base of the great

timber had struck the near-side wheel, and sent it off the track in a

vain effort to surmount it. But the brake had already slackened the pace

and broken the force of the shock, so the visible damage was very

inconsiderable. They must look along the carriages and find out who was

hurt. And above all things, what had become of the man who had so nobly

rescued them? For the very last thing the engine-driver had seen of

Ughtred as the train stopped short was that the man who flung the pole

from the track before the advancing engine was knocked down by its

approach, while the train to all appearance passed bodily over him. For

good or evil, Ughtred had made his decision at last at the risk of his

own life. As the train dashed on, with its living freight aboard, his

native instinct of preserving life got the better of him in spite of

himself. He couldn't let those innocent souls die by his own act--though

if he removed the pole, and Netta was killed, he didn't know himself how

he could ever outlive it.

He prayed with all his heart that the train might kill him.

The guard and the driver ran hastily along the train. Nobody was hurt,

though many were shaken or slightly bruised. Even the carriages had

escaped with a few small cracks. The Holmbury smash was nothing very

serious.

[Illustration: "THE HOLMBURY SMASH."]

But the man with the pole? Their preserver, their friend. Where was _he_

all this time? What on earth had become of him?

They looked along the line. They searched the track in vain. He had

disappeared as if by magic. Not a trace could be found of him.

After looking long and uselessly, again and again, the guard and the

driver both gave it up. They had seen the man distinctly--not a doubt

about that--and so had several of the passengers as well. But no sign of

blood was to be discovered along the track. The mysterious being who, as

they all believed, risked his own life to save theirs, had vanished as

he had come, one might almost say by a miracle.

And indeed, as a matter of fact, when Ughtred Carnegie fell on the

track before the advancing engine, he thought for a moment it was all up

with him. He was glad of that, too; for he had murdered Netta. He had

saved the train; but he had murdered Netta. It would dash on, now,

unresisted, and crush his darling to death. It was better he should die,

having murdered Netta. So he closed his eyes tight and waited for it to

kill him.

But the train passed on, jarring and scraping, partly with the action of

the brake, though partly, too, with the wheel digging into the ground at

the side; it passed on and went over him altogether, coming, as it did

so, to a sudden standstill. As it stopped, a fierce joy rose uppermost

in Ughtred's soul. Thank heaven, all was well. He breathed once more

easily. He had fallen on his back across the sleepers in the middle of

the track. It was not really the train that had knocked him down at all,

but the recoil of the telegraph post. The engine and carriages had gone

over him safely. He wasn't seriously hurt. He was only bruised, and

sprained, and jarred, and shaken.

Rising up behind the train as it slackened, he ran hastily along on the

off side, towards where Netta lay still unconscious on the line in front

of it. Nobody saw him run past; and no wonder either, for every eye was

turned toward the near side and the obstruction. A person running fast

by the opposite windows was very little likely to attract attention at

such a moment. Every step pained him, to be sure, for he was bruised and

stiff; but he ran on none the less till he came up at last to where

Netta lay. There, he bent over her eagerly. Netta raised her head,

opened her eyes, and looked. In a moment the vague sense of a terrible

catastrophe averted came somehow over her. She flung her arms round his

neck. "Oh, Ughtred, you've come back!" she cried in a torrent of

emotion.

"Yes, darling," Ughtred answered, his voice half choked with tears.

"I've come back to you now, for ever and ever."

He lifted her in his arms, and carried her some little way off up the

left-hand path. His heart was very full. 'Twas a terrible moment. For as

yet he hardly knew what harm he might have done by his fatal act. He

only knew he had tried his best to undo the wrong he had half

unconsciously wrought; and if the worst came, he would give himself up

now like a man to offended justice.

But the worst did not come. Blind fate had been merciful. Next day the

papers were full of the accident to the Great Southern Express; equally

divided between denunciation of the miscreant who had placed the

obstruction in the way of the train, and admiration for the heroic, but

unrecognisable stranger who had rescued from death so many helpless

passengers at so imminent a risk to his own life or safety. Only Ughtred

knew that the two were one and the same person. And when Ughtred found

out how little harm had been done by his infatuated act--an act he felt

he could never possibly explain in its true light to any other

person--he thought it wisest on the whole to lay no claim to either the

praise or the censure. The world could never be made to understand the

terrible dilemma in which he was placed--the one-sided way in which the

problem at first presented itself to him--the deadly struggle through

which he had passed before he could make up his mind, at the risk of

Netta's life, to remove the obstacle. Only Netta understood; and even

Netta herself knew no more than this, that Ughtred had risked his own

life to save her.

[Illustration]

_The Metropolitan Fire Brigade._

ITS HOME AND ITS WORK.

"Fire! Fire!"

This startling cry aroused me one night as I was putting the finishing

touches to some literary work. Rushing, pen in hand, to the window, I

could just perceive a dull red glare in the northern sky, which, even as

I gazed, became more vivid, and threw some chimneys near at hand into

strong relief. A fire undoubtedly, and not far distant!

The street, usually so quiet at night, had suddenly awakened. The alarm

which had reached me had aroused my neighbours on each side of the way,

and every house was "well alight" in a short space of time. Doors were

flung open, windows raised, white forms were visible at the casements,

and curiosity was rife. Many men and some venturesome women quitted

their houses, and proceeded in the direction of the glare, which was

momentarily increasing, the glow on the clouds waxing and waning

according as the flames shot up or temporarily died down.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN SHAW.]

"Where is it?" people ask in a quick, panting way, as they hurry along.

No one can say for certain. But just as we think it must be in

Westminster, we come in sight of a huge column of smoke, and turning a

corner are within view of the emporium--a tall, six-storied block,

stored with inflammable commodities, and blazing fiercely. Next door, or

rather the next warehouse, is not yet affected.

The scene is weird and striking; the intense glare, the shooting flames

which dart viciously out and upwards, the white and red faces of the

crowd kept back by the busy police, the puff and clank of the engines,

the rushing and hissing of the water, the roar of the fire, and the

columns of smoke which in heavy sulky masses hung gloating over the

blazing building. The bright helmets of the firemen are glinting

everywhere, close to the already tottering wall, on the summit of the

adjacent buildings, which are already smoking. Lost on ladders, amid

smoke, they pour a torrent of water on the burning and seething

premises. Above all the monotonous "puff, puff" of the steamer is heard,

and a buzz of admiration ascends from the attentive, silent crowd.

Suddenly arises a yell--a wild, unearthly cry, which almost makes one's

blood run cold even in that atmosphere. A tremor seizes us as a female

form appears at an upper window, framed in flame, curtained with smoke

and noxious fumes.

"Save her! Save her!"

The crowd sways and surges; women scream; strong men clench their hands

and swear--Heaven only knows why. But before the police have headed back

the people the escape is on the spot, two men are on it, one outstrips

his mate, and darting up the ladder, leaps into the open window.

He is swallowed up in a moment--lost to our sight. Will he ever return

out of that fiery furnace? Yes, here he is, bearing a senseless female

form, which he passes out to his mate, who is calmly watching his

progress, though the ladder is in imminent danger. Quick! The flames

approach!

The man on the ladder does not wait as his mate again disappears and

emerges with a child about fourteen. Carrying this burthen easily, he

descends the ladder. The first man is already flying down the escape,

head-first, holding the woman's dress round her feet. The others,

rescuer and rescued, follow. The ladder is withdrawn, burning. A mighty

cheer arises 'mid the smoke. Two lives saved! The fire is being

mastered. More engines gallop up. "The Captain" is on the spot, too. The

Brigade is victorious.

In the early morning hour, as I strolled home deep in thought, I

determined to see these men who nightly risk their lives and stalwart

limbs for the benefit and preservation of helpless fire-scorched people.

Who are these men who go literally through fire and water to assist and

save their fellow creatures, strangers to them--unknown, save in that

they require help and succour?

I determined there and then to see these brave fellows in their daily

work, or leisure in their homes, amid all the surroundings of their

noble calling. I went accompanied by an artistic friend, to whose

efforts the illustrations which accompany this record are due.

Emerging from Queen-street, we find ourselves upon Southwark Bridge, and

we at once plunge into a flood of memories of old friends who come,

invisibly, to accompany us on our pilgrimage to old Winchester House,

now the head-quarters of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade, in the Southwark

Bridge-road. On the bridge--once a "tolled" structure known as the Iron

Bridge--we find "Little Dorrit" herself, and her suitor, young John

Chivery, in all his brave attire; the young aspirant is downhearted at

the decided refusal of Miss Amy to marry him, as they pace the then

almost unfrequented bridge. Their ghosts cross it in our company, with

Clennan and Maggie behind us, till we reach the Union-road, once known

as Horsemonger-lane, where young John's ghost quits us to meditate in

the back yard of Mr. Chivery's premises, and become that "broken-down

ruin," catching cold beneath the family washing, which he feared.

The whole neighbourhood is redolent of Dickens. From a spot close by the

head office we can see the buildings which have been erected on the site

of the King's Bench Prison, where Mr. Micawber waited for something to

turn up, and where Copperfield lost his box and money. The site of the

former "haven of domestic tranquillity and peace of mind," as Micawber

styled it, is indicated to us by Mr. Harman--quite a suitable name in

such a connection with Dickens--by whom we are courteously and

pleasantly received in the office of the Metropolitan Fire Brigade.

Our credentials being in order there is no difficulty experienced in our

reception. Nothing can exceed the civility and politeness of the

officials, and of the rank and file of the Brigade. Fine, active,

cheerful fellows, all sailors, these firemen are a credit to their

organisation and to London. The Superintendent hands us over to a bright

young fellow, who is waiting his promotion--we hope he has reached it,

if not a death vacancy--and he takes us in charge kindly.

[Illustration: ENGINES GALLOP UP.]

Standing in the very entrance, we had already remarked two engines. The

folding, automatic doors are closed in front of these machines. One, a

steamer, is being nursed by means of a gas tube to keep the fire-box

warm. When the fire-call rings there is no time to begin to get up

steam. The well-heated interior soon acts in response to the quickly

lighted fire as the engine starts, and by the time our steamer reaches

its destination steam is generated. A spare steamer is close at hand.

Very bright and clean is the machine, which in a way puts its useful

ally, the "manual," in the shade; though at present the latter kind are

more numerous, in the proportion of seventy-eight to forty-eight.

Turning from the engines, we notice a row of burnished helmets hanging

over tunics, and below these, great knee-boots, which are so familiar to

the citizen. When the alarm is rung, these are donned rapidly; but we

opine the gates will occupy some time in the opening.

Our guide smiles, and points out two ropes hanging immediately over the

driving seat of each engine.

"When the engine is ready the coachman pulls the rope, and the gates

open of their own accord, you may say. See here!"

He turns to the office entrance, where two ropes are hanging side by

side. A pull on each, and the doors leading to the back-yard open and

unfold themselves. The catch drops deftly into an aperture made to

receive it, and the portals are thus kept open. About a second and a

half is occupied in this manoeuvre.

We consider it unfortunate that we shall not see a "turn out," as alarms

by day are not usual. The Superintendent looks quizzical, but says

nothing then. He gives instructions to our guide to show us all we want

to see, and in this spirit we examine the instrument room close at hand.

Here are fixed a number of telephonic apparatus, labelled with the names

of the stations:--Manchester-square, Clerkenwell, Whitechapel, and so

on, five in number, known by the Brigade as Superintendents' Stations,

A, B, C, D, E Districts. By these means immediate communication can be

obtained with any portion of the Metropolis, and the condition and

requirements of the fires reported. There is also a frame in the outer

office which bears a number of electric bells, which can summon the head

of any department, or demand the presence of any officer instantly.

It is extraordinary to see the quiet way in which the work is performed,

the ease and freedom of the men, and the strict observance of discipline

withal. Very few men are visible as we pass on to the repairing shops.

(Illustration, p. 29.) Here the engines are repaired and inspected.

There are eleven steamers in the shed, some available for service, and

so designated. If an outlying station require a steamer in substitution

for its own, here is one ready. The boilers are examined every six

months, and tested by water-pressure up to 180 lbs. on the square inch,

in order to sustain safely the steam pressure up to 120 lbs., when it

"blows off."

Passing down the shed we notice the men--all Brigade men--employed at

their various tasks in the forge or carpenters' shop. Thus it will be

perceived that the head-quarters enclose many different artizans, and is

self-contained. The men were lifting a boiler when we were present, and

our artist "caught them in the act."

Close to the entrance is a high "shoot" in which hang pendant numerous

ropes and many lengths of drying hose. The impression experienced when

standing underneath, and gazing upwards, is something like the feeling

one would have while gazing up at the tops of the trees in a pine wood.

There is a sense of vastness in this narrow lofty brick enclosure, which

is some 70 ft. high. The hose is doubled in its length of 100 ft., and

then it drains dry, for the moisture is apt to conceal itself in the

rubber lining, and in the nozzles and head-screws of the hoses.

No precaution is neglected, no point is missed. Vigilant eyes are

everywhere; bright responsive faces and ready hands are continually in

evidence, but unobtrusively.

Turning from the repairing shops we proceed to the stables, where we

find things in the normal condition of preparedness. "Be ready" is

evidently the watchword of the Brigade. Ready, aye ready! Neatness and

cleanliness are here scrupulously regarded. Tidiness is the feature of

the stables. A pair of horses on either side are standing, faces

outward, in their stalls. Four handsome, well-groomed, lithe animals

they look; and as we enter they regard us with considerable curiosity, a

view which we reciprocate.

Round each horse's neck is suspended his collar. A weight let into the

woodwork of the stall holds the harness by means of a lanyard and

swivel. When the alarm rings the collar is dropped, and in "half a

second" the animals, traces and splinter-bar hanging on their sleek

backs and sides, are trotted out and harnessed. Again we express our

regret that no kind householder will set fire to his tenement, that no

nice children will play with matches or candle this fine morning, and

let us "see everything," like Charles Middlewick.

Once more our guide smiles, and passes on through the forage and

harness-rooms, where we also find a coachman's room for reading, and

waiting on duty.

[Illustration: IN THE STABLES.]

It is now nearly mid-day, and we turn to see the fire-drill of the

recruits, who, clad in slops, practise all the necessary and requisite

work which alone can render them fit for the business. They are thus

employed from nine o'clock to mid-day, and from two till four p.m.

During these five hours the squads are exercised in the art of putting

the ladders and escapes on the wagons which convey them to the scene of

the fire. The recruit must learn how to raise the heavy machine by his

own efforts, by means of a rope rove through a ring-bolt. We had an

opportunity to see the recruits raising the machine together to get it

off the wagon. The men are practised in leaping up when the vehicle is

starting off at a great pace after the wheels are manned to give an

impetus to the vehicle which carries such a burthen.

But the "rescue drill" is still more interesting, and this exhibited the

strength and dexterity of the firemen in a surprising manner. It is

striking to notice the different ways in which the rescue of the male

and female sexes is accomplished. The sure-footed fireman rapidly

ascends the ladder, and leaps upon the parapet. The escape is furnished

with a ladder which projects beyond the net. At the bottom a canvas

sheet or "hammock" is suspended, so that the rescued shall not suffer

from contusions, which formerly were frequent in consequence of the

rapid descent.

One fireman passes into a garret window and emerges with a man. He makes

no pause on the parapet, where already, heedless of glare and smoke and

the risk of a fall, he has raised on his shoulders the heavy, apparently

inanimate, form, and grasping the man round one leg, his arm inside the

thigh, he carries him steadily, like a sack of coals, down the ladder as

far as the opening of the bag-net of the escape.

Here he halts, and puts the man into the net, perhaps head downwards, he

himself following in the same position. The man rescued is then let down

easily, the fireman using his elbows and knees as "breaks" to arrest

their progress. So the individual is assisted down, and not permitted to

go unattended.

[Illustration: FIRE ESCAPES]

The rescue of a female is accomplished in a slightly different manner.

She is also carried to the ladder, but the rescuer grasps both her legs

below the knees, and when he reaches the net he places her head

downwards and grasps her dress tightly round her ankles, holding her

thus in a straight position. Thus her dress is undisturbed, and she is

received in the folds of the friendly canvas underneath, in safety.

There is also a "jumping drill" from the windows into a sheet held by

the other men. This course of instruction is not so popular, for it

seems somewhat of a trial to leap in cold blood into a sheet some twenty

feet below. The feat of lifting a grown man (weighing perhaps sixteen

stone) from the parapet to the right knee, then, by grasping the waist,

getting the limp arm around his neck, and then, holding the leg, to rise

up and walk on a narrow ledge amid all the terrible surroundings of a

fire, requires much nerve and strength. Frequently we hear of deaths and

injuries to men of the Brigade, but no landsman can attain proficiency

in even double the time that sailors do--the latter are so accustomed to

giddy heights, and to precarious footing.

[Illustration: RECRUITS DRILLING.]

Moreover, the belt, to which a swivel hook is attached, is a safeguard

of which Jack takes every advantage. This equipment enables him to hang

on to a ladder and swing about like a monkey, having both hands free to

save or assist a victim of the fire or one of his mates. There is a

death-roll of about five men annually, on the average, and many are

injured, if not fatally yet very seriously, by falling walls and such

accidents. Drenched and soaked, the men have a terrible time of it at a

fire, and they richly deserve the leisure they obtain.

[Illustration: RESCUE DRILL.]

This leisure is, however, not so pleasant as might be imagined, for the

fireman is always on duty; and, no matter how he is occupied, he may be

wanted on the engine, and must go.

Having inspected the American ladder in its shed, we glanced at the

stores and pattern rooms, and at the firemen's quarters. Here the men

live with their wives and families, if they are married, and in single

blessedness, if Love the Pilgrim has not come their way. Old Winchester

House, festooned with creepers, was never put to more worthy use than in

sheltering these retiring heroes, who daily risk their lives

uncomplainingly. Somewhat different now the scenes from those when the

stately palace of Cardinal Beaufort extended to the river, and the

spacious park was stocked with game and venison. As our conductor seeks

a certain key we muse on the old time, the feasts and pageants held

here, the wedding banquet of James and Jane Somerset, when the old walls

and precincts rang with merry cheer. Turning, we can almost fancy we

perceive the restless Wyatt quitting the postern-gate, leaving fragments

of the mutilated books of Winchester's proud bishop. These past scenes

vanish as our guide returns and beckons us to other sights.

[Illustration: A SAD RECORD.]

Of these, by far the most melancholy interest is awakened by the relics

of those brave firemen who have died, or have been seriously injured, on

duty. In a cupboard, in a long, rather low apartment, in the square or

inner quadrangle of the building, are a number of helmets; bruised,

battered, broken, burnt; the fragments of crests twisted by fire, dulled

by water and dust and smoke. Here is a saddening record indeed. The

visitor experiences much the same sensations as those with which he

gazes at the bodies at the Great Saint Bernard, only in this instance

the cause of death is fire and heat, in the other snow and vapour, wind

and storm; but all "fulfilling His word," Whose fiat has gone forth, "To

dust shalt thou return."

Aye, it is a sad moment when on a canvas pad we see all that remains of

the brave Fireman JACOBS, who perished at the conflagration in

Wandsworth in September, 1889.

It was on the 12th of that month that the premises occupied by Messrs.

Burroughs and Wellcome, manufacturing chemists, took fire. Engineer

Howard and two third-class firemen, Jacobs and Ashby, ran the hose up

the staircase at the end of the building. The two latter men remained,

but their retreat was suddenly cut off, and exit was sought by the

window. The united ladder-lengths would not reach the upper story, and a

builder's ladder came only within a few feet of the casement at which

the brave men were standing calling for a line.

Ashby, whose helmet is still preserved, was fortunately able to squeeze

himself through the bars, drop on the high ladder, and descend. He was

terribly burned. But Jacobs being a stout man--his portrait is hanging

on the wall in the office waiting-room in Southwark--could not squeeze

through, and he was burned to a cinder, almost. What remained of him was

laid to rest with all Brigade honours, but in this museum are his

blackened tunic-front, his hatchet and spanner, the nozzle of the hose

he held in his death-grip. That is all! But his memory is green, and not

a man who mentions but points with pride to his picture. "Did you tell

him about Jacobs?" is a question which testifies to the estimation in

which this brave man is held; and he is but a sample of the rest.

For he is not alone represented. Take the helmets one by one at random.

Whose was this? JOSEPH FORD'S? Yes, read on, and you will learn that he

saved six lives at a fire in Gray's Inn-road, and that he was in the act

of saving a seventh when he lost his life. Poor fellow!

STANLEY GUERNSEY; T. ASHFORD; HOAD; BERG, too, the hero of the Alhambra

fire in 1882. But the record is too long. _Requiescant in pace._ They

have done their duty; some have survived to do it again, and we may be

satisfied.... Come away, lock the cupboard, good Number 109. May it be

long ere thy helmet is placed with sad memento within this press.

Descending the stairs we reach the office once again. Here we meet our

Superintendent. All is quiet. Some men are reading, others writing

reports, mayhap; a few are in their shirt-sleeves working, polishing the

reserve engine: a calm reigns. We glance up at the automatic fire-alarm

which, when just heated, rings the call, and "it will warm up also with

your hand." See? Yes! but suppose it should ring, suppose--

Ting, ting, ting, ting-g-g-g!

What's this? The call? I am at the office door in a second. Well it is

that I proceed no farther. As I pause in doubt and surprise, the heavy

rear doors swing open by themselves as boldly and almost as noiselessly

as the iron gate which opened for St. Peter. A clattering of hoofs, a

running to and fro for a couple of seconds; four horses trot in, led by

the coachman; in the twinkling of an eye the animals are hitched to the

ready engines; the firemen dressed, helmeted, and booted are seated on

the machines; a momentary pause to learn their destination ere the

coachman pulls the ropes suspended over head; the street doors fold

back, automatically, the prancing, rearing steeds impatient, foaming,

strain at the traces; the passers-by scatter helter-skelter as the

horses plunge into the street and then dash round the corner to their

stables once again.

"A false alarm?"

"Yes, sir. We thought you'd like to see a turn out, and that is how it's

done!"

A false alarm! Was it true? Yes, the men are good-temperedly doffing

boots and helmets, and quietly resuming their late avocations. They do

not mind. Less than twenty seconds have elapsed, and from a quiet hall

the engine-room has been transformed into a bustling fire station. Men,

horses, engines all ready and away! No one knew whither he was going.

The call was sufficient for all of them. No questions put save one,

"Where is it?" Thither the brave fellows would have hurried, ready to do

and die, if necessary.

It is almost impossible to describe the effect which this sudden

transformation scene produces; the change is so rapid, the effect is so

dramatic, so novel to a stranger. We hear of the engines turning out,

but to the writer, who was not in the secret, the result was most

exciting, and the remembrance will be lasting. The wily artist had

placed himself outside, and secured a view, an instantaneous picture of

the start; but the writer was in the dark, and taken by surprise. The

wonderful rapidity, order, discipline, and exactness of the parts secure

a most effective tableau.

[Illustration: A TURN OUT.]

After such an experience one naturally desires to see the mainspring of

all this machinery, the hub round which the wheel revolves--Captain Eyre

M. Shaw, C.B. But the chief officer has slipped out, leaving us

permission to interview his empty chair, and the apartments which he

daily occupies when on duty in Southwark.

This unpretending room upstairs is plainly but comfortably

furnished--though no carpet covers the floor, oilcloth being cooler.

Business is writ large on every side. On one wall is a large map of the

fire stations of the immense area presided over by Captain Shaw. Here

are separately indicated the floating engines, the escapes, ladders,

call points, police stations, and private communications.

The chair which "the Captain" has temporarily vacated bristles with

speaking tubes. On the walls beside the fire-place are portraits of men

who have died on duty; the chimney-piece is decorated with

nozzles--hose-nozzles--of various sizes. Upon the table are reports, map

of Paris, and many documents, amid which a novel shines, as indicating

touch with the outside world. There is a book-case full of carefully

arranged pamphlets, and on the opposite wall an illuminated address of

thanks from the Fire Brigade Association to Captain Shaw, which

concludes with the expression of a hope "That his useful life may long

be spared to fill the high position in the service he now adorns."

With this we cordially concur, and we echo the "heartfelt wishes" of his

obliged and faithful servants as we retire, secure in our possession of

a picture of the apartment.

[Illustration: THE REPAIRING SHOP.]

There are many interesting items in connection with the Brigade which we

find time to chronicle. For instance, we learn that the busiest time is,

as one would expect, between September and December. The calls during

the year 1889 amounted to 3,131. Of these 594 were false alarms, 199

were only chimneys on fire, and of the remainder 153 only resulted in

serious damage, 2,185 in slight damage. These calls are exclusive of

ordinary chimney fires and small cases, but in all those above referred

to engines and men were turned out. The grand total of fires amounted to

4,705, or on an average 13 fires, or supposed fires, a day. This is an

increase of 350 on those of 1888, and we find that the increment has

been growing for a decade. However, considering the increase in the

number of houses, there is no cause for alarm. Lives were lost at

thirty-eight fires in 1889.

The _personnel_ of the Brigade consists of only seven hundred and seven

of all ranks. The men keep watches of twelve hours, and do an immense

amount of work besides. This force has the control of 158 engines, steam

and manual of all sorts; 31-1/2 miles of hose, and 80 carts to carry it;

besides fire-floats, steam tugs, barges, and escapes; long ladders,

trolleys, vans, and 131 horses. These are to attend to 365 call points,

72 telephones to stations, 55 alarm circuits, besides telephones to

police stations and public and private buildings and houses, and the pay

is 3s. 6d. per day, increasing!

From these, not altogether dry, bones of facts we may build up a

monument to the great energy and intense _esprit de corps_ of Captain

Shaw and his Brigade. In their hands we place ourselves every night.

While the Metropolis sleeps the untiring Brigade watches over its

safety. Whether at the head-quarters or at the outer stations, at the

street stations, boxes, or escape stations, the men are continually

vigilant; and are most efficiently seconded by the police. But for the

latter force the efforts of the firemen would often be crippled, and

their heroic attempts perhaps rendered fruitless, by the pressure of the

excited spectators.

We have now seen the manner in which the Metropolitan Fire Brigade is

managed, and how it works; the splendid services it accomplishes, for

which few rewards are forthcoming. It is true that a man may attain to

the post of superintendent, and to a house, with a salary of £245 a

year, but he has to serve a long probation. For consider that he has to

learn his drill and the general working of the Brigade. Every man must

be competent to perform all the duties. During this course of

instruction he is not permitted to attend a fire; such experience being

found unsuitable to beginners. In a couple of months, if he has been a

sailor, the recruit is fit to go out, and he is sent to some station,

where, as fireman of the fourth class, he performs the duties required.

By degrees, from death or accident, or other causes, those above him are

removed, or promoted, and he ascends the ladder to the first class,

where, having passed an examination, he gets a temporary appointment as

assistant officer on probation. If then satisfactory, he is confirmed in

his position as officer, proceeds to head-quarters, and superintends a

section of the establishment as inspector of the shops, and finally as

drill instructor.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN SHAW'S SANCTUM.]

After this service, he is probably put under the superintendent at a

station as "engineer-in-charge," as he is termed. He has, naturally,

every detail of drill and "business" at his fingers' ends. The wisdom of

such an arrangement is manifest. As the engineer-in-charge has been

lately through the work of drill instructor, he knows exactly what is to

be done, and every other officer in similar position also knows it. Thus

uniformity of practice is insured.

There are many other points on which information is most courteously

given at head-quarters. But time presses. We accordingly take leave of

our pleasant guide, and the most polite of superintendents, and,

crossing the Iron Bridge once more, plunge into the teeming

thoroughfares of the City, satisfied.

_Scenes of the Siege of Paris._

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DAUDET.

[ALPHONSE DAUDET, the most brilliant of French novelists alive, was

born at Nîmes in 1840. His parents were not rich, and he started

life by drudging as an usher. Then he resolved to break his chains,

and to earn his bread at Paris with his pen. He began by painting

in the _Figaro_, with great graphic power, the miseries of ushers

in provincial schools. Then he turned to writing stories, with the

success to which he owes his world-wide fame. Most of his novels

are well known in England; but the characteristic little stories

here translated will probably be new to English readers.]

I.--THE BOY SPY.

[Illustration: "HE WOULD TAKE HIS PLACE IN THE LONG LINE."]

His name was Stenne: they called him Little Stenne.

He was a thorough child of Paris; delicate-looking, pale, about ten

years old--perhaps fifteen--one never can tell the ages of these

scaramouches. His mother was dead; his father, an old marine, used to

guard a square in the Temple quarter. Babies, nursemaids, the old women

with folding-chairs, poor mothers--all the leisurely-moving world of

Paris which puts itself out of the way of carriages in those

gardens--knew Father Stenne, and worshipped him. People knew that under

that bristling moustache, the terror of dogs and tramps, there lurked a

tender, pleasant, almost a maternal smile; and that to see it one had

only to say to the good man--

"How is your little boy?"

Father Stenne was very fond of his son. He was never so happy as in the

evening after school when the little fellow came to fetch him, and when

they went together round the walks, halting at every bench to speak to

the regular loungers, and to reply to their civil greetings.

With the siege all this unfortunately changed. The square was closed;

petroleum had been stored in it, and poor Stenne, obliged to keep watch

incessantly, passed his life amid the deserted, and partly destroyed,

clumps of trees without being able to smoke, and without the company of

his son until he returned home late in the evening. You should have seen

his moustache when he spoke of the Prussians!

Little Stenne, however, did not complain very much of this new life. A

siege is such fun for the street boys! No more school; no lessons;

holidays all the time, and the streets just like a fair! The lad stayed

out all day till quite evening, running about. He would accompany the

battalions of the quarter on their turn of duty to the ramparts,

choosing those specially which had good bands; and on this question

little Stenne was quite critical. He would have told you plainly that

the band of the Ninety-sixth was not good for much; but that the

Fifty-fifth had an excellent one. At other times he watched the mobiles

drilling, and then there were the _queues_ to occupy him.

With his basket on his arm he would take his place in the long lines

which, in the half-light of the winter mornings--those gasless

mornings--were formed outside the gates of the butchers and bakers.

There the people, waiting for rations, their feet in the puddles, talked

politics and made acquaintances; and, as the son of M. Stenne, every one

asked the lad his opinion. But the greatest fun of all was the

cork-throwing parties--the famous game of _galoche_--which the Breton

mobiles had introduced during the siege. When little Stenne was not on

the ramparts, or at the distribution of rations, you would surely find

him in the Place Château d'Eau. He did not play _galoche_ himself, you

must understand: too much money was needed for that. He contented

himself by watching the players "with all his eyes."

One lad--a big fellow in a blue jacket--who never ventured aught but

five-franc pieces, especially excited the admiration of little Stenne.

When this fellow moved about you could hear the coins jingling in his

pocket.

One day, when picking up a piece that had rolled to the feet of our

hero, the big boy said to him:

"Ah! that makes your mouth water, eh? Well, if you wish, I will tell you

where to find some like this."

[Illustration: "LET US PASS, GOOD SIR."]

When the game was finished he led Stenne to a corner of the Place, and

proposed that he should go with him and sell newspapers to the

Germans--at thirty francs the trip! At first Stenne indignantly

refused, and he did not go again to watch the game for three whole

days--three terrible days. He no longer ate nor slept. At night he had

visions of heaps of _galoches_ at the foot of his bed, and five-franc

pieces rolling and shining brightly. The temptation was too strong. On

the fourth day he returned to the Château d'Eau, saw the big boy again,

and permitted himself to be led astray!

[Illustration: "THE MEN GAVE THEM A DROP OF COFFEE."]

One snowy morning they set out carrying a linen bag, and with a number

of newspapers stuffed under their blouses. When they reached the

Flanders Gate it was scarcely daylight. The big boy took Stenne by the

hand and approaching the sentry--a brave "stay-at-home," who had a red

nose, and a good-natured expression--said to him, in a whining tone:

"Let us pass, good sir; our mother is ill, papa is dead. We are

going--my little brother and I--to pick up some potatoes in the fields."

He began to cry. Stenne, shame-faced, hung down his head. The sentry

looked at the lads for a moment, and then glanced down the white,

deserted road.

"Get on with you, quick!" he said, turning away; and then they were in

the Aubervilliers-road. The big boy laughed heartily!

Confusedly, as in a dream, little Stenne saw the factories, now

converted into barracks; abandoned barricades decked out with wet rags,

and high chimneys, now smokeless, standing up, half in ruins, against

the misty sky. At certain distances were sentries; officers, cloaked and

hooded, sweeping the horizon with their field glasses; and small tents

saturated by the melting snow beside the expiring watch-fires. The big

boy knew the paths, and took his way across the fields so as to avoid

the outposts.

Presently, however, they came upon a strong guard of Franc-tireurs, and

were unable to pass by unnoticed. The men were in a number of small huts

concealed in a ditch full of water all along the line of the Soissons

railway. Here it was no avail for the big boy to tell his story; the

Franc-tireurs would not let him pass. But while he was lamenting, an old

sergeant, with white hair and wrinkled face, came out from the

guard-house; he was something like Father Stenne.

"Come, come, you brats, don't cry any more!" he said. "You may go and

fetch your potatoes; but first come in and warm yourselves a little. The

youngster there looks nearly frozen!"

Alas! little Stenne was not trembling from cold, but for fear, for very

shame!

In the guardhouse were some soldiers huddled round a very poor fire--a

true "widow's fire," at which they were toasting biscuits on the points

of their bayonets. The men sat up close to make room for the boys, and

gave them a drop of coffee. While they were drinking it an officer came

to the door and summoned the sergeant of the guard. He spoke to him very

rapidly in a low tone and went off in a hurry.

"My lads," said the sergeant, as he turned round with a beaming

countenance, "_There will be tobacco_ to-night! The watch-word of the

Prussians has been discovered, and this time we shall take that cursed

Bourget from them!"

There was an explosion of "bravos" and laughter. The men danced, sang,

and clashed their sword-bayonets, while the lads, taking advantage of

the tumult, wended on their way.

The trench crossed, the plain lay extended in front of them; beyond it

was a long white wall, loopholed for musketry. Towards this wall they

made their way, halting at every step, pretending to pick up potatoes.

"Let us go back; do not go there," little Stenne kept saying. But the

other only shrugged his shoulders, and continued to advance. Suddenly

they heard the click of a fire-lock.

"Lie down," cried the big boy, throwing himself flat on the ground as he

spoke.

As soon as he was down he whistled.

[Illustration: "THE BOYS CRAWLED ON."]

Another whistle came across the snow in reply. The boys crawled on. In

front of the wall, on the level of the plain, appeared a pair of yellow

moustaches under a dirty forage-cap. The big boy leaped into the trench

beside the Prussian.

"This is my brother," he said, indicating his companion.

He was so small, this little Stenne, that the Prussian laughed when he

looked at him, and he was obliged to lift him up to the embrasure.

On the further side of the wall were great mounds of earth, felled

trees, dark holes in the snow, and in every hole was a dirty cap and a

yellow moustache, whose wearer grinned as the lads passed.

[Illustration: "THEIR FACES BECAME MORE GRAVE."]

In one corner stood a gardener's cottage, casemated with trunks of

trees. The lower storey was filled with soldiers playing cards, or busy

making soup over a clear fire. How good the cabbage and bacon smelt!

What a difference from the bivouac of the Franc-tireurs! Upstairs the

officers were quartered. Someone was playing a piano, while from time to

time the popping of champagne corks was also audible.

When the Parisians entered a cheer of welcome assailed them. They

distributed their newspapers, had something to drink, and the officers

"drew them out." These officers wore a haughty and disdainful air, but

the big boy amused them with his street slang and vulgar smartness.

Little Stenne would rather have spoken, to have proved that he was not a

fool, but something restrained him. Opposite to him was seated a

Prussian older and more serious than the rest, who was reading, or

rather pretending to read, for his gaze was fixed on little Stenne. In

his steadfast look were tenderness and reproach, as if he had at home a

child of the same age as Stenne--as if he was saying to himself--

"I would rather die than see my own son engaged in such a business!"

From that moment Stenne felt as if a heavy hand had been laid upon his

heart, and that its beatings were checked--stifled.

To escape from this terrible feeling he began to drink. Soon the room

and its occupants were turning round him. In a vague way he heard his

companion, amidst loud laughter, making game of the National Guard--of

their style of drill; imitating a rush to arms; a night alarm on the

ramparts. Subsequently the "big fellow" lowered his tone, the officers

drew nearer, their faces became more grave. The wretch was about to tell

them of the intended attack of the Franc-tireurs.

Then little Stenne stood up in a rage, as his senses returned to him; he

cried out, "None of that, big one, none of that!" but the other only

laughed and continued. Ere he had finished, all the officers were on

their feet. One of them opened the door.

"Get out," he said to the boys. "Be off!"

Then they began to converse among themselves in German. The big boy

walked out as proud as the Doge, clinking his money in his pocket.

Stenne followed him with drooping head, and as he passed the elderly

Prussian, whose glance had so discomposed him, he heard him say in a sad

tone in broken French, "This is bad! Very bad!"

Tears came into Stenne's eyes. Once in the plain again, the lads set out

running, and returned quickly. The bag was full of potatoes which the

Prussians had given them, and with it they passed the Franc-tireurs

unmolested. The troops were preparing for the attack that night; bodies

of men were coming up silently and massing themselves behind the walls.

The old sergeant was present, engaged in posting his men, and seemed

quite happy. As the lads passed he nodded at them, and smiled kindly in

recognition.

Ah! how bad Stenne felt when he saw that smile: he felt inclined to cry

out--

"Don't advance yonder; we have betrayed you!"

But the "big one" had told him that if he said anything they would both

be shot; and fear restrained him.

At La Courneuve the pair went into an empty house to divide the money.

Truth compels me to state that the division was honourably made, and

little Stenne did not feel his crime weigh so heavily on his mind when

he heard the coins jingling in his pocket, and thought of the

prospective games of _galoche_!

But--unhappy child!--when he was left alone! When, after they had passed

the gate, and his companion had left him--oh, then his pocket weighed

heavily, and the hand which pressed upon his heart was hard indeed!

Paris was no longer the same. The people passing looked at him severely,

as if they were aware of his mission. The word _spy_ seemed to ring in

his ears, and he heard it above the din of carriages, and in the rolling

of the drums along the canal.

At length he reached home, and was very glad to find that his father had

not yet come in. He hurried upstairs to his room to hide the crowns

which had become so burdensome to him.

Never had Father Stenne been in such spirits, never in such good humour,

as on that evening when he returned home. News had come in from the

provinces: things were going better. As he ate his supper the old

soldier gazed at his musket which was hanging on the wall, and

exclaimed: "Hey, my lad, how you would go at the Prussians if you were

big enough!"

About eight o'clock the sound of cannon was heard.

"That's Aubervilliers; they are fighting at Bourget," said the good old

man, who knew all the forts. Little Stenne turned pale, and feigning

fatigue went to bed, but not to sleep. The thunder of the cannon

continued. He pictured to himself the Franc-tireurs marching in the

darkness to surprise the Prussians, and falling into an ambuscade

themselves. He recalled the sergeant who had smiled, and pictured him,

with many others, extended lifeless on the snow. The price of all this

blood was then under his pillow, and he--he, the son of M. Stenne, a

soldier--what had he done? Tears choked him. He could hear his father

walking about in the next room; he heard him open the window. In the

Place below the _rappel_ was being beaten; a battalion of mobiles was

mustering. Yes it was a real battle--no mistake about it! The unhappy

lad could not repress his sobs.

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Father Stenne, coming into the bedroom.

The lad could bear it no longer; he jumped out of bed, and was about to

throw himself at his father's feet when the silver coins rolled out upon

the floor.

"What's this? Have you robbed anyone?" asked the old soldier in a

tremulous voice.

Then, all in a breath, little Stenne told him how he had gone to the

Prussian lines and what he had done. As he continued to speak the weight

on his heart grew less--it was a relief to accuse himself. Father Stenne

listened; his face was terrible to see. When the lad had finished his

narrative the old man buried his face in his hands and wept aloud.

[Illustration: "OH, FATHER! FATHER!"]

"Oh, father! father!"--

The boy would have spoken, but the old man pushed him aside, and picked

up the money without a word.

"Is this all?" he asked.

Little Stenne made a sign in the affirmative. The old soldier took down

his musket and cartouche-box, and putting the silver money in his

pocket, said calmly:

"Very well; I am going to pay it back to them!"

Then, without another word, without even turning his head, he descended

the stairs, and joined the mobiles who were marching out into the

darkness.

No one ever saw him again!

II.--BELISAIRE'S PRUSSIAN.

Here is a story which I heard this very week in a drinking-shop at

Montmartre. To do the tale justice I ought to possess the faubourg

accents of Master Belisaire, and his great carpenter's apron; and to

drink two or three cups of that splendid white wine of Montmartre, which

is capable of imparting a Parisian accent to even a native of

Marseilles. Then I might be able to make your flesh creep, and your

blood run cold, as Belisaire did when he related this lugubrious and

veracious story to his boon companions.

"It was the day after the 'amnesty' (Belisaire meant armistice). My wife

wished me to take our child across to Villeneuve-la-Garenne to look

after a little cottage we had there, and of which we had heard and seen

nothing since the siege had commenced. I felt nervous about taking the

little chap with me, for I knew that we should fall in with the

Prussians; and as I had not yet encountered them, I was afraid that

something unpleasant would happen. But his mother was determined. 'Get

out!' she cried. 'Let the lad have a breath of fresh air!'

"And the fact is he wanted it badly, poor little chap, after five months

of the siege operations and privations.

"So we started off together across the fields. I suppose he was happy,

poor mite, in seeing the trees and the birds again, and in dabbling

himself with mud in the ploughed land; but I was not so comfortable

myself; there were too many spiked helmets about for me. All the way

from the canal to the island we met them every moment; and how insolent

they were! It was as much as I could do to restrain myself from knocking

some of them down. But I did feel my temper getting the better of me as

we reached Villeneuve, and saw our poor gardens all in disorder, plants

rooted up, the houses open and pillaged, and those bandits established

in them! They were shouting to each other from the windows, and drying

their clothes on our trellises. Fortunately the lad was trotting along

close beside me, and I thought when I looked at him, if my hands itched

more than usual, 'Keep cool, Belisaire; take care that no harm befall

the brat!'

[Illustration: "WE STARTED OFF TOGETHER."]

"Nothing but this feeling prevented me from committing some foolish act.

Then I understood why his mother had been so determined about my

bringing the boy out.

"The hut is at the end of the open space, the last on the right hand on

the quay. I found it empty from top to bottom, like all the others. Not

an article of furniture, not a pane of glass, was left in it! There was

nothing except some bundles of straw and the last leg of the big

arm-chair, which was smouldering in the chimney. These signs were

Prussian all over; but I could see nothing of the Germans.

[Illustration: "I SEIZED THE BENCH-IRON."]

"Nevertheless it seemed to me that somebody was stirring in the

basement. I had a bench down there at which I used to amuse myself on

Sundays. So I told the child to wait for me, and went down.

"No sooner had I opened the door than a great hulking soldier of

William's army rose growling from the shavings and came at me, his eyes

starting from his head, swearing strange oaths which I did not

understand. I could perceive that the brute meant mischief, for at the

first word that I attempted to speak he began to draw his sword.

"My blood boiled in a second. All the bile which had been aroused during

the previous hour or so rushed to my face. I seized the bench-iron and

struck him with it. You know, my lads, whether my fist is usually a

light one, but it seemed to me that that day I had a thunderbolt at the

end of my arm. At the first blow the Prussian measured his length upon

the floor. I thought he was only stunned. Ah! well, yes! But all I had

to do was to clear out, to get myself out of the pickle.

"It seemed queer to me, who had never killed anything--not even a

lark--in my life, to see the great body lying there. My faith! but he

was a fine fair-haired fellow, with a curly beard like deal shavings. My

legs trembled as I looked--and now the brat upstairs was beginning to

feel lonely, and to yell out, 'Papa, papa!' at the top of his voice.

"There were some Prussians passing along the road. I could see their

sabres and their long legs through the casement of the underground room.

Suddenly the idea struck me--'If they enter the child is lost.' That was

enough. I trembled no longer. In a second I dragged the corpse under the

bench, covered it with planks and shavings, and hurried up the stairs to

join the child.

"'Here I am!' I said.

"'What is the matter, papa? How pale you are!'

"'Come, let us get on!'

"I declare to you that the 'Cossacks' might hustle me, or regard me with

suspicion, but I would not take any notice of them. It seemed that some

one was running after me, and crying out behind us all the time. Once

when a horseman came galloping up, I thought I would have fallen down in

a faint! However, after I had passed the bridges I began to pull myself

together. Saint Denis was full of people. There was no risk of our being

fished out of the crowd. Then I only thought of our little cottage. The

Prussians would surely burn it when they found their comrade, to say

nothing of the risk of Jaquot, my neighbour, the water-bailiff, who,

being the only Frenchman left in the hamlet, would be held responsible

for the dead soldier! Truly it was scarcely plucky to save myself in

such a way!

[Illustration: "I RAISED HIM ON MY BACK."]

"I felt that I must arrange for the concealment of the body somehow! The

nearer we came to Paris the closer I cherished this idea. I could not

leave that Prussian in my basement. So at the ramparts I hesitated no

longer.

"'You go on,' I said to the brat, 'I have another place to visit in

Saint Denis.'

"I embraced him, and turned back. My heart was beating rather fast, but

all the same I felt easier in my mind, not having the child with me

then.

"When I again reached Villeneuve, night was approaching. I kept my eyes

open, you may depend, and advanced foot by foot. The place seemed quiet

enough, however. I could discern the hut still standing yonder in the

mist. There was a long black line, or row, upon the quay. This

'palisade' was composed of Prussians calling the roll. A splendid

opportunity to find the house deserted. As I made my way along I noticed

Father Jaquot engaged in drying his nets. Decidedly nothing was known

yet. I entered my house, I went down into the basement and felt about

among the shavings. The Prussian was there! There were also a couple of

rats already busy at work at his helmet, and, for a moment, I had a

horrible fright, when I felt his chinstrap move! Was he reviving? No;

his head was heavy and cold.

"I crouched in a corner and waited. I had the idea to throw the body

into the Seine when the others were all asleep.

"I do not know whether it was the proximity of the dead, but I was

uncommonly sorry when the Prussians sounded the 'retreat' that night.

Loud trumpet blasts resounded--Ta-ta-ta! three by three, regular toad's

music. It is not to such music that our fellows wish to go to bed!

"For some five minutes I heard the clanking of sabres, the tapping at

doors; and then the soldiers entered the court-yard and began to shout--

"'Hofmann! Hofmann!'

"Poor Hofmann remained quite quiet under his shavings; but 'twas I who

was on the alert. Every instant I expected to see the guard enter. I had

picked up the dead man's sabre, and there I was ready, but saying to

myself, 'If you get out of this scrape, my boy, you will owe a splendid

wax taper to Saint John the Baptist of Belleville!'

[Illustration: "I PUSHED AND PUSHED."]

"However, after they had called several times my tenants decided to

return. I could hear their heavy boots upon the staircase, and in a few

moments the whole house was snoring like a country clock. This was all I

had been waiting for. I looked out.

"The place was deserted; all the houses were in darkness. Good for me! I

redescended quickly, drew my Hofmann from beneath the bench, stood him

upright, raised him on my back, like a burden, or a bale. But wasn't he

heavy, the brigand! What with his weight, my terror, and the want of

food, I was afraid that I should not have strength to reach my

destination. Then no sooner had I reached the centre of the quay than I

heard someone walking behind me. I turned round. There was no one! The

moon was rising. I said to myself, 'I must look out; the sentries will

fire!'

"To add to my trouble the Seine was low. If I had cast the corpse on the

bank it would have remained there as in a cistern. I went on; no water!

I could not go out any farther: my breath came thick and short. I

panted. At length when I thought I had gone far enough, I threw down my

load. There he goes into the mud! I pushed and pushed! _Hue!_ There!

"Fortunately a puff of wind came up from the east, the river rose a

little, and I felt the 'Maccabee' leave his moorings gently. Pleasant

journey to him! I took a draught of water, and quickly mounted the bank.

* * * * *

"As I passed the bridge at Villeneuve the people were gazing at

something black in the water. At that distance it had the appearance of

a wherry. It was my Prussian, who was coming down on the current, in the

middle of the stream!"

[Illustration]

_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._

[Illustration: _From a Painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A._

AGE 22.]

ALFRED TENNYSON.

BORN 1809.

The novel portrait gallery which is here commenced, and in which it is

our purpose to give portraits, month by month, of the most eminent men

and women of the day at different times of life, cannot be more fitly

opened than with those of the great poet whose name has been for more

than fifty years the glory of our literature. Portraits of Lord Tennyson

in youth are rare; but Lord Tennyson himself has had the kindness to

assist us. "Mayall, of Regent-street," he writes, "has done the best

photograph, and Cameron, of 70, Mortimer-street, has a photograph, as a

young man, from a portrait by Lawrence." These are the two here

reproduced. Both have a special interest, besides the interest of

comparison which belongs to all the series: the first, as a portrait of

the poet, by one of the best artists of that day, at an age when his

first volume--tiny, but of dazzling promise--had just been given to the

world; and the second, as that which Lord Tennyson regards as the best

portrait of himself in later life.

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Mayall, Regent Street._

AGE 52.]

PROF. BLACKIE.

BORN 1809.

We are indebted to the kindness of Professor Blackie for three portraits

of himself at widely different ages. Three-quarters of a century is so

vast a span of human life, that the resemblance between the charming

little boy of five in frills and the grey Professor of eighty, who might

be his great-grandfather, though distinctly traceable, may not at first

be visible to all. At five years old John Stuart Blackie was, we may

assume, most interested in tops and pop-guns; at forty-five he was a

University Professor, and just returning from his tour to Athens, which

was the origin of his well-known advocacy of the study of modern Greek;

at eighty he was--as he still is, and as we trust he may long be--at

once the most learned and the most popular of living Scotchmen.

[Illustration: _From a Painting._

AGE 5.]

[Illustration: _From a Lithograph._

AGE 45.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Elliott & Fry._

AGE 80.]

[Illustration: AGE 21.]

[Illustration: AGE 30.]

[Illustration: AGE 36.]

[Illustration: AGE 54.]

THE REV. C. H. SPURGEON.

BORN 1834.

Most men born to be great preachers have, at the age of twenty-one, not

yet attempted their first sermon. Four years before that age Mr.

Spurgeon, "the boy preacher," was speaking every Sunday to a crowd which

overflowed the chapel doors and mobbed the very windows. Before

1855--the date of our first portrait--he had been called to London, and

was drawing such a throng to the chapel in New Park-street, that the

building had speedily to be enlarged. That year was also memorable for

another reason; in January Mr. Spurgeon issued the first sermon of the

unexampled series which was to run without an interruption, week by

week, for five-and-thirty years. Long before the date of our second

portrait, the New Park-street chapel, in spite of its enlargement, had

become too small to hold the congregation. The Metropolitan Tabernacle

was erected, and from that time down to this has been crowded every

Sunday to the doors.

For leave to reproduce the portraits above given, our thanks are due

alike to Mr. Spurgeon, and to Messrs. Passmore & Alabaster, to whom the

copyright belongs.

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Miss Bond, Southsea._

AGE 8.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Window & Grove._

AGE 18.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Window & Grove._

AGE 28.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Window & Grove._

PRESENT DAY.]

MISS ELLEN TERRY.

There is an old wives' saying, that pretty children often grow up plain,

and _vice versâ_; but, as our readers may determine for themselves, Miss

Ellen Terry has been always charming. And she has always been an

actress. At the age of eight, as our first portrait shows her, she was

playing as the child _Mamillius_ in the "The Winter's Tale," with

Charles Kean's company, at the Princess's, and was already giving

promise of the mingled power and charm which perhaps have never been

more fully manifest than in the part of _Lucy Ashton_, which all London

is now crowding the Lyceum to see.

For all the photographs here reproduced we have to thank the kindness of

Miss Terry.

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Walker & Sons._

AGE 29.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Lock & Whitfield._

AGE 30.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph._

AGE 39.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Mr. S. A. Walker._

AGE 42.]

HENRY IRVING.

BORN 1838.

Mr. Irving wearing a moustache presents an unfamiliar aspect; but such

was his appearance when, in 1867, he had just made his great success in

"Hunted Down," at Manchester. The year after, Mr. Irving deprived

himself of his moustache in order to play _Dorincourt_ in "The Belle's

Stratagem," and appeared as in our second portrait--which, however, he

assures us, is a shade too plump to be his accurate presentment. Ten

years later, when Mr. Irving was preparing to amaze the world as

_Hamlet_, at the Lyceum, his features had assumed the well-known aspect

which they wear in our third portrait, and which is still more visible

in the last of the series, which has been selected as one of Mr.

Irving's favourites among the stock of photographs which he has very

kindly placed at our disposal.

[Illustration: AGE 29.

_From a Photograph by Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Elliott & Fry._

AGE 52.]

ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE.

BORN 1837.

It has been said that every poet destined to become famous has written a

great poem before five-and-twenty. Mr. Swinburne is, however, an

exception to this rule. He was seven-and-twenty when, 1864, he published

"Atalanta in Calydon," his first great work, and the finest imitation of

a Greek play ever written. Two years later, the first series of "Poems

and Ballads" proved conclusively that the new singer who had arisen must

be classed with Shelley at the head of all the lyric bards of England.

Mr. Swinburne's appearance at that time is given in the first of our two

portraits, which is said by those who knew him to be an admirable

likeness.

Nearly a quarter of a century has since elapsed, and it is interesting

to notice how the course of years, which has failed to tame the fiery

vigour of his verse, has wrought the younger aspect of the poet into the

older and still finer one.

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Maull & Co_.

AGE 19.]

[Illustration: _From a Photo. by Messrs. Sayer & Bird, Norwich_.

AGE 28.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Messrs. Elliott & Fry._

AGE 55.]

SIR JOHN LUBBOCK, BART.

BORN 1834.

Sir John Lubbock, at nineteen, was already showing, in his father's bank

in Lombard-street, the remarkable capacity for business which he

combines beyond example with pre-eminence in literature and science. At

twenty-eight, the age at which our second portrait represents him, he

was already meditating his great work on "Prehistoric Times"--a book

which has been translated into all the leading languages, and to which

the writer chiefly owes his fame. Sir John Lubbock's mind, as is well

known, is of the enviable kind which can find its interests alike in the

great and in the little, in the past and in the present--which can pass

from the wigwam of a prehistoric savage to the London of to-day, and

turn with equal gusto from canoes to County Councils, and from banks to

bees.

Our portraits are reproduced from photographs kindly lent by Sir John

Lubbock for the purpose.

[Illustration: _From a Daguerreotype._

AGE 3.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph._

AGE 7.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by M. G. Blaise, Tours._

AGE 19.]

[Illustration: _From a Photograph by Mr. A. J. Melhuish._

AGE 34.]

H. RIDER HAGGARD.

BORN 1856.

It is not often possible to present a portrait of a well-known writer

taken in his nursery days; but in the case of Mr. Rider Haggard, he has

obligingly enabled us to do so, as well as to reproduce a portrait of

himself when, as a boy of seven, he was probably about to quit the

nursery for the schoolroom. The third portrait of the series represents

him when, at nineteen, as secretary to Sir Henry Bulwer, he was about to

pay a lengthy visit to Natal--there to acquire the thorough familiarity

with the scenery and the people of South Africa, which he was afterwards

to turn to excellent account, especially in "Jess." Our final portrait,

which is taken from a recent photograph, represents him as he is at

present, when he has proved himself the best romantic writer of the

day.

_A Fair Smuggler._

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF MICHAEL LERMONTOFF.

[MICHAEL LERMONTOFF was born at Moscow in the year 1814. His father

was an officer on active service; and, his mother having died while

he was still in petticoats, he was brought up by his grandmother, a

rich old lady, who had a pretty house at the village of Tarkhanui.

Michael, who was in temperament a kind of Russian Hotspur, and who

was petted and spoilt at home, was sent in due course to the

University, where he picked a quarrel with a bullying tutor, and

was speedily expelled. Then he entered the Military College at St.

Petersburg, and obtained a commission in the Horse Guards. His

bitter wit and biting tongue involved him in perpetual duels. His

genius was still sleeping; but the sound of the pistol which killed

Pushkin awoke it suddenly to life. Pushkin's works had long been

his delight; and, indeed, their characters had much in

common--though in appearance, with his tall and powerful figure,

his fair and waving hair, his large blue eyes and chiselled mouth,

Lermontoff was exactly the reverse of the dusky little

gipsy-looking Pushkin. His fate also was to be the same. In a piece

of fiery verse he called upon the Czar to avenge the death of the

great poet. The poem was regarded by the Czar as an impertinence,

and Lermontoff was banished to the Caucasus. The wild and savage

mountains suited well his fiery temper, and he became "the poet of

the Caucasus," the singer of the lives, the legends, and the

adventures of the stern and rocky mountaineers. He wrote also one

prose work, "A Hero of our Times," from which we take the present

story. Something in the book involved him in a duel--the last he

was to fight, though he was only twenty-seven. As the challenged

party, he possessed the choice of weapons and the mode of fighting;

and he chose to fight with pistols on the margin of a precipice, so

that, if either of the rivals staggered from a wound, he must

infallibly fall over and be dashed to pieces. This strange

encounter actually took place; and Lermontoff, struck by his

opponent's bullet, reeled, and fell back into the terrible abyss.]

Taman is the most wretched of all our maritime towns. I almost died of

hunger there, besides being nearly drowned.

I arrived very late at night in a wretched _telega_. The coachman

stopped his tired horses close to a stone building, which stands by

itself at the entrance to the town. A Black Sea Cossack, who was on

guard, heard the bells of my carriage, and cried out, with the sharp

accent of a person suddenly waked up, "Who goes there?"

[Illustration: "OUT CAME THE SERGEANT AND CORPORAL."]

Out came the sergeant and corporal. I told them I was an officer,

travelling by order of the Crown, and that I wanted a billet somewhere.

The corporal took us into the town. All the houses we tried were already

occupied. The weather was cold; I had been three nights without sleep. I

was very tired, and our useless inquiries ended by irritating me.

"My friend," I said to the corporal, "take me to some place where I can

at least lie down, no matter where it is."

"I know a hut in the neighbourhood," replied the corporal, "where you

might sleep; but I am afraid it would scarcely suit your honour."

"Go on," I said, paying no attention to his observation.

After much walking through dirty little streets, we at last reached a

sort of cabin on the edge of the sea.

The full moon cast its light on the thatched roof and the white walls of

my proposed habitation. In the court, surrounded by a sort of palisade,

I saw a hut, older and more broken down than the principal one. From

this hut the ground sloped rapidly through the court down towards the

sea, and I saw at my feet the foam of the troubled waters. The moon

seemed to be contemplating the restless element, which was undergoing

her influence. By the rays of the ruler of the night, I could make out,

at a considerable distance from the shore, two ships, whose black sails

stood out like spiders' webs against the dull tints of the sky. "This

will do," I said to myself, "to-morrow morning I shall start for

Ghelendchik."

A Cossack of the line was acting as my servant. I told him to take out

my trunk and send away the postilion; after which I called the master of

the house. I could get no answer. I knocked, but there was still no

reply. What could it mean? I knocked again, and at last a boy of about

fourteen showed himself.

"Where's the master of the house?"

"There is none," returned the child, in the dialect of Little Russia.

"No master! then where is the mistress?"

"Gone into the village."

"Who will open the door then?" I cried, at the same time kicking at it.

The door opened of itself, and out came a wave of damp steam.

I struck a match, and saw by its light a blind boy, standing motionless

before me.

I must here say that I am strongly prejudiced against the blind, the

deaf, the lame, the hunchbacked; in short, against the deformed in

general. I have remarked that there is always a singular correspondence

between the physical formation of a man and his moral nature; as though

by the loss of a member the individual lost certain faculties of the

soul.

I examined the child's face; but what can one make of a physiognomy

without eyes? I looked at him for some time, with a feeling of

compassion, when suddenly I saw on his lips a cunning smile, which

produced upon me a very disagreeable impression. "Could this blind boy

be not so blind as he appeared?" I said to myself. Answering my own

question I said that the boy was evidently suffering from cataract, and

that the appearance of cataract cannot be simulated. Why, moreover,

should he affect blindness? Yet in spite of my argument I still remained

vaguely suspicious.

"Is the mistress of the cabin your mother?" I said to the boy.

"No."

"Who are you, then?"

"A poor orphan," he replied.

"Has the mistress any children?"

"She has one daughter, who has gone to sea with a Tartar."

"What Tartar?"

"How do I know? A Tartar of the Crimea, a boatman from Kertch."

[Illustration: "THE WOMAN TRIED TO PIERCE THE DARKNESS."]

I went into the hut. Two benches, a table, and a large wardrobe, placed

near the stove, composed the whole of the furniture. No holy image

against the wall--bad sign!

The sea-breeze came in through the broken panes of the window. I took a

wax candle from my portmanteau, and after lighting it prepared to

install myself. I placed on one side my sabre and my carbine, laid my

pistols on the table, stretched myself out on a bench, and, wrapping

myself up in my fur-lined coat, lay down.

My Cossack took possession of the other bench. Ten minutes afterwards he

was fast asleep; I, however, was still awake, and could not drive from

my mind the impression made upon me by the boy, with his two white eyes.

An hour passed. Through the window fell upon the floor the fantastic

light of the moon.

Suddenly a shadow was cast, where before there had been bright light. I

sprang up, and went to the window. A human figure passed once more, and

then disappeared--heaven knows where. I could scarcely believe that it

had escaped by the slope into the sea; yet there was no other issue.

Throwing on my overcoat, and taking my sabre, I went out of the cabin,

and saw the blind boy before me. I concealed myself behind the wall, and

he passed on confidently, but with a certain cautiousness. He was

carrying something under his arm, and advanced slowly down the slope

towards the sea. "This is the hour," I said to myself, "in which speech

is restored to the dumb and sight to the blind."

I followed him at some distance, anxious not to lose sight of him.

During this time the moon became covered with clouds, and a black fog

rose over the sea. It was just possible to distinguish in the darkness a

lantern on the mast of a ship at anchor, close to the shore. The waves

were rolling in, and threatened, if he continued to advance, to swallow

up my blind adventurer. He was now so near the sea, that with another

step he would be lost. But this was not the first of his nocturnal

expeditions; so at least I concluded from the agility with which he now

sprang from rock to rock, while the sea poured in beneath his feet.

Suddenly he stopped as though he had heard some noise, sat down upon a

rock, and placed his burden by his side. He was now joined by a white

figure walking along the shore. I had concealed myself behind one of the

rocks, and overheard the following conversation.

"The wind," said a woman's voice, "is very violent; Janko will not

come."

"Janko," replied the blind boy, "Janko is not afraid of the wind."

"But the clouds get thicker and thicker."

"In the darkness it is easier to escape the coast-guard."

"And what if he gets drowned?"

"You will have no more bright ribbons to wear on Sunday."

As I listened to this colloquy, I remarked that the blind boy, who had

spoken to me in the Little Russian dialect, talked quite correctly the

true Russian language.

[Illustration: "WHERE WERE YOU GOING LAST NIGHT?"]

"You see," he continued, clapping his hands, "I was right. Janko fears

neither the sea, nor the wind, nor the fog, nor the coast-guard.

Listen! It is not the breaking of the waves I hear. No, it is the noise

of his oars."

The woman got up, and, with an anxious look, tried to pierce the

darkness. "You are wrong," she said, "I hear nothing."

I also tried to see whether there was not some sort of craft in the

distance, but could distinguish nothing. A moment later, however, a

black speck showed itself among the waves, now rising, now falling. At

last I could make out the form of a boat dancing on the waters, and

rapidly approaching the shore.

The man who was guiding it must have been a bold sailor to cross on such

a night an arm of the sea some fourteen miles across, and must have had

good reasons for braving so much danger. I watched the frail little

craft which was now diving and plunging like a duck through the

breakers. It seemed as though she must the next moment be dashed to

pieces on the shore, when suddenly the skilful rower turned into a

little bay, and there, in comparatively calm water, effected a landing.

The man was of middle height, and wore on his head a cap of black

sheep-skin. He made a sign with his hand, when the two mysterious

persons who had been talking together, joined him. Then the three united

their forces to drag from the boat a burden which seemed to be so heavy,

that I cannot even now understand how so slight a craft could have

supported such a weight. They at last hoisted the cargo on their

shoulders, then walked away and soon disappeared.

The best thing for me to do now was to return to my resting-place. But

the strange scene I had witnessed had so struck me that I waited

impatiently for daybreak.

My Cossack was much surprised when, on waking up, he found me fully

dressed. I said nothing to him about my nocturnal excursion. I remained

for some little time looking through the window with admiration at the

blue sky, studded with little clouds, and the distant shore, the Crimea,

stretched along the horizon like a streak of violet, ending in a rock,

above which could be seen the tower of a lighthouse. Then I went out,

and walked to the fort of Chanagora to ask the commandant when I could

go to Ghelendchik.

Unfortunately the commandant could give me no positive answer; the only

vessels in port were stationary ones, and trading ships which had not

yet taken in their cargo. "Perhaps," he said, "in three or four days a

mail packet will come in, and then something can be arranged."

I went back in a very bad humour to my lodging. At the door stood the

Cossack, who, coming towards me with rather a scared look, said

inquiringly:--

"Bad news?"

"Yes," I answered. "Heaven knows when we shall get away from here."

At these words the anxiety of the soldier seemed to increase. He came

close to me, and murmured, in a low voice:--

"This is not a place to stop at. I met just now a Black Sea Cossack of

my acquaintance--we were serving in the same detachment last year. When

I told him where we had put up: 'Bad place,' he said; 'bad people.' And

what do you think of that blind boy? Did anyone ever before see a blind

person running about from one place to another; going to the bazaar,

bringing in bread and water? Here they seem to think nothing of it."

"Has the mistress of the place come in?"

"This morning, while you were out, an old woman came with her daughter."

"What daughter? Her daughter is away."

"I don't know who it is, then. But look, there is the old woman sitting

down in the cabin."

I went in. A good fire was shining in the stove, and a breakfast was

being prepared, which, for such poor people, seemed to me rather a

luxurious one. When I spoke to the old woman, she told me that she was

stone deaf.

It was impossible, then, to talk with her. I turned to the blind boy,

and, taking him by the ear, said:--

"I say, you little wizard, where were you going last night with that

parcel under your arm?"

He at once began to moan and cry, and then sobbed out:

"Where was I going last night? I went nowhere. And with a parcel! What

parcel?"

The old woman now proved that her ears, when she so desired it, were by

no means closed.

"It is not true," she cried. "Why do you tease an unfortunate boy? What

do you take him for? What harm has he done you?"

I could stand the noise no longer. So I went out, determined somehow or

other to find the solution of this riddle.

Wrapped up in my overcoat, I sat down on a bench before the door. Before

me broke the waves of the sea, still agitated by the tempest of the

night. Their monotonous noise seemed to resemble the confused murmurs of

a town. As I listened I thought of bygone years--of the years I had

passed in the north, of our bright, fresh capital; and little by little

I became absorbed in my recollections.

[Illustration: "ON THE ROOF OF THE CABIN I SAW A YOUNG GIRL."]

About an hour passed, perhaps more. Suddenly the cadences of a singing

voice struck my ear. I listened, and heard a strange melody, now slow

and sad, now rapid and lively. The sounds seemed to fall from the sky. I

looked up, and on the roof of the cabin I saw a young girl, in a

straight dress, with dishevelled hair, like a naiad. With one hand

placed before her eyes to keep off the rays of the sun, she looked

towards the distant horizon and still continued her song.

It seemed to me that this was the woman whose voice I had heard the

night before on the sea-shore. I looked again towards the singer, but

she had disappeared. A moment after she passed rapidly before me,

singing another song and snapping her fingers. She went to the old woman

and said something to her. The old woman seemed annoyed. The young girl

burst into a laugh. Then, with a bound, she came close to me, suddenly

stopped and looked at me fixedly, as though surprised to see me. Then

turning away with an air of indifference, she walked quietly towards the

shore.

But her manoeuvres were not yet at an end. All the rest of the day I

saw her at short intervals, always singing and dancing. Strange

creature! There was nothing in her physiognomy to denote insanity. On

the contrary, her eyes were intelligent and penetrating. They exercised

on me a certain magnetic influence, and seemed to expect a question. But

whenever I was on the point of speaking she took to flight with a sly

smile on her lips.

I had never seen such a woman before. She could scarcely be called

beautiful; but I have my own ideas on the subject of beauty. There was a

thoroughbred look about her, and with women as with horses, there is

nothing like breed. It can be recognised chiefly in the walk and in the

shape of the hands and feet. The nose is also an important feature. In

Russia regular noses are more rare than little feet. My siren must have

been about eighteen years of age.

What charmed me in her was the extraordinary suppleness of her figure,

the singular movements of her head, and her long, fair hair, hanging

down in waves of gold on her neck, and her nose, which was perfectly

formed.

In her sidelong glance there was something dark and wild; as there was

something fascinating in the pure lines of her nose. The light-hearted

singer recalled to me the Mignon of Goethe, that fantastic creation of

the German mind. Between these two personages there was indeed a

striking resemblance. The same sudden transitions from restless

agitation to perfect calm; the same enigmatic words and the same songs.

Towards the evening I stopped my Undine at the door of the hut, and said

to her:

"Tell me, my pretty one, what you were doing to-day on the roof?"

"I was seeing in what direction the wind blew."

"How did that concern you?"

"Whence blows the wind, thence comes happiness."

"And your singing was to bring you good fortune?"

"Where singing is heard, there is joy."

"But what should you say if your singing caused unhappiness?"

"If unhappiness arrives it must be borne. And from grief to joy the

distance is not great."

"Who taught you these songs?"

"No one; I dream and I sing; those who understand me listen to me, and

those who do not listen to me cannot understand me."

"What is your name?"

"Ask those who baptized me."

"And who baptized you?"

"I do not know."

"Ah! you are very mysterious, but I know something about you."

There was no sign of emotion on her face; her lips did not move.

"Last night," I continued, "you were on the sea-shore." Then I told her

the scene I had witnessed. I thought this would have caused her to

evince some symptom of anxiety, but it had no such effect.

"You assisted at a curious interview," she said to me with a laugh, "but

you do not know much, and what you do know you had better keep under

lock and key, as you would keep some precious treasure."

"But if," I continued, with a grave and almost menacing air, "I were to

relate what I saw to the commandant?"

At these words she darted away, singing, and disappeared like a

frightened bird. I was wrong in addressing this threat to her. At the

moment I did not understand all its gravity.

[Illustration: "THEN SHE DISAPPEARED."]

The night came. I told my Cossack to prepare the tea urn, lighted a wax

candle, and sat down at the table, smoking my long pipe. I was drinking

my tea when the door opened, and I heard the rustling of a dress. I rose

hastily and recognised my siren.

She sat down silently before me, and fixed me with a look which made me

tremble; one of those magical looks which had troubled my life in

earlier days. She seemed to expect me to speak to her, but some

undefinable emotion deprived me of the faculty of speech. Her

countenance was as pale as death. In this paleness I thought I could

see the agitation of her heart. Her fingers struck mechanically on the

table; her body seemed to shudder; her bosom rose violently and the

moment afterwards seemed compressed.

This species of comedy tired me at last, and I was about to bring it to

an end, in the most prosaic manner, by offering my fair visitor a cup of

tea; when suddenly she rose, and taking my head in her hands, gazed at

me with all the appearance of passionate tenderness.

A cloud covered my eyes, and I wished in my turn to kiss her, but she

escaped like a snake, murmuring as she did so, "To-night, when

everything is quiet, meet me on the shore." Then she disappeared,

upsetting as she did so my tea-urn and my solitary light.

"She is the very mischief!" cried my Cossack, who had been looking out

for his share of the tea.

He then lay down on his bench; and gradually my agitation subsided.

"Listen," I said to him. "If you hear a pistol-shot, hurry down as fast

as you can to the shore."

He rubbed his eyes, and replied mechanically, "Yes, sir."

I placed my pistol in my belt, and went out. The siren was waiting for

me at the top of the path leading down to the sea, lightly clad in a

stuff which clung to her waist like a scarf.

"Follow me," she said, taking me by the hand.

We walked down the rocky path in such a manner that I cannot understand

how I failed to break my neck. Then we turned sharply to the right, as

the blind boy had done the night before. The moon was not yet up. Two

little stars, like the fires of lighthouses, relieved the darkness. The

agitated waves lifted and let fall in regular cadence a solitary boat

close to the shore.

"Get in," she said. I hesitated, for I confess that I have not the least

taste for sentimental excursions on the sea. But it was impossible to

refuse. She leapt into the bark, I followed her, and off we went.

"What does all this mean?" I said getting angry.

"It means," she replied, making me sit down on a bench, and putting her

arms round my waist, "it means that I love you." Her burning cheek was

close to mine, and I felt her hot breath on my face. Suddenly I heard

something fall into the water. Instinctively my hand went to my belt.

The pistol was no longer there!

[Illustration: "I THREW HER INTO THE SEA."]

A horrible suspicion seized me. The blood rushed to my brain. I looked

at her. We were far from the shore and I could not swim. I tried to

escape from her embrace, but she clung to me like a cat, and almost

succeeded by a sudden jerk in throwing me out of the boat, which was

already on one side. I contrived, however, to restore the equilibrium;

and then began, between my perfidious companion and myself, a desperate

struggle, in which I employed all my strength, while feeling that the

abominable creature was overcoming me by her agility.

"What do you mean?" I said to her, squeezing her little hands so tightly

that I heard her fingers crack; but whatever pain I may have caused her

she did not utter a word. Her reptile nature could not thus be overcome.

"You saw us," she cried at last. "You want to denounce us." Then by a

rapid and violent effort she threw me down. Her body and mine were now

bending over the side of the frail craft, and her hair was in the water.

The moment was a critical one. I got up on my knees, took her with one

hand by the hair, with the other by the throat, and when I had at last

compelled her to unclutch my clothes, I threw her into the sea.

Twice her head reappeared above the foaming waves. Then I saw her no

more.

In the bottom of the boat I found an old oar, with which, after much

labour, I succeeded in getting to the shore. As I walked back to the hut

by the path leading to the sea, I looked towards the place where the

night before the blind boy had been awaiting the arrival of the sailor.

The moon at this moment was shining in the sky, and I fancied I could

discern on the seashore a white figure. Filled with curiosity, I

concealed myself behind a sort of promontory, from which I could remark

what was going on around me. What was my surprise, and I almost say my

joy, when I saw that the white figure was my naiad? She was wringing the

water out of her long, fair locks, and her wet dress clung to her body.

A boat, which I could just see in the distance, was coming towards us.

Out of it sprang the same boatman whom I had seen the night before, with

the same Tartar cap. I now saw that his hair was cut in the Cossack

fashion, and that from his girdle hung a large knife.

"Janko," cried the young girl, "all is lost."

Then they began to talk, but in so low a voice that I could not hear

them.

"Where is the blind boy?" said Janko at last, raising his voice.

"He will be here soon," was the answer.

At that very moment the blind boy appeared, carrying on his back a

packet, which he placed in the bark.

"Listen," said Janko, "keep a good watch here; the things you know are

valuable. Tell"--(here a name was uttered which I could not catch) "that

I am no longer in his service. Things have taken a bad turn. He will see

me no more. The situation is so dangerous that I must get something to

do elsewhere. He will not find such another very easily. You may add

that, if he had rewarded more liberally the dangerous services rendered

to him, Janko would not have left him in the lurch. If he wants to know

where to find me--where the wind howls, where the sea foams, that is

where I am at home."

After a moment's silence, Janko went on: "Say she accompanies me. She

cannot remain here. Tell the old woman that she has done her time, and

that she ought to be satisfied. We shall not see her again."

"And I?" murmured the blind boy.

"I cannot be troubled about you."

The young girl leapt into the boat, and with her hand made a sign to her

companion.

"Here," he said to the blind boy, "that will do to buy a gingerbread."

"Nothing more?" replied the child.

"Yes, take this," and a piece of money fell upon the sands.

The blind boy did not pick it up.

Janko took his place in the boat. The blind boy remained sitting down on

the seashore, and he seemed to be crying. Poor fellow! his grief

afflicted me. Why had fate thrown me in the midst of this peaceful

circle of smugglers? As a stone troubles the water, I had brought

disorder into these lives, and like the stone, moreover, I had very

nearly sunk.

When I got back to the cabin, my Cossack was so fast asleep that it

would have been cruel to disturb him. I lighted the candle, and saw that

my little box containing my valuables, my sabre with silver mountings,

my Circassian dagger (given to me by a friend), had all been carried

off. I now understood what the packet placed in the boat by the blind

boy must have contained.

I woke up my Cossack with a blow, reproached him for his negligence, and

fairly lost my temper. But my anger could not make me find what I had

lost.

And how could I complain to the authorities? Should not I have been

laughed at if I had told them that I had been robbed by a blind boy, and

almost drowned by a young girl?

_The Maid of Treppi._

FROM THE GERMAN OF PAUL HEYSE.

[PAUL HEYSE, the greatest German novelist now living, was born in

1830, at Berlin. His father was a celebrated scholar and professor

at the University; and he himself, while still a student, undertook

a special tour in Italy in order to examine manuscripts in the

libraries of Florence, Rome, and Venice. He was only twenty-four,

when King Maximilian of Bavaria invited him to Munich, where he

married the daughter of the eminent art critic, Franz Kugler, and

where he has ever since resided. He had already turned from the dry

bones of scholarship to the more congenial task of writing dramas,

poems, and romances. His short stories--of which "The Maid of

Treppi" is an excellent example--are his best achievements, and are

full of passion, character, and romantic charm.]

CHAPTER I.

On the summit of the Apennines, just between Tuscany and the northern

part of the States of the Church, there lies a solitary little village

called Treppi. The paths that lead up to it are not fit for driving.

Some miles further south the road for the post and "vetturine" goes

winding through the mountains. None but the peasants who have to deal

with the shepherds pass by Treppi; occasionally, too, a painter or

pedestrian anxious to avoid the highroad, and at night the smugglers

with their pack-mules, who, better than anyone, know of wild rocky paths

by which to reach the solitary little village at which they make but a

short stay.

It was towards the middle of October, a season when up in those heights

the nights are still very clear and bright. But after the burning hot

sun of the day in question, a fine mist rose up from the ravine, and

spread itself slowly over the bare but noble-looking rocks of the

highland. It was about nine in the evening. A faint light from the fires

was still visible in the scattered low stone huts, which, during the

day, were taken care of by the oldest women and the youngest children

only. The shepherds with their families lay sleeping round the hearths

where the great kettles were swinging; the dogs had stretched themselves

amongst the ashes; one sleepless old grandmother still sat upon a heap

of skins, mechanically moving to and fro her spindle, and muttering a

prayer or rocking a restless child in its cradle. The damp, autumnal

night breeze came in through large crevices in the walls, and the smoke

from the expiring flames on the hearth encountering the mist was forced

back heavily and thickly, and floated beneath the ceiling of the hut

without seeming to inconvenience the old woman. Presently she, too,

slept as well as she could, but with wide open eyes.

[Illustration: "THE DOG RUBBED HIS NOSE IN HER HAND."]

In one house alone the dwellers were still stirring. Like the other

houses it had only one storey, but the stones were better put together,

the door was broader and higher, and adjoining the large square formed

by the actual dwelling house were various sheds, extra rooms, stables,

and a well-built brick oven. A group of well-laden horses stood before

the door; one of the farm servants was just removing the empty mangers,

while six or seven armed men emerged from the house into the fog and

began hastily getting their steeds ready. A very ancient dog, lying near

the door, merely wagged its tail at their departure. Then he raised

himself wearily from the ground and went slowly into the hut, where the

fire was still burning brightly.

His mistress stood by the hearth, turned towards the fire; her stately

form was motionless, her arms hanging loosely at her sides. When the dog

gently rubbed his nose in her hand, she turned round as though startled

out of some dream. "Fuoco," she said, "poor fellow, go to bed, you are

ill!" The dog whined and wagged its tail gratefully. Then he crept on to

an old skin by the hearth, and lay down coughing and moaning.

Meanwhile a few menservants had come in and seated themselves round the

large table on which stood the dishes left by the departing smugglers.

An old maid-servant filled these again with polenta out of the big

kettle, and taking her spoon sat down and joined the others. Not a word

was spoken whilst they were eating; the flames crackled, the dog growled

hoarsely in his sleep, the grave and solemn girl sitting on the stone

slab by the hearth left untouched the little dish of polenta specially

put there for her by the old maid, and gazed about the room buried in

thought. In front of the door the fog was like a dense white wall. But

at that moment the half-moon appeared, rising above the edge of the

rock.

Then there was a sound of horses' hoofs and footsteps approaching up the

path. "Pietro!" called out the young mistress of the house in quiet but

admonishing tones. A tall young fellow immediately got up from the table

and disappeared into the fog.

Steps and voices were heard drawing nearer, till the horse stopped at

the door. After a pause, three men appeared in the doorway and entered

with a brief greeting. Pietro went up to the girl who was gazing at the

fire without showing the slightest interest. "These are two men from

Porretta," he said to her, "without any wares; they are conducting a

gentleman across the mountains; his passport is not quite in order."

"Nina!" called the girl. The old maid-servant got up and went across to

the hearth.

"It is not only that they want something to eat, Padrona," continued the

man, "can the gentleman have a bed for the night? He does not wish to go

further before daybreak."

"Get ready a bed of straw for him in the chamber." Pietro nodded and

went back to the table.

The three new arrivals had seated themselves without any particular

attention being paid to them on the part of the servants. Two of them

were contrabandists, well armed, their jackets thrown carelessly across

their shoulders, and hats pushed well down over their brows. They nodded

to the others as though they were old acquaintances, and leaving a good

space between their companion and themselves they crossed themselves and

began to eat.

The traveller who had come with them ate nothing. He removed his hat

from a rather high forehead, passed his hand through his hair, and let

his eyes survey the place and company. He read the pious proverbs traced

with charcoal on the walls, looked at the picture of the Virgin with its

little lamp in the corner, the hens sleeping beside it on their perches,

then at the heads of maize hanging on a string from the ceiling, at a

shelf with bottles, and jars, and skins, and baskets, all heaped up

together. At last his eyes were attracted by the girl at the hearth. Her

dark profile stood out clear and beautiful against the flickering red of

the fire. A great nest of black plaits lay low on her neck, and her

joined hands were clasped round one knee, while the other foot rested on

the rocky floor of the room. He could not tell how old she was, but he

could see from her manner that she was the mistress of the house.

"Have you any wine in the house, Padrona?" he asked at last.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before the girl started as though

struck by lightning, and stood upright on the hearth, leaning with both

arms on the slab. At the same moment the dog woke up out of his sleep, a

savage growl issuing from his wheezing chest. Suddenly the stranger saw

four fiery eyes fixed on him.

"May one not ask whether you have any wine in the house, Padrona?" he

repeated. The last word was still unspoken when the dog, in quite

inexplicable fury, rushed at him, barking loudly, seized his cloak with

his teeth, and tore it from his shoulder, and would have flown at him

again if his mistress had not promptly called him off.

"Down, Fuoco, down! Quiet! Quiet!" The dog stood in the middle of the

room, whisking his tail angrily, and keeping his eye on the stranger.

"Shut him up in the stable, Pietro!" said the girl in an undertone. She

still stood petrified by the hearth, and repeated her order, seeing

Pietro hesitate. For many years the old dog's nightly resting place had

been by the fireside. The men all whispered together as the dog followed

most reluctantly, howling and barking terribly outside until at last he

seemed to stop from sheer exhaustion.

[Illustration: "HAVE YOU ANY WINE IN THE HOUSE, PADRONA?"]

Meanwhile, at a sign from her mistress, the maid had brought in the

wine. The stranger took a drink, passing on the goblet to his

companions, and meditated in silence on the very extraordinary scene he

had unconsciously been the cause of. One after another the men laid down

their spoons, and went out with a "Good-night, Padrona!" At last the

three were left alone with the hostess and the old maid.

"The sun rises at four o'clock," said one of the smugglers in an

undertone to the stranger. "Your Excellency need not rise any

earlier--we shall reach Pistoja in good time. Besides, we must think of

the horse, which must have six hours' rest."

"Very well, my friends. Go to bed!"

"We will waken your Excellency."

"Do so in any case," answered the stranger, "although the Madonna knows

I do not often sleep six hours at a stretch. Good-night, Carlone;

good-night, Master Baccio!"

The men raised their hats respectfully, and got up. One of them went up

to the hearth, and said:--

"I have a greeting for you, Padrona, from Costanzo of Bologna; he wants

to know if he forgot his knife here last Saturday?"

"No," she answered shortly and impatiently.

"I told him you would certainly have sent it back to him if it had been

left here. And then--"

"Nina," interrupted the girl, "show them the way to their room, in case

they have forgotten it."

The maid got up from her seat. "I only wanted to tell you, Padrona,"

continued the man with great calmness and a slight blinking of the eyes,

"that the gentleman there would not grudge the money if you give him a

softer bed than what we get. That is what I wanted to say, Padrona, and

now may the Madonna give you a good night, Signora Fenice!"

Thereupon he turned to his companion, and both bowing before the picture

in the corner they crossed themselves and left the room with the maid.

"Good night, Nina!" called out the girl. The old woman turned on the

threshold and made a sign of inquiry; then quickly and obediently closed

the door after her.

Hardly were they alone before Fenice took up a brass lamp which stood by

the fireside and lit it hurriedly. The flames from the hearth were

gradually dying out, and the three little red flames of the lamp only

sufficed to light up quite a small portion of the large room. It seemed

as though the darkness had made the stranger sleepy, for he sat at the

table with his head bowed on his arms, his cloak well wrapped round him,

as if he intended passing the night there. Then he heard his name

called, and looked up. The lamp was burning before him on the table, and

opposite stood the young hostess who had called him. Her glance met his

with the utmost firmness.

"Filippo," she said, "do you not know me again?"

For a short time he gazed inquiringly into the beautiful face which

glowed partly from the rays of the lamp and partly from fear as to what

would be the answer to her question. The face was indeed one worthy to

be remembered. The long silky eyelashes as they rose and fell softened

the severity of the forehead and delicately-cut nose. The mouth was

rosy--red in freshest youth; save only when silent there was a touch of

mingled grief, resignation, and fierceness not gainsayed by the black

eyes above. And as she stood there by the table the charm of her figure,

and especially the beauty of her head and neck, were plainly visible.

Still, however, after some consideration, Filippo merely said:

"I really do not know you, Padrona!"

"It is impossible," she answered in a strange low tone of certainty.

"You have had time these seven years to keep me in your memory. It is a

long time--long enough for a picture to be imprinted on the mind."

It was only then that the strange words seemed fully to rouse him out of

his own thoughts.

"Indeed, fair maid," he answered, "he who for seven years has nothing

else to do but think of one fair girl's face, must end at last in

knowing it by heart."

"Yes," she said meditatively, "that is it; that is just what you used to

say, that you would think of nothing else."

"Seven years ago? I was a gay and merry youth seven years ago. And you

seriously believed that?"

She nodded gravely three times. "Why should I not believe it? My own

experience shows me that you were right."

"Child," he said, with a good-natured look that suited his decided

features, "I am very sorry for that. I suppose seven years ago I thought

all women knew that the tender speeches of a man were worth about as

much as counters in a game, which certainly can be exchanged for true

gold, if expressly sealed and arranged so. How much I thought of all you

women seven years ago! Now, I must honestly confess, I seldom think of

you at all. Dear child, there is so much to think of far more

important."

She was silent, as though she did not understand it all, and was quietly

waiting till he should say something that really concerned her.

After a pause, he said: "It seems to dawn upon me now that I have once

before wandered through this part of the mountain. I might possibly have

recognised the village and this house, if it had not been for the fog.

Yes, indeed, it was certainly seven years ago that the doctor ordered me

off to the mountains, and I, like a fool, used to rush up and down the

steepest paths."

"I knew it," she said, and a touching gleam of joy spread over her face.

"I knew well you could not have forgotten it. Why, Fuoco, the dog, has

not forgotten it and his old hatred of you in those bygone days--nor I,

my old love."

She said this with so much firmness and so cheerfully, that he looked up

at her, more and more astonished.

"I can remember now," he said, "there was a girl whom I met once on the

summit of the Apennines, and she took me home to her parents' house.

Otherwise, I should have been obliged to spend the night on the cliffs.

I remember, too, she took my fancy--"

"Yes," she interrupted, "very much."

"But I did not suit _her_. I had a long talk with her, when she hardly

uttered ten words. And when I at last sought by a kiss to unseal her

lovely sullen little mouth--I can see her before me now--how she darted

to one side and picked up a stone in each hand, so that I hardly got

away without being pelted. If _you_ are that girl, then, how can you

speak to me of your old love?"

"I was only fifteen then, Filippo, and I was very shy. I had always been

very defiant, and left much alone, and I did not know how to express

myself. And then I was afraid of my parents. They were still living

then, as you can remember. My father owned all the flocks and herds, and

this inn here. There are not many changes since then. Only that he is no

longer here to look after it all--may his soul rest in Paradise! But I

felt most ashamed before my mother. Do you remember how you sat just at

that very place and praised the wine that we had got from Pistoja? I

heard no more. Mother looked at me sharply, and I went outside and hid

myself by the window, that I might still look at you. You were younger,

of course, but not any handsomer. You have still the same eyes with

which you then could win whomsoever you would, and the same deep voice

that made the dog mad with jealousy, poor thing! Until then I had loved

him alone. He felt that I loved you more; he felt it more than you did

yourself."

[Illustration: SOMETIMES ABUSING YOU]

"Yes," he said, "he was like a mad creature that night. It was a strange

night! You had certainly captivated me, Fenice. I know I could not rest

because you did not come back to the house, and I got up and went to

look for you outside. I saw the white kerchief on your head and then

nothing more, for you fled into the room next the stable. Even now I

feel ashamed when I think of the rage I was in as I went angrily away

and lay the whole night through in one long dream of you."

"I sat up all through the dark night," said she. "Towards morning sleep

overcame me, and when at last I started up and saw the sun was

high--what had become of you? No one told me, and I dared not ask. I

felt such a horror and dislike of seeing anyone, just as though they had

killed you on purpose that I might never see you again. I ran right

away, just as I was, up and down the mountains, sometimes calling aloud

for you and sometimes abusing you, for I knew I could never love anyone

again, and all through you. At last I descended to the plain; then I

took fright and went home again. I had been away two days. My father

beat me when I got back, and mother would not speak to me. Well, they

knew why I had run away. Fuoco the dog had been away with me, but

whenever in my solitude I called aloud for you, he always howled."

There ensued a pause; the eyes of each of them were fastened on the

other. Then Filippo said: "How long is it since your parents died?"

"Three years. They both died in the same week--may their souls rest in

Paradise! Then I went to Florence."

"To Florence?"

"Yes. You had told me you came from Florence. Some of the contrabandists

sent me to the wife of the 'caffetiere' out at San Miniato. I lived

there for a month, and used to send her into the town every day to ask

for you. In the evening I went down to the town myself and sought you.

At last we heard that you had long since gone away, but no one quite

knew where."

Filippo got up and paced the room with long strides. Fenice turned and

followed him with her eyes, but she showed no signs of such emotion as

he in his restlessness evinced. At last he approached, and looking at

her for a little, said, "And wherefore do you confess all this to me, my

poor child?"

"Because I have had seven long years in which to summon up courage to do

it. Ah! if only I had confessed it to you then, this cowardly heart of

mine would never have caused me such grief. I knew you would come again,

Filippo, but I did not think you would have waited so long; that grieved

me. But it is childish of me to talk like this. What does it matter now

all is past and over? Here you are, Filippo, and here am I; and I am

yours for ever and ever!"

"Dear child!" said he softly; but then was silent and kept back the

words trembling on his lips. She, however, did not notice how silent and

absorbed he was as he stood thus before her, gazing above her head at

the wall beyond. She went on talking quite calmly; it was as though her

own words were all well known to her, as if she had thousands of times

pictured to herself: He will come again, and then I will say this or

that to him.

[Illustration: "FILIPPO PACED THE ROOM WITH LONG STRIDES."]

"Many have wanted to marry me, both up here and when I was in Florence.

But I would have none but you. When anyone asked me, and made sweet

speeches to me, at once I seemed to hear your voice that memorable

night--your words, sweeter far than any words ever spoken on this earth.

For many years now they have let me be in peace, although I am not old

or ugly. It is just as if they all knew that you were soon to come

again." Then continuing: "And now, whither will you take me? Will you

stay up here? But no, that would never do for you. Since I have been to

Florence I know that it is dull up in the mountains. We will sell the

house and the flocks, and then I shall be rich. I have had enough of

this wild life with the people here. At Florence they were obliged to

teach me everything that was proper for a town maiden to know, and they

were astonished that I understood it all so quickly. To be sure, I had

not much time, and all my dreams told me that it would be up here that

you would come to seek me. I have consulted a fortune-teller too, and it

has all come to pass as she said."

"And what if I already have a wife?"

She looked at him in amazement. "You want to try me, Filippo! You have

no wife. The gipsy told me that, too. But she could not tell me where

you lived."

"She was right, Fenice, I have no wife. But how could she or you tell

that I ever intended to take one?"

"How could you not want to take me?" asked she in unwavering confidence.

"Sit down here beside me, Fenice! I have much to tell you. Give me your

hand. Promise me that you will hear me quietly and sensibly to the end."

As she did not comply with his request, he continued with a beating

heart, standing erect before her with his eyes fixed on her sadly, while

hers, as though apprehending danger to her life, were sometimes closed,

and sometimes roamed restlessly about the room.

"It is some years since I was obliged to flee from Florence," he

resumed. "You know, it was just the time of those political tumults, and

they lasted a long time. I am a lawyer, and know a great many people,

and I write and receive a quantity of letters throughout the year.

Besides, I was independent, proclaimed my opinion when necessary, and

was hated accordingly, although I never took part in any of their secret

plots and plans. At last I was obliged to leave the country with nothing

in prospect, if I did not wish to be imprisoned, and go through endless

trials. I went to Bologna, and lived there very quietly, attended to my

own business, and saw very few people, least of all any women; for

nothing now is left of the mad youth whose heart you so grievously

wounded seven years ago, save only that my head, or if you will, my

heart, is fit to burst when I cannot overcome any difficulty in my path.

You may, perhaps, have heard that Bologna is in an unsettled state, too,

latterly. Men of high position have been arrested, and amongst them one

whose life and habits have long been known to me, and of whom I knew

that all such things were foreign to his mind. My friend asked me to

undertake his case, and I helped him to liberty. Hardly was this made

public, when one day a wretched individual accosted me in the street,

and loaded me with insults. He was drunk and unworthy of notice; but I

could not get rid of him otherwise than by giving him a blow on the

chest. No sooner had I made my way out of the crowd and entered a café,

when I was followed by a relative of his, not drunk with wine, but mad

with rage and indignation. He accused me of having retaliated with a

blow instead of acting as every man of honour would have done. I

answered him as moderately as I could, for I saw through the whole

thing; it was all arranged by the Government in order to render me

powerless. But one word followed another, and my enemies at last won the

day. The other man pretended that he was obliged to go to Tuscany, and

insisted on having the affair settled there. I agreed to this, for it

was high time that one of our prudent party should prove to the unruly

ones that it was not want of courage that restrained us, but solely and

entirely the hopelessness of all secret revolutionary movements, when

opposed to so superior a power. But when I applied for a passport the

day before yesterday, it was refused, without their even deigning to

give me a reason for it; I was told it was by order of the highest

authorities. It was evident that they either wished to expose me to the

disgrace of having shirked the duel, or else to force me to cross the

frontier in some disguise, and thereby certainly cause my detention.

Then they would have had an excuse for bringing an action against me,

and letting it drag on as long as they thought fit."

"The wretches! The ungodly sinners!" interrupted the girl, and clenched

her fists.

"Nothing then was left me but to give myself up to the contrabandists at

Porretta. They tell me we shall reach Pistoja to-morrow morning early.

The duel is fixed for the afternoon in a garden outside the town."

Suddenly she seized his hand in hers. "Do not go down there, Filippo,"

she said. "They will murder you."

"Certainly they will, my child. But how do you know?"

"I feel it here and--here!" and she pointed with her finger to her brow

and heart.

"You, too, are a fortune-teller, an enchantress," he continued, with a

smile. "Yes, child, they will murder me. My adversary is the best shot

in the whole of Tuscany. They have done me the honour of confronting me

with a goodly enemy. Well, I shall not disgrace myself. But who knows

whether it will be all fair play? Who can tell? Or can your magic arts

foretell that too? Yet what would be the use, child! it would make no

difference."

After a short silence he went on: "You must banish entirely from your

thoughts any further encouragement of your former foolish love. Perhaps

all this has come about so that I might not leave this world without

first setting you free, free from yourself, poor child, and your unlucky

constancy. Perhaps, too, you know, we should have suited each other

badly. You have been true to quite a different Filippo, a young fellow

full of vain desires and without a care save those of love. What would

you do with such a brooding, solitary being as I?"

He drew near to her, muttering the last words as he walked up and down,

and would have taken her hand, but was startled and shocked to see the

expression of her face. All trace of softness had left her features, and

her lips were ashy pale.

"You do not love me," she said, slowly and huskily, as though another

voice were speaking in her, and she were listening to hear what was

meant. Then she pushed away his hand with a scream; the little flames of

the lamp were nearly blown out, and outside the dog began suddenly

barking and howling furiously. "You do not love me, no, no!" she

exclaimed, like one beside herself. "Would you rather go to the arms of

death than come to me? Can you meet me like this after seven years, only

to say farewell? Can you speak thus calmly of your death, knowing it

will be mine too? Better had it been for me had my eyes been blinded

before they saw you again, and my ears deaf before they heard the cruel

voice by which I live and die. Why did the dog not tear you to pieces

before I knew that you had come to rend my heart? Why did your foot not

slip on the chasm's brink? Alas! woe is me! Madonna, save me!"

She flung herself down before the picture, her forehead bowed to the

ground. Her hands were stretched out before her; she seemed to pray. Her

companion listened to the barking of the dog, and with it the mutterings

and groanings of the unhappy girl, while the moon increasing in power

shone through the room. But before he could collect himself or utter a

word he again felt her arms round his neck, and the hot tears falling on

his face.

"Do not go to meet your death, Filippo," sobbed the poor thing. "If you

stay with me, who could find you? Let them say what they will, the

murderous pack, the malicious wretches, worse than Apennine wolves.

Yes," she said, and looked up at him radiant through her tears, "you

will stay with me; the Madonna has given you to me that I might save

you. Filippo, I do not know what wicked words I may have spoken, but I

feel they were wicked; I knew it by the cold chill they sent to my

heart. Forgive me. It is a thought fit only for hell, that love can be

forgotten, and faithful constancy crushed and destroyed. But now let us

sit down and discuss everything. Would you like a new house? We will

build one. Other servants? We will send these all away, Nina too, even

the dog shall go. And if you still think that they might betray

you--why, we will go away ourselves, to-day, now; I know all the roads,

and before the sun has risen we should be down in the valley away

northwards, and wander, wander on to Genoa, to Venice, or wherever you

will."

"Stop!" said he harshly. "Enough of this folly. You cannot be my wife,

Fenice. If they do not kill me to-morrow, it will only be put off a

short time. I know how much I am in their way." And gently, but firmly,

he loosed her arms from round his neck.

"See here, child," he continued, "it is sad enough as it is; we do not

need to make it harder to bear through our own foolishness. Perhaps when

in years to come you hear of my death, you will look round at your

husband and your lovely children, and will feel thankful that he who is

dead and gone was more sensible than you at this interview, although on

that night of seven years ago, it may have been otherwise. Let me go to

bed now, and go you too, and let us settle not to see each other

to-morrow. Your reputation is a good one, as I heard from my companions

on the way here. If we were to embrace to-morrow, and you made a

scene--eh, dear child? And now--good-night, good-night, Fenice!"

Then again he offered her his hand. But she would not take it. She

looked as pale as ashes in the moonlight, and her eyebrows and downcast

lashes seemed all the darker. "Have I not already suffered enough," she

said in an undertone, "for having acted too coyly that one night seven

long years ago? And now he would again make me miserable with this

wretched prudence, and this time my misery would last to all eternity!

No, no, no! I will not let him go--I should be disgraced in the eyes of

all if I let him go and he were to die."

"Do you not understand that I wish to sleep now, girl," he interrupted

angrily, "and to be alone? Why do you go on talking in this wild fashion

and making yourself ill? If you do not feel that my honour forces me to

leave you, then you would never have suited me. I am no doll in your lap

to fondle and play with. My path is cut out for me, and it is too narrow

for two. Show me the skin on which I am to lie to-night; and then--let

us forget one another!"

"And if you were to drive me from you with blows I will not leave you!

If death were to come and stand between us, I would rescue you from him

with these strong arms of mine. In life and death--you are mine,

Filippo!"

"Silence!" cried he, very loudly. The colour rushed to his very brow as

he with both arms pushed the passionate pleader from him. "Silence! And

let there be an end of this, to-day, and for ever. Am I a creature or

thing to be seized upon by whoever will and whoever takes a fancy to me?

I am a man, and whoever would have me I must give myself up to freely.

You have sighed for me for seven years--have you any right therefore in

the eighth year to make me act to my dishonour? If you would bribe me,

you have chosen the means ill. Seven years ago I loved you because you

were different from what you now are. If you had flown round my neck

then and sought to wrest my heart from me with threats, I would have met

your threats with defiance as I do to-day. All is over now between us,

and I know that the pity I felt for you was not love. For the last time,

where is my room?"

He had said all this in harsh and cutting tones, and as he stopped

speaking the sound of his own voice seemed to give him a pang. But he

said no more, though wondering silently that she took it much more

quietly than he had expected. He would gladly now, with friendly words,

have appeased any stormy outbreak of her grief. But she passed coldly by

him, opened a heavy wooden door not far from the hearth, pointed

silently to the iron bolt on it, and then stepped back again to the

fireside.

[Illustration: "HE BOLTED THE DOOR BEHIND HIM."]

So he went into the room and bolted the door behind him. But he stayed

for some time close by the door, listening to what she was doing. No

movement was heard in the room, and in the whole house there was no

sound save from the restless dog, the horse stirring in the stable, and

the moaning of the wind outside as it scattered the last remains of the

fog. For the moon in all its splendour had risen, and when he pulled

away a large bundle of heather out of the hole in the wall that served

as a window, the room was lit up by its rays. He saw then that he was

evidently in Fenice's room. Against the wall stood her clean, narrow

bed, an open chest beside it, a small table, a wooden bench; the walls

were hung with pictures, saints and Madonnas; a holy water bowl was seen

beneath the crucifix by the door.

He sat himself down on the hard bed, and felt that a storm was raging

within him. Once or twice he half rose up to hasten to her and tell her

that he had only thus wounded her in order to comfort her afterwards.

Then he stamped on the floor, vexed at his own soft-heartedness. "It is

the only thing left for me to do," he said to himself, "unless I would

add to my guilt. Seven years, poor child!" Mechanically he took in his

hand a comb ornamented with little pieces of metal that was lying on the

table. This recalled to him her splendid hair, the proud neck on which

it lay, the noble brow round which the curls clustered, and the dusky

cheek. At last he tossed the tempting object into the chest, in which he

saw dresses, kerchiefs, and all sorts of little ornaments neatly and

tidily put away. Slowly he let fall the lid and turned to look out at

the hole in the wall.

The room was at the back of the house, and none of the other huts in

Treppi interfered with the view across the mountains. Opposite was the

bare ridge of rock rising up from behind the ravine, and all lit up by

the moon, then just over the house. On one side were some sheds, past

which ran the road leading down to the plain. One forlorn little

fir-tree, with bare branches, was growing among the stones; otherwise

the ground was covered with heather only, and here and there a miserable

bush. "Certainly," thought he, "this is not the place to forget what one

has loved. I would it were otherwise. In truth, she would have been the

right wife for me; she would have loved me more than dress and gaiety,

and the whisperings of gallants. What eyes my old Marco would make if I

suddenly came back from my travels with a lovely wife! We should not

need to change the house; the empty corners were always so uncanny. And

it would do me good, old grumbler that I am, if a laughing child--but

this is folly, Filippo, folly! What would the poor thing do left a widow

in Bologna? No, no! no more of this! Let me not add a fresh sin to the

old ones. I will wake the men an hour earlier, and steal away before

anyone is up in Treppi."

He was just going to move away from the window and stretch his limbs,

wearied from the long ride, on the bed, when he saw a woman's figure

step out from the shadow of the house into the moonlight. She never

turned her head, but he did not for a moment doubt that it was Fenice.

She walked away from the house with slow, steady steps down the road

leading to the ravine. A shudder ran through his frame as at that moment

the thought flashed across his mind that she would do herself some

injury. Without stopping to think, he flew to the door and pulled

violently at the bolt. But the rusty old iron had stuck so obstinately

fast in its place that he spent all his strength in vain. The cold sweat

stood on his brow; he shouted and shook and beat the door with fists and

feet, but it did not yield. At last he gave up, and rushed back again to

the window. Already one of the stones had given way to his fury, when

suddenly he saw the figure of the girl reappear on the road and come

towards the hut. She had something in her hand, but in the uncertain

light he could not make out what it was, but he could see her face

distinctly. It was grave and thoughtful--no trace of passion in it. Not

a single glance did she send to his window, and disappeared again into

the shade.

[Illustration: "NO ONE SHALL EVER DRINK OUT OF IT AGAIN."]

As he still stood there and drew a deep breath after his fright and

exertion, he heard a great noise which seemed to come from the old dog,

but it was no barking or whining. This puzzled him more than ever, it

was so uncanny. He stretched his head far out of the opening, but could

see nothing save the still night in the mountains. Suddenly there was a

short, sharp howl, then a low convulsive groan from the dog, but after

that, though he listened long and anxiously, not another sound the whole

night through, save that the door of the adjoining room was opened and

Fenice's step was heard on the stone floor. In vain he stood for long at

the bolted door, listening at first, then asking and begging and

imploring the girl for one little word only--all remained still and

quiet.

At length he threw himself on the bed in a fever, and lay awake thinking

and thinking, till at last the moon went down an hour after midnight,

and fatigue conquered his thousand fleeting thoughts. But still in his

uneasy slumber he seemed to see the lovely face continually before his

eyes, and to hear the pleading and impassioned voice still ringing in

his ears.

When he awoke next morning, the light around him was dim; but as he

raised himself from the bed and collected his thoughts, he was aware

that it was not the dim light of dawn. On one side a faint ray of

sunlight reached him, and he soon saw that the hole in the wall which he

had left open before he fell asleep, had, nevertheless, been filled up

again with branches. He pushed them out, and was dazzled by the bright

rays of the morning sun. In a towering rage with the contrabandists,

with himself for having slept, but above all with the girl to whom he

attributed this treachery, he hurried to the door, the bolt of which

yielded easily to his pressure, and stepped out into the other room.

He found Fenice there alone, sitting quietly by the fire, as though she

had long been expecting him. Every trace of the stormy scenes of the day

before had left her face; no sign of any grief, and no mark of any

painfully acquired composure, met his stern glance.

"This is your fault," he said, angrily, "my sleeping beyond the time."

"Yes, it is," she answered, indifferently. "You were tired. You will

reach Pistoja early enough, if you do not need to meet your murderers

before the afternoon."

"I did not ask you to take heed of my fatigue. Do you still mean to

force yourself on me? It will avail you nothing, girl. Where are my

men?"

"Gone."

"Gone? Would you make a fool of me? Where are they? As if they would go

away before I paid them!" And he strode rapidly to the door, thinking to

leave.

Fenice remained sitting where she was, and said, in the same placid

voice: "I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep, and also

that I would accompany you down the mountain myself; for my supply of

wine is at an end, and I must buy fresh at about an hour's distance from

Pistoja."

For a moment he was speechless with rage. "No," he burst out at last,

"not with you; never again with you! It is absurd for you to think that

you can still entangle me in your smooth meshes. We are now more

completely parted than ever. I despise you, that you should think me

soft and weak enough to be won by these poor devices. I will not go with

you! Let one of your men go with me; and here--pay yourself what you

gave to the contrabandists."

He flung a purse to her, and opened the door to look for some one who

could show him the way down. "Do not trouble yourself," she said, "you

will not find any of the men; they are all in the mountains. And there

is nobody in Treppi who can be of use to you. Poor feeble old women and

men, and children who have to be taken care of themselves. If you do not

believe me--go and look!"

"And altogether," she went on, as he, in vexation and anger, stood

undecided in the doorway, turning his back to her, "why does it seem to

you so impossible and so dangerous for me to be your guide? I had dreams

last night, from which I can tell that you are not destined for me. It

is true enough that I still have a liking for you, and it would be a

pleasure to me to have a few more hours' talk with you. But I do not, on

that account, wish to intrude. You are free to go from me for ever, and

wherever you will, to death or to life. Only I have so arranged it that

I may walk beside you part of the way. I swear to you, if it will ease

your mind, that it will only be part of the way--on my honour, not as

far as Pistoja. Only just until I have put you in the right direction.

For if you were to go away alone, you would lose your way, and would

neither get forward nor backward. Surely you must remember that, from

your first journey in the mountains."

"Plague upon it!" muttered he, biting his lips. He saw, however, that

the sun was getting higher, and all things well considered, what grave

cause for fear had he? He turned to her, and thought, from the

indifferent look in her large eyes, that he could take it for granted

there was no treachery hidden in her words. She really seemed to him to

be a different person from the day before; and there was almost a

feeling of discontent mingled with his surprise as he was forced to

allow that her fit of grief and passion on the preceding day had passed

away so soon, and left no trace. He looked at her for some time, but she

did not in any way arouse his suspicions.

"Well," he said dryly, "since you have become so very prudent, let us

start. Come!"

Without any particular sign of delight she got up, and said: "We must

eat first; we shall get nothing for many hours." She put a dish before

him and a pitcher, and ate something herself, standing at the hearth,

but did not touch a drop of wine. But he, to get it over, ate some

spoonfuls, dashed down the wine, and lit his cigar from the ashes on the

hearth. All this time he had not deigned to look at her, but when he

chanced to look up, standing near her, he saw a strange red in her

cheeks, and something like triumph in her eyes. She now rose hurriedly,

seized the pitcher, and, flinging it on the stone floor, shattered it at

a blow. "No one shall ever drink out of it again," she said, "after your

lips have touched it."

He started up in alarm, and, for a second, the suspicion crossed his

mind: "Has she poisoned me?" but then he chose to think that it was the

last remains of her lovesick idolatry which she had forsworn, and

without further comment he followed her out of the house.

"They took the horse back with them to Porretta," she said to him

outside, as he seemed to be searching for it. "You would not have been

able to ride down without danger. They are steeper roads than those of

yesterday."

Then she went on before him, and they soon left behind them the huts,

which, deserted and without the faintest cloud of smoke from the

chimneys, stood out clear in the bright sun. It was then only that

Filippo became fully aware of the majestic scenery of this desolate

place, with the clear transparent sky above it. The path, now hardly

visible, like a faint track in the hard rock, ran northward along the

broad ridge; and here and there, where there was a bend in the opposite

parallel range of mountains, a narrow strip of sea shone in the far

horizon to the left. There was still no sign of vegetation, far or near,

except the hard and stunted mountain plants and interwoven bush and

bramble. But then they left the summit, and descended into the ravine,

which had to be crossed in order to climb the rocky ridge on the other

side. Here they soon came upon fir-trees, and streams, which flowed into

the glen; and far below them they heard the roaring of the water. Fenice

now went on in front, stepping with sure feet upon the safest stones,

without looking round, or uttering a single word. He could not help

letting his eyes rest on her, and admiring the graceful strength of her

limbs. Her face was entirely hidden from him by the great white kerchief

on her head, but when it so chanced that they walked side by side, he

had to force himself to look before him, and away from her, so greatly

was he attracted by the wondrous regularity of her features. It was only

when in the full light of the sun that he noticed her strangely

child-like expression, without being able to say wherein it lay. It was

as though for the last seven years something had remained unaltered in

her face, while all else had grown and developed.

At last he began to talk to her of his own accord, and she answered him

in a sensible and even easy way. Only that her voice, which as a rule

was not so dull and harsh as is the case with the generality of the

women in the mountains, sounded to him monotonous and sad, though only

speaking of the most indifferent things.

[Illustration: "THEN SHE WENT ON BEFORE HIM."]

While thus talking, Filippo never noticed how the sun had climbed higher

and higher and still no glimpse of the Tuscan plains came in view.

Neither did he give a thought to what awaited him at the close of the

day. It was so refreshing to be walking along the thickly wooded paths,

fifty paces above the waterfall, to feel the spray sometimes reach him,

to watch the lizards darting over the stones, and the fluttering

butterflies chasing the sun's rays, that he never even noticed that they

walked on towards the stream, and had not as yet turned off to the

left. There was a magic in the voice of his companion which made him

forget everything which, the day before, had so occupied him in the

society of the contrabandists. But when they left the ravine and saw an

endless, unknown mountainous tract, with fresh peaks and cliffs lying

barren and deserted before them, he awoke suddenly from his enchanted

dreams, stood still, and looked at the heavens. He saw clearly that she

had brought him in an utterly opposite direction, and that he was some

miles further from his destination than when they started.

[Illustration: "IS THIS THE WAY, YOU TREACHEROUS CREATURE?"]

"Stop!" said Filippo. "I see betimes that you are still deceiving me. Is

this the way to Pistoja, you treacherous creature?"

"No," she said fearlessly, but with downcast eyes.

"Then, by all the infernal powers, the fiends might learn deceit from

you. A curse upon my infatuation!"

"One who loves can do all things--love is more powerful than devil or

angel," said she in deep, mournful tones.

"No," shouted he, in maddened anger, "do not triumph yet, you insolent

girl, not yet! A man's will cannot be broken by what a mad wench calls

love. Turn back with me at once, and show me the shortest paths--or I

will strangle you, with these very hands--you fool, not to see that I

must hate you, who would make me seem a scoundrel in the eyes of the

world."

He went up to her with clenched fists, beside himself with passion.

"Strangle me, then!" she said in a clear but trembling voice; "do it,

Filippo. But, when the deed is done, you will cast yourself on my body

and weep tears of blood that you cannot bring me to life again. Your

place will be here beside me; you will fight with the vultures that will

come to eat my flesh; the sun by day will burn you; the dew at night

will drench you; till you fall and die beside me--for you can never more

tear yourself away from me. Do you think that the poor, silly thing,

brought up in her mountain home, would throw away seven years like one

day? I know what they have cost me, how dear they were, and that I pay

an honest price in buying you with them. Let you go to meet your death?

It would be absurd. Turn from me as you will, you will soon feel that I

can force you back to me for all eternity. For in the wine which you

drank to-day I mixed a love-potion, which no man under the sun has been

able to withstand!"

Most queenly did she look as she uttered these words, her arm stretched

out towards him, as though her hand wielded a sceptre over one who had

deserted her. But he laughed defiantly, and exclaimed, "Your love-potion

will do you a bad turn, for I never hated you more than at this moment.

But I am a fool to take the trouble to hate a fool like you. May you be

cured of all your folly as of your love when you no longer see me near

you. I do not need you to guide me. On yonder slope I see a shepherd's

hut, and the flocks are near. A fire, too, is burning. They will show me

the right way up there. Farewell, you poor hypocrite; farewell!"

She answered not a word as he left her, but sat down quietly in the

shadow of a rock by the ravine, burying her great eyes in the dark green

of the fir trees growing below by the stream.

(_To be continued._)

_At the Animals' Hospital._

[Illustration: A HAPPY FAMILY IN BONE.]

One hundred years ago! A century since the first two stones were joined

together from which was to spring a veritable boon to the sick and

suffering amongst all sorts and conditions of domesticated animals--an

abiding-place where horse and dog, calf and sheep, even down to the

maligned and sorely-tried drawer of the costermonger's cart might

receive assistance and advice to meet the thousand and one ills to which

their flesh and bones are heir. The Royal Veterinary College is within a

month of claiming a hundred years' good labour to its credit.

Hence the reason of our mounting the "knife-board" of a yellow-bodied

'bus, conspicuously painted "Camden Town," with a view of obtaining a

preliminary interview with the driver regarding the ills of most animals

in general, and of horseflesh in particular. He knew little, and kept

that meagre knowledge to himself, regarding us with suspicion, probably

as a spy in the employ of an opposition company, and screwed his mouth

artfully when a question was volleyed, and met it with a knowing crack

of the whip in irritating response.

"Orf side down, 'Arry. Just show the way where the donkeys is doctored,

and the 'osses waccinated. Whoa! Whoa! 'Er', 'pon my word, 'Arry, if I

didn't forget to give Betsy"--a frisky-looking mare on the near

side--"her cough mixture. Wot time does the Wet'inary College shut?"

The way pointed out by the conductor was King-street, at the top of

which runs Great College-street, where the great gates of the Hospital

for Animals are facing you. Here, congregated together about the

entrance, are a dozen or twenty students, the majority of them arrayed

in garments of a decidedly "horsey" cut, their appearance suggesting

that they are somewhere about one remove from the medical student

proper, though in full possession of all their traditional love of fun

and irrepressible spirits. For a charge of sixty guineas these young men

may revel in the anatomy of a horse for a period of three years, walk

the straw-carpeted floor of the sick stable, pay periodical visits, and

learn how to prescribe the necessary remedies for the inmates of the

dogs' ward. The secretary, Mr. R. A. N. Powys, assures us that three

hundred students are at present located here, and, together with the

educational staff, numbering, amongst others, such veterinary

authorities as Professors Axe, Penberthy, McQueen, Coghill, and Edwards,

they visit the beds of some fifty horses every day, together with those

of some ten or a dozen dogs, to say nothing of pigs and sheep weakly

inclined, and cows of nervous temperament. During the past twelve months

1,174 horses have been examined for unsoundness. More than four thousand

animals were treated either as in-patients or out-patients during that

period.

[Illustration: THE RESULTS OF SWALLOWING TIN-TACKS.]

Passing through the gateway, a fine open space is immediately in front,

with a roadway laid down for the purpose of testing the soundness of

horses. Just at this moment a fine prancing steed, a typical shire

horse, with his coat as brown as a new chestnut, and his limbs and

quarters as they should be, is led out by a stalwart groom. For all the

animal's 16-1/2 hands, there is a question as to his soundness. A

professor hurries up, followed by a score of students, with notebooks

and pencils ready. The horse is trotted round the gravel-path, then

galloped with a rider bare-back. A thoughtful consultation follows, and

the verdict pronounced upon its respiratory organs is: "As sound as a

bell."

There is an estimable and enterprising gentleman touring the London

streets who is the proprietor of a group of animals which he facetiously

calls "The Happy Family." These are in the flesh, alive and frolicsome;

but here in Camden Town, where all things veterinary are studied, is a

happy family--in the bone. They are gathered together in unison around

the bust of the late Professor Robertson. The "ship of the desert" has

on its left an elephant of formidable size, near which stands an

ostrich. On the camel's right is a cow, and a lion, originally part of a

menagerie in the Edgware-road. A pig is readily recognised, and a fine

dog seems to be looking up to the late Professor as an old friend. This

interesting collection will shortly be added to by all that is left of

the celebrated race-horse "Hermit."

It is to the Museum that the students repair two or three times a week,

and gain a practical knowledge of the ailments which are associated with

animals.

The glass cases contain horses' mouths, showing the various stages of

the teeth. Innumerable are the bottles holding preserved portions of

each and every animal. In one of the cases is a very interesting

specimen of the students' work. It illustrates the anatomy of a dog's

leg. The bone is taken in hand by the student, and by an ingenious

arrangement of red sealing wax the blood-vessels are faithfully and

realistically introduced.

Every case contains a curiosity--one is full of the feet of horses, and

its next-door neighbour protects a wonderful array of horseshoes. The

ideal horse-shoe is one which requires no nails. The nearest approach to

this is a shoe which clamps the hoof, is screwed up tightly, and the

whole thing kept in place by an iron band. The great amount of pressure

which is required to keep the shoe from shifting, and the possible

injury it may cause the wearer, has prevented its universal use.

Here is an old-fashioned drenching bit--the old idea of administering

medicine to horses. The bit is hollow and a funnel is attached to it, to

be inserted in the animal's mouth and the mixture poured in. To-day,

however, a tin drenching can of a somewhat pyramidical shape is simply

used.

[Illustration: "POLLY."]

At the door one may brush against what appears to be a mop of extra

size. It is--to use a homely expression--a calf's leg with "a

housemaid's knee." This curious growth is five feet in circumference and

a foot and a half in depth. But perhaps the most remarkable corner is

that devoted to the storing of massive stones and cement, hardened

together, which have been taken from the bodies of various animals.

These are of all shapes and sizes. Two of them taken from a mare, weigh

fifty-four pounds, and many of them would turn the scale at thirty-five

to forty pounds. The formation of such stones is curious. Above is a

drawing--in miniature--of a huge stone formed inside a cow. The cow--by

no means a careful one--enjoyed the green grass of the meadow in

blissful ignorance that even tin-tacks and nails get lodged on the sward

occasionally. The cow, in her innocence, swallowed the nail--there it

is, imbedded in the centre. Lime and earth deposited and hardened round

it, with the result that an immense stone was formed of nearly forty

pounds in weight.

[Illustration: "JOE."]

Next comes the instrument-room. This is an apartment not calculated to

act as a sedative upon the visitor who is forced to be a frequent caller

on the dentist. The forceps for drawing horses' teeth are more than a

yard long, and it requires a man of might and muscle to use them with

effect. The tracheotomy tubes--inserted when a horse has difficulty in

breathing--stand out brightly from amongst the dull and heavy appearance

of the firing irons, which are employed in lameness, as a blister on the

limb. It is interesting to be told that there are a number of horses in

the hunting field, in the streets, and the park, wearing silver

tracheotomy tubes, as an assistance to their breathing, and, to put it

in the words of a doctor, "doing well."

The pharmacy is by no means to be hurriedly passed by. It is the

chemist's shop of the establishment, the place where students enter to

be initiated into all the mysteries of compounding a prescription. They

may crush the crystals into powder in a mortar of diminutive size, or

pound them in one as big as a copper with a pestle as long as a barber's

pole. A great slate is covered with veterinary hieroglyphics; the

shelves are decorated with hundreds of blue bottles, the drawers

brimming over with tiny phials and enormous gallipots. Step behind a

substantial wooden screen, which practically says "Private," and you

have the most approved of patterns in the way of a chemist's counter.

Here is every item, down to the little brass scales and weights, the

corks and sealing wax, the paper and string.

From the pharmacy to the Turkish bath is but a step. Veterinary

authorities have arrived at the conclusion that a Turkish bath is the

finest remedy that can be found for skin disease in horses. This takes

the form of a square stable, heated by a furnace at the back. Not an

outlet is permitted for the escape of the hot air, and it can be heated

to any temperature required. The horse, too, can enjoy all the

luxuriousness of a shower bath, and if necessary can dabble his four

feet in a foot-bath handy. Indeed, everything goes to prove the whole

system of treating sick animals is founded on the same principle as that

meted out to human beings.

One must needs look in at the open door of the shoeing-forge. The clang

of the blacksmith's hammer makes a merry accompaniment to the prancing

of a dozen fine creatures just entering to be shod. The whistling of the

bellows, and the hissing of the roused-up flames vie with the snorting

of a grand bay mare who cannot be numbered amongst the most patient of

her sex.

"Stand over, miss--stand over," cries a strapping, brawny lad. "She'll

take a number five;" and from a stock of three hundred and fifty dozen

new shoes which adorn the walls--and, if numbers count for anything,

good luck should pervade every nook and corner of the forge--a five-inch

shoe is quickly adjusted, and the bay, not yet realising the new footing

upon which she stands, enlists the services of a pair of men to hold her

in.

The paddock in the immediate neighbourhood of the forge is the sick-ward

of the hospital for horses. Every horse has its own apartment--a loose

box, the door of which is fitted with iron bars through which the doctor

can inspect his patient. The inmate's card, which tells its sex and

colour, date of entrance, number, disease, and treatment prescribed, is

affixed to the door, and every day a professor goes his rounds. The

hospital surgeon also pays continual visits, and medicine is

administered at intervals varying from two or three hours to three or

four days.

Here is one of the most patient of the inmates, "Polly," a pretty

creature who would add to the picturesqueness of any hunting-field in

the country, and who has dislocated her shoulder. Polly might be held up

as a credit to any hospital. She bore her bandaging--not always a

painless operation, for the linen must needs be fastened firmly--without

moving a muscle, only heaving a sigh of relief as soon as the tying-up

was over.

A slip of linen or calico is carefully cut to size and strapped on with

strong tapes. It is likewise considered beneficial that the patient

should be kept in ignorance as to its whereabouts: for the horror of

"hospital" which pervades most people's minds exists in the imaginations

of animals as well. Therefore the sick Polly must needs submit to having

her eyes bandaged that she may realise the position of being in the dark

as to her lodging for a week or two. A strip of the same material from

which the shoulder-strap was cut is tied on to the head-collar.

"Polly's" next-door neighbour, however, presents a much more serious

case.

[Illustration: "DAVID."]

"Joe" has recently been gaining experience in the fact that life is but

a chapter of accidents. Joe could not be characterised as a careless

creature; indeed, it is chronicled of him that he would positively feel

for every step he took, and pick out the safest spots in the line of

route. Poor Joe! His careful line of action and method of travelling did

not meet with that reward to which it was entitled. Alas! he now rests

here as a warning to his fellow-horses not to put trust in the

treacherous smoothness of the agreeable asphalt, or too much faith in

the comfort afforded by the pleasures of travelling on a newly-repaired

road. He is laid up with an injured thigh, and a severe fracture has

befallen one half of what he depended upon to carry him through life.

"Rest, complete rest, is what he needs," remarks a passing doctor. And a

very ingenious arrangement is provided in order to attain the desired

end.

This consists of a big canvas sling, held up by half a dozen pulleys. On

this the whole weight of the body is supported, and the comfort afforded

is equivalent to that provided by a good bed to a weary man. The animal

is so weak that, if he tumbled down, it is doubtful whether he would get

up again. Here he will remain until completely recovered, which means

enjoying the repose afforded by this horsey hammock for a period between

six weeks and six months.

The two fractured limbs are, for the time being, imbedded in iron

splints with leather bands, and fitted with little pads in front in

order not to cut the leg. All these surgical appliances are in every way

as perfect as if they were intended for the human frame, instead of for

a horse's.

Sickness does not seem to diminish the appetites of the inmates, and

doses of iron and quinine are not of frequent occurrence. It may take

three or four months to cure a case of lameness, and long terms of

confinement may possibly be needed for diseases of the respiratory or

digestive organs, or of the skin. But the bill for food, hay and straw,

amounted to the comfortable sum of £1,510 0s. 8d. last year, against the

modest outlay of £166 11s. 5d. which was spent in drugs. The number of

horse-patients confined to well-kept beds of straw and healthy

peat-moss, in admirably ventilated apartments, averages fifty at one

time. Their paddock--or sick-ward--is a pattern of cleanliness,

neatness, and good order.

There is only a moment to spend in the operating theatre, acknowledged

to be the finest in Europe. It is a huge space covered with a glass

canopy, where four or five horses can be operated on at once. There is

ample accommodation for every student in the hospital to obtain a good

view of the proceedings. Only a moment also to peep in at a little

apartment in the far corner--a small operating room fitted up with a

trevis, a wooden structure where the animal to be operated upon is

placed, and strapped in with ropes, so that movement is impossible; only

a moment, such a barking and a whining breaks upon the peaceful

air--troublous cries that find an outlet from the open door of an upper

room, to which ascends a stable staircase. It is the dogs' ward!

[Illustration: THE NURSERY.]

The barking of the inmates is to be interpreted into an unmistakable

welcome. Here, in corners of the cosiest, and beds of the whitest

wood-fibre, reclines many a magnificent specimen. These fine St. Bernard

pups are worth £250 a piece, and only a week or two ago a patient was

discharged as convalescent, upon whose head rested the figure of £1,200.

Most of them are suffering from skin disease; but here is a pup, with a

coat of impenetrable blackness, afflicted with St. Vitus's dance. He

wears a pitiful expression; but, save for an occasional twitter of a

muscle, rests very quietly. Every cage is occupied, save one, and that

is an apartment with double iron gates. It is set apart for mad dogs.

Every creature bears its affliction with remarkable resignation, and, as

one passes from bed to bed, runs out to the length of its chain and

stands looking up the sawdust-strewn floor which leads to "the nursery."

One fine fellow, however, rests in a corner, near the bath, the very

personification of all that is dignified.

"David" is a grand St. Bernard, upon whom a coat of shaggy beauty has

been bestowed and the blessing of a majestic presence. He sits there

with his front paw dangling over the bed-side; helpless, but not uncared

for. His leg is broken, and he holds it out, tightly tied up and

bandaged, as token thereof. Cheer up, David, old boy--look a bit

pleasant, David, my brave fellow. But David only shakes his head in

grateful thanks for a word of sympathy. He is a credit to his breed, and

his noble disposition would lead him to forget what brought him there.

It is a touching story. His owner's little daughter was his mistress;

David followed her wherever she went, and--save at night time--never

allowed her out of his sight, and even then he would nestle outside her

door on the mat, until the child woke in the morning. Just a week ago

the little girl had wandered down the river bank, climbing over the iron

railings separating the pathway from the tiny valley which led down to

the water. David did not notice this action, and when he turned his head

saw that his mistress had disappeared. With his mind bent on the water,

he took a leap, intending to spring over the rails; but his front paw

caught the iron bars, and his leg was broken. The child was quite safe;

she was only gathering flowers.

"The Nursery" is a room set apart at the far end for the reception of

the smaller species of the canine tribe.

The two little Skye terriers fondling one another are suffering from

ingrown toe-nails and must needs have them cut. The cot next to them is

empty; but a "King Charles" will convert the apartment into a royal one

on the morrow. His Majesty, too, requires the application of the

scissors to his royal toes. Above is a terrier--beautifully marked--but,

withal, wearing a remarkably long expression of countenance. Something

is wrong with one of his ears, and his face is tied up like that of an

individual writhing beneath the tortures of toothache. "Dot" envies his

brother terrier next door. There is nothing wrong with _him_; he is not

an inmate, but a boarder, and the property of one of the officials. A

pretty little couple of colleys are sympathising with each other in

their affliction as they lie cuddled up in the corner. They are both

queer--something wrong with their lungs.

[Illustration: DISSECTING ROOM.]

Out in the open again, we look in upon a fine bullock with a very ugly

swollen face. But here, in a corner all to itself, we meet with a

veritable curiosity--a cow with a wooden leg!

This is a strapping young Alderney, of such value that it was deemed

advisable to provide her with a wooden support instead of killing her at

once. "Susan" was a pet, and had her own way in most things. Probably

this aroused the green-eyed monster within the breast of a mare who

sometimes shared her meadow. Whether the cause was jealousy or not, one

thing is certain--after a particularly hearty meal, which seems to have

endowed the mare with exceptional strength and vigour, to say nothing of

a wicked and revengeful mind, she deliberately, and without warning,

kicked the fair Susan. Susan had to lie up for three or four months, and

now a wooden leg supports her injured frame.

[Illustration: "SUSAN."]

A strap is fastened round the body of the cow; then a wooden support is

placed near the neck and attached to the main strap with leather bands.

Finally, the iron-bound timber leg is set in place; and it is said that

the animal sustains but little inconvenience.

Following a number of students, we are soon within the precincts of the

dissecting room. This is a square room containing a dozen or twenty dead

donkeys, each laid out on a table for dissection. The enterprising

students repair to Islington Cattle Market, and for a pound or thirty

shillings purchase a likely subject from an obliging costermonger. Half

a dozen of them will each take a share in the expense incurred, and work

together at a table, passing from head to tail until a complete

examination has been made.

But what most interests the casual visitor is "The Poor Man's Corner," a

portion of the yard set apart for out-patients, and termed by the

hospital authorities their "cheap practice."

Every day--excepting Sundays--between the hours of two and four, a

motley crowd assembles here, bringing with them an animal which has

betrayed signs to its owner that it is not altogether "fit." The cabby

who is the proud possessor of a four-wheeler and an ancient-looking

steed comes with a face which tells another tale than that which

betokens a small fare. The coster thrusts his hands deep into his

trousers pockets and waits in gloomy meditation. Visions of his donkey

being condemned to death on the spot flash through his mind, and he

almost regrets he came.

"Guvnor--I say, guvnor, it ain't a 'opeless case, is it? Don't say it's

all up wi' it. Yer see, guvnor, I couldn't help but bring it along. I'm

a rough 'un, but I've got a 'art, and, there, I couldn't stand it no

longer, seein' the poor creeter a limpin' along like that. On'y say it

ain't a 'opeless case."

He will soon be out of his suspense, for his donkey will be examined in

its turn.

Not only is advice given gratis and the animal thoroughly examined, but,

should it need medicine, or call for an operation, this is readily done,

the students generally performing it under the superintendence of one of

the professors.

The "poor man's" gate has just been opened, and Mr. E. R. Edwards, the

hospital surgeon, holds the bridle of the first horse for examination as

the students gather round. One of the professors appears upon the scene,

and asks the owner what is the matter with his horse.

"He can 'ardly walk, sir."

"Lame, eh?"

"I expec's so, sir."

"What are you?"

"Hawks wegetables about, sir."

The horse is trotted up the yard and back again. Then the professor

turns to a student and asks what he considers is wrong with the animal.

"Lame in both hind legs;"--and, the student having diagnosed the case

correctly, the animal is walked off to be further treated and

prescribed for.

Case after case is taken. One horse that draws firewood from seven in

the morning until ten or eleven at night, cannot eat. Away it goes for

examination, and the temperature of its pulse is taken. A lad, evidently

not used to the stubborn disposition and immovable spirit of donkeys in

general, has brought his own, which he informs the professor he only

purchased "the week afore last." Now, nothing under the sun in the shape

of argument with whip or words will make it go at anything like the pace

which the man from whom he bought it guaranteed.

"Why, sir, I had to drag it here. 'Pon my word, I believe as 'ow he knew

where I was a takin' 'im, for he crawled more'n ever. I thought as 'ow

there might be something wrong wi' his wind."

"Trot him along," said the professor; but the donkey turned a deaf ear

to the inviting cries of forty or fifty students to "go on," and bravely

stood his ground. The victor was placed on one side to be dealt with

later on.

The next case was one connected with a pathetic story. The horse--a poor

creature which had evidently seen better days--was owned by a

laundryman, a widower, who had eleven children to support, the oldest of

whom was only fifteen years of age, and the youngest six months. He

depended entirely on his horse to carry the laundry round from house to

house.

The poor fellow stood quietly by and seemed to read in the professor's

face and gather from his hurried consultation with a brother "vet." that

something out of the common was the matter with his horse. In response

to the doctor's beckoning, he approached the spot where the animal

stood, and, with tears in his eyes, asked in a choking voice, "Not an

operation, I hope, sir?"

The professor shook his head.

Then the truth flashed upon the laundryman's mind. He stood dumbfounded

for a moment. The students ceased their chatter, and, save for the

movement of a horse's foot upon the uneven stones, the yard was as still

as the ward of a hospital where human beings lie. The horse was

condemned to death!

[Illustration: "POOR MAN'S CORNER."]

The poor fellow threw his arms about the animal's neck, and the horse

turned its head in response to his master's caresses, and the cry which

came from the man's heart could not have been more pitiful had he been

parting from his only friend.

_The Mirror._

_From the French of_ LÉO LESPÈS.

[LÉO LESPÈS was born at Bonchain, June the 18th, 1815--the day of

Waterloo. At seventeen he was compelled to take up arms as a

conscript of Fusiliers, and for eight years passed his life amidst

the scenes of camps and guard-rooms. But Lespès was not born to be

a soldier; nature had meant him for a man of letters. As soon as he

obtained his liberty, he began to write for newspapers and

magazines; and from that time until his death in 1875 he lived a

busy but uneventful life, as one of the most popular of authors. He

was one of the chief founders of the _Petit Journal_, which, owing

largely to the tales and articles which he wrote under the

signature of "Timothy Trimm," attained at once to a gigantic

circulation. During his lifetime, his brilliant little stories were

the delight of thousands; but beyond the limits of his native

country his fame has never been so great as it deserves.]

LETTER I.

[Illustration]

You wish me to write to you, my dear Anaïs--me, a poor blind creature

whose hand moves faltering in the darkness? Are you not afraid of the

sadness of my letters, written as they are in gloom? Have you no fear of

the sombre thoughts which must beset the blind?

Dear Anaïs, _you_ are happy; you can see. To see! Oh, to see! to be able

to distinguish the blue sky, the sun, and all the different

colours--what a joy! True, I once enjoyed this privilege, but when I was

struck with blindness, I was scarcely ten years old. Now I am

twenty-five. It is fifteen long years since everything around me became

as black as night! In vain, dear friend, do I endeavour to recall the

wonders of nature. I have forgotten all her hues. I smell the scent of

the rose, I guess its shape by the touch; but its boasted colour, to

which all beautiful women are compared, I have forgotten--or, rather, I

cannot describe. Sometimes under this thick veil of darkness strange

gleams flit. The doctors say that this is the movement of the blood, and

that this may give some promise of a cure. Vain delusion! When one has

lost for fifteen years the lights which beautify the earth, they are

never to be found again except in heaven.

The other day I had a rare sensation. In groping in my room I put my

hand upon--oh! you would never guess--upon a mirror! I sat down in front

of it, and arranged my hair like a coquette. Oh! what would I have given

to be able to regard myself!--to know if I was nice!--if my skin is as

white as it is soft, and if I have pretty eyes under my long

lashes!--Ah! they often told us at school that the devil comes in the

glasses of little girls who look at themselves too long! All I can say

is, if he came in mine he must have been nicely caught--my lord Satan. I

couldn't have seen him!

You ask me in your kind letter, which they have just read to me, whether

it is true that the failure of a banker has ruined my parents. I have

heard nothing about it. No, they are rich. I am supplied with every

luxury. Everywhere that my hand rests it touches silk and velvet,

flowers and precious stuffs. Our table is abundant, and every day my

taste is coaxed with dainties. Therefore, you see, Anaïs, that my

beloved folks are happily well off.

Write to me, my darling, since you are now back from that aristocratic

England, and you have some pity for the poor blind girl.

LETTER II.

You have no idea, Anaïs, what I am going to tell you! Oh! you will laugh

as if you had gone crazy. You will believe that with my sight I must

have lost my reason. I have a lover!

Yes, dear; I, the girl without eyes, have a wooer as melting and as

importunate as the lover of a duchess. After this, what is to be said?

Love, who is as blind as blind can be, undoubtedly owed me this as one

of his own kind.

How _he_ got in amongst us I don't know; still less, what he is going to

do here. All I can tell you is that he sat on my left at dinner the

other day, and that he looked after me with extreme care and attention.

"This is the first time," I said, "that I have had the honour of meeting

you."

"True," he answered, "but I know your parents."

"You are welcome," I replied, "since you know how to esteem them--my

good angels!"

"They are not the only people," he continued, softly, "for whom I feel

affection."

"Oh," I answered, thoughtlessly, "then whom else here do you like?"

"You," said he.

"Me? What do you mean?"

"That I love you."

"Me? You love _me_?"

"Truly! Madly!"

At these words I blushed, and pulled my scarf over my shoulders. He sat

quite silent.

"You are certainly abrupt in your announcement."

"Oh! it might be seen in my regards, my gestures, all my actions."

"That may be, but I am blind. A blind girl is not wooed as others are."

"What do I care about the want of sight?" said he, with a delightful

accent of sincerity; "what matters it to me if your eyes are closed to

the light? Is not your figure charming, your foot as tiny as a fairy's,

your step superb, your tresses long and silky, your skin of alabaster,

your complexion carmine, and your hand the colour of the lily?"

He had finished his description before his words ceased sounding in my

ears. So then, I had, according to him, a beautiful figure, a fairy

foot, a snowy skin, a complexion like a rose, and fair and silky hair.

Oh, Anaïs, dear Anaïs, to other girls such a lover, who describes all

your perfections, is nothing but a suitor; but to a blind girl he is

more than a lover, he is a mirror.

I began again: "Am I really as pretty as all that?"

"I am still far from the reality."

"And what would you have me do?"

"I want you to be my wife."

I laughed aloud at this idea.

"Do you mean it?" I cried. "A marriage between the blind and the seeing,

between the day and the night? Why, I should have to put my orange

blossoms on by groping! No! no! my parents are rich: a single life has

no terrors for me; single I will remain, and take the service of Diana,

as they say--and so much the worse for her if she is waited on amiss!"

He went away without saying a word more. It is all the same: he has

taught me that I am nice! I don't know how it is that I catch myself

loving him a little, Mr. Mirror mine!

LETTER III.

Oh, dear Anaïs, what news I have to tell you! What sad and unexpected

things befall us in this life! As I tell you what has happened to me,

the tears are falling from my darkened eyes.

Several days after my conversation with the stranger whom I call _my

mirror_, I was walking in the garden, leaning on my mother's arm, when

she was suddenly and loudly called for. It seemed to me that the maid,

in haste to find my mother, betrayed some agitation in her voice.

"What is the matter, mother?" I asked her, troubled without knowing

why.

"Nothing, love; some visitor, no doubt. In our position we owe something

to society."

"In that case," I said, embracing her, "I will not keep you any longer.

Go and do the honours of the drawing-room."

She pressed two icy lips upon my forehead. Then I heard her footsteps on

the gravel path receding in the distance.

[Illustration: "HEARD VOICES."]

She had hardly left me when I thought I heard the voices of two

neighbours--two workmen--who were chatting together, thinking they were

alone. You know, Anaïs, when God deprives us of one of our faculties, he

seems, in order to console us, to make the others keener: the blind man

has his hearing sharper than his whose gaze can traverse space. I did

not lose a word of their remarks, although they spoke in a low tone. And

this is what they said:

"Poor things! how sad! The brokers in again!"

"And the girl has not the least suspicion. She never guesses that they

take advantage of her loss of sight to make her happy."

"What do you mean?"

"There isn't any doubt about it. All that her hand touches is of

mahogany or velvet; only the velvet has grown shabby and the mahogany

has lost its lustre. At table she enjoys the most delicious dishes

without dreaming, in her innocence, that the domestic misery is kept

concealed from her, and that alongside of that very table her father and

mother seldom have anything except dry bread."

Oh, Anaïs, you can understand my agony! They have practised on me for my

happiness; they have made me live in luxury amidst my darkness--and me

alone. Oh! marvellous devotion. All the wealth which a most grateful

heart can offer cannot pay this everlasting debt.

LETTER IV.

I have not told anyone that I have guessed this sad yet charming secret.

My mother would be overwhelmed to learn that all her trouble to conceal

her poverty from me has been useless. I still affect a firm belief in

the flourishing condition of our house. But I am determined to save it.

M. de Sauves, as my lover is called, came to see me--and may Heaven

forgive me!--I set myself to play the coquette with him.

So I said: "Have you still the same esteem for me?"

"Yes," said he. "I love you because you are beautiful with the noblest

beauty, which is pure and modest."

"And my figure?"

"As exquisite and graceful as a vine."

"Ah! and my forehead?"

"Large, and smooth as the ivory which it outshines."

"Really?" And I began to laugh.

"What makes you so merry?"

"An idea--that you are my mirror. I see myself reflected in your words."

"Dearest, I would that it might be so always."

"Would you agree, then----?"

"To be your faithful mirror, to reflect your qualities, your virtues.

Consent to be my wife. I have some fortune; you shall want for nothing,

and I will strive with all my power to make you happy."

At these words I thought of my poor parents, whom my marriage would

relieve of an enormous burden.

"If I consent to marry you," I answered, "your self-love, as a man,

would suffer. I could not see you."

"Alas!" he cried, "I owe you a confession."

"Go on," I said.

"I am a graceless child of nature. I have neither charm of countenance,

nor dignity of carriage. To crown my misfortune, a scourge, nowadays

made powerless by the art of vaccination, has mercilessly scarred my

features. In marrying a blind girl, therefore, I show that I am selfish

and without humility."

I held out my hand to him.

"I don't know whether you are too hard on yourself, but I believe you to

be good and true. Take me, then, such as I am. Nothing, at any rate,

will turn my thoughts from yours. Your love will be an oasis in the

desert of my night."

Am I doing right, or wrong? I know not, dear Anaïs, but I am going to my

parents' rescue. Perhaps, in my groping, I have found the right way.

LETTER V.

I thank you for your kind friendliness, for the compliments and

congratulations with which your letter is filled.

Yes, I have been married for two months, and I am the happiest of women.

I have nothing to desire; idolised by my husband, and adored by my

parents, who have not left me, I do not regret my infirmity, since

Edmond sees for both of us.

The day I was married, my mirror--as I call him--reflected complacently

my bridal pomp. Thanks to it, I knew that my veil was nicely made, and

that my wreath of orange-blossoms was not all on one side. What could a

Venetian mirror have done more?

In the evening we walk out together in the gardens, and he makes me

admire the flowers by their perfume, the birds by their song, the fruit

by its taste and its soft touch. Sometimes we go to the theatre, and

there, too, he reproduces, by his wit, all that my closed eyes cannot

see. Oh! what does his ugliness matter to me? I no longer know what is

beautiful, or what is ugly, but I _do_ know what is kind and loving.

Farewell, then, dear Anaïs, rejoice in my happiness.

LETTER VI.

I am a mother, Anaïs, the mother of a little girl, and I can't see her!

They say she looks sweet enough to eat. They make out that she is a

living miniature of me, and I can't admire her! Oh, how mighty is a

mother's love! I have borne without a murmur not to look upon the blue

of heaven, the glamour of the flowers, the features of my husband, of my

parents, of those who love me; but it seems that I cannot bear with

resignation not to see my child! Oh, if the black band which covers my

sight would fall for a minute, a second only; if I could look at her as

one looks at the vanishing lightning, I should be happy--I should be

proud for the remainder of my life!

Edmond this time cannot be my mirror. It is in vain that he tells me

that my cherub has fair curly hair, great wayward eyes, and a vermilion

smile. What good is that to me? I cannot see my little darling when she

stretches out her arms to me!

LETTER VII.

My husband is an angel. Do you know what he is doing? He has had me

cared for during the past year without my knowing it. He wishes to

restore the light to me, and the doctor is--himself!--he who for my sake

has adopted a profession from which his sensibility recoils.

"Angel of my life," he said to me yesterday, "do you know what I hope?"

"Is it possible?"

"Yes; those lotions which I made you use under the pretext that they

would beautify the skin, were really preparations for an operation of a

very different importance."

"What operation?"

"For the cure of cataract."

"Will not your hand tremble?"

"No; my hand will be sure, for my heart will be devoted."

"Oh!" said I, embracing him, "you are not a man, you are a ministering

angel."

"Ah!" he said, "kiss me once more, dearest. Let me enjoy these last few

moments of illusion."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"That soon, with the help of God, you will regain your sight."

"And then----?"

"Then you will see me as I am--small, insignificant, and ugly."

At these words it seemed to me as if a flash shot through my darkness:

it was my imagination which was kindling like a torch.

"Edmond, dearest," I said rising, "if you do not trust my love, if you

think that, whatever your face may be, I am not your willing slave,

leave me in my nothingness, in my eternal night."

He answered nothing, but pressed my hand.

The operation, my mother told me, might be attempted in a month.

I called to mind the details which I had asked about my husband. Mamma

had told me that he was marked by small-pox; papa maintains that his

hair is very thin: Nicette, our servant, will have it that he is old.

To be marked by the small-pox is to be the victim of an accident. To be

bald is a sign of intellectual power: so said Lavater. But to be

old--that is a pity. And then, if, unfortunately, in the course of

nature, he were to die before me, I should have less time to love him.

In fact, Anaïs, if you remember the stories in the fairy book which we

read together, you with eyes and voice, I in heart and spirit, you will

admit that I am rather in the interesting situation of "The Beauty and

the Beast," without having the resource of the transformation miracle.

Meanwhile, pray for me; for, with God's help, who knows whether I shall

not soon be able to read your precious letters!

LAST LETTER.

Oh, my friend, don't look at the end of this letter before you have read

the beginning. Take your share of my griefs, my vicissitudes, and my

joys, by following their natural course.

The operation took place a fortnight ago. A trembling hand was placed

upon my eyes. I uttered two piercing cries; then I seemed to see day,

light, colour, sun. Then instantaneously a bandage was replaced upon my

burning forehead. I was cured! only a little patience and a little

courage were required. Edmond had restored me to the sweetness of life.

But, must I confess it? I did a foolish thing. I disobeyed my doctor--he

will not know it: besides, there is no danger in my rashness now. They

had brought me my little one to kiss. Nicette was holding her in her

lap. The child said in her soft voice, "Mamma!" I could resist no

longer. I tore off the bandage.

"My child! oh, how lovely she is!" I cried out. "I see her! oh, I see

her!"

[Illustration: "MY CHILD! OH, HOW LOVELY SHE IS!"]

Nicette quickly put the bandage on again. But I was no longer lonely in

the darkness. This cherub face, restored by memory, from that moment

lighted up my night.

Yesterday my mother came to dress me. We were long over my toilette. I

had on a beautiful silk dress, a lace collar, my hair dressed _à la_

Marie Stuart. When my arrangements were complete, my mother said to

me:--

"Take off the bandage."

I obeyed, and though only a twilight prevailed in the room, I thought

that I had never seen anything so beautiful. I pressed to my heart my

mother, my father, and my child.

"You have seen," said my father, "everybody but yourself."

"And my husband," I cried out, "where is my husband?"

"He is hiding," said my mother.

Then I remembered his ugliness, his attire, his thin hair, and his

scarred face.

"Poor dear Edmond," I said, "let him come to me. He is more beautiful

than Adonis."

"While we are waiting for your lord and master," mamma answered, "admire

yourself; look in the glass. You may admire yourself for a long time

without blame, if you are to make up for lost time."

I obeyed; a little from vanity, a little from curiosity. What if I was

ugly? What if my plainness, like my poverty, had been concealed from me?

They led me to my pier-glass. I uttered a cry of joy. With my slender

figure, my complexion like a rose, my eyes a little dazed, and like two

shimmering sapphires, I was charming. Nevertheless, I could not look at

myself quite at my ease, for the glass was trembling without cessation,

and my image reflected on its brilliant surface seemed as if it danced

for joy.

I looked behind the glass to see what made it tremble.

A young man came out--a fine young man, with large black eyes and

striking figure, whose coat was adorned by the rosette of the Legion of

Honour. I blushed to think that I had been so foolish in the presence of

a stranger.

"Just look," said my mother to me, without taking any notice of him,

"how fair you are; like a white rose."

"Mamma!" I cried.

"Only look at these white arms," and she pulled my sleeves above the

elbow without the smallest scruple.

"But, mamma," I said, "what are you thinking of, before a stranger!"

"A stranger? it is a mirror."

"I don't mean the glass, but this young gentleman who was behind it,

like a lover in a comedy."

"Eh! goose," cried my father, "you need not be so bashful. It is your

husband."

"Edmond!" I cried out, and made a step forward to embrace him.

Then I fell back. He was so beautiful! I was so happy! Blind, I had

loved in confidence. What made my heart beat now was a new love, swollen

by the generosity of this truly noble man, who had ordered everyone to

say that he was ugly, in order to console me for my blindness.

[Illustration: "A YOUNG MAN CAME OUT."]

Edmond fell at my knees. Mamma put me in his arms, as she wiped away her

tears.

"How lovely you are," said my husband to me, in an ecstasy.

"Flatterer!" I answered, looking down at him.

"No, when I alone was your mirror I always told you so--and see! my

colleague, here, whom you have just consulted, is of the same opinion,

and declares that I am right!"

_Fac-simile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning._

By the kindness of Cardinal Manning, we are able to present our

readers with a fac-simile of the Cardinal's synopsis of a sermon on

Charity, preached on the 9th of July, 1890, in the chapel of the

Sisters of Charity, Carlisle Place, Westminster. The fac-simile

shows the Cardinal's handwriting at the age of 83, and also his

peculiar method of jotting down his notes on long, narrow slips,

two of which are here given to a page. These notes are for a sermon

of an hour's duration.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_The Queen of Spades._

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN.

[Alexander Sergeivitch Pushkin, the first of the great Russian

writers, was born at Moscow on Ascension Day, 1799. His father was

a Russian nobleman, an officer, a courtier, and a wit, but so

fiery-tempered that he threw up his commission in a rage at being

reprimanded on parade for having used his cane to poke the fire.

Pushkin's mother was the granddaughter of a negro slave named

Abraham Hannibal, whom Peter the Great had made a favourite and at

last had raised to be an admiral--a piece of history stranger than

romance. Pushkin's African descent was visible in his

appearance--in his crisp black hair, his irregular though mobile

features, and his swarthy skin. At school he hated work--his sums

always made him cry--and he was the ringleader in every prank. When

scarcely yet of age he wrote an "Ode to Liberty," for which he was

condemned to exile in Bessarabia. There for some years he continued

to pour forth the lofty, fiery, and romantic poems which have

caused him to be termed the Byron of the North. Besides his poems

Pushkin also wrote a striking volume of prose stories, from which

"The Queen of Spades" is taken. When Nicholas was crowned he was

recalled to Court, and in 1831 he married. For five years he lived

in happiness; but the husband of his wife's sister, who was named

George Danthès, preferred the wife of Pushkin to his own. Pushkin,

who was as jealous as Othello, challenged Danthès to a duel. On the

29th of January, 1837, the brothers-in-law met with pistols at six

paces, and Pushkin was shot through the body. Two days afterwards

he breathed his last. He was buried, at his own desire, at a

monastery near his early home, where his grave is still denoted by

a cross of marble, bearing simply the initials A. S. P.]

[Illustration: The Queen of Spades denotes ill-luck.

COMPLETE FORTUNE-TELLER.]

There was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff, a lieutenant in the

Horse Guards. A long winter night had passed unnoticed, and it was five

o'clock in the morning when supper was served. The winners sat down to

table with an excellent appetite; the losers let their plates remain

empty before them. Little by little, however, with the assistance of the

champagne, the conversation became animated, and was shared by all.

"How did you get on this evening, Surin?" said the host to one of his

friends.

"Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no luck. I play _mirandole_. You

know that I keep cool. Nothing moves me; I never change my play, and yet

I always lose."

"Do you mean to say that all the evening you did not once back the red?

Your firmness of character surprises me."

"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the party, pointing to a

young Engineer officer. "That fellow never made a bet or touched a card

in his life, and yet he watches us playing until five in the morning."

"It interests me," said Hermann; "but I am not disposed to risk the

necessary in view of the superfluous."

"Hermann is a German, and economical; that is the whole of the secret,"

cried Tomski. "But what is really astonishing is the Countess Anna

Fedotovna!"

"How so?" asked several voices.

"Have you not remarked," said Tomski, "that she never plays?"

"Yes," said Naroumoff, "a woman of eighty, who never touches a card;

that is indeed something extraordinary!"

"You do not know why?"

"No; is there a reason for it?"

"Just listen. My grandmother, you know, some sixty years ago, went to

Paris, and became the rage there. People ran after her in the streets,

and called her the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and my

grandmother makes out that, by her rigorous demeanour, she almost drove

him to suicide. In those days women used to play at faro. One evening at

the Court she lost, on _parole_, to the Duke of Orleans, a very

considerable sum. When she got home, my grandmother removed her

beauty-spots, took off her hoops, and in this tragic costume went to my

grandfather, told him of her misfortune, and asked him for the money she

had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, was, so to say, his wife's

steward. He feared her like fire; but the sum she named made him leap

into the air. He flew into a rage, made a brief calculation, and proved

to my grandmother that in six months she had got through half a million

roubles. He told her plainly that he had no villages to sell in Paris,

his domains being situated in the neighbourhood of Moscow and of

Saratoff; and finally refused point blank. You may imagine the fury of

my grandmother. She boxed his ears, and passed the night in another

room.

"The next day she returned to the charge. For the first time in her

life, she condescended to arguments and explanations. In vain did she

try to prove to her husband that there were debts and debts, and that

she could not treat a Prince of the blood like her coachmaker.

"All this eloquence was lost. My grandfather was inflexible. My

grandmother did not know where to turn. Happily she was acquainted with

a man who was very celebrated at this time. You have heard of the Count

of St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories were told. You

know that he passed for a sort of Wandering Jew, and that he was said to

possess an elixir of life and the philosopher's stone.

"Some people laughed at him as a charlatan. Casanova, in his memoirs,

says that he was a spy. However that may be, in spite of the mystery of

his life, St. Germain was much sought after in good society, and was

really an agreeable man. Even to this day my grandmother has preserved a

genuine affection for him, and she becomes quite angry when anyone

speaks of him with disrespect.

"It occurred to her that he might be able to advance the sum of which

she was in need, and she wrote a note begging him to call. The old

magician came at once, and found her plunged in the deepest despair. In

two or three words she told him everything; related to him her

misfortune and the cruelty of her husband, adding that she had no hope

except in his friendship and his obliging disposition.

[Illustration: "THE OLD MAGICIAN CAME AT ONCE."]

"'Madam,' said St. Germain, after a few moments' reflection, 'I could

easily advance you the money you want, but I am sure that you would have

no rest until you had repaid me, and I do not want to get you out of one

trouble in order to place you in another. There is another way of

settling the matter. You must regain the money you have lost.'

"'But, my dear friend,' answered my grandmother, 'I have already told

you that I have nothing left.'

"'That does not matter,' answered St. Germain. 'Listen to me, and I will

explain.'

"He then communicated to her a secret which any of you would, I am sure,

give a good deal to possess."

All the young officers gave their full attention. Tomski stopped to

light his Turkish pipe, swallowed a mouthful of smoke, and then went on.

"That very evening my grandmother went to Versailles to play at the

Queen's table. The Duke Of Orleans held the bank. My grandmother

invented a little story by way of excuse for not having paid her debt,

and then sat down at the table, and began to stake. She took three

cards. She won with the first; doubled her stake on the second, and won

again; doubled on the third, and still won."

"Mere luck!" said one of the young officers.

"What a tale!" cried Hermann.

"Were the cards marked?" said a third.

"I don't think so," replied Tomski, gravely.

"And you mean to say," exclaimed Naroumoff, "that you have a grandmother

who knows the names of three winning cards, and you have never made her

tell them to you?"

"That is the very deuce of it," answered Tomski. "She had three sons, of

whom my father was one; all three were determined gamblers, and not one

of them was able to extract her secret from her, though it would have

been of immense advantage to them, and to me also. Listen to what my

uncle told me about it, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he told me on his word of

honour.

[Illustration: "SEATED BEFORE HER LOOKING-GLASS."]

"Tchaplitzki--the one you remember who died in poverty after devouring

millions--lost one day, when he was a young man, to Zoritch about three

hundred thousand roubles. He was in despair. My grandmother, who had no

mercy for the extravagance of young men, made an exception--I do not

know why--in favour of Tchaplitzki. She gave him three cards, telling

him to play them one after the other, and exacting from him at the same

time his word of honour that he would never afterwards touch a card as

long as he lived. Accordingly Tchaplitzki went to Zoritch and asked for

his revenge. On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles. He won,

doubled the stake, and won again. Continuing his system he ended by

gaining more than he had lost.

"But it is six o'clock! It is really time to go to bed."

Everyone emptied his glass and the party broke up.