Stop for a moment and gaze at the crowd. A London child seeing it for the

first time would look at the faces and recall the Bible pictures.

Everywhere the Oriental type predominates. The old, solemn-looking men--the

poorest of the hawkers, for they have come to the Land of Promise too late

to struggle out of the ruck--have the beards and features of the

Patriarchs. They are calling aloud the price of their poor goods in the

lachrymose sing-song of the Eastern pedlar. Pious Jews are these aged

immigrants, and if you were to follow them to their synagogue you would see

them swaying to and fro as they repeat their prayers in the same mournful,

wailing voice with which they cry their wares.

[Illustration: "IN WENTWORTH STREET."]

The women are as Eastern as the men. The girls are handsome, dark-haired,

dark-eyed daughters of Israel, whose type of beauty has not changed in all

the thousand years of persecution and exile.

The younger women are well dressed, with a tendency to brilliant colours

and the "Paris fashion" that is displayed in the gay millinery shops of the

Ghetto. The children, who have been running in and out of the crowd, are

neat and clean, their pinafores are white, their boots are good and

well-fitting, their hair is bound with bright ribbons, and their frocks are

pretty. The first thought of the poorest alien immigrant is for his

children, and his pride is to see them well clad and well cared for.

The middle-aged women and the old women are true daughters of the East.

They wear coloured shawls over their heads. There is a curious monotony in

the coiffure of the women of the Ghetto who have passed their first youth.

The woman of thirty and the woman of seventy seem equally well supplied

with a head of glossy black hair. The stranger wonders, as he looks into an

old, wrinkled face, at the abundance of black hair surmounting it. If he

asks the reason he will learn that many of the Russian Jewesses cut their

own hair off on the day of their marriage and wear a wig for the rest of

their lives. To the Oriental the glory of a woman is her hair. The Jewish

bride was expected to sacrifice this attraction in order that she should

not entice the eyes of men.

[Illustration: "A CLOTHES AUCTION IN FULL SWING."]

It is a custom of long ago and the Russian Jewesses adhere to it. Most of

the older women came into the Ghetto straight from the ship that landed

them in the Thames, and they rarely go beyond its boundaries. Many of them

would not if they had the chance.

Here is a clothes auction in full swing. The sombre shop, the front window

of which is pushed half-way up, is packed with ready-made suits. The

proprietor is selling them to an eager crowd of men, who, when their bid is

accepted, take trousers, coats, and waistcoats over their arm and walk away

with their purchase. There is a tailor's shop close at hand where twenty

cutters and a large number of hands are employed in preparing suits solely

for the Sunday sale in this street.

Within a stone's throw of this street is a great Sunday gold and diamond

market. During the morning and early afternoon you may see a number of men

with little wash-leather bags or velvet-lined cases displaying their

glittering merchandise to one another. The jewel mart and exchange is in

progress. Many hundreds of pounds' worth of jewels change hands within a

few minutes. In Wentworth Street the buyer will haggle and bargain for half

an hour over a few pence. In St. James's Place a transaction involving

hundreds of pounds is carried out in a minute with scarcely a superfluous

word. The business is conducted with perfect good-humour, but the dealers

are among the keenest and cleverest men in the City of London.

But we are still only half off the track, for now and again the Gentile

sightseer penetrates as far as this.

As we come out from Wentworth Street into Brick Lane, where there is no

market and so no crowd, the long line of open shops and busy warehouses,

the hum and bustle of trade and toil in full swing, strike us as peculiar

when we remember that it is Sunday. Leaving Brick Lane with its Russian

post-office, its Roumanian restaurants, and shop after shop where the young

men of the Ghetto take the syrups and temperance drinks that are their

principal liquid refreshment, we make our way down Commercial Street and

plunge into the new Ghetto, a vast area far more foreign than the old

Ghetto, and now entirely given up to the alien immigrant. In the broad main

thoroughfare the shops are all open and trade is at its height. The

factories are busy, the furniture shops are loading their vans, the

shipping agents and bankers are taking money for remittance to relatives

abroad who are to leave the Russian Pale and come to the city paved with

gold, or booking passages to America and the Colonies for the immigrants

who are "moving on."

Here the scene to the unaccustomed Gentile eye is only odd. Directly he

turns into the small streets the stranger is filled with absolute

astonishment. Many of them are still crowded with dwelling-houses of the

poorest class; but where the Gentile dwelt the Jew trades. House after

house has been transformed into a shop. Windows have been taken out and

living rooms packed with merchandise. Every available corner is used, and

one sees the proprietor sitting in a little front room so packed in with

rolls of gay-coloured cloths, fancy boxes, and packages that one imagines

his only way of getting out must be by a harlequin leap through the window.

You may wander through miles of streets in this quarter and see the same

strange sight--the immigrant Jew who has established himself keeping open

shop in a dwelling-house all the Sunday through. You may see trade in full

tide at eight o'clock in the morning. When midnight has rung out from the

churches which still remain as memorials of the vanished Christian

population you will still see the shops open and the Rembrandtesque figure

of the owner sitting among his wares, waiting for a chance customer. He is

perhaps reading a Yiddish paper, printed in Hebrew characters, by the light

of a candle, slowly guttering to its last flicker.

[Illustration: "THE ORIENTAL BAZAAR."]

But it is not yet night, though the twilight is falling as we turn into

Morgan Street, and come suddenly upon a page of the old Orient bound up in

the book of modern Western life.

Here is a building which is fitly labelled "The Oriental Bazaar." You are

in London, but you might be in Cairo or Mogador. The bazaar or "market" is

reached from the street by deep flights of steps. It is open to the sky,

and beyond it and above it is a street of houses, and a roadway along which

flit now and again Eastern women with gay-coloured shawls over their heads.

The "shops" of the market are built in little recesses. In these sit silent

Oriental figures--the dealers. Most of the day's business is over. There

are only a few loiterers, and the men and women who keep the little shops

sit silent and emotionless as the Arabs among their unsold wares. In one

shop the stock has been sold out and the proprietor is sitting in the gloom

playing cards with a little party of men friends.

It is a picture for Rembrandt. The only light in the arched recess which

forms the shop is that of a candle. Round the candle are grouped

half-a-dozen dark, weird-looking men, all intent upon the game.

There is one card to be played. Uttering a little guttural cry, the man who

holds it brings it down on the counter with a thud. The game the men are

playing is one peculiar to these people. It is called Clabber-yas. The last

card played, the ninth trump, adds ten points to the score and wins the

game.

And at that moment the distant church bells ring out to call the Christian

worshippers to evening prayer.

But the Sabbath evening does not find the Jews undevout. The darkness has

fallen now, and we make our way back to the crowded streets of the old

Ghetto. Here the long lines of lighted shops are now packed with their

evening customers, who are buying meat and groceries and selecting

furniture, being measured for new suits, trying on smart hats and cloaks of

the latest West-end fashion, and examining the pink and blue and yellow

silk petticoats which make such a gay show in the brilliantly-lighted

windows of the milliners. We turn into a quiet street where the prevailing

note is gloom, and, having secured the friendly escort of a Jewish

clergyman's son, without whose presence we should hesitate to intrude, we

pass through a dark doorway and find ourselves among a group of men whose

features and whose occupations would have delighted the heart of Gustave

Dore.

In the hall, or ante-room, of the building are shelves packed with

ancient-looking volumes--books of Rabbinic lore and law. Gathered together

in groups are a number of Jews, young and old, who are standing around a

desk at which an aged man with a long grey beard is reading a well-worn

volume and explaining certain passages of it to the men who crowd about him

and listen intently to his words.

We are in the ante-room of a building which is known as the "Machazeke

Hadass V'Shomrei Shabbas"--that is, "The Strengtheners of the Law and

Guardians of the Sabbath." It is known officially as "The Spitalfields

Great Synagogue." The members of it, almost all alien immigrants, comprise

the ultra-orthodox section of the community. They have their own Chief

Rabbi, their own Shechita Board (the board that controls the slaughtering

of animals), and their own Beth Din (the court of justice). These pious

Jews are distinguished by their scrupulous observance of the Sabbath as a

day of rest. They will not even carry their handkerchief on the Sabbath day

because it constitutes carrying a burden. That is forbidden, so they tie it

round their waist as a girdle, where it becomes part of their clothing and

so allowable. They will not carry an umbrella on the Sabbath, not only

because it is a burden, but also because the putting up of an umbrella is

considered equivalent to the erecting of a tent over the head. And they

strictly obey the injunction which says neither thou nor thy servant shall

do any manner of work on the Sabbath day. For what is absolutely necessary

they employ an occasional servant, who is known as the "Shobbos Goy." They

never give him a direct order for the performance of a household task, but

they sometimes manage to evade the injunction. For instance, if it is

bitterly cold and coals are wanted on the fire, they don't say, "Put more

coals on." They shiver and rub their hands and say, "It is terribly cold."

Then the Shobbos Goy takes the hint and makes the fire up.

Let us linger for a moment among this strange group of devout Jews, few of

whom can speak a word of English, though they are likely to pass the rest

of their lives in our midst.

The pious old man who is thumbing the book is displaying his Talmudic

erudition to his hearers. The synagogue is open night and day, and this

ante-room is always filled with reverent and intelligent loungers, who

listen to the exposition of the Talmud and occasionally discuss the affairs

of the moment, for the alien Jew has brought with him the old custom of

making the synagogue a meeting-place and a club.

In the same room a number of men are swaying to and fro and repeating their

prayers in the Oriental fashion. Everywhere there is a note that is a

revelation to the Gentile visitor who is privileged to look upon the scene.

[Illustration: "IN THE SYNAGOGUE."]

The privilege is not easily gained, for these pious Jews, most of them from

the lands of persecution and massacre, are still nervous and fearful. They

have not yet learned the true meaning of English freedom, and the Alien

Commission is to them a warning note of some new disaster that threatens.

Passing from the Talmud school into the synagogue itself, you are startled

to find the Royal Arms of England, elaborately carved and coloured,

standing out boldly on the walls.

The mystery is solved when we learn that this was originally a Huguenot

chapel, owned by the French refugees who settled in Spitalfields after the

revocation of the Edict of Nantes. At one time the Huguenots were under

special Royal favour, which may account for the display of the Royal Arms

in their place of worship. The Jews acquired the building and converted it

into a synagogue about ten years ago.

The synagogue is only dimly lighted. Here and there a few worshippers are

sitting in the pews repeating their prayers or reading a tattered volume.

In one pew sits an old man writing by the aid of a tallow candle, which he

has stuck on the little shelf in front of him. He is writing out one of the

tiny scrolls which, encased in a capsule of tin or glass, forms the

"Mezuzzah," the amulet which every orthodox Jew places on his doors; or

perhaps the miniature manuscript is intended to be placed inside the

"Tephillin"--that is, the phylacteries which are bound round the head and

the left arm for the morning prayers. Remembering that the Mezuzzah and the

Tephillin are direct Sinaitic ordinances, we look at the old man writing by

the gleam of the candle in the gloomy synagogue with feelings of awe and

reverence. Forty centuries ago the injunction was given in the far-off

Eastern desert which the Hebrew exile is transcribing to-day in the heart

of London.

But, weird and mystic as the scene is, we do not care to linger. Already

the uninvited presence of Christian strangers has attracted considerable

attention, and the efforts of our artist to sketch unobserved have brought

about us a number of the pious and aged aliens, who consult together in

Yiddish and eventually put forward a spokesman, who, in broken English,

politely asks us what we want.

We make our explanation and assure the head of the little deputation that

we have no evil intent, and then as quickly as is consistent with dignity

we make our way through the Talmud room, the readers and expounders and the

aged men rocking to and fro in prayer, and pass out into the darkness of

the night. On the step an old man stands and looks after us. The pale light

coming through the open door falls upon his face and shows a deep scar that

looks like a sabre cut. The old man is one of the survivors of the massacre

of Kischineff.

And now we are back again in the big trading streets, with the yellow blaze

of gas and lamp oil showing up the bright costumes of young Jewesses who

are on their way to balls and parties and even to theatrical performances,

which are frequent Sunday features of this foreign land which is in London

but not of it.

Every now and then through the packed streets dashes a carriage with a

spanking pair of greys. Sunday is the day for weddings in the Ghetto. The

white ribbon on the whip of the coachman catches the eye again and again,

and always a little crowd turns to follow the vehicle and take up its

station outside the Hall in which the marriage feast is being celebrated.

These wedding carriages are to be seen making their way through the narrow

streets in every direction. They are picking up the invited guests at their

dwellings. As soon as one load has been deposited at the Hall, off the

driver hurries in search of another.

All is merriment within, and all is good temper and good order outside. The

crowd blocks the pavement to listen and to make critical remarks on the

toilettes of the guests as they arrive. One sharp turn out of the gay,

crowded street and the scene is changed. Here everything is gloom, and in

the gloom is a little group of slouching men and slatternly women loafing

at the doors of dark, forbidding-looking houses.

[Illustration: "LOAFING AT THE DOORS OF DARK, FORBIDDING-LOOKING HOUSES."]

We are in a quarter that has been rendered notorious by the revelations of

coroners' inquests. This is a little bit of the Ghetto that the Jews have

not yet taken from the Christians. It is the street of common

lodging-houses where strange murders have been done. We pass quickly by the

group of loafing tramps who have come out of the lodging-house kitchens to

gossip, and make our way up a narrow, tortuous passage to another street of

evil fame, where lodging-houses of the lowest class still remain. Battered

wrecks of lost humanity, male and female, flit to and fro in the darkness.

A woman pauses under the solitary lamp and we see that her face is bruised

and her eyes are blackened. The door of one lodging-house stands ajar and

the English tongue salutes our ears once more. It is not a welcome relief,

for the sentiment of the words is foul and blasphemous. At the top of the

court one comes again upon good buildings and light and a sound of childish

merriment. A number of little Jewish children are dancing a dance of their

own in the lamplight.

[Illustration: "A NUMBER OF LITTLE JEWISH CHILDREN ARE DANCING."]

We pass out into a broad main thoroughfare, and still the shops are open

and doing a brisk business. Here is a little restaurant with its bill of

fare in Hebrew characters. We push the door ajar and enter, for we know

that it was once the haunt of the Bessarabians, the formidable gang who had

a standing vendetta with the Odessians, and who fought them not long ago

outside the Yiddish theatre, the fray ending in a man being stabbed to

death.

The room we enter is lighted by a single jet of gas. There are only one or

two young fellows sitting about and smoking cigarettes. The proprietor in

his shirt sleeves stands behind the counter. At the end of the room is an

opening covered with heavy curtains. Now and again a man enters, nods to

the proprietor, and passes through them.

We have ordered tea, for which we pay a penny a cup. The proprietor brings

it himself, looks at us curiously, and I endeavour to allay his suspicion

by speaking to him in German. He replies amiably, and I try to engage him

in conversation. I ask him if the Bessarabians still use the house.

His manner alters. He has heard of such people, but they never came to his

establishment--never. I ask him if there is another restaurant beyond the

curtain. Again he looks at me curiously.

No, there is nothing beyond but his own dwelling rooms. I want to get

behind those curtains; but I have not the password, and there is no chance.

Some day I hope to be more fortunate. For this _cafe_ was the meeting-place

of the Bessarabians, one of the most dangerous gangs in the East-end, and

behind those curtains you passed to a room which was a gambling den. There

the quarrel took place which led to midnight murder at the corner of the

dark street.

We walk quietly away and in five minutes we are back upon the beaten track.

Everywhere are closed shops and the calm of the Christian Sunday night. The

householders pass on their homeward way. The sweethearts linger for a while

before they part at the door, or separate to go each a different way.

And though they are within a few minutes' walk of the strange scenes we

have looked upon by turning a little way off the beaten track, most of

these people are as ignorant of their existence as was the great French

critic who came for the first time to London and was taken to Piccadilly

Circus, was told that it was the famous Whitechapel--and believed it.

_Artists and Musicians._

BY S. K. LUDOVIC.

The following collection of pictures, in each of which the artist has

depicted an event in the lives of the great musicians, can open with

nothing more suitably than with the charming picture of "The Child Handel,"

by Margaret Dicksee. Handel's father strongly opposed the child's

passionate love for music, and the more his great gifts developed the more

severely was he forbidden to occupy himself with music. The little boy was

obliged to have recourse to subterfuge, and when his elders believed him

snug in bed he used to steal on tip-toe to the lumber-room, where he had

discovered an old spinet, on which he played softly to his heart's content,

alone and fancy-free. In one of these moments of enjoyment, when the divine

genius spoke to the child, he forgot himself and played louder and

louder--all the sound of the old spinet streamed through the silent night,

waking the sleepers in the house, who believed that the angels were keeping

vigil over the old town of Halle. But little George's father bethought

himself of the musical propensities of the boy, and, as the latter was not

to be found in his bed, the lantern was lit and a search-party followed

where the music led them. Alas! Poor George was found, severely

reprimanded, and dismissed to bed. The picture brings the scene so vividly

before our minds that we are glad to know the sequel. George was not to be

suppressed. A short time afterwards his father went to Weissenfels, where,

in consequence of the presence of the music-loving Prince, many concerts

were to be held. Little George knew this, and, as his father would not let

him go, he ran after the coach so long that his parent was compelled to

take him in. The Prince heard of the extraordinary child-musician, and,

thanks to his intercession, Handel's father at last gave permission that

his son should be taught music.

[Illustration: "THE CHILD HANDEL."

FROM THE PICTURE BY MARGARET DICKSEE.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1893, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

The next picture shows us Sebastian Bach, "the father of all music,"

playing before Frederick the Great. The painter has chosen the moment when

the King is giving Bach a theme on which to improvise. This theme, "a right

royal one," as Bach called it, was afterwards worked out by him and sent

back to the King, under the name of "A Musical Sacrifice." The King, who

was himself a remarkable musician, had shown Bach the greatest

appreciation, and this visit to Potsdam seems to have been one of the

happiest events in Bach's life. Those who are inclined to regard Frederick,

in his musical capacity, as no better than a _dilettante_ flute-player

would do well to remember that he was among the first to recognise and to

encourage the genius of one of the greatest musicians of all time. Yet

Bach's greater works remained in manuscript, and it was left to musicians

of a later period--especially to Mendelssohn--to unearth and make them

known to the world at large.

[Illustration: "FREDERICK THE GREAT AND SEBASTIAN BACH."

FROM THE PICTURE BY CARL ROeHLING.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1901, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

Another of our master-musicians, Haydn, unlike Bach, who never left his

country, came to England, and reached in this country the summit of his

renown. In the picture on the next page we see him on board ship. Well

wrapped in his great-coat he stands on deck and seems to enjoy the

sea-breezes, unconscious of the curiosity of the other passengers. He is

wondering what will await him in that strange country across the sea. Will

they understand him and the message he has to deliver to them: harmonies

so pure and simple from a heart so kindly and a will so strong? And they

did understand him in England; a glorious season of success awaited him.

Sympathy met him everywhere, and in such fulness that on returning home to

Austria he stopped at the little village of his birth and, kneeling at the

threshold of his father's humble cottage, he thanked God for all the

happiness which he had known in England.

[Illustration: "HAYDN CROSSING TO ENGLAND."

FROM THE PICTURE BY CARL ROeHLING.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1902, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

In his wake followed another and a brighter star. When Haydn was at the

zenith of his success all Germany began to talk of the little infant

prodigy, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Our first Mozart picture shows him at the

epoch of his life when he first fell in love. While on a visit to an uncle

he met his fate in the shape of one of his youthful cousins, Aloysia Weber.

The two sisters were pretty; the older, whom in the picture we see

lingering in the other room, was full of kindness and sweet unselfishness,

always putting forward the younger and more talented sister. Aloysia had a

beautiful and well-trained voice, and could read a song at first sight.

What was more natural than that the two young people who loved music should

learn to love each other? Then came the parting hour. Mozart was compelled

to go on one of his extensive tours. Two years passed by before he could

return to his Aloysia. She had, of course, vowed everlasting love; but,

alas for the faithlessness, the vanity of woman! Wolfgang came back,

faithful and loving as he had left, to find that Aloysia had grown into a

very beautiful girl, who had tasted the joys of celebrity as a singer.

Success had turned her head and she had nothing to say to the young

musician, who was only on the road to make his fame, and she threw away a

treasure which she was too ignorant to prize.

[Illustration: "MOZART AND ALOYSIA WEBER."

FROM THE PICTURE BY CARL ROeHLING.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1902 by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

[Illustration: "MOZART AND BEETHOVEN."

FROM THE PICTURE BY A. BORCKMANN.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.]

In the next picture we see Mozart again when, at the height of his own

fame, he listens to one who was destined to be greater even than

himself--the young Beethoven. The young musician of sixteen asked him for a

theme on which to improvise. Slowly the genius unfolded his wings; the

simple theme seemed to grow to a mighty phrase, which was taken up by other

voices as the harmony swelled under the fingers of the player who was

destined to show the coming generations the power of music at its greatest.

Mozart listened more and more attentively, his eyes fixed upon the young

musician, his face wearing an almost reverential look under the spell of

celestial inspiration, which came now like the rushing of a mighty wind.

The music still went on. Beethoven had forgotten that he was not alone; but

Mozart turned to his friends. "Listen!" he said. "And remember, of this

young man the whole world will speak."

Kaulbach, in his painting, "Mozart's Requiem," has immortalized the moment

when fate cut short the life of Mozart. The fire of his genius, the

never-ceasing, burning desire to embody the immortal inspirations which

floated so richly in his brain, had "fretted the pigmy body to decay." Ill

and depressed he was leaning back in his chair, when a stranger was

announced, who asked him to compose a Requiem as full of dignity and beauty

as his genius could conceive, a work which should be without an equal. He

laid down a roll of a thousand ducats on Mozart's table and went away

without disclosing his name, saying only that he would call again. Then the

master collected his last strength, and a sublime effort resulted in the

unique work, before which the world still stands in awe and reverence. He

felt from the first moment that he was writing his own Requiem.

The work was finished and now he wished to hear it. Too weak to stir from

his room, he summoned his friends to perform the Requiem before him. They

came and he listened, still and happy, to those mighty strains of sadness;

and, so listening, his own soul flew to Heaven. This is the scene of

Kaulbach's picture.

[Illustration: "THE LAST HOUR OF MOZART."

FROM THE PICTURE BY H. KAULBACH.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133 New Bond Street,

London, W.]

The well-known and well-beloved "Moonlight Sonata," whose power and beauty

will delight for ages, is the subject of the very pretty story depicted on

the next page. It is said that Beethoven passed, in the course of one of

his rambling walks, a lonely street in the suburbs of Vienna, and heard

from an open window the strains of his own music. The music came from a

room on the ground floor, and when he approached he saw a young girl

sitting at the piano and a child listening to her, huddled up on a chair

near by. Impulsive as he was, he at once entered, saying, "I know that

piece. What makes you play it? Does it please you?" "I love all Beethoven's

compositions," said the young girl in a sweet, quiet voice, without

showing any surprise at being thus interrupted by a stranger. But the child

came quickly towards him, saying, "My sister is blind, and music is her

only joy. What is it you want, sir?" With that peculiar directness which

was so characteristic of his nature, he simply said, "I wish to play to

you. I am Beethoven." Then the two girls settled themselves joyfully to

listen. The moon had risen, the street was silent, the tears glistened in

the blind eyes of the elder girl--and then came the wonderful mysterious

song of that Adagio in C sharp minor, which rose and fell and soared again

to Heaven. Such revelation of human feeling strained the nerves of these

two young beings almost beyond endurance. A slight pause, and the graces of

the Minuet played around them, soothed them, brushed the tears away, and

spoke of life and youth and gladness. And then it sang on--another rushing

storm--and melody after melody followed, and wildest outbreak of the

Titan's own rugged nature, and then it cleared up into majestic

strength--imposing chords of greatness--then silence. Beethoven turned and

went as he had come, and long after he gave to the world what he saw and

felt before these two lonely children.

[Illustration: "THE MOONLIGHT SONATA."

FROM THE PICTURE BY ERNST OPPLER.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1900, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

[Illustration: "BEETHOVEN AND GOETHE IN TEPLITZ."

FROM THE PICTURE BY CARL ROeHLING.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1901, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

The picture entitled "Beethoven and Goethe in Teplitz" illustrates an

episode which shows Beethoven in the company of Germany's greatest poet,

for whom he had an enthusiastic admiration. Beethoven's was a proud nature,

and he sometimes showed his pride in a manner which had nothing in common

with the smooth and polished manners of the aristocratic society in which

he and Goethe were wont to move.

Beethoven and Goethe met at Teplitz, a Bohemian watering-place much

frequented by Royalties and aristocratic society. They were walking

together, when the Emperor and Empress and their suite came towards them.

Goethe, standing still, hat in hand, bowed almost to the ground, as it is

customary on the Continent. Beethoven pressed his hat tighter on his head,

let go Goethe's arm, and tried to elbow his way through the crowd; but the

Empress had seen him and greeted him smilingly as she passed on, whilst

Goethe received only the courtesy accorded to every unknown person. This is

the moment shown us by the artist. The expression of surprise in the faces

of the Royal visitors at Goethe's obsequious politeness, the indulgent

smiles which follow the irate Beethoven, are very amusing.

Franz Schubert is the creator of the German "Lied." He was the first who

gave this kind of music a deeper meaning and a more elevated form, and,

guided by his dramatic instinct, produced such masterpieces as the

"Erlking" and the "Mueller-lieder." The singer is surprised to find most of

these songs written in a very high key, and before somebody had taken the

trouble to transpose them this was, even in Germany, a drawback to their

popularity. The reason was as follows. One of Schubert's best friends was a

very popular singer in Vienna, and his tenor voice was of an exceptional

compass. Schubert wrote most of his songs for him. The painter has had the

happy idea of giving us a portrait of this man in the act of singing, while

Schubert himself is playing the accompaniment. The young lady who stands at

the other side of the piano is probably the girl of whom Schubert said: "I

loved once a girl, she was not beautiful--but, oh, so kind-hearted, good,

and loving! And she sang my songs with a most beautiful soprano voice. We

loved each other for three years, and we were happy. Then I had to give her

up. I could never succeed in getting a post which would have enabled me to

marry. I had no right to prevent her from marrying a man who could give her

a home and make her happy." It is sad that a man whom we acknowledge as one

of the greatest of musicians should be compelled to give up every thought

of the happiness which comes to even the simplest worker in another field.

[Illustration: "SCHUBERT AND HIS FRIENDS."

FROM THE PICTURE BY CARL ROeHLING.

By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 133, New Bond Street,

London, W.

_Copyright, 1903, by Photographische Gesellschaft._]

The next painting illustrates a romantic episode of Schumann's life. In

1836 Robena Laidlaw, though only sixteen, was Court pianist of the Queen of

Hanover, and her fame had already spread over Germany, England, and Russia.

She played his music for him, followed his inspirations, and rejoiced at

the flights of his genius. They had tasted to the full the delight of

understanding each other in the beautiful language of music.

[Illustration: "SCHUMANN AND ROBENA LAIDLAW."

FROM THE WATER-COLOUR DRAWING BY J. RAABE.]

One day they were wandering in the Rosenau--the rose-gardens of Leipzig.

The time of parting had come. His life and hers were unsettled and full of

plans and ambitions. She was to start for Paris the next day, and to go

from there to Russia to play before the Czar and the Imperial Court. Did

they realize their own feelings at the moment, or know how much akin such

friendship is to love?

He arranged the cushions around her in the little boat upon the lake and

bade her wait for him; he would bring her a rose as a parting gift. She had

long to wait, and when he came at last he said, with that melancholy

expression which, even in his younger years, was already his: "I searched

so long and could after all only find a rose which is not worthy of you.

But I will send you a remembrance of the Rosenau."

[Illustration: ROBENA LAIDLAW.

FROM A PAINTING.]

Surfeited with the triumphs which fall naturally to the share of a great

artiste and a beautiful girl, Robena found, on returning from a State

concert at St. Petersburg, among many costly gifts of jewels and flowers

which awaited her, a simple roll of music with the German postmark. It

contained the twelve _Phantasiestuecke_ which are now reckoned among the

most poetical and beautiful of Schumann's works. He wrote: "I have not

asked, before sending them to the printer's, your permission to dedicate

these pieces to you. They are yours, and I hope you will accept them. The

whole Rosenau with all its romance is in them. Forget me not, and send me

your portrait soon, as you promised."

[Illustration: "WAGNER IN HIS HOME AT WAHNFRIED."

FROM THE PICTURE BY W. BECKMANN.

By permission of Rud. Ibach Soln, owners of the Original.]

Wasielewski tells in his "Schumanniana" that he heard him once, shortly

before his last illness, playing in the twilight, as he loved to do.

Melodies full of tender beauty floated around; the exquisite piece "des

Abends," the first of the _Phantasiestuecke_; then reminiscences of "des

Nachts," wild and desperate, as if haunted by loneliness and terror; and

then again the sweet and tender song of the evening's silent longing. The

listener outside the door felt his heart nearly burst with emotion, but

Schumann shut the piano immediately when the door was opened, and no

allusion to what had passed was possible. Had he returned in this lonely

moment to the memories of youth? Was it a last and loving greeting to the

past?

The great composer who gave so much to the world is long laid to rest in

the cemetery of Bonn, and the waves of the Rhine sing his eternal

slumber-song, but the _Phantasiestuecke_ will live on, and sing of the

romance which was never told in words.

Robena Laidlaw died only two years ago in London. Among the many souvenirs

of this brilliant artiste's career was found a withered rose, and written

by her on a leaflet: "Schumann gave me this rose at the Rosenau, 1836."

Beckmann's picture represents the last of the epoch-making musicians,

Richard Wagner. We see him discussing "Parsifal," his last and grandest

work, with his wife and his two faithful friends, Liszt and Hans von

Wolzogen. Wagner was then already living in his own beautiful home in

Bayreuth, surrounded by the luxuries he so dearly loved, having as

companion the woman who understood him best. His battle had been hard, but

his ultimate conquest was decisive, and we may feel contented in the hope

that culture is in our days so widespread and advanced that genius is but

rarely exposed to pay with a life of misery for the halo of its greatness.

The OWNER of the "PATRIARCH".

By Morley Roberts.

If anyone cares to look up the _Patriarch_ in Lloyd's List it will be

discovered that the owner of her was T. Tyser, but it matters very little

whether she was built of heavier plating than the rules required, or

whether she was cemented or built under special survey or what not. For T.

Tyser, otherwise Mr. Thomas Tyser, was not only the owner of the

_Patriarch_, but also the owner of a dozen other vessels all beginning with

a "P." He was, moreover, the owner of a large block of land in the heart of

Melbourne; he had several streets, of which the biggest was Tyser Street,

S.E., in London, and his banking account was certainly of heavier metal

than he had any personal use for. He was a rough dog from the north

country, and in the course of half a century's fight in London he came out

top dog in his own line and was more or less of a millionaire.

"And he's my uncle," said Geordie Potts; "his sister was my mother, and

here I am before the stick in one of his old wind-jammers and gettin'

two-pun-ten in this here _Patriarch_ of his, and hang me if I believe the

old bloke has another relation in the world. It's hard lines, mates--it's

hard lines. Don't you allow it's hard lines?"

It was Sunday morning in the south-east trades, and every sail was drawing

"like a bally droring-master," as Geordie once said, and the "crowd" of the

_Patriarch_ were all fairly easy in their minds and ready for a discussion.

"_If_ so be you are 'is nevvy, as you state," said the port watch,

cautiously, "we allow it's hard lines."

"I've stated it frequent," said Geordie, "and it's the truth, the whole

truth, and nothin' but it, so help me. D'ye think I'd claim to be old

Tyser's sister's son if I wasn't? I'd scorn to claim it."

"Any man would scorn to be Tyser's sister's son," said the starboard watch.

"He'd scorn to be 'im unless he was, for Tyser's a mean old dog, ain't he,

Geordie?"

Geordie thanked his watch-mates for backing him up so.

"That's right, chaps. There's no meaner in the north of England--or the

south, for that matter--and the way this ship's found is scandalous."

"The grub's horrid," said both watches.

"And look at the gear," said Geordie; "everything ready to part a deal

easier than my uncle is. I never lays hold of a halliard but I'm thinking

I'll go on my back if I pulls heavy. Oh, it's a fair scandal!"

He considered the scandal soberly and with some sadness.

"He might leave you some dibs, Geordie," suggested his mate, Jack Braby.

"He might, after all."

"Not a solitary dime," said Geordie. "Him and me quarrelled because my

father fought him in the street, and I hit the old hunks with a bit of a

brick because he got my dad down."

"Wot was the row about?" asked the others, eagerly.

"Nothin' to speak of," said Geordie. "My old man said he was a bloodsucker,

and that led to words. And I never hurt him to speak of. And yet I've

shipped in one of his ships, and am as poor as he's rich. He allowed none

of us would get a farthing; he shouted it out in the market-place and said

hospitals would get it, because one of his skippers that he'd sacked cut

him up awful with a staysail hank, and they sewed him very neat at one of

'em."

"There's nothin' so good in a fight as a staysail 'ank," said Jack Braby,

contemplatively. "I cut a policeman all to rags wiv one once."

"Was that the time you done three months' 'ard?" asked the port watch.

"Six," said Braby, proudly; "and I told the beak I could do it on my 'ead.

But, Geordie, if you was owner yourself what would you do?"

"Yes, wot?" asked the rest.

Geordie shook his head and sighed.

"I'd make my ships such that sailormen would be wantin' to pay to go in

'em," said Geordie. "I've laid awake thinkin' of it."

"Oh, tell us," said all hands, with as much unanimity as if they were

tailing on to the halliards under the stimulus of "Give us some time to

blow the man down." "Tell us, Geordie."

"I'd be friends with all my men, for one thing," said Geordie, "and I'd not

have a single Dutchman in a ship of mine."

The three "Dutchmen" on board, one of whom was a Swede, another a German,

and the third a Finn, shifted uneasily on their chests, but said nothing.

"And not a Dago," continued the "owner," "and I'd give double wages and

grog three times a day and tobacco thrown in. And the cook shouldn't be a

hash-spoiler, but what Frenchies call a _chef_."

"We never heard of that. How d'ye spell it, Geordie?"

"S--H--E--double F," said Geordie; "and it means a man that is known not to

spoil vittles, as most sea-cooks does, by the very look of him. And when it

was wet or cold the galley fire should be alight all night. And the skipper

and the mates should be told by me, and told very stern, that if they

vallied their billets a continental they'd behave like gents and not cuss

too much. And there shouldn't be no 'working up,' and any officer of mine

that was dead on 'dry pulls' on the halliards should have the sack quick.

And every time a ship of mine came into dock I'd be there, and I'd see what

the crowd's opinion was of the skipper and the mates. Oh, I'd make my ship

a Paradise, I would!"

Most of the men nodded approval, but Braby wasn't quite satisfied.

"And would there be grog every time of shortenin' sail, Geordie?"

"Oh, of course," said Geordie, "and every time you made sail too."

But an old seaman shook his head.

"'Tis mighty fine, mates, to 'ear Geordie guff as to what 'e'd do," he

growled, "but I ain't young and I've seed men get rich, and they wasn't in

the least what they allowed they'd be. Geordie 'ere is one of hus now, and

'e feels where the shoe pinches; but if so be 'e got rotten with money 'e'd

be for calling sailormen swine as like as not. And 'e'd wear a topper."

"You're a liar; I wouldn't," roared Geordie.

"Maybe I am a liar," said the old chap, "but I've seen what I've looked at.

If you was to learn as your uncle was dead now, you'd go aft and set about

on the poop and see hus doin' pulley-hauley, with a seegar in your teeth.

Riches spoils a man, and it can't be helped; it 'as to, somehow. I've no

fault to find with you now, Geordie Potts; for so young a man you're a good

seaman and a good shipmate (though you _'ave_ called me a liar), but you

take my word for it, money would make an 'og of you."

And here was matter for high debate which lasted all through the trades,

through the horse latitudes, and into the region of the brave west winds

till the _Patriarch_ had made more than half her casting.

"So I'm to be a mean swab and a real swine when I'm rich," said Geordie.

"Oh, well, have it your own way. There's times some of you makes me feel

I'd like to make you sit up."

"'Ear, 'ear," said the old fo'c's'le man; "there's the very 'aughty

richness workin' in his mind, shipmates. What'll the real thing do if 'is

huncle pegs out sudden?"

It was curious to note that a certain subdued hostility rose up between

most of the men and Geordie. They sat apart and discussed him. Even Jack

Braby threw out dark and melancholy hints that they wouldn't be chums any

more if old Tyser's money came to his nephew. There were at times faint

suggestions that Geordie was getting touched with his possible prosperity.

"I'll live ashore and have a public-house," said Geordie Potts.

And they picked up Cape Otway light in due time, and ran through Port

Phillip Heads by-and-by, and came to an anchor off Sandridge. Presently

they berthed alongside the pier and began to discharge their cargo; and one

hot day went by like another, till they were empty and began to fill up

again with wool. In six weeks they were almost ready for sea once more. And

the very night before they hauled out from their berth and lay at anchor in

the bay, Geordie went ashore at six o'clock "all by his lonesome," as he

and Jack Braby had fought over the job which Braby was to get from his mate

when old Tyser died intestate. And as he got to the end of the pier he met

a young clerk from the agent's office who knew him by sight.

"I say, I'm in a great hurry," said the boy; "my girl's waiting for me.

Will you take these letters to Captain Smith, or I'll miss my train back?

I'll give you a bob."

"Righto!" said Geordie; and he pouched the shilling and the letters, and

the young fellow ran for his train.

[Illustration: "'JERUSH,' SAID GEORDIE, 'THIS CAN'T BE ME!'"]

"The letters can wait," said Geordie Potts, "but the bob can't, and I've

five more besides. Jack might have had his whack out of it if he hadn't

wanted to be my manager when he ain't fit for it."

He put the letters into his pocket and made his way to the Sandridge Arms,

where he sat and drank by himself. It was seven o'clock, and he was by then

tolerably "full," before it occurred to him to see if he still had the

letters. He took them out, and the very first his eyes lighted on was one

in a long envelope addressed to

"GEORGE POTTS, ESQ.,

c/o Captain Smith,

_Patriarch_."

"Jerush," said Geordie, "this can't be me! 'Esq.' is what they puts after

names of gents. Even the skipper don't have it after his."

He fingered the long envelope and took another drink to consider the matter

on.

"Snakes! it must be me," he said, as he drew confidence out of his glass;

"there's no other Potts but me."

He was over-full by now, and he opened the letter and began to read it:--

"MY DEAR SIR----"

"By all that's living," said Geordie, "me 'my dear sir'!"

He went on reading:--

"MY DEAR SIR,--We regret to inform you of the sudden death of your uncle,

Mr. Thomas Tyser, on the 10th instant. He left no will, and you, as the

next of kin and heir-at-law, are entitled to all his real and personal

estate, which is, as you are doubtless aware, very large. According to our

present estimate it will amount to at least half a million sterling, and as

we have been his legal advisers for the last twenty years and know all his

affairs we can assure you that with proper management of certain

undertakings at present in our hands, it may be much more than our

estimate. In order that you may return at once we enclose you a draft on

the Union Bank of Australia for two hundred pounds, and have instructed

Captain Smith to give you your discharge, which he will, of course, do at

once.

"We hope, as we have been so long in the confidence of Mr. Tyser, that you

will see no reason to complain of our care of your interests.

"We are, my dear sir,

"Your obedient servants,

"THOMAS WIGGS AND CO."

"My stars!" said Geordie. And he stared aghast at a square piece of paper,

which he had reason to believe represented two hundred pounds. "My stars!

what a pot o' money!"

He gasped and took another drink.

"I'm the owner of the _Patriarch_," he said, and grasping all the letters

and his two-hundred-pound draft he rammed them down into the bottom of his

inside breast-pocket. "I'm the owner of--hic--the--hic--_Patriarch_."

He came out of his corner and went to the bar.

"Gimme a drink--an expensive drink, one that'll cost five bob," he demanded

of the barman.

"You'd better have a bottle o' brandy," said the barman.

"I wants the best."

"This is Hennessy's forty star brandy," said the liar behind the bar.

"There's no better in the world."

And Geordie retreated with the bottle to his corner and took a long drink

of a poisonous compound which contained as much insanity in it as a small

lunatic asylum. He came back to the bar presently and told the barman that

he was a millionaire.

"I own half Newcastle and a lot of Bourke Street, Melbourne, and a baker's

dozen of ships, and lumps of London!" said Geordie.

"Lend me a thousand pounds till to-morrow," said the barman.

"I like you--hic--I'll do it," said Geordie, and with that he fell headlong

and forgot his wealth. They dragged him outside on the veranda and let him

lie in the cool of the evening. He was picked up there two hours later by

Jack Braby and some of the starboard watch and taken on board.

"He let on he was a millionaire," said the barman, contemptuously.

Braby shook his head.

"Ah, he's liable to allow that when he's full, sir," said Braby.

But that fatal bottle kept Geordie Potts wholly insensible till they were

outside the Heads again and on their way to England, with the smoke of the

tug-boat far astern. And presently the second mate, Mr. Brose, who was a

very rough sort of dog, and had sweated his way up to his present exalted

rank from that of a foremast hand, hauled Geordie out by the collar of his

coat, and had him brought to by means of a bucketful of nice Bass's Straits

water. Geordie gasped like a dying dolphin, but came to rapidly.

"I'll teach you to get drunk, you swab," said Brose. "Take them wet things

off and turn to."

And Geordie obeyed like a child in the presence of _force majeure_.

"Oh, I've got a head," he told his mates, "and it seems to me that I had a

most extraordinary dream."

"Wot did you dream of, old Cocklywax?" asked Braby; "did you dream you'd

come in for old Tyser's money?"

And Geordie gasped.

"S'help me," he murmured. "S'help me, did I dream?"

He dropped his marline-spike as if it were red hot and made a break for the

fo'c's'le and his wet coat.

"Now if so be I dreamed," he said, "there'll be naught in this pocket. And

if I didn't, I'm jiggered."

He put his hand in and brought out a handful of damp and crushed letters,

and came out upon deck staggering. Mr. Brose saw him, and was on his tracks

like a fish-hawk on a herring-gull. Geordie saw him coming and stood

open-mouthed.

"Oh, sir," said Geordie. "Oh, sir----"

"Oh, rot," said Brose; "what's your little shenanakin game? Get to work, or

I'll have you soused till you're half dead."

But Geordie could explain nothing.

"Oh, sir," he stammered, and held up his papers, shaking them feebly. And

Brose shook him, anything but feebly, so that Geordie's teeth chattered.

"If you please, sir," he cried out at last, "if you please, sir, don't. I

owns her."

"You owns wot?" demanded Brose; and the rest of the men edged as near as

they dared.

[Illustration: "BROSE SHOOK HIS MATE ONCE MORE."]

"He's drunk still," said Braby, as Brose shook his mate once more.

"I owns the bally _Patriarch_," screamed Geordie, "and all the rest of 'em,

and all my uncle's richness, and I won't be shook, I won't!"

And Brose let him go.

"You're mad," said Brose, "you're mad."

"I ain't," roared Geordie, who was fast recovering from the shock, "I

ain't. Take these; read 'em--read 'em out; let the skipper read 'em. I owns

the _Patriarch_ and the _Palermo_ and the _Proosian_ and the whole line.

The lawyer says so!"

He put the lot of damp letters into Mr. Brose's hands and sat down on the

spare top-mast lashed under the rail.

"There's letters for the captain 'ere," said Brose, suspiciously; "'ow did

you get 'em?"

"'Twas a youngster from the office give 'em me," replied Geordie, "and I

took a drink first, and there was one for me, and it said so--said I was

the owner, said it plain."

And when Brose had read the opened letter he gasped too and went aft to see

the skipper. The rest of the watch gathered round Geordie and spoke in

awe-struck whispers.

"Is it true, Geordie?"

"Gospel," said Geordie. "It's swore to. They sends me two hundred quid in a

paper."

"Show us," said the starbowlines, "show us."

"'Tis in the paper the second has," said Geordie. "It's wrote, 'Pay George

Potts, Esq., two hundred quid on the nail.'"

"I'd never 'ave let the second 'ave it," said Braby. "Like as not 'e'll

keep it."

"Then I'll sack him," said Geordie, firmly. "Let him dare try to keep it,

and I'll sack him and not pay him no wages."

"This is a very strange game, this is," said Braby. "I never 'eard tell of

the likes. Did they put 'Esk' on your letter?"

"They done so," said Geordie. "I've seen uncle's letters and they done so

to him."

"Then it must be true," said Braby. "They only puts 'Esk' on gents'

letters."

And Williams, the steward, was observed coming for'ard scratching his head.

"Where the deuce am I?" asked Williams, "and wot's the game? I'm sent by

the captain to say, 'Will Mr. Potts step into the cabin?'"

They all looked at Geordie.

"Mr. Potts? Why, that's you, Geordie."

"I s'pose it must be," said the owner. "Must I go, mates?"

"Of course," cried Braby.

But Geordie fidgeted.

"I could go in if we were painting of her cabin," he murmured; "but to talk

with the skipper----"

That evidently disgruntled him.

"'Tis your own cabin any'ow," said Braby. "I'd walk in like a lord."

"Well, I s'pose I must," said Geordie, reluctantly, and he went aft with

Williams.

"And you're the owner?" asked Williams.

Geordie sighed.

"So it seems, stooard," he admitted.

"It licks creation," said Williams.

"So it does," said Geordie, and the next moment he found himself announced

as "Mr. Potts," and he stood before the captain with his cap in his hand,

looking as if he was about to be put in irons for mutiny; but, as a matter

of fact, the old skipper was a deal more nervous than he was.

"This seems all correct, Mr. Potts," said Smith.

"Does it, sir?" asked Geordie. "I'm very sorry, sir, but it ain't my fault,

sir. I never meant--at least, I never allowed my uncle would do it, because

my father, sir, said he was a bloodsucker, and they fought, and I hit uncle

with a brick, sir, to make him let go of father's beard."

"Oh, yes, to be sure," said the captain, nervously, "but I'm thinking what

to do. It's a very anomalous situation for you to be here, Potts--Mr.

Potts, I mean."

But Geordie held up his hand.

"I'd _much_ rather be Potts, sir, thanking you all the same."

"I couldn't do it," replied the skipper. "I was thinking that you might

like me to put back to Melbourne?"

"Wot for, sir?" demanded the owner.

"So that you could go home in a P. and O. boat," said old Smith.

"Thanking you kindly, sir," replied Geordie, "I'd rather stay in the

_Patriarch_. I don't like steamers and never did."

He had a vague notion that the skipper wanted him to go home before the

mast in one.

"Then you wish me not to put back, Mr. Potts?" said Smith.

"I'd very much rather not, sir," replied Geordie. "I'm very happy here,

sir, and takin' it all round the _Patriarch's_ a comfortable ship, sir. May

I go for'ard now, sir?"

He made a step for the cabin door.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said old Smith, "you mustn't; you must have a berth

here and be a passenger."

The skipper's obvious nervousness was not without its effect upon the new

owner. For old Smith knew that if he lost his present billet he was not

likely to find another one, and he had nothing saved to speak of. So

somehow, and without knowing why, Geordie, without being in the least

disrespectful, was more decided in his answer than he would have been if

the "old man" had showed himself as hard and severe as usual.

"Not me," said Geordie, "not me, sir; I wouldn't and I couldn't. I'd be

that uncomfortable--oh, a passenger, good evings, no!"

"But bein' owner you _can't_ stay for'ard," urged the skipper.

"Oh, yes, I can, sir," said Geordie; "I'd prefer it."

Smith sighed.

"If you prefer it, of course you must. But if you change your mind you'll

let me know."

"Right--I will, sir," said Geordie.

The skipper walked with him to the cabin door.

"And if you don't want to work, Mr. Potts, I dare say we can get on without

your services, though we shall miss them," he said, anxiously.

"I couldn't lie about and do nix," replied Geordie. "I'd die of it."

And away he went for'ard, while the skipper and Mr. Brose and Mr. Ware,

waked out of his watch below to hear the extraordinary news, discussed the

situation.

"And 'ave I to call 'im Mr. Potts?" asked Brose, with a pathetic air of

disgust.

"I say so," replied the skipper. "I can't afford, Brose, as you know, to

lose this job. And old Tyser promised me a kind of marine superintendent's

billet when I left the _Patriarch_, and I dessay this young chap will act

decent about it."

"I'm fair knocked," replied Ware. "I'm jolly glad that he ain't in my

watch. This is hard lines on you, Brose."

"If you please, Mr. Potts, will you be so good has to be so kind has to be

so hobliging as to go and over'aul the gear on the main," piped Brose, in

furious mockery, "Oh, this is 'ard!"

"Far from it," said old Smith; "you ought to be proud. It ain't every

second mate has a millionaire owner in his watch."

But Brose was sullen.

"You mark me, this josser won't do no 'and's turn that 'e don't like."

And for'ard the crowd said the same. As a result, for at least ten days

Geordie Potts worked very well indeed. But, of course, Brose, under the

skipper's orders, gave him all the soft jobs that were going. The second

mate got into a mode of exaggerated courtesy which was almost painful.

"Be so good, Mr. Potts, as to put a nice, neat Matthew Walker on this 'ere

lanyard."

Or--

"Mr. Potts, please be kind enough to go aloft and stop that spilling line

to the jack-stay."

And at meal times the port watch mimicked Brose.

"Dear Mr. Potts, howner, be so good as to heat this 'orrid 'ash without

growling."

And presently, when the weather began to get cold and the men brought out

their Cape Horn pea-jackets and their mitts, Geordie commenced to growl a

little.

[Illustration: "'IF YOU DON'T WANT TO WORK, MR. POTTS, I DARESAY WE CAN GET

ON WITHOUT YOUR SERVICES,' HE SAID."]

"I hates turnin' out in the gravy-eye watch worse and worse," he said.

"I've half a mind to let on I'm sick."

"You'd better go haft and tell the old man to 'ave the galley fire kep'

alight all night," said the crowd, crossly. "But you dasn't."

"I dast," said Geordie; "why, I owns the bally galley!"

"You dasn't!"

"I will," said Geordie. And next morning he went aft and touched his cap to

the skipper and begged to be allowed to speak to him.

"The galley fire at night?" said Smith. "Oh, certainly, Mr. Potts. I never

done it because it was against the horders of your late revered huncle,

sir."

"He was as mean as mean," said Geordie; "I think I can afford the fire,

sir."

The fire was lighted and the crowd said Geordie was the right sort.

"And wot about the gear, Mr. Howner?" asked Jack Braby. "If I was you,

before it gets too rotten cold I'd 'ave a real over'aulin' of things."

"I'll think of it," said Geordie. And that very afternoon he tackled Brose.

"The gear's tolerable rotten, sir," he began. And the second greaser knew

he was right and yet didn't like to say so. He yearned to curse him. "And

I'm thinkin'," said Geordie, "it would be a good thing to get up new stuff

and overhaul everything. I risks my life every time I goes aloft. The very

reef earings would part if a schoolgirl yanked at 'em."

"You'd better speak to Mr. Ware," said Brose, choking.

And at eight bells Geordie spoke to the chief officer, who was quite as

anxious as the skipper to keep his billet.

"It shall be done, Mr. Potts," said Ware.

In the first watch that night Geordie felt very tired, and said so. When it

was eight bells in the middle watch he was still asleep, or pretended to

be.

"Rouse out, howner," said Braby, and he shook Geordie up.

"I feels tolerable ill," said Geordie; "I don't think I shall turn out."

He didn't, and the rest of the port watch went on deck by themselves. At

the muster Mr. Potts didn't answer to his name.

"Mr. Potts is hill, sir," said the obsequious watch; "'e said 'e couldn't

turn out."

"I thought it would come soon," said Brose to himself. And he went for'ard

to the fo'c's'le.

"Are you _very_ ill?" he asked, drily.

"I don't know quite how I feel," said the owner, "but I thinks a little

drop of brandy would do me good."

"I wish I could poison it," said Brose, under his voice. "This is most

'umiliatin' to a man in the persition of an officer."

By noon Geordie was well enough to sit on deck and smoke a pipe. The "old

man" came to see him.

"Wouldn't you like a berth aft now, Mr. Potts?" urged the skipper.

"I'll think about it, captain," said Geordie. "And in the meantime I don't

think I'll turn to."

The skipper turned to Brose.

"We can dispense with Mr. Potts's services for the time, eh, Mr. Brose?"

"Certingly," said Brose. But he walked to the rail and spat into the great

Pacific.

From that time onward Geordie did no work to speak of except to take his

trick at the wheel. And when they were south of the Horn he decided to do

that no longer.

"If you'll take my wheel for the rest of the passage, I'll double your

wages," he said to Braby. And Braby jumped at the offer. In the morning

Geordie went to the poop. It was noticeable that he went up the weather

poop ladder. Except in cases of hurry and emergency such a thing is next

door to gross insubordination at sea.

"I ain't goin' to take no more wheels," said Geordie. "And Braby will take

mine. I've doubled his wages."

Even old Smith gasped. As for Brose, he felt sea-sick for the first time

since he first went down Channel in an outward-bounder thirty years before.

"I'll make a note of it," said the skipper.

They shortened sail in a quick flurry of a gale out of the south-west later

in the day, and as all the topsails were down on the cap at once it was

"jump," and no mistake. As an act of kindly condescension the owner went to

the wheel and shoved away the Dutchman there, who was congratulating

himself on not being on a topsail yard.

"Get aloft, you Dutch swab," said Geordie; "I'll take her for you."

And Mr. Ware bellowed like a bull, for he had a fine foretopsail voice, and

when it was a real breeze his language rose with the seas and was fine and

flowery, vigorous and ornamental, and magnificent. While he was in the

middle of a peroration which would have excited envy in Cicero, or Burke,

or a barrister with no case, he heard the owner shouting; for a private

interview with the steward had given Geordie great confidence.

"Mr. Ware, Mr. Ware, I'd be glad if you'd cuss the men less. I don't like

it."

The chief officer collapsed as if he were a balloon with a hole in it. And

for the next minute he and the skipper engaged in an excited conversation.

"I can't--can't stand it," said Ware.

"You must," said old Smith, almost tearfully.

And Ware did stand it. But when the _Patriarch_ was shortened down and he

left the deck, he went below and swore very horribly for five minutes by

any chronometer.

"Now I know what Brose feels," said Ware. "I've a great sympathy for poor

Brose."

The owner ordered a tot for all hands when they came down from aloft. And

he called the cook aft and harangued him from the break of the poop.

"Now, Mr. Spoil-Grub, mind you cook better than you've been doin', or I'll

have you ducked in a tub and set your mate to do your work."

He turned to the skipper with a beaming smile in his blue eyes.

"I can talk straight, can't I, cap?" he hiccoughed, blandly. "I'm thinkin'

I'll lie down in the cabin."

And when the old man went below he found Geordie dossing in his own sacred

bunk. The poor old chap went and sat in the cabin and put his head on his

hands.

"This is a most horrid experience," he said, mournfully. "I don't like

howners on board--I don't like 'em a bit."

But it was not only the after-guard who suffered. Geordie shifted his

dunnage aft at last, and though when he was sober he left the skipper's

berth, he made himself very comfortable in the steward's. And he loafed

about all day on deck with his pipe in his mouth. He began to look at the

men with alien eyes.

"I tell you they're loafin'," said he to Ware. "Don't I know 'em? They

watches you like cats, and when your eyes are off 'em they do nothin'. I'm

payin' 'em to work and I'm payin' you to make 'em. There's a leak

somewhere."

And he addressed the crowd from the poop.

"You're a lazy lot," he said, "that's wot you are. For two pins I'd put out

the galley fire, and I'd cut off your afternoon watch below."

And next day he raised their wages. A week later he cut them down again.

The skipper had a hard job to keep track of what the ship owed them.

"I wish we was home," groaned old Smith. "Oh, he'll be a terror of an

owner!"

"I'll murder him," said Brose.

"Wot did I tell you chaps about the 'orrid effecs of sudden richness on a

man?" asked the old fo'c's'le man for'ard. "Geordie Potts was a good sort,

but Mr. George Potts, Esquire, is an 'oly terror. 'E raises hus hup and

cuts hus down like grass."

And it presently came about that the only time they had any peace was when

Geordie was very much intoxicated. But when they got into the calms of

Capricorn on the home stretch to the north he developed a taste for

gambling and made the old skipper sit up all night playing "brag" for huge

sums of money.

"I lends you the dibs, and, win or lose, it's all hunky for you," said

Geordie. He made out orders to pay the "old man" several thousand pounds,

and Smith began to feel rich. Then Geordie raked Ware into the game. At

last even Brose succumbed to the lure of "I promises to pay Mr. Brose five

hundred on the nail," and joined the gamble.

"This is a dash comfortable ship," said Geordie. "What's a few thousand to

me? I don't mind losin'. Stooard, bring rum."

[Illustration: "HE ADDRESSED THE CROWD FROM THE POOP."]

By the time they picked up the north-east trades poor old Smith owed the

"owner" ten thousand pounds. Ware was five thousand to the good, and Brose,

who had played poker in California, was worth fifteen thousand in strange

paper. He began to dream of a row of houses with a public-house at each

end. He and Geordie grew quite thick and compared public-house ideals.

"I'm goin' to buy a hotel," said Geordie; "there's one in Trafalgar

Square, London, as I've in my mind. I'll fit up the bar till it fair blazes

with golden bottles."

He borrowed the mate's clothes and had a roaring time, and then they came

into the Channel and picked up a tug, and went round the Foreland into

London river.

"I'll bet lawyers and so on will be down to meet me," said Geordie.

"They'll be full up with gold. To think of it! And to think I hit my poor

old uncle with a brick!"

He mourned over his brutality.

"He wasn't half a bad chap," he said, "and I don't see what call my dad had

to call him a bloodsucker after all."

They docked in the South-West Dock, and sure enough they had not been

alongside their berth five minutes before old Tyser's usual London agent

and a very legal-looking person came on board.

"Let me introduce you to the new owner," said the obsequious skipper, as he

led up Geordie, who had a smile on him large enough to cut a mainsail out

of.

"Oh," said the lawyer, "then this is Mr. Potts?"

"That's me," said Geordie. "Have you brought any money with you? I owes Mr.

Ware five thousand and Mr. Brose fifteen."

The lawyer smiled.

"I'm afraid there's some mistake, Mr. Potts. Your uncle left a will after

all."

[Illustration: "I'M AFRAID THERE'S SOME MISTAKE, MR. POTTS."]

Geordie's jaw dropped and so did Ware's. But Brose's fell as falls the

barometer in the centre of a cyclone.

"And me--did he leave me nothin'?" roared Geordie.

"Oh, yes," said the solicitor. "Mr. Gray, will you kindly give me that

cash-box you are carrying?"

And the agent handed him the cash-box. "He left you this," said the lawyer.

"And in this sealed envelope is the key."

Geordie grabbed the box eagerly.

"It's heavy," he said, "it's tolerable heavy."

And putting it on the rail he opened it with the key.

There was half a brick in it.

_Detectives at School._

M. BERTILLON'S NEW METHOD OF DESCRIPTIVE PORTRAITS.

BY ALDER ANDERSON.

[Illustration: DETECTIVES RECEIVING A LECTURE ON THE METHOD OF

IDENTIFICATION BY NOSES.

_From a Photo._]

The painter and the writer, the world has been assured repeatedly by the

very highest authorities, can never encroach very far on each other's

domains. Whereas a picture conveys the same idea to every beholder, so far

at least as the outward aspect of the personages represented is concerned,

a mere description can only give such vague and hazy outlines that the

ideas of no two readers need ever be identical. How is it that no critic

has ever suggested that this apparent inferiority of literature might,

perhaps, simply be lack of science on the part of the author? Such,

however, would appear to be the logical deduction to be drawn from the

innovation which M. Bertillon, after ten years' persistent efforts, has

recently succeeded in getting officially adopted by the Paris Detective

Police.

M. Bertillon has proved that the appearance of any individual may be

expressed in terms so clear, precise, and unequivocal that identically the

same image is evoked in the mind of everybody who hears or reads the

description. With nothing else but such a description to guide him in his

search, anybody of normal intelligence is able, after a few lessons from

the inventor of the system, to unerringly pick out the person indicated

from a crowd, however great, and in an incredibly short time. The new

method materially adds to the efficacy of the anthropometrical system of

identification, with which the name of Bertillon, the inventor of the

"thumb-prints" method, is inseparably connected. A brief outline of that

system may here be given.

The variety of Nature is infinite; she never repeats herself. No two leaves

are ever precisely alike, much less two human beings. A superficial

observer may fancy that two individuals resemble each other in a remarkable

manner. Let him examine them more attentively; he will find that they

differ radically in almost every detail. The farther he carries his

examination the more numerous and the more conspicuous will the differences

appear, until at last he may almost experience a difficulty in discovering

any trace of the resemblance that before seemed so striking. This is a

_resume_ of some of the principal axioms at the base of M. Bertillon's

teaching.

Every person, then, who for one reason or another comes within the power of

the law in France and in some other countries is photographed and measured

in prevision of his transgressing on some future occasion.

[Illustration: THESE ARE THE PORTRAITS OF A CRIMINAL, TAKEN IN PROFILE AND

FULL FACE.]

[Illustration: THIS IS THE SAME CRIMINAL, WHO WAS IDENTIFIED BY A DETECTIVE

AND ARRESTED ON THE EVIDENCE OF HIS EARS.]

The complete description and measurements are transferred to a piece of

thin cardboard, on which are also pasted two photographs of the

subject--one full face, the other in profile, both reduced to one-seventh

of life size. This is termed the prisoner's "fiche," which is now put away

for future reference. Every year about twelve thousand "fiches" are thus

added to the collection in Paris. In ten years this means one hundred and

twenty thousand; in twenty years nearly a quarter of a million.

Let us assume now that a crime has been committed. All the evidence tends

to prove that the culprit is none other than a certain man who passed

through M. Bertillon's hands some years ago. His "fiche" is taken out, and

copies of the photograph on it are distributed in the usual quarters. This

old photograph is the only guide the police have by which to identify the

fugitive. In the interval that has elapsed since it was taken, however, the

man's outward appearance may have so completely changed that he might now

walk under the very nose of the cleverest detectives in Europe, trained in

the old school, without being recognised. Just such a case occurred quite

recently in Paris, and was specially taken in hand by one of the most

experienced men the "Surete" possessed at the time, but without result. Six

months later a comparatively inexperienced detective arrested the criminal,

who was on the point of embarking for America. Trained by M. Bertillon's

new method to concentrate his attention exclusively on features which

hardly ever vary, and to neglect entirely such accidental details as the

fashion of wearing the hair and beard and the apparel, he had at once

recognised the person he was in search of by the characteristic shape of

ears and nose. This case is given in the accompanying photographs.

The contrary case to the foregoing instance--that is to say, the arrest of

an innocent man, on the ground that he resembled a photograph in the

detective's possession--used to be an all too frequent occurrence. Not even

the very keenest of the law's sleuthhounds were able to avoid such

mistakes. A good example is shown in the photographs next reproduced.

Innumerable instances, too, are recorded of people claiming, as that of a

brother, a husband, or a son who had disappeared, a body which, had they

but been M. Bertillon's pupils for an hour, they could never by any

possibility have confounded with their missing relative. So persuaded have

women often been of the accuracy of their own judgment that there have been

cases in which they have at first indignantly repudiated the husband or son

who subsequently reappears on the scene in flesh and blood and seeks to

prove that he is not dead after all.

A detective is now taught that he must use the photograph he is supplied

with merely as a check, to make assurance doubly sure, before he ventures

on an arrest. What he must principally rely upon is the visual portrait he

can evoke in his own imagination, a portrait which, he is told, is only

valuable so far as he is able to describe it in words. That which we cannot

clearly describe we cannot clearly conceive, is the pith of M. Bertillon's

teaching. The pupil is, consequently, made to analyze each feature of the

photograph separately, and express the result in certain conventional

formulae that convey a definite meaning to his own mind and to the mind of

everybody else who has studied the same method. He makes, in fact, "a

portrait in words."

The feature that presents the greatest diversity of form and size is the

ear, and, strangely enough, the ear is precisely a feature which we hardly

ever consciously look at. It has been reserved for M. Bertillon to point

out how admirably it is adapted for the purpose of establishing a person's

identity. The size of the ear, the relative proportions to one another of

the folds, its contour, the surface and shape of the lobe, the manner the

lobe is attached to the cheek, and the inclination of the bottom interior

ridge known as the antitragus differ most materially in every individual.

Let a modern French detective describe an ear as "Deq. cav. vex. tra. sep";

all his colleagues are immediately able to form a mental image of the

description of ear he means.

[Illustration: THESE ARE THE PORTRAITS OF A CRIMINAL.]

[Illustration: THESE ARE PORTRAITS OF AN INNOCENT MAN WHO WAS ARRESTED BY

AN UNTRAINED DETECTIVE AS BEING THE SAME MAN, BUT HIS EARS ALONE WERE

SUFFICIENT TO ACQUIT HIM.]

Similarly for the nose, of which three main varieties are recognised,

according as the line of the back is concave, rectilinear, or convex. Each

of these three principal classes is divided into three divisions according

to the direction of the base line--ascending, horizontal, or descending.

The degree of concavity or convexity of the line of the nose, as well as

the degree in which the base line descends or mounts, is indicated in very

simple fashion by putting the term denoting the form into brackets or

underlining it. Thus a moderately concave-backed nose is expressed by the

abbreviation "cav."; if the concavity is very slightly marked by (cav.);

and, if very accentuated, by _cav._ Noses of which the line is very sinuous

or arched are denoted by the abbreviations "s" and "a." A nose described as

_cav._ (s) would have a very strongly-marked concavity and be slightly

sinuous, whereas (cav.) _s_ would denote a nose but slightly concave, but

with a very sinuous outline. The form of the root of the nose is also

indicated in similar fashion to the back and base. So much for the shape of

the nose. Its dimensions relatively to the face, its width, length, and

degree of projection, are also indicated, for it is evident that size is

quite independent of shape.

The degree of inclination of the forehead is another feature that is noted,

as well as the general aspect of the complexion, colour of hair and eyes,

and anything about the face that is in the least abnormal.

The entire course of instruction in "word-portraits" extends over thirty

lessons of two hours each. At the end of the course an examination is held,

in which the pupil must acquit himself honourably in the practical tests

imposed upon him, if he wishes to obtain the coveted certificate, without

which he can now hope for no promotion. Several hundred persons are

assembled; with the exception of a few privileged strangers, almost all are

connected directly or indirectly with the various services of the police

administration. M. Bertillon or his principal lieutenant, M. Payen, hands a

slip of paper to the candidate, containing some such brief indications as

the following: "R--cav. (deq.) cav. x 1.62. O. 1878." "Pick out the person

to whom this refers," adds the examiner. In an incredibly short space of

time one of the audience finds himself "under arrest." The figures 1.62, it

may be said, denote the person's height; "O" stands for orange-coloured

eyes; and 1878 denotes, approximately, the year of birth--that is, that he

is now about twenty-six years of age.

[Illustration: DIFFERENT TYPES OF EARS FROM THE CLASSIFICATION-BOOK.]

We have the authority of our cleverest modern humorist for the statement

that the burglar and the cut-throat like a little innocent amusement

occasionally; what wonder, then, if the austere detective does also? His

chiefs, therefore, thoughtfully turn these examinations into occasions of

grave merry-making by giving one or other of the examinees a descriptive

portrait of some high functionary, perhaps of the Prefect of Police

himself, should he be present. The fledgeling is thus placed in a dilemma;

he must either display his incompetence or do violence to all his notions

of respect for the official hierarchy, and put a disrespectful hand on one

of the few shoulders in the world that he has looked upon as sacred. The

manner in which the luckless wight acquits himself of his invidious task

forms the theme of many a conversation in the "highest detective circles"

of the French capital for the next week or so.

M. Bertillon has recently compiled an album containing about fifteen

hundred photographs of the most notorious French criminals, classified

exclusively by the shape of their ears and noses and their height. The man

whose portrait figures in this blackest of black books has, at any rate,

the satisfaction of knowing that his physiognomy will not disappear from

the world without leaving some memories behind it.

Other black books contain portraits of foreigners of different

nationalities. The writer was allowed to peep into that relating to

"English and American" malefactors who are at loggerheads with the Paris

Prefecture of Police, and was patriotically pleased to find that their

total number--five hundred--is only one-fifth that of the Belgians. A very

large proportion, too, of these _soi-disant_ English and American citizens,

if their names are any criterion, might be Russians, Danes, Turks, or

Prussians, but are certainly not Englishmen. Anglo-Saxondom may flatter

herself that, in so far as France is concerned, she is a most exemplary

race.

When the practice of portraits in words becomes generalized, as will no

doubt very soon be the case, members of all those professions at which the

laws of most countries persist in looking askance will have but a sorry

time, if, indeed, they are able to subsist at all. Within the space of an

hour or two telegraph and telephone will have carried a brief but

unmistakable word-portrait of them to every corner of the civilized world

if necessary. In large towns like London and Paris, twenty thousand pairs

of trained eyes, covering the entire area of the city, can be set

simultaneously on the search for the fugitive murderer or burglar, who will

discover that the old methods of disguise are of but little use to him. A

rumour that certain London banks contemplated having all their _employes_

measured and photographed on M. Bertillon's system caused a considerable

amount of murmuring recently, the measure being considered as somewhat

derogatory by the clerks. By this extension of the method, however, their

portraits can be taken without their knowledge, since neither camera nor

measuring rule is necessary. Absconding cashiers will, in future, therefore

have to be remarkably circumspect in their choice of foreign residence.

Impostors like the claimant to the Tichborne estates, whose trial convulsed

the Anglo-Saxon world over thirty years ago, will be given short shrift. It

may be remarked, however, that one of the principal points brought forward

at the trial to prove that the Claimant was not the man he pretended to be

was precisely that the lobe of his ear was quite differently formed to the

lobe of the real Roger Tichborne. This only proves once more the old adage

that under the sun there is nothing new.

[Illustration: DETECTIVES RECEIVING A LESSON ON EARS.

_From a Photo._]

The writer would here express his thanks to M. Lepine, the Prefect of

Police, and M. Bertillon for their extreme courtesy in acceding to his

request to be allowed to attend the course of lessons, and also for

permission to use the photographs now reproduced.

DIALSTONE LANE[A]

BY W. W. JACOBS