"Of course, I at once saw the enormous importance of the observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation, and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her family, and you remember that she at once gave us some exceedingly valuable details.



"In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had, until recently, been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the mistake had occurred, and whom the packet was meant for. Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

"And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up what must have been a very superior berth, in order to be nearer to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that Browner had committed the deed, and had embarked at once upon his steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet.

"A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

"I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have understood whom the packet was meant for. If she had been willing to help justice she would probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.

"However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames to-morrow night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details filled in."

* * * * *

Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note from the detective, and a type-written document, which covered several pages of foolscap.

"Lestrade has got him all right," said Holmes, glancing up at me. "Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says."

"My dear Mr. Holmes,—In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test our theories"—"the 'we' is rather fine, Watson, is it not?"—"I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 p.m., and boarded the ss. May Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the name of James Browner, and that he had acted during the voyage in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven, and very swarthy—something like Aldridge, who helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well, for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife, such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence, for, on being brought before the inspector at the station, he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies type-written, one of which I inclose. The affair proves, as I always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind regards, yours very truly,—G. LESTRADE."

"Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one," remarked Holmes; "but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for himself. This is his statement, as made before Inspector Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being verbatim."



"Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise upon her face. Aye, the white lamb, she might well be surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked anything but love upon her before.

"But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me—that's the root of the business—she loved me, until all her love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and soul.

"There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just one of ourselves.

"I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed it?

"I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like the spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a thought for her, and that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.

"It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. 'Where's Mary?' I asked. 'Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts.' I was impatient and paced up and down the room. 'Can't you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?' says she. 'It's a bad compliment to me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time.' 'That's all right, my lass," said I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder.

'Steady old Jim!' said she; and, with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran out of the room.

"Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and we had causeless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became a thousand times blacker.



"It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and curled, who had seen half the world, and could talk of what he had seen. He was good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was gone for ever.

"It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome on my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. 'Don't, Jim, don't!' says she. 'Where's Sarah?' I asked. 'In the kitchen,' says she. 'Sarah,' says I, as I went in, 'this man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again.' 'Why not?' says she. 'Because I order it.' 'Oh!' says she, 'if my friends are not good enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it either.' 'You can do what you like,' says I, 'but if Fairbairn shows his face here again, I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake." She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same evening she left my house.

"Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just two streets off, and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him. How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she despised me as well.

"Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came this last week and all the misery and ruin.

"It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them from the footpath.

"I tell you, and I give you my word on it, that from that moment I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things together fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my head now, like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.

"Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy oak stick in my hand, and I tell you that I saw red from the first; but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they thought no doubt that it would be cooler on the water.

"It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the blurr of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a madman, and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick, that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out to him, and calling him 'Alec.' I struck again, and she lay stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I've said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat, stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.



"There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You won't put me alone into a cell, sir? For pity's sake don't, and may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now."

* * * * *

"What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes, solemnly, as he laid down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever."



Types of English Beauty.

FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY ALEX. BASSANO, OLD BOND STREET, W.



PECULIAR PLAYING CARDS.

By George Clulow.



'What's on the cards?' A question common enough when the actual knowledge of the moment does not afford a positive answer; a question, too, which has an origin taking us back to the earliest use of playing cards. But to how many of those to whom playing cards as a means of recreation are familiar is it known what may be found on the cards? Yet upon these "bits of painted cardboard" there has been expended a greater amount of ingenuity and of artistic effort than is to be found in any other form of popular amusement. Pope's charming epic, "The Rape of the Lock," gives us, in poetic form, a description of the faces of the cards as known to him and to the card-players of his time:—

"Behold four kings in majesty revered, With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flower, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, Caps on their heads and halberds in their hand."



It is not our purpose to historically trace the evolution of cards—this is a subject beyond the reach of the present article—but a look farther afield will give us evidence that during the last three centuries there has been a constant adaptation of cards to purposes which take them beyond their intention as the instruments for card playing only. The idea that playing cards had their origin in the later years of Charles VI. of France may be disposed of at once as a popular error, though it is true that the earliest authentic examples which still exist are parts of the two packs of cards which were produced for the amusement of that King, by the hands of Jacques Gringonneur, and of which seventeen are preserved in the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris.

These are the most early forms of playing cards, and are known as "Tarots" (as distinguished from "Numerals," or cards which have the consecutively marked "suit" signs), and which had evidently a purpose outside the ordinary games of playing cards as known to us. The "Tarot" pack consists variously of seventy-two, seventy-seven, or seventy-eight cards, including the "Tarots," which give them their distinctive name. "Tarot" as a game was familiar three centuries ago in England, but is so no longer, although it has a limited use in other parts of Europe still. One of the "Tarot" cards, of the Bibliotheque Nationale, "La Mort," is shown as the first of our illustrations (Fig. 1).



Familiar to those who are conversant with the literature of playing cards will be the Knave of Clubs, shown in Fig. 2, which is one of the fragments of a pack of cards found, in 1841, by Mr. Chatto, in the wastepaper used to form the pasteboard covers of a book. These cards are printed in outline from wood blocks and the colour filled in by stencilling, a method employed in the manufacture of cards down to a very few years ago. The date of these cards may safely be taken as not more recent than 1450, and they are most interesting as being coeval with, if not antecedent to, the most early form of printed book illustration as shown in the "Biblia Pauperum."[B] The archaic drawing of the features, with its disregard of facial perspective, and the wondrous cervical anatomy, do not lessen our admiration of the vigour and "go" shown in this early example of the art of the designer and wood engraver.

It is in interesting relation to the knaves of a pack of cards to note the curious conservatism which has belonged to them during the last four centuries and a half. In a MS. in the British Museum, written in the year 1377, the monkish writer, in a moralization on the life of man, suggests its resemblance to a game of cards; and he gives us a description and the attributes of some of the cards. Of those which we now know as knaves, he says two of them hold their halberds or arms downwards and two of them upwards—a distinction which is retained on many of the playing cards still manufactured.



In Fig. 3 we have one of the cards from a series of "Tarots" of Italian origin, also preserved in the Bibliotheque Nationale, and which may be dated about 1470. These are very beautiful in design, and indicate that they were thought worthy of the employment of the highest artistic talent.

We have an example of a somewhat more modern date in the Knave of Diamonds (Fig. 4), in which the costume and character point to the early part of the sixteenth century as the period of their production. This also is from a fragment discovered in the boards of an old book—a source which may be commended to the watchfulness of the bookbinder, as the bindings of old books are still likely to provide other interesting examples.



Before us are parts of two packs of cards which were discovered in Edinburgh, in 1821, pasted up in a book of household accounts, one of its leaves bearing the date of 1562; and it would be no great stretch of fancy to believe that they were taken to Edinburgh by some follower of Mary Queen of Scots on her return to Scotland a year before this date. These cards are of Flemish make; on one of them is the name "Jehan Henault," who was a card-maker in Antwerp in 1543, and in passing we may remark that at this period there was a considerable trade between London and France in playing cards of Flemish manufacture. Old playing cards may be looked for in most unlikely places; a few years ago two nearly complete packs were found wedged in an old cross-bow, for the purpose of securing the bow where it had worked loose in the head; they were of sixteenth century manufacture, and had doubtless been the means of relieving the tedium of many a weary watch or waiting, in field or fortress, before they found their resting-place of a couple of centuries in the obsolete missive weapon where they were discovered.

We find on many cards some attempts at portraiture. Thus we have in Fig. 5 Clovis as the King of Clubs, but depicted in a costume of the time of Henry IV. of France, the card itself being of that period. This, as well as Fig. 4, is from a pack of fifty-two "Numeral" cards, printed from wood-block and stencilled in colour.



Returning to "Tarots," we have in Fig. 6 (Le Fou) one of the cards designed by Mitelli about 1680, it is said to the order of a member of the Bentivoglio family (parts of whose armorial bearings are to be found on many of the cards), for the "Tarrocchini di Bologna," a special form of the game of Tarot, a series of spirited designs of vigorous and careful drawing, and the most artistically valuable of any of the Tarots with which we are acquainted. In them not only the Tarot series but the ordinary suits display a quaint conception and generally elegant design.

It is curious to note that in the eleven packs or parts of packs of these Bolognese cards which we have met with in various parts of Europe there is not any uniformity of manufacture, but while the designs are the same and evidently produced from the same copper plates, the making of them into cards for the purpose of play bears indication of what might be termed a "domestic" manufacture. For some time the game was interdicted in Bologna, and it is possible that this may have induced a surreptitious production and illicit sale of the cards. Fortunately, the interdict did not prevent the preservation to us of this interesting series.



At different periods between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, but notably in the two earlier of them, card "suits" have been used other than the familiar ones of Hearts, Spades, Clubs, and Diamonds, and much ingenuity and imagination have been exercised upon them. Among the most beautiful of such cards we take the set designed and engraved by Virgil Solis, the celebrated Nuremberg artist and engraver, in which the suit signs are Lions, Peacocks, Monkeys, and Parroquets. In Fig. 7 we have the Ace of Peacocks. The aces are lettered with the distinctive suit-titles of the German cards, viz., "Grun," "Eicheln," "Schellen," and "Herzen." The pack consists of fifty-two, divided into four suits of thirteen cards each; the date of these cards is between 1535 and 1560, and they are an important and valuable item in the artistic history of playing cards.

Another example of this variation in the suit signs, as well as of a variation from the ordinary rectangular form, is to be found in the round card (Fig. 8), of a somewhat earlier date than the preceding, where the suits are Hares, Parrots, Pinks, and Columbines, and which when complete make also a pack of fifty-two, the value of the cards following the sequence of King, Queen, and Knave being indicated by the Arabic numeral at the base of and the Roman figure at the top of each, the card shown being the Six of Hares.



In both of them there is a great decorative facility and clever adaptation to the form of the card. To indicate the coincidence of idea, in the next (Fig. 9) we have a round card from India—one of the "Coate" cards of a pack, or more properly series, of 120 cards. The material used in their manufacture is matted vegetable fibre coated with lacquer and painted by hand. Most of the playing cards of Persia are also round, and are similarly decorated by the same means. About a dozen years ago round playing cards were patented in America as a novelty, in ignorance of the fact that cards of that shape had probably been in common use in the East, centuries before the discovery of that great and inventive country!



As an illustration (Fig. 10) of the suit signs of Southern Europe, we take a card from a Portuguese pack of 1610, the "Cavalier de Batons" (Clubs); the other suit signs are Swords, Coins, and Cups. The anatomy of the charger and the self-satisfied aspect of the Cavalier are striking; and as to the former, we are reminded of the bizarre examples of hippic adornment which, on a summer Bank Holiday, may be seen on the road to Epping Forest.



Among the secondary uses to which playing cards have been applied, we find them as political weapons. Among such cards are those which were produced to commemorate what is historically known as the "Titus Oates Plot" in 1678, one of the most prominent incidents being the murder of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, who is here shown (Fig. 11), carried on a horse, the day after his murder, to Primrose Hill, where the body was put into a ditch, the carrying on the horse and the discovery in the ditch being shown as coincident. They were produced, probably, as one of the means of inflaming the public mind against the Roman Catholics, which led to the execution, among others, of the Viscount Stafford in 1680. As illustration of costume and of stirring incident, these cards are, apart from their intention, an admirable and interesting series, and are worth study from their historic and artistic aspects.



We come now to playing cards designed as methods of education, of which a considerable number have been produced—and which cover the widest possible range—from cookery to astrology! In the middle and latter half of the seventeenth century, England, France and Germany abounded in examples, the most attractive being the series of "Jeux Historiques," invented by Desmarests, a member of the French Academy acting under the instructions of Cardinal Mazarin—as aids to the education of the boy King, Louis XIV. In Figs. 12, 13, 14, and 15 are given examples from the four packs so designed, and they afford a good instance of the primary use of cards being subordinated to the educational. The first of these is the "Jeu de Fables," with representations and short notices of the heroes and heroines of classic history, the four Kings being Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto, and Saturn. The second is the "Jeu de Geographie," the four suits being formed by the division of the world into four quarters, each having its distinctive group of thirteen designs, with brief geographical descriptions; Great Britain being shown as the Eight of Hearts. If designed by an Englishman, it would surely have been as Queen of that suit that our country would have appeared. We have then the "Jeu de Rois de France," intended to teach the history and succession of the Kings of France, whom we find depicted in their numeric order, from Pharamond to Louis XIV., with the length of their reigns and short biographies.



The third and fourth of these packs are singular in consisting in the one case of all Kings, and the other of all Queens, in the "Jeu de Reynes Renommees," the famous Queens of history, from the Queen of Sheba downward, furnishing the design, and who are classified under the descriptions of Good, Wise, Holy, Clever, Brave, Happy, Cruel, Licentious, Capricious, and Unfortunate; our Queen Elizabeth being placed as "clever," and Mary Stuart as "unfortunate." They are beautiful examples of design and workmanship, and are the work of the Florentine artist-engraver, Stefano de la Bella.

(To be continued.)

FOOTNOTES:

[B] A "block book," with its illustrations and text cut on a wood block, and which is regarded as the immediate precursor of the type-printed book.



BY A. E. BURN.

When I went out to Egypt some years ago, I determined to devote myself to the study of Arabic, and not to rest till I could speak and write it like an educated native. This rash resolve, however, was made in ignorance of the sublime difficulties of this language, and after plodding at it with great vigour for a year, and acquiring some facility in speaking it, and the ability to read a sentence so as to sometimes get a faint glimpse into the meaning hidden behind the hieroglyphs which the Arabs call letters, I came to the conclusion that I had better rest on my laurels.

While my enthusiasm lasted I used to seize every possible opportunity of talking Arabic with any native I came across, and great was my disgust when, as sometimes happened, an Arab would persist in airing his English on me. As a rule, however, they were rather flattered by my evident desire to know their tongue, and some of the shopkeepers with whom I dealt would take a pleasure in teaching me new phrases.

One of these, by name Halil, who sold silks, shawls, etc., etc., and whose respect I had gained by some considerable purchases for friends in England, became quite intimate with me, and related to me a considerable portion of his own history and that of his family, and it was from him that I heard the following story of his courtship, which is not quite so prosaic and business-like as such affairs usually are in Mohammedan countries. His shop was in the silk bazaar at Cairo, and what first led to the subject was a sentence in Arabic written over it, which I had puzzled my brains in trying to read for some time before I at last managed to translate it. It ran as follows: "Long is the hair of woman, and long also is her understanding." This motto rather surprised me, as the Arabs have not, as a rule, that high opinion of the fair sex's understanding which it expressed, and I thought I could see the reason for a certain reluctance to assist me in translating it in the usually obliging Halil. After some evasive answers to my questions he took me into his confidence, and told me the following story in explanation of it:—

"I have already told you, Effendi, that my father died when I was eighteen years old, and that, being the only son, I became proprietor of this shop and the head of our household.

"I was not married, and had no wish to be, as I looked upon women with aversion and contempt, and was angry with my mother when she wished to get me a wife. I was encouraged in these ideas by an old man named Mahran Effendi, who had been a great friend of my father, and who still came in the evening to my house to smoke a nargileh with me. He had two wives, who gave him much trouble with their quarrels, and he used to say that women were created as a punishment for the sins of men, and to prevent them from being so much attached to this world as to be unwilling to leave it even for the joys of paradise, which, he said, would certainly be the case if there were no women. He repeated to me a sentence which he said was out of the Koran, though I have not seen it there myself. It was, 'Long is the hair of woman, but short is her understanding.'

"I was much struck with this, and repeated it to my mother with great pleasure, who was not so much pleased with it as I was. Indeed, she was quite angry, and said that Mahran was an old donkey, and the son of a donkey. I, however, had a higher opinion of the wisdom of my old friend, and, acting upon his advice, I determined to adopt this as my motto, and to paint it over my shop instead of the proverb which had been put there by my father. My motto made quite a stir in the bazaar for the first few days, and caused a good deal of amusement amongst the other shopkeepers and the passers-by. I have no doubt it was repeated in many of the harems also, for some of the women, who may have been teased about it by their husbands, reviled me as they passed.



"One day, not long after this, two women entered my shop and asked to be shown some of my finest silks; so I took them into the inner part, where I keep the most costly of my goods. While they were examining them I noticed that one of them had eyes that shone like stars, and which she kept fixed on me even while she laughed and chatted with her companion. Then, in stooping to pick up one of the shawls, her veil by some means became detached and fell to the ground, and I saw the face of what I thought to be surely the loveliest houri ever seen by mortal man. She gave a little scream and called to her companion, who seemed to be her servant, to assist her to refasten it, but at the same time gave me a smile and a glance out of her dark eyes, which swallowed up all my dislike to women as the light of a taper is swallowed up in that of the noonday sun. I was so confused by the new emotions which possessed my soul, that when they departed, saying they would come again shortly to decide about the silk, I could not utter a word to detain them. Nay, by the beard of the Prophet, I could do nothing but gaze at the houri till she was out of my sight. For three long days I waited in vain for their return. At last my heart began to be sick within me, and I feared I should never again behold the lovely maiden who had bewitched my soul, when on the fourth day I saw two females approaching, and I recognised that the slighter of the two was she. I had provided myself with several gold pieces, and was ready to give them all, if necessary, to make the attendant my friend. As soon as they had entered, and I had brought forth my silks, I drew this woman aside, and slipping one of the gold pieces into her hand, disclosed to her my passion for her mistress, and begged her to tell me who she was. The woman seemed inclined to laugh at first, but when I had finished became grave and said in a low voice, 'My young mistress looks upon you with favour; but, alas! her father, the Sheikh Abdu Hassan, is so mean that he cannot bear the thought of his daughter marrying, on account of the dowry he would be expected to give with her, and he will not even allow her to see any visitors, lest her beauty should become known, and he tells all who ask for her that she is very ugly and ill-tempered, so no one will marry her on that account; but if you love Khadijah, my mistress, go to the Sheikh and say that you will take her without any dowry, and then he will, perhaps, be tempted to give her to you.'

"When she had told me this, she went back to her mistress, and they both hastily departed.

"I shut my shop an hour earlier that day, and, on arriving home, told my mother all that had happened. She was very much astonished, and could not understand why, after refusing to have a wife for so long, I was now so anxious to have one without a dowry. She tried to dissuade me, but I paid no heed to her words, and went that same evening to the Sheikh, whom I fortunately found alone. I told him who I was and what my possessions were, and that I wanted a wife; but, as I had no one to speak for me—my father being dead—I had come myself to ask him for his daughter.

"He listened quietly, with his eyes fixed on my face, and when I had finished, said:—

"'Alas! my son, the girl Khadijah is ugly, and has the temper of a mule.'

"'For these things, O Sheikh,' I replied, 'I care not.'

"'You think you will get a heavy dowry with her,' he said, coldly; 'it is for that you have come.'

"'I swear by the holy Prophet,' I cried, 'that I want the girl and not the money. Nay, I will even take her without a single piastre, to prove it.'

"At these words his eye brightened, and on my promising that no one should know that I was not to receive a dowry with her, he embraced me, saying, 'She is yours, my son,' and the matter was settled.



"Of course, I did not see my bride till we were married, which we were in seven days. What was my horror when, after the ceremonies were over and my wife unveiled, I beheld, instead of the lovely girl who had come to my shop, a sharp-faced, ugly woman with a sour expression. I was dumb with amazement; but, by a great effort, I controlled my temper, and pretending to seem satisfied with my bargain, inwardly resolved to find out why I had thus been duped. My wife soon showed her temper, and quarrelled with my mother the very first day. She seemed to think she had married beneath her, and to show her superiority, began to ill-treat the servants, and usurped my mother's place in the house.

"Some days after my wedding I was in my shop as usual, when the two women appeared as before. I immediately beckoned them to follow me into the inner part. As soon as we were there I turned to the false Khadijah, and almost choking with anger I asked her why she had brought this curse upon my life.

"'What have I ever done to you that you should make such a day of pitch for me?' I cried.

"She laughed heartily, and her old servant followed her example. I was just about to burst forth into a torrent of invectives when she threw off her veil and, laying her hand on my arm, said softly, 'I have done this, O Halil, to show you that the motto over your shop is not true, and that the understanding of woman is as long as her hair. I will show you a way by which you can divorce your wife without offending her father, but on one condition only.'



"'It is granted,' I cried, 'if I come freely out of this.'

"'Change, then, the motto over your shop, and put instead, "Long is the hair of woman, and long also is her understanding,"' she said, almost fiercely.

"'But I shall have the whole bazaar laughing at me,' I cried, aghast at this proposal. 'I will take it away and restore my father's proverb if you will help me, and will give you as much jewellery as you shall ask, but I cannot change the motto to what you say.'

"'Jewellery is nothing to me,' she said, scornfully. 'Change the motto to what I have said, or keep your wife, I care not which.' Upon this she veiled herself and was going away, but I detained her and said, 'O maiden, you have asked me a very hard thing; but I will do even this if you will rid me of this woman, and tell me in truth who you are, so that I may have you for myself.'

"She promised she would, and made me swear by the sacred window of the Prophet that I would change the motto to her liking the day after I should be married to her. She then went away, saying she had stayed too long already, but that she would send her servant the next day, who would tell me her plan.

"On my return home that evening my mother met me with many complaints of the behaviour of my wife, who had abused her during my absence, and she ended by bewailing that I had not let her choose a wife for me.

"The next day the servant appeared, and after telling me who her mistress really was, thus unfolded her plan:—

"'To-morrow evening you must meet your father-in-law at the coffee-house he frequents, and in the meantime collect some of the poorest and lowest men you can find, and promise them a good backsheesh if they will obey the orders you will give them, which are these: While you are at the coffee-house the oldest man of them must come in and sit by your side, and call you his dear nephew, and say he hears that you have made a rich marriage, and that he hopes you are not going to slight your own relations in consequence. The other men must follow his example, and say much the same thing, but call you cousin, brother-in-law, or friend.

"'The old Sheikh, who is very proud of his family, will want you to divorce his daughter at once, but you must pretend you are too satisfied with her to do that, and from threats he will come to entreaties, and will at last want to bribe you. Not till then must you yield, and when you do, it must be with apparent reluctance.'



"I was overjoyed at this plan, and bestowed one of my brightest shawls on Fatima, who went away promising to come soon again and see how I had got on. I told my mother of the plan, which comforted her a good deal, and on the next evening I carried it out. I saw disgust and dismay rise in Abdu Hassan's face when we were at the cafe and the first dirty old beggar came up to me and addressed me as his nephew, which became mingled with rage when another ragged fellow came up to congratulate his cousin, as he called me; but when two more supposed cousins had joined us, even dirtier than the others, he could contain his feelings no longer, and turning to me, cried: 'Is it true, O Halil, that these sons of dogs are indeed your relations?'

"'Yes, O Sheikh,' I said, humbly. 'Be not displeased with me; a man must not disown the brother of his father, or the sons of his father's sister, even though they be poor.'

"'Poor!' he roared. 'Poor! They are not only poor, but they are sons of pigs. Give me back my daughter. She shall not stay with you to be the mother of dogs!'

"'You cannot take her away unless I divorce her,' I replied, calmly, 'and that I will not do, for I love the girl.'

"At this he began to entreat me, offering me at first four purses of silver, and at last offered me the same number of purses filled with gold, to which I consented, with apparent reluctance.

"He made me divorce her that very evening, for divorce, as you know, Effendi, is very easy with us; and a week afterwards I altered the motto over my shop door to what it now is, for Ayesha (that was her true name) was mine."

As Halil finished his story, I became aware that he had another listener in the shape of a little urchin, clad in a brightly coloured gown, which reached to the ground, and who wore, perched on his closely-shaven head, a small tarboosh. He had appeared from some corner of the shop, and now sidled up to Halil, his bright black eyes fixed on my face.

"See, Effendi," said Halil, with a proud smile, "this is the eldest of my five boys."

After I had rejoiced the eldest son's heart with a small "backsheesh," I took leave of Halil with many friendly salutations, and a pressing invitation on his part to come again soon.



From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

[The first of what, it is hoped, will be a long series of articles, descriptive of the House of Commons, is here appended. The author is Mr. Henry Lucy, who has spent nearly a quarter of a century in the Press Gallery of the House, and who, in addition to much other successful journalistic work, has, in the character of "Toby, M.P.," supplied to our distinguished contemporary, "Punch" some of its most amusing sketches. "From Behind the Speaker's Chair" will be continued, and will, we believe, be looked forward to by our readers, month by month, with constant interest.—EDITOR.]



Eheu fugaces! It is just twenty years, marked by the opening Session, since I first had the opportunity of viewing the House of Commons from a coign of 'vantage behind the Speaker's Chair. It is more than twenty years since I looked on the place with opportunity for closely studying it. But, as I am reminded by an inscription in an old rare copy of "Dod," it was in February, 1873, that I was installed in the Press Gallery in charge of the Parliamentary business of a great daily paper.

I first saw the House in circumstances that might well have led me to the Clock Tower. It was in the spring of 1869. I was passing through London, on my way to Paris, where I had proposed to myself to live for a year, master the language, and proceed thence to other capitals of Europe, learn their tongues, and return to storm the journalistic citadel in London, armed with polyglot accomplishments. Even then I had a strong drawing towards the House of Commons, but desired to see it, not as the ordinary stranger beheld it from the gallery facing the Chair, but from the Press Gallery itself.

In those days the adventure was far more difficult than in existing circumstances. The country Press was not represented save vicariously in the form of a rare London correspondent, who wrote a weekly letter for some phenomenally enterprising county paper. The aggregate of the London staffs was far smaller than at present, and was, it struck me at the time, composed almost exclusively of elderly gentlemen. The chances of detection of an unauthorized stranger (being, moreover, a beardless youth) were accordingly increased. But I was determined to see the House from behind the Speaker's Chair, and was happy in the possession of a friend as reckless as myself. He was on the staff of a morning journal, and, though not a gallery man, knew most of the confraternity.

One night he took me down to the gallery and endeavoured to induce more than one of the old stagers to pilot me in. They stared aghast at the proposal, and walked hurriedly away. We were permitted to stand at the glass door giving entrance to the gallery and peer upon the House, which struck me as being very empty. The door swung easily to and fro as the men passed in and out, taking their turn. The temptation proved irresistible.

"I think I'll go in," I said.



"Very well," dear old Walter hoarsely whispered. "Turn sharp to the right, sit down on a back bench, and I daresay no one will notice you."

At the corner of the bench, presumably guarding the doorway, sat a portly gentleman in evening dress, with a gold badge slung across his abundant shirt front. He was fast asleep, and I passed along the bench, sitting down midway. At that time there were no desks in front of these back benches, which were tenantless. I suppose my heart beat tumultuously, but I sat there with apparent composure. At length I had reached the House of Commons, and eagerly gazed upon it, feeling like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez when, with eagle eyes, He stared at the Pacific.



I don't know how long I sat there; probably not five minutes, certainly long enough to be struck with the smallness of the chamber, the commonplace appearance of the personages forming the historic assembly, and the perfect manner in which they dissembled their interest in current proceedings. Then I became conscious of a movement in the sunken boxes before me, where the reporters, taking their turn, sat. Heads were turned and whispered consultations took place. Someone woke up the portly gentleman, whom through many later years I knew as Steele, the chief janitor of the Press Gallery.

In time, then far off, he became the possessor of a cottage and garden in Kent, whither, wearied with his legislative labours, he used to retire from Saturday to Monday.



In summer-time he always brought me two or three roses, which he put in my hand with an awkward sort of flap, as if they were a slice of bacon he was depositing on a counter. That was his way of intimating that it was of no consequence. He noticed that I always comforted myself through long debates and all-night sittings with a handful of flowers set in a little glass on my desk, which was generally upset in the course of the evening by some unsympathetic reporter borrowing my box during a temporary absence, and clumsily turning round in the circumscribed space.



But that is another story. It was no flowers that Steele now brought me, but stern peremptory command to "get out!" He was unusually irate, first at having been wakened out of his sleep, and secondly at having in probably unique circumstances been caught napping at the post of duty. I went forth disconsolate, and there was a great hubbub in the dark little room outside. My friend and co-conspirator fled in affright when he saw me actually enter the gallery. Now he dropped in in a casual way, and stood at the edge of the crowd whilst Steele took down my name and address, and told me I should "hear from the Serjeant-at-Arms." I don't know whether that potentate ever communicated with me. I fancy Steele, recognising his own somewhat imperilled position, was not anxious to pursue the matter. Anyhow, I never heard from the Serjeant-at-Arms. Walter and I agreed, as a matter of precaution, that I had better hasten my departure for Paris, and two days later the English Channel rolled between me and the Clock Tower.

Next time I entered the Press Gallery it was as the accredited representative of the Pall Mall Gazette. I came over from Paris to spend Christmas at home, and never went back to complete that continental tour in search of knowledge, which I fancy had been suggested by Goldsmith's trip with his flute. It happened that in the early days of 1870, the proprietor of the Pall Mall Gazette began the first of the series of chequered changes in the history of the journal, by starting it as a morning paper. I had been an occasional contributor in a humble way to the evening edition, and thought I might have a chance of an appointment on the staff of the new morning paper.

Mentioning this to my friend Walter, he undertook to see it through, just as he had fallen in with the even more audacious proposal to enter the Press Gallery. I remember we were not far off Northumberland Street when the subject was broached, and might easily have walked there. But Walter could never embark upon enterprises of this kind unless he went in a cab, the driver being incited to go at topmost speed.



He left me in the cab whilst he ran upstairs to the office in Northumberland Street—I saw him going two steps at a time—and flung himself into the office of Mr. Fyffe, an old and highly-esteemed member of the Times staff, who had joined Mr. Frederick Greenwood in the editorial direction of the new development of the Pall Mall. What Walter said to Fyffe I never learned in detail, but subsequently had reason to guess he told him he had in the cab downstairs a young fellow who was (or would be) one of the wonders of the journalistic world, and that the morning edition of the Pall Mall would have no chance unless it secured his services.

However it came about; whether Fyffe had some work in hand and was anxious to be relieved from the embarrassing presence of his visitor bounding all over the room in the enthusiasm of his advocacy; or whether, as usually happens with a new paper, choice was limited, I was engaged then and there as assistant sub-editor at the salary of four guineas a week. I believe the regular average rate of remuneration was five guineas. But I was young and inexperienced; and after living in the Quartier Latin for nearly a year on fifteenpence a day, cultivating French literature on petits noirs, four guineas a week was a competency. "Trois de cafe" is what Daudet in his "Trente ans de Paris" calls this sip of nectar. "C'est a dire," he explains, "pour trois sous d'un cafe savoureux balsamique raisonnablement edulcore." But Daudet must have frequented aristocratic quarters. At our cremerie we never paid more than two sous, and, bent on attaining luxury, we demanded "un petit noir."

When the paper started, Mr. Fyffe did the Parliamentary summary, of which the Pall Mall made a feature, placing it on the leader page. One afternoon, after I had been on the staff for some six weeks, I looked in at the office, and found it in a state of consternation. Fyffe had been suddenly taken ill, and it was impossible for him to go down to the House to do the summary. Mr. Greenwood sent for me and asked me to take his place, for that night at least. To go down to the House of Commons and take an ordinary "turn" of reporting for the first time is, I suppose, a trying thing. To be bundled off at an hour's notice to fill the place of one of the most eminent Parliamentary writers of the day, and to supply a leading article on a subject of the surroundings of which one was absolutely ignorant, might seem appalling. It all came very naturally to me. I did my best in the strange, somewhat bewildering, circumstances, and as long as the morning edition of the Pall Mall lasted, I continued to write its summary. Fyffe came round again in a week; but he never more took up the summary, leaving it in my hands, with many words of kind encouragement.

It was in October, 1872, I joined the staff of the Daily News, having, under Mr. Robinson's watchful eye, gone through a period of probation as contributor of occasional articles descriptive of current events. I might, in the ordinary course of events, have continued in that line, as my friend and colleague Senior has done these twenty years, with honour to himself and credit to the paper. But here, again, chance befell and irresistibly led me back to the Press Gallery. In this very year a change took place in a long-standing management of the Daily News Parliamentary corps and the writing of its summary, and Mr. Robinson designated me as successor of the gentleman who retired. It was a curious and, in some respects, a delicate position, seeing that I was, compared with some members of the staff, a mere chicken in point of age. There were three who had been on the paper since it started, any one of whom might, had Fortune favoured me in that direction, have been my grandfather. But we got along admirably, they easing my path with kindly counsel and the friendliest consideration.



It was different with some of the old hands on the other corps, who bitterly resented the intrusion. I am not quite sure whether the two or three who still survive have got over it yet. Certainly old "Charlie" Ross, then and for some years after manager of the Times staff, carried the feeling to his honoured grave. After I had sat next but one to him in the gallery for many Sessions he used, on encountering me in the passage, to greet me with a startled expression, as if I were once more an intruder, and would walk back to the outer doorkeeper (whom he autocratically called Smeeth, because his name was Wright) to ask, "Who's that?"

Old Ross's personal affront in this matter probably dated back to the Session of 1872, when I took an occasional turn for a friend who was a member of his staff. This was young Latimer, son of the proprietor of the Western Daily Mercury, who had been called to the Bar and occasionally got a brief on the Western Circuit. When he went out of town I became his substitute in respect of his Parliamentary duties. It was Mr. Ross's custom of an afternoon to seat himself on the bench in the ante-chamber of the Press Gallery, armed with a copy of the Times report of the day, with the "turns" all marked with the name of the man who had written them. He genially spent the morning in reading the prodigious collocation in search of errors. When found, these were made a note of, the guilty person was sent for and had a more or less pleasant quarter of an hour. This was called being "on the gridiron."

I had only one experience of the process. Seated one day by command beside this terrible old gentleman, he produced the marked passage containing one of my turns, and pointing to the name, Mr. Ward Hunt, fixed a glowering eye on me and said, with his slow intonation:—

"Who is 'Mr. Ward Hunt'?"

"He is the member for North Northamptonshire," I timidly replied.

"Oh!" he said, witheringly, "that's whom you mean. 'Ward Hunt'! Let me tell you, sir, Ward Hunt may do very well for the penny papers, but in the Times report we write 'Mr. W. Hunt.'"

I don't know why this should have been, since the burly gentleman, who in the next Parliament was Chancellor of the Exchequer, was invariably called by his full style. But then, as I have said, nobody knew why old "Charlie" Ross dubbed Wright Smith, and pronounced it Smeeth.

Gentlemen of the Press Gallery who now live at Westminster at ease, with their library, their smoking-room, their choice of writing-out rooms, their admirably-appointed and self-administered commissariat department, little know the state of things that existed twenty years ago. Committee Room No. 18 had then recently been appointed to their use as a writing-room, providing it were not, when the House met, still in the occupation of a Committee. But the writing-out rooms originally apportioned, and then still in constant use, were two dark, ill-ventilated dens which served as ante-chambers from the Press Gallery. The Times staff appropriated the room to the right, still occupied by their telephonic service; the corresponding room to the left being for general use. The room at the top of the stairs—where Wright still presides and entrances the telegraph messengers with sententious remarks on political, social, and philosophic affairs—was also used for writing-out purposes, if a man could find a corner at the table at which to sit.



This was difficult, since this closet, not bigger than a boot-room in an ordinary household, was also sole dining-room attached to the Press Gallery. In addition to his official duties at the door, Wright, in his private capacity, added those of purveyor. Every Monday he brought down (in two red cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, it was profanely said) a round of cold boiled beef and a chunk of boiled ham; the latter tending, if memory serves, rather towards the shank end. This, with bread, cheese, and bottled beer, was the sole provision for the sustenance of the sixty or seventy gentlemen who then composed the corps of the Press Gallery. At that time it was more widely the practice to go out to dinner or supper. But for those whose duties kept them in close attendance on the gallery there was nothing for it but cold beef, cold ham, or an amalgamation carefully doled forth. Many a night, seated at the little table that still remains in this outer room, I have watched Wright prepare my sumptuous repast. He was even then short-sighted, and to this day I have vivid recollection of the concern with which I saw his nose approach to dangerous contiguity of the round of beef as he leaned over it to cut a slice with judicious thinness.



Even this accommodation was regarded askance by the constitutional authorities of the House, still accustomed to regard the Press as an intruder happily subject, under the beneficent regulations of the Stuart days, to instant expulsion if any member pleased to take note of the presence of its representatives. In 1867, a Committee sat to consider the general arrangements of the House. The reporters, greatly daring, took the opportunity of laying before it a statement of their grievances, and asked for fuller convenience for carrying on their work. Lord Charles Russell, then Serjeant-at-Arms, was, very properly, astonished at their unreasonableness, and plaintively deplored the times when, as he put it, reporters seemed to require only the necessaries of life, not presuming to lift their eyes to its luxuries.

"They used, I am told," Lord Charles added, "to have just a glass of water and biscuits, or anything of that sort. Now they have their tea at the back of the gallery."



Oliver Twist asking for more scarcely reached the height of the audacity of these reporters in 1867. Like Mr. Bumble, the Serjeant-at-Arms of the day literally gasped in dismayed astonishment.

All this is changed. Thanks to the courtesy and reasonableness of successive First Commissioners of Works, of whom Mr. David Plunket was not the least forward in doing good, the arrangements in connection with the Press Gallery of to-day leave nothing to be desired.

Of the changes that have taken place in the House itself, and of the ghosts that flit about the benches where twenty years ago they sat in flesh and bone, I shall have something to say next month.

* * * * *

[IMPORTANT NOTICE.—Companion to the STRAND MAGAZINE. Now Selling. To be obtained of all Booksellers and Newsagents. THE PICTURE MAGAZINE, Price Sixpence, Monthly. This new publication, issued from the offices of "The Strand," contains nothing but pictures, and forms an Art Magazine for the General Public. Features:—Fine Art Portraits, Curious Pictures, Humorous Pictures, Pictures of Places, Pictures for Children, etc., etc.]



A Child's Tear.



THE DRAMATIST'S STORY.

FROM THE FRENCH OF EDOUARD LEMOINE.

In a Parisian green-room a new performer was complaining of nervousness. From some of her companions she received encouragement, but the majority expressed themselves after this fashion: "Such tremors are incurable. As nature has formed us, bold or timid, cold or ardent, grave or gay, so we must remain. Whoever saw an ambitious man cured of his ambition, or a miser of his avarice?"

Some members of the company objected to the fatalism of these observations, and one said: "If you ask for a converted miser, I can show you one. Here he is! I am one."

The man who said this was a popular dramatist, noted for generosity. His statement was received with ejaculations of "Nonsense!" "Impossible!" "Do you expect us to believe that?" "Indeed," answered he, quite seriously, "I speak the truth. I was a miser, although now, I trust, I am such no longer. If you would care to hear it, I will relate to you the story of my conversion. It was effected by a child's tear." All present immediately crowded around him, and heard from his lips the following recital:—

"In 1834," said the dramatist, "I had just given to the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin one of the most successful of my pieces. One day about that time two letters reached me by the same post. Both were from Marseilles. One was from a theatrical manager, informing me that he intended bringing out my new piece there, and that he desired my presence at the final rehearsals of the drama. With regard to remuneration for my trouble, I might make my own terms in reason. The second letter, a very brief one, ran thus: 'Monsieur, the wife and daughter of your brother are dying of want. Some hundreds of francs would save them, and I doubt not that you will hasten to visit connexions so near to you, and make arrangements for their present and future comfort.' This letter bore the signature of Dr. Lambert, of Marseilles.

"As I have already told you, I was a miser in the worst sense of the word. The physician's letter, far from moving me to pity, merely renewed certain angry feelings which had formerly existed in my mind towards my sister-in-law. When, some years back, my brave sailor brother, who had since been drowned, had written to tell me of his approaching marriage with a fisherman's daughter, I, in my miserable pride and miserliness, had replied that in marrying a penniless girl, I considered that he was doing a most foolish and degrading action. I was even wretch enough to advise him to break off the match, if that were still possible. My brother, like the honourable man he was, wedded the girl he loved. My sister-in-law, who was a high-spirited Breton, never forgot my letter, and despised its writer. When she lost her husband, and found herself in need, it was long ere she could bring herself to apply to me. But the sight of her only child wasting away from sheer want, had at last broken down her pride.



"As the engagement at the Marseilles theatre seemed likely to prove a highly profitable one, I, as you might expect, lost no time in accepting the offer. I wrote off to the manager at once, and followed my letter in person with as little delay as possible. When I arrived at the principal hotel of Marseilles, I encountered there, in the act of inquiring for me, the doctor who had written on my sister-in-law's behalf. As I had not replied to his letter, the good man had said in his simplicity: 'He will be here in person,' and had looked for me every day. 'You have lost no time, sir,' said he. 'Doubtless you thought, and rightly, that did you delay, death might forestall you. Ah! I am indeed glad to see you!'

"I was completely nonplussed. My sole object in visiting Marseilles had been the professional one; but how could I avow such a fact to such a man? For very shame I could not do so. Accordingly, instead of going straight to the theatre, as I had intended doing, I walked away with the doctor to my sister-in-law's poor abode.

"It was a most wretched room. Yet the first object in it that caught my eye was a very beautiful one. Near the invalid's bed stood her little girl, with large black eyes, pretty curly hair, and a face whose expression was a pathetic combination of youthful brightness and premature sadness. At the first glance I could have taken the lovely creature into my arms; then I sternly repressed this alien emotion. The doctor, after he had spoken a few words to his patient, beckoned me to approach. As I did so the poor woman tried to raise herself. The mixture of sadness and pride upon her faded countenance told me plainly how great an effort it had cost her to appeal to me. Using the strongest plea that she knew, she pointed to her child with weak, trembling finger, and said in low tones: 'See here! She will soon be alone in the world.'

"Even this touching appeal produced (I blush to say it) no effect upon my hard heart. I answered coldly: 'Why give way to such fears? You are young; you have a good physician; why lose all hope?' A less selfish man would have added: 'You have a brother-in-law also, who means to do his best for you.' But I said nothing of the sort. My only thought was how I might most easily escape from the threatened burden. The little girl, who had been gazing at me with wondering eyes, now came to my side, and said: 'Will you, please, sit upon the bed? Because you are too tall for me to kiss you if you stand.'

"I sat down, and the child climbed upon my knee. Her mother's eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Unaffrighted by my black looks, the little one threw her arms around my neck, and pressed her lips to my cheek. 'Will you be my papa?' said she. 'I will love you so dearly! You are like papa. He was very good. Are you good, too?' My only answer was to unclasp her arms somewhat roughly from my neck, and set her down upon the floor. She cast upon me a glance of mingled surprise, disappointment, and fear, and a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Her silent sorrow worked the miracle that her pretty, fond prattle had failed to effect. As by an enchanter's wand, the ugliness of my character, the utter brutality of my conduct was revealed to me in that moment. I shuddered in horror and self-disgust, and yielded at once to my good angel. I lifted the disconsolate little maiden into my arms, and, laying my hand upon her head, said: 'Yes, my child, I promise to be a father to you; you shall be my dear little daughter, and I will love and take care of you always.'



"How happy this promise made my sister-in-law words fail me to describe. Her joyful excitement alarmed both the physician and myself. Joy, however, seldom kills. 'Brother! brother!' she murmured; 'how my thoughts have wronged you! Forgive me!' Her gratitude stung my newly-awakened conscience more sharply than any reproach could have done. I hastened to change the subject to that of the sick woman's removal to a better dwelling. The doctor, with ready kindness, undertook the task of house-hunting, for which I, a stranger to the place, was not so well qualified.

"He found for us a delightful cottage in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. There we three—my sister-in-law, my niece, and myself—lived for three months. At the end of that time the mother passed peacefully away, leaving her child to my care, with full confidence in my affection. Marie has been with me ever since. Her joys have been my joys, her life has been my life. Do I not owe her much? That tear of hers—a precious pearl gathered by my heart—has been to it what the dewdrop of morn is to the unopened flower—expanding it for the entire day of its existence!"



The Queer Side of Things.

THE DWINDLING HOUR.

A STORY OF IMPRESSION AND CONVICTION; BEING, POSSIBLY, A TRUE WORD SPOKEN IN JEST.

I.



"In an hour," sang the minstrel to his harp, whose frame was the curved black horn of a deer—"in an hour thy forefather strode from this spot whereon we sit to the summit of yon blue hill; and there, as the sinking sun would bend to caress his feet (as grovels a vanquished foe), he would touch its face with his hand in token of friendliness. 'Twixt dawning of day and noon would thy great forefather slay three hundred red-eyed wolves—one hundred shuffling bears!

"In a day did he carve and hew this bowl from the hardest rock, and fashion and form it thus; and bore a hole in its base for the water to trickle and ooze, and number the hours that sped!"

Then up rose the hunter to whom he sang; and broad was his chest, and active his limb; and he cried aloud, "What my forefather did that will I do; in an hour will I stride from here to the summit of yon blue hill."

And those that sat around, listening, laughed from their deep chests, shouting in mockery; for the blue hill was a day's journey away.

Then in anger the chief clutched his spear of flint; and he cried to them, "Fill up the bowl to the mark that marks an hour, and fill it up again till the two hours mark is reached; and ere the last drop is out will I stand on yon blue hill; and moisten my hand in the bowl."

Then turned he his face to the West, and, striding, stood on the cairn that capped the blue hill; and, returning, plunged his hand in the bowl: and, lo! his finger was moistened by the last drop ere it dripped from the hole at the base!

Then those that sat around sent up a shout of mockery; and they said, "Lo, since you strode away hath the red sun set on the hill, and hath risen again from the lake; and is stooping to set once more!"

"Then," cried he, "your words are a lie; for the clock but marks two hours."

But the others cried in their turn, "The marks in the bowl were made to number, not hours, but days!"

But the minstrel answered them, "Nay; they were made to number the hours—the hours of the distant past; the hours that were long as days."

Then the younger among them laughed, and held it a minstrel's myth; but the elders, pondering, cried, "These words of the singer are sooth; for the days that whiten our beards are passing in greater haste than the days that lengthened our limbs!"

But the younger among them said, "The hole in the bowl is clogged; it should run twelve times as fast."

And they bored the hole in the base till the water dripped more fast—twelve drops to the former one—and numbered the hours that passed.

And, wreathed in the grey of the mist that crept from the breast of the lake, the soul of the hero of old, of him who had fashioned the clock, looked down on them while they wrought: and vainly it strove to speak, and tell of the truth it knew; but voice and a tongue to speak would it lack for ages to come, for never a voice or tongue would it have till its hour arrived to dwell in the flesh once more; and then, and never till then, should it tell of the truth it knew.

II.

And, behold, on a day certain men journeyed toward Egypt, and this was that land of Egypt that should thereafter be mighty exceedingly; for these were the days before the First Dynasty—yea, many thousands of years before. And, it being nigh unto the time of the setting of the sun, they happened, by adventure, upon a cavern.

And they that journeyed toward the land of Egypt spake, saying, Shall we not lay down our burthens, and shall we not take the burthens from off our camels and from off our asses in this place, and abide for the day in this place, even here?

And they lay down their burthens even as they had spoken, saying, Shall we not lay them down? Also they took the burthens from off their camels and from off the backs of their asses, yea, and even from off the backs of their wives; and did tether them, even their camels and their asses and their wives, round about the cavern; and the men that journeyed toward the land of Egypt entered in unto the cavern, where there was shade, and washed their feet, and rested in the heat of the day.

And it came to pass, while they that journeyed toward the land of Egypt rested in the cavern in the heat of the day, that they found a bowl in the cavern, and the bowl was of hard stone; even hewn from the hardest rock; and in the base of the bowl was a hole; and they that journeyed toward the land of Egypt marvelled at the bowl.



And behold, a certain man of them that was a wise man spake, saying, This is a clock at which ye marvel; for hath it not marks upon the inner side, even on the inward surface thereof, and were these marks not made to show the hours, by the dripping of the water from the hole that is at the bottom of the bowl, even the under side thereof?

But they cried out upon him, saying, This is no true thing that you speak, neither is it the fact: for the water would abide in the bowl, between one mark and another, for the space of more than an hour; yea, even more than two or three hours!

Then they cried out all together that the bowl should be filled with water; howbeit they said, Behold there is not in this cavern water sufficient to fill the bowl; for have we not emptied the water-skins that the women did fill at the well and did carry here; and is not the well distant from this place, even many paces of a camel?

And there was none among them that would arise and go in the heat of the day to fetch the water that was in the well; but he that was wise among them spake, saying:—

Shall not our wives, even those that are tethered outside the cavern round about it—shall not one of these go unto the well and fill the bowl at the well, and bring it hither filled with the water that is in the well?

So they that journeyed toward the land of Egypt called out to the wives that they should enter in and fetch the bowl; and should fill it at the well, even as they had spoken.

And it came to pass when the bowl was filled and set in their midst, that the water that was in the bowl, by reason of its dripping so slowly from the hole that was at the bottom of the bowl, abode in the bowl between one mark and another the space of three hours by the shadow of a spear that was set up outside the cavern.

So they that journeyed toward the land of Egypt, even they that lay in the cavern, cried, saying, Behold, is it not even as we said, saying, The water will abide in the bowl between one mark and another for the space of more than an hour; and hath it not abode there the space of three hours?

But he that was wise among them said unto them, Nay, but for a certainty these marks that are in the bowl were made for the marking of the space of an hour; howbeit the hours that were at the time of the making of this bowl, were they not of the space of three hours, even of three of the hours of the present time?

Then they that were aged and well stricken in years among them that lay in the cavern in the heat of the day, these communed with themselves for a space; and they spake, saying, Verily thus, and thus it seemeth unto us; that the space of the passing of the hours that behold the whiteness of our beards is verily shorter than the space of the passing of the hours that did behold the increasing of our statures in the tents of our fathers! And it seemed unto them even so, that this saying was true.



But they that were young among them, even the young men, scoffed, saying, The hole that is at the bottom of the bowl is clogged by reason of dirt that is within the hole: shall we not, therefore, bore out the hole, to the end that the water that is within the bowl shall drip faster, even three times as fast; and shall set forth the hours?

So they that were young did according to that saying; and they bored the hole round about, until the water that was within the bowl dripped out three times as fast.

And they rejoiced, saying, Behold, now it is a good and useful clock! And they bore the bowl with them into the land of Egypt; four wives and an ass carried the bowl in their turns—the four women for a space, and the ass for a space—until they came to the land of Egypt; and the clock was set up in the land of Egypt. And this was in the days before the First Dynasty; yea, many thousands of years before. And behold, the spirit of him that had wrought the bowl followed after the bowl, even unto the land of Egypt; for the spirit was filled with a great and exceeding desire to speak those things that were known unto it; yet the time of its speaking was not yet.

III.

In the days of Amun-Ta-Ra, in the Fifth Dynasty, in the year of the Altering of the Clock. Glory to thee, Amun.

In that year, after his return from the war with many captives, did Amun-Ta-Ra order the greater hollowing of the hole at bottom of the clock set up before the temple of Isis telling the hours.

The clock too slowly dripping, the hole being in part stopped, showing the hours too long, was altered. One hour in the space of two did it count. Let Amun-Ta-Ra live.

IV.

Young Reuben scraped off his boots the worst of the mud from the furrows against the gate-post, shut the gate, and trudged homewards from his labour; as he turned into the road from the end of the lane he came in sight of old Reuben, sitting as usual on his heap of stones by the roadside; his hammer lay idly in his hand, its head on the heap of larger flints before him; the old gentleman was slowly shaking his head—not that he was such a very old gentleman; sixty, maybe; and still hale and strong.

"What be amiss, father?" said young Reuben. "Ye've bin a-settin' there shakin' yer head like a old owl since I turned into the road. It be time to knock off."

"Amiss, Reuben? Why, thet's where you have me, like. What I know is, there be a somethin' amiss; and it be either me or the time, and so I tell ye. Am I a-gettin' old an' weak, boy; or is it the hours a-goin' quicker? Lookee here, Reuben, it do seem to me as I can do less in the time every blessed day as follers t'other! Why, thirty year agone, blest if I didn't do—ah, double thet there little 'eap in the day's work—and yet, blame me if I feel a bit weaker nor I used ter! You mark my words, Reuben, boy; the hours is a-gettin' shorter every day—thet's what they're a-doin', and you put it down at thet!"

Young Reuben laughed incredulously. "You're a-gittin' lazy, old 'un—that's about the size of it," he said.



"I hain't a-gettin' nothink o' the kind nor discripshen!" said old Reuben, starting up indignantly; "and you put it down at thet."

"Well, lazy or not lazy, I ken show ye a stone as you ain't industrous enough fer to break. Found it in a furrer, I did; an' talk about 'ard! And a fair rum 'un he be, too."

They plodded to the field young Reuben had just left; and young Reuben, with some difficulty, lifted the "stone" for inspection. It was a bowl, very ancient by the look of it, laboriously carved and ground out from a piece of rock that seemed as hard as steel.

"A rum 'un he be, too, and right you are," said old Reuben. "A wash-bowl, likely."

"What be that 'ole in the bottom fer, then?" said young Reuben.

"Why, fer to empty him, that be, as a pig might see with 'is eyes shet."

They carried the bowl home, and a pretty good weight they found it.

Old Jim Pedler came along that evening to have a pipe. Jim Pedler had been about a deal here and there, and he knew a lot.

"Why, whatee got theer?" said he.

"Mebbe ye'll know that better ner us," replied old Reuben. "Some kind o'wash-basin, so we seem to reckon it be."

"Wash-basin," said old Jim Pedler. "That's jest what it been't. I tellee now, I do think as it's some kind of old sort of water-clock, an' that's what I think. Why, see here now, if there ain't bin lines 'ere inside fer to mark the hours or somethin'. That's it—it be a water-clock. S'pose we gits some water an' tries it."

They cleared out the hole at the bottom and filled the bowl with water up to the first hour mark; and, old Jim Pedler having a watch, they sat and looked on as the water dripped out; but when they had sat and smoked for two hours the bowl was still far from empty.

"'Twern't never meant to reckon hours by, that's a moral," said young Reuben.

"Thet's more ner you knows," replied old Reuben. "What der you know about folks's hours as lived ages ago? You jest let other folks's hours alone, as p'raps knowed better ner you. Mebbe their hours was longer—what did I say this wery day about the hours a-bein' shorter now than wot they was thirty year agone? But I tell yer wot: it 'ud make a notionable kind of clock if we was to bore the 'ole a bit bigger and jest manage to git it right for the hours."

So they drilled and filed and tried to chip; and after much labour they made the hole large enough to let out the water from one mark to the next in sixty minutes.

And all the while there hovered around them, invisible, the spirit of him that fashioned the bowl, longing to speak what it knew; but its time for returning to the flesh was not yet—but it was coming.

V.

The nineteenth century was ancient history, when one day, in a breathless, hurrying world, a busy City man was borne electrically home to his suburban villa one hundred miles from the City.



He was tired and morose, and a settled worry clouded his face.

"What is it to-day, John?" asked his wife. "Done nothing again?"



"Nothing," replied the City man, wearily. "Absolutely nothing. Got up at seven—hurried like mad over dressing and breakfast, and managed to get through them by ten, and rush to town—got to town at twelve-thirty, and sat down to write one short letter—finished that by two—saw Brown about the cargo, and said a few words to him by four-thirty—read a telegram and two letters, fast as I could read, by five-thirty—gave instructions, about twenty words, to chief clerk by seven—dashed home again like lightning, and now it's nearly ten! My dear, this can't go on! The day is over before one has time to breathe! There is no time for anything. It's all very well to say we live a hundred years now against the seventy of a thousand years ago; but I'm convinced the years have grown shorter. Why—just fancy, Maria—when I was a boy we used to have time between sunrise and sunset to write out one hundred and fifty lines of Virgil, or row three miles on the river. Why, I saw in a very old newspaper in the Museum lately, that an athlete could once run a mile on the cinder path in four minutes seventeen seconds; and it can't be done now by a champion under twenty-five minutes! Halloa! here's the carrier brought that curious old water-clock I bought at the antiquity shop yesterday.... You see those faint lines inside? They were to mark the hours—hours, though—no! I'm sure the water would never drip through that little hole fast enough to sink one of those measurements in an hour. Let's try.... Halloa! While I've been talking it's got to one o'clock a.m.; and we haven't had time for dinner to-day—I mean yesterday. Maria! this can't go on! It's killing!"

Next Sunday the City man tried the water-clock, and it took five hours and three-quarters for it to register an hour; so he had the hole at the bottom made larger—of more than five times its former capacity; and it registered the hours.

And the spirit of him that had fashioned it hovered ever about the clock, waiting to speak what it knew; and its time was soon to come.



VI.

And the City man had grown old; and his son was the City man now. And on the morning of Monday he would arise from bed and shave, and wash, and dress; and when he had done these things it was Monday night, and he sat down and ate his breakfast; and when he had finished his breakfast and drawn on his boots, it was Tuesday morning; and when he had hurried to town, it was Tuesday night; and when he had opened one letter and one telegram, and said ten words to his clerk, it was Wednesday night; and when he had dashed back home, it was Thursday morning; and when he had eaten his dinner, it was Friday morning; and then a short glance at the newspaper brought him to Friday night; and then into bed by Saturday morning, to sleep until Monday morning.

And he became an elderly man; and now he would arise from bed on the Monday morning, and when he had washed and dressed, it was Tuesday morning; and when he had eaten his breakfast, it was Wednesday morning; so he could not go to town, as there was not time in the week. And men sat down dazed and paralyzed, for there was no time to do anything. And each week they enlarged the hole in the water-clock; and at the end of each week it dripped too slowly, and fell behind.

And a new Astronomer-Royal was appointed; and in him was the soul, re-incarnated, of him who had fashioned the clock in the dusk of pre-historic ages; and at last he could tell what he knew.



And he told all men that the thing they had felt was true: he told them how, for many thousands of years, the earth and all the universe had revolved ever faster and faster; all with proportionate increase of velocity, so that the circuit of the moon kept its wonted time with the revolution of the earth; and the comets came and went at their expected seasons, as also occurred the eclipses; so that no man could know that which was taking place, but only guess. And now each day they enlarged the hole in the water-clock; until the bowl was growing to be all hole; and now they could not bore fast enough in the hard stone; and now——

J. F. SULLIVAN.



PAL'S PUZZLE PAGE



MANDRAKE ROOTS.



The accompanying illustrations represent specimens of the mandragora (mandrake) root, which is found in some parts of Asia Minor and Syria. Many of these roots take the form of human beings, especially from the hips downward, and all have more or less the shape of a man or woman; one of the specimens resembling a woman carrying a child under each arm. The peasants relate that when the roots are pulled up out of the ground they utter cries or shrieks like a person in pain. The roots are still used for spells and other witchcraft. For these specimens we are indebted to Mr. A. Caillard, Ramleh, Alexandria, Egypt.

THE END