Nothing known of Sir William Harcourt's Parliamentary manner forbade the apprehension that, occupying the box-seat, there would be incessant cracking of the whip. It was difficult in advance to imagine how he would be able to resist the opportunity of letting the lash fall on the back of a restive or a stubborn horse. The opportunity of saying a smart thing, at whatever cost, seemed with him irresistible. If only he had his jest they might have his estate; in this case the estate of his party.



Reflection on an earlier experience of Sir William in the seat of the Leader might have caused these forebodings to cease. Four years ago, towards the close of the Session of 1889, the temporary withdrawal of Mr. Gladstone from the scene gave him his chance. It happened that the Government under the leadership of Mr. Smith, and, it was understood, on the personal instruction of Lord Salisbury, were pressing forward the Tithes Bill. They had an overwhelming, well-disciplined majority, and being pledged up to the hilt to carry the Bill, the issue seemed certain. Through a whole week Sir William led the numerically-overpowered Opposition, fighting the Bill at every step. The hampered Government were determined to get some sort of Bill passed, and, hopeless of achieving their earliest intention, foreshadowed another measure in a series of amendments laid on the table by the Attorney-General. The Opposition were not disposed to accept this with greater fervour than the other, and finally Mr. Smith announced a total withdrawal from the position.

Nothing was finer throughout the brilliant campaign than Sir William Harcourt's lamentations over this conclusion. Having inflicted on a strong Government the humiliation of defeat upon a cherished measure, he, in a voice broken with emotion, held poor W. H. Smith up to the scorn of all good men as a heartless, depraved parent, who had abandoned by the wayside a promising infant.

In the present Session Sir William, as Deputy Leader, finds himself in a position different from, and more difficult than, the one filled in August, 1889. He was then in the place of the Leader of the Opposition, and had a natural affinity for the duty of opposing. In the present Session he has been frequently and continuously called upon to perform the duties of Leader of the House, and his success, though not so brilliantly striking as in the short, sharp campaign against the Tithes Bill, has stood upon a broader and more permanent basis. The House of Commons, as Mr. Goschen learned during the experiments in Leadership which preceded his disappearance from the front rank, may be led, but cannot be driven.

It is curious that two of the most aggressive controversialists in the House, being temporarily called to the Leadership, have shown themselves profoundly impressed with this truth. Like Lord Randolph Churchill, when he led the House, Sir William Harcourt appears on the Treasury Bench divested even of his side-arms. Like the Happy Warrior, his helmet is a hive for bees. His patience in time of trial has been pathetic, and, whatever may be his own feelings on the subject, the House has been amazed at his moderation. He has sat silent on the Treasury Bench by the hour, with Mr. Arthur Balfour, Mr. Chamberlain, Lord Randolph Churchill, and other old familiar adversaries, trailing tempting coat-tails before him.



One night this Session, in debate on Uganda, Mr. Chamberlain interposed and delivered a brilliant, bitter speech, which deeply stirred a crowded House. It was drawing to the close of an important debate, and Mr. Chamberlain sat down at half-past eleven, leaving plenty of time for the Leader of the House to reply. To an old Parliamentary war-house the situation must have been sorely tempting. A party like to be sent off into the division lobby with a rattling speech from the Front Bench. There was ample time for a brisk twenty minutes' canter, and the crowded and excited sport. But there was nothing at stake on the division. Though Mr. Chamberlain could not withstand the opportunity of belabouring his old friends and colleagues, he did not intend to oppose the vote for Uganda, which would receive the hearty support of the Conservatives. Half an hour saved from speech-making would mean thirty minutes appropriated to getting forward with other votes in Committee of Supply. Sir William followed Mr. Chamberlain, and was welcomed with a ringing cheer; members settling themselves down in anticipated enjoyment of a rattling speech. When the applause subsided the Chancellor of the Exchequer contented himself with the observation that there had been a useful debate, the Committee had heard some excellent speeches, "and now let us get the vote."

There was something touching in the depressed attitude of the right hon. gentleman as he performed this act of renunciation. What it cost him will, probably, never be known. But before progress was reported at midnight half-a-dozen votes had been taken.

[Sidenote: THE WHIPS.]

Of the various forms ambition takes in political life the most inscrutable is that which leads a man to the Whip's room. In Parliamentary affairs the Whip fills a place analogous to that of a sub-editor on a newspaper. He has (using the phrase in a Parliamentary sense) all the kicks and few of the half-pence. With the sub-editor, if anything goes wrong in the arrangement of the paper he is held responsible, whilst if any triumph is achieved, no halo of the resultant glory for a moment lights up the habitual obscurity of his head. It is the same, in its way, with the Whip. His work is incessant, and for the most part is drudgery. His reward is a possible Peerage, a Colonial Governorship, a First Commissionership of Works, a Postmaster-Generalship, or, as Sir William Dyke found at the close of a tremendous spell of work, a Privy Councillorship.



Yet it often comes to pass that the fate of a Ministry and the destiny of the Empire depend upon the Whip. A bad division, even though it be plainly due to accidental circumstances, habitually influences the course of a Ministry, sometimes giving their policy a crucial turn, and at least exercising an important influence on the course of business in the current Session.

An example of this was furnished early in the present Session by a division taken on proposals for a Saturday sitting made necessary by obstruction. Up to the announcement of the figures it had been obstinately settled that the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill should be moved before Easter. The Opposition had pleaded and threatened. Mr. Gladstone stood firm, and only three days before this momentous Friday had almost impatiently reiterated his determination to move the Second Reading of the Bill on the day appointed when leave was given to introduce it. The normal majority of forty reduced to twenty-one worked instant and magic charm. The falling-off had no political significance. Everyone knew it arose from the accidental absence of a number of the Irish members called home on local business. But there it was, and on the following Monday Sir William Harcourt, on behalf of the Premier, announced that the Home Rule Bill would not be taken till after Easter.

For other members of the Ministry there is occasional surcease from work, and some opportunity for recreation. For the Whip there is none. He begins his labour with the arrival of the morning post, and keeps at it till the Speaker has left the chair, and the principal door-keeper standing out on the matting before the doorway cries aloud: "The usual time!"

That ceremony is a quaint relic of far-off days before penny papers were, and the means of communicating with members were circumscribed. It is the elliptical form of making known to members that at the next sitting the Speaker will take the chair at the usual time. For ordinary members, even for Ministers, unless they must be in their place to answer a question, "the usual time" means whatever hour best suits their convenience. The Whip is in his room even before the Speaker takes the chair, and it is merely a change of the scene of labour from his office at the Treasury. He remains till the House is up, whether the business be brisk or lifeless.

In truth, at times when the House is reduced almost to a state of coma, the duties of the Whip become more arduous and exacting. These are the occasions when gentle malice loves to bring about a count-out. If it is a private members' night the Whips have no responsibility in the matter of keeping a House, and have even been suspected of occasionally conniving in the beneficent plot of dispersing it. But just now private members' nights stand in the same relation to the Session as the sententious traveller found to be the case with snakes in Iceland. There are none. Every night is a Government night, and weariness of flesh and spirit naturally suggests a count-out. The regular business of the Whip is to see that there are within call sufficient members to frustrate the designs of the casual counter-out.



[Sidenote: "BOBBY" SPENCER.]

Mr. Gladstone and other members of the Cabinet, on many dull nights of this Session, have been cheered on crossing the lobby by the sight of Mr. "Bobby" Spencer gracefully tripping about, note-book in hand, holding an interminable succession of members in brief but animated conversation. He is not making a book for the Derby or Goodwood, as one might suspect. "Do you dine here to-night?" is his insinuating inquiry, and till he has listed more than enough men to "make a House" in case of need, he does not feel assured of the safety of the British Constitution, and therefore does not rest.



This is part of the ordinary work of the average night. When an important division is impending, the labour imposed upon the Whip is Titanic. He, of course, knows every individual member of his flock. With a critical division pending he must know more, ascertaining where he is and, above all, where he will be on the night of the division. It is at these crises that the personal characteristics of the Whip are tested. A successful Whip should be almost loved, and not a little feared. He should ever wear the silken glove, but there should be borne in upon the consciousness of those with whom he has to deal that it covers an iron hand.

It happens just now that both political parties in the House of Commons are happy in the possession of almost model Whips. As was said by a shrewd observer, no one looking at Mr. Marjoribanks or Mr. Akers-Douglas as they lounge about the Lobby "would suppose they could say 'Bo!' to a goose." The goose, however, would do well not to push the experiment of forbearance too far. All through the last Parliament Mr. Akers-Douglas held his men together with a light, firm hand, that was the admiration and despair of the other side. Mr. Marjoribanks has, up to this present time of writing, maintained the highest standard of success in Whipping.

[Sidenote: MR. MARJORIBANKS.]

With a Ministerial majority standing at a maximum of forty, it is of the utmost importance to the Government that there shall be no sign of falling off. If the forty were diminished even by a unit, a storm of cheering would rise from the Opposition Benches, and Ministerialists would be correspondingly depressed. With the exception named, due to circumstances entirely beyond the Whip's control, Mr. Marjoribanks has in all divisions, big or small, mustered his maximum majority of forty, and has usually exceeded it.

That means not only unfailing assiduity and admirable business management, but personal popularity on the part of the Whip. Aside from party considerations, no Liberal would like to "disoblige Marjoribanks," who is as popular with the Irish contingent as he is with the main body of the British members. He is fortunate in his colleagues—

Mr. Ellis, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Causton, and Mr. McArthur. The Whip's department has not always been a strong feature in a Liberal Administration. In the present Government it is one of the strongest.



Why Mr. Marjoribanks should be content to serve as Whip is one of the mysteries that surround the situation. He does not want a peerage, since that will come to him in the ordinary course of nature. He is one of the personages in political life who excite the sympathy of Lord Rosebery, inasmuch as he must be a peer malgre lui. He served a long apprenticeship when the office of Whip was more than usually thankless, his party being in opposition. When Mr. Gladstone's Ministry was formed, it was assumed, as a matter of course, that Mr. Marjoribanks would have found for him office in other department than that of the Whip. But Mr. Gladstone, very shrewdly from the Leader's point of view, felt that no one would be more useful to the party in the office vacated by Mr. Arnold Morley than Mr. Marjoribanks. Mr. Marjoribanks, naturally disposed to think last of his own interests and inclinations, did not openly demur.

[Sidenote: ALL-NIGHT SITTINGS.]

The Whip's post, though hard enough, is much lightened by adoption of the twelve o'clock rule. Time was, at no distant date, when for some months in the Session Whips were accustomed to go home in broad daylight. It is true the House at that time met an hour later in the afternoon, but the earlier buckling to is a light price to pay for the certainty that shortly after midnight all will be over. Even now the twelve o'clock rule may be suspended, and this first Session of the new Parliament has shown that all-night sittings are not yet impossible. But so unaccustomed is the present House to them, that when one became necessary on the Mutiny Bill everyone and everything was found unprepared. In the old days, when Mr. Biggar was in his prime, the commissariat were always prepared for an all-night sitting. When, this Session, the House sat up all night on the Mutiny Bill, the larder was cleared out in the first hour after midnight.

It is not generally known how nearly the valuable life of the Chairman of Ways and Means was on that occasion sacrificed at the post of duty. Having lost earlier chances by remaining in the chair, it was only at four o'clock in the morning he was rescued from famine by the daring foraging of Mr. Herbert Gladstone, who, the House being cleared for one of the divisions, brought in a cup of tea and a poached egg on toast, which the Chairman disposed of at the table.



Mr. Mellor is an old Parliamentary campaigner, and remembers several occasions when, living injudiciously near the House, he was brought out of bed to assist in withstanding obstruction. Being called up one morning by an imperative request to repair to the House, he observed a man violently ringing at the bell of the house of a neighbour, also a member of the House of Commons. On returning two hours later, he found the man still there, diligently ringing at the bell.

"What's the matter?" he asked; "anyone ill?"

"No, sir," said the man. "Lord Richard Grosvenor sent me to bring Mr. —— down to the House, and said I was not to come away without him."

"Ah, well, you can go off now; the House is up."

Mr. ——, it turned out on subsequent inquiry, had gone down to Brighton with his family, and the servants left at home did not think it necessary to answer a bell rung at this untimely hour.

[Sidenote: "PAIRED FOR THE NIGHT."]

It was about the same time, in the Parliament of 1880, that another messenger from the Government Whip went forth in the early morning in search of a member. He lived in Queen Anne's Mansions, and the messenger explaining the urgency of his errand, the night porter conducted him to the bedroom door of the sleeping senator. Succeeding in awakening him, he delivered his message.

"Give my compliments to Lord Richard Grosvenor," said the wife of the still somnolent M.P.; "tell him my husband has gone to bed, and is paired for the night."

[Sidenote: BARE-HEADED.]

It is an old tradition, observed to this day, though the origin of it is lost in the obscurity of the Middle Ages, that a Whip shall not appear in the Lobby with his head covered. It is true Mr. Marjoribanks does not observe this rule, but he is alone in the exception. All his predecessors, as far as I can remember, conformed to the regulation. In the last Parliament the earliest intimation of the formation of a new Radical party was the appearance in the Lobby of Mr. Jacoby without his hat. Inquiry excited by this phenomenon led to the disclosure that the Liberal opposition had broken off into a new section. There was some doubt as to who was the leader, but none as to the fact that Mr. Jacoby and Mr. Philip Stanhope were the Whips. Mr. Stanhope was not much in evidence. But on the day Mr. Jacoby accepted the appointment he locked up his hat and patrolled the Lobby with an air of sagacity and an appearance of brooding over State secrets, which at once raised the new party into a position of importance.



Dick Power, most delightful of Irishmen, most popular of Whips, made through the Session regular play with his hat. Anyone familiar with his habits would know how the land lay from the Irish quarter. If Mr. Power appeared hatless in the Lobby, a storm was brewing, and before the Speaker left the chair there would, so to speak, be wigs on the green. If his genial face beamed from under his hat as he walked about the Lobby the weather was set fair, at least for the sitting.

[Sidenote: THE WINSOME WIGGIN.]

One of the duties of the junior Whips is to keep sentry-go at the door leading from the Lobby to the cloak-room, and so out into Palace Yard. When a division is expected, no member may pass out unless he is paired. That is not the only way by which escape from the House may be made. A member desirous of evading the scrutiny of the Whips might find at least two other ways of quitting the House. It is, however, a point of honour to use only this means of exit, and no member under whatsoever pressure would think of skulking out.

For many nights through long Sessions, Lord Kensington sat on the bench to the left of the doorway, a terror to members who had pressing private engagements elsewhere, when a division was even possible. There is only one well-authenticated occasion when a member, being unpaired, succeeded in getting past Lord Kensington, and the result was not encouraging.



One night, Mr. Wiggin (now Sir Henry), the withdrawal of whose genial presence from the Parliamentary scene is regretted on both sides of the House, felt wearied with long attendance on his Parliamentary duties. There came upon him a weird longing to stroll out and spend an hour in a neighbouring educational establishment much frequented by members. He looked towards the doorway, but there was Lord Kensington steadfast at his post. Glancing again, Mr. Wiggin thought the Whip was asleep. Casually strolling by him he found that this was the case, and with something more than his usual agility, he passed through the doorway.

Returning at the end of an hour he found Lord Kensington still at his post, and more than usually wide awake.

"You owe me L25," said Mr. Wiggin.

"How?" cried the astonished Whip.

"If," said Mr. Wiggin, producing his unencumbered watch-chain and dangling it, "you hadn't been asleep just now, I wouldn't have got past you; if I hadn't got past you, I wouldn't have dropped in at the Aquarium; and if I hadn't looked in at the Aquarium, I shouldn't have had my watch stolen."

Quod erat demonstrandum.



[Sidenote: REMARKABLE FEAT OF A COUNTRY PAPER.]

It was stated at the time, to the credit of the provincial Press, that at the very moment Mr. St. John Brodrick was delivering in the House of Commons his luminous speech on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill, his constituents at Guildford, thanks to the enterprise of the local weekly paper, were studying its convincing argument, lingering over the rhythm of its sentences, echoing the laughter and applause with which a crowded House punctuated it. I enjoyed the higher privilege of hearing the speech delivered, and was probably so absorbed that I was not conscious of the crowd on the benches, and do not recollect the laughter and applause. Indeed, my memory enshrines rather a feeling of regret that so painstaking and able an effort should have met with so chilling a reception, and that an heir-apparent to a peerage, who has had the courage to propose a scheme for the reform of the House of Lords, should receive such scant attention in the Commons.

[Sidenote: Il y a POWER et POWER.]

Mr. Brodrick, however, got off his speech, and the local paper came out with its verbatim report, a concatenation of circumstances not always achieved. In the high tide of the Parnell invasion of the House of Commons, there happened an accident that excited much merriment. Mr. O'Connor Power—one of the ablest debaters the early Irish party brought into the House, a gentleman who has with equal success given up to journalism what was meant for the House of Commons—had prepared a speech for a current debate. Desirous that his constituents should be at least on a footing of equality with an alien House of Commons, he sent a verbatim copy in advance to the editor of the local paper, an understanding being arrived at that it was not to be published till signal was received from Westminster that the hon. member was on his feet. It happened that Mr. O'Connor Power failed on that night to catch the Speaker's eye. Mr. Richard Power was more successful, and the local editor receiving through the ordinary Press agency intimation that "Mr. Power opposed the Bill," at once jumped to the conclusion that this was the cue for the verbatim speech. Mr. Power was speaking; there was not the slightest doubt that Mr. O'Connor Power, when he did speak, would oppose the Bill. So the formes were locked, the paper went to press, and the next morning County Mayo rang with the unuttered eloquence of its popular member, and Irishmen observed with satisfaction how, for once, the sullen Saxon had had his torpid humour stirred, being frequently incited to "loud cheers" and "much laughter."

[Sidenote: SIR ELLIS ASHMEAD-BARTLETT'S DILEMMA.]

In this same debate on the Second Reading of the Home Rule Bill, where the energy and enterprise of the provincial weekly Press was incidentally illustrated in connection with Mr. Brodrick's speech, there happened another episode which did not work out so well. Sir Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett broke the long silence of years by delivering a speech in the House of Commons. It was a great occasion, and naturally evoked supreme effort. It was, in its way, akin to the wooing of Jacob. For seven years that eminent diplomatist had worked and waited for Rachel, and might well rejoice, even in the possession of Leah, when the term of probation was over. For nearly seven years Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had sat on the Treasury Bench wrapped in the silence of a Civil Lord of the Admiralty. Now his time was come, and he threw himself into the enjoyment of opportunity with almost pathetic vigour. It was eleven o'clock when he rose, and the debate must needs stand adjourned at midnight. When twelve o'clock struck, Sir Ellis was still in the full flow of his turgid eloquence. His speech was constructed on the principle of, and (except, perhaps, in the matter of necessity) resembled, the long bridge in Cowper's "Task"—

That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood.

The scene and the atmosphere were sufficiently Arctic to bear out the comparison. The audience had long since fallen away, like leaves in wintry weather. In ordinary circumstances Sir Ellis, an old Parliamentary Hand, would have wound up his speech, and so made an end of it, just before the stroke of midnight gave the signal for the Speaker's leaving the chair.

There were, however, two reasons, the agony of whose weight must have pressed sorely on the orator. One was the recollection of an incident in his career still talked of in the busy circles round Sheffield. One night in yesteryear he was announced to deliver a speech at a meeting held in Nottingham. "For greater accuracy"—as the Speaker says, when, coming back from the House of Lords on the opening day of a Session, he reads the Queen's Speech to hon. members who have two hours earlier studied it in the evening papers—Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett had written out his oration and supplied it to the Sheffield paper whose recognition of his status as a statesman merits reward. Proceedings at the Nottingham meeting were so protracted, and took such different lines from those projected, that the orator of the evening, when his turn came, found the night too far advanced for his ordered speech, which would in other respects have been beside the mark. He accordingly, impromptu, delivered quite another speech, probably better than the one laboriously prepared in the seclusion of the closet. In the hurry and excitement of the moment he forgot to warn the Sheffield editor, with the consequence that the other speech was printed in full and formed the groundwork of a laudatory leading article.



That was one thing that agitated the mind of Sir Ellis, and probably gave a profounder thrill to his denunciation of Mr. Gladstone's iniquity in the matter of the Home Rule Bill. Another was that this later speech, with all its graceful air of ready wit, fervid fancy, and momentarily inspired argument, was also in print, and, according to current report, was in advance widely circulated among a friendly Press. It turned out to be impossible to recite it all before the adjournment; equally impossible to cut it down. That mighty engine, the Press, was already, in remote centres of civilization, throbbing with the inspiration of his energy, printing off the speech at so many hundreds an hour. It was impossible to communicate with the unconscious editors and mark the exact point at which the night's actual contribution to debate was arrested. There was only one thing to be done: that was boldly to take the fence. So Sir Ellis went on till twelve o'clock as if nothing were happening elsewhere, was pulled up by the adjournment, and, turning up bright and early with the meeting of the House next day, reeled off the rest regardless of the gibes of the enemy, who said some of the faithful papers had muddled the matter, reporting on Tuesday morning passages that were not delivered in the House of Commons till Tuesday night.

[Sidenote: THE PITY OF IT.]

These accidents have their comical aspect. When it comes to appropriating two hours of the time of a busy Legislature, they also have their serious side. The House of Commons is a debating assembly, not a lecture hall, where prosy papers may be read to sparse audiences. The House is seen at its best when masters of fence follow each other in swift succession, striking and parrying, the centre of an excited ring. A prevalence of the growing custom of reading laboriously-prepared papers will speedily bring it down to the level of the Congress meeting at Washington. There the practice has reached its natural and happy conclusion, inasmuch as members having prepared their papers are not obliged to read them. They hand them in to the printer, and, at a cost to the nation willingly borne in view of compensating circumstances, they are printed at length in the Congressional Globe.



Perhaps when we have our official report of debates in the House of Commons this also will follow. It is easy to imagine with what eagerness the House would welcome any alternative that should deliver it from the necessity, not of listening to these musty harangues—that, to do it justice, it never suffers—but of giving up an appreciable portion of its precious time to the gratification of ponderous, implacable, personal vanity.

[Sidenote: THACKERAY ON THE SUBJECT.]

There is one gleam of light flickering about this intrinsically melancholy topic in connection with the name of Thackeray. I have read somewhere that it was a kindred calamity of a public speaker which led to Thackeray's first appearance in print. At a time when the century was young, and the author of "Vanity Fair" was a lad at Charterhouse, Richard Lalor Sheil, the Irish lawyer and orator, had promised to deliver a speech to a public meeting assembled on Penenden Heath. In those days there were no staffs of special reporters, no telegraphs, nor anything less costly than post-chaises wherewith to establish rapid communication between country platforms and London newspaper offices. Sheil, rising to the height of the occasion, wrote out his speech, and, before leaving town, sent copies to the leading journals, in which it, on the following morning, duly appeared.

Alack! when the orator reached the Heath he found the platform in possession of the police, who prohibited the meeting and would have none of the speech. The incident was much talked of, and the boy Thackeray set to and wrote in verse a parody on the printed but unspoken oration: Here is the last verse, as I remember it:—

"What though these heretics heard me not?" Quoth he to his friend Canonical; "My speech is safe in the Times, I wot, And eke in the Morning Chronicle."

* * * * *

[The original drawings of the illustrations in this Magazine are always on view, and on sale, in the Art Gallery at these offices, which is open to the public without charge.]



A Work of Accusation.

BY HARRY HOW.

"Suicide whilst in a state of temporary insanity."

Such was the verdict of the coroner's jury, and they could scarcely have declared anything else—there was not a tittle of evidence implicating another as the perpetrator of the deed. The deceased was found lying in his studio at the foot of his easel, shot through the heart. The revolver—a six-chambered one—was tightly gripped in his hand. Four out of the six chambers remained undischarged. It must have been suicide, simple and premeditated! The inquiry into the death of the deceased revealed only one spark of anything approaching sensationalism. It was the evidence of the housekeeper—an old lady of distinctly nervous temperament—who wept bitterly. Previous to the sad occurrence she had heard the firing of a pistol some five or six times during a period of two days. On the first occasion she had hurried to the studio, and the alarmed state of her feelings was sufficient to cause her to overlook the formality of giving the customary tap at the door previous to entering. She entered the room, only to find the deceased artist holding a pistol—the one produced—and looking at its barrel, still smoking, earnestly. He burst into a hearty laugh when he saw her, and told her not to be frightened.

"It is nothing, Mrs. Thompson," he said, "and should you hear the firing again, do not be alarmed. Don't be frightened."



So the firing was frequent, and though it played pitifully with the old housekeeper's nerves and shook her seventy-year-old bones considerably, she quietly submitted to it and "hoped it was all right."

I knew Godfrey Huntingdon well. He often chatted over his pictures with me. As a medical man and a student somewhat beyond the range of physic and prescriptions, the pros and cons of an idea to be eventually carried to the canvas gave rise to many interesting and discussable points. I liked the man—he was so frank and true and positively simple in his unassuming manner. Poor fellow! He never dreamt for a moment that he was a genius, but what he did not know the public were quick to recognise. Every picture from his brush was watched and waited for—a canvas from him meant a vivid, striking, often sensational episode, which seemed to live. I have some of his work in my dining-room now. I often look at his figures. They are more human than anything I have seen by any other modern painter. They seem possessed of breath and beating hearts of their own, with tongues that want to speak, and eyes that reveal a thinking brain. The trees in his landscapes appear to be gently shaken by the breeze from across the moorland, the clouds only need touching by the breath of the firmament to lazily move across the face of the blue sky. He was indeed a genius.

It was always an open question in the minds of the public and the judgment of the critics as to who excelled the other—Godfrey Huntingdon or Wilfred Colensoe. They both belonged to the same school of ideas. Their works were equally impressive, their figure and portrait painting particularly so, and the judges said it would be a life-long race between them for supremacy with the brush. Huntingdon's sad death was a terrible blow to the artistic world. I went to his funeral.

He had not forgotten me. He left me all his studies. There were several hundreds of them. Many were familiar to me, for he had made them whilst we were smoking a pipe together, as I pointed out to him the necessary laws of science he must needs regard in order to insure accuracy in his work. The studies made quite a number of huge bundles, and in the evening I would delight in sorting them through. It was a long task, for I found something to admire and think over in every single one of them.

A fortnight had passed away since they first came into my possession. I had only another parcel to go through, and I should be finished. I was quietly sitting in my chair with my legs stretched out on another chair, as is my custom—I find it remarkably restful—and lighting up my brier I cut the string of the last bundle. Slowly, one by one, I lifted up those pieces of brown paper. They were still objects of reverence to me. Here was the head of a child, a sweetly pretty child, and next to it a study of a dissipated character, the face of a man fast losing every working power of his brain and body by liquor. I realized the genius of my dead friend more and more.



I had gone through quite a score of these play studies, when my hand stretched out for another from the pile by my side. I turned the piece of paper round and round, and it was some time before I grasped what the subject was intended for. It appeared to be a piece of round tubing from which smoke was protruding. The next half-dozen studies were of a similar character. In one the smoke was very small, just a thin streak; in another it was a full volume, as though to represent the after effect of the discharge of a bullet from a revolver. I looked again. The chalk drawing of the tubing was evidently intended for the barrel of a pistol! Huntingdon always put the date on every study he made, and I found my hand trembling as I turned the paper over. Great heavens—10th October, 1872—the day before his death! Another paper bore the same date, and the others had the date of the previous day—the 9th. Was his death, then, the result of an accident and not a suicide after all? Here was the simple explanation of it so far—here was the reason for the several shots which the old housekeeper had heard fired. He had discharged the revolver at these times in order to watch the effect and immediately place his impressions on the pieces of paper I now held in my hand. My knowledge of Godfrey Huntingdon—both medically and fraternally—told me that, at the time of his death, there was positively nothing on his mind to cause such an act, and I now began reasoning the whole within myself once again, as I had done many times since the occurrence.

"It's a mystery—a terrible mystery!" I exclaimed, jumping up and commencing to pace the room. I walked that room for over an hour, and was only aroused from my reverie by the announcement of a servant that supper was served. I ate my meal in silence, and the deliberate mouthfuls I took, and my more than ordinarily methodical manner of eating, must have told my wife that to disturb my present inward argument would have been disastrous to the immediate prospects of domestic harmony. I had come to a conclusion. There is nothing like science and its accompanying occupations for balancing a man's brain. A game of chess is recreative concentration. So the study of science was with me, whilst physic was my profession. Scientific research and the weighing of Nature's problems had steadied my thoughts and cooled my actions. It was a settled thing with me that poor Huntingdon had been murdered. By whom? Scientific investigation had transformed me into a calculating individual. Every action, to me, could be proved as a proposition in Euclid or an algebraical problem. I therefore said nothing about my startling discovery, and decided to wait the possibility of a further suggestion coming in my way, and "proving it."

I suppose it was the deep interest I took in all matters concerning art which brought so many artist-patients to my consulting room. Six months had passed since the fatal 11th October, and the public were loudly expressing their approval of a marvellously impressive bit of painting by Wilfred Colensoe, which was the feature—and very justly so—of one of the early spring exhibitions. It was the picture of a duel—a very realistic canvas indeed. The young man—lying bleeding on the ground—almost told the story of the attempted avenge of an action towards someone dear to him on the part of an elderly roue, whose still-smoking revolver was in his hand. Colensoe came to see me one morning. He was a remarkably handsome man, classically featured, with hair picturesquely scattered with streaks of silver.

"Done up, eh?" I said to him.

"Done up is the word," he answered.

"You've been doing too much," I said, looking into his grey eyes as I held his hand a moment. "You must cease work for a time. Get away from your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman's."



"My dear doctor," he answered, "your prescription is too strong. You forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a fountain of water and telling him he mustn't drink. I can't leave my work."

"When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is undeniably true. Do you sleep well?"

"I can't say," was his reply. "When I fall asleep at night I never wake until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I turned in over-night."

"Quite so. Do you dream at all?"

"Yes, I dream."

"Feel sleepy now—eh?"

"Doctor, I could go to bed for a week," he replied.

"Again, I tell you—overwork," I said, with strong deliberation. "Now I'll make you a proposal, which I can couple most heartily with the name of Mrs. Gratton. Come away with us. We are going to Herne Bay for a few weeks. I have taken a house there. Most invigorating place. You want no medicine, you won't leave your work alone, I won't be hard in my treatment of your case. Bring your tools with you. I will prescribe so much colour for you during the day—your paints and brushes may become converted into agreeable physic, but—they must be taken at periodical times. What do you say?"

Colensoe consented—gratefully accepted my offer, stayed to lunch, and my wife took care to let him feel that the invitation was one of combined cordiality from both of us. I was a great admirer of Colensoe's work, and therefore took a deep interest in the worker. In a week's time we were at Herne Bay. A room—with a good light—was apportioned off as a small studio for Colensoe. A week passed by. Colensoe obeyed my instructions to the letter. I limited his working hours, and he began himself to be thankful when the periodical times for laying aside his brush came round. I noticed this, and lessened the hours of painting more, thinking that by degrees he would soon put his palette away completely and take the undisturbed rest he needed for a time to restore him thoroughly.

About a fortnight after our arrival I was sitting alone in the dining-room. My wife and visitor had retired an hour ago. It was a glorious night. I turned out the gas, walked to the window, and drew up the blinds. The sea was sparkling with gems thrown out by the moon-beams. The beauty of the night seemed to heighten the stillness of the surroundings. Although it wanted but a few minutes to midnight I determined to walk out to the cliffs—a couple of hundred yards from the house—and view the moonlit scenery to greater advantage. I turned from the window, opened the door, and, just as I was turning into the passage, I heard a footstep. It was a steady, deliberate step; there was nothing uncertain or hesitating about it. I waited a moment; it came nearer. I drew back into the shadow. Now it was on the top stair. A form appeared in sight. It was Wilfred Colensoe.

"Colensoe," I cried, softly; "why, what's the matter?"



He made no answer. With monotonous step he descended the stairs and was now at the bottom. His blank, staring eyes at once told me that he was in a state of somnambulism. He was fully dressed. His face was deadly pale, his features stolidly set, and his lips were gently moving as though impressively muttering. When he reached the bottom stair, he turned and walked in the direction of the room we had converted into a studio for him. I followed on quietly. With all the method and mysterious discretionary power of the sleep-walker he turned the handle of the door and entered. The room was flooded with light, for the roof was a glass one. I watched him take his palette in hand and play with the brushes on the colours. He stood before his easel, on which rested a half-finished canvas. And he painted—painted as true and as sure as if awake, blending the colours, picking out his work, working with all his old artistic touch and finish. All this time his lips were moving, muttering incoherent words I could not hear. At last he laid aside his tools with a sigh that almost raised compassion in my heart. Then walking towards the window at the far end of the room, he appeared to look out upon the sea. He was now talking louder. I crept up to him and tried to catch a word. It was a terrible brain-ringing word I heard—and uttered in a way I shall never forget.

"Murder!"

That was the word. "Murder, murder, murder!" he muttered, with agonized face. Yet another word came to his lips.

"Huntingdon!"

"Murder—Huntingdon!" I said within myself as I linked the two words together.

The sleeping man passed his hand across his forehead. It was evident that he was in the midst of an agonizing dream—a vision of conviction. Here stood the guilty man before me now, pale and motionless, the rays from the moon lighting up his face and revealing the word "guilt" written on every feature. I watched him and waited for something else to come from his lips. I stood by his side for nearly an hour, but he did nothing more than repeat these same two words. With measured tread he turned to go. I followed him to his bedroom and heard him turn the key. I sat up the whole night—thinking. None knew of the remarkable discovery which I had made amongst poor Huntingdon's sketches; none should know of what I had learnt to-night. By the morning I had fully determined upon my course of action. The ramblings of a sleep-walking man would not prove a conviction to those who would judge his deed. He should convict himself. He should witness against himself. He was a sleep-worker. I had met with many similar cases before, all of which tended to prove that sleep by no means deadens the faculties of labour. It is indisputable that the hands will follow the inclinations of the brains of somnambulists. They will act as they think—perform what they dream. If Colensoe would only work out his terrible night dreams!

My conduct towards him at the breakfast table and throughout the day was just the same as ever. It was far from a comfortable feeling, however, to pass the wine to one who had taken another's life, and to offer an after-dinner cigar to a murderer. The day passed. I slept during the afternoon, for I was tired with my over-night watching, and could I but put my inward plans into execution, it was more than probable that I should be awake for many nights to come. I told my wife that Colensoe was a somnambulist, and that he worked at the canvas equally as well whilst sleeping as waking. I impressed upon her the absolute necessity of silence on the subject, as I firmly believed that I was on the brink of a great discovery. Seeing that I was a medical man, her curiosity was in no way aroused. Indeed, she thought me foolish to give up my night's rest.

That night, after Colensoe had gone to bed, I went into his studio. My hand trembled somewhat as I placed on his easel a square piece of new canvas. This done, I waited patiently. A step on the stairs rewarded me. It was Colensoe walking again. His speech was louder this time, and more impressively distinct; his dream was evidently more agonizing than the night before. If he would only follow out the promptings of that dream—if he would but work to-night—to-night! I watched him breathlessly. He wandered about the room for some time, then suddenly, as though impelled by some mysterious force within, crossed to the cupboard where he kept his tools, took out his materials and walked to the canvas.

"Huntingdon—Huntingdon!" he cried, and the first lines of his everlasting vision were written on the hitherto untouched canvas. It was the outline of a man's face! For two hours he worked, and then, replacing his brushes and palette, went to bed. I took the canvas away. Night after night for ten days I placed the canvas in position. Night after night the artist got nearer to accomplishing his own condemnation. And as the picture grew more like the man he had murdered, so his dream became more intense. His features showed that. The rapidity of his brush revealed the rush of thoughts within, of an anxiety to complete his task. Never was such a true portrait painted, and when on the last night he put the finishing touches to it, the face of Huntingdon seemed to live on the canvas. It was the face which existed in the brain of the painter. The last night's work was done. The sleeping man turned from his easel and went to his bedroom once more.

The morrow would tell me if Colensoe was guilty. I had little doubt of it in my own mind—but he should say so himself when waking as he had condemned himself whilst sleeping. I would take him to the studio and confront him with his own testimony. He should see the face of the man whose life he had taken, painted with his own hands. He was later than usual in coming down that morning. I left the breakfast-room with the intention of calling him, when, just as I got into the passage, I saw him at the top of the stairs. His hat was on. His face was ghastly pale, every feature was working. His eyes betokened some mad intention—their gaze appeared to kill. He almost flew down the stairs.

"Don't stop me," he cried. "I must go into the open. I want God's air. Let me go now—let me go, only for a little while!"

"Colensoe," I said, catching him by the arm, "what mad act do you contemplate?"

"Nothing—nothing. Believe me, nothing. I only want the refreshing breeze, that's all. I'm tired—worn out."

"Yes, you are truly tired," I said.

"What do you mean?" he cried.

"Your work."

"Work—what work?—who works?"

"Come with me," I said.



Like a child he followed me to his studio. I opened the door. The portrait of Huntingdon rested on the easel. He saw it. The eyes he had painted pierced him to the heart, and the lips almost moved in accusation. He shrieked the murdered man's name and fell to the ground. He was dead!

* * * * *

The following letter was found on Wilfred Colensoe's dressing-table:—

"What good is life to me?—what good am I for life? Then why live? A guilty conscience only means a living death. You have been very good to me—both you and your wife. But I am going to end it all. Let me confess. It will bring me some small comfort even now in the dying hour I have given to myself. You remember poor Huntingdon? I shot that man—murdered him. Listen and then 'Good-bye.' Huntingdon and I were friendly rivals. You remember my picture of 'The Duel'? Yes. One day I visited Huntingdon. That same morning I had been making some studies of a revolver in the act of being discharged. I had it in my pocket when I went to see Huntingdon, and one chamber remained loaded. I walked straight into his studio. As I entered Huntingdon had a pistol in his hand pointed immediately towards me and—fired. In an instant my revolver was in my grasp and a bullet had entered his heart. That is the simple history of the crime. I fled from the place and none knew. Thank God this is written. A life for a life. I am passing through death all the day, and at night I do not cease to die. You do not know what that means. The guilty do. Angels of darkness play with you all day long and at night watch over you—watch over you that you do not escape, that they may gambol with you on the morrow. They are making merry now. They have got what they want—Me. Yes, a life for a life. I will deliver my own up. Good-bye."



The Queer Side of Things.



Young Bansted Downs had finally arrived home from school; the cabman had placed his box in the front hall, and young D. was in the act of hanging up his hat on the stand, when the elder Bansted Downs, his father, put his head out of the library, and said:—

"And now, young Bansted Downs, what sphere in life do you propose to fill?"

"I have been thinking, old Bansted Downs," replied the youth, respectfully, "since I left school seventy-five minutes ago, that I should prefer to be something prosperous."

The father nodded his head approvingly at this evidence of foresight in his child, and said:—

"I think you have come to a very wise decision, young Bansted Downs. No doubt you have, while at school, selected such studies as were best fitted to prepare you for the struggle of life?"

"I think so, old Bansted Downs," replied the son. "The head-master took in regularly for our use all the best prize-competition periodicals; in fact, he was of opinion that a complete selection of these rendered all other educational books superfluous. I myself have attained to such dexterity in guessing the right word, deciding on the best eight pictures and the two best stories, divining the correct number of pairs of boots made in London on a given day, and so forth, that Dr. Practiccle pronounced my education singularly complete."

"Good—very good! young Bansted Downs," said the father, thoughtfully; "and now as to a more specific choice of profession?"

"Well, old Bansted Downs," said the son, "I have been thinking that I should like to be apprenticed to a Genius, with a view to adopting his calling."

"Very well thought out," said the parent. "I must consider whether the necessary premium——"

"Pray do not trouble about that," said the son, "as my success at the word competitions has more than provided for the contingency." And young Bansted Downs drew from his pocket a large bag filled with a mixture of sovereigns, marbles, and peppermint-drops.

"Very good! Then the matter's settled; and perhaps you would like something to eat."

All the friends by whose opinion old Bansted Downs set any store heartily approved of young Bansted Downs's choice of a calling; and the matter was fully discussed that evening. The advertisement columns of the newspapers were consulted as to the most suitable genius to undertake the charge of the youth; and the following seemed promising:—

"To Parents and Guardians.—Young men of promise wishing to adopt the profession of genius will do well to apply to Brayne Power and Sons, of 3019A, George Street, Hanover Square, who have a vacancy for one apprentice. Telephone No. 7142863."

The very next day young Bansted Downs called at the address given, and was shown into the presence of Power senior, a man of venerable appearance, whose high broad forehead, far-away gaze, long hair, and abstraction sufficiently revealed his calling.

"It will be fifty pounds—twenty-five down, and the rest in monthly instalments of one pound after you have got your H.A.W.," said the Master Genius.

"If you please, what is my H.A.W.?" asked young Bansted Downs.

"Your final degree—your Head Above Water."

"That will not be just yet?" asked the youth.

"Oh, dear, no! Not for a very long while, if ever. There are two preliminary degrees to get before that. There are the F.I. and the E.P.—your Foot In and your Ear of the Public; and before you can obtain either of these you will have to Make your Mark."

"I can sign my name—will not that do as well?" asked the youth.



"That entirely depends upon the sort of name. If it's just a surname with a coronet over it, it entitles you to your F.I. and your E.P. without any examination. You have the same advantage if you can append to your signature either of the following affixes: P.P. (Pertinacious Pusher) or C.I. (Chum of the Influential).

"But if you can't sign these kinds of names, you will have to Make your Mark. It's a difficult mark, and requires a lot of learning.

"As the first instalment of twenty-five pounds down is all I am ever likely to get, I will take it now—no, that one won't do; it's a peppermint-drop, not a sovereign. That's not the way to get on, young man!"

"Isn't it?" asked young Bansted Downs thoughtfully. "I'm glad you told me. I thought perhaps it might be; but, of course, I've got to learn."

That very week young Bansted Downs commenced his studies under the Master Genius. He found he had a very great deal to learn.

"The difference between talent and genius is that talent does what it can and genius does what it must—you will find that in the poets," said the Master Genius. "Consequently, to be a genius, you need not feel that you have the ability to do a thing, but only that it is necessary to do it. A house-painter is a specimen of genius: he has not the ability to do his work; but he is compelled to do it in order to obtain the means for his Saturday drinks. But, of course, that's only one kind of genius. What we have to teach you first is to feel that you must do something transcendent—and then all you've got to do is to do it—see?"

So, acting on his instructions, young Bansted Downs went to the office and sat quite still day after day for a month or two, with his eyes fixed on space; and one afternoon at the end of that time he got up and rushed at Power junior (who took charge of him in these preliminary studies), and announced that he felt the irresistible impulse to do something great and wonderful.

"What sort of thing?" asked the Junior Genius.

"I don't know—anything—something stupendous and transcendent—a master-piece!" said young Bansted Downs.

"Knock it off, then. Don't make a labour of it, mind; that would spoil all the genius of it. Just knock it off—shed it—see?"

The apprentice went back to his stool in the corner and knocked off that scintillation of genius.

"Very good for a beginner," said the Junior Genius; "you show much promise. I shall soon be able to hand you over to my father for the Higher Grades."

And some time after that young Bansted Downs moved into the room of the Master Genius to learn the higher attributes of genius—eccentricity and obscureness. These were the most important parts of the qualifications, and he worked hard at acquiring them. The eccentricity had infinite ramifications extending into language, manner, dress, habits, appearance, and opinions. The teacher communicated a thousand little touches of eccentricity invaluable to a genius—such as the bringing out of a book of poems with the title printed upside down and the capitals at the end of the lines instead of the beginning; the wearing of the back hair tied in a bow under the tip of the nose, and so forth. The pupil learned to hop backwards on to a public platform, wearing his dress-coat upside down, to paint his figures with their bones outside their skin, to sob audibly when performing on the piano; and many other things necessary to the obtaining of his degrees.



Having completed these studies, he was ready for the uphill work of trying to Make his Mark; and he found it a complicated bit of drawing too, far worse than the signature of a Chinese emperor—everything lay in the flourish.

The Master Genius said that no one could Make his Mark without a great flourish; and the best way to make the flourish was to blow it on his own trumpet; so there was the expense of a trumpet.

But he didn't seem able to get on; and after he had worn out a gross of pens in the attempt to Make his Mark he felt that he would never obtain his degrees, and took a back cistern-cupboard under the roof in a poor street, and fell into a low state.

One day, as he was eating his weekly sausage at the Three Melancholy Geniuses, off Fleet Street, there entered a party whom he knew slightly and who had Made his Mark and passed all his degrees some time before.



"Haven't Made your Mark yet?" said this party. "Tell you what—why don't you get Boomed?"

"Does it hurt?" asked young Bansted Downs.

"Hurts your self-respect just a little and your respect for your fellow-creatures a little more—but it's nothing," replied the party.

"Where do you go?"

"To the Press Booming Department, of course. Just put your name down for Booming, and fill up a form, stating what you require said about you. You began all wrong: I never studied—I only went and put my name down the moment it occurred to me that I would be a genius. I called at the office every day, and shouted my name, and created disturbances, and got turned out; until at last they couldn't stand it any longer, and my turn came.



"They put a long article about me in every newspaper, all the same day—mostly interviews—and quoted me as a classic. Some of 'em described me as a painter, and others as a novelist: I never was either; but it answered all right."

So young Bansted Downs went to the Booming office, and put his name down, and shouted; and the end of it was he got his Boom, and several editors wrote to him; and he began to be a little successful.

He hired halls, and went before the public in person; and painted on the platform; and sang and played his own compositions to them; and recited his own poems, and acted his own plays; and told them about his own scientific researches, and his military, exploratory, judicial, political, and athletic achievements.

But the thing dulled off, for one day a deputation of the public called at the Booming office to ask something about him; and the office had forgotten his name, and said that he wasn't being Boomed now, as Smith was up; and so the public got on an omnibus and went to Smith's hall, and Bansted Downs faded out.

After that he was to be found all day at the Three Melancholy Geniuses, drooping over fours of Irish; and one day his late instructor happened to come in and find him thus, with his melancholy nose over the edge of his glass.

"Haven't got your Head Above Water, I see?" said the Master Genius. "Sorry you haven't Made your Mark."

"I've made a good many," said Downs, pointing to the wet rings on the counter.

"Ah, that sort of mark's no use—unless you make it in Company," said the Genius.



One day, as young Bansted Downs sat in his cistern-cupboard biting his nails, a step was heard on the stair, and his late instructor entered.

"I've been all wrong," he said, sitting down on the cistern. "I put you all wrong—I've put all my pupils all wrong. I fell down stairs lately and knocked my head, and when I got up I saw everything—the light broke in upon me!"

"Why, you've cut your hair, and you're dressed quite neatly—I should hardly have known you for a Master Genius at all!" exclaimed young Bansted Downs.

"I am no longer a Genius—I am now the M.W.K.A.A.I.—the Man Who Knows All About It. I now know why genius fails to get the Ear of the Public, and is not appreciated——"

"Fault of the public—everybody knew that before," growled young Bansted Downs.

"Pardon me, it is not the fault of the poor public, but the fault of the system. We—the entertainers—have made the mistake of being geniuses; whereas we had no business to meddle with genius at all.

"It is the public who ought to have the genius; they should have the lively appreciation, the keen sense of humour, the afflatus, and all that; and then those who cater for them would not need to trouble about those things—they would only have to cater, and leave the public to perceive, by means of their genius, the excellences of the fare provided. If a plain person does something, and geniuses perceive greatness in it, that's a right state of affairs; but if a genius does something great, and plain persons fail to appreciate it, that's a wrong state of things, and a waste of material—-see?"

"And what do you propose to do?" asked young Bansted Downs.

"That's very simple—just make geniuses of the public. Of course the public, having their own affairs to attend to, will not wish to turn caterers and originate—their province is to appreciate, perceive, applaud, and pay at the doors—see? By this system any dullard is enabled, without effort, fatigue, or preliminary study, to Make his Mark and get his F.I., his E.P., and his H.A.W. A child could use it."

"But," objected young Bansted Downs, "under your system, dullardism paying so well, everybody would want to cater for the public, and there wouldn't be any audience—any public."

"Pooh! The system at present in vogue is all I require—compulsory education. Everybody will have to be educated as a genius, except a few who will be specially exempted from attendance at the Board schools to enable them to lie fallow and fit themselves for originators.

"Of course, you may say that it would not be necessary for the entertainer to be dull. Of course it would not; but, as it is not necessary for him to be a genius either, there would be a waste of public money in educating him as one. In fact, it might be a disadvantage for both originator and appreciator to be geniuses, and their conceptions might clash and create confusion. It's better for a conception to be lighted from one side only, as you get more contrast."

"But would not the genius of the spectator simply perceive the dulness of the originator?"

"Not in the least. It's just the sphere of genius to perceive, in a given production, excellences which the ordinary observer fails to detect; and it's only a question of degree of genius. I take it that perfect genius can detect perfect excellence in everything submitted to its discrimination. And now, will you be kind enough to come and vote for me, as for the furtherance of my scheme I am offering myself as Chairman of the School Board?"

In due course, the Man Who Knew All About It was elected to the School Board. He secured this by publishing handbills declaring his intention to squander the rate-payers' money like water, and provide free food, clothing, lodging, sweets, tobacco, drinks, theatres, and pianos to all the Board school children and their parents, relatives, and friends. The public judged by the proceedings of past candidates, all of whom had deliberately broken their promises on coming into office; and they concluded that this one would do so as well, and refuse to spend a penny. The Board were compelled to choose him as Chairman; and he at once commenced his work of reform.

Genius took the place of all the former studies at the Board schools: no pupil was permitted to leave until he had passed the fifth standard, which turned him out a full-fledged genius; and he had to attend until he could pass it, even if he became old and decrepit. This was a wise step; for, had this rule been relaxed, those unable to pass the standard would have joined the ranks of the originators, and thus flooded the market.



Young Bansted Downs now set himself to steadily forgetting all the genius he had learned, feeling that it would be nothing but an incumbrance in his new career; and he succeeded so well that in the course of a few years he had become as dull as ditch-water.

Meanwhile a new public were growing up, a public of such brilliant perceptions—so great a faculty of appreciation—that they were quite bewildered with the excellences they perceived in everything around them.

To take the sense of humour alone: they possessed it to so marvellous an extent that they could perceive a joke in the passing cloud, facetiousness in the growth of flowers, a choice witticism in the rates and taxes, an incentive to mirth in strikes. Not that they were incessantly giggling—that would have argued a something wanting; no, they drank in and appreciated and enjoyed the universal humour, and their eyes were bright.

So, when young Bansted Downs was middle-aged Bansted Downs he started all over again in quite a different way: he just wrote twaddle, and painted twaddle, and composed twaddle; and went on to a platform and twaddled about twaddle: and the public genius detected the brilliancy lurking in it all, and they were in ecstacies.

A terrible thing happened to the Boom Department of the Press. One day the public arose as one man and remarked that they were capable of finding out merit for themselves and no longer required the Department; and they took large stones, and bad eggs, and dead cats, and fagots of wood, and proceeded to the Boom Department; and it was in vain that the head of the Department came out on the balcony and pleaded that the Booming System, as practised by the Press, had nothing to do with the finding-out of merit; for the public smashed the windows and burned the offices, and abolished the Boom Department.



However, nobody required Booming now, as absence of ability was no longer a bar to fame; and things worked far more happily than they ever had under the old system. Authors and others no longer pined under want of appreciation; on the contrary, they were always wildly surprised at the wonderful things the public discovered in their work; and as for the public, they were vastly contented.

It's the true system—there's not a question about that.

J. F. SULLIVAN.



* * * * *



INDEX.

PAGE ADJUTANT'S LOVE STORY, THE. From the French of LE COMTE ALFRED DE VIGNY (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.) 528

ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. By A. CONAN DOYLE. (Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET.)

XIV.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX 61

XV.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE YELLOW FACE 162

XVI.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE STOCKBROKER'S CLERK 281

XVII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE "GLORIA SCOTT" 395

XVIII.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE MUSGRAVE RITUAL 479

XIX.—THE ADVENTURE OF THE REIGATE SQUIRE 601

"AUTHOR! AUTHOR!" By E. W. HORNUNG 241 (Illustrations by W. S. STACEY.)

BARNARDO, DR. (See "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 173

BEAUTIES:—

I.—LADIES: THE COUNTESS OF ANNESLEY, THE MISSES HATHAWAY (TWINS), MISS HAYTER, MISS LEE, MISS MENCE 74

II.—CHILDREN: MISS BEAUMONT, MISS CROSS, MISS DUNLOP, MISS MARGUERITE FOSTER, MISS SERJEANT, MISS WATERLOW, MISS WHITE, MISSES WHITE, MISS WINSTEAD 186

III.—LADIES: PRINCESS AHMADEE, MADAME ARNOLDSON, MISS DOROTHY DORR, MISS FLO HENDERSON, MISS KINGSLEY, MISS ALICE LETHBRIDGE, MADAME SCHIRMER-MAPLESON, MLLE. DEL TORRE, MISS WEBSTER 292

IV.—LADIES: MISS ARCHER, LADY CHARLES BERESFORD, MISS FLO BERESFORD, MISS BRANSON, MRS. BRATE, MISS LLOYD, MISS DECIMA MOORE, MISS RIPLEY, MISS NELLIE SIMMONS 415

V.—CHILDREN: MISS KATE BIRCH, MISS DORIS COLLINS, MISS ERNA COLLINS, MISS GASCOYNE DALZIEL, MISS ELSIE DIEDRICHS, MISS GLADYS HERBERT, MISS DOROTHY NORCUTT, MISS MAUDE WALLIS, MISS KATHLEEN WHITE 525

VI.—LADIES: LADY ABERDEEN, MISS ELLA BANISTER, MISS C. L. FOOTE, MISS FRIEND, MISS L. HAROLD, MISS A. HUGHES, MRS. MARSH, MISS ALICE RAVENSCROFT, MISS NORAH WILLIAMS 613

CARDS, PECULIAR PLAYING 77, 148

CHILD'S TEAR, A. From the French of EDOUARD LEMOINE 95 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

COURTSHIP OF HALIL, THE. By A. F. BURN 84 (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.)

DARK TRANSACTION, A. By MARIANNE KENT 362 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

DEAD OF NIGHT, AT. By MRS. NEWMAN 498 (Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN.)

DICTATES OF FASHION, FUTURE 551 (Written and Illustrated by W. CADE GALL.)

FASHION, FUTURE DICTATES OF 551

FURNISS, MR. HARRY. (See "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 571

GAME OF CHESS, A. Translated from the French 219 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

HANDS. By BECKLES WILLSON 119, 295 (Illustrations from Photographs of Casts.)

HUMANE SOCIETY, ROYAL. With Portraits of Winners of the Medals 370, 446 (Illustrations from Photographs.)

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS. By HARRY HOW.

XIX.—THE LORD BISHOP OF RIPON 12 (Illustrations from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)

XX.—DR. BARNARDO 173 (Illustrations from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)

XXI.—MR. AND MRS. KENDAL 228 (Illustrations by MR. KENDAL; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)

XXII.—SIR ROBERT RAWLINSON 513 (Illustrations from Drawings and Paintings; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)

XXIII.—MR. HARRY FURNISS 571 (Illustrations by HARRY FURNISS; and from Photographs by Messrs. ELLIOTT & FRY.)

KENDAL, MR. AND MRS. (See "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 228

LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER. From the French of JOSE DE CAMPOS 616 (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.)

LITTLE SURPRISE, A. Adapted from the French of A. DREYFUS by CONSTANCE BEERBOHM 25 (Illustrations by W. S. STACEY.)

MAJOR'S COMMISSION, THE. By W. CLARK RUSSELL 138 (Illustrationsby W. CHRISTIAN SYMONS.)

NANKEEN JACKET, THE. From the French of GUSTAVE GUESVILLER 418 (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.)

ONE AND TWO. By WALTER BESANT 44 (Illustrations by JOHN GUeLICH.)

PIERRE AND BAPTISTE. By BECKLES WILLSON 547 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

PLAYING CARDS, PECULIAR. By GEORGE CLULOW 77, 148 (Illustrations from facsimiles of Curious Playing Cards.)

PORTRAITS OF CELEBRITIES AT DIFFERENT TIMES OF THEIR LIVES:—

ABEL, SIR FREDERICK, BART. 589

ADLER, DR. HERMANN 278

ALISON, SIR ARCHIBALD 279

BATTERSEA, LORD 274

BERESFORD, LORD CHARLES 393

COWEN, FREDERIC H. 161

FURNISS, HARRY 586

GIRARD, MISS DOROTHEA 59

GOULD, REV. S. BARING 392

HADING, MADAME JANE 280

HALLE, SIR CHARLES 277

HALLE, LADY 276

HARDY, MISS IZA DUFFUS 473

HAWEIS, REV. H. R. 160

HERKOMER, MR. HUBERT, R.A. 474

HOUGHTON, LORD 156

HUNTER, COLIN, A.R.A. 588

KELVIN, LORD 590

KNILL, MR. STUART (LORD MAYOR) 60

LESLIE, THE LATE FRED 58

LLOYD, EDWARD 478

MACWHIRTER, JOHN, R.A. 476

NICOL, ERSKINE, A.R.A. 475

ORCHARDSON, W. Q., R.A. 275

PETTIE, JOHN, R.A. 157

POTTER, MRS. BROWN 389

PRINCESS MARIE OF EDINBURGH 56

PRINCE FERDINAND OF ROUMANIA 57

PRINCE OF WALES 390

PRINCESS OF WALES 391

REID, SIR GEORGE, P.R.S.A. 587

ROBERTS, JOHN 394

ROBERTSON, J. FORBES 477

RUSSELL, W. CLARK 55

TECK, DUCHESS OF 158

TECK, DUKE OF 159

VAUGHAN, CARDINAL 591

VAUGHAN, CARDINAL, FATHER AND BROTHERS OF 592

PRINCE OF WALES AT SANDRINGHAM, THE 327 (Illustrations from Photographs by BEDFORD LEMERE and W. & D. DOWNEY.)

QUASTANA THE BRIGAND. From the French of ALPHONSE DAUDET 124 (Illustrations by JEAN DE PALEOLOGUE.)

QUEER SIDE OF THINGS, THE:—

BOTTLE FROM THE DEEP SEA, A 214

CHILDREN OF A THOUSAND YEARS 542

CLOAKS AND MANTLES 106

CROCODILE STORY, A 324

DRINKING VESSELS OF ALL AGES 322

DWINDLING HOUR, THE 98

EXPLOSION OF A LOCOMOTIVE 214

HORSE AND ITS OCCUPATIONS, THE 430

HUNTER AND THE BIRD, THE 108

JUDGE'S PENANCE, THE 535

MANDRAKE ROOTS 105

MISCELLANEOUS 648

N.P.M.C., THE 315

OLD JOE'S PICNIC 423

PAL'S PUZZLES 104, 215

ROOM PAPERED WITH STAMPS 321

SAGACITY OF A DOG 216

STORY OF THE KING'S IDEA 209

TABLES OF A CENTURY 646

TURNIP RESEMBLING A HUMAN HAND 321

USE FOR GENIUS 639

VEGETABLE ODDITIES 214, 432

WHO ARE THESE? 544

RAWLINSON, SIR ROBERT. (See "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 513

RIPON, THE LORD BISHOP OF. (See "ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.") 12

ROSITA. From the French of PITRE CHEVALIER 302 (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.)

SANDRINGHAM, THE PRINCE OF WALES AT 327 (Illustrations from Photographs.)

SHADOW OF THE SIERRAS, IN THE. By IZA DUFFUS HARDY 433 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

SHAFTS FROM AN EASTERN QUIVER. By CHARLES J. MANSFORD, B.A.

VII.—MARGARITA, THE BOND QUEEN OF THE WANDERING DHAHS 3 VIII.—THE MASKED RULER OF THE BLACK WRECKERS 189 IX.—MAW SAYAH, THE KEEPER OF THE GREAT BURMAN NAT 258 X.—THE HUNTED TRIBE OF THREE HUNDRED PEAKS 340 XI.—IN QUEST OF THE LOST GALLEON 453 XII.—THE DAUGHTER OF LOVETSKI THE LOST 561 (Illustrations by A. PEARSE.)

SLAVE, A. By LEILA HANOUM. Translated from a Turkish Story 203 (Illustrations by H. R. MILLAR.)

SPEAKER'S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE. Viewed by H. W. LUCY 89, 198, 267, 381, 490, 624 (Illustrations by F. C. GOULD.)

STRANGE REUNION, A. By T. G. ATKINSON 376 (Illustrations by A. J. JOHNSON.)

TYPES OF ENGLISH BEAUTY. (See "BEAUTIES.")

WEATHERCOCKS AND VANES 351 (Written and Illustrated by WARRINGTON HOGG.)

WEDDING GIFT, A. By LEONARD OUTRAM 111 (Illustrations by PAUL HARDY.)

WORK OF ACCUSATION, A. By HARRY HOW 633 (Illustrations by JOHN GUeLICH.)

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO. By ARTHUR MORRISON.

VII.—ZIG-ZAG CURSOREAN 35 VIII.—ZIG-ZAG PHOCINE 129 IX.—ZIG-ZAG CONKAVIAN 248 X.—ZIG-ZAG OPHIDIAN 407 XI.—ZIG-ZAG MARSUPIAL 464 XII.—ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL 593

(Illustrations by J. A. SHEPHERD.)

GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED. 8, 9, 10 AND 11, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER STREET, STRAND. W.C.

THE END