* * * * *



The Helmet.

From the French by Ferdinand Beissier.



"But, uncle—I love my cousin!"

"Get out!"

"Give her to me."

"Don't bother me!"

"It will be my death!"

"Nonsense! you'll console yourself with some other girl."

"Pray—"

My uncle, whose back had been towards me, whirled round, his face red to bursting, and brought his closed fist down upon the counter with a heavy thump.

"Never!" he cried; "never: Do you hear what I say?"

And as I looked at him beseechingly and with joined hands, he went on:—

"A pretty husband you look like!—without a sou, and dreaming of going into housekeeping! A nice mess I should make of it, by giving you my daughter! It's no use your insisting. You know that when I have said 'No,' nothing under the sun can make me say 'Yes'!"

I ceased to make any further appeal. I knew my uncle—about as headstrong an old fellow as could be found in a day's search. I contented myself with giving vent to a deep sigh, and then went on with the furbishing of a big, double-handed sword, rusty from point to hilt.

This memorable conversation took place, in fact, in the shop of my maternal uncle, a well-known dealer in antiquities and objets d'art, No. 53, Rue des Claquettes, at the sign of the "Maltese Cross"—a perfect museum of curiosities.

The walls were hung with Marseilles and old Rouen china, facing ancient cuirasses, sabres, and muskets, and picture frames; below these were ranged old cabinets, coffers of all sorts, and statues of saints, one-armed or one-legged for the most part and dilapidated as to their gilding; then, here and there, in glass cases, hermetically closed and locked, there were knick-knacks in infinite variety—lachrymatories, tiny urns, rings, precious stones, fragments of marble, bracelets, crosses, necklaces, medals, and miniature ivory statuettes, the yellow tints of which, in the sun, took momentarily a flesh-like transparency.

Time out of mind the shop had belonged to the Cornuberts. It passed regularly from father to son, and my uncle—his neighbours said—could not but be the possessor of a nice little fortune. Held in esteem by all, a Municipal Councillor, impressed by the importance and gravity of his office, short, fat, highly choleric and headstrong, but at bottom not in the least degree an unkind sort of man—such was my uncle Cornubert, my only living male relative, who, as soon as I left school, had elevated me to the dignity of chief and only clerk and shopman of the "Maltese Cross."

But my uncle was not only a dealer in antiquities and a Municipal Councillor, he was yet more, and above all, the father of my cousin Rose, with whom I was naturally in love.

To come back to the point at which I digressed.

Without paying any attention to the sighs which exhaled from my bosom while scouring the rust from my long, two-handed sword, my uncle, magnifying glass in hand, was engaged in the examination of a lot of medals which he had purchased that morning. Suddenly he raised his head; five o'clock was striking.

"The Council!" he cried.

When my uncle pronounced that august word, it made a mouthful; for a pin, he would have saluted it bare-headed. But, this time, after a moment's consideration, he tapped his forehead and added, in a tone of supreme relief:—

"No, the sitting does not take place before to-morrow—and I am forgetting that I have to go to the railway station to get the consignment of which I was advised this morning."

Rising from his seat, and laying down his glass, he called out:—

"Rose, give me my cane and hat!"

Then, turning towards me, he added, in a lowered tone and speaking very quickly:—

"As to you—don't forget our conversation. If you think you can make me say 'yes,' try!—but I don't think you'll succeed. Meanwhile, not a word to Rose, or, by Saint Barthelemy, my patron of happy memory, I'll instantly kick you out of doors!"



At that moment Rose appeared with my uncle's cane and hat, which she handed to him. He kissed her on the forehead; then, giving me a last but eloquent look, hurried from the shop.

I went on scouring my double-handed sword. Rose came quietly towards me.

"What is the matter with my father?" she asked; "he seems to be angry with you."

I looked at her—her eyes were so black, her look so kind, her mouth so rosy, and her teeth so white that I told her all—my love, my suit to her father, and his rough refusal. I could not help it—after all, it was his fault! He was not there: I determined to brave his anger. Besides, there is nobody like timid persons for displaying courage under certain circumstances.

My cousin said nothing; she only held down her eyes—while her cheeks were as red as those of cherries in May.

I checked myself.

"Are you angry with me?" I asked, tremblingly. "Are you angry with me, Rose?"

She held out to me her hand. On that, my heart seething with audacity, my head on fire, I cried:—

"Rose—I swear it! I will be your husband!" And as she shook her head and looked at me sadly, I added: "Oh! I well know that my uncle is self-willed, but I will be more self-willed still; and, since he must be forced to say 'yes,' I will force him to say it!"

"But how?" asked Rose.

Ah! how? That was exactly the difficulty. But, no matter; I would find a way to surmount it!

At that moment a heavy step resounded in the street. Instinctively we moved away from each other; I returned to my double-handed sword, and Rose, to keep herself in countenance, set to dusting, with a corner of her apron, a little statuette in its faded red velvet case.

My uncle entered. Surprised at finding us together, he stopped short and looked sharply at us, from one to the other.

We each of us went on rubbing without raising our heads.

"Here, take this," said my uncle, handing me a bulky parcel from under his arm. "A splendid purchase, you'll see."

The subject did not interest me in the least.

I opened the parcel, and from the enveloping paper emerged a steel helmet—but not an ordinary helmet, oh, no!—a superb, a monumental morion, with gorget and pointed visor of strange form. The visor was raised, and I tried to discover what prevented it from being lowered.

"It will not go down—the hinges have got out of order," said my uncle; "but it's a superb piece, and, when it has been thoroughly cleaned and touched up, will look well—that shall be your to-morrow's job."

"Very good, uncle," I murmured, not daring to raise my eyes to his.

That night, on reaching my room, I at once went to bed. I was eager to be alone and able to think at my ease. Night brings counsel, it is said; and I had great need that the proverb should prove true. But, after lying awake for an hour without receiving any assistance, I fell off to sleep, and, till next morning, did nothing but dream the oddest dreams. I saw Rose on her way to church in a strange bridal costume, a 14th-century cap, three feet high, on her head, but looking prettier than ever; then suddenly the scene changed to moonlight, in which innumerable helmets and pieces of old china were dancing a wild farandola, while my uncle, clad in complete armour and with a formidable halberd in his hand, conducted the bewildering whirl.



The next day—ah, the next day!—I was no nearer. In vain, with clenched teeth, I scoured the immense helmet brought by my uncle the previous evening—scoured it with such fury as almost to break the iron; not an idea came to me. The helmet shone like a sun: my uncle sat smoking his pipe and watching me; but I could think of nothing, of no way of forcing him to give me his daughter.

At three o'clock Rose went into the country, whence she was not to return until dinner-time, in the evening. On the threshold she could only make a sign to me with her hand; my uncle had not left us alone for a single instant. He was not easy in his mind; I could see that by his face. No doubt he had not forgotten our conversation of the previous evening.

I went on rubbing at my helmet.

"You have made it quite bright enough—put it down," said my uncle.

I put it down. The storm was gathering: I could not do better than allow it to blow over.

But suddenly, as if overtaken by a strange fancy, my uncle took up the enormous morion and turned and examined it on all sides.

"A handsome piece of armour, there is no doubt about it; but it must have weighed pretty heavily on its wearer's shoulders," he muttered; and, urged by I know not what demon, he clapped it on his head and latched the gorget-piece about his neck.

Struck almost speechless, I watched what he was doing—thinking only how ugly he looked.

Suddenly there was a sharp sound—as if a spring had snapped—and—crack!—down fell the visor; and there was my uncle, with his head in an iron cage, gesticulating and swearing like a pagan!

I could contain myself no longer, and burst into a roar of laughter; for my uncle, stumpy, fat, and rubicund, presented an irresistibly comic appearance.



Threateningly, he came towards me.

"The hinges!—the hinges, fool!" he yelled.

I could not see his face, but I felt that it was red to bursting.

"When you have done laughing, idiot!" he cried.

But the helmet swayed so oddly on his shoulders, his voice came from out it in such strange tones, that the more he gesticulated, the more he yelled and threatened me, the louder I laughed.

At that moment the clock of the Hotel-de-Ville, striking five, was heard.

"The Municipal Council!" murmured my uncle, in a stifled voice. "Quick! help me off with this beast of a machine! We'll settle our business afterwards!"

But, suddenly likewise, an idea—a wild, extraordinary idea—came into my head; but then, whoever is madder than a lover? Besides, I had no choice of means.

"No!" I replied.

My uncle fell back two paces in terror—and again the enormous helmet wobbled on his shoulders.

"No," I repeated, firmly, "I'll not help you out, unless you give me the hand of my cousin Rose!"

From the depths of the strangely elongated visor came, not an angry exclamation, but a veritable roar. I had "done it!"—I had burned my ships!

"If you do not consent to do what I ask of you," I added, "not only will I not help you off with your helmet, but I will call in all your neighbours, and then go and find the Municipal Council!"

"You'll end your days on the scaffold!" cried my uncle.

"The hand of Rose!" I repeated. "You told me that it would only be by force that you would be made to say 'yes'—say it, or I will call in the neighbours!"

The clock was still striking; my uncle raised his arms as if to curse me.

"Decide at once," I cried, "somebody is coming!"

"Well, then—yes!" murmured my uncle. "But make haste!"

"On your word of honour?"

"On my word of honour!"

The visor gave way, the gorget-piece also, and my uncle's head issued from durance, red as a poppy.

Just in time. The chemist at the corner, a colleague in the Municipal Council, entered the shop.

"Are you coming?" he asked; "they will be beginning the business without us."

"I'm coming," replied my uncle.

And without looking at me, he took up his hat and cane and hurried out.

The next moment all my hopes had vanished. My uncle would surely not forgive me.

At dinner-time I took my place at table on his right hand in low spirits, ate little, and said nothing.

"It will come with the dessert," I thought.

Rose looked at me, and I avoided meeting her eyes. As I had expected, the dessert over, my uncle lit his pipe, raised his head, and then—

"Rose—come here!"

Rose went to him.

"Do you know what that fellow there asked me to do, yesterday?"

I trembled like a leaf, and Rose did the same.



"To give him your hand," he added. "Do you love him?"

Rose cast down her eyes.

"Very well," continued my uncle; "on this side, the case is complete. Come here, you."

I approached him.

"Here I am, uncle," and, in a whisper. I added quickly: "Forgive me!"

He burst into a hearty laugh.

"Marry her, then, donkey—since you love her, and I give her to you!"

"Ah!—uncle!"

"Ah!—dear papa!"

And Rose and I threw ourselves into his arms.

"Very good! very good!" he cried, wiping his eyes. "Be happy, that's all I ask."

And, in turn, he whispered in my ear:—

"I should have given her to you all the same, you big goose; but—keep the story of the helmet between us two!"

I give you my word that I have never told it but to Rose, my dear little wife. And, if ever you pass along the Rue des Claquettes, No. 53, at the place of honour in the old shop, I'll show you my uncle's helmet, which we would never sell.

* * * * *



The Music of Nature.

BY A. T. CAMDEN PRATT.

II.

Reference was made at the close of the last article to the voice of the dog, and his method of making his feelings and desires understood. It is, of course, well known that this is an acquired habit, or accomplishment. In a state of Nature the dog does not even bark; he has acquired the art or knowledge from his companionship with man. Isaiah compares the blind watchman of Israel to dogs, saying, "They are dumb; they cannot bark." Again, to quote the argument of Dr. Gardiner: "The dog indicates his different feelings by different tones." The following is his yelp when his foot is trod upon.



Haydn introduces the bark of a dog into the scherzo in his 38th quartette. Indeed, the tones of the "voice" of the dog are so marked, that more than any other of the voices of Nature they have been utilized in music. The merest tyro in the study of dog language can readily distinguish between the bark of joy—the "deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home," as Byron put it—and the angry snarl, the yelp of pain, or the accents of fear. Indeed, according to an assertion in the "Library of Entertaining Knowledge," the horse knows from the bark of a dog when he may expect an attack on his heels. Gardiner suggests that it would be worth while to study the language of the dog. Perhaps Professor Garnier, when he has reduced the language of the monkey to "A, B, C," might feel inclined to take up the matter.



Next to the dog there is no animal in which there is more variation of sound than in oxen: "Their lowing, though rough and rude, is music to the farmer's ear save one who moans the loss of her sportive young; with wandering eye and anxious look she grieves the livelong day." It is specially difficult in the case of oxen to suppose that they have a language; but it is impossible to doubt that the variations of their lowing are understood of one another, and serve to express their feelings if not their thoughts.



In the matter of exclamations, one knows how readily these may be imitated upon the violin, or in the case of the deeper or more guttural sounds, on the violoncello. The natural effect is greatly aided by the sliding of the finger along the note, especially in the case of the lowing of cattle; but there are other exclamations that are readily reduced to music. Gardiner gives one or two interesting cases, and the common salutation, "How d'ye do?" may be instanced. It usually starts on B natural, and the voice rising to D ends on C; whereas, the reply, "Pretty well, thank you," begins on D, and falling to A, ends again on D. After a few attempts on the piano, the reader will be able readily to form these notes for himself.



The horse, on the other hand, is rarely heard, and, though having a piercing whinny which passes through every semitone of the scale, it is scarcely ever varied.



The music of the insects has already been alluded to, and everyone will agree with Gilbert White that "not undelightful is the ceaseless hum, to him who musing walks at noon." The entomologist has laboured hard to show us that the insect has no voice, and that the "drowsy hum" is made by the wings; a fact which, being beyond all cavil, puts to the blush the old-world story of Plutarch, who tells us that when Terpander was playing upon the lyre, at the Olympic games, and had enraptured his audience to the highest pitch of enthusiasm a string of his instrument broke, and a cicada or grasshopper perched on the bridge supplied by its voice the loss of the string and saved the fame of the musician. To this day in Surinam the Dutch call them lyre-players. If there is any truth in the story, the grasshopper then had powers far in advance of his degenerated descendants; for now the grasshopper—like the cricket—has a chirp consisting of three notes in rhythm, always forming a triplet in the key of B.



Gardiner, on the authority of Dr. Primatt, states that, to produce the sound it makes, the house-fly must make 320 vibrations of its wings in a second; or nearly 20,000 if it continues on the wing a minute. The sound is invariably on the note F in the first space. The music of a duck's note is given in the annexed score.

In conclusion, an article on the music of Nature would not be complete without an allusion to the music of the winds and the storm. Admirers of Beethoven will recall numerous passages that would serve as illustrations. One particularly might be mentioned—the chorus in "Judah" (Haydn), "The Lord devoureth them all," which is admirably imitative of the reverberations of the cataract and the thundering of mighty waters. The sounds at sea, ominous of shipwreck, will also occur to the minds of some. At Land's End it is not uncommon for storms to be heralded by weird sounds; and in the northern seas sailors, always a superstitious race of people, used to be much alarmed by a singular musical effect, which is now well known to be caused by nothing more fearsome than a whale breathing.

These instances might be still further multiplied, but enough have, perhaps, been given to excite some general interest in "the Music of Nature."

* * * * *



Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives.

SIR HENRY LOCH.

BORN 1827.

Sir Henry Brougham Loch, G.C.M.G., K.C.B., whose name has recently been so prominently before the public in connection with the disturbances in Mashonaland, is Chief Commissioner at the Cape. In his diplomatic career he was taken prisoner during the war with China; and, with Mr. Boulby, the Times correspondent, was carried about in a cage by his captors, and exhibited to the natives. After his liberation he returned to England, and was appointed Governor of the Isle of Man, and subsequently Governor of Victoria; and, in 1889, was appointed to succeed Sir Hercules Robinson as Chief Commissioner at the Cape.



MADAME BELLE COLE.

It was in Jubilee Year that the British public were first charmed by the singing of this admirable American contralto. She sang in London, and successive audiences were quick to confirm the judgments of Sir Joseph Barnby and certain other critics who had heard her only in private. Her advance to the front rank of English singers was exceedingly rapid, and her position amongst us was long since made secure. Madame Cole has taken part in nearly all the great musical events in this country during the past four years. She has sung everywhere in London—with the Royal Choral Society at the Albert Hall, at the Handel Festival at the Crystal Palace, at the Ballad Concerts, at the Monday Popular Concerts, at Sir Charles Halle's Concerts, and at Bristol, Chester, Leeds, Birmingham, and other leading towns. As seems to have been the case with most well-dowered musicians, Madame Cole's talent owes something to heredity. Musical ability, greater or less, may at all events be traced back in her family for a considerable period. Madame Cole's first distinct success in public was gained with Mr. Theodore Thomas, during that gentleman's first "grand transcontinental tour from ocean to ocean" in 1883.



THE LORD BISHOP OF PETERBOROUGH.

BORN 1843.

Professor the Rev. Mandell Creighton, M.A., was born at Carlisle, and educated at Durham Grammar School and Merton College, Oxford. He was ordained deacon in 1870 and priest in 1873, and in 1875 accepted the living of Embleton, in Northumberland. In 1884 he was elected to the newly founded professorship of Ecclesiastical History in the University of Cambridge. In 1885 he was appointed by the Crown canon residentiary of Worcester Cathedral. He is the author of several historical works: "Primer of Roman History," 1875; "The Age of Elizabeth," 1876; etc. His principal work is a "History of the Papacy During the Period of the Reformation." He was appointed Bishop of Peterborough in 1891.



LORD WANTAGE.

BORN 1832.

Robert James Loyd-Lindsay, K.C.B., V.C. is the eldest son of the late Lieut.-General James Lindsay. He was educated at Eton, and at an early age entered the Army. He served in the Guinea, 1854-5, part of the time as Aide-de-Camp to the Commander-in-Chief. At the battle of Alma, amidst great disorder, he reformed the line and stood firm with the colours. At Inkerman he distinguished himself by charging and repulsing a strong body of Russians with a few men; for which distinctions he was justly awarded the Victoria Cross. Lord Wantage was Equerry to the Prince of Wales, 1858-9; and has been Extra Equerry to His Royal Highness since 1874. He is also the Lord Lieutenant and a County Councillor of Berkshire. He married, in 1858, Harriet Sarah, only child of the first Baron Overstone.



SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, BART, M.P.

BORN 1826.

Sir Richard Temple, Bart., G.C.S.I., M.P., D.C.L.(Oxon), LL.D. (Cantab), of The Nash, Kempsey, near Worcester, entered the third class of the Bengal Civil Service in 1846. He was Secretary to Sir John Lawrence in the Punjab, and eventually was appointed Chief Commissioner of the Central Provinces, and the Political Resident at Hyderabad. He was Foreign Secretary to the Governor-General, and Finance Minister of India, from 1868 to 1874. In January, 1874, he was appointed to superintend the relief operations in the famine-stricken districts of Bengal. He became Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal in 1875; was created a Baronet in August, 1876; and was appointed Governor of the Presidency of Bombay in January, 1877, which office he held till March, 1880. He sits for the Kingston Division of Surrey.



* * * * *



A Terrible New Year's Eve.

BY KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON.

In a little Belgian village not many miles from Brussels the winter sun shone brightly. It shone through the quaint old windows of a little, red-tiled cottage, and on the figure of a girl who stood in the centre of the kitchen reading a long, closely written letter. Over the blazing fire, where the "pot au feu" was simmering, bent an old woman, and the girl's voice came joyously to her as she stirred the savoury mess.



"My aunt, Paul has sent for me. At last he has got permanent work. It is nothing very great at present, but it may lead to better things, and the pay is enough, with what he has saved, to enable him to rent a little 'appartement.' If I can, he wants me, with our little Pierre, to catch the coach at 'Les Trois Freres' to-morrow. We should then reach Brussels by night and spend our New Year together."

As Babette spoke, her cheeks all flushed with hope and joy, the eyes of both the women rested on a cradle that stood in the room. In this, baby Pierre, only a twelvemonth old, lay sleeping peacefully.

Then said the old woman, sadly, "I shall miss you, dearest, and the baby too. Still, it is only right you should go. Perhaps in the summer you may return for a bit. Time passes quickly. A year ago you were weeping over Paul's departure; and now, behold, you are going to join him, and lay in his arms the son he has never seen."

Babette nodded. She was between tears and smiles. There was grief, true and deep, at leaving the dear old aunt, who had been so good to her and to her child. There was joy at the thought of seeing again the brave young husband whom she had wedded in the little village church two years before, and from whom the parting had been so bitter, when he left her, just before the birth of their baby boy, to seek work in the Belgian capital.

But there was no time to waste. After the simple mid-day meal there were many things to be done, and all through the short winter day they were busy. There was a bundle of warm wraps to be put together for Babette to take with her. Her little trunk, with Pierre's cradle, and some odds and ends of furniture, would follow in a few days, when her aunt had collected and packed them all. Her little store of money was counted over. Alas! it was very slender. She must travel quickly and cheaply if it was to last her till she reached Brussels.

"Jean's cart will take you as far as 'Les Trois Freres,'" said the old lady, cheerfully, after finding that counting the little heap of francs and half-francs over and over did not increase them. "That will save something. You can catch the coach that stops there at two, and by six you will be in Brussels. I pray the little one may not take cold."

Babette agreed to all her aunt suggested. Jean was a farmer of the village; well-to-do and good-natured. She knew he would gladly give her a seat in his waggon, which was going next day to "Les Trois Freres," an inn six miles from the village. The coach for Brussels stopped there twice a week, and when once she had taken her place in it, the worst of her journey would be over.

They went to rest early that night, and by eleven next morning the last good-bye had been said. Pretty Babette was seated by the side of Farmer Jean, with her baby boy, wrapped up in numerous shawls, clasped tightly to her, and the great Flemish horses were plodding, slowly but surely, towards "Les Trois Freres".

The day was not as bright as the preceding one. Snow had fallen during the night, and the sky looked heavy, as though there were more to come. Babette shivered, in spite of her long, warm cloak. The roads were freezing hard, but they managed to proceed for a mile or two, and then suddenly there came a sway and a lurch, for one of the horses had slipped and fallen on the snowy road, and the other was trying to free himself from his struggling companion by frantic kicks and plunges.

Farmer Jean had a man with him, and between them they got the poor animal up, while Babette stood in the cold highway, her baby peeping wonderingly from the folds of her cloak.

The horse was bruised and cut about the knees, but otherwise unhurt, so the men resumed their places; Babette climbed back to hers, and the heavy cart went jolting on. The farmer cracked his whip, and whenever the road grew worse he or his man got down and led the horses. In spite of this, their progress grew slower and slower.

"I don't like to say so," said the master, "but we've two more miles to go, and it is past one o'clock now. My girl, if the coach is gone, I'll get you back and drive you in again next time it passes."

But Babette would not hear of this. Not to see Paul by nightfall! Not to be clasped in his arms, she and little Pierre together, in one warm embrace! Not to spend New Year's Day with him! No! she would not think of it. And yet when, more than an hour later, they rolled into the yard of "Les Trois Freres," there was no sign of the Brussels coach. It had started half an hour before. "Les Trois Freres" was a quiet, homely inn, little used excepting when the coach stopped there. Babette, pale and trembling, got down and ran into the bar, where the landlord stood smiling behind a row of bright pewter taps.

"Am I too late for the coach?" she cried. "Has it gone?" And then, when the man told her she was indeed too late, all strength and energy left her, and she sank sobbing on the wooden bench by the door.

There were two other men in the room, who looked at her curiously; she was such a pretty girl, even in the midst of her grief. One was an old pedlar, with his well-filled pack on the floor beside him. He had a pleasant, homely face, and thin, bent figure. The other was a middle-sized, powerful fellow, clean shaven and beetle-browed, and dressed in shabby, ill-fitting garments. It was hard to tell what his rank in life might be. He stared once again at Babette, and then handed his glass to the host to be re-filled. The pedlar was the first to break the silence.



"Cheer up, my lass," he said, kindly; "I too have missed the coach, and I too must reach Brussels to-night. I have two thousand francs in notes and gold in my pocketbook, which are the savings of a lifetime, and I am going to pay them into the bank tomorrow. Then I shall give up my trade and start a little shop."

"I would not talk too much about them in the meantime, friend. In some countries it might be dangerous, but we are honest in Belgium."

It was the other man who spoke, and his voice, though rough, was not unpleasant. He paid the landlord, caught up his stick, and with a curt "Good-day" passed out of "Les Trois Freres."

"He, also, perhaps, is going to Brussels. He means to walk, and if he, why not I?" said the pedlar. He had come in cold and tired, and the landlord's good ale had made him slightly loquacious. "Yes, I shall try and walk. The roads are better walking than driving. It is not so very many miles, and most likely I shall be overtaken by some cart going the same way." And he rose as he spoke.

Babette rose also and caught him eagerly by the hand. "I will walk with you," she cried. "I am strong, well shod, and the fastest walker in our village. We can get to Brussels before dark, in spite of my having my boy to carry. Oh! bless you for thinking of it, for now I shall see Paul before the year is out."

Nor would she be dissuaded. Farmer Jean came in and said something about snow. "The sky was darkening for it already." But Babette was firm. The landlord's buxom wife came forth from an inner room and offered her a lodging for the night, and then, when she could not persuade her, helped her to wrap the baby up afresh, and finally made her place in her pocket a tiny flask of brandy, "in case," she said, "the snow should overtake them."

So they started. Babette had spoken the truth when she called herself a good walker. She was but twenty, and was both slight and active. The pedlar too, in spite of his bent form, got over the ground quickly. They had put four or five good miles between themselves and "Les Trois Freres" when the snow began to fall. It came down steadily in thick, heavy flakes. Babette drew her cloak yet closer round her boy and they plodded on, but walking became more and more difficult, and they grew both weary and cold. Suddenly, by the roadside, several yards ahead, they saw a man's figure. He was coming to meet them, and drew near rapidly, and then they recognised their friend in the shabby brown clothes, who had left the inn so shortly before them.

"I saw you coming," he explained, "so came to meet you. Madame"—with a bow to Babette, polite for one so uncouth looking—"can go no further to-night; the storm will not pass off yet. I live not far from here with my mother and brothers, and if madame likes, we can all take shelter under my humble roof. It is but a poor place, but you will be welcome, and doubtless we can find two spare beds."

They could do nothing but thank him and accept his offer. Even Babette acknowledged that all hope of reaching Brussels was now over. The New Year would have dawned before she and her husband met.

The wind had risen and the snow, half turned to sleet, was now beating furiously into their faces. It was all they could do to keep their feet. They struggled on after their guide as best they could, till he turned out of the high road into a lane; and thankful were they when he stopped, and, pushing open a gate that creaked on rusty hinges, led them up a narrow, gravelled pathway to a small, bare house, flanked on either side by some dreary bushes of evergreens.

In answer to his peremptory knock, the door was opened by a man slighter and shorter than himself, but sufficiently like him to be known as his brother, and the travellers staggered in—the door, with a heavy crash, blowing to behind them.

Perhaps now for the first time it really struck Babette that she had been headstrong in persisting in her journey, and in trusting herself and child to the mercy of utter strangers so far from home. The same thought passed through the old pedlar's mind, but it was too late to retreat, so they silently followed their new host and his brother. They went down a passage and into a room, half kitchen, half parlour, snugly and even comfortably furnished.



Heavy wooden shutters dulled the noise of the boisterous gale outside. A thick red curtain hung over the door, and a cheery log fire burnt in the stove. A man and woman sat over it; the man, a tall, repulsive-looking creature, with unkempt hair and matted beard, his age apparently about fifty. The woman looked seventy or more. She too had once been tall, but now old age gave her a withered, witch-like appearance, in spite of her great height. She was dressed in limp, faded garments, with a tattered shawl crossed over her chest, and had a scared, miserable look in her bleared old eyes. There were a few words of explanation from the man who had come home, and then, in gruff but not unkindly tones, he bade Babette be seated, and told his mother to get some supper speedily. She spread a coarse cloth on the wooden table, and when all was ready, lifted a large black saucepan from the stove and turned out a smoking, savoury-looking stew. The youngest son produced a bottle containing the thin acid wine of the country, and another of spirits. As he set them on the table, Babette noticed that across one of his hands, which were much smaller and whiter than those of his brothers, there ran a dull red scar that looked as if he had had a bad cut there. Then they all sat down, excepting the old mother, who busied herself in waiting on them.

"It's the last good meal you'll get for some time, I'm thinking," she croaked, as she watched them devouring their supper, "unless you turn to and find more work than you've done lately. The landlord called for his rent again to-day and swore he would wait no longer, but turn us out if we did not pay in three days' time."

"Curse him!" muttered the man who had brought the strangers in, half under his breath; then aloud he added, "Shut up, good mother: remember, we have visitors; and one a man of property, who will hardly sympathize with our poverty."

Babette looked up as he spoke, and intercepted a glance so strange and savage that passed between the brothers and then rested on her friend the pedlar, that involuntarily she shuddered and turned pale.

The old man, however, did not appear to notice anything unsatisfactory in the appearance or manners of his hosts. He had eaten to his liking, and had allowed the grim-looking eldest brother to fill his glass again and again with "Genievre" till his face began to flush, and his eyes grew dazed and heavy. Babette felt more and more uneasy. Oh! to be back at "Les Trois Freres" again, or even out in the snowy road! Anything would be better than sitting in this lonely house, with those three forbidding faces glaring on her. She rose hastily and caught up her sleeping child. "I am very tired, good people," she said, timidly, "and I must start betimes in the morning. If I might go to bed now, I should be so thankful."

In answer to her request, the old woman lighted a candle, and Babette followed her upstairs into a small, low chamber. There was no superfluous furniture in it, but the little bed looked clean and inviting, and the curtains that hung in front of the tiny window were made of light, fresh-looking chintz. Facing the bed was a door, leading apparently into another room. Babette wondered if it was the one her friend the pedlar was to occupy, but she was not long left in doubt. The old woman wished her good-night and left her, and Babette, after hushing her boy to sleep again, had just sunk wearily into the one chair the room boasted, when she heard a slow, heavy step ascending, and knew the pedlar was coming to bed. He shut the outer door behind him, and began arranging his pack.

Babette could hear the pedlar moving backwards and forwards with uncertain, tired footsteps. There was no sound below, even the wind was hushed. She drew aside the curtains and looked out, and saw that the snow had ceased to fall, and lay thick and white on the ground.

Then there came a sudden presentiment upon her. A sense of danger, vague and undefined, seemed to surround her. It was all the more terrible on account of its vagueness. She did not know what she feared, yet the terror of something horrible was strong upon her.

She slipped off her boots, and stole gently up to the door that divided her room from the pedlar's.

"Sir," she whispered, "you are very, very tired, and will sleep heavily. I am so anxious, I don't know why; but forgive me and do trust me. Push your pocket-book that contains your money under the door. See—it does not fit tight! We don't know who the people of the house are: they may try to rob you. I will tie it up inside my baby's shawls, and will give it back to you as soon as we are out of this place. Oh, would to God that we had never entered it! Your money will be safe with me, and they will never think of looking for it here. Will you give it me?"

In answer to her pleadings, a shabby little leather book was pushed into her room. As she picked it up and proceeded to hide it securely away beneath the baby's many wrappings, the pedlar said, in a voice rendered hoarse and indistinct by the spirits he had partaken of in such unaccustomed quantities: "Here, my dear, take it. It will, I know, be safe with you. I feel so tired that I don't think a cannon would wake me to-night once I get to sleep." He groped his way to his bed, and flung himself down on it, dressed as he was. Soon Babette heard him snoring loudly and regularly, and then she took off her clothes, and rolling her cloak around her, lay down by the side of her child.

In after years, when she looked on that awful time, she often wondered how, feeling as she did that she was surrounded by so many unknown perils, she had ever closed her eyes. Perhaps the long walk and the excitement she had undergone accounted for the profound sleep into which she fell almost immediately, and from which she was aroused in the dead of night by a noise in the next room. It was neither snore nor cry. It was more like a long, shuddering gurgle, and then—silence! Frightful, terrible silence, broken at last by the sound of stealthy footsteps and hushed voices. Babette sunk down on her pillow again, her baby clutched in her arms. A voiceless prayer went up to Heaven for the child's safety and her own, for already she heard them approaching her door, and made sure her last hour was come. Through nearly closed eyelids she watched two of the men enter; the one who had brought them to the house and his elder brother. They were muttering curses, low but deep.

"To have risked so much for nothing!" whispered one. "Can she have it, or was the old fool jesting with us?"

"It's a jest that has cost him dear," answered the other, as he watched his brother search the girl's clothes and then slip his murderous hands beneath her pillow. He withdrew them empty.

"Shall we settle her?" he asked, "or let her go? Is it not best to be on the safe side?"

But the smooth-shaven one said, decisively: "Let her alone; we have enough to answer for. See, she is sound asleep, and if not, it will be easy to find out before she reaches Brussels how much she knows. Let her be."

Babette lay like a log, stirring neither hand nor foot. In that awful moment, when her life or death was trembling in the balance, her mother love, that divine instinct implanted in every woman's breast, came to her and saved her. She knew that if she moved her baby's life was gone—her own she hardly cared about just then. But those little limbs that were nestling so soft and warm against her own, and that little flaxen head that was cuddled against her arm, for their sake she was brave.



So she lay motionless and listened, fearing that the men would hear even the quick, heavy throbs of her heart. But they did not. They searched quickly and systematically amongst all her clothing. They felt under her pillow again, but never thought of looking at the shawls of the baby who lay so peacefully by her side; and then at last they crept away and closed the door gently behind them.

The room was in utter darkness. For ages, as it seemed, Babette lay there, afraid to stir, and listening vainly for some sound; then she sat up, all white and trembling.

"My God!" she thought. "What awful thing has happened? Oh, give me strength and courage, for my baby's sake."

As an inspiration, there came to her the thought of the little bottle that the good-natured landlady of "Les Trois Freres" had given her. She felt in the pocket of her dress and drew it out, taking a long, deep draught of the fiery spirit. She had been on the verge of fainting, though she knew it not, and the brandy put new life into her. She listened for a long time and then gently—very gently—she crept out of bed and drew aside the little curtain from the window.

Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by a sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible.



As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially lighted up the room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar's chamber, and showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly—slowly from under it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her hand into it, and saw that it was blood—her poor old friend's life-blood—for she knew now beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for the sake of his supposed wealth.

She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible, for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come.

With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar, she nerved herself to get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman kept.

At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads were clean and hard, the sky was blue. If it had not been for that ghastly stain that had crept across the far end of her room, she might almost have thought that the events of the night had been but a fearful dream.

Her child awoke, fresh and smiling, and she could hear them stirring in the living room below. She felt that now, indeed, the hardest part of her task was still before her. On a little table by the side of her bed there was a small, cracked looking-glass. When she was dressed she looked into it and saw that it reflected a face death-like in its pallor, with burning lips and feverish eyes. She took the bottle from her pocket again and gulped down the rest of its contents. It sent a flush into her cheeks and steadied the sick trembling that was shaking her through and through.

Without stopping to think or look round again, she took up her boy and descended the stairs, and entered the room where they had supped on the previous night.

The old woman was its sole occupant now. She was bending over the fire frying something for breakfast, and the table in the centre of the room was prepared for the meal. She looked if possible more untidy and slovenly than when Babette had last seen her, and greeted the girl with a feeble smile.

Then she poured her out a cup of coffee, and Babette had sat down and begun to sip it (for she knew she must make a pretence of breakfasting) when the eldest son came in. There was a very uneasy look upon his evil-looking face.

"How are you?" he asked, sullenly, as he sat down opposite her. "I hope, rested. Did you sleep well?"

Never afterwards did she know how she found courage to answer him as she did, quietly and firmly:—

"Yes, very well, thank you. But my friend—he must have over-slept himself—why is he not down?"

The old woman dropped a plate with a clatter and turned round. The man looked Babette straight in the face as he replied, and she met his glance with one just as steady.

"The pedlar is gone," he said, as he sugared his coffee carefully. "He paid his bill and was off before seven. You will probably see him in Brussels, for he was going there."

"Yes," repeated Babette, "I shall very likely meet him in Brussels, but I don't even know his name. And I, too, good people, ought to be starting. The morning is fine, and walking will be easy." She drank down her coffee as she spoke and rose. "I cannot eat," she exclaimed, seeing that they both looked suspiciously at the thick slice of currant-bread, that lay untouched on her plate. "I think I am excited at the thought of seeing my husband again. It seems so long since we parted, and now we shall meet so soon."

In her own ears her voice sounded far away and unnatural, but they did not seem to notice anything strange in her. The old woman, with a meek "Thank you," took the humble payment she tendered, and they let her go; only the big, burly eldest son stood at the door and watched her as she went slowly down the little pathway and out through the creaking gate into the snowy road. She only looked back once, and then she saw that a dingy signboard hung in front of the house. The picture of what was meant for a cow, and had once been white, was depicted on it, and the words "A la Vache Blanche" were clumsily painted underneath. So the house was an inn, evidently, and as Babette read the words she dimly remembered having heard, long ago, that there was an inn of that name not far from Brussels. It was kept by some people named Marac, whose characters were anything but good, and who had been implicated in several robberies that had taken place some years before, although the utmost efforts of the police had failed to trace any crime directly home to them.

"Oh, heavens! Why did I not see that sign last night?" the girl thought, despairingly, as she trudged along the hard, frosty road. "It would have saved his life and perhaps my reason."

She sped along faster and faster, for the house was now quite out of sight. In the distance the way began to wind up-hill, and a stunted, leafless wood straggled along one side of the highway. Babette was just considering whether going through it would shorten her journey, when a woman, dressed in the ordinary peasant costume of the country, emerged from it and came towards her with quick, firm steps. She was tall and rather masculine looking. The black Flemish cloak she wore hung round her in straight, thick folds. She carried a market basket on one arm; a neat white cloth concealing the eggs and butter that probably lay underneath.

"Good-day," she said, in thick, guttural tones, as she reached Babette. "Are you on the way to Brussels?"

Babette made way for her to pass, somewhat shyly.

"Yes," she said, "and I am in haste; but the roads are heavy and I have my baby to carry."

As she answered, her eyes happened to fall on the stranger's right hand, which was ungloved and clasping the basket. And as she looked her heart seemed suddenly to quiver and stand still, for across that strong right hand there ran a deep red scar, precisely similar to the one she had noticed on the previous night on the hand of the youngest brother at the "Vache Blanche."

It did not take long for the whole horrible truth to flash across her. Doubtless they had felt insecure after their terrible deed, and the youngest Marac had been dispatched after her, disguised as a woman, with instructions to way-lay her by some shorter cut, in order to find out if she was really ignorant of the frightful way in which the pedlar had met his untimely end.

As these thoughts chased each other through her mind, she felt as if her great terror was slowly blanching her face, and her limbs began to tremble till she could hardly drag herself over the ground. But her baby's warm little heart, beating so closely against her own, once more gave her strength. She dropped her eyes so that she might no longer see that awful hand, and tottered on by the new-comer's side, striving to imagine that it was indeed only a harmless peasant woman who was walking by her and trying to remember that every step was bringing her nearer to Brussels and protection. Her companion glanced at her curiously, and Babette shivered, for she fancied she saw suspicion in the look.

"You seem tired." she, or rather he, said, always speaking in the same low, thick tones. "Brussels is barely two miles off, and it is yet early, but perhaps you have not rested well. Where did you sleep?"

Too well did the girl know why that question was asked her, and now that her first sickening horror was over, her brave spirit nerved itself once more.

"I was journeying with a friend yesterday," she replied, "when the snow-storm overtook us. Luckily we met a man whose home lay in our road. He was very good, and took us there and gave us supper and beds."

The stranger laughed.

"A good Samaritan, indeed! And your friend? Where is he now? Did he find his hosts so hospitable that he was unable to tear himself away?"

"No," said Babette, gently, "he started early; before I came down he was far on his road. They were very good to me, and gave me coffee before I left. I am a poor woman, and could do but little to repay them. The two francs I gave them were almost my last."

This speech, uttered in such a soft, even voice—for Babette had schooled herself well by now—seemed to satisfy her companion, and they walked on side by side in silence for what seemed to the poor girl the longest hour she had ever passed.

At last, in the far distance there rose the spires and roofs of Brussels. The chiming of church bells came gaily towards them through the frosty air, and Babette knew that her terrible journey was well-nigh ended. At the entrance of the town the stranger stopped.



"Good-bye," she said, curtly; "I am late for the market, and must sell my eggs quickly or shall not get my price."



She turned down a side street and disappeared, and Babette felt her strength and mind both failing her now that she was out of danger. She staggered weakly into a big, dim church, by the door of which the parting happened to have taken place. Here she sank down in a heavy, death-like swoon in front of one of the side altars, with her baby wailing fretfully at her breast. When she came to herself again she was seated in the sacristy, and her hair and face were wet with the water they had flung over her. By her side stood a black-robed, kindly-faced cure and two or three women, who were trying to force some wine down her throat. By degrees her strength came back, and she raised herself and asked piteously for her child. Then, when he was in her arms, she told her story.

Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers' countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby's shawls and handed the shabby pocket-book to the priest that they were quite certain they had not to deal with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the money had been looked at and replaced, then, indeed, they saw the necessity for prompt action. The cure caught up his hat, and, after whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of the sacristy.

"He is gone to the police," said one. "Poor child"—laying her hand caressingly on the girl's damp hair—"what hast thou not passed through! Mercifully the mass was not over, so we found thee at once. Lie still and rest. Give me but thy husband's name and address, and in one little half-hour he shall be by thy side."

And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the police and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of Paul's broad arms, she felt safe at last. She went peacefully home with her husband, and after a good night's rest in the little rooms he had taken for her, she was able to listen calmly when told next day of the capture of the whole Marac family. They had been taken red-handed in their guilt, for had not the pedlar's body been found in a disused cellar under their house?

He was brought to Brussels to be buried, but his name was never known, and his money was never claimed. Probably, as he had told Babette, he had been a friendless old man, wandering alone from place to place.

The police were generous. Half his money was given to the poor and the rest was handed to Babette, and helped to furnish her new home. A simple stone cross now marks the unknown pedlar's grave: but flowers bloom there abundantly, and though nameless, he is not forgotten. Many a prayer is uttered for him both by Babette and her children, for the memory of that terrible New Year's Eve will never fade from her mind.

* * * * *



Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark.

BY E. H. PITCAIRN.



With a heartfelt pang, hundreds read in an evening paper on October 20th of the serious illness of Sir Andrew Clark, so truly spoken of by George Eliot as "the beloved physician." Only the previous day he had presided at the Annual Harveian Oration as President of the College of Physicians.

He had more than one warning by severe attacks of illness, and by the recurrence of very painful symptoms, that he was over-taxing his strength, but they were unheeded. A patient once told him he had a horror of having a fit. "Put it away," said Sir Andrew; "I always do." There was only one person to whose fatigue and exhaustion he was indifferent that was himself.

It is said that he always hoped to die in his carriage or consulting-room, and it was in the latter, while talking with a lady (the Hon. Miss Boscawen) about some charity, that he was seized with the illness which ended so fatally. In his case it is no morbid curiosity which makes thousands interested in every detail concerning him.

On one day as many as six hundred people, several of whom were quite poor patients, called to ask how he was, and daily inquiries from all parts, including the Royal Family were a proof how much he was respected. Very peacefully, on Monday, November 6th, about five o'clock, he passed away, and on the following Saturday, after a service at Westminster Abbey, he was buried at Essendon, near Camfield, the property he had so lately bought and where he spent his last holiday. The world has already been told how the English nation showed their respect for the President of the College of Physicians, and in him the profession he so dearly loved was honoured.

What was the reason of this demonstration of respect? Because individuals seem to have felt a sense of irreparable loss. Very many have the idea that there are few others with his gifts who would respond in the same way to their demand for sympathy and help; for Sir Andrew's interest in each patient was real. There was an attractive force about him, difficult to describe, and which only those who knew him could understand, for he was nothing if not original. It is impossible in this brief sketch to give an adequate portrait of a great personality and to tell the story of his life's work. I shall but try to mention some of his distinctive qualities and characteristics, illustrated by a few facts. Two or three real incidents sometimes give a better idea of a man's character than pages of generalities.



Sir Andrew was born at Aberdeen in October, 1826. His father died when he was seven years old, and his mother at his birth. To the end of his life he regretted never having known a mother's love. His childhood, spent with two uncles, does not seem to have been very happy, and he had no brother or sister. He was educated at Aberdeen and Edinburgh, and at the former place took his degree.

As a young man he gained first medals in anatomy, physiology, chemistry, botany, materia medica, surgery, pathology, and practice of physic.

At twenty-two, in very delicate health, he entered the Royal Navy as assistant-surgeon, and was appointed to the hospital at Haslar. His subsequent medical career is pretty generally known. He obtained almost every possible honour, culminating in the Presidency of the College of Physicians for the lengthy term of six years.

Sir Andrew was devoted to the College. He made an excellent President, and a dignified, courteous, and just chairman. His successor will find it no easy task to fill his place.

He took an intense interest in all that concerned the welfare of the College, and gave many proofs of his affection, one of the last being a donation of L500 last year towards its redecoration. Not a great many laymen know the College by sight. It is a corner building in Trafalgar Square, the entrance facing Whitcomb Street. The meetings of the Fellows are held in the magnificent library, lined with 60,000 volumes, chiefly classics. Opening out of the library is the Censors' room, panelled with old oak, and hung with portraits of former Presidents, chiefly by old masters. At an examination the President sits at the end of the table with his back to the fireplace, the Registrar (Dr. Liveing) opposite, and the Censors on either side. In front of the President is a cushion with the Caduceus, the Mace, and the Golden Cane. It was in the library that Sir Andrew presided at the Harveian Oration the day before he was taken ill.

Sir Andrew could not be judged of by the surface. As Sir Joseph Phayres truly says: "I have known him intimately, and the more I knew him the more I respected and admired him." Those who knew him best loved him best. One has only to read how one leading man after another writes of him with enthusiastic appreciation (in the Medical Journal) to learn what his colleagues thought of his medical skill and personal character.

A bishop recently spoke of him as the truthful doctor: and a young girl, who from a small child had stayed with him, told me he would always correct himself if he had told an anecdote the least inaccurately; and one day this summer when walking round their garden with him she said the caterpillars had eaten all their gooseberry trees; "I mean the gooseberry leaves," she added. Sir Andrew immediately said, "I am glad you are particular to say what is exactly true"; but, she added, there was always something to remember in everything he said. With regard to another point, a clergyman who knew Sir Andrew very intimately once told me that "No man of this century had a more keenly religious mind; he was so saturated with thoughts of God and so convinced that God had spoken to man. He was intensely religious, with a profound sense of the supernatural; he certainly was a great example to very busy men in the way he always managed to find time for church, and even when called away to a distance he would, if possible, go to a church near where he happened to be." In addition to these qualities, he was very just, sympathetic, and generous.



I have come across many friends who knew him well, and it is interesting to note that the same cardinal points seem to have struck everyone as the key-notes of his life. In almost identical words each one speaks of his strong faith, his strict veracity, and his intense devotion to duty. One of his old friends said to me the other day: "Nothing would tempt Clark away from what he thought right; his conscientiousness was unbounded."

His love of metaphysics, combined with a very high motive, made him naturally interested in the whole man—body, mind, and spirit. To quote the words of a well-known bishop: "It was his intrepid honesty which was so valuable a quality. In Sir Andrew Clark men felt that he wished to do them good, and to do them the best good, by making men of them."



The bishop told me a characteristic anecdote illustrating this: "A clergyman complained to him of feeling low and depressed, unable to face his work, and tempted to rely on stimulants. Sir Andrew saw that the position was a perilous one, and that it was a crisis in the man's life. He dealt with the case, and forbade resort to stimulants, when the patient declared that he would be unequal to his work and ready to sink. 'Then,' said Sir Andrew, 'sink like a man!'" This is but one of many incidents showing his marvellous power in restraining his patients and raising them to a higher moral level. The writer could tell a far more wonderful story of the saving of a drunkard, body and soul, but it is too touching and sacred for publication. At the top of the wall of that well-known consulting-room (in which Sir Andrew is said to have seen 10,000 patients annually), immediately facing the chair where he always sat, are the words: "Glory to God."



With regard to his profession he was an enthusiast. He termed medicine "the metropolis of the kingdom of knowledge," and in one of his addresses to students, said: "You have chosen one of the noblest, the most important, and the most interesting of professions, but also the most arduous and the most self-denying, involving the largest sacrifices and the fewest rewards. He who is not prepared to find in its cultivation and exercise his chief recompense, has mistaken his calling and should retrace his steps."

He had an ideal, and he did his utmost to live up to it. His words in many instances did as much good as his medicine.

To explain what I mean I cannot do better than quote part of a letter received since Sir Andrew's death, from a delicate, hardworking clergyman, whom I have known some years. After speaking of Sir Andrew's painstaking kindness, "never seeming the least hurried," he says: "He had a wonderful way of inspiring one with confidence and readiness to face one's troubles. I remember his saying once, 'It is wonderful how we get accustomed to our troubles,' and at another time, while encouraging me to go on with work—reading for Orders: 'If one is to die, it is better to die doing something, than doing nothing.' I have often found that a help when feeling done-up and useless. In the old days when people used to go and see him without an appointment, I have often sat for hours in his dining-room, feeling so ill that I felt as if I should die before I saw him, but after having seen him I felt as if I had got a new lease of life. I was not at all hypochondriacal or fanciful, I think, but that was the moral effect of an interview with him. I believe he revolutionized the treatment of cases like mine, and that he, to a certain extent, experimented on me; at any rate, he treated me on philosophical principles, and told me often" (he went to him for twenty years) "that I had become much stronger than he had expected. He said to me several times: 'You are a wonderful man; you have saved many lives.'"



This my correspondent understood to mean the experiments had been successful.

"He once said that if I had died at that time, there was not a doctor in London would have approved of his treatment. He gave a description of my case some years ago, in a lecture I think at Brighton—but of course without the name. The particular weakness was valvular disease of the heart, the consequence of rheumatic fever, and this treatment was founded on the principle that Nature always works towards compensation. He told me many years ago that that particular mischief was fully compensated for."



He loved his work and never tired of it. He often told the story how his first serious case, and encouraging cure, was himself. With severe hemorrhage of the lungs, he was told it would be at the risk of his life if he went on with his studies. A doctor, however, he made up his mind he would be, and that he would begin by making every effort to cure himself. With characteristic determination, he persisted in a strict regimen of diet and fresh air. "I determined," said Sir Andrew, "as far as my studies would allow me—for I never intended to give them up—to live in the fresh air, often studying out of doors; and in a short time I was so much better that I was able to take gentle exercise. I got well, and I may almost say I got over the trouble which threatened me." The lungs were healed, and a result which seemed inevitable avoided. He would often say he obtained his first appointment at the London Hospital chiefly out of pity, the authorities thinking he would not live six months, but he outlived almost every one of them.



No man could have kept on for fourteen and sixteen hours a day, as Sir Andrew did, without unbounded enthusiasm and an absorbing interest.

His enormous correspondence must have been the great tax. Most people are disinclined to write a dozen letters at the end of a hard day's work; but Sir Andrew often came home at eight o'clock with the knowledge that letters would occupy him until after midnight. His letters averaged sixty per day. These would be answered by return, except where minute directions were inclosed.

Only the other day, a friend of his told me, Sir Andrew came in the morning, a short time before he was taken ill, looking very tired and worried. On being asked the reason, he said he had not slept all night, for he went to see a patient three days before, and because he had not sent the table of directions, the patient wrote saying he would not try his treatment. "I never slept," said Sir Andrew, "thinking of the state of mind to which I had unavoidably reduced that poor patient."

In order to get through his work he had a light breakfast at 7.30, when he read his letters, which were opened for him. From eight until two or three he saw patients, his simple luncheon being taken in the consulting-room. He would then go to the hospital, College of Physicians, or some consultation; he had often after that to go to see someone at a distance, but he never worried a patient by seeming in a hurry, however much pressed for time.

He had a very strong sense of responsibility, and would never rest himself by staying the night if it were unnecessary. A rich patient in Devonshire once offered him a large sum to stay until the next morning. "I could do you no good," said Sir Andrew, "and my patients will want me to-morrow." Among his patients were almost all the great authors, philosophers, and intellectual men of the day. Longfellow, Tennyson, Huxley, Cardinal Manning, and numerous others were his warm friends. He always declared he caught many a cold in the ascetic Cardinal's "cold house." An old pupil truly says Sir Andrew had the rare faculty of surveying the conditions and circumstances of each one, gathering them up, and clearly seeing what was best to do. Professor Sheridan Delapine says: "He was specially fond of quoting Sydenham's words: 'Tota ars medici est in observationibus.'"

After asking what was amiss and questioning them on what they told him, he would say: "Give me a plan of your day. What is your work? When do you take your meals? Of what do they consist? What time do you get up, and when do you go to bed?" Notwithstanding the keenness of his eye and natural intuition, which found out instantly far more than was told, he not only eagerly and attentively listened, but remembered what his patient said. Sir Henry Roscoe gave me a striking instance of this, and I cannot do better than quote his exact words:—

"I first made Sir Andrew's acquaintance about twenty years ago at Braemar, where he was spending the autumn, and, as was his kindly wont, had with him a young Manchester man, far gone in consumption, to whom he acted as friend, counsellor, and physician. In our frequent walks and talks, I confided in the eminent doctor that I had suffered from that frequent plague of sedentary men, the gout. 'Come and see me any morning in Cavendish Square before eight,' said he, 'and I will do what I can for you.' Many years slipped by; living then in Manchester, I never took advantage of the kind offer, and I never saw Sir Andrew until some eight years afterwards. I was calling on my old friend, Sir Joseph Whitworth, who at that time had rooms in Great George Street. As I came quickly out of the front door, Clark's carriage drove up, and almost before it stopped the Doctor 'bounced' out and we nearly ran against each other. In one 'instant-minute,' as our American friends say, he accosted me: 'Well! How's the gout?' He had no more idea of meeting me at that moment than of meeting the man in the moon, and yet, no sooner had he seen my face—which he had not looked upon for eight years—than the whole 'case' flashed upon him. Since that time I have often seen him, and I shall always retain not only a high opinion of his great gifts, but also an affectionate remembrance of his great-heartedness."

Literary people and brain-workers particularly interested him, and they found in the kind doctor a friend who understood them. He would advise all writing that involved thought to be done in the morning before luncheon. The evening might be spent in "taking in" or reading up the subject of a book or paper, but there must be no giving out. For brain-workers who were not strong, he insisted on meat in the middle of the day; he declared that for this class it was "physiologically wicked" even to have luncheon without.

To one who spoke of fatigue after a comparatively short walk, he replied: "Walk little, then. Many who work their brain are not up to much exercise. I hardly ever walk a mile myself; but that need not prevent men having plenty of fresh air."



Some people laugh at his rules for diet, etc., forgetting that these simple directions are based on deep knowledge of the human frame. Let them laugh. Many who have tried them know they have been different people in consequence. His incisive words—"My friend, you eat too much!" "My friend, you drink too much!" would not he appreciated by all; but Sir Andrew thought nearly all diseases were the outcome of the constant and apparently unimportant violation of the laws of health. Those who were hopelessly ill would always hear the truth from him, but he would leave no stone unturned to lessen their suffering. Many an incurable patient has he sent to a home from the London Hospital, and visited them afterwards. Only the other day I heard of patients he had sent to St. Elizabeth's, Great Ormond Street, where incurable patients are nursed and cared for until they die, and never left the hospital without leaving a guinea with one of the nuns. Sir Andrew had no stereotyped plan. It was not merely the disease, but the individual he treated. A friend told me he saved her aunt's life. She could not sleep, and Sir Andrew ordered them to give her breakfast at five, "for after tossing about all night she might sleep after having some food," and so it proved.



To others who might get well, he would say: "Fight for your life."

Twelve years ago a lady (whom I met lately) had hemorrhage of the lungs three times. She was told by seven doctors in the country that she "had not a week to live." She had young children, and determined to make a great effort to see Sir Andrew Clark. He prophesied she would get well, providing she at once left the damp climate where she was then living and made her permanent home at Malvern. A week after she had taken his remedies she walked up the Wrekin. From that day she saw Sir Andrew once every year, and looks upon herself as a monument of his skill.

"Die to live," was a favourite saying of Sir Andrew's. "In congenial work you will find life, strength, and happiness." This certainly was his own experience. Only in July last he said to the writer of this notice: "I never know what it is to feel well now, but work is the joy of my life."

He could, however, place strict limits as to how much a patient might work. It is well known how docile and obedient a patient he had in Mr. Gladstone. One evening, coming downstairs muffled up to avoid a worse cold, he was met by Sir Andrew with the greeting, "Where are you going?" "To the House," said Mr. Gladstone. "No, you are not," replied his friend; "you are going straight to bed!" and to bed he went. Sir Andrew also limited the time Mr. Gladstone should speak. On one occasion, however, notwithstanding the fact that the peremptory adviser was present, watch in hand, Mr. Gladstone, after throwing down the written speech as the clock struck, went on for another half-hour![A] This disobedience was the exception which proved the rule.

[A] The substance of this anecdote which I quote from memory, appeared in the Daily News, and happened at Newcastle.

Mr. Gladstone was a friend for whom Sir Andrew had the highest respect and veneration, and hardly ever passed a day without going to see him. Shortly before he was taken ill he said: "For twenty years I have never heard Gladstone say an unkind or vituperative word of anyone."



With respect to fees, he always took what was offered: sometimes he would receive L500 for a long journey, sometimes two guineas. The following is no doubt but one of many similar experiences. After a hard day's work he was urgently summoned to a place 120 miles from London. It was a very wet night. There was no carriage to meet him; no fly to be had. After walking a mile or two he arrived at a small farm, and found the daughter suffering from an attack of hysteria. Sir Andrew, with his usual kindness, did what he could and evidently gave satisfaction, for when he left the mother said: "Well, Sir Andrew, you have been so kind we must make it double," and handed him two guineas. He thanked them and said: "Good-bye."

Sir Andrew would never hear of charging more than his usual fee because a person happened to be very rich. In a word, he was honest. On one occasion when going to see a patient in the south, the doctor who was to meet him in consultation met Sir Andrew at the station, told him they were rich, and quite prepared to pay a very high fee. But Sir Andrew replied: "I did not come from London," and naming the place where he was staying, said, "My fee is only a third of the sum you name." Sir Andrew was not indifferent to fees; on the contrary, he rather took a pride in telling how much he earned. He is said to have once received L5,000 for going to Cannes, the largest medical fee known. Some, however, have wondered who did pay him—so numerous were his non-paying patients. From Anglican and Roman Catholic clergy, sisters, nuns, and all engaged in any charitable work (unless rich men) he would never consent to receive a fee, at the same time making it felt that unwillingness to accept his advice "would deprive him of a pleasure"; and it was felt that this was literally true, and if anything the patients whom he saw "as a friend" were shown more consideration than others. "Come and see me next week," he said to one who demurred to the necessity for going again, knowing he would not accept a fee, "and I will arrange that you shall not be kept waiting."



The present Lord Tennyson writes: "We are among the many who are much indebted to Sir Andrew Clark. It was in a great measure owing to him that my father recovered from his dangerous attack of gout in 1888, when 'he was as near death as a man could be.' After this illness Sir Andrew paid us a visit, at Aldworth, in the summer of 1889. He told us that he had come in spite of a summons from the Shah, to which he had replied that the Shah's Hakim could not obey, as he had promised to visit his old friend—the old Poet. Sir Andrew added: 'This disobedience of your humble and devoted physician for the sake of his friend, the crowned King of Song, struck the crowned King of Kings so much that, so far from being offended, he took a noble view, and, as a mark of signal honour, sent me the Star of the Second Class of the Lion and Sun of Persia.'"



Sundays were often spent out of town, at Hawarden and elsewhere, and latterly at Camfield, the house so lately purchased. Both this and his town house were entirely furnished, as he wished each to be complete in itself.

Already at Essendon the example of his life was felt to be a power for good, as well as the kind interest he took in his poorer neighbours, inviting them up to his house, promising to give the men a dinner at Christmas, etc. Yet Sir Andrew was no "country gentleman"; his favourite recreation was books. On being asked: "Which way are we looking? In which direction is London?" he replied: "I don't know." "Don't you know how the house stands, or what soil it is built upon?" and again he had to plead ignorance.

Nevertheless, his love of neatness made him notice if a place was in good order. One day, driving over to see some neighbours, after congratulating them on the well-kept garden, he was getting into the carriage, when he suddenly remembered he had not told the gardener how much pleased he was with the whole place, and with his usual courtesy insisted on going back to find him.

One of Sir Andrew's holidays was a trip to Canada, when he accompanied the Marquis of Lorne and Princess Louise, on the former being appointed Governor-General there. This he did as a friend, and in no way in a medical capacity. He was most popular on the voyage out among the passengers, keeping the ship alive with jokes and amusing stories, and many called him "Merry Andrew." He was almost boyish in his keen enjoyment of a holiday. He was evidently devoted to music, and was delighted with the beautiful string band the Duke of Edinburgh brought on board at Halifax. In Canada, Sir Andrew was most warmly received and universally liked by everyone. Amongst others he made the acquaintance of Sir John Macdonald.

The Princess told me without doubt there was one predominating interest in his mind, and that the supernatural—whether at a British Association meeting, the College of Physicians, or speaking privately to his own friends. He realized the impossibility of explaining by scientific methods the supernatural. He would often say: "There is more in Heaven and earth than this world dreams of. Given the most perfect scientific methods, you will find beyond abysses which you are powerless to explore."

He had the greatest charm of mind, and, needless to say, was a delightful companion. His topics of conversation were extremely varied: he liked dialectics for talk and argument's sake, and enjoyed talking to those who had somewhat the same taste. Possibly for this reason he did not fully appreciate children, although they amused him, and he liked to understand their ideas. A friend of Sir Andrew's staying with him at the time told me the following characteristic anecdote: One afternoon during his autumn holiday in Scotland the footman came in to put coals on the fire, and a child (a relation) coughed vehemently. "Why do you cough so much?" said Sir Andrew. "To make James look at me," said the child. Sir Andrew was "solemnly interested," and afterwards took it as a parable of a woman's nature, which, speaking generally, he considered morally and ethically inferior to a man's. In his opinion very many women were wanting in the two great qualities—justice and truth—considering their own, their children's, or their husband's interests first rather than what was absolutely right.

One subject that interested him very much was heredity, and he had, of course, countless opportunities of studying it. "Temperance and morality," he would say, "are most distinctly transmitted, especially by the mother; but," said Sir Andrew, "in spite of heredity, I am what I am by my own choice."

Sir Andrew was a great reader. Metaphysics, philosophy, and theology were his favourite subjects, especially the latter—he also occasionally read a good novel. Reading was his only relaxation, for it was one he could enjoy while driving or in the train. Dr. Russell, who was with him when going to attend the tercentenary of Dublin College, tells the story how Sir Andrew not only read but wrote hour after hour in the railway carriage, and, in addition, listened to the conversation. Dr. Russell Reynolds, Sir James Paget, Sir Dyce Duckworth, and Sir R. Quain were of the party, and the two latter joined Dr. Russell in remarking with him that it would ruin his eyesight. "I am using my eyes, not abusing them," replied Sir Andrew; "you cannot injure any organ by the exercise of it, but by the excess of exercise of it. I would not do it were I not accustomed to read and write without the smallest amount of mischief."

I much regret that lack of space prevents my describing the London Hospital as I should like. Of most hospitals Sir Andrew was a governor, but his great interest was the London, of which he and Lady Clark were both life governors.

While Sir Andrew was visiting physician he came regularly twice a week, as well as for consultation. He was interested in everything that concerned the patients, and always had a kind word for the nurses. One nurse in the Charlotte Ward (Sir Andrew Clark's) said he used literally to shovel out half-crowns at Christmas when he asked what the patients were going to do. Everyone speaks Of the pecuniary sacrifice and strain his connection with the hospital involved. He endowed a medical tutorship, also scholarships for students. Students, nurses, etc., would eagerly listen to his informal expositions in the wards, as he invariably showed a grasp of the subject that was equally minute and comprehensive. "He would start from some particular point and work his way point by point down to the minutest detail, not bewildering by a multiplicity of facts, but keeping them all in order with perfect handling, until the framing of the whole thing stood out luminously clear to the dullest comprehension. An old pupil says his well-known authoritative manner was the result of a profound and laboriously acquired knowledge of his art, acquired by years of careful work in hospital wards and post-mortem rooms."—Medical Journal.



Happily there are two portraits of Sir Andrew. The last beautifully painted picture by Mr. Watts (which by the great kindness of the artist is allowed to be reproduced in this sketch) was only finished a few days before Sir Andrew was taken ill—for he could only sit from eight till nine a.m. It is one of the series Mr. Watts is so generously giving to the nation, and he "thinks it one of his best." Sir Andrew himself was delighted with it, saying in his hearty way to Mrs. Watts: "Why, it thinks!" The position in the picture by Frank Holl is unfortunate.

Very imperfectly I have described the varied work of a man of limitless energy, with an exceptionally keen appreciation of men and things. A great man has passed away, and we are poorer in consequence.

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Beauties:—Children.



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The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with Portraits).

FROM 1825 TO 1870.

(Born 7th February, 1812; died 9th June, 1870.)

BY J. HOLT SCHOOLING.

"Everybody knows what Dickens's signature is like"—says the reader who bases acquaintance with it upon the familiar, gold-impressed facsimile on the well-known red covers of his works—"a free, dashing signature, with an extensive and well-graduated flourish underneath." (No. 1.)

Aye! But have you ever seen an original Dickens-letter? Have you ever handled, not one, but hundreds of his documents—letters, franked envelopes, cheques signed by Dickens, cheques indorsed by him, legal agreements bearing his signature, and the original MSS. of his works? Owing to the kindness of owners and guardians of Dickens-letters, etc. I have been able to supplement the materials in my own collection by numerous facsimiles taken direct from a priceless store of Dickens-MSS. Here are some of the specimens. We will glance over them, and in doing so will view them, not merely as signatures, but also as permanently-recorded tracings of Dickens's nerve muscular action—of his gesture. The expressive play of his facial muscles has gone, the varying inflections of voice have gone, but we still possess the self-registered and characteristic tracings of Charles Dickens's hand-gesture.