In No. 1 we have the signature of Dickens as he wrote it when aged forty-five to fifty; in No. 2 there is the boy's signature at the age of thirteen, written to a school-fellow. This youthful signature shows the existence in embryo form of the "flourish" so commonly associated with Dickens's signature. It is interesting to note that the receiver of this early letter has stated that its schoolboy writer had "more than usual flow of spirits, held his head more erect than lads ordinarily do," and that "there was a general smartness about him." We shall perhaps see that the direct emphasis of so many of Charles Dickens's signatures which is given by his "flourish" may be fitly associated with certain characteristics of the man himself. We may also note that high spirits and vigorous nervous energy are productive of redundant nerve-muscular activity in any direction—hand gesture included.



Let us look at some other early signatures. Hitherto they have been stowed away in various collections, and they are almost unknown.



The next facsimile, No. 3, is remarkable as being almost the only full signature out of hundreds I have seen which lacks the flourish; this specimen is also worth notice, owing to the "droop" of every word below the horizontal level from which each starts—a little piece of nerve-muscular evidence of mental or physical depression, which may be tested by anyone who cares to examine his own handwriting produced under conditions which diminish bodily vigour or mental elan.



The writing of No. 4 is very like that of No. 3; the easy curves below the signature are cleverly made, and while they indicate much energy, they also point to a useful confidence in self, owing to the deliberate way of accentuating the most personal part of a letter—its signature.



No. 5 is the facsimile of a signature to a letter which was written in the Library of the British Museum to "My dear Knolle"; the letter ends: "Believe me (in haste), yours most truly." At this time—1832—Dickens was a newspaper reporter, and it is curious to notice that in spite of "haste" he yet managed to execute this complex movement underneath the signature. Its force and energy are great, but we shall see even more pronounced developments of this flourish before it takes the moderated and graceful form of confident and assured power.



There is still more force and "go" about No. 6: it was written on "Wednesday night, past 12," and also in haste. Dickens was reporting for the Morning Chronicle, and was just starting on a journey, but yet there are here two separate flourishes; one begins under the s of Charles and ends under the C of that name; the other starts under the capital D and finishes below the n of Dickens.



The intricacy of the next facsimile, No. 7, is an ugly but a very active piece of movement. This group of curves is equal to about a two-feet length of pen-stroke, a fact which indicates an extraordinary amount of personal energy. Dickens was then writing his "Sketches by Boz," and this ungraceful elaboration of his signature was probably accompanied by a growing sense of his own capacity and power. During the time-interval between the signatures shown in Nos. 7 and 8, the first number of the "Pickwick Papers" was published—March, 1836—and Charles Dickens married Catherine Hogarth on the 2nd of April in that year. The original of a very different facsimile (No. 9) was written as a receipt in the account-book of Messrs. Chapman and Hall for an advance of L5.



The six facsimiles numbered 9 to 15 deserve special notice. The originals were all written in the year 1837, and I have purposely shown them because their extraordinary variations entirely negative the popular idea about the uniformity of Dickens's handwriting, and because these mobile hand-gestures are a striking illustration of the mobility and great sensibility to impressions which were prominent features in Charles Dickens's nature.



Common observation show us that a man whose mind is specially receptive of impressions from persons and things around him, and whose sensibility is very quick, can scarcely fail to show much variation in his own forms of outward expression—such, for example, as facial "play," voice-inflections, hand-gestures, and so on. Notice the originality in the position of the flourishes shown in No. 9, and compare the ungraceful movement of it with the much more dignified and pleasing flourishes in some of the later signatures. A whimsical originality of mind comes out also in the curious "B" of "Boz" (No. 10).



The next pair—Nos. 11 and 12—are interesting. No. 11 shows the signature squeezed in at the bottom of a page; the flourish was attempted, and accompanied by the words: "No room for the flouish," the r of flourish being omitted. No. 12 was written on the envelope of the same letter.



No. 13 is a copy of a very famous signature: the original is on a great parchment called "Deed of License Assignment and Covenants respecting a Work called 'The Pickwick Papers,'" and which, after a preamble, contains the words: "Whereas the said Charles Dickens is the Author of a Book or Work intituled 'The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club,' which has been recently printed and published in twenty parts or numbers," etc. It is probable that the fact of the seal being placed between Charles and Dickens prevented the flourish which almost invariably accompanied his signatures on business documents; the marked enlargement of this signature takes the place of the flourish, and shows an unconscious emphasis of the ego. It would be almost unreasonable for us to expect that so impressionable a man, who was also feeling his power and fame, could abstain from showing outward signs of his own consciousness of abnormal success. Yet, in the private letters of Dickens, the simple "C. D." is very frequent; a few examples of it are given in this article, and their present number in no way represents the numerical relation of these simple signatures to the more "showy" ones. It may at once be said that this point of difference is alike interesting to the student of gesture and to the student of Dickens's character. He was certainly a very able man of business, and the wording of his "business" letters fully bears out the idea conveyed by his "business" signature—so to speak—that Dickens was fully aware of his own powers, and that, quite fairly, he did not omit to impress the fact upon other people when he thought fit. Both the wording and the signature of many of his private letters are simple and unostentatious to a high degree. This curious fact, which is now illustrated by Charles Dickens's own hand-gesture, ought to be remembered when people talk about Dickens's "conceit" and "love of show." My explanation is, I think, both logical and true.



No. 14 closes this series for the year 1837. It shows a quaint and pretty signature on a wrapper.



No. 15 shows part of a very humorous and famous letter announcing the death of the raven which figures in "Barnaby Rudge." Notice the curious originality of form shown in the capital Y and R. The wording of this letter is also quaintly original, and the sensitive mind of this man again caused his nerve-muscular action—his gesture—to harmonize with his mood. Points of this kind, which the handwriting of Dickens illustrates so well, have a deeper meaning for the observant than for the casual reader of a magazine article; they indicate that these little human acts, which have been so long overlooked by intelligent men, do really give us valuable data for the study of mind by means of written-gesture.



In No. 16 we see another and very original form of the "Boz" signature. No. 17 has a curious stroke of activity above the signature. No. 18 is a fine, strong signature.



No. 19 is remarkably vigorous and active. The well-controlled activity and energy of the signatures are now strongly marked. No. 20 explains itself; the curious P of Pass is worth notice.



No. 21 is a stray illustration of clever and gracefully-executed movements which abound in Dickens's letters.



See, in No. 22, how illness disturbed the fine action of this splendid organism; but illness did not prevent attention to detail—the dot is placed after the D.



When on a reading tour, Dickens wrote at Bideford the letter from which No. 23 has been copied. After writing that he could get nothing to eat or drink at the small inn, he wrote the sentence facsimiled. The exaggeration of the words is matched by the use of two capital T's in place of two small t's. The letter continues: "The landlady is playing cribbage with the landlord in the next room (behind a thin partition), and they seem quite comfortable." No. 24 is another instance of the variation which, in fact, obtained up to the very day before death. No. 25 was written at Berwick-on-Tweed; it is an amusing letter, and states how the local agents wanted to put the famous reader into "a little lofty crow's nest," and how "I instantly struck, of course, and said I would either read in a room attached to this house ... or not at all. Terrified local agents glowered, but fell prostrate." By the way, notice, in No. 25, the emphasis of gesture on the me.



No. 26 is written in one continuous stroke with a noticeably good management of the curves. The graceful imagination of this is very striking.



No. 27 shows the endorsement on a cheque.



But we near the end. Doctors had detected the signs of breaking up, which are not less plain in the written gesture, and had strenuously urged Dickens to stop the incessant strain caused by his public readings. The stimulus of facing an appreciative audience would spur him on time after time, and then, late at night, he would write affectionate letters giving details of "the house," etc., but which are painful to see if one notices the constant droop of the words and of the lines across the page. Contrast the writing in No. 28, broken and agitated, with some of the earlier specimens I have shown you. This was written three days before death. The wording of the letter from which No. 29 has been copied tells no tale of weakness, but the gesture which clothes the words is tell-tale. The words, and the lines of words, run downward across the paper, and No. 29 is very suggestive of serious trouble—and it is specially suggestive to those who have studied this form of gesture: look, for example, at the ill-managed flourish.



Now comes a facsimile taken from the last letter written by Charles Dickens. It has been given elsewhere, but, not satisfied with the facsimile I saw, I obtained permission to take this direct from the letter in the British Museum. This was written an hour or so before the fatal seizure. Every word droops below the level from which each starts, each line of writing descends across the page, the simple C. D. is very shaky, and the whole letter is broken and weak. Charles Dickens was not "ready" at "3 o'clock"—he died at ten minutes past six p.m. And so ends this too scanty notice of a great man's written-gesture.

* * * * *

NOTE:—Considerations of space and of the avoidance of technicalities have prevented a really full account of the written gesture of Charles Dickens; scanty as the foregoing account is, the illustrations it contains could not have been supplied by any one collector of Charles Dickens's letters. I express my sincere gratitude to the many persons who have enabled me to give these illustrations, and only regret that one collector refused my request for the loan of some very early and interesting letters.

J.H.S.

* * * * *



The Mirror.

By George Japy.



It has always been said that the Japanese are the French of the Orient. Be that as it may, it is very clear that in certain traits which characterize the French, there is no resemblance whatever between the people of those two nations.

Almost as soon as a French baby (a girl, be it understood) is born, its first instinct is to stretch out its tiny hands for a mirror, in which to admire its beautiful little face and its graceful movements. This natural, and we may say inborn, taste grows with the child's growth, and ere the fair girl has reached her seventeenth year, her ideal of perfect bliss is to find herself in a room with mirrors on every side. There is indeed a room in the Palace of Versailles which is the elysium of the Frenchwoman. It is a long room with looking-glasses from ceiling to floor, and the said floor is polished so that it reflects, at any rate, the shadow of the feet.

Now, in the little Japanese village of Yowcuski a looking-glass was an unheard-of thing, and girls did not even know what they looked like, except on hearing the description which their lovers gave them of their personal beauty (which description, by-the-bye, was sometimes slightly biased, according as the lover was more or less devoted).



Now it happened that a young Japanese, whose daily work was to pull along those light carriages such as were seen at the last Paris Exhibition, picked up one day in the street a small pocket hand-mirror, probably dropped by some English lady-tourist on her travels in that part of the world.

It was, of course, the first time in his life that Kiki-Tsum had ever gazed on such a thing. He looked carefully at it, and to his intense astonishment saw the image of a brown face, with dark, intelligent eyes, and a look of awestruck wonderment expressed on its features.

Kiki-Tsum dropped on his knees, and gazing earnestly at the object he held in his hand, he whispered, "It is my sainted father. How could his portrait have come here? Is it, perhaps, a warning of some kind for me?"

He carefully folded the precious treasure up in his handkerchief, and put it in the large pocket of his loose blouse. When he went home that night he hid it away carefully in a vase which was scarcely ever touched, as he did not know of any safer place in which to deposit it. He said nothing of the adventure to his young wife, for, as he said to himself "Women are curious, and then, too, sometimes they are given to talking," and Kiki-Tsum felt that it was too reverent a matter to be discussed by neighbours, this finding of his dead father's portrait in the street.

For some days Kiki-Tsum was in a great state of excitement. He was thinking of the portrait all the time, and at intervals he would leave his work and suddenly appear at home to take a furtive look at his treasure.



Now, in Japan, as in other countries, mysterious actions and irregular proceedings of all kinds have to be explained to a wife. Lili-Tsee did not understand why her husband kept appearing at all hours of the day. Certainly he kissed her every time he came in like this. At first she was satisfied with his explanation when he told her that he only ran in for a minute to see her pretty face. She thought it was really quite natural on his part, but when day after day he appeared, and always with the same solemn expression on his face, she began to wonder in her heart of hearts whether he was telling her the whole truth. And so Lili-Tsee fell to watching her husband's movements, and she noticed that he never went away until he had been alone in the little room at the back of the house.



Now the Japanese women are as persevering as any others when there is a mystery to be discovered, and so Lili-Tsee set herself to discover this mystery. She hunted day after day to see if she could find some trace of anything in that little room which was at all unusual, but she found nothing. One day, however, she happened to come in suddenly and saw her husband replacing the long blue vase in which she kept her rose leaves in order to dry them. He made some excuse about its not looking very steady, and appeared to be just setting it right, and Lili-Tsee pretended there was nothing out of the common in his putting the vase straight. The moment he had gone out of the house, though, she was up on a stool like lightning, and in a moment she had fished the looking-glass out of the vase. She took it carefully in her hand, wondering whatever it could be, but when she looked in it the terrible truth was clear. What was it she saw?

Why, the portrait of a woman, and she had believed that Kiki-Tsum was so good, and so fond, and so true.

Her grief was at first too deep for any words. She just sat down on the floor with the terrible portrait in her lap, and rocked herself backwards and forwards. This, then, was why her husband came home so many times in the day. It was to look at the portrait of the woman she had just seen.

Suddenly a fit of anger seized her, and she gazed at the glass again. The same face looked at her, but she wondered how her husband could admire such a face, so wicked did the dark eyes look: there was an expression in them that she certainly had not seen the first time she had looked at it, and it terrified her so much that she made up her mind not to look at it again.

She had no heart, however, for anything, and did not even make any attempt to prepare a meal for her husband. She just went on sitting there on the floor, nursing the portrait, and at the same time her wrath. When later on Kiki-Tsum arrived, he was surprised to find nothing ready for their evening meal, and no wife. He walked through to the other rooms, and was not long left in ignorance of the cause of the unusual state of things.

"So this is the love you professed for me! This is the way in which you treat me, before we have even been married a year!"

"What do you mean, Lili-Tsee?" asked her husband, in consternation, thinking that his poor wife had taken leave of her senses.

"What do I mean? What do you mean? I should think. The idea of your keeping portraits in my rose-leaf vase. Here, take it and treasure it, for I do not want it, the wicked, wicked woman!" and here poor Lili-Tsee burst out crying.

"I cannot understand," said her bewildered husband.

"Oh, you can't?" she said, laughing hysterically. "I can, though, well enough. You like that hideous, villainous-looking woman better than your own true wife. I would say nothing if she were at any rate beautiful; but she has a vile face, a hideous face, and looks wicked and murderous, and everything that is bad!"

"Lili-Tsee, what do you mean?" asked her husband, getting exasperated in his turn. "That portrait is the living image of my poor dead father. I found it in the street the other day, and put it in your vase for safety."

Lili-Tsee's eyes flashed with indignation at this apparently barefaced lie.

"Hear him!" she almost screamed. "He wants to tell me now that I do not know a woman's face from a man's."

Kiki-Tsum was wild with indignation, and a quarrel began in good earnest. The street-door was a little way open, and the loud, angry words attracted the notice of a bonze (one of the Japanese priests) who happened to be passing.

"My children," he said, putting his head in at the door, "why this unseemly anger, why this dispute?"

"Father," said Kiki-Tsum, "my wife is mad."

"All women are so, my son, more or less," interrupted the holy bonze. "You were wrong to expect perfection, and must abide by your bargain now. It is no use getting angry, all wives are trials."

"But what she says is a lie."

"It is not, father," exclaimed Lili-Tsee. "My husband has the portrait of a woman, and I found it hidden in my rose-leaf vase."

"I swear that I have no portrait but that of my poor dead father," explained the aggrieved husband.

"My children, my children," said the holy bonze, majestically, "show me the portraits."

"Here it is; there is only one, but it is one too many," said Lili-Tsee, sarcastically.

The bonze took the glass and looked at it earnestly. He then bowed low before it, and in an altered tone said: "My children, settle your quarrel and live peaceably together. You are both in the wrong. This portrait is that of a saintly and venerable bonze. I know not how you could mistake so holy a face. I must take it from you and place it amongst the precious relics of our church."

So saying, the bonze lifted his hands to bless the husband and wife, and then went slowly away, carrying with him the glass which had wrought such mischief.

END.



* * * * *



Handcuffs.

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY INSPECTOR MAURICE MOSER,

Late of the Criminal Investigation Department, Great Scotland Yard.

The ordinary connection of ideas between handcuffs and policemen does not need very acute mental powers to grasp, but there is a further connection, a philological one, which is only evident at first sight to those who have made a small acquaintance with the science of words.

The word "handcuff" is a popular corruption of the Anglo-Saxon "handcop," i.e., that which "cops" or "catches" the hands.

Now, one of the most common of the many slang expressions used by their special enemies towards the police is "Copper"—i.e., he who cops the offending member. Strange as it may seem, handcuffs are by no means the invention of these times, which insist on making the life of a prisoner so devoid of the picturesque and romantic.

We must go back, past the dark ages, past the stirring times of Greek and Roman antiquity, till we come to those blissful mythological ages when every tree and every stream was the home of some kindly god.

In those olden days there dwelt in the Carpathian Sea a wily old deity, known by the name of Proteus, possessing the gift of prophecy, the fruits of which he selfishly denied to mankind.

Even if those who wished to consult him were so fortunate as to find him, all their efforts to force him to exert his gifts of prophecy were useless, for he was endowed with the power of changing himself into all things, and he eluded their grasp by becoming a flame of fire or a drop of water. There was one thing, however, against which all the miracles of Proteus were of no avail, and of this Aristaeus was aware.

So Aristaeus came, as Virgil tells us, from a distant land to consult the famous prophet. He found him on the sea-shore among his seals, basking in the afternoon sun. Quick as thought he fitted handcuffs on him, and all struggles and devices were now of no avail. Such was then the efficacy of handcuffs even on the persons of the immortal gods.

Having established this remote and honourable antiquity, we are not surprised at the appearance of handcuffs in the fourth century B.C., when the soldiers of a conquering Greek army found among the baggage of the routed Carthaginians several chariots full of handcuffs, which had been held ready in confident anticipation of a great victory and a multitude of prisoners.

The nearest approach to a mention that we find after that is in the Book of Psalms: "To bind their kings in chains and their nobles in fetters of iron." But in the Greek, the Latin, Wickliffe's, and Anglo-Saxon Bible we invariably find a word of which handcuffs is the only real translation. It is also interesting to note that in the Anglo-Saxon version the kings are bound in "footcops" and the nobles in "handcops."

In the early Saxon times, therefore, we find our instrument is familiar to all and in general use, as it has continued to be to this day. But during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries there is no instance of the use of the word "handcop"; its place is taken by "swivel manacle" and "shackbolt," the latter word being often used by Elizabethan authors.

Handcuffs, like other things, have improved with time. Up to 1850 there were two kinds in general use in England. One of the forms, most common in the earlier part of this century, went under the name of the "Figure 8." This instrument does not allow the prisoner even that small amount of liberty which is granted by its modern counterpart. It was chiefly used for refractory prisoners who resorted to violence, for it had the advantage of keeping the hands in a fixed position, either before or on the back of the body. The pain it inflicted made it partake of the nature of a punishment rather than merely a preventive against resistance or attack. It was a punishment, too, which was universally dreaded by prisoners of all kinds, for there is no more unbearable pain than that of having a limb immovably confined.



The other kind of form known as the "Flexible" (No. 1) resembled in general outlines the handcuffs used every day by detectives.

Contrivances, chiefly the result of American ingenuity, for the rapid and effectual securing of prisoners have not been wanting, and among them the "Snap," the "Nippers" (No. 3) and the "Twister" must be mentioned.



The "Snap" (No. 2) is the one which used to be the most approved of. It consists of two loops, of which the smaller is slipped on the wrists of the person to be arrested, the bars are then closed with a snap, and the larger loop is held by the officer. The manner in which the "Twister" (No. 4) was used savours very much of the brutal, and, indeed, the injuries it inflicted on those who were misguided enough to struggle when in its grasp caused its abolition in Great Britain.

Its simplicity and its efficacy, together with the cruelty, have recommended it for use in those wild parts of South America where the upholder of the laws literally travels with his life in his hands. It consists of a chain with handles at each end; the chain is put round the wrists, the handles brought together and twisted round until the chain grips firmly. The torture inflicted by inhuman or inconsiderate officers can easily be imagined. When we see the comparative facility with which the detective slips the handcuffs on the villain in the last act of Adelphi dramas, we are apt to be misled as to the difficulty which police officers meet with in the execution of one of the most arduous parts of their duty.

The English hand-cuffs (No. 1) are heavy, unwieldy, awkward machines, which at the best of times, and under the most favourable circumstances, are extremely difficult of application. They weigh over a pound, and have to be unlocked with a key in a manner not greatly differing from the operation of winding up the average eight-day clock, and fastened on to the prisoner's wrists, how, the fates and good luck only know. This lengthy, difficult, and particularly disagreeable operation, with a prisoner struggling and fighting, is to a degree almost incredible. The prisoner practically has to be overpowered or to submit before he can be finally and certainly secured.

Even when handcuffed, we present to a clever and muscular ruffian one of the most formidable weapons of offence he could possibly possess, as he can, and frequently does, inflict the deadliest blows upon his captor. Another great drawback is the fact that these handcuffs do not fit all wrists, and often the officer is nonplussed by having a pair of handcuffs which are too small or too large; and when the latter is the case, and the prisoner gets the "bracelets" in his hands instead of on his wrists, he is then in possession of a knuckle-duster from which the bravest would not care to receive a blow.

On the occasion of my arresting one of the Russian rouble note forgers, a ruffian who would not hesitate to stick at anything, I had provided myself with several sized pairs of handcuffs, and it was not until I had obtained the very much needed assistance that I was able to find the suitable "darbies" for his wrists. We managed to force him into a four-wheeler to take him to the police-station, when he again renewed his efforts and savagely attacked me, lifting his ironed wrists and bringing them down heavily on my head, completely crushing my bowler hat.



As the English handcuffs have only been formed for criminals who submitted quietly to necessity, it was considered expedient to find an instrument applicable to all cases. The perfected article comes from America (Nos. 5 and 6), and, being lighter, less clumsy, and more easily concealed, finds general favour among the officers at Scotland Yard. In fact, such are its advantages that we must presume that it differs considerably from the Anglo-Saxon "Hand-cop" and the somewhat primitive article used upon the unwilling prophet of the Carpathian Sea. This and the older kind, to which some of the more conservative of our detectives still adhere, are the only handcuffs used in England.



The ingenious detective of France, where crime and all its appurtenances have reached such a state of perfection, is not without his means of securing his man (No. 7). It is called "La Ligote" or "Le Cabriolet." There are two kinds: one is composed of several steel piano strings, and the other of whip-cords twined together, and they are used much in the same way as the "Twister."

Any attempt to escape is quickly ended by the pain to which the officer who holds the instrument can inflict by a mere turn of his hand. One wrist only is under control, but as the slightest sign of a struggle is met by an infliction of torture, the French system is more effective than the English.



The Mexican handcuff (Nos. 8 and 9) is a cumbersome and awkward article, quite worthy of the retrograde country of its origin.



No. 10 shows an effective method of handcuffing in emergencies. The officer takes a piece of whipcord and makes a double running knot: he ties one noose round the wrist of the prisoner, whose hand is then placed in his trousers pocket, the cord is lashed round the body like a belt, and brought back and slipped through the noose again. The prisoner when thus secured suffers no inconvenience as long as he leaves his hand in his pocket, but any attempt to remove it would cause a deal of suffering.



No. 11 is another handcuff of foreign make, and is merely used when a raid is about to be made, as it allows to a certain extent the use of the hands. It is useful for prisoners who are being conveyed by sea.



No. 12 is mostly used in Eastern Europe.

My personal experience of handcuffs is small, because I dislike them, for in addition to their clumsiness, I know that when I have laid my hands upon my man, it will be difficult for him to escape.

My intimate knowledge of all kinds of criminals in all kinds of plights justifies me in saying that when they see the game is up they do not attempt resistance. The only trouble I have had has been with desperadoes and old offenders, men who have once tasted prison-life and have a horror of returning to captivity.

Expert thieves have been known to open handcuffs without a key, by means of knocking the part containing the spring on a stone or hard substance. It will be remembered that when the notorious criminal "Charles Peace" was being taken to London by train, he contrived, although handcuffed, to make his escape through the carriage window. When he was captured it was noticed that he had freed one of his hands.

I was once bringing from Leith an Austrian sailor who was charged with ripping open his mate, and as I considered that I had a disagreeable character to deal with, I handcuffed him. Naturally, he found the confinement irksome, and on our journey he repeatedly implored me to take them off promising that he would make no attempt to escape. The sincerity of his manner touched me and I released him, very fortunately for myself, for I was taken ill before reaching London, and, strange as it may appear, was nursed most tenderly by the man who had ripped a fellow mate.

In Belgium the use of handcuffs by police officers is entirely forbidden. Prisoners are handcuffed only on being brought before the Juge d'Instruction or Procureur du Roi, and when crossing from court to court. Women are never handcuffed in England, but on the Continent it is not an uncommon occurrence.

Regarding handcuffs generally, in my opinion not one of the inventions I have mentioned now in use is sufficiently easy of application. What every officer in the detective force feels he wants is a light, portable instrument by means of which he can unaided secure his man, however cunning and however powerful he may be. I myself suggest an application which would grip the criminal tightly across the back, imprisoning the arms just above the elbow joints. Such an instrument would cause him no unnecessary pain, while relieving officers from that part of their duty which is particularly obnoxious to them, viz., having a prolonged struggle with low and savage ruffians.

I cannot refrain from relating a piquant little anecdote told to me by a French colleague, who had occasion to make an arrest, and came unexpectedly on his man. Unfortunately he was unprovided with handcuffs and was somewhat at a disadvantage, but being a quick-witted fellow, he bethought himself of an effectual expedient. Taking out his knife he severed the prisoner's buttons which were attached to his braces, thus giving the man occupation for his hands and preventing a rapid flight. I am indebted to M. Goron, Chief of the Detective Department in Paris, and other colleagues for some of the specimens here reproduced by me.

* * * * *



The Family Name.

From the French of HENRI MALIN



I.

One afternoon, Mons. Sauvallier received from his younger son—a lieutenant in garrison at Versailles—the following letter:

"Versailles, May 25, 1883.

"MY DEAR FATHER,

"A terrible catastrophe has befallen me, one which will be a blow to you also. I am writing about it, because I dare not face you; I deserve never to see you again!

"Led astray by a companion, I have been gambling on the Bourse, and am involved in yesterday's crash, in which so many fortunes have been suddenly swamped.

"I scarcely dare to tell you how much I have lost. Yet I must do so, for the honour of the Sauvalliers is concerned. Alas! you will be all but ruined!

"I owe the sum of four hundred and sixty-eight thousand francs. Oh! what a miserable wretch I am!

"When I found that the smash was inevitable I went mad, and entered my room with the intention of putting an end to my wretched existence. But more sober thoughts prevailed: I changed my mind. I had heard that officers were being recruited for Tonquin, and I determined to volunteer for this service. My suicide would not have bettered matters; it would rather have left an added blot upon our family name. Out there, at all events, my death may be of use; it will cause you no shame, and may perhaps move you to a little compassion for your guilty, but most unhappy and despairing son, who suffers agonies at thought of the trouble he has brought upon you, and who now bids you an eternal farewell!

"CAMILLE SAUVALLIER."

Mons. Sauvallier, who had been a widower for several years past, was one of the most respected business-men of Paris, the owner of a foundry, a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, and an officer of the Legion of Honour. He had two sons: Camille, the lieutenant: and August, an artist of some originality, who was the husband of a charming wife, and the father of a little six-year-old maiden named Andree. Mons. Sauvallier had always deterred his sons from embarking in trade. He had shrunk from exposing them to the ups and downs of business life, its trying fluctuations, its frequent cruel mischances. He had arranged that at his death his estate should be realized: he did not wish the business to be sold outright, in case it should pass into the hands of strangers who might sully the hitherto unblemished name of Sauvallier.

And now, in spite of all his precautions, a disaster greater than any he had dreamed of had overwhelmed him.



Leaning back wearily in his arm-chair, with haggard eyes he re-read his son's letter, in order to assure himself that he was not dreaming. Yes! It was too true! Camille had ruined, perhaps dishonoured, him! It seemed as though the objects that surrounded him—the very walls and furniture—were no longer the same! As one staggering beneath a too heavy burden, he rose with difficulty, his limbs stiff, yet his whole frame agitated; then he sank back into his chair, with two big tears flowing down his cheeks.

By hook or by crook he must procure the sum, and the debt should be paid to-morrow. It would be a difficult task. The wealth of the manufacturer consists of material and merchandise. Would so hurried a realization yield the necessary amount? He could not tell. Again, when this debt was paid, would he be able to fulfil his engagements? Bankruptcy stared him in the face. A Sauvallier bankrupt? An officer of the Legion of Honour, a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, insolvent? Never! He would die first!

But before it came to that, he would try every expedient: he would strain every nerve.

So all night long the poor man planned and calculated, and in the morning, with heavy heart, proceeded to put his plans into effect.

He visited his numerous friends and told them of his trouble, which elicited much sympathy. In order to help, some made large purchases of him, paying ready money, others advanced or lent him money. All day until the evening he was running about Paris collecting cheques, bank-notes, and orders.



In the evening, as he sat down to ascertain the result of the day's efforts. Auguste came in with his wife and Andree. To help his father, the artist had parted with some of his pictures at a sacrifice, and he now brought the sum thus gained.

Andree, unconscious of the trouble of her elders, began to play with her "Jeanne," a doll nearly as big as herself, which her grandfather had given her some time previously, and which she loved, she said, "as her own daughter."

But the child soon observed the sadness of her parents and her dear grandfather, and she looked with earnest, inquiring gaze from one to the other, trying to discover what was amiss. She saw her father lay down his pocket-book, she watched her mother place upon the table her bracelets, necklaces, ear-rings, and rings, while Mons. Sauvallier thanked them with tears in his eyes. With a very thoughtful, serious expression on her little face, the child turned towards her doll, embraced it with the emotional fervour of a last adieu, then carried it to her grandfather, saying, in sweet, resigned tones: "Take it, grandpapa! You can sell her, too."

Mons. Sauvallier wept upon the neck of his little granddaughter, murmuring, "You also, my angel? Oh, that miserable boy!"

II.

Thus Camille's debt was paid, and the honour of the Sauvalliers was saved. But the father's fortune had gone!

He was able, however, to retain his business. He said to himself that he must work still, in spite of his threescore years; that he must labour incessantly, with the anxious ardour of those beginning life with nothing to rely upon save their own exertions.

He reduced his expenses, gave up his own house and went to live with his son, sold his carriage and horses, discharged his servants, and stinted himself in every possible way. Auguste became his designer, Auguste's wife his clerk. Each accepted his or her share of the burden bravely and uncomplainingly, as an important duty which must at any cost be accomplished.

The conduct of this old man, so jealous for his name, so upright, so courageous in misfortune, excited profound sympathy. All who knew him pitied him; orders flowed in, and soon a quite exceptional activity pervaded the establishment from basement to roof, inspiring Mons. Sauvallier with a little hope. But one persistent fear disturbed his sleep, and troubled his waking hours. It was that some day he might hear that Camille had been gambling again, and was once more in debt. He had forbidden all mention of his erring son, but the thought of him was ever present, and lay like an incubus upon his heart.

One year passed, then another. The foundry still flourished; work positively raged therein. It had no rest; it also, as though endowed with a conscience, did its duty nobly. Its furnaces glowed like ardent eyes; its mighty puffing and snorting shook the ground: the molten metal, red and fuming, flowed from its crucibles like blood from its body. At an early hour of the morning was heard its piercing summons to the work-people, and all the night long its glare illuminated the sky.

III.

The campaign of Tonquin was in full swing. In the midst of an unknown country, harassed by innumerable difficulties, the French soldiers were contending painfully with an irrepressible, ever-rallying foe. The smallest success served to excite the popular patriotism, and all awaited impatiently the tidings of a decisive victory.

One morning, Auguste, looking very pale, entered his father's office, and handed him a newspaper. There, amongst "Latest intelligence," Mons. Sauvallier read the following:—



"From the camp entrenched at Dong-Song. February 12th, 1885.—To-day, Captain Sauvallier attacked the enemy with extreme vigour, fought all the day against considerable forces, and captured successively three redoubts. In attacking the last of the three, his soldiers, overpowered by numbers, were about to retreat; but, although seriously wounded in the head and thigh, the gallant officer, borne by two men, succeeded in rallying his company and leading them on to the assault. His conduct was admirable, but his condition is hopeless. I have attached the cross to his breast. This brilliant feat of arms will enable me to enter Lang-Son tomorrow.—GENERAL BRIERE DE L'ISLE."

Upon reading these words, Mons. Sauvallier felt a strange emotion, in which anguish mingled with joy. For a moment he was silent; then he said to his son, "You think that it is he? He is, then, a captain?"

He read the despatch again, then murmured softly: "The cross! Condition hopeless!" And a tear rolled down his cheek.

Two hours later the family received a formal intimation of Camille's deed and state from the Minister of War, and on the following day all the journals were praising Captain Sauvallier, son of the respected founder, of Grenelle. And now they gave details. Camille, it appeared, had been nominated captain a few months back. Throughout the campaign he had distinguished himself by his imperturbable coolness under fire, and reckless scorn of the death which he seemed to seek.

His act of heroic energy stirred the enthusiasm of Press and populace, and the name of Sauvallier was on every lip. Camille's portrait appeared in the shop-windows; the illustrated journals depicted him before the redoubt, carried upon the shoulders of two men, his sword pointed towards the enemy, encouraging his soldiers by his voice, gesture, and look, his forehead bound with a handkerchief, and his face bleeding.

Mons. Sauvallier could not go out of doors without seeing his son's presentment. From the news-stalls of the boulevards, the corners of the streets, the publishers' shop-fronts, a ubiquitous Camille watched him pass, and seemed to follow him with his eyes. Almost at each step the father received congratulations, while complimentary letters and cards covered his table to overflowing. But, alas! the telegrams which he received daily from Tonquin left him little hope that he should ever again behold in the flesh this dear son, of whom now he was so proud.



One morning, three months later, Mons. Sauvallier was at work in his office, when the door opened softly, and disclosed Andree's curly head. The little one seemed in high spirits, her eyes sparkled with glee. "See, grandfather, here he is!" she said, and led into the room Captain Sauvallier.

Auguste and his wife followed the pair. Mons. Sauvallier, taken completely by surprise, rose quickly from his chair, then stood motionless, overcome by his emotion. He saw before him Camille, with the scar upon his forehead, and the cross upon his breast—Camille, the hero of the hour, who had shed such lustre upon the family name!

Timid and embarrassed, like a child who has been guilty of a fault, Camille stood with bowed head, and when he saw how much his father had aged, he knew that it was his conduct which had wrought the sad change, and his contrition was deepened tenfold.

But as he was about to throw himself at his father's feet, Mons. Sauvallier, with a sudden movement, clasped him to his breast, exclaiming, in a voice full of tears, "No, Camille! in my arms! in my arms!"

Father and son, locked together in closest embrace, mingled their sobs, while Auguste and his wife, looking on, wept in sympathy.

The silence was broken by Andree. The child had vanished for a moment, but speedily reappeared, fondling her precious doll, which, it is needless to say, had not been sold. Holding it out to the captain, she said in her liveliest manner: "Here is Jeanne, uncle! You remember her? Give her a kiss directly! Don't you think that she has grown?"

* * * * *



The Queer Side of Things—Among the Freaks.

MAJOR MICROBE.



"I've been in the show business now going on for forty-three years," said the Doorkeeper, "and I haven't yet found a Dwarf with human feelings. I can't understand why it is, but there ain't the least manner of doubt that a Dwarf is the meanest object in creation. Take General Bacillus, the Dwarf I have with me now. He is well made, for a Dwarf, and when he does his poses plastic, such as 'Ajax Defying the Lightning,' or 'Samson Carrying off Delilah by the Hair,' and all the rest of those Scripture tablows, he is as pretty as a picture, provided, of course, you don't get too near him. He is healthy, and has a good appetite, and he draws a good salary, and has no one except himself to look after. And yet that Dwarf ain't happy! On the contrary, he is the most discontented, cantankerous, malicious little wretch that was ever admitted into a Moral Family Show. And he ain't much worse than an ordinary Dwarf. Now, the other Freaks, as a rule, are contented so long as they draw well and don't fall in love.

"The Living Skeleton knows that he can't expect to live long—most of them die at about thirty-five—but, for all that, he is happy and contented. 'A short life and a merry one is what I goes in for,' he often says to me, and he seems to think that his life is a merry one, though I can't myself see where the merriment comes in. So with all the rest of my people. They all seem to enjoy themselves except the Dwarf. My own belief is that the organ of happiness has got to be pretty big to get its work in, and that there ain't room in a Dwarfs head for it to work.

"I had a Dwarf with me once—Major Microbe is what we called him on the bills, where he was advertised as the 'Smallest Man in the World,' which, of course, he wasn't; but, then, every Dwarf is always advertised that way. It's a custom of the profession, and we don't consider it to be lying, any more than a President considers the tough statements lying that he makes in his annual message. A showman and a politician must be allowed a little liberty of statement, or they couldn't carry on their business. Well, as I was saying, thishyer Major Microbe was in my show a matter of ten years ago, when we were in Cincinnati, and he was about as vicious as they make them. The Giant, who was a good seven-footer, working up to seven and a half feet, as an engineer might say, with the help of his boots and helmet, was the exact opposite of the Dwarf in disposition. He was altogether too good-tempered, for he was always trying to play practical jokes on the other Freaks. He did this without any notion of annoying them, but it was injudicious; he being, like all other Giants, weak and brittle.

"What do I mean by brittle? Why, I mean brittle and nothing else. It's a good United States word, I reckon. Thishyer Giant's bones weren't made of the proper materials, and they were always liable to break. He had to take the greatest care of himself, and to avoid arguing on politics or religion or anything like that, for a kick on the shins would be sure to break one of his legs, which would lay him on the shelf for a couple of months. As for his arms, he was for ever breaking one or two of them, but that didn't so much matter, for he could go on the stage with his arm in splints and a sling, and the public always supposed that he was representing a heroic soldier who had just returned from the battle-field.



"One day the Giant put up a job on the Dwarf that afterwards got them both into serious trouble. The Giant was loafing around the place after dinner, and he found the Dwarf asleep on a bench. What does he do but cover him up with a rug and then go off in search of the Fat Woman, who was a sure enough Fat Woman, and weighed in private life four hundred and nineteen pounds. The Giant was popular with the sex, and the Fat Woman was glad to accept his invitation to come with him and listen to a scheme that he pretended to have for increasing the attractions of Fat Women. He led her up to where the Dwarf was asleep on the bench and invited her to sit down, saying that he had arranged a cushion for her to make her comfortable. Of course she sat down, and sat down pretty solid, too, directly on the Dwarf. The Dwarf yelled as if he had room for the voice of two full-grown men, and the Fat Woman, as soon as she felt something squirming under her, thought that one of the boa constrictors had got loose, and that she had sat down on it. So naturally she fainted away. I came running in with one of my men as soon as I heard the outcries, and after a while we managed to pry up the Fat Woman with a couple of cart-rungs and get the Dwarf out from under her, after which she came to in due time and got over her fright. But the Dwarf was a good deal flattened out by the pressure, and I was afraid at first that his ribs had been stove in. It turned out in the end that he was not seriously injured; but he was in the worst rage against the Giant that you can imagine, and would have killed him then and there if he had been able to do it.

"I knew well enough that in course of time the Dwarf would get square with the Giant, no matter how long it might take and how much it might cost. He was as revengeful as a Red Indian. I warned the Giant that he must keep a sharp look-out, or the Dwarf would do him a mischief; but he said 'he calculated he was big enough to take care of himself, and that he wasn't afraid of no two-foot Dwarf that ever breathed.' Of course, this sounded brave, but my own belief is that the Giant was pretty badly frightened. I noticed that he never allowed himself to be alone with the Dwarf, and was always careful to mind where he stepped, so as not to get tripped up by strings stretched across the path, or anything of that sort. The Dwarf pretended that he had forgotten the whole business, and was as friendly with the Giant as he had ever been; but I knew him well enough to know that he never forgot anything, and was only waiting for a chance.



"Pretty soon little accidents began to happen to the Giant. One day he would find that his helmet, which was made of pasteboard, had fallen into a tub of water, and gone to everlasting jelly. This would oblige him to show himself bare-headed, which took off several inches from his professional height. Another day his boots would be in the tub, and he wouldn't be able to get them on. I've seen him go on the stage in a general's uniform with carpet slippers and no hat, which everyone knew must be contrary to the regulations of the Arabian army, in which he was supposed to hold his commission.

"One night his bedstead broke down under him, and he came very near breaking a leg or so. In the morning he found out that someone had sawed a leg of the bedstead nearly all the way through, and, of course, he knew that the Dwarf had done it. But you couldn't prove anything against the Dwarf. He would always swear that he never had any hand in the accidents, and there was never any evidence against him that anybody could get hold of. I didn't mind what games he played on the Giant as long as the Giant wasn't made to break anything that would lay him on the shelf, and I told the Dwarf that I was the last man to interfere with any man's innocent amusements, but that in case the Giant happened to break a leg, I should go out of the Giant and Dwarf business at once. But that didn't scare him a particle. He knew that he was worth his salary in any Dime Museum in America, and more than that, he had money enough laid up in the bank to live on, assuming, of course, that he could draw it out before the cashier should bolt to Canada with it. So he was as independent as you please, and told me that if I chose to hold him responsible for other people's legs he couldn't help it, and had nothing to say about it.

"At that time I had a Female Samson. She wasn't the Combined Female Contortionist and Strongest Woman in the World that is in my show at present, but she was in about the same line of business. These Strong Women are all genuine, you understand. You can embellish them a little on the handbills, and you can announce that the cannon that the Strong Woman fires from her shoulder weighs a hundred or two pounds more than it actually weighs; but unless a Strong Woman is really strong and no mistake, she might as well try to pass herself off as a Living Skeleton or a Two-Headed Girl at once. The fact is, the great majority of Freaks are genuine, and the business is a thoroughly honest one at bottom. Why, if you told the exact truth in the handbills about every Freak in my show, barring the Tattooed Girl and the Wild Man, they would still constitute a good drawing attraction in any intelligent community.

"This Female Samson was a good sort of woman in her way, though she was a little rough and a bit what you might call masculine in her ways. She didn't like the Dwarf, and he didn't like her.



"The Freaks were all at supper one night when the Dwarf said something insulting to the Female Samson. He sat right opposite to her, and she just reached across the table and pulled him over to her by his collar. Then she stretched him across her lap and laid into him with her slipper till he howled as if he was a small boy who had gone in swimming on Sunday and his mother had just found it out. It wasn't so much the slipper that hurt him, though the Female Samson put all her muscle into the operation, but it was the disgrace of the thing; and when you remember that the Dwarf was forty-two years old, you can understand that he felt that the woman had taken a liberty with him. However, the next day he seemed to have forgotten all about it, and when the Giant reminded him of the circumstance, which he did every little while, the Dwarf would grin and say that we must let the women do what they liked, for they were a superior sort of being.

"One of the Female Samson's best feats was done in company with the Dwarf and the Giant. She had a horizontal bar fixed on the stage, about ten feet above the floor. On this bar she used to swing head downwards, just hooking her knees around it, as all the trapeze artists do. It looks sort of uncomfortable, but it is nothing when you are used to it. I had a trapeze chap once who would often go to sleep that way in hot weather. He said that all the blood in his body went into his head, and that made him feel sleepy, while it cooled off his body and legs. There's no accounting for tastes, but as for me, give me a good bed where I can stretch out, and I'll never ask to sleep on a trapeze bar.

"As I was saying, the Female Samson would swing on this bar, and then she would take the Dwarf's belt in her teeth and hold him in that way for five minutes. There was a swivel in the belt, so that the Dwarf would spin round while she was holding him, which he didn't like much, but which pleased the public. After she had swung the Dwarf she would do the same act with the Giant. She had to be very careful not to drop the Giant, for he was terribly afraid of breaking a leg, being, as I have said, particularly brittle; but she always said that he was as safe in her teeth as he would be if he was lying in his bed.

"It must have been about a fortnight after the Dwarf was sat on by the Fat Woman, and a week or more after he had been corrected in public by the Female Samson, that we had an unusually large evening audience, and everybody was in excellent spirits. The Female Samson had swung the Dwarf in her teeth, and after she had let go of him he had climbed up on a chair just behind her, and stood with his arms stretched out over her and the Giant as if he was saying 'Bless you, my children,' which was a regular part of the act, and never failed to bring him a round of applause, and induce people to say, 'What a jolly little chap that Dwarf is!' When the Female Samson had got a good grip of the Giant's belt, and had raised him about five feet from the floor, the Dwarf leaned a little bit forward and ran a pin into the Female Samson's ankle, or thereabouts. Nobody saw him do it, but it was easy to prove it on him afterwards, for he dropped the pin on the floor when he had finally got through with it, and everybody recognised it as one of his scarf-pins.

"The woman would naturally have shrieked when she felt the pin, but she had her mouth full of the Giant, and she couldn't do more than mumble a little in a half-smothered sort of way. The Dwarf paid no attention to that, but gave her another eye-opener with the pin. It went in about an inch, judging from what the Female Samson said when she described her sufferings, and it must have hurt her pretty bad; but she was full of pluck and bound to carry out her performance to the end. She stood three or four more prods, and then, not being able to stand it any longer without expressing her feelings in some way, she unhooked one leg and fetched the Dwarf a kick on the side of the head that reminded him that it was about time for him to get into his own room and lock the door, and convinced him that there ain't a bit of exaggeration in the tough stories that they tell about the kicking powers of an army mule. The kick sent the Dwarf clean across the platform, and the people, not understanding the situation, began to cry 'Shame.' Whether this flurried the Female Samson or not, or whether she lost her balance entirely on account of having unhooked one leg, I don't know. What I do know is that she slipped off the bar, and she and the Giant struck the floor with a crash that would have broken planks, if it had not been that the platform was built expressly to stand the strain of the Fat Woman.

"It wouldn't have been so bad if she had just dropped the Giant, and hung on to the bar herself. In that case he would probably have broken his left leg and arm and collar bone, just as he did break them, but his ribs would have been all right. As it was, the Female Samson's head came down just in the centre of him, and stove in about three-fourths of his ribs. She wasn't hurt at all, for, being a woman, and falling on her head, there was nothing for her to break, and the Giant was so soft that falling on him didn't even give her a headache. When some volunteers from the audience had picked up the Giant and put him on a stretcher and carried him to the hospital, where the doctors did their best to mend him, the Female Samson had a chance to explain, and the finding of a long scarf-pin on the platform, just under the bar, was evidence that she had told the truth, and corroborated the red stain on her stocking.



"It took four men and a policeman to hold her, and get her locked up in her room, she was that set on tearing the Dwarf into small pieces, and she'd have done it too, if she could have got at him. He had sense enough to see the situation, and to discharge himself without waiting for me to discharge him. He ran away in the course of the night, and I never saw him again. I don't think he ever went into another Dime Museum, and I have heard that he got a situation as inspector of gas meters, which is very probable, considering what a malicious little rascal he was. Well, we have to deal with all sorts of people in our business, and I suppose it's the same with you, though you haven't mentioned what your business is. But you take my advice and steer clear of Dwarfs. There ain't a man living that can do anything with them except with a club, and no man likes to take a club to anything as small as a Dwarf."

W. L. ALDEN.

* * * * *



Lamps of all Kinds and Times.



* * * * *



Two Styles: A Tale with a Moral.



Uffizzi Robbinson was blessed with a very full rich, tenor voice but a very empty purse and he stood in need of a HOLIDAY.

So he cut his hair & otherwise disguised himself & went off to Brighton, and having hired a piano & boy took up his station on the front and started in to make his fortune.

He sang song after song, all of them highly classical, in his most approved style, but his audience being limited and critical, his prospects looked gloomy.

A gentle hint from his boy set him thinking!! He DISAPPEARED!!! A shadow on the blind gave the only indication of what he was doing!!

Until one evening he reappeared on the front in all the glories of collar & banjo, sang vulgar comic songs in a vulgar comic manner to a vast and appreciative audience and lived in clover for the rest of the season.

* * * * *

THE END