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+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Idler Magazine, An Illustrated Monthly, March 1893.
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's The Idler Magazine, Volume III, March 1893, by Various
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Idler Magazine, Volume III, March 1893
+       An Illustrated Monthly
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: April 17, 2008 [EBook #25083]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDLER MAGAZINE, MARCH 1893 ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Victorian/Edwardian Pictorial Magazines,
+Jonathan Ingram, Anne Storer and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+<p class="notes">Transcribers Notes: Title and Table of Contents added.</p>
+
+
+<hr style='width: 100%;' />
+
+<h1>THE IDLER MAGAZINE.</h1>
+<p style="font-size: 120%;" class="center"><strong>AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY.<br /><br />
+March 1893.</strong></p>
+
+<hr style='width: 65%;' />
+
+
+
+
+<h2>CONTENTS.</h2>
+
+
+<p class="center"><a href="#Page_122">THE LYCEUM REHEARSALS.</a><br />
+    by G. B. Burgin.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_142">A BLESSING DISGUISED.</a><br />
+    by F. W. Robinson.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_160">&ldquo;LIONS IN THEIR DENS.&rdquo;</a><br />
+    III.&mdash;GEORGE NEWNES AT PUTNEY.<br />
+    by Raymond Blathwayt.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_174">NOVEL NOTES.</a><br />
+    by Jerome K. Jerome.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_193">ON PILGRIMS AND THE PILGRIM SPIRIT.</a><br />
+    by A. Adams Martin.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_202">A COLLEGE IDYL.</a><br />
+    by S. Gordon.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_204">MY FIRST BOOK.</a><br />
+    by F. W. Robinson.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_213">TOLD BY THE COLONEL.</a><br />
+    XI.&mdash;HOSKINS&#8217;S PETS.<br />
+    by W. L. Alden.<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_221">EXPERIENCES OF A &#8217;VARSITY OAR.</a><br />
+    by an &ldquo;Old Blue.&rdquo;<br />
+    (F. C. Drake.)<br /><br />
+
+<a href="#Page_229">THE IDLERS CLUB.</a><br />
+    IS CHILDHOOD THE HAPPIEST OR THE<br />
+    MOST MISERABLE PERIOD OF ONE&#8217;S EXISTENCE?</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<div class="box1">
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 339px;">
+<img src="images/img122.jpg" width="339" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. henry irving watching a rehearsal</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>The Lyceum Rehearsals.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By G. B. Burgin</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by J. Bernard Partridge</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center">(<em>Photographs by Messrs. Barraud.</em>)</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 10%;' />
+
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 254px;">
+<img src="images/img123.jpg" width="254" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">tennyson.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>One day a paragraph appears in the papers that a new piece will shortly
+be produced at such and such a theatre. Paterfamilias lays down the
+paper and placidly observes that it may be worth while getting seats.
+Then he goes down to the theatre, books seats, and troubles himself no
+more about the matter until the first night of the play in question. The
+world behind the curtain is one with which he is totally unfamiliar. He
+knows naught of its struggles, its hopes and fears, its arduous work,
+its magnificent prizes and sore disappointments. So many thousands of
+pounds have been spent in preparing the play, so many reputations are at
+stake, so many hearts will be gay and glad to-morrow, or aching with the
+bitter pain of defeat. But to Paterfamilias these are all the joys or
+sorrows of another world. As he watches the smooth, easy performance, in
+which every actor has his place, in which the whole pageant produces
+itself without apparent effort, he fails to imagine the ceaseless work
+involved in its adequate realisation. He does not know that for weeks
+before the production of a new play, say at the Lyceum for instance, Mr.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
+Irving and the wonderful company which he has gathered round him labour
+over it often far into the night after the audience has left. The
+general idea of an actor&#8217;s life is that it is a delightful round of
+social pleasures tempered by a few hours&#8217; light, agreeable work in the
+evening; to those who think this, a visit to the Lyceum rehearsals would
+reveal the other side of the shield. Very few men in London labour so
+indefatigably as Mr. Irving. To watch him directing a rehearsal almost
+makes one&#8217;s head ache at the mere idea of such unceasing labour. Every
+motion, however insignificant, of each individual on the stage, from
+himself down to the newest and rawest &ldquo;super,&rdquo; has to be thought out and
+planned in Mr. Irving&#8217;s brain. Like an ideal general, he leaves nothing
+to chance, nothing to subordinates. The turning up or down of every gas
+jet, the movement of every piece of furniture, the effect of every note
+of music, has received his most careful thought. One watches him stand
+hour after hour on the Lyceum stage, without weariness, without
+impatience, guiding the whole of the great production. And though Mr.
+Irving never spares himself, he is very considerate to others. When, for
+instance, a young actor is unable to comprehend the full meaning of an
+explanation, Mr. Irving walks up and down the stage, one arm on his
+shoulder, and explains the whole conception of the part. He is not only
+a great actor, but a great teacher; and his influence pervades and
+dominates every being in the theatre. He does not merely assert, but
+gives full and sufficient reason for every action until every one on the
+stage grasps the exact
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
+meaning of the scene as well as he does himself.
+As an instance of this, let us follow the rehearsals of &ldquo;Becket.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 299px;">
+<img src="images/img124a.jpg" width="299" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. henry irving.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 345px;">
+<img src="images/img124b.jpg" width="345" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">miss terry studying her part.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 269px;">
+<img src="images/img125.jpg" width="269" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. william terriss.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The theatre itself is deserted save by some ghostly caretaker who
+glides noiselessly through the shadowy gloom, sliding a brush over the
+upholstery without looking at it, and replacing each covering as she
+goes. On the stage are two gentlemen wearing picturesque soft hats, and
+long coats which reach to within half-a-foot of the ground. The taller
+of the two, Mr. Henry Irving, wears a light drab-coloured coat and dark
+hat; Mr. William Terriss is attired in a light hat and dark coat. In the
+centre of the stage, close to the foot-lights, stands a screen; behind
+the screen is a chair. To the left of the stage (as you look at it from
+the stalls) is placed a small table with a big gilt cross on it. On the
+extreme right there is another small table laden with papers, plans of
+the stage, and letters. At the back of the stage are grouped numerous
+male &ldquo;supers,&rdquo; clad in ordinary morning costume and wearing the
+inevitable &ldquo;bowler&rdquo; hat, which does not harmonise very well with the
+huge spears they carry. It is the scene in the second act of the late
+Poet Laureate&#8217;s &ldquo;Becket,&rdquo; &ldquo;The Meeting of the Kings,&rdquo; and Mr. Irving is
+busily engaged grouping some fifty people who are required to pose as
+barons, French prelates, and retainers. When he has done this, there is
+still something wanted to complete the picture. Two pages are lacking.
+&ldquo;Where&#8217;s Johnny?&rdquo; asks Mr. Irving, and &ldquo;Johnny&rdquo; appears. Mr. Irving eyes
+him critically. &ldquo;I&#8217;m afraid you&#8217;re too big, Johnny,&rdquo; he says, and
+&ldquo;Johnny&rdquo; disappointedly makes way for a smaller boy.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Irving stands well in the centre of the stage, absorbing every
+detail. The French bishops are huddled too near together, and he groups
+them more naturally. <em>Becket&#8217;s</em> mortal foes,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
+<em>Fitzurse</em>, <em>De Brito</em>,
+<em>De Tracy</em>, and <em>De Morville</em>, are moved lower down towards the
+audience, so that they can go &ldquo;off&rdquo; with greater effect when jeering at
+<em>Becket</em>.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 268px;">
+<img src="images/img126.jpg" width="268" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>The cameo-cut outlines of Mr. Irving&#8217;s fine serious features are plainly
+visible as he turns to look at the wings. &ldquo;I don&#8217;t see any necessity for
+having these &lsquo;wings&rsquo; so forward,&rdquo; he declares, and the wings at once
+slide gently back, moved by some invisible agency. In response to Mr.
+Irving&#8217;s request for another alteration in the scenery (he speaks with
+an utter absence of effort in a voice which can be heard at the other
+end of the theatre, although it does not appear to be raised above a
+conversational pitch), a middle-aged gentleman, attired in a frock coat,
+his brows carefully swathed in a white pocket handkerchief, comes
+forward, yardstick in hand, and measures the stage with great assiduity.
+When this has been done, Mr. Irving sits down with &ldquo;Please go on.&rdquo; Then
+he turns to Mr. Terriss: &ldquo;Shall we go through it first without the
+dialogue?&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answers Mr. Terriss; and the whole action of the scene
+is gone through. Mr. Irving and Mr. Terriss exchanging their direction
+of the various groups for the assumption of their own parts with an ease
+and rapidity born of long practice, Mr. Irving moving about from group
+to group until he is satisfied with the effect of the whole. Mr. H. T.
+Loveday, the stage manager, being at present ill, Mr. Terriss is kindly
+assisting Mr. Irving with rehearsal. After the entrances and exits have
+been arranged for the twentieth time, <em>Henry&#8217;s</em> magnificent voice rings
+out as <em>Louis</em> enters:<br /><br />
+
+<span style="margin-left: 5%;">&ldquo;&lsquo;Brother of France, what shall be done with <em>Becket</em>?&rsquo;&rdquo;</span></p>
+
+<p>As this is one of the early rehearsals, the actors are not yet word
+perfect. Each holds his part in one hand, and refreshes his memory as he
+goes on. When <em>Henry</em> and <em>Louis</em> have finished their dialogue, and
+<em>Becket</em> is about to enter, Mr. Irving suddenly pauses. &ldquo;Make a note
+that before <em>Becket&#8217;s</em> entrance there should be a slow chant&mdash;a
+Gregorian chant&mdash;and flourishes. Where are the gentlemen who sing?&rdquo; &ldquo;The
+gentlemen who sing&rdquo; come
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
+on, and practise the chant. &ldquo;Not quite so
+loud.&rdquo; Mr. Irving claps his hands (the stage signal for stopping people)
+and decides to try the effect behind the scenes. &ldquo;That will do; very
+good,&rdquo; he declares, as the solemn chant steals slowly in, and then,
+merging the manager in the actor, kneels at <em>Henry&#8217;s</em> feet.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 450px;">
+<img src="images/img127.jpg" width="450" height="408" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the stage from the dress circle.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>At this juncture, Mr. Irving becomes the stage-manager again, and turns
+to the group of <em>Henry&#8217;s</em> followers. &ldquo;You, gentlemen, are to come up
+here. You are rather startled, and listen attentively; that&#8217;s the spirit
+of it.&rdquo; <em>King Henry&#8217;s</em> followers move up, and jeer at <em>Becket</em>, who
+curses them. Then come the voices of the crowd without:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two kings to
+their faces for the honour of God.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p></div>
+
+<p>But Mr. Irving is not satisfied with the crowd. &ldquo;Slower and more
+gravely, please. I want the emphasis on &lsquo;the Lord Archbishop.&rsquo; So! That
+will be very good.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
+After this, there is an interval, and Mr. Irving and Mr. Terriss
+disappear. Before they return, the stage carpenters begin to prepare for
+the murder scene in the last act. A number of what appear to be
+canvas-covered trunks are brought in and laid down to represent stones
+in the choir of Canterbury Cathedral.</p>
+
+<p>Meantime, some of the gentlemen who represent the monks in this scene
+playfully spar at one another, or lunge with walking-sticks at imaginary
+foes. The carpenters are busy measuring the stage in all directions with
+tapes in accordance with a plan which one of them holds in his hand.
+Before Mr. Irving returns, the &ldquo;supers&rdquo; group themselves &ldquo;left&rdquo; and
+answer to their names. When he reappears, they look at him expectantly.
+&ldquo;I am not going to rehearse this scene to-day,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;but will just
+arrange it. Those who sing, go over right (left from the audience). You
+sing the vespers. I want six more with you. Then, twelve of the
+shortest. You follow them. All the short ones you have, please. Yes,
+you&#8217;re short (to a diminutive &lsquo;super&rsquo; who is standing on tiptoe and
+trying to look seven feet high at least). Don&#8217;t be bashful. You&#8217;re none
+the worse for being short. Come along&rdquo;; and with unfailing memory Mr.
+Irving calls each man by name, and indicates his place. When a man fails
+to quite realise what is required of him, Mr. Irving takes him by the
+shoulders, and gently moves him along to the required position, very
+much as if the individual in question were a pawn about to be played in
+a game of chess. As soon as the monks are grouped to his satisfaction,
+he steps back. &ldquo;That&#8217;s it. Now, you all come down from the choir. There
+is a loud hammering against the door. I go to open the door, and all of
+you rush right by me.&rdquo; Then Mr. Irving opens the door to his murderers,
+and is borne back by the crowd of terrified monks. Five minutes
+afterwards, he has returned to life, and is rehearsing a scene from
+&ldquo;King Lear,&rdquo; with Miss Ellen Terry&#8217;s understudy, in as natural and
+unembarrassed a manner as if he had not been working hard for three
+hours previously.</p>
+
+<p>Especial care is bestowed by Mr. Irving with regard to every detail of
+the murder scene. On another occasion, the scenery is not ready, but a
+flight of steep steps, essential to the action, is placed far back in a
+position to left of the stage. As &ldquo;Becket&rdquo; has never been played before,
+there are no traditions whatever to guide actors or scenic artists, and
+each movement, phrase, gesture, and intonation, must be &ldquo;created.&rdquo; Mr.
+Irving picks up a huge battle-axe and hatchet, and carefully plans the
+details of his own
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
+murder. Having decided how to die, he thoughtfully
+surveys the steps up which the frightened monks are supposed to rush.
+&ldquo;They won&#8217;t do,&rdquo; says Mr. Irving. &ldquo;They are too steep; there is no
+hand-rail; and the monks will fall over and hurt themselves. Take off
+four steps. It would be too dangerous if anyone fell down. Now, then,
+<em>Salisbury</em> and <em>Grim</em>, I enter, forced along by you. Catch hold of me,
+and put your arms round me this way. That&#8217;s it. No; I don&#8217;t like those
+steps.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 416px;">
+<img src="images/img129.jpg" width="416" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">a critical moment.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Mr. Irving again tries the steps personally, and decides what further
+alterations are required. Then he addresses the monks,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
+who stand by the
+steps awaiting instructions. &ldquo;This is a scene, gentlemen, which requires
+the utmost carefulness and patience, and all the earnestness you can
+throw into it. Now, gentlemen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The crowd: &ldquo;Here is the great Archbishop. He lives! he lives!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, I wouldn&#8217;t do it that way,&rdquo; says Mr. Irving. &ldquo;&lsquo;Here is the great
+Archbishop.&rsquo; You&#8217;re surprised to see me, you know. Then pause. &lsquo;He
+lives! he lives!&rsquo; in a sort of whisper. Now, go back and chant the
+service, and do it all over again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 356px;">
+<img src="images/img130.jpg" width="356" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">miss genevieve ward and<br />
+master byrne rehearsing.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The solemn strains of the organ are heard, as <em>Rosamond</em> goes off, the
+cue for the monks to enter being, &ldquo;And pass at once perfect to
+Paradise.&rdquo; But the organ is too loud; so is the chant. After several
+attempts, the organ sounds more softly, the monks appear, and <em>Becket</em>
+enters, hurried along by his friends. But the monks have not yet caught
+the spirit of the scene. &ldquo;You are frightened out of your lives. See,&rdquo;
+says Mr. Irving, and, in a second, he personates a frightened monk. The
+next moment, with bewildering rapidity, he is the Archbishop again.
+&ldquo;&lsquo;What do these people fear?&rsquo; When I say, &lsquo;I will go out and meet them,&rsquo;
+you must murmur as if to stop me. I tell you, &lsquo;Why, these are our own
+monks who follow&#8217;d us,&rsquo; and you are reassured. Then I open the door,
+with, &lsquo;Come in, my friends, come in.&rsquo; Yes, that&#8217;s it. Who leads the
+monks as they come in? Mr. Belmore? Yes, that&#8217;s right. You rush in,
+followed by monks, crying out as if you were thoroughly frightened:<br /><br />
+
+<span style="margin-left: 5%;">&ldquo;&lsquo;A score of knights all arm&#8217;d with swords and axes.&rsquo;</span></p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then pause a moment, and shout, &lsquo;To the choir, to the choir.&rsquo; Some of
+you run half-way up the steps, then come down again
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
+as if you had
+changed your minds, and rush right across the other side. You are
+confused, and don&#8217;t know what to do. You, Mr. Bishop, shout out in your
+tremendous voice, &lsquo;To the crypt.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>This movement is rehearsed some twenty times before it satisfies Mr.
+Irving. At last, the monks disappear, and <em>Becket</em> is left to confront
+his murderers. &ldquo;I stand here in the transept, and <em>Fitzurse</em> rushes up
+to me. What&#8217;s he say? Oh, &lsquo;I will not only touch but drag thee hence.&rsquo;
+Then I say, &lsquo;Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away,&rsquo; and push him
+off.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><em>Fitzurse</em> falls, and Mr. Irving stops reading from the part. &ldquo;No,
+<em>Fitzurse</em>, you take hold of me, and I fling you off violently. You must
+remember that I am supposed to be a strong man&mdash;a man who has been a
+soldier. Like this,&rdquo; and Mr. Irving falls on the stage with an ease born
+of long practice. &ldquo;You pick yourself up, rush at me with drawn sword
+(it&#8217;s all one movement), and shout, &lsquo;I told thee that I should remember
+thee.&rsquo; I say, &lsquo;Profligate, pander.&rsquo; You come on with, &lsquo;Do you hear that?
+Strike! strike!&rsquo; I cover my face. &lsquo;I do commend my cause to God,&rsquo; and
+you rush off, drunk with blood, half-horrified at what you&#8217;ve done, and
+yet braving it out, crying, &lsquo;King&#8217;s men! King&#8217;s men!&rsquo; to support your
+Dutch courage.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 296px;">
+<img src="images/img131.jpg" width="296" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">miss genevieve ward. (&ldquo;eleanor&rdquo;)</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The murderers go &ldquo;off,&rdquo; and Mr. Terriss and Mr. Irving practise a series
+of different attitudes for the death scene until Mr. Irving is finally
+satisfied. He has taken off his coat in order to better rehearse the
+murder scene. Mr. Terriss now helps him on with it again, the monks are
+recalled, and some dozen more painstaking attempts made to get
+everything right. &ldquo;It&#8217;s very simple, gentlemen,&rdquo; Mr. Irving assures the
+monks. &ldquo;Very simple, when you&#8217;ve once caught the spirit of it.&rdquo; This
+rehearsal has lasted for nearly three hours, during the whole of which
+time Mr. Irving has superintended everything, thrown himself into each
+man&#8217;s part, grouped everyone, created the action, devised suggestions
+for scenery, as if regardless of the fact that in the evening
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> he will
+have to undergo the awful stress and strain of <em>King Lear</em>. Any other
+man, with a less intense vitality, would simply collapse under all this
+pressure. Mr. Irving puts up his eyeglass, takes a last look at the
+stage, and walks buoyantly off as if the whole thing were mere child&#8217;s
+play.</p>
+
+<p>But where is Miss Ellen Terry? The question answers itself as soon as
+asked, for a gliding, graceful feminine presence appears on the stage.
+Miss Ellen Terry is attired in black, with a white fichu at her breast
+to relieve the monotony of this sombre garb. In her hand she carries a
+little black basket, and there is a glimmer of steel at her side as if
+she wore a reticule containing the hundred-and-one trifles which ladies
+like to carry about with them. So much has been written and said about
+Miss Terry that it would seem at first sight utterly impossible to say
+anything new. In five minutes, the difficulty is to say enough. The
+supreme unconsciousness of Art, or Nature, enables her to assume a
+hundred changing attitudes; her voice is heard without effort from one
+end of the theatre to the other; she possesses the most exquisite tact.
+Watch the skill, for instance, with which she induces some young actor
+to realise the true meaning of a passage in the play. She seems to be
+thinking it out to herself as if a new idea had been presented to her.
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she says, musingly, &ldquo;I wonder if that is what Tennyson meant?&rdquo;
+Or, &ldquo;Wait a minute,&rdquo; she adds brightly, &ldquo;How would this do?&rdquo; Then she
+repeats the passage with the right emphasis, action, and intonation,
+giving the meaning clearly and fully. &ldquo;Don&#8217;t you think that must be what
+is meant?&rdquo; she asks questioningly. &ldquo;Hum-m,&rdquo; says the actor, looking at
+the lines. &ldquo;Ah, very likely. Perhaps it is.&rdquo; It is agreed that it shall
+be spoken that way, and the actor gives a delicate and truthful reading
+of the part, which will procure him a pat on the back from the critics
+when the play is produced. In the presence of her intuitive perception,
+the members of the caste instinctively become energetic and animated. At
+one moment she bends over to Mr. Meredith Ball in the orchestra, her
+long black skirt sweeping the stage in graceful folds; at another &ldquo;moves
+up&rdquo; to test a portion of the scenery and confer with Mr. Irving, or,
+with chair lightly dragging after, walks towards the wings, sits down,
+and rapidly cons her part. Three minutes after, she has crossed the
+stage, and is writing a letter. Before the letter is finished, something
+else claims her attention. Then she comes back, finishes it, and is
+consulted by Mr. Irving and Mr. Terriss as to how he (Mr. Terriss) is to
+jump over a table without forfeiting his kingly dignity. Mr. Terriss
+has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
+already vaulted over the table some eight times with the agility of
+a deer, but Mr. Irving wants it done differently. &ldquo;I think you&#8217;d
+better,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;have something on the table, and pick it up before
+you go over. If you do it this way, it looks rather like Lillie Bridge,
+you know.&rdquo; Miss Ellen Terry reflects a moment, then asks, in mirthful
+tones, suiting the action to the word, &ldquo;What is that jump that makes you
+go sideways as you fly over hurdles?&rdquo; Mr. Terriss, like Mr. Winkle&#8217;s
+horse, goes &ldquo;sideways.&rdquo; This method, however, still lacks dignity, and
+at last it is decided that he shall place both hands on the table,
+spring over, and so lightly up the steps and exit. Half-way up the steps
+he is recalled by Mr. Irving&#8217;s warning voice, &ldquo;Don&#8217;t go up there; it
+isn&#8217;t safe yet.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 290px;">
+<img src="images/img133.jpg" width="290" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">miss ellen terry.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 365px;">
+<img src="images/img134.jpg" width="365" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. hawes craven at work on a &ldquo;cloth.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 401px;">
+<img src="images/img135.jpg" width="401" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">miss terry and mr. terriss<br />
+run through their scene.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>There is one gentleman who plays a very important part in the
+proceedings, yet never appears on the Lyceum stage in public, and that
+is Mr. Hawes Craven, the scenic artist. Frequenters of the theatre have
+for many years past been familiar with Mr. Craven&#8217;s beautiful scenery,
+but very few of them know the manner of place where it is produced. Down
+many deep steps beneath the stage is a winding passage leading past the
+unornamental bases of what appear to be huge balks of timber, rising up
+into space. These timbers are interspersed with rubber pipes for
+lighting purposes. Leaning against the wall is a dilapidated structure,
+very much like a huge Robinson Crusoe umbrella out of repair, which, on
+closer inspection, proves to be the hovel used in &ldquo;King Lear.&rdquo; Close to
+it is affixed a placard giving directions how to manipulate the
+celebrated Lyceum thunder. A little beyond is a narrow flight of stone
+steps leading to Mr. Craven&#8217;s painting room, which is fifty feet long
+and about thirty feet wide. It is lit by a skylight extending the full
+width of the roof. On each side of it are stretched huge canvasses,
+eighteen feet high and forty-seven feet long. These canvasses are
+extended on frames, which can be raised or lowered by means of a winch
+to suit Mr. Craven&#8217;s convenience. Some idea of the expensiveness
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> of the
+materials for stage scenery may be gathered from the fact that the
+canvas alone costs a shilling a yard, with an additional charge of one
+penny for sewing. It takes Mr. Craven and his two assistants four hours
+to &ldquo;prime&rdquo; one cloth ready for painting. In times of emergency, he often
+works fourteen hours at a stretch. The floor of the room is bespattered
+thickly with paint: Mr. Craven&#8217;s clothes are all the hues of the
+rainbow; so are those of his assistants, one of them unconsciously
+having decorated himself with a blue nose. The centre of the room is
+occupied by huge tables, on which stand earthen pots containing paint by
+the half-gallon, and brushes of all shapes and sizes. Indeed, some of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
+brushes will hold two pounds weight of paint at a single dip, and
+Mr. Craven&#8217;s implement for sketching in outlines is a thick stick of
+charcoal fastened on a long pole. The artist&#8217;s method of painting is to
+walk to the centre tables, take a huge dip of paint, and speed back
+again to his canvas, which represents a huge ash tree. Mr. Craven,
+besides sporting as much woad on his person as an ancient Briton, wears
+a white handkerchief round his brows. When he is very much pressed for
+time, he exchanges this handkerchief for a red one, and the joke goes
+round that this means blood. As it is impossible to carry heavy pots of
+paint about all day, Mr. Craven really performs a kind of &ldquo;sentry-go,&rdquo;
+painting as he goes. One curious fact is that his colours dry very
+quickly about two shades lighter than when they are wet. After Mr.
+Craven has covered a certain amount of space, he motions to the boy at
+the winch, and the whole vast canvas moves slowly up some two or three
+feet. Mr. Craven, in addition to his artistic knowledge, is a perfect
+ambulatory encyclop&aelig;dia, his work requiring an intimate acquaintance
+with architecture, botany, history. He is, above all things, an artist,
+with an intimate knowledge of the shapes, the hues, the seasons of
+flowers, the colours and habits of birds, the tints of leaves, their
+varied forms, and the other thousand and one things which he is called
+upon to depict at a moment&#8217;s notice. The rapidity with which he works is
+simply marvellous. &ldquo;So sorry I can&#8217;t talk much,&rdquo; he says;
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> &ldquo;but I had
+fourteen hours of it yesterday, and my feet are beginning to give out.&rdquo;
+&ldquo;You ought to join the eight hours&#8217; movement, Mr. Craven.&rdquo; Mr. Craven
+makes a semi-circular sweep with a huge brush, the point of which lights
+on a pendulous ash bough. &ldquo;Eight hours!&rdquo; he echoes with genial scorn.
+&ldquo;Why, if I did, my profession would (dab! dab! dab!) cease (dab! dab!
+dab!) to (dab!) exist for me&rdquo;; and the naked bough is clad in graceful
+foliage with magical rapidity.</p>
+
+<p>One evening, it is announced that for a couple of days Mr. Irving will
+not play. Before he has fully recovered, however, he comes down to
+rehearsal with Mr. Loveday, who is, happily, convalescent. Miss Terry
+and Mr. Terriss spare him all they can, the latter&#8217;s Jove-like voice
+thundering over the stage when Mr. Irving wishes to convey commands to
+distant groups. But it is evident that Mr. Irving will not be
+restrained. After the rehearsal begins, the force of habit causes him to
+be here, there, and everywhere with unabated energy, as the grouping in
+the third scene of the first act is very difficult. The following rough
+diagram will give some idea of the stage:</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/img136.jpg" width="600" height="385" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>This scene is laid in Northampton Castle. Some fifty people are on the
+stage, bishops, Templars, knights, and John of Oxford, President of the
+Council. Mr. Irving runs his eye over the different groups. &ldquo;Put one man
+on the steps. Now, a group by the throne. The barons sit round the
+table, and the rest of you occupy the benches.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
+As the groups arrange themselves in obedience to Mr. Irving&#8217;s
+directions, his somewhat elderly fox-terrier moves slowly &ldquo;on,&rdquo; and
+superciliously surveys the general effect. As the barons give vent to
+angry murmurs, the dog howls. Sometimes, when Mr. Irving walks up the
+steps after bidding defiance to the barons, the dog follows stiffly
+after him to lend the weight of his moral support. Satisfied that all is
+well, the dog returns to Miss Terry, and goes to sleep on her dress. Now
+and then he wakes up, stretches himself, and evinces the most profound
+contempt for John of Oxford&#8217;s speech by yawning in the orator&#8217;s face.
+Seeing, at last, that the rehearsal will be longer than usual, he
+resigns himself to the inevitable, and goes to sleep again.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 463px;">
+<img src="images/img137.jpg" width="463" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the fight at northampton.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>After Mr. Irving has grouped the men on the benches, he steps back and
+looks at the table. &ldquo;We ought to have on it some kind of mace or
+crosier,&rdquo; he says&mdash;&ldquo;a large crosier. Now for the &lsquo;make up.&rsquo; All the
+barons and everyone who has a moustache must wear a small beard. All the
+gentlemen who have no beards remain unshaven. All the priests and
+bishops are unshaven. The mob can have slight beards, but this is
+unimportant. Now, take off your hats, gentlemen, please. Some of you
+must be old, some young. Hair very short;&rdquo; and he passes from group to
+group selecting the different people.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Now, I think, that is all
+understood pretty well. Where are the sketches for dresses?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The sketches are brought, and he goes carefully through them. Miss Terry
+and Mr. Terriss also look over the big white sheets of paper. The
+fox-terrier strolls up to the group, gives a glance at them, and walks
+back again to Miss Terry&#8217;s chair with a slightly cynical look. Then Mr.
+Irving returns to the groups by the benches. &ldquo;Remember, gentlemen, you
+must be arguing here, laying down the law in this way,&rdquo; suiting the
+action to the word. &ldquo;Just arrange who is to argue. Don&#8217;t do it
+promiscuously, but three or four of you together. Try to put a little
+action into it. I want you to show your arms, and not to keep them glued
+to your sides like trussed fowls. No; that isn&#8217;t half enough action.
+Don&#8217;t be frightened. Better make too much noise rather than too little,
+but don&#8217;t stop too suddenly. Start arguing when I ring the first bell.
+As I ring the second bell, you see me enter, and stop.&rdquo; The dog stands
+one bell, but the second annoys him, and he disappears from the stage
+altogether, until the people on the benches have finished their
+discussion.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Irving next tries the three-cornered stools which are placed around
+the table, but prefers square ones. The dog returns, walks over to the
+orchestra, looks vainly for a rat, and retreats under the table in the
+centre of the stage as if things were getting really too much for him.
+But his resting place is ill-chosen, for presently half-a-dozen angry
+lords jump on the table, and he is driven forth once more. After a
+stormy scene with the lords, Mr. Irving walks up the steps again. &ldquo;When
+I say &lsquo;I depart,&rsquo; you must let me get up the steps. All this time your
+pent-up anger is waiting to burst out suddenly. Don&#8217;t go to sleep over
+it.&rdquo; He looks at the table in the centre of the stage, and turns to a
+carpenter. &ldquo;This table will never do. It has to be jumped on by so many
+people that it must be very strong. They follow me. (To Miss Terry)
+They&#8217;d better catch hold of me, up the steps here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Miss Terry: They must do something. They can&#8217;t stand holding you like
+that.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Irving: No. The door opens suddenly at top of steps, and discovers
+the crowd, who shout, &ldquo;Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the
+Lord.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The doors open and the crowd shout, but the effect is not good.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Terry: It would be better if it were done at the foot of the steps.
+The people needn&#8217;t show their faces as they do it, and the effect will
+be so much better.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
+The effect is tried, and found to answer admirably. Then the carpenters
+carry away the scenery, and the stage is &ldquo;set&rdquo; roughly for the Bower
+scene in the second act. Mr. Terriss fetches a screen from the left, and
+places it behind Miss Terry&#8217;s chair; Mr. Irving sits facing Miss Terry,
+backed by another screen to keep off draughts; Mr. Terriss sits a little
+way back, and the dog goes to sleep in the centre of the group. In the
+background appear three or four costumed specimen monks and retainers
+waiting to be inspected, one frivolous being trying to balance a yard
+measure on the tip of his nose in a manner which ill accords with his
+monkish vestments. The &ldquo;music cues&rdquo; are very difficult to get right.
+Nearly an hour is consumed in trying different effects. Miss Terry
+insists that the whole scene entirely depends upon the action, and that
+the music must be subordinated to it. When the music drowns her voice,
+she suddenly stops with a despairing gesture, &ldquo;We couldn&#8217;t speak through
+this any more than the dead. Can&#8217;t it begin loudly, Mr. Ball, then die
+away?&rdquo; Then she turns to Miss Kate Phillips, who is her maid in the
+play. &ldquo;Please try your song at the back there, Miss Phillips.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img139.jpg" width="500" height="362" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. irving considering the incidental music.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Miss Phillips sings a very pretty but sad little song, and Miss Terry
+listens attentively.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
+&ldquo;It&#8217;s an Irish wail,&rdquo; says Mr. Irving. &ldquo;You don&#8217;t want an Irish wail
+here, but a merry song. You should have a mirthful, running
+accompaniment,&rdquo; and the song is changed. &ldquo;That is enough for to-day.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The dog thinks so too. The &ldquo;Irish wail&rdquo; has been the last straw. He
+precedes everyone towards the wings with joyous barks which quite belie
+his air of long-suffering cynicism. It is lunch time.</p>
+
+<p>At the first full-dress rehearsal, the Lyceum stage resembles a bee-hive
+with its swarms of busy occupants. Huge pieces of scenery move about,
+propelled by perspiring carpenters in shirt-sleeves; whole skies
+suddenly float up into &ldquo;the flies&rdquo;; the prompter converses amicably with
+a mail-clad baron; then, more scenery glides majestically down from the
+roof or springs up suddenly through the stage, which is literally full
+of &ldquo;traps&rdquo; for the unwary. The &ldquo;tum-tum-tum&rdquo; of the fiddles in the
+orchestra sounds weirdly as the composer of the incidental music,
+Professor Stanford Villiers, leans over from the stalls and chats with
+Mr. Meredith Ball, or makes a mysterious statement to him that &ldquo;the
+<em>staccato</em> should be a little more <em>staccato</em>.&rdquo; Presently, Professor
+Villiers remarks to the orchestra, &ldquo;Instead of playing two short
+quavers, please play the crotchet in three time.&rdquo; The orchestra respond
+vigorously, but are stopped with a further request to &ldquo;play the first
+chord in the second bar as a dotted minim instead of a quaver,&rdquo; and the
+Professor wanders about all over the house testing the effect of every
+note.</p>
+
+<p>The prologue goes off as smoothly as if it had been played for a hundred
+nights. Miss Terry, clad in <em>Rosamond&#8217;s</em> magnificent robes, sits in the
+stalls and watches the effect of the lights upon each group. Sometimes a
+light is too blue, or too yellow, or too white, and in the first act the
+rehearsal is stopped several times on this account. When Miss Terry is
+on the stage, Mr. Irving watches the lights; when Mr. Irving is acting,
+she studies each flash.</p>
+
+<p>On the whole, there are wonderfully few details which require
+modification. In the Bower scene, the light is at first too yellow, and
+has to be altered. Practical experience proves that the bank up which
+the lovers go is too slippery. A portion of it is cut away, thus
+avoiding the probability of an awkward accident. Miss Ward trips on the
+hem of her regal robe, and requests the <em>costumier</em> to &ldquo;take it up a
+little.&rdquo; Mr. Irving, with unfailing memory, notices that some spearmen
+are without their spears. But there is little to alter; at the second
+full-dress rehearsal there will be less; and on the evening of the first
+performance
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
+everything and everybody will have settled down into the
+right place. Mr. Hawes Craven comes on once or twice to look at his
+handiwork, and see that it has been properly &ldquo;set.&rdquo; Then he walks away
+with a brisk step to his well-earned rest.</p>
+
+<p>Apart from the interest of the Bower scene, it is delightful to watch
+Miss Terry and Master Byrne, who plays <em>Geoffrey</em>. When he comes &ldquo;on&rdquo; a
+little before he is wanted, Miss Terry throws her arms round him and
+kisses the pretty little fellow tenderly with, &ldquo;There, run away for a
+moment, darling; we&#8217;re not quite ready for you.&rdquo; It is this sweet and
+all-pervading womanliness of Miss Terry&#8217;s which fascinates the onlooker.
+Suddenly, from some dark recess, her voice floats out with an eminently
+practical suggestion, a shrewd idea as to effect, some playful query. It
+comes from every quarter of the theatre, and is marvellously thrilling,
+with all the subtle fascination of what a poet-musician would call its
+&ldquo;tone-colour.&rdquo; When the curtain draws up for the Bower scene, and she
+playfully chides her royal lover, it is more exquisite still. The
+solitary observer sits and listens to it, the sole representative from
+the outer world. All this gorgeous pageantry is for him alone; all this
+wealth of emotion, this story of love and murder, this work of the great
+poet now passed away&mdash;all this is poured into the ears of one man, who
+sits motionless, entranced, until the tale is told, the play done, and
+he walks out into the quiet night, quivering with the terrible pathos of
+<em>Becket&#8217;s</em> end.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img141.jpg" width="400" height="74" alt="page decoration" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 339px;">
+<img src="images/img142.jpg" width="339" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;someone touched me on the arm.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>A Blessing Disguised</em>.</h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By F. W. Robinson</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrated by A. Birkenrauth and St. M. Fitzgerald</span>.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 159px;">
+<img src="images/img143.jpg" width="159" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;my housekeeper.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>When I came home from my fortnight&#8217;s holiday, amongst Tom Brisket&#8217;s
+cows, in Huntingdonshire&mdash;once a year, for just fourteen days, do I
+unbend from the cares of business and seek relaxation far away from
+Bermondsey&mdash;and let myself in, with my patent latchkey, and walked with
+my usual confidence into my front parlour, you might have knocked me
+down with a feather. Any feather would have done it&mdash;a butterfly&#8217;s,
+say&mdash;I was thrown so completely off my guard. I had been so confident. I
+was not in any way prepared for it.</p>
+
+<p>The house was desolate enough, but that was not it. Mrs. Kibbey had
+failed to put in an appearance at the end of her holiday, although I had
+wired to her only yesterday that I should be home at precisely 8.15
+p.m.; but it was not the unlooked for absence of Mrs. Kibbey&mdash;my
+housekeeper&mdash;that upset me thoroughly, oh, no. The gas was not lighted,
+and the supper was not likely to come off in the absence of Kibbey,
+certainly, but these were only minor features of a colossal
+surprise&mdash;bagatelles, or anything you may like to call them. Golden
+Birch Villa, Streatham, S.E., was simply chaos&mdash;that is the mildest and
+easiest way of explaining the matter to begin with. One word
+suffices&mdash;Chaos. It will take a great many words to explain why my
+little suburban retreat, on which I had prided myself for so many years
+of my bachelor life, was a mass of conglomerated wreckage. I will be as
+brief as I can. I am not a prolix man; I know the value of time, and of
+other people&#8217;s time. I should not have had a flourishing business in
+Bermondsey, if I didn&#8217;t know. Golden Birch Villa, Streatham, then, had
+been <em>burgled</em>. Broken into, despoiled and defaced, was my
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> little
+country retreat from the turmoil of town, and it was this which had
+confronted me after fourteen days of pastoral simplicity, during which I
+had got very sick of Tom Brisket, and Tom&#8217;s wife, and Tom&#8217;s cows, and
+Tom&#8217;s children&mdash;especially his children&mdash;which palled upon one badly and
+became unbearable, and beastly personal. The country soon tells upon me,
+and I am not fond of children&mdash;yet a while&mdash;because&mdash;but this is mere
+babbling of green fields and babies. In describing my return to Golden
+Birch Villa that evening, I still feel a confusion in the brain which
+whirls and whirls gently round with me. It was the greatest surprise of
+my life, the first chapter in a series of surprises, the reader will say
+presently. I shall leave the story in his hands, and a remarkable story
+it is, take it altogether. It illustrates clearly the old axiom, that
+one never knows what is for the best, and that to be robbed&mdash;&ldquo;cleaned
+out&rdquo;&mdash;and one&#8217;s premises generally done for, should turn out to be a
+blessing in disguise, will not be very clearly apparent to the reader
+until I have explained the whole affair and he has heard my story to the
+end.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 212px;">
+<img src="images/img144.jpg" width="212" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;tom&#8217;s children.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>At the precise moment of which I write now&mdash;8.15&mdash;I felt as if utter
+ruin had overtaken me, as if there were no getting over this gigantic
+trouble&mdash;this shock, as it were, of a moral earthquake. The usual kind
+of earthquake would have been very much the same kind of article, things
+a little more askew, perhaps, but not half so &ldquo;messy.&rdquo; I staggered into
+an easy chair&mdash;after lighting one of my gas-burners&mdash;and took a survey
+of the situation, with my mouth open, my chin on my chest, my knees
+knocking gently together, and my hair slowly rising upon my head. All
+the doors had been locked before the departure of Mrs. Kibbey&mdash;my
+housekeeper&mdash;and myself on our separate ways of recreation, and all the
+doors were now wrenched open, and the locks hanging, as it were, by bits
+of skin! Everything in the room of any real value had vanished like a
+beautiful dream, and everything &ldquo;of no value to anyone but the owner&rdquo;
+had been tilted into the middle of the room for the convenience of a
+hasty analysis before departure. The
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
+contents of two desks, of my
+carved oak sideboard (&ldquo;late the property of a gentleman&rdquo;), of my
+bookcase (to make sure that nothing had been stowed away behind the
+books), of all the drawers in all the tables, were in one large heap
+upon the carpet; bills, letters, tablecloths, tablecovers, dinner
+knives, decanters, chimney ornaments, books, purses, lead pencils,
+corkscrews, my silver-mounted flute, with all the mounts gone, and the
+cruets minus their silver tops. Also all the silver spoons, the electros
+being turned out upon the heap as &ldquo;non-negotiables.&rdquo; The piano had been
+split open and gutted&mdash;it was an unredeemed Grand&mdash;the burglar or
+burglars having been seized with the suspicion that I had secreted
+articles of value in the body of the instrument. And so I had! one
+valuable in particular being a favourite hand or carriage-clock mosaic,
+and a mass of miniature dials, gold-mounted, the dials at one time
+having been capable of giving all kinds of unnecessary information,
+before the death of the manufacturer, who departed this life leaving no
+one skilled enough in the world to undertake the repairs; but it was a
+great curiosity, and I set great store by it. So did the burglars, for
+they had found it and carried it away, along with a large quantity of
+portable property too numerous to mention in the pages of this magazine
+without changing their appearance to a kind of &ldquo;Catalogue of Sale.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 224px;">
+<img src="images/img145.jpg" width="224" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i staggered to<br />an easy chair.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Yes&mdash;I was robbed. And I had been so very sure that to leave the
+premises to take care of themselves was so exceedingly wise an
+expedient. &ldquo;Cocksure Kippen&rdquo; had been my nickname in Bermondsey since I
+had been in the pawnbrokering, just because I had opinions of my own,
+and did not call on other people to let me know <em>their</em> views of a
+question upon which I had made up my mind. What did I want with other
+people&#8217;s opinions, when I knew my own were ever so much better? But I
+was a little crestfallen on the present occasion&mdash;I will say that. And
+it was my own fault for going down to Tom&#8217;s&mdash;I will say that too. What
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
+did I want with country air? I had not been ailing anything. I had
+always considered a fortnight in Tom Brisket&#8217;s company a frightful waste
+of time. I was never without an excellent appetite, and I measured
+forty-one inches round the chest, one inch for every year of my life, I
+had said jocosely, only yesterday, before I returned to town, but there
+was no jocosity in me when I was at home again&mdash;if this bear-garden
+could be called home, that is, or made to look like home ever any more!</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 165px;">
+<img src="images/img146.jpg" width="165" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;it was a clean job,&rsquo;<br />the policeman said.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>It was a clean job, the policeman said&mdash;quite admiringly&mdash;when I had
+strength to reach the front door and call him in. Why had I not gone
+round to the station-house, the policeman asked, and told the Inspector
+I was off for a holiday, as other people generally did? Oh, yes, that
+was very likely! Why had not I insured in a Burglary Company? Oh,
+yes&mdash;and let no end of people know that there was a furnished house at
+Streatham with nobody inside of it for a fortnight. Did I think I could
+trust my housekeeper? Trust Martha Kibbey, who was my father&#8217;s
+housekeeper before me&mdash;dear, deaf, old, palsy-stricken Kibbey, with a
+sister in the Cookshops Almshouses, Caterham, and with whom she spent
+her holiday invariably. Kibbey, whom the policeman and I found upstairs
+in a fit, in her own bedroom, having it all to herself, like a quiet,
+unobtrusive old soul as she always was. She <em>had</em> come into the house in
+good time, and realising the position, had rushed upstairs to her room,
+first of all, to see what had been taken of those worldly goods of her
+own, in which she was more naturally interested than anybody else. And
+when she discovered that her chest of drawers had been opened
+with an indifferent chisel, and that a silver watch of her
+grandfather&#8217;s&mdash;weighing one pound and a quarter&mdash;had disappeared, along
+with an apple-scoop, also of precious metal, belonging to her late
+husband, who was &ldquo;gummy,&rdquo; Mrs. Kibbey became a physical wreck, fit for
+nothing, and comprehending next to nothing. When she understood that I
+was in the house&mdash;safe and sound&mdash;she went into hysterics of
+thankfulness of so violent a description that I had to leave her with
+police-constable 906, and run across the road for the doctor.</p>
+
+<p>The police made a great fuss over the robbery. The Inspector
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> called
+later on and entered all the particulars in a notebook, and looked at
+the broken doors and the hole in the breakfast parlour shutters, through
+which admittance had been obtained, and the general turn-out of
+everything in the middle of each room, and then adding his testimony to
+the neatness of the job, took his departure, promising to let me know
+when anything turned up.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We shall want a complete list of the articles you miss, so that we can
+send round to the pawnbrokers,&rdquo; he had said before leaving me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&#8217;m a pawnbroker myself,&rdquo; I replied.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! then you&#8217;ll get one.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thankee. Perhaps I shall get one of the thieves too.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, you&#8217;ll know your own property, I expect, sir,&rdquo; he said, with a
+most unbecoming grin, as he took himself off the premises. I did not see
+him again. I hope I never shall, the unsympathetic beast.</p>
+
+<p>Time passed on and brought no tidings of the robbers or the stolen
+property. I was very much distressed over the whole affair, and my
+neighbours tried to comfort me by telling me that I could afford the
+loss, and that it was a good job it had not happened to a poorer man.
+How did they know I could afford the loss, or that I was not utterly
+ruined? I had never posed as a wealthy man&mdash;I was not wealthy, in the
+strict sense of the term. I had been only careful, I had spent nothing
+in waste, and I <em>had</em> put by a little money for a rainy day. If people
+in Bermondsey called me a money-grubber, it was no fault of my own; but
+there were a few who did, because I held to the strict letter of the law
+in my contracts. That was praiseworthy, but they could not see it. I
+believe a few of them were actually glad that I had been robbed.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 131px;">
+<img src="images/img147.jpg" width="131" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;he was<br />very lame.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Some six months after the burglary, in the dusk of an early winter&#8217;s
+afternoon, a tall, sunken-cheeked man, with a huge white moustache and a
+vermilion face, which seemed put on expressly to show it up by, came
+limping into my shop at Bermondsey. He was very lame, or pretended to
+be, I thought, to throw me off my guard. As if I, Edwin Kippen, was
+likely to be off guard in business hours, as if it were possible to be
+off one&#8217;s guard and get one&#8217;s living, Bermondsey way.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
+I told my apprentice, who was behind the counter polishing up a few
+window goods for next Saturday, to light up, though there was quite
+half-an-hour&#8217;s daylight left in the street. But, somehow&mdash;such is
+instinct&mdash;I did not like the get-up of this man. I had never seen him
+before; he did not look &ldquo;made in Bermondsey,&rdquo; and he was seedy, and a
+little nervous, though he talked in strident tones, in a Sir Anthony
+Absolute kind of manner, which made the gas glasses jingle.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you buy articles outright, Mr. Kippen, as well as lend money on
+them?&rdquo; he asked abruptly as he entered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir, I do.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And at a fair price?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Certainly. May I ask what&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But he was an impetuous man, and so full of his own mission, that he did
+not wait for me to conclude my inquiry.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 250px;">
+<img src="images/img148.jpg" width="250" height="216" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;my apprentice.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then what will you give me for this article, money down?&rdquo; he asked,
+producing from his pocket, to my complete astonishment, the identical
+little carriage clock, all dials and complications and internal
+irregularities, which I had hidden in my piano before going down to
+Brisket&#8217;s farm&mdash;the clock that had been stolen from my Streatham villa.
+The same feeling came over me which I had had in that residence on the
+night of my return. I was swimmy for a moment, and saw stars, and then
+thought that a thick fog had broken out in Bermondsey. I recovered
+myself by a mighty effort of will. Here was to be a battle of the wits.
+Here was one item of my lost property within a hand&#8217;s grasp of me. I
+couldn&#8217;t keep that hand from trembling as I took the clock from him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&#8217;t shake it up like a bottle of medicine,&rdquo; said the old gentleman,
+irritably; &ldquo;it&#8217;s a delicate piece of workmanship, and won&#8217;t stand
+bobbing up and down like that; it upsets the mechanism, and it isn&#8217;t
+easily set right.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is it in working order, then?&rdquo; I inquired, with suppressed amazement.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, of course it is.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good gracious! is it though?&rdquo; I said, nearly dropping it in my
+surprise.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It tells the days of the month, the dates of the month,&rdquo; he went on,
+&ldquo;the phases of the moon, the month of the year, the year of the century,
+the variations in the weather; it chimes
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
+the quarters, halves, and
+three-quarters; it plays a waltz after it strikes the hour; it acts as a
+revolver&mdash;I mean as a repeater&mdash;and it is mounted in solid gold of 20
+carat, almost pure gold. A timepiece fit for a prince, and belonged
+originally to Louis Seize. What is it worth to you, money down&mdash;on the
+nail&mdash;as you tradesmen say?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall want a little time to consider the matter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Take your own time, sir, only, for God&#8217;s sake, look sharp,&rdquo; said the
+old man irreverently, as he removed his hat and wiped his forehead with
+a big, old-fashioned silk bandanna.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A clock of this description cannot be reckoned up in a hurry,&rdquo; I said.
+&ldquo;I haven&#8217;t examined the works yet.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You&#8217;ll find them perfect, wonderfully perfect. But don&#8217;t breathe into
+them if you can help it. It affects the waltz movement particularly.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 248px;">
+<img src="images/img149.jpg" width="248" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a timepiece fit for a prince.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, does it, indeed?&rdquo; I said, ironically.</p>
+
+<p>I professed to be examining the works with the closest attention, but I
+was only resolving on my plan of future action. I was playing with my
+prey&mdash;an angler with his &ldquo;catch,&rdquo; a cat with a mouse. This was the man
+who had broken into Golden Birch Villa, and walked off with the pick of
+the property. An ingenious burglar, who was an expert in clocks, and&mdash;I
+smiled grimly at the joke&mdash;who had actually put the article into my own
+hands again in perfect order. I could have imagined that it was a
+duplicate copy of mine, and in better condition altogether, had it not
+been for my private mark, which I was focussing now through a
+single-barrelled magnifier. I could talk to the man better in this
+fashion; had I looked him straight in his brazen chaps, my virtuous
+indignation would have betrayed me. And my policy was to dissemble, like
+the man in a melodrama.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have had this a long time in the family, I suppose?&rdquo; I said
+quietly&mdash;very quietly&mdash;but tentatively.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It&#8217;s not new. Any fool can see that it is a Louis Seize clock, and of
+considerable value.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It&#8217;s a valuable thing in its way, no doubt, but it would suit a West
+End house better than my establishment.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I know that, sir, as well as you do,&rdquo; was the testy reply, &ldquo;but I
+haven&#8217;t got the time to run to the other side of the water, and I want
+money in a hurry&mdash;in a great hurry, or I should not have come to you,&rdquo;
+he added bluntly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you living in this neighbourhood?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What business is that of yours?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;What&mdash;yes, I do live in the
+neighbourhood&mdash;round the corner in Tan Yard Road&mdash;if you want to know.
+No. 239 is my address, if it is likely to do you any good, and my name
+is Youson. I see you have your doubts as to my rightful possession of
+the article; pawnbrokers are all alike, have exactly the same tricks of
+the trade. I know their ways, no one better, and I know what you are
+going to say to me next.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I really do not think that is possible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You&#8217;ll tell me it is unsaleable&mdash;that not one in ten thousand would
+think of buying such a thing&mdash;that at the price of the metal it will be
+worth to you&mdash;well, what the devil is it worth? You have been staring at
+it long enough to know now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry you are in such a tremendous hurry,&rdquo; I said, nettled a
+little by his unceremonious deportment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I <em>am</em> in a hurry. It is a question of life and death to me that I
+should have that money quickly, don&#8217;t you see? No&mdash;you don&#8217;t see&mdash;how
+can you see&mdash;how can you know anything about me, save that I want money?
+You see that fast enough. Well, sir, you are welcome to your knowledge,&rdquo;
+he went on excitedly, &ldquo;and I am not clever enough to disguise it, though
+I know you&#8217;ll take advantage of my extremity&mdash;a man of business, and in
+your line of business, is sure to do that. But give me a fair price.
+I&mdash;I&mdash;don&#8217;t want the money for myself, I don&#8217;t want a penny of
+it&mdash;shan&#8217;t take a penny of it, by God!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>This was an odd way of trying to get rid of stolen goods, but it was
+ingenious, and there was a refreshing novelty in the style of it. But I
+was not the man to be done. I flattered myself that I was as shrewd as
+this artful and red-faced old fox, and that I held the trump card in my
+hand to play at any moment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have a friend only a few doors off who will know the value of this
+article far better than I,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;he is a collector of&mdash;of clocks,
+and will give you a better price than I can afford. This is not in my
+line at all; I should never get a bid for it. Ten pounds would be too
+much for me to pay, or even to lend upon it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It&#8217;s worth a hundred pounds, you know that well enough.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I should not like to say what it is actually worth. I don&#8217;t buy things
+like these without Bender&#8217;s opinion; he&#8217;s a sleeping partner of mine,
+and only just round the corner.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, is he?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Heaven forgive me these dreadful lies,&rdquo; I whispered softly to myself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Let us go to him,&rdquo; he said, snatching the clock suddenly from my hands.
+And I had never intended to let the property get out of my possession
+again! This man was adroit; he might be one too many for me after all,
+if I betrayed the slightest doubt of him, or made anything like a scene.
+He was fidgeting with something in the right pocket of his snuffy, old
+greatcoat too&mdash;perhaps there was a pistol there&mdash;I was almost sure there
+was a pistol!</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, let us go to him, Mr. Youson,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I&#8217;m sure he or I will make
+you a handsome offer; he&#8217;s just the fellow to put down his hundreds.
+Isaac, get me my hat&mdash;any hat or cap, anything you can find&mdash;only look
+alive. I am going round to Mr. Bender&#8217;s with this gentleman.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where&#8217;s Ben&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; began that stupid ass of a boy, but I checked him with
+a malevolent and meaning glance, and the youth, looking frightened,
+dived into the back parlour in search of my head-gear. He came out with
+a straw hat, with a ticket on it, but I did not notice anything in my
+excitement. I pined to be in the open with this miscreant, who had put
+the clock into his pocket. With a policeman in view, on the far horizon
+at the end of the street, my happiest hour would have arrived.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 249px;">
+<img src="images/img151.jpg" width="249" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;people were streaming<br />home from work.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>We sallied forth together, I keeping very close to him, lest he should
+grow suspicious and make up his mind to run. Every minute did I expect
+that he would plunge into the middle of the road and tear madly down the
+street. And it was a trouble to keep by the side of him; the people were
+streaming home from work, were out marketing, looking for something
+cheap for tea or supper to be bought off the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
+barrows which were
+flanking the kerbstones. Side by side, we got jostled occasionally, the
+pavement being narrow and the people thickish, and twice I caught
+surreptitiously at the hem of his garment when I thought that we were
+going to be separated. And, as usual, there was not a policeman on the
+beat anywhere&mdash;no sign of official force&mdash;nothing but men and women,
+boys and girls, the boys terribly in the way, and after the girls!</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you call this a few doors off?&rdquo; said Youson, snappishly, at last.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Comparatively&mdash;oh, yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It looks like half-a-mile,&rdquo; he grumbled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Another minute or two, Mr. Youson. I am sorry you are so pressed for
+time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So am I. Not but what I have had about enough of your company, with
+that ridiculous hat of yours over your eyes,&rdquo; he added, ungraciously. &ldquo;I
+wish I had never come near your infernal shop. You are about the slowest
+tradesman I have ever encountered.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It does not pay to be too fast in my line of business.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don&#8217;t blame you, I don&#8217;t blame you, sir; I only say I
+wish&mdash;&mdash;what are you jumping at? Ain&#8217;t you well? Are you subject to
+anything?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;Spasms or twitches?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I had seen a policeman on the other side of the way, standing under the
+shop-blind of a cheesemonger&#8217;s shop, talking to the young man with the
+apron who was in charge, grinning from ear to ear with him, and grossly
+neglecting his duty, which was to keep a sharp look out at what was
+going on up and down the street.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where are you off to now?&rdquo; asked Mr. Youson.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Bender&#8217;s is over the way.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What, the butterman&#8217;s?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, no, but just by there. Come along. Mind this horse and cart; I
+should not like you to get run over with <em>that</em> in your pocket,&rdquo; I said,
+almost incoherently.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Youson gave a short double-knock sort of a laugh.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What, you are getting anxious about the clock, after all?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am indeed.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>We had reached the other side of the way, and the policeman had turned
+his back upon us&mdash;just like him!&mdash;and was staring straight into the
+shop. There was a row of egg-boxes full of eggs of all sizes and prices
+and ages in front of the premises. Suddenly, I sprang like a panther
+upon my prey, flung my arms
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
+round Youson&#8217;s neck, and yelled, at the top
+of my lungs, for &ldquo;Help!&rdquo; and for the &ldquo;Police!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Damn&mdash;confound it, sir&mdash;what!&rdquo;&mdash;gurgled forth Youson, in his supreme
+astonishment; then we both staggered, our feet went from under us, and,
+locked in each other&#8217;s arms, we sat down, all of a heap, in the &ldquo;28 a
+shilling, not warranted,&rdquo; compartment, and a hideous crackling, as of a
+subdued and squashy landslip, went on beneath our writhing forms.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, good Lord!&rdquo; exclaimed the young butterman, throwing up both arms in
+his despair, &ldquo;here&#8217;s a go!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Here&mdash;hullo&mdash;what the blazes are you two blokes hup to?&rdquo; cried the
+policeman, catching us both by the collars of our coats and shaking us;
+&ldquo;this is a nice place to begin larking, I must say.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is not larking,&rdquo; I exclaimed, getting on my feet, a hideous mass of
+egg-shells and indifferent egg-flip; &ldquo;it&#8217;s highway robbery! This man is
+in possession of my property&mdash;proceeds of a burglary&mdash;I&#8217;m Kippen, the
+pawnbroker, No. 319; he&#8217;s got my clock in his pocket now. I&mdash;I give him
+in charge, constable, I give him in charge! Why don&#8217;t you catch hold of
+him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 307px;">
+<img src="images/img153.jpg" width="307" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;our feet went from under us.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The man&#8217;s mad!&rdquo; ejaculated Mr. Youson, &ldquo;raving mad. Somebody catch hold
+of <em>him</em>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There was a big crowd round us&mdash;it doesn&#8217;t take long to get up a mob in
+Bermondsey&mdash;and the proprietor of the cheesemonger&#8217;s shop, who had
+emerged from his caves of double Gloucester, was wanting to make a case
+of his own out of it all, and run the two of us in. The policeman was
+bewildered, and Mr. Youson was beside himself with ungovernable rage.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He has got the clock in his pocket,&rdquo; I repeated.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I know I have a clock in my pocket,&rdquo; he spluttered, &ldquo;you&mdash;you
+rascal&mdash;you unmitigated&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It&#8217;s my clock. I can swear to it,&rdquo; I yelled. &ldquo;I&#8217;ve plenty of witnesses
+to prove it&#8217;s mine.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
+&ldquo;You&#8217;d better both come round to the station-house,&rdquo; said the policeman;
+&ldquo;do you charge him with taking your clock, sir?&rdquo; he added to me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>We went off to the station-house, Mr. Youson and I, the policeman and
+the cheesemonger, and a grand procession in the rear of about fifteen
+hundred persons with nothing to do. The cheesemonger and I conversed
+amicably <em>en route</em>, when he had become thoroughly convinced that I was
+a brother tradesman, resident at the far end of the street. He
+understood the case then&mdash;he grasped the situation&mdash;but he could not for
+the life of him make out, he said, why we had sat down in the middle of
+his eggs to argue the point. Who was answerable for all the damage, he
+should like to know? I didn&#8217;t know, I told him, and I was damaged
+materially so far as wearing apparel went, I delicately intimated, by
+the indifferent quality of his eggs. That you cannot get reliable eggs
+for twenty-eight a shilling in the winter season, in Bermondsey, is a
+miserable fact, and discreditable to the reputation of French poultry.</p>
+
+<p>I had never been in such a mess in my life, but I was in a greater mess
+the next day. It&#8217;s a long story, that of the examination at the police
+station, and I will spare the reader the harassing details. Mr. Youson,
+in his confusion, made a very rambling statement of how he came into
+possession of the clock, prejudiced the Inspector against him, and got
+himself locked up, and I was told to call the next day at the Police
+Court in Blackman Street and explain matters, and bring my witnesses. I
+did so, and brought a neighbour or two who had seen the clock upon my
+mantelpiece at Streatham, and I clinched the argument with Mrs. Kibbey,
+who shed copious tears during the evidence, till the magistrate asked
+her sharply what she was snivelling at, when she fainted dead away under
+the reproof, and had to be carried from the witness-box into the fresh
+air to recover.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 212px;">
+<img src="images/img154.jpg" width="212" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;mrs. kibbey shed<br />copious tears.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>It was a clear case, however, against Mr. Youson, everybody considered,
+and he was remanded for a week, without bail, whilst
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
+enquiries as to
+his antecedents were to be vigorously made. There was a very grave
+suspicion, the Inspector whispered confidentially into my ear, along
+with some strong puffs of gin and peppermint which impregnated his
+breathing apparatus dreadfully, that Youson was one of a desperate gang
+of Lambeth burglars, for whom the police had been searching for some
+time.</p>
+
+<p>There was a woman&#8217;s scream in court when Youson was remanded, and the
+magistrate, who was certainly in a bad temper that morning, said that he
+would commit anybody for contempt who made such a noise as that again,
+and then the next case was called, and I was outside in Blackman Street,
+Borough.</p>
+
+<p>I had, with some difficulty and a little pleasure, lodged the hysterical
+Mrs. Kibbey in a Streatham omnibus, and was making my way thoughtfully
+down King Street to my Bermondsey premises, when someone touched me on
+the arm. I looked round, and was considerably surprised to find a pale,
+grave young woman of some thirty years of age, poorly but neatly clad,
+keeping step with me on the narrow pavement.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I beg pardon, sir, but you are Mr. Kippen, I think?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, my name is Kippen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wanted to speak to you. I wanted so much to see you before this case
+came on. My name is Youson, Lucinda Youson,&rdquo; she said, hurriedly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;God bless me, is it though? You are&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Mr. Youson&#8217;s daughter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My good woman, I hope you are not going to bother me,&rdquo; I said,
+imploringly; &ldquo;the case is out of my hands. I am bound over to prosecute.
+It was a shameful robbery.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My father did not rob you, Mr. Kippen. Does he look like a thief?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&#8217;t know what he looks like.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 143px;">
+<img src="images/img155.jpg" width="143" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;mr. youson&#8217;s daughter.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You don&#8217;t know the truth,&rdquo; she said quickly. &ldquo;Perhaps you don&#8217;t know
+what kindness is, or charity&mdash;some people don&#8217;t. You would not wait for
+him to explain, and you have nearly killed us with anxiety. We&mdash;we did
+not know what had become of him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Killed <em>us</em>,&rdquo; I repeated, vacantly; &ldquo;are there many of you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
+&ldquo;My sister-in-law and her little boy, and myself. And the boy is
+dying&mdash;that&#8217;s the worst of it&mdash;oh! poor little chap, that is the worst
+of it! And his grandfather was so fond of him; he was selling the clock
+so that the boy and his mother should go away to Madeira, the only
+chance to save him, sir. The only chance that was left.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 313px;">
+<img src="images/img156.jpg" width="313" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;the boy is dying.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And so he thought he would sell something valuable that did not belong
+to him, and go to Madeira at my expense, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You must not say my father stole it&mdash;you dare not!&rdquo; she cried, and her
+eyes literally flashed fire at me. This young woman was as impulsive as
+her felonious father. Here was another scene likely to spring up in the
+street if I were not particularly careful, and I had had enough of
+demonstrations in the public highway.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My good woman, what is it that you want with me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I want you to hear how that clock came into my father&#8217;s possession, and
+then&mdash;and then prosecute him if you can. And at your peril, sir&mdash;please
+to understand, at your peril, though I utter no threats.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It strikes me you do.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;I don&#8217;t mean that,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Heaven help me, I am almost
+distracted, I am not myself to-day, and you will listen? It will not
+cost you anything to listen to me, sir, will it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She laid her hand upon my arm entreatingly&mdash;she had very earnest brown
+eyes, and I was not, as I thought, wholly unsusceptible to the influence
+of brown eyes upon the nervous system. And as she had delicately
+intimated that listening would not cost me anything, why should I object
+to listen to her? We were both going the same way. Of course, I should
+hear a good roundabout story&mdash;a second edition of her father&#8217;s rigmarole
+which had prejudiced the magistrate against him&mdash;but I was not bound in
+any way to believe a word that she said.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
+It sounded uncommonly like truth though, and took me very much aback
+when she said suddenly&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, that clock was stolen from you. We knew it was stolen&mdash;and who
+stole it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But you just said&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That my father did not steal it. God bless him, no. He did not
+know&mdash;did not dream that we knew&mdash;did not know anything about it in any
+way&mdash;does not to this day. It was his property, he thought&mdash;all that was
+left of any value in the world to him; and it had belonged to his
+son&mdash;his eldest son, my half-brother, who&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who was the thief. The infernal&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Please don&#8217;t, sir. He is dead.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn&#8217;t&mdash;know,&rdquo; I found myself saying in an
+apologetic manner which really surprised myself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir, he was the thief,&rdquo; she said, sinking her voice into a whisper
+almost. &ldquo;He committed suicide two months ago abroad, but we have kept
+the truth back from father. He wasn&#8217;t to know&mdash;it would have broken his
+heart, he was so proud of his son, always. But before my half-brother
+died&mdash;he had gone to Canada, to make a home for Kitty and her boy, he
+said&mdash;he wrote to Kitty that he was a repentant man, and that, unknown
+to any of us, he had been for years in bad hands, working with them,
+stealing with them. Our poor father thought he was a traveller for a
+Manchester firm, and so did we, until that terrible confession came
+across the sea to us. We were not to tell father&mdash;we were to make all
+the restitution that we could presently; he would send full instructions
+what we were to do by the next mail, he wrote, and the next mail only
+told us of his death.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 304px;">
+<img src="images/img157.jpg" width="304" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i was always handy with my fingers.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And your father?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Kitty and I have fought hard to keep the truth from him&mdash;the truth
+would have broken his heart. Why the news of his son&#8217;s
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> death nearly
+did, sir. And he has had so much trouble&mdash;so many losses too&mdash;and we
+have been for the last six months so very hard driven to live. Of late
+days father wished to sell this clock, but we would not let him&mdash;we were
+sure it had been stolen, and we hoped to find the owner some day.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But not like this, I suppose?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh! no, not like this. But when little Willie got very ill; when
+residence abroad for a few months might save him, the doctor said&mdash;it
+was only yesterday he told us that&mdash;father took the clock out of the
+house unknown to us, and&mdash;and came at once to you. He is so very
+impetuous, poor father.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! is he? And who put the clock in working order, may I ask?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I did.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was brought up to the watch-making&mdash;I am rather clever at it, they
+say.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 304px;">
+<img src="images/img158.jpg" width="304" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;went to madeira with<br />kitty and the boy.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Clever. By George, I should think you were! Why, in a business like
+mine you would be invaluable.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was always handy with my fingers.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So was your half-brother&mdash;it seems to run in the family.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 266px;">
+<img src="images/img159.jpg" width="266" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;living with her sister now.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I beg pardon,&rdquo; I said, for the second time. &ldquo;I&mdash;I did not mean to say
+that. It slipped out promiscuously.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Never mind, sir&mdash;never mind,&rdquo; she said hurriedly. &ldquo;What are you going
+to do? Pray tell me what you think of doing when I prove the truth of
+this.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If it&#8217;s all true&mdash;and I believe it is already, Miss Youson&mdash;I&mdash;I am
+going to withdraw from the prosecution, and ask your father to bring an
+action against me for illegal detention.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh! he would never think of such a thing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And he never did. The story was quite true, every word of it, and we
+arranged to keep it from the old man, so far as the peculiar profession
+of his first-born was concerned. He never knew <em>that</em>. I got rather
+intimate with the Youson family by degrees, although our acquaintance
+had begun so inauspiciously. Rather intimate, I say&mdash;well, very
+intimate, rather! would be a clear expression, if a trifle inelegant.</p>
+
+<p>For I married that girl, and pensioned off Mrs. Kibbey, and I never did
+such a fine stroke of business in all my life. The old man&mdash;he was a
+fine old fellow, too&mdash;went to Madeira with Kitty and the boy, and I bore
+Lucinda off to Streatham. She is one of the best of wives, and so very
+handy in the business too&mdash;saves me a heap of money. It was a lucky day
+for me when that rascal of a half-brother of hers broke burglariously
+into Golden Birch Villa, and took away everything that had an atom&#8217;s
+worth of precious metal in its composition. It was a blessing very much
+in disguise, but it has answered its purpose thoroughly well. I am as
+happy as the day is long&mdash;and so is Lucinda. Everybody tells me that I
+secured a treasure when I took her for better, for worse. Everybody but
+Mrs. Kibbey&mdash;past housekeeper, and living with her sister now in the
+Cookshops Almshouses at Caterham&mdash;and she says I could have done much
+better for myself, long before, if I had only looked about me in a
+sensible and practical sort of way.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 384px;">
+<img src="images/img160.jpg" width="384" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. george newnes.</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>&ldquo;Lions in Their Dens.&rdquo;</em></h1>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p class="center"><strong>III.&mdash;GEORGE NEWNES AT PUTNEY.</strong></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Raymond Blathwayt</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center">(<em>Photographs by Messrs. Fradelle &amp; Young.</em>)</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img161.jpg" width="500" height="426" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. newnes&#8217;s house at putney.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 326px;">
+<img src="images/img162.jpg" width="326" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the obelisk in the garden.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>As I toiled up the hill which leads to Putney Heath, I met a small boy,
+of whom I asked the way to Mr. George Newnes&#8217;s house. To my astonishment
+he did not know where it was. I gazed at him more in sorrow than in
+anger. &ldquo;What! not know where <em>Tit-Bits</em> lives!&rdquo; a smart lad standing by
+ejaculated, as he pointed out to me the right direction in which to go.
+&ldquo;George Newnes! &#8217;im wot writes <em>Tit-Bits</em>! wy I thought everyone knowed
+w&#8217;ere &#8217;ee lived!&rdquo; I thanked him, and wandered on half-a-mile or so
+until<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
+I reached the beautiful house which the &ldquo;writer&rdquo; of <em>Tit-Bits</em>
+built for himself some years ago. Here I was received by Mr. George
+Newnes with a welcome which left nothing to be desired in the way of
+hearty kindness. Mr. Newnes is a man of middle height, very
+good-looking, with auburn beard, and hair dashed with grey. Though
+exceedingly wealthy, he is not, as somebody has well expressed it,
+&ldquo;beastly rich.&rdquo; No feeling of the oppression of newly-acquired wealth
+flooded my soul as I walked about the pretty house and grounds in his
+company. He and his surroundings have the good taste not to obtrude
+themselves upon the casual visitor. The man is simplicity itself, and
+the most genial and cordial of hosts. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, nor
+was it without infinite interest, for George Newnes is a companion
+always amusing, and with always something new and original to say. As we
+wandered through the beautiful grounds, some of which are reclaimed from
+the wild heath which stretches for miles round the house, he pointed out
+to me the curious obelisk, grey and time-worn, which still perpetuates
+the memory of the historic mansion once known as &ldquo;Fireproof.&rdquo; For it was
+here that George III. and Queen Charlotte once breakfasted in peace in
+the drawing room upstairs, whilst the dining-room below was purposely
+ignited to prove that the house was really fireproof. Upon one side of
+the house stand the stables, just beyond them a beautiful covered
+lawn-tennis court lighted by electricity and heated with hot water, in
+which play can go on by night as well as by day, in winter just as much
+as in summer. &ldquo;We miss this tennis court dreadfully when we are in
+Devonshire,&rdquo; said Mr. Newnes, as we quitted the beautiful hall for the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
+house. &ldquo;I am myself devoted to tennis and golfing, and, indeed, I
+sometimes think it is that that has helped me to get through so much
+work. Good players generally make good workers,&rdquo; he added, with a laugh.
+&ldquo;Now will you come and join our party at luncheon?&rdquo; and as he spoke he
+led the way into a handsome dining-room. At luncheon the conversation
+dealt chiefly with sport and games, to my own great relief be it added,
+for the dweller in the tents of the literary world hears but little of
+the ordinary topics of conversation, and becomes suffocated, if he be
+not to the manner born, with the nauseating cant and self-sufficiency
+which is so typical of the literary world of to-day, and more especially
+typical of its younger members. But at George Newnes&#8217;s house you hear
+but little shop. We discussed golf and its rapidly increasing
+popularity, the newest &ldquo;serve&rdquo; at tennis, and some of the most
+remarkable cricket scores made during the past season.</p>
+
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 318px;">
+<img src="images/img163a.jpg" width="318" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. newnes.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 334px;">
+<img src="images/img163b.jpg" width="334" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mrs. newnes.</span>
+</div>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img164.jpg" width="500" height="404" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the billiard-room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 270px;">
+<img src="images/img165.jpg" width="270" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the conception of &ldquo;tit-bits.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The host joined eagerly in our talk until interrupted by the servant,
+who brought in a message. Quitting us for a moment, he returned with a
+smiling apology, and told me that in that brief space of time he had
+transacted a piece of business which certainly was not without its
+interest. A gentleman, it appeared&mdash;the son of a celebrated
+<em>litt&eacute;rateur</em> of a past day&mdash;had called to show some beautiful drawings
+by the celebrated &ldquo;Dicky&rdquo; Doyle, a relation of Dr. Conan Doyle. With Mr.
+Newnes&mdash;and it is thoroughly characteristic of the man&mdash;to close with a
+good bargain is but the work of a moment, and therefore I was not
+surprised, as he placed the dainty pictures before me, to learn that he
+had purchased them for reproduction in his world-famed magazine. After
+luncheon, Mr. Newnes suggested that we should retire to his
+billiard-room, to reach which we had to pass through his own special
+sanctum in which he dictates his letters, &amp;c., to his private
+secretary&mdash;energetic Mr. William Plank, who has been with him for five
+hard working years&mdash;while he walks up and down the room. &ldquo;I can always
+think better whilst I walk,&rdquo; he explained to me; &ldquo;indeed, I have
+recently had the study lengthened to give me
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
+more room.&rdquo; By this time
+we were in the billiard-room, wherein stands a large English organ with
+upwards of four hundred pipes. And in this room, prowling round and
+round the billiard-table like a couple of wild beasts&mdash;for I also, like
+my host, think best upon my legs&mdash;and occasionally cannoning up against
+one another and recoiling with a laugh and a start, George Newnes told
+me the history of his interesting and successful life.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My father,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;was, at the time of my birth, the minister of
+Glenorchy Chapel, Matlock Bath. He was a very able man, and the best
+informed man you could meet. He kept me at school till I was about
+sixteen. I finished up at the City of London School, and, curiously
+enough, I am going to-night to reply for the House of Commons at a
+banquet given by the John Carpenter Club in honour of the Home
+Secretary, who was a City of London School boy. My father put me into a
+house of business in the City, at which I remained for a number of
+years, and then I went down to Lancashire to open up a branch of the
+business there. I settled in Manchester and married, there. One night,
+in 1880, when I was sitting at home reading the <em>Manchester Evening
+News</em>&mdash;and, by the way, it has never occurred to me before,&rdquo; added Mr.
+Newnes, as a sudden thought flashed into his mind, &ldquo;the very people who
+printed that paper were the same people who afterwards printed
+<em>Tit-Bits</em> for ten years&mdash;I came across a story, or some interesting
+account, which very much pleased me. I read it to my wife and said,
+&lsquo;There, that&#8217;s what I call a real &ldquo;tit-bit.&rdquo; This paper, but for it, is
+to-day decidedly dull, because there is absolutely no news to put in it.
+Now, why cannot a paper be brought out which should contain nothing but
+&ldquo;tit-bits&rdquo; similar to this?&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And that really,&rdquo; said I, much interested, as Mr. George Newnes paused
+for a moment in his journey round the billiard-table, and gazed absently
+at me while I lit a cigar and threw myself into an armchair, &ldquo;and that
+really is how <em>Tit-Bits</em> came to be first thought of?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img166.jpg" width="500" height="422" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the study.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, as he started off once more, and I rose to follow in
+his track, &ldquo;that was the <em>first</em> idea of my little green paper. But I
+was a whole year before I was able to carry it out. I was very busy in
+other matters, and had not much time to attend to it. But I never lost
+sight of the idea, and ever and anon the word &lsquo;tit-bits&rsquo; would come to
+me with the force of a warning dream. I worked continually at the idea
+in my mind, and all my leisure thoughts were given up to it. In fact, I
+was constantly afraid&mdash;so convinced was I that the idea was a good
+one&mdash;that someone would bring it out before I could do so, and every
+Saturday morning, the usual day for new weekly papers, I used to look
+almost with painful anxiety to see whether there was a placard
+announcing that such a paper had appeared. But, however, nothing of the
+sort was brought out. The more I thought of it the more enamoured I
+became of the idea, till, in October, 1881, the first number appeared.&rdquo;
+And as he spoke Mr. Newnes handed me the very first number of the now
+celebrated paper. &ldquo;As soon as it was fairly started,&rdquo; continued my host,
+&ldquo;I gave up my other business and devoted myself to the editing and
+publishing of the paper. At first, the chief pieces in it were selected
+from books and periodicals&mdash;any sources, in short, that were
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> not
+copyright. I would get an anecdote from one book, and something else
+from another, anything interesting, in fact, from wherever I could pick
+it up; of course, now we have a large list of original contributors, but
+at first that was the way in which it was compiled. In the early days,
+naturally enough, its circulation was confined chiefly to Manchester.
+There it simply &lsquo;caught on&rsquo; immediately, and sold like wildfire. Why,
+the newspaper boys&#8217; brigade,&rdquo; continued Mr. Newnes, now fairly excited
+at the memory of that eventful Saturday morning, &ldquo;sold something like
+5,000 copies in two hours of the first number in Manchester alone. They
+came rushing back to the office, where I sat anxiously awaiting their
+news, full of the wonderful result. <em>Tit-Bits</em> was then, I felt certain,
+an assured success, and the public used to write to me to tell me of its
+popularity. I receive letters to this day, and especially from ministers
+and clergymen, who write to say that they recommend it because of the
+information it contains, and its instructive character, and, above all,
+because of the purity of its contents. Yet there are some clergymen who
+think there is some <em>double entendre</em> in the title <em>Tit-Bits</em>, and from
+its title that it is probably a paper they ought to speak against; and
+often, solely on account of its title, I believe they bracket it with
+all kinds of other literature of a low-class type, and in this way I
+suffer from the name.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="box1">
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 207px;">
+<img src="images/img167a.jpg" width="207" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the birth of<br />&ldquo;tit-bits.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 246px;">
+<img src="images/img167b.jpg" width="246" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And how was it you came to inaugurate your system of insurance against
+railway accidents?&rdquo; I asked Mr. Newnes, after a brief discussion on the
+ridiculous and narrow-minded behaviour of these worthy clerics. &ldquo;It was
+in this way,&rdquo; he replied, as he brought himself to an anchor against the
+billiard-table, where he rested for a brief moment. &ldquo;It was in this way:
+A woman wrote to me saying that her husband had been killed on the
+railway, and as he had a copy of <em>Tit-Bits</em> upon him at the time, she
+asked whether I would make her some allowance of money. At once the idea
+of an insurance system occurred to me, and you know now how widespread
+this system has become.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
+I smiled as I noted how in each case his wonderful successes are owing
+not more to the flash of a striking idea than to the wonderful
+promptitude which follows on the thought; how remarkable an instance his
+whole career affords of the benefit and wisdom of striking while the
+iron is hot.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And then after <em>Tit-Bits</em> came the <em>Review of Reviews</em>, I suppose?&rdquo; I
+queried, as my host jotted down some notes in his pocket-book.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 322px;">
+<img src="images/img168.jpg" width="322" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">hesketh house, torquay.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, as he once more took the floor. &ldquo;That was one of the
+quickest arranged things I have ever heard of. It was all done in a
+month. I was staying down at Torquay, where I have a house for the
+winter, and Mr. Stead wrote to me to say he contemplated leaving the
+<em>Pall Mall Gazette</em>, and would like to be associated with me in some
+journalistic scheme. He sent descriptions of three which were passing
+through his mind, asking if I would care to take either of them into
+consideration. I replied by return, saying that I did not care for two
+of them much, but that I was delighted with the third. I then and there
+told him the terms upon which I would work with him. He wrote back,
+saying that he would accept them, and I came to London the following
+week, in order that I might make arrangements, and in thirty days from
+the first proposal of the idea, the <em>Review of Reviews</em> was published.
+At first it was decided to call it <em>The Sixpenny Monthly</em>, with a
+sub-title, <em>A Review of the Reviews</em>; as such, indeed, it appeared upon
+the cover till the day before going to press, which was a Sunday. I was
+so convinced that the title ought to be reversed, and that it should be
+<em>The Review of Reviews, a Sixpenny Monthly</em>, that I went over and
+waylaid Mr. Stead
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
+as he was coming with his family out of church. I
+explained my views to him, and in a few minutes he agreed that I was
+right, and the title was altered to that which has now become so
+familiar. Well, when the <em>Review of Reviews</em> went out of my field of
+vision, I had made certain arrangements with people for publishing
+magazine work, and so on, and I wanted something to take its place. Then
+came to me a very old and favourite idea of mine&mdash;the idea of a
+<em>magazine with a picture on every page</em>! I engaged the services of Mr.
+Greenhough Smith, now my assistant editor on the <em>Strand Magazine</em>, who
+had the idea of largely producing translations from foreign authors, and
+as soon as the <em>Review of Reviews</em> had gone, I was at work on the new
+venture.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img169.jpg" width="500" height="415" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the drawing-room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And, with regard to its title, Mr. Newnes,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;you are great on
+titles, are you not?&rdquo; &ldquo;I attach great importance to them, certainly,&rdquo; he
+vigorously replied. &ldquo;I thoroughly agree with Shakespeare that there is
+much in a name. Why, indeed, should names be valueless? They are as
+great facts as anything else in the constitutions of humanity. And in
+the journalistic world a name is half the battle. <em>The Strand</em> was a
+good title, it appeared to me, short, and at the same time attractive.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
+After all, it is through the Strand itself that the tide of life flows
+fullest and strongest and deepest. I felt that with a good picture on
+the cover it would sell well on the book-stalls. The picture was rather
+difficult, and much depended on that picture. At first I did not succeed
+in getting the artist to embody my idea of a picture of a street. Now I
+had here at home an oil painting which I thought would help him.&rdquo; And as
+he spoke, Mr. Newnes led me to the staircase and showed me a very
+charming perspective of some street in an English town. &ldquo;I showed Mr.
+Haite this picture,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;and I asked him if he could do a
+similar perspective of the Strand.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 287px;">
+<img src="images/img170.jpg" width="287" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;i work very quickly.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p><em>The Picture Magazine</em>, which started with this year, is likely to be
+nearly as successful as <em>The Strand</em>. After we had discussed the
+position and the prospects of the new paper which Mr. Newnes has started
+to fill the place in the Radical journalistic ranks of the <em>P.M.G.</em>, we
+drifted into a general conversation on his habits of life, his
+occupations, and the varied qualities which go to the making of a
+successful business man, the future of popular journalism, and the like.
+&ldquo;How do you manage to keep all your irons hot?&rdquo; I asked my host; &ldquo;you
+edit three papers, you are a member of Parliament, you build railways up
+the cliffs of popular watering-places, you play games, you do
+everything. How is it all done, pray, Mr. Newnes? What is the secret of
+your life?&rdquo; &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he slowly replied, and with a certain shy
+hesitation, for though prompt and energetic enough in actual business,
+no more modest man, or one more reluctant to speak of himself and his
+doings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
+walks this earth&mdash;&ldquo;well, though I don&#8217;t want to boast about it,
+yet the simple fact is, I work very quickly, and I get through my
+business much faster than most men do. I make up my mind, form my plans,
+and arrive at conclusions very rapidly. With regard to my editorial
+work, for instance, all &lsquo;copy&rsquo; for the papers is sifted for me at the
+office, then it is sent up here, where I work three days a week,
+selecting that which I think shall go in, and marking it for press. I
+dictate the &lsquo;Answers to Correspondents&rsquo; page to my private secretary.
+This page always takes up three hours a week. I get through my
+editorial, parliamentary and business work, and manage to get a good
+deal of leisure besides. Golf, tennis and chess take up my leisure. When
+I am in the country I have all my work sent there. The fact is, <em>I work
+hard and I play hard</em>, and I believe each is equally necessary for good
+health and real happiness. Curiously enough, I do not believe that
+naturally I am of a very systematic nature, but so much business forces
+me to be so.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img171.jpg" width="400" height="343" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the tennis court.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And as to the future of journalism generally, and of such papers as
+yours in particular, Mr. Newnes?&rdquo; I queried. &ldquo;With the spread of
+education and the increase of Board Schools, there is a great change
+coming over the masses, is there not?&rdquo; &ldquo;I think this,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;that
+many of the papers of the day are developing too much the gambling and
+lottery spirit, which I regard as a very evil one, and would not for a
+moment countenance. I think, as you say, that the Board Schools have
+immensely increased the number of buyers of papers of this kind, and it
+is a great source of
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
+satisfaction to me that I should have inaugurated
+a popular paper which should be taken largely by the masses, and which
+is absolutely pure. When I came out with <em>Tit-Bits</em> there was not a
+single popular paper containing fun or jokes or anything of the
+kind&mdash;except the illustrated ones&mdash;but what relied more or less upon
+prurient matter to tickle the fancies of prurient minds. Besides, my
+idea is that, just at present, the Board Schools tend to a certain
+hardness and narrowness of character, which is perhaps softened down by
+the development by these papers of the lighter side of human nature.
+<em>Tit-Bits</em>, I have reason to know, has in many cases induced the study
+of some science or literature on the part of a man or boy who has read
+some interesting &lsquo;tit-bit&rsquo; on one of these subjects, and has desired,
+naturally enough, to know more about it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img172.jpg" width="500" height="421" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the conservatory.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 295px;">
+<img src="images/img173.jpg" width="295" height="550" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">in the billiard-room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Will it ever be possible, Mr. Newnes, do you think, to provide the
+masses with the higher journalism, with a sort of <em>Saturday Review</em>, or
+<em>Nineteenth Century</em>?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;I don&#8217;t think,&rdquo; he slowly replied,
+shaking his head, &ldquo;I don&#8217;t think, Radical as I
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
+am, and absolute
+believer in the sovereignty of the people, that the masses will ever
+take to any paper which consists mainly of essays or leaders. They want
+things served up with other interesting matter, and with as much of the
+personal element as it is possible to give them. The masses still
+incline entirely to the lighter side of literature. They work hard
+enough in everyday life, their recreation and their literature <em>must</em>,
+therefore, be as light as possible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And now, Mr. Newnes, for one more question&mdash;a good long one,&rdquo; I
+laughingly added. &ldquo;Having all your life been so successful yourself, as
+you look round London, with the struggle for existence, and the mingling
+of classes which makes that struggle for existence still harder, how do
+you really account for your own wonderful success, and how would you
+recommend others to be successful too, even though only in a small way?&rdquo;
+&ldquo;I really don&#8217;t know how I can answer that question,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;The
+only thing is, I have always been struck with the fact that so many
+people go about with their eyes shut, and do not see the chances which
+may be before them. They have no idea of doing anything beyond what they
+may have seen done before, and what they are told to do. They are
+frightened by originality lest it might be disastrous. I suppose I have
+been inclined to do things differently rather than the same as other
+people, and I have always struck while the iron was hot. That, I think,
+to put it very briefly, is the secret of any success which has attended
+my efforts.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>Novel Notes.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By Jerome K. Jerome.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Hal Hurst and J. G&uuml;lich.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p class="center">PART XI.</p>
+
+
+<p>(Copyrighted 1892 in the United States of America, by Jerome K. Jerome.)</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 214px;">
+<img src="images/img174.jpg" width="214" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;lighting his pipe.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Said Brown one evening, &ldquo;There is but one vice, and that is selfishness.
+Selfishness is the seed of all sin.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jephson was standing before the fire lighting his pipe. He puffed the
+tobacco into a glow, threw the match into the embers, and then said:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And the seed of all virtue, also. Don&#8217;t let us forget that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sit down and get on with your work,&rdquo; said MacShaugnassy from the sofa
+where he lay at full length with his heels on a chair; &ldquo;we&#8217;re discussing
+the novel, Paradoxes not admitted during business hours.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jephson, however, was in an argumentative mood. &ldquo;Selfishness,&rdquo; he
+continued, &ldquo;is merely another name for Will. Every deed, good or bad,
+that we do is prompted by selfishness. We are charitable to secure
+ourselves a good place in the next world, to make ourselves respected in
+this, to ease our own distress at the knowledge of suffering. One man is
+kind because it gives him pleasure to be kind, just as another is cruel
+because cruelty pleases him. A great man does his duty because to him
+the sense of duty done is a deeper delight than would be the ease
+resulting from avoidance of duty. The religious man is religious because
+he finds a joy in religion; the moral man moral because with his strong
+self-respect, viciousness would mean wretchedness. Self-sacrifice itself
+is only a subtle selfishness: we prefer the mental exaltation gained
+thereby to the sensual gratification which is the alternative reward.
+Man cannot be anything else but selfish. Selfishness is the law of all
+life. Each thing, from the farthest fixed star to the smallest insect
+crawling on the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
+earth, fighting for itself according to its strength;
+and brooding over all, the Eternal, working for <em>Himself</em>: that is the
+universe.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Have some whiskey,&rdquo; said MacShaugnassy; &ldquo;and don&#8217;t be so complicatedly
+metaphysical. You make my head ache.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If all action, good and bad, spring from selfishness,&rdquo; replied Brown;
+&ldquo;then there must be good selfishness and bad selfishness; and your bad
+selfishness is my plain selfishness, without any adjective, so we are
+back where we started. I say selfishness&mdash;bad selfishness&mdash;is the root
+of all evil, and there you are bound to agree with me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not always,&rdquo; persisted Jephson; &ldquo;I&#8217;ve known selfishness&mdash;selfishness
+according to the ordinarily accepted meaning of the term&mdash;to be
+productive of good actions. I can give you an instance, if you like.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Has it got a moral?&rdquo; asked MacShaugnassy, drowsily.</p>
+
+<p>Jephson mused a moment. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he at length said; &ldquo;a very practical
+moral&mdash;and one very useful to young men.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&#8217;s the sort of story we want,&rdquo; said MacShaugnassy, raising himself
+into a sitting position. &ldquo;You listen to this, Brown.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jephson seated himself upon a chair, in his favourite attitude, with his
+elbows resting upon the back, and smoked for awhile in silence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There are three people in this story,&rdquo; he began; &ldquo;the wife, the wife&#8217;s
+husband, and the other man. In most dramas of this type, it is the wife
+who is the chief character. In this case, the interesting person is the
+other man.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The wife&mdash;I saw her once: she was the most beautiful woman I have ever
+seen, and the most wicked-looking; which is saying a good deal for both
+statements. I remember, during a walking tour one year, coming across a
+lovely little cottage. It was the sweetest place imaginable. I need not
+describe it. It was the cottage one sees in pictures, and reads of in
+sentimental poetry. I was leaning over the neatly-cropped hedge,
+drinking in its beauty, when at one of the tiny casements I saw, looking
+out at me, a face. It stayed there only for a moment, but in that moment
+the cottage had become ugly, and I hurried away with a shudder.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That woman&#8217;s face reminded me of the incident. It was an angel&#8217;s face,
+until the woman herself looked out of it: then you were struck by the
+strange incongruity between tenement and tenant.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
+&ldquo;That at one time she had loved her husband, I have little doubt.
+Vicious women have few vices, and sordidness is not usually one of them.
+She had probably married him, borne towards him by one of those waves of
+passion upon which the souls of animal natures are continually rising
+and falling. On possession, however, had quickly followed satiety, and
+from satiety had grown the desire for a new sensation.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They were living at Cairo at the period; her husband held an important
+official position there, and by virtue of this, and of her own beauty
+and tact, her house soon became the centre of the Anglo-Saxon society
+ever drifting in and out of the city. The women disliked her, and copied
+her. The men spoke slightingly of her to their wives, lightly of her to
+each other, and made idiots of themselves when they were alone with her.
+She laughed at them to their faces, and mimicked them behind their
+backs. Their friends said it was cleverly.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 383px;">
+<img src="images/img176.jpg" width="383" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;she laughed at them.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One year there arrived a young English engineer, who had come out to
+superintend some canal works. He brought with him satisfactory letters
+of recommendation, and was at once received by the European residents as
+a welcome addition to their social circle. He was not particularly
+good-looking, he was not remarkably charming, but he possessed the one
+thing that few women can resist in a man, and that is strength. The
+woman looked at the man, and the man looked back at the woman; and the
+drama began.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Scandal flies swiftly through small communities. Before a month, their
+relationship was the chief topic of conversation throughout the quarter.
+In less than two, it reached the ears of the woman&#8217;s husband.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
+&ldquo;He was either an exceptionally mean or an exceptionally noble
+character, according to how one views the matter. He worshipped his
+wife&mdash;as men with big hearts and weak brains often do worship such
+women&mdash;with dog-like devotion. His only dread was lest the scandal
+should reach proportions that would compel him to take notice of it, and
+thus bring shame and suffering upon the woman he would have given his
+life to. That a man who saw her should love her seemed natural to him;
+that she should have grown tired of himself, a thing not to be wondered
+at. He was grateful to her for having once loved him, for a little
+while.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;As for &lsquo;the other man,&rsquo; he proved somewhat of an enigma to the gossips.
+He attempted no secrecy; if anything, he rather paraded his
+subjugation&mdash;or his conquest, it was difficult to decide which term to
+apply. He rode and drove with her; visited her in public and in private
+(in such privacy as can be hoped for in a house filled with chattering
+servants, and watched by spying eyes); loaded her with expensive
+presents, which she wore openly, and papered his smoking den with her
+photographs. Yet he never allowed himself to appear in the least degree
+ridiculous; never allowed her to come between him and his work. A letter
+from her, he would lay aside unopened until he had finished what he
+evidently regarded as more important business. When boudoir and
+engine-shed became rivals, it was the boudoir that had to wait.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The woman chafed under his self-control, which stung her like a lash,
+but clung to him the more abjectly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Tell me you love me!&rsquo; she would cry fiercely, stretching her white
+arms towards him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I have told you so,&rsquo; he would reply calmly, without moving.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I want to hear you tell it me again,&rsquo; she would plead with a voice
+that trembled on a sob. &lsquo;Come close to me and tell it me again, again,
+again!&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then, as she lay with half-closed eyes, he would pour forth a flood of
+passionate words sufficient to satisfy even her thirsty ears, and
+afterwards, as the gates clanged behind him, would take up an
+engineering problem at the exact point at which half-an-hour before, on
+her entrance into the room, he had temporarily dismissed it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One day, a privileged friend put bluntly to him this question: &lsquo;Are you
+playing for love or vanity?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;To which the man, after long pondering, gave this reply: &lsquo;&#8217;Pon my soul,
+Jack, I couldn&#8217;t tell you.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Now, when a man is in love with a woman who cannot make up her mind
+whether she loves him or not, we call the complication comedy; where it
+is the woman who is in earnest the result is generally tragedy.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They continued to meet and to make love. They talked&mdash;as people in
+their position are prone to talk&mdash;of the beautiful life they would lead
+if it only were not for the thing that was; of the earthly paradise&mdash;or,
+maybe, &lsquo;earthy&rsquo; would be the more suitable adjective&mdash;they would each
+create for the other, if only they had the right which they hadn&#8217;t.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 446px;">
+<img src="images/img178.jpg" width="446" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;she lay with half-closed eyes.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In this work of imagination the man trusted chiefly to his literary
+faculties, which were considerable; the woman to her desires. Thus, his
+scenes possessed a grace and finish which hers lacked, but her pictures
+were the more vivid. Indeed, so realistic did she paint them, that to
+herself they seemed realities, waiting for her. Then she would rise to
+go towards them only to strike herself against the thought of the thing
+that stood between herself and them. At first the woman only hated the
+thing, but after a while there came an ugly look of hope into her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The time drew near for the man to return to England. The canal was
+completed, and a day appointed for the letting in of the water. The man
+determined to make the event the occasion of a social gathering. He
+invited a large number of guests, among whom were the woman and her
+husband, to assist at the function. Afterwards the party were to picnic
+at a pleasant wooded spot some three-quarters of a mile from the first
+lock.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The ceremony of flooding was to be performed by the woman,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> her
+husband&#8217;s position entitling her to this distinction. Between the river
+and the head of the cutting had been left a strong bank of earth,
+pierced some distance down by a hole, which hole was kept closed by
+means of a closely-fitting steel plate. The woman drew the lever
+releasing this plate, and the water rushed through and began to press
+against the lock gates. When it had attained a certain depth, the
+sluices were raised and the water poured down into the deep basin of the
+lock.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was an exceptionally deep lock. The party gathered round and watched
+the water slowly rising. The woman looked down, and shuddered; the man
+was standing by her side.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;How deep it is,&rsquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; he replied, &lsquo;it holds thirty feet of water, when full.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The water crept up inch by inch.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why don&#8217;t you open the gates, and let it in quickly?&rsquo; she asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;It would not do for it to come in too quickly,&rsquo; he explained to her;
+&lsquo;we shall half fill this lock, and then open the sluices at the other
+end, and so let the water pass through.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The woman looked at the smooth stone walls and at the iron-plated
+gates.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I wonder what a man would do,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;if he fell in, and there was
+no one near to help him.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The man laughed. &lsquo;I think he would stop there,&rsquo; he answered. &lsquo;Come, the
+others are waiting for us.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 247px;">
+<img src="images/img180.jpg" width="247" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;if a man fell in, and there was no one near to help
+him?&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He lingered a moment to give some final instructions to the workmen.
+&lsquo;You can follow on when you&#8217;ve made all right,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and get
+something to eat. There&#8217;s no need for more than one to stop.&rsquo; Then they
+joined the rest of the party, and sauntered on, laughing and talking, to
+the picnic ground.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;After lunch the party broke up, as is the custom of picnic parties, and
+wandered away in groups and pairs. The man, whose duty as host had
+hitherto occupied all his attention, looked for the woman, but she was
+gone.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A friend strolled by, the same that had put the question to him about
+love and vanity.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Have you quarrelled?&rsquo; asked the friend.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No,&rsquo; replied the man.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I fancied you had,&rsquo; said the other. &lsquo;I met her just now walking with
+her husband, of all men in the world, and making herself quite agreeable
+to him.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The friend strolled on, and the man sat down on a fallen
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> tree, and
+lighted a cigar. He smoked and thought, and the cigar burnt out, but he
+still sat thinking.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;After a while he heard a faint rustling of the branches behind him and
+peering between the interlacing leaves that hid him, saw the crouching
+figure of the woman creeping through the wood.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;His lips were parted to call her name, when she turned her listening
+head in his direction, and his eyes fell full upon her face. Something
+about it, he could not have told what, struck him dumb, and the woman
+crept on.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gradually the nebulous thoughts floating through his brain began to
+solidify into a tangible idea, and the man
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
+unconsciously started
+forward. After walking a few steps he broke into a run, for the idea had
+grown clearer. It continued to grow still clearer and clearer, and the
+man ran faster and faster, until at last he found himself racing madly
+towards the lock. As he approached it he looked round for the watchman
+who ought to have been there, but the man was gone from his post. He
+shouted, but if any answer was returned, it was drowned by the roar of
+the rushing water.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 320px;">
+<img src="images/img181.jpg" width="320" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;he broke into a run.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He reached the edge and looked down. Fifteen feet below him was the
+reality of the dim vision that had come to him a mile back in the woods:
+the woman&#8217;s husband swimming round and round like a rat in a pail.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The river was flowing in and out of the lock at the same rate, so that
+the level of the water remained constant. The first thing the man did
+was to close the lower sluices and then open those in the upper gate to
+their fullest extent. The water inch by inch began to rise.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Can you hold out?&rsquo; he cried.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The drowning man turned to him a face already contorted by the agony of
+exhaustion, and answered with a feeble &lsquo;No.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He looked around for something to throw to the man. A plank had lain
+there in the morning, he remembered stumbling over it, and complaining
+of its having been left there; he cursed himself now for his care.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A hut used by the navvies to keep their tools in stood about two
+hundred yards away; perhaps it had been taken there, perhaps there he
+might even find a rope.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Just one minute, old fellow!&rsquo; he shouted down, &lsquo;and I&#8217;ll be back.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But the old fellow did not hear him. The feeble struggles ceased. The
+face fell back upon the water, the eyes half closed as
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> if with weary
+indifference. There was no time for him to do more than kick off his
+riding boots and jump in and clutch the unconscious figure as it sank.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Down there, in that walled-in trap, he fought a long fight with Death
+for the life that stood between him and the woman. He was not an expert
+swimmer, his clothes hampered him, he was already blown with his long
+race, the burden in his arms dragged him down, the water rose slowly
+enough to make his torture fit for Dant&euml;&#8217;s hell.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 271px;">
+<img src="images/img182.jpg" width="271" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;he fought a long fight with death.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At first he could not understand why this was so, but in glancing down
+he saw to his horror that he had not properly closed the lower sluices;
+in each some eight or ten inches remained open, so that the stream was
+passing out nearly half as fast as it came in. It would be another five
+and twenty minutes before the water would be high enough for him to
+grasp the top.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He noted where the line of wet had reached to on the smooth stone wall,
+then looked again after what he thought must be a lapse of ten minutes,
+and found it had risen half an inch, if that. Once or twice he shouted
+for help, but the effort taxed severely his already failing breath, and
+his voice only came back to him in a hundred echoes from his prison
+walls.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Inch by inch the line of wet crept up, but the spending of his strength
+went on more swiftly. It seemed to him as if his inside were being
+gripped and torn slowly out: his whole body cried out to him to let it
+sink and lie in rest at the bottom.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At length his unconscious burden opened its eyes and stared at him
+stupidly, then closed them again with a sigh; a minute later opened them
+once more and looked long and hard at him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Let me go,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;we shall both drown. You can manage by
+yourself.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He made a feeble effort to release himself, but the other held him.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Keep still, you fool!&rsquo; he hissed; &lsquo;you&#8217;re going to get out of this
+with me, or I&#8217;m going down with you.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So the grim struggle went on in silence, till the man, looking up, saw
+the stone coping just a little way above his head, made one mad leap and
+caught it with his finger-tips, held on an instant, then fell back with
+a &lsquo;plump,&rsquo; and sank; came up and made another dash, helped by the
+impetus of his rise, caught the coping firmly this time with the whole
+of his fingers, hung on till his eyes saw the grass, till they were both
+able to scramble out upon the bank and lie there, their breasts pressed
+close against the ground, and their hands clutching the earth, while the
+overflowing water swirled softly round them.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 253px;">
+<img src="images/img183.jpg" width="253" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;caught it with his finger-tips.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;After a while, they raised themselves and looked at one another.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Tiring work, that sort of thing,&rsquo; said the other man, with a nod
+towards the lock.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; answered the husband, &lsquo;beastly awkward not being a good swimmer.
+How did you know I had fallen in? You met my wife, I suppose?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; said the other man.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The husband sat staring at a point in the horizon for some minutes. &lsquo;Do
+you know what I was wondering this morning?&rsquo; said he.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No,&rsquo; said the other man.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Whether I should kill you or not.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;They told me,&rsquo; he continued, after a pause, &lsquo;a lot of silly gossip
+which I was cad enough to believe. I know now it wasn&#8217;t true,
+because&mdash;well, if it had been, you would not have done what you have
+done.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He rose and came across. &lsquo;I beg your pardon,&rsquo; he said, holding out his
+hand.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I beg yours,&rsquo; said the other man, rising and taking it; &lsquo;do you mind
+giving me a hand with the sluices?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They set to work to put the lock right.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;How did you manage to fall in?&rsquo; asked the other man, who was raising
+one of the lower sluices, without looking round.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
+&ldquo;The husband hesitated, as if he found the explanation somewhat
+difficult. &lsquo;Oh,&rsquo; he answered carelessly, &lsquo;the wife and I were chaffing,
+and she said she&#8217;d often seen you jump it, and&rsquo;&mdash;he laughed a rather
+forced laugh&mdash;&lsquo;she promised me a&mdash;a kiss if I cleared it. It was a
+foolish thing to do.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, it was rather,&rsquo; said the other man.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A few days afterwards the man and woman met at a reception. He found
+her in a leafy corner of the garden talking to some friends. She
+advanced to meet him, holding out her hand. &lsquo;What can I say more than
+thank you,&rsquo; she murmured in a low voice.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The others moved away leaving them alone. &lsquo;They tell me you risked your
+life to save his?&rsquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; he answered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She raised her eyes to his, then struck him across the face with her
+ungloved hand.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 358px;">
+<img src="images/img184.jpg" width="358" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;struck him across the face.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You damned fool!&rsquo; she whispered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He seized her by her white arms, and forced her back behind the orange
+trees. &lsquo;Do you know why?&rsquo; he said, speaking slowly and distinctly;
+&lsquo;because I feared that with him dead you would want me to marry you, and
+that, talked about as we have been, I might find it awkward to avoid
+doing so; because I feared that without him to stand between us you
+might prove an annoyance to me&mdash;perhaps come between me and the woman I
+love, the woman I am going back to. Now do you understand?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes,&rsquo; whispered the woman, and he left her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But there are only two people,&rdquo; concluded Jephson, &ldquo;who do
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> not regard
+his saving of the husband&#8217;s life as a highly noble and unselfish action,
+and they are the man himself and the woman.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>We thanked Jephson for his story, and promised to profit by the moral,
+when discovered. Meanwhile, MacShaugnassy said that he knew a story
+dealing with the same theme, namely, the too close attachment of a woman
+to a strange man, which really had a moral, which moral was: don&#8217;t have
+anything to do with inventions.</p>
+
+<p>Brown, who had patented a safety gun, which he had never yet found a man
+plucky enough to let off, said it was a bad moral. We agreed to hear the
+particulars, and judge for ourselves.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This story,&rdquo; commenced MacShaugnassy, &ldquo;comes from Furtwangen, a small
+town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow
+named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys,
+at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made
+rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears,
+smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their
+faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats,
+and fly at them; dolls, with phonographs concealed within them, that
+would raise their hats and say, &lsquo;Good morning; how do you do,&rsquo; and some
+that would even sing a song.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 336px;">
+<img src="images/img185.jpg" width="336" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;he had contrived a mechanical donkey.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His
+work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with
+all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold&mdash;things
+he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a
+mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored
+electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with
+less need for exertion on the part of the driver; a bird that would
+shoot up into the air,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
+fly round and round in a circle, and drop to
+earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that,
+supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe; a life-size
+lady doll that could play the fiddle; and a gentleman with a hollow
+inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three
+average German students put together, which is saying much.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man
+capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One
+day he made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first
+birthday put Doctor Follen&#8217;s household into somewhat of a flurry, but on
+the occasion of its second birthday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in
+honour of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the
+guests.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga&#8217;s bosom
+friends, who had also been present at the ball, dropped in to have a
+chat about it. They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to
+criticising their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared
+to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,&rsquo;
+said one of the girls.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Yes, and don&#8217;t the ones who can give themselves airs,&rsquo; said another;
+&lsquo;they make quite a favour of asking you.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;And how stupidly they talk,&rsquo; added a third. &lsquo;They always say exactly
+the same things: &ldquo;How charming you are looking to-night.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you often
+go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it&#8217;s delightful.&rdquo; &ldquo;What a charming dress
+you have on.&rdquo; &ldquo;What a warm day it has been.&rdquo; &ldquo;Do you like Wagner?&rdquo; I do
+wish they&#8217;d think of something new.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, I never mind how they talk,&rsquo; said a fourth. &lsquo;If a man dances well
+he may be a fool for all I care.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;He generally is,&rsquo; slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I go to a ball to dance,&rsquo; continued the previous speaker, not noticing
+the interruption. &lsquo;All I ask of a partner is that he shall hold me
+firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,&rsquo; said the girl who had
+interrupted.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Bravo!&rsquo; cried one of the others, clapping her hands, &lsquo;what a capital
+idea!&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;What&#8217;s a capital idea?&rsquo; they asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by
+electricity and never run down.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,&rsquo; said one; &lsquo;he would never
+kick you, or tread on your toes.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Or tear your dress,&rsquo; said another.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Or get out of step.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Or get giddy and lean on you.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do
+hate to see a man do that after every dance.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;And wouldn&#8217;t want to spend the whole evening in the supper room.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks,
+you would not be able to tell him from a real man,&rsquo; said the girl who
+had first suggested the idea.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, yes, you would,&rsquo; said the thin girl, &lsquo;he would be so much nicer.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his
+ears. On one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he
+hurriedly hid himself again behind it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard
+him walking up and down, and every now and then chuckling to himself;
+and that night he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing
+men&mdash;asked what they usually said and did&mdash;what dances were most
+popular&mdash;what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing
+on the subject.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was very
+thoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a
+quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 229px;">
+<img src="images/img187.jpg" width="229" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">olga showing him what steps were gone through.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A month later another ball took place in Furtwangen. On this occasion
+it was given by old Wenzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate
+his niece&#8217;s betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the
+invited.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
+&ldquo;When the hour arrived to set out, Olga sought her father. Not finding
+him in the house, she tapped at the door of his workshop. He appeared in
+his shirt-sleeves, looking hot but radiant.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Don&#8217;t wait for me,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;you go on, I&#8217;ll follow you. I&#8217;ve got
+something to finish.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;As she turned to obey he called after her, &lsquo;Tell them I&#8217;m going to
+bring a young man with me&mdash;such a nice young man, and an excellent
+dancer. All the girls will like him.&rsquo; Then he laughed and closed the
+door.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Her father generally kept his doings secret from everybody, but she had
+a pretty shrewd suspicion of what he had been planning, and so, to a
+certain extent, was able to prepare the guests for what was coming.
+Anticipation ran high, and the arrival of the famous mechanist was
+eagerly awaited.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At length the sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a great
+commotion in the passage, and old Wenzel himself, his jolly face red
+with excitement and suppressed laughter, burst into the room and
+announced in stentorian tones:</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Herr Geibel&mdash;and a friend.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Herr Geibel and his &lsquo;friend&rsquo; entered, greeted with shouts of laughter
+and applause, and advanced to the centre of the room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,&rsquo; said Herr Geibel, &lsquo;to introduce you
+to my friend, Lieutenant Fritz. Fritz, my dear fellow, bow to the ladies
+and gentlemen.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Geibel placed his hand encouragingly on Fritz&#8217;s shoulder, and the
+lieutenant bowed low, accompanying the action with a harsh clicking
+noise in his throat, unpleasantly suggestive of a death rattle. But that
+was only a detail.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;He walks a little stiffly&rsquo; (old Geibel took his arm and walked him
+forward a few steps. He certainly did walk stiffly), &lsquo;but then, walking
+is not his forte. He is essentially a dancing man. I have only been able
+to teach him the waltz as yet, but at that he is faultless. Come, which
+of you ladies may I introduce him to as a partner. He keeps perfect
+time; he never gets tired; he won&#8217;t kick you or tread on your dress; he
+will hold you as firmly as you like, and go as quickly or as slowly as
+you please; he never gets giddy; and he is full of conversation. Come,
+speak up for yourself, my boy.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The old gentleman twisted one of the buttons at the back of his coat,
+and immediately Fritz opened his mouth, and in thin tones that appeared
+to proceed from the back of his head, remarked suddenly, &lsquo;May I have the
+pleasure?&rsquo; and then shut his mouth again with a snap.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
+&ldquo;That Lieutenant Fritz had made a strong impression on the company was
+undoubted, yet none of the girls seemed inclined to dance with him. They
+looked askance at his waxen face, with its staring eyes and fixed smile,
+and shuddered. At last old Geibel came to the girl who had conceived the
+idea.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;It is your own suggestion, carried out to the letter,&rsquo; said Geibel,
+&lsquo;an electric dancer. You owe it to the gentleman to give him a trial.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She was a bright, saucy little girl, fond of a frolic. Her host added
+his entreaties, and she consented.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Herr Geibel fixed the figure to her. Its right arm was screwed round
+her waist, and held her firmly; its delicately-jointed left hand was
+made to fasten itself upon her right. The old toymaker showed her how to
+regulate its speed, and how to stop it, and release herself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;It will take you round in a complete circle,&rsquo; he explained; &lsquo;be
+careful that no one knocks against you, and alters its course.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 425px;">
+<img src="images/img189.jpg" width="425" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;for a couple of weeks he kept to his factory.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The music struck up. Old Geibel put the current in motion, and Annette
+and her strange partner began to dance.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;For a while everyone stood watching them. The figure performed its
+purpose admirably. Keeping perfect time and step, and holding its little
+partner tight clasped in an unyielding embrace, it revolved steadily,
+pouring forth at the same time a constant flow of squeaky conversation,
+broken by brief intervals of grinding silence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;How charming you are looking to-night,&rsquo; it remarked in its thin,
+far-away voice. &lsquo;What a lovely day it has been. Do you
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> like dancing?
+How well our steps agree. You will give me another, won&#8217;t you? Oh, don&#8217;t
+be so cruel. What a charming gown you have on. Isn&#8217;t waltzing
+delightful? I could go on dancing for ever&mdash;with you. Have you had
+supper?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;As she grew more familiar with the uncanny creature, the girl&#8217;s
+nervousness wore off, and she entered into the fun of the thing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Oh, he&#8217;s just lovely,&rsquo; she cried, laughing, &lsquo;I could go on dancing
+with him all my life.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Couple after couple now joined them, and soon all the dancers in the
+room were whirling round behind them. Nicholaus Geibel stood looking on,
+beaming with childish delight at his success.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 367px;">
+<img src="images/img190.jpg" width="367" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;my friend, lieutenant fritz.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Old Wenzel approached him, and whispered something in his ear. Geibel
+laughed, and nodded, and the two worked their way quietly towards the
+door.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;This is the young people&#8217;s house to-night,&rsquo; said Wenzel, so soon as
+they were outside; &lsquo;you and I will have a quiet pipe and a glass of
+hock, over in the counting-house.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Meanwhile the dancing grew more fast and furious. Little Annette
+loosened the screw regulating her partner&#8217;s rate of progress, and the
+figure flew round with her swifter and swifter. Couple after couple
+dropped out exhausted, but they only went the faster, till at length
+they remained dancing alone.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Madder and madder became the waltz. The music lagged behind: the
+musicians, unable to keep pace, ceased, and sat staring. The younger
+guests applauded, but the older faces began to grow anxious.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Hadn&#8217;t you better stop, dear,&rsquo; said one of the women, &lsquo;you&#8217;ll make
+yourself so tired.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But Annette did not answer.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;I believe she&#8217;s fainted,&rsquo; cried out a girl who had caught sight of her
+face as it was swept by.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One of the men sprang forward and clutched at the figure, but its
+impetus threw him down on to the floor, where its steel-cased feet laid
+bare his cheek. The thing evidently did not intend to part with its
+prize easily.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Had anyone retained a cool head, the figure, one cannot help thinking,
+might easily have been stopped. Two or three men acting in concert might
+have lifted it bodily off the floor, or have jammed it into a corner.
+But few human heads are capable of remaining cool under excitement.
+Those who are not present think how stupid must have been those who
+were; those who are reflect afterwards how simple it would have been to
+do this, that, or the other, if only they had thought of it at the time.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The women grew hysterical. The men shouted contradictory directions to
+one another. Two of them made a bungling rush at the figure, which had
+the result of forcing it out of its orbit in the centre of the room, and
+sending it crashing against the walls and furniture. A stream of blood
+showed itself down the girl&#8217;s white frock, and followed her along the
+floor. The affair was becoming horrible. The women rushed screaming from
+the room. The men followed them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One sensible suggestion was made: &lsquo;Find Geibel&mdash;fetch Geibel.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No one had noticed him leave the room, no one knew where he was. A
+party went in search of him. The others, too unnerved to go back into
+the ball-room, crowded outside the door and listened. They could hear
+the steady whir of the wheels upon the polished floor as the thing spun
+round and round; the dull thud as every now and again it dashed itself
+and its burden against some opposing object and ricocheted off in a new
+direction.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And everlastingly it talked in that thin ghostly voice, repeating over
+and over the same formula: &lsquo;How charming you are looking to-night. What
+a lovely day it has been. Oh, don&#8217;t be so cruel. I could go on dancing
+for ever&mdash;with you. Have you had supper?&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Of course they sought for Geibel everywhere but where he was. They
+looked in every room in the house, then they rushed off in a body to his
+own place, and spent precious minutes in waking up his deaf old
+housekeeper. At last it occurred to one of the party that Wenzel was
+missing also, and then the idea of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
+counting-house across the yard
+presented itself to them, and there they found him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He rose up, very pale, and followed them; and he and old Wenzel forced
+their way through the crowd of guests gathered outside, and entered the
+room, and locked the door behind them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;From within there came the muffled sound of low voices and quick steps,
+followed by a confused scuffling noise, then silence, then the low
+voices again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;After a time the door opened, and those near it pressed forward to
+enter, but old Wenzel&#8217;s broad shoulders barred the way.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I want you&mdash;and you, Bekler,&rsquo; he said, addressing a couple of the
+elder men. His voice was calm, but his face was deadly white. &lsquo;The rest
+of you, please go&mdash;get the women away as quickly as you can.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;From that day old Nicholaus Geibel confined himself to the making of
+mechanical rabbits and cats that mewed and washed their faces.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>We agreed that the moral of MacShaugnassy&#8217;s story was a good one.</p>
+
+<p class="center">(<em>To be continued.</em>)</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img192.jpg" width="400" height="71" alt="page decoration" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="box">
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 385px; margin-left: -1em;">
+<img src="images/img193.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="On Pilgrims and the Pilgrim Spirit" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 20em; margin-top: -33em;">
+  &ldquo;Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,<br />
+  And palmers for to seeke strange strands<br />
+  To ferne hallows couth in sundry lands.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 23em; margin-top: 5em;">In the good old times, when a man wanted a little change from the bosom
+of his family&mdash;in those days a somewhat restricted bosom&mdash;he went on a
+crusade, or a pilgrimage.</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 23em;">What if he did spend his time and substance on that which, from a
+worldly standpoint, profited not&mdash;absenting himself from home and
+friends for periods of time lengthy enough to afford a modern wife good
+grounds for a divorce&mdash;was it not all meritorious? Heaven, he fondly
+believed, would more than pay his travelling expenses by a large cheque
+to his credit on the next world, whilst he had the pleasure of the
+journey in this: an ingenious method of seeing something of both! And so
+he donned his pilgrim weeds, and his &ldquo;cockle hat and shoon&rdquo;&mdash;as all good
+chroniclers tell us&mdash;and hied him off to Canterbury or Cologne, Rome,
+Jerusalem, or Timbuctoo. Mrs. Pilgrim was left at home to play
+&ldquo;patience,&rdquo; and to keep the house and bairns. She was generally a
+long-suffering creature, but sometimes she <em>did</em> get into mischief. She
+could not <em>always</em> spin yarn, so she occasionally varied her task by
+weaving nets&mdash;traps for the unwary who was <em>not</em> a pilgrim.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p>But if she got into mischief, she paid the penalty; my lord invariably
+cut off her head with his scimitar when he returned home&mdash;if she waited
+for that&mdash;and there was an end of the matter. There was no Divorce Court
+in the good old days, and a woman&#8217;s head did not count for much. But
+these slight casualties never diminished the ardour of the pilgrim
+spirit: the pilgrim increased
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
+and multiplied, and sought new shrines as
+well as new wives. To slightly vary the words of the poet, &ldquo;<em>Shrine</em>
+after <em>shrine</em> his rising raptures fill. But still he sighs&mdash;for
+<em>shrines</em> are wanting still.&rdquo; The law of supply and demand, however,
+worked as surely then as now; and as pilgrims increased to venerate,
+objects increased to be venerated. There is a good story told by the
+Arabs&mdash;it was given by Dr. Samuel Jessup in one of his contributions to
+&ldquo;Picturesque Palestine&rdquo; some years ago&mdash;and it is an apt illustration of
+this supply and demand principle.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 325px;">
+<img src="images/img194.jpg" width="325" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;ran away with his master&#8217;s donkey.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>There was a certain Sheik-Mohammed who, once upon a time, was the keeper
+of a &ldquo;wely&rdquo; or shrine, supposed by the faithful to be the tomb of an
+eminent Saint, and so largely frequented by them that the Sheik grew
+rich from their costly offerings. His servant Ali, however, receiving
+but a small share of the profits, ran away to the south of the Jordan,
+taking with him his master&#8217;s donkey. The animal died on the way, and
+Ali, having covered his body with a heap of stones, sat down in despair.
+A passer-by enquired the cause of his sorrow, and Ali replied that he
+had just found the tomb of an eminent Saint; the man kissed the stones,
+gave Ali a present, and passed on his way.</p>
+
+<p>The news of the holy shrine spread throughout the land, and pilgrims
+thronged to visit it: Ali became rich, built a fine &ldquo;Kubbeh&rdquo; (Dome), and
+was envied by all the Sheiks.</p>
+
+<p>Mohammed, hearing of the new shrine, and finding his own eclipsed by it,
+made a pilgrimage to it himself, in hopes of finding out the source of
+its great repute. Finding Ali in charge, he asked, in a whisper, if he
+would tell him the name of the Saint whose tomb he kept charge of. &ldquo;I
+will,&rdquo; replied Ali, &ldquo;on condition that you tell me the name of your
+Saint.&rdquo; Mohammed consented, and Ali then whispered, &ldquo;God alone is great!
+This is the tomb of the donkey I stole from you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Mashallah!&rdquo; cried Mohammed, &ldquo;and my &lsquo;wely&rsquo; is the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> tomb of that
+donkey&#8217;s father!&rdquo; Methinks Palestine has not a monopoly of the
+long-eared and long-suffering race, either living or dead!</p>
+
+<p>But we have changed all that; as we have a good many other things.
+Saints and their shrines are out of fashion. &ldquo;It is an age of seeing,
+not believing,&rdquo; we say complacently; and we laugh with superior wisdom
+at the follies of our forefathers, and the relics they went so far to
+adore&mdash;relics which, like the fabled frog, by trying to swell themselves
+to greater and still greater dimensions, ended in growing a little too
+extensive for their ultimate good. Saints, like sinners, can only have
+two legs apiece, we all know; but the saints of our ancestors, if their
+relics spoke truly, must have been saintly centipedes: of making new
+limbs there was no end, and, as their numbers increased, reverence
+waned, till hey!&mdash;the bubble of credulity burst at last, as did the
+frog!</p>
+
+<p>But if the heavenly profitability was cut off by this collapse of
+superstition, or eclipse of faith&mdash;call it which you will&mdash;the habit of
+pleasurable moving remained; stronger by the force of repeated custom
+throughout all past times: we keep the shell, but we cunningly
+substitute a new kernel in the place of the exploded core of heretofore.</p>
+
+<p>We go a pilgrimage still, but your modern spirit is now the pilgrim of
+Health, Pleasure, Science, Art, and such-like&mdash;all high-sounding names
+to conjure by; and the world, that old time-server, ever seeking to
+accommodate itself to the new ways of its inhabitants, is ever supplying
+us with a new Spa, a new &ldquo;old master,&rdquo; or masterpiece, a newly dug-up
+ruin, or hieroglyph, or Dark Continent, or&mdash;for even the humblest
+&ldquo;tripper&rdquo; is not forgotten&mdash;a new Mudport-on-Sea.</p>
+
+<p>The shrines of our forefathers&#8217; worship have crept back into favour by
+hiding themselves in the voluminous draperies of History or Art. Our
+appetite for shows is omnivorous, and we don&#8217;t object to a shrine if it
+has a Gothic moulding sufficiently &ldquo;cute,&rdquo; or a Byzantine roof, or some
+other attraction&mdash;are we not pilgrims of <em>Art</em>?&mdash;though if called upon
+to define our roof or moulding many of us might be considerably
+nonplussed, taking refuge in describing one as a &ldquo;thing with a round
+top,&rdquo; and the other as &ldquo;a sort of stone trimming, don&#8217;t you know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>I remember once reading a child&#8217;s tale&mdash;I have forgotten where, for it
+was many years ago&mdash;but the drift of the story was too good to forget.
+It was about a small pig who lived with his mother in a stye which
+possessed but a limited front yard. Piggy had the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
+pilgrim spirit, and
+sighed to escape to pastures new, to see what lay beyond his little
+wall. One day his chance came&mdash;he escaped somehow, and made a pilgrimage
+round the farmyard, where the strange things he saw either frightened
+him dreadfully, or were utterly unintelligible to his piggish mind. He
+was so frightened by the roaring of a bull that he fled with great
+precipitation home, where he gave a glowing account of his travels to
+his mother.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 419px;">
+<img src="images/img196.jpg" width="419" height="600" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;pilgrims of art.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I have seen the world. It is square, and it has a wall
+all round it, to keep the pigs from falling off, of course. I saw some
+queer white pigs, with only two legs&mdash;think of that! They said &lsquo;Quack,
+quack&rsquo;&mdash;that is what they say in the world, you know, but, of course,
+<em>you</em> don&#8217;t understand. Then I saw a great red pig, who cried,
+&lsquo;Mou-e-e-e!&rsquo; There is but <em>one</em> such pig in the world, and <em>I</em> have seen
+it. I am content to live quietly now, for I have seen the whole world!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Who has not seen that smug satisfaction of small souls as reflected by
+piggy?</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
+There is a great deal in <em>looking</em> wise even if you don&#8217;t feel so. Talk
+always of your &ldquo;dones,&rdquo; and leave out the &ldquo;undones.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Most of us have heard of the apocryphal American who &ldquo;does Europe&rdquo; in a
+fortnight! I cannot say that I have actually met that gentleman, but I
+have met pilgrims, both English and American, who will tell you grandly
+that they have &ldquo;done&rdquo;&mdash;say Rome, in two, nay in one day! All the
+antiquities, of <em>course</em>, and the Museums; and then comes a string of
+names of churches, and galleries, until you gasp for breath! You go away
+and lean against something to recover your breath, and your gravity, but
+the pilgrimage is an accomplished fact. They have a right to stick to
+the cockle-shell in their cap, so to speak, and go home saying, &ldquo;Oh,
+yes! We have done Rome, or Italy, or Egypt, <em>thoroughly</em>; missed
+nothing!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>If one could take an impression of one of these pilgrim&#8217;s brains by
+&ldquo;Kodak,&rdquo; one would get some queer results in chaos, rather like the game
+of family post&mdash;the Raphael frescoes transferring themselves to Karnak,
+and the Sphinx hiding in the Catacombs, whilst pictures, statuary, and
+shrines of &ldquo;cult&rdquo; executed a Bacchanalian dance on a gigantic scale all
+round.</p>
+
+<p>But results do not alter facts; and in these busy days people are
+generally content to <em>see</em> your tree of knowledge; they have no time to
+climb its branches to look for the fruit of wisdom!</p>
+
+<p>We have changed our pilgrim weeds for an ulster of the latest cut, and
+our Missal for a &ldquo;Murray&rdquo; or &ldquo;Baedeker,&rdquo; but are we really so much wiser
+than our forefathers?</p>
+
+<p>Alas! we have but changed the object, and human nature, gullible ever,
+sees no reason why it should not flock in thousands to drop a visiting
+card into the tomb (so called) of &ldquo;Juliet&rdquo; at Verona, with as fond
+credulity as their fathers, when they deposited their candle at the tomb
+of some miracle-working saint; with this difference, however&mdash;that the
+latter was deposited for the glory and praise of the saint, and the
+former of the sinner <em>himself</em>. Who could say, after that, that he had
+not seen it!</p>
+
+<p>I happened, when there, to make some irreverent remarks about that tomb.
+I had walked out to see it on a hot afternoon, and I found it
+inconveniently far. One is accustomed to have these places &ldquo;grouped,&rdquo;
+and I was displeased with <em>Juliet</em> for not being buried nearer home&mdash;it
+was an oversight&mdash;but perhaps it had been arranged for the benefit of
+the carriage-drivers. <em>Juliet</em> was public-spirited, and thought of all
+classes, and their interests. I did not think of all these extenuating
+circumstances then, however, and so I said unbelieving things about her
+tomb.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
+The <em>custode</em> was deeply pained, as an orthodox <em>custode</em> ought to be.
+He remonstrated with me first, and then he pointed to the wall. &ldquo;<em>Ecco,
+Signor! &egrave; scritto, &egrave; scritto &egrave; verissimo!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 238px;">
+<img src="images/img198.jpg" width="238" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;ecco, signor!&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>And there indeed it was written, in good set terms, and in two or three
+languages, for the benefit of all non-literary or unbelieving pilgrims.</p>
+
+<p>I have often thought since how many people there are, like my friend the
+<em>custode</em>, to whom the magic &ldquo;it is written&rdquo; is sufficient ground for
+their faith, without further consideration as to <em>when</em> and <em>how</em>.</p>
+
+<p>Some time ago a friend of mine encountered a portly Western American
+tourist at Kenilworth. He came in a hurry, and asked to be shown the
+part &ldquo;wrote up&rdquo; by Scott. He gazed for a few minutes, and then departed
+as quickly as he came. To him Kenilworth was merely a place &ldquo;wrote up&rdquo;
+by Scott, and no doubt he had Warwick and Stratford-on-Avon to see that
+same afternoon, before going on to Liverpool.</p>
+
+<p>There are pilgrims who certainly carry a feeling of duty into all
+things. Wherever they go they mean work!</p>
+
+<p>This quality pre-eminently distinguishes the English-speaking world, and
+it always fills our Continental, or Oriental, neighbours with lazy
+wonder. &ldquo;Oh, these Englishwomen! they have legs and stomachs of bronze!&rdquo;
+I once heard an Italian say.</p>
+
+<p>We are inclined to overdo it. I think an occasional rest-day is as
+necessary to the tired brain as the photographer&#8217;s dark room is to the
+development of the negative impression&mdash;without it the brain would,
+indeed, record a &ldquo;<em>negative impression</em>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But I am straying from <em>Juliet&#8217;s</em> tomb, and the subject of unlimited
+faith. Only make a thing possible, and, <em>if there is an undercurrent of
+desire to believe it</em>, the large majority will swallow almost anything
+with what theologians call &ldquo;simple faith.&rdquo; The &ldquo;if&rdquo; is an important
+one&mdash;the key to the situation. We believe readily when it is agreeable
+to do so, and all pilgrims have ever sought to heighten the attractions
+of the objects of their interest. It adds to their own enjoyment of
+them, and, after all, is it not a
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
+reflex compliment to ourselves? If
+&ldquo;there is but <em>one</em> such pig in the world,&rdquo; have not <em>I</em> seen it?</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 270px;">
+<img src="images/img199a.jpg" width="270" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;lured men to destruction.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Have you ever noticed the effect of the expression, &ldquo;They say?&rdquo; If we
+say &ldquo;Tom,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Dick,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Harry,&rdquo; says &ldquo;so and so,&rdquo; &ldquo;Tom&rdquo; is no better
+authority than &ldquo;Dick,&rdquo; nor are both together much better than &ldquo;Harry.&rdquo;
+But if we say, indefinitely, &ldquo;<em>They</em> say&rdquo; &ldquo;so and so,&rdquo; there is a
+mysterious potency in the unknown quantity which leads, if not to
+universal belief, at least to universal transmission.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is an interesting spot. They say that a princess is buried here
+who was laid under a potent spell by a mighty wizard, long, long ago,&rdquo;
+etc.; or &ldquo;They tell of a beauteous maiden who sat on this rock, in the
+far past, and sang, and thus lured men to destruction,&rdquo; etc.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 159px;">
+<img src="images/img199b.jpg" width="159" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p>He or she is always swallowed up by the mists of obscurity&mdash;oh, ye mists
+of obscurity, ye have much to answer for!</p>
+
+<p>We do not care to dispute with &ldquo;They&rdquo; his superior information&mdash;even if
+we could find him; for he seems to reside permanently in the aforesaid
+mists himself; only issuing forth, like a valiant knight, to rescue the
+fair maidens&mdash;Fact, or Fiction&mdash;from the jaws of the dragon Oblivion!
+What he <em>is</em>, we leave to the learned, who could no doubt dispose of him
+suitably in connection with the highly convenient solar myths, as a
+Potent Rescuing Power! As for us, we meddle not with the mists: we
+rather like the delicious glow of their luminous dimness, which
+glorifies the past if it clouds it; and which softens off the hardness
+of our prosaic modern life, as a summer haze our English landscape.</p>
+
+<p>We are delighted to get hold of an ancient legend,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
+whether of headless
+horseman or housekeeper, pixie or wizard. Even in that &ldquo;happy hunting
+ground&rdquo; of the Modern Spirit, the United States of America, the old
+legends linger still, if but faintly. The soil of a new country does not
+grow sentiment of this sort readily, but the plant is indigenous to the
+human heart; and its fair flowers have been gathered and wreathed around
+their pages by many an essayist and poet. We cannot do without the
+element of mystery in our life, however we may represent it. It is part
+of the spirit within us, and we find it in everything around us. It is
+the veil of &ldquo;Isis&rdquo; which science, her worshipper, is ever trying to
+lift, but cannot. The muse of Inspiration pours forth her melodious
+voice, like the nightingale, in the darkness and the shady covert. We
+listen to her song with entranced ears; a few whose spirits are &ldquo;finely
+touched,&rdquo; try to repeat it; but who has ever seen her; the soul that
+animates, the spirit that inspires! Our life itself is a mystery&mdash;the
+Past and Future&mdash;are they not the wings of the Spirit of Time which are
+brooding over our Present? When they are lifted&mdash;when the mighty pinions
+are outspread for flight&mdash;<em>then</em> the shadows will flee for ever, for the
+great Daybreak of Eternity will have begun!</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 410px;">
+<img src="images/img200.jpg" width="410" height="600" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">science lifting the veil of isis.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Without the spirit of mystery, the mother of enquiry&mdash;of romance, the
+days of pilgrimage would be ended. If it is a mere matter of rest, and
+of oiling the wheels of the machine for a fresh grind, Mudport-on-Sea
+will do well enough; but Mudport-on-Sea can never satisfy the hunger of
+the curious soul for the beautiful; the marvellous; all that is in
+itself lovely, or that has lived in the past, and caught a brighter
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
+glow from its rainbow reflections. One spot of ground may content the
+naturalist, or the Buddhist sage, for one can find a world of wondrous
+thought in the smallest leaf&mdash;a microcosm in a dew-drop; and the other
+can send his soul off on aerial pilgrimages, though his body may be in
+chains! But we are not all either natural or transcendental
+philosophers; our appetite requires not one leaf, but many, for our
+powers of assimilation are not great enough to draw spiritual sustenance
+from one alone; and so, like the caterpillar, when we have finished our
+leaf, we crawl to another.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But this spirit of curiosity, or unrest, is all owing to lack of
+self-culture,&rdquo; cry some. Perhaps it is&mdash;some of it. No doubt the cocoon
+stage of rest and self-development is higher, and nearer to the ultimate
+perfection&mdash;the winged creature which soars above where others
+crawl&mdash;but until we are fit to be cocoons, and evolve butterflies, we
+must be content with our caterpillar instincts.</p>
+
+<p>People speak scornfully of &ldquo;mere curiosity,&rdquo; but it is only worthless
+when it bears no fruit. Curiosity, in itself, is a healthy, natural
+instinct, which we see to perfection in the small child. Toddie&#8217;s speech
+in &ldquo;Helen&#8217;s Babies,&rdquo; &ldquo;Want to shee wheels go wound,&rdquo; is the pilgrim
+spirit epitomised. We hear of the watch, and we want to see it; we see
+it, and then we want to hold it; we hear it tick, and we want to open
+it; and then we would like to &ldquo;shee wheels go wound&rdquo; constantly, and if
+we cannot, we kick at the prohibition!</p>
+
+<p>Curiosity may be a worthless element in life when idle, but when
+otherwise, is it not the mainspring of the watch? Think of the manifold
+results of &ldquo;mere curiosity,&rdquo; when rightly persevered in! But then we
+change the name&mdash;it becomes insight&mdash;research&mdash;it becomes a power which
+can climb the dizziest height, and dive the deepest depths, to bring to
+us their treasures&mdash;the star&mdash;the pearl!</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img201.jpg" width="400" height="280" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>A College Idyl.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By S. Gordon.</span></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by A. H. Fisher.</span></p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<div class="box">
+
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/img202a.jpg" width="350" height="301" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 8em;">
+  Night it was&mdash;nay, nearer morning,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Snores and nightmares whisked about,</span><br />
+  And the pallid moon gave warning<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">That her lamp was nearly out.</span><br />
+  Twain we sat, and ruminated<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">On the world, its joys and ills,</span><br />
+  What we loved, and what we hated,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Woman, wine&mdash;exams and bills.</span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 257px;">
+<img src="images/img202b.jpg" width="257" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 3em; margin-top: 8em;">
+  Often, too, with short-lived splendour,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flashed the ready epigram,</span><br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thoughts we uttered, soft and tender,</span><br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Ending in a smothered &ldquo;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;;</span><br />
+          <span style="margin-left: 4em;">All the truths and lies of ages</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 5em;">Compassed we in one short breath,</span><br />
+              <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Flouted whims of priests and sages,</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 7em;">Lightly toyed with life and death.</span></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 300px;">
+<img src="images/img202c.jpg" width="300" height="253" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 5em;">
+  Men and manners, saints and sinners,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">All and more we touched upon,</span><br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 2em;">How the worst were ever winners,</span><br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 3em;">For <em>we</em> yet had never won;</span><br />
+          <span style="margin-left: 4em;">And we cursed at superstition,</span><br />
+            <span style="margin-left: 5em;">Villain smiles, and sects, and cants,</span><br />
+              <span style="margin-left: 6em;">Hurled to ruin and perdition</span><br />
+                <span style="margin-left: 7em;">All the tribe of sycophants&mdash;</span></p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/img203a.jpg" width="350" height="252" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 2em;">
+  Queried, thinking of cold faces,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Colder hearts of living stone,</span><br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why our lot within such places,</span><br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 3em;">Why upon such days was thrown;</span><br />
+  In our years&#8217; maturing crescent<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Spied we how our fate was fraught,</span><br />
+      <span style="margin-left: 2em;">Spanned the future and the present</span><br />
+        <span style="margin-left: 3em;">With the flimsy bridge of thought.</span></p>
+
+<p style="margin-top: 5em; margin-left: 13em;">
+  So the morn came, pale and haggard,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lighting up our sunken eyes,</span><br />
+  And we rose and thither staggered<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Whence we would but slowly rise;</span><br />
+  Plain our footsteps, weak and frisky,<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Told their moral&mdash;speak who can&mdash;</span><br />
+  Midnight words and midnight whiskey<br />
+    <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Play the devil with a man!</span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img203b.jpg" width="400" height="299" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 318px;">
+<img src="images/img204.jpg" width="318" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">(from a photograph by<br />messrs. elliott and fry.)</span>
+</div>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>My First Book.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By F. W. Robinson</span>.</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Geo. Hutchinson</span>.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<div class="box">
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 385px; margin-left: -1em;">
+<img src="images/img205a.jpg" width="385" height="600" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+<p style="margin-left: 15em; margin-top: -35em;">It is a far cry back to 1853, when dreams of writing a book had almost
+reached the boundary line of &ldquo;probable events.&rdquo; I was then a pale,
+long-haired, consumptive-looking youth, who had been successful in prize
+poems&mdash;for there were prize competitions even in those far-off days&mdash;and
+in acrostics, and in the acceptance of one or two short stories, which
+had been actually published in a magazine that did not pay for
+contributions (it was edited by a clergyman of the Church of England,
+too, and the chaplain to a real Duke), and which magazine has gone the
+way of many magazines, and is now as extinct as the Dodo. It was in the
+year 1853, or a month or two earlier, that I wrote my first
+novel&mdash;which, upon a moderate computation, I think, would make four or
+five good-sized library volumes, but I have never attempted to &ldquo;scale&rdquo;
+the manuscript. It is in my possession still, although I have not seen
+it for many weary years. It is buried with a heap
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
+more rubbish in a
+respectable old oak chest, the key of which is even lost to me. And yet
+that MS. was the turning-point of my small literary career. And it is
+the history of that manuscript which leads up to the publication of my
+first novel; my first step, though I did not know it, and hence it is
+part and parcel of the history of my first book&mdash;a link in the chain.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 222px;">
+<img src="images/img205b.jpg" width="222" height="300" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">at twenty.</span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 352px; margin-top: -6em;">
+<img src="images/img206.jpg" width="352" height="600" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">elmore house.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>When that manuscript was completed, it was read aloud, night after
+night, to an admiring audience of family members, and pronounced as fit
+for publication as anything of Dickens or Thackeray or Bulwer, who were
+then in the full swing of their mighty capacities. Alas! I was a better
+judge than my partial and amiable critics. I had very grave
+doubts&mdash;&ldquo;qualms,&rdquo; I think they are called&mdash;and I had read that it was
+uphill work to get a book published, and swagger through the world as a
+real live being who had actually written a novel. There was a faint
+hope, that was all; and so, with my MS. under my arm, I strolled into
+the palatial premises of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett (&ldquo;successors to
+Henry Colburn&rdquo; they proudly designated themselves at that period), laid
+my heavy parcel on the counter, and waited, with fear and trembling, for
+someone to emerge from the galleries of books and rows of desks beyond,
+and enquire the nature of my business. And here ensued my first
+surprise&mdash;quite a dramatic coincidence&mdash;for the tall, spare, middle-aged
+gentleman who advanced from the shadows towards the counter, proved, to
+my intense astonishment, to be a constant
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
+chess antagonist of mine at
+Kling&#8217;s Chess Rooms, round the corner, in New Oxford Street&mdash;rooms which
+have disappeared long ago, along with Horwitz, Harrwitz, Loewenthal,
+Williams, and other great chess lights of those far-away times, who were
+to be seen there, night after night, prepared for all comers. Kling&#8217;s
+was a great chess house, and I was a chess enthusiast, as well as a
+youth who wanted to get into print. Failing literature, I had made up my
+mind to become a chess champion, if possible, although I knew already,
+by quiet observation of my antagonists, that in that way madness lay,
+sheer uncontrollable, raging madness&mdash;for me at any rate. And the grave,
+middle-aged gentleman behind the counter of 13, Great Marlborough
+Street, proved to be the cashier of the firm, and used&mdash;being chess-mad
+like the rest of us&mdash;to spend his evenings at &ldquo;Kling&#8217;s.&rdquo; He was a player
+of my own strength, and for twelve months or so had I skirmished with
+him over the chessboard, and fought innumerable battles with him. He had
+never spoken of his occupation, or I of my restless ambitions&mdash;chess
+players never go far beyond the chequered board.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 331px;">
+<img src="images/img207.jpg" width="331" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">at thirty.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hallo, Robinson!&rdquo; he exclaimed, in his surprise, &ldquo;you don&#8217;t mean to say
+that you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appearance very critically.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, Mr. Kenny&mdash;it&#8217;s a novel,&rdquo; I said, modestly; &ldquo;my first.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There&#8217;s plenty of it,&rdquo; he remarked, drily. &ldquo;I&#8217;ll send it upstairs at
+once. And I&#8217;ll wish you luck too; but,&rdquo; he added, kindly, preparing to
+soften the shock of a future refusal, &ldquo;we have plenty of these come
+in&mdash;about seven a day&mdash;and most of them go back to their writers again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ye-es, I suppose so,&rdquo; I answered, with a sigh.</p>
+
+<p>For awhile, however, I regarded the meeting as a happy
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
+augury&mdash;a lucky
+coincidence. I even had the vain, hopeless notion that Mr. Kenny might
+put in a good word for me, ask for special consideration, out of that
+kindly feeling which we had for each other, and which chess antagonists
+have invariably for each other, I am inclined to believe. But though we
+met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one word
+concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips of Mr. Kenny. It
+is probable the incident had passed from his memory; he had nothing to
+do with the novel department itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very
+common everyday proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too proud,
+an individual to ask any questions of him; but every evening that I
+encountered him I used to wonder &ldquo;if he had heard anything,&rdquo; if any news
+of the book&#8217;s fate had reached him, directly or indirectly; occasionally
+even, as time went on, I was disposed to imagine that he was letting me
+win the game out of kindness&mdash;for he was a gentle, kindly soul
+always&mdash;in order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew
+perfectly well was on its way towards me.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img208.jpg" width="500" height="365" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. robinson&#8217;s library.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 310px;">
+<img src="images/img209.jpg" width="310" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the garden.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Some months afterwards, the fateful letter came to me from the firm,
+regretting their inability to make use of the MS., and expressing many
+thanks for a perusal of the same&mdash;a polite, concise, all-round kind of
+epistle, which a publisher is compelled to
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
+keep in stock, and to send
+out when rejected literature pours forth like a waterfall from the dusky
+caverns of a publishing house in a large way of business. It was all
+over, then&mdash;I had failed! From that hour I would turn chess player, and
+soften my brain in a quest for silver cups or champion amateur stakes. I
+could play chess better than I could write fiction, I was sure. Still,
+after some days of dead despair, I sent the MS. once more on its
+travels&mdash;this time to Smith and Elder&#8217;s, whose reader, Mr. Williams, had
+leapt into singular prominence since his favourable judgment of
+Charlotte Bront&euml;&#8217;s book, and to whom most MSS. flowed spontaneously for
+many years afterwards. And in due course of time, Mr. Williams, acting
+for Messrs. Smith and Elder, asked me to call upon him&mdash;<em>for the
+MS.</em>!&mdash;at Cornhill, and there I received my first advice, my first
+thrill of exultation. &ldquo;Presently, and probably, <em>and with
+perseverance</em>,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you will succeed in literature, and if you
+will remember now, that to write a good novel is a very considerable
+achievement. Years of short story-writing is the best apprenticeship for
+you. Write and re-write, and spare no pains.&rdquo; I thanked him, and I went
+home with tears in my eyes of gratitude and consolation, though my big
+story had been declined with thanks. But I did not write again. I put
+away my MS., and went on for six or eight hours a day at chess for many
+idle months before I was in the vein for composition, and then, with a
+sudden dash, I began &ldquo;The House of Elmore.&rdquo; It was half finished when
+another strange incident in its little way occurred. I received one
+morning a letter from Lascelles Wraxall (afterwards Sir Lascelles
+Wraxall, Bart., as the reader may be probably aware), informing me that
+he was one of the readers for Messrs. Hurst and Blackett, and that it
+had been his duty some time ago to decide unfavourably against a story
+which I had submitted to the notice of his firm, but that he had
+intended to write to me a private note urging me to adopt literature as
+a profession. His
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
+principal object in writing at that time was to
+suggest my trying the fortunes of the novel which he had already read
+with Messrs. Routledge, and he kindly added a letter of introduction to
+that firm in the Broadway&mdash;an introduction which, by the way, never came
+to anything.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img210.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">the drawing-room.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Poor Lascelles Wraxall, clever writer and editor, pressman and literary
+adviser, real Bohemian and true friend&mdash;indeed, everybody&#8217;s friend but
+his own&mdash;I never think of him but with feelings of deep gratitude. He
+was a rolling stone, and when I met him for the first time in my life,
+years afterwards, he had left Marlborough Street for the Crimea; he had
+been given a commission in the Turkish Contingent at Kertch; he had come
+back anathematising the service, and &ldquo;chock full&rdquo; of grievances against
+the Government, and he became once more editor and sub-editor, and
+publisher&#8217;s hack even at last, until he stepped into his baronetcy&mdash;an
+empty title, for he had sold the reversion of the estates for a mere
+song long ago&mdash;and became special correspondent in Austria for the
+<em>Daily Telegraph</em>. And in Vienna he died, young in years still&mdash;not
+forty, I think&mdash;closing a life that only
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
+wanted one turn more of
+&ldquo;application,&rdquo; I have often thought, to have achieved very great
+distinction. There are still a few writing men about who remember
+Lascelles Wraxall, but they are &ldquo;the boys of the old brigade.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It was to Lascelles Wraxall I sent, when finished, &ldquo;The House of
+Elmore,&rdquo; the reader may very easily guess. Wraxall had stepped so much
+out of his groove&mdash;for the busy literary man that he was&mdash;to take me by
+the hand, and point the way along &ldquo;the perilous road&rdquo;; he had given me
+so many kind words, that I wrote my hardest to complete my new story
+before I should fade wholly from his recollection. The book was finished
+in five weeks, and in hot haste, and for months again I was left
+wondering what the outcome of it all was to be&mdash;whether Wraxall was
+reading my story, or whether&mdash;oh, horror!&mdash;some other reader less kindly
+disposed, and more austere and critical, and hard to please, had been
+told off to sit in judgment upon my second MS.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 262px;">
+<img src="images/img211.jpg" width="262" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">at forty.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>I went back to chess for a distraction till the fate of that book was
+pronounced or sealed&mdash;it was always chess in the hours of my distress
+and anxiety&mdash;and I once again faced Charles Kenny, and once again
+wondered if he knew, and how much he knew, whilst he was deep in his
+king&#8217;s gambit or his giuoco-piano; but he was not even aware that I had
+sent in a second story, I learned afterwards. And then at last came the
+judgment&mdash;the pleasant, if formal, notice from Marlborough Street that
+the novel had been favourably reported upon by the reader, and that
+Messrs. Hurst and Blackett would be pleased to see me at Marlborough
+Street to talk the matter of its publication over with me. Ah! what a
+letter that was!&mdash;what a surprise, after all!&mdash;what a good omen!</p>
+
+<p>And some three months afterwards, at the end of the year 1854, my first
+book&mdash;but my second novel&mdash;was launched into the reading world, and I
+have hardly got over the feeling yet that I had actually a right to dub
+myself a novelist!</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
+<img src="images/img212.jpg" width="500" height="360" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">mr. robinson at work.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>When the first three notices of the book appeared, wild dreams of a
+brilliant future beset me. They were all favourable notices&mdash;too
+favourable; but <em>John Bull</em>, <em>The Press</em>, and <em>Bell&#8217;s Messenger</em> (I
+think they were the papers) scattered favourable notices
+indiscriminately at that time. Presently the <em>Athen&aelig;um</em> sobered me a
+little, but wound up with a kindly pat on the back, and the <em>Saturday
+Review</em>, then in its seventh number, drenched me with vitriolic acid,
+and brought me to a lower level altogether; and finally the <em>Morning
+Herald</em> blew a loud blast to my praise and glory&mdash;that last notice, I
+believe, having been written by my old friend Sir Edward Clarke, then a
+very young reviewer on the <em>Herald</em> staff, with no dreams of becoming
+Her Majesty&#8217;s Solicitor-General just then! And the &ldquo;House of Elmore&rdquo;
+actually paid its publishers&#8217; expenses, and left a balance, and brought
+me in a little cheque, and thus my writing life began in sober earnest.</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>Told by the Colonel.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><strong>XI.</strong></p>
+
+<p class="center"><strong>HOSKINS&#8217;S PETS.</strong></p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By W. L. Alden</span>.
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <span class="smcap">Illustrations by R. Jack</span>.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 337px; margin-top: -4em;">
+<img src="images/img213.jpg" width="337" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;heave flowers into his cell.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; said the Colonel, reflectively, "I&#8217;ve been almost everywhere in
+my time except in gaol, and I&#8217;ve been in a great deal worse places than
+a first-class American gaol with all the modern improvements. The fact
+is, that philanthropic people have gone so far in improving the
+condition of prisoners, that most of our prisons are rather better than
+most of our hotels. At any rate, they are less expensive, and the guests
+are treated with more respect.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I never could understand the craze that some people have for prisoners.
+For instance, in New York and Chicago, the young ladies have a society
+for giving flowers to murderers. Whenever a man is convicted of murder
+and sentenced to be hung, the girls begin to heave flowers into his cell
+till he can&#8217;t turn round without upsetting a vase of roses, or a big
+basin full of pansies, and getting his feet wet. I once knew a murderer
+who told me that if anything could reconcile him to being hung it would
+be getting rid of the floral tributes that the girls lavished on him.
+You see he was one of the leading murderers in that section of country,
+and consequently he received about a cartload of flowers every day.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I had a neighbour when I lived in New Berlinopolisville who was the
+President of the Society for Ameliorating the Condition of Prisoners,
+and he was the craziest man on the subject that I ever met. His name was
+Hoskins&mdash;Colonel Uriah Hoskins&mdash;and he was the author of the Hoskins
+Bill that attracted so much attention when it was before the
+Legislature, though it never became a law. The bill provided that every
+prisoner should have a sitting room as well as a sleeping room, and that
+it should be furnished with a piano, a banjo, a library, a typewriter, a
+wine cooler, and a whist table; that the prisoner should be permitted to
+hold two weekly receptions, to which everybody should be allowed to
+come, and that he should be taught any branch of study that he might
+care to take up, books and masters being, of course, supplied free.
+Colonel Hoskins used to insist that the only thing that made a man go
+wrong was the lack of kindness, and that the sure way to reform a
+criminal was to treat him with so much kindness that he would grow
+ashamed of being wicked, and would fall on everybody&#8217;s neck and devote
+the rest of his life to weeping tears of repentance and singing hymns of
+joy.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 245px;">
+<img src="images/img214.jpg" width="245" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;drew up a beautiful notice.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;While Colonel Hoskins was fond of all styles of criminals, burglars
+were his particular pets. According to him, a burglar was more deserving
+of kindness than any other man. &lsquo;How would you like it,&rsquo; he used to say,
+&lsquo;if you had to earn your living by breaking into houses in the middle of
+the night, instead of sleeping peacefully in your bed? Do you think you
+would be full of good thoughts after you had been bitten by the
+watch-dog and fired at by the man of the house, and earned nothing by
+your labour except a bad cold and the prospect of hydrophobia? There is
+nothing more brutal than the way in which society treats the burglar,
+and so long as society refuses to put him in the way of earning an
+easier and less dangerous living, he cannot be blamed if he continues to
+practise his midnight profession.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I must say this for Colonel Hoskins. He did not confine himself to
+talk, like many other philanthropists, but he was already trying to
+carry out his principles. He really meant what
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
+he said about burglars,
+and there isn&#8217;t the least doubt that he had more sympathy for them than
+he had for the honest men of his acquaintance. When people asked him
+what he would do if he woke up in the night and found a burglar in his
+house, and whether or not he would shoot at him, he said that he would
+as soon think of shooting at his own wife, and that he would undertake
+to reform that burglar then and there by kindness alone. Once somebody
+said to Hoskins that he ought really to let the burglars know his
+feelings towards them, and Hoskins said that he would do it without
+delay.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That same day he drew up a beautiful &lsquo;Notice to Burglars,&rsquo; and had it
+printed in big letters and framed and hung up in the dining-room of his
+house. It read in this way: &lsquo;Burglars are respectfully informed that the
+silver-ware is all plated, and that the proprietor of this house never
+keeps ready money on hand. Cake and wine will be found in the
+dining-room closet, and burglars are cordially invited to rest and
+refresh themselves. Please wipe your feet on the mat, and close the
+window when leaving the house.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Colonel Hoskins took a good deal of pride in that notice. He showed it
+to everyone who called at the house, and said that if other people would
+follow his example, and treat burglars like Christians and gentlemen,
+there would soon be an end of burglary, for the burglars would be so
+touched by the kindness of their treatment that they would abandon the
+business and become honoured members of society&mdash;insurance presidents,
+or bank cashiers, or church treasurers. He didn&#8217;t say how the reformed
+burglars were to find employment in banks and insurance offices, and
+such, but that was a matter of detail, and he always preferred to devise
+large and noble schemes, and leave the working details of them to other
+men.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One morning, Colonel Hoskins, who was an early riser, went down to the
+dining-room before breakfast, and was surprised to find that he had had
+a midnight visit from burglars. Two empty wine bottles stood on the
+table, and all the cake was eaten, which showed that the burglars had
+accepted the invitation to refresh themselves. But they did not seem to
+have accepted it in quite the right spirit. All Hoskins&#8217;s spoons and
+forks lay in a heap in the middle of the floor, and every one was
+twisted or broken so as to be good for nothing. The window had been left
+open, and the rain had ruined the curtains, and on a dirty piece of
+paper the burglars had scrawled with a lead pencil the opinion that &lsquo;Old
+Hoskins is the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>
+biggest fule, and the gol-darndest skinflint in the
+country. You set out whiskey next time, or we&#8217;ll serve you out.&rsquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hoskins was not in the least cast down by the rudeness of the burglars.
+&lsquo;Poor fellows,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;they have been so used to bad treatment that
+they don&#8217;t altogether appreciate kindness at first. But they will
+learn.&rsquo; So he laid in some new spoons and forks, and added a bottle of
+whiskey to the wine that he kept in the closet for the burglars, and was
+as confident as ever that the next gang that might break into his house
+would be melted into tears and repentance, and would call him their best
+and dearest friend.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 489px;">
+<img src="images/img216.jpg" width="489" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;every one was twisted or broken.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A week or two later Mrs. Hoskins was awakened by a noise in the
+dining-room, and, after waking up her husband, told him that there were
+burglars in the house, and that he must get out of the back window and
+go for the police. He told her that he was sorry to see her manifest
+such an unchristian spirit, and he would show her how burglars ought to
+be treated. There was not the least doubt that there were burglars in
+the house, and they were making a good deal more noise than was strictly
+consistent with the prospect of rising in their profession, for no able
+burglar ever makes any unnecessary noise while engaged in business,
+unless, of course, he falls over a coal-scuttle, and then he naturally
+uses language. St. Paul himself would probably say something pretty
+strong in similar circumstances. Hoskins was sincerely delighted to have
+the opportunity to meet his burglarious friends, and he lost no time in
+dressing and descending to the dining-room.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
+&ldquo;He wore his slippers, and the burglars&mdash;there were two of them&mdash;did not
+hear him until he was fairly in the dining-room. They were seated at the
+table, with their feet on the damask tablecloth, and the bottle of
+whiskey was nearly empty. The Colonel was much pleased to see that they
+had not damaged his silver-ware, and he was just about to thank them
+when they saw him. They started up, and one of them caught him by the
+throat, while the other held a pistol to his head, and promised to blow
+out his brains if he made the slightest noise. Then they tied him hand
+and foot, gagged him, and laid him on the floor, and then sat down to
+finish the whiskey.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 429px;">
+<img src="images/img217.jpg" width="429" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;caught him by the throat.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Both the burglars were partly drunk, which accounted for the
+unprofessional noise they had been making. They talked in rather a low
+tone, but Hoskins could hear everything they said, and it was not
+particularly encouraging to a gagged and bound philanthropist. They
+agreed that he was a fool, and a stingy fool, or else he would have kept
+money in the house, and would have set out lemons and sugar as well as
+plain whiskey. They said that any man who treated poor working men in
+that way wasn&#8217;t fit to live, and that Hoskins would have to be killed,
+even if it was not necessary&mdash;as it plainly was in this case&mdash;to kill
+him in order to prevent him from appearing at any future time as a
+witness against them. They admitted that the whiskey was not bad of its
+kind, but they were of the opinion that Hoskins had left it in their way
+so that they might get drunk and be caught by the police.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Colonel Hoskins listened to this conversation with horror, and the
+prospect that the drunken rascals would be as good as their word, and
+kill him before they left the house, was only a little more painful than
+the conviction that his method, appealing to the better nature of
+burglars, had failed for the second time. When the whiskey was exhausted
+the men rose up and looked at Hoskins, and a happy thought struck one of
+them. &lsquo;Thishyer idiot,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;may not have any money in the house,
+but he&#8217;s bound to have some in the bank, and he&#8217;s going to write us a
+cheque for a thousand dollars, provided we let him off, and don&#8217;t kick
+his brains out this time.&rsquo; The other burglar, who was in that benevolent
+frame of mind that Irish whiskey and conscious virtue sometimes produce,
+agreed to the suggestion, and Hoskins was therefore unbound and seated
+at the table, and told to draw a cheque at once if he had the least
+regard for his life. As he was gagged he could not explain to the
+burglars the kind feelings that he still had towards them, and the fact
+that they could not draw the money on the cheque without being captured
+by the police. So he simply signed the cheque, and groaned to think that
+the poor burglars were so slow to be reformed in the way that he had
+hoped they would be.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 346px;">
+<img src="images/img218.jpg" width="346" height="450" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;tied him in a chair.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When this business was over, the burglars tied Hoskins&#8217;s wrists
+together again, and then tied him in a chair. Then they set to work to
+do all the damage they could do without making too much noise. They tore
+the curtains and hacked the piano with knives, and poured a jug of
+golden syrup over the carpet. Then they plastered Colonel Hoskins&#8217;s face
+with raspberry jam, and emptied a sack of flour over his head, and went
+away, telling him that if he ever again ventured to trifle with the
+feelings of poor but self-respecting men, they would put him to death by
+slow tortures.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 457px;">
+<img src="images/img219.jpg" width="457" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;made him wash at the pump.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hoskins sat in the chair for a couple of hours, till his wife timidly
+crept downstairs and released him. It took him a good hour to get the
+jam and the flour out of his hair and whiskers, and as Mrs. Hoskins said
+that he was in no state to enter a decent bedroom, and made him wash at
+the pump in the back yard, he found it a rather cold operation. Perhaps
+it was the remarks that Mrs. Hoskins addressed to him during the
+operation that irritated him, for she intimated very plainly that he was
+no better than a professional idiot, and when a man&#8217;s hair is stuck
+together with jam remarks of this sort from the wife of his bosom seem
+to be lacking in tenderness. However that may be, Colonel Hoskins had no
+sooner got himself into what his wife condescended to call a state of
+comparative decency, than he took down his &lsquo;Notice to Burglars,&rsquo; and
+tore it into a thousand pieces. That day he had an electric burglar
+alarm put into his house; he bought the savagest dog that he could find,
+and he stopped the payment of the cheque, which, however, was never
+presented. He continued to be the President of the Society for
+Ameliorating the Condition of Prisoners, but he steadily refused to
+ameliorate a single prisoner convicted of burglary, and while he was
+always a lunatic in regard to other criminals, he openly maintained that
+a burglar was the worst of men, and that kindness was utterly thrown
+away upon him. He never had any more burglars in his house, though the
+dog now and then lunched off warm leg when some stranger to that part of
+the country<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
+ventured into the Hoskins&#8217;s premises at night. Hoskins was
+very fond of the animal, which was quite right, but his practice of
+leaving a bottle of whiskey, with an ounce of strychnine in it, on the
+dining-room table every night, in case a burglar should succeed in
+getting into the house, was, in my opinion, going a little too far.
+Antimonial wine would have been much more humane and sufficiently
+effective. But there is no man who is more severe than a philanthropist
+who has been turned sour.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img220.jpg" width="400" height="54" alt="page decoration" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>
+<h1><em>Experiences of a &#8217;Varsity Oar.</em></h1>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By an &ldquo;Old Blue.&rdquo;</span></p>
+
+<p class="center">(<span class="smcap">F. C. Drake</span>.)</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Illustrations by Ernest Prater</span>.</p>
+
+<hr style="width: 10%;" />
+
+<p>Rowing in the University Boat Race is not a thing to be undertaken
+lightly. To begin with, it involves great muscular exertion; but this is
+not unpleasant, and, as I shall presently show, is not dangerous.
+Further, it ties the aspirant to his oar for at least ten weeks, which
+is perhaps its greatest disadvantage; and it involves intense
+application and a pretty good temper under remarks from the &ldquo;coach&rdquo; that
+are sometimes almost more than caustic. But against these drawbacks are
+to be set the pleasure of gratified ambition, the healthy life, and,
+best of all, the sensation of the flight of the boat driven by eight
+men, of whom none are really bad oarsmen, and some are uncommonly good.
+Putting these side by side, no one need wonder that an old Blue should
+look on the time he spent at Putney as one of the best in his life.</p>
+
+<p>I will pass over the preliminary work at the University, for it contains
+nothing novel or interesting, and is mainly consumed in settling the
+crew who are finally to row, and in getting the men &ldquo;hard&rdquo; by long,
+steady work, to get rid of fat and replace it by muscle. The real
+interest begins when the crew has been settled, and the men have had
+their colours given them, and are looking forward shortly to leaving the
+home waters. By this time they are fairly &ldquo;fit,&rdquo; and, as they have in
+all cases of doubt had the very best medical opinions, they are not very
+likely to go wrong. There is a good deal of nonsense talked about the
+dangers of this race to health. No man who is not absolutely sound in
+wind and limb is allowed to begin training at all, for the obvious
+reason that the captain does not want one of his men to fail him at the
+last moment. It is about as probable that a man should go tiger shooting
+without looking to see if his rifle is loaded, as that the President of
+a University Boat Club should select an oarsman who is likely to &ldquo;crock
+up.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It is when the crew leave the home waters that the really enjoyable part
+of the training begins. The Cambridge crew generally, and the Oxford men
+not infrequently, go straight to Putney, but a far more pleasant plan is
+to spend a week or so on the up-river waters before going to the
+Metropolitan course.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
+Everyone knows Cookham in its summer dress, with a
+plentiful crowd of holiday-makers on the water; but in the very early
+spring, before the foliage has begun to appear, and when the
+light-hearted champagne bottle still nestles in its straw, it has also a
+very great charm of its own. The fresh air, and the change to new
+scenes, together with the strong stream caused by winter rains, make the
+men feel like young bullocks, and the boat moves with twice the spring
+it had before. The jolly lounging life in between whiles, diversified
+with songs, saloon-pistols, and the like, the pleasant walk over the
+hills on Sunday, and the total freedom from all thoughts and cares,
+beyond the beating of a record over the course next day, all go to make
+up an Elysian life.</p>
+
+<p>Every now and then the amusement is varied by the rather boisterous
+humour of the elements. Some five years ago the state of the tide at
+Putney rendered it necessary to do most of the work early in the
+morning. It was freezing hard, with occasional showers of snow, and the
+coxswain absolutely was able to stand his coat up when he took it off.
+It had got drenched, and was frozen stiff! I have several times been in
+a boat when we had to land and empty out the water, that had broken over
+the bow oars in such quantities as almost to sink us. Occasionally,
+boats have quite sunk from the same cause, while the men stuck to their
+thwarts, presenting a comic appearance as they rowed away, seated, as it
+seemed, in the water.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 277px;">
+<img src="images/img222.jpg" width="277" height="350" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;a work of genius.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>A great consideration in estimating the happiness of such a time as this
+is the question, &ldquo;What did you have to eat?&rdquo; But the answer to this has
+been given so many times that it would be merely wearisome now to detail
+the various dishes that are or are not &ldquo;good for training.&rdquo; Enough to
+say that, as everybody knows, the old rigorous system of raw beef and
+beer is a thing of the past&mdash;except the beer. Nowadays, it is considered
+sufficient to banish all very unwholesome things from the table, while
+keeping as nearly as possible to each man&#8217;s ordinary diet. In point of
+quantity there are practically no restrictions, unless the Captain
+considers that any man does not know when he has had enough (which,
+alas! may occur); in which case he may remonstrate with
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> him gently, but
+firmly. I have seen a man eat for breakfast a sole and a half, three
+chops, a poached egg, and some watercress; but I confess that this was
+regarded as a work of genius. The ordinary man in training eats only
+about twice as much as any sane person, or perhaps a little more; and
+as, of course, the system needs recuperating under the great strains
+that are put upon it, this trifling excess has its justification.</p>
+
+<p>However, the result of this wear and tear and repair of the muscular
+tissue is that the activity of the mind decreases in inverse proportion
+to that of the body; and during a hard course of training the rowing man
+is generally rather sleepy and unintellectual. This matters all the less
+that studies are forbidden&mdash;not a very difficult rule to enforce&mdash;during
+the latter part of the time. But training once over, the strength and
+health accumulated can certainly do no harm either physical or mental,
+and a healthy body is the best guarantee for an active mind (see Latin
+authors and copybooks <em>passim</em>).</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 400px;">
+<img src="images/img223.jpg" width="400" height="336" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;lapped in profoundest sleep.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>About three weeks or less before the race a move is made to Putney,
+where, as a general rule, very comfortable quarters are provided. The
+pleasantest of all that the Oxford crew have had lately has been the
+Lyric Club House; but it is not really a good place for the men&#8217;s
+health. Lying, as it does, just down by the river, the air is not half
+so bracing as that of the higher ground. Still, it is undoubtedly very
+convenient to have a billiard-table or two to while away the men&#8217;s time
+in the evening. Without something of the kind time is apt to hang very
+heavily on their hands. Conversation flags, the chairs feel very
+comfortable after the day&#8217;s work, and Morpheus, drowsy god, steals in
+unawares. Now, this is not only bad hygienically, but is apt to have
+very awkward consequences of a different kind. One man more wakeful than
+the rest casts his eye around, seeking for his prey. He spies an
+unfortunate lapped
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
+in profoundest sleep. His hand steals out and
+clutches a book. He hurls it&mdash;and in a moment all is confusion. Each
+man, starting from his guilty slumbers, springs up to cast the
+proverbial stone, and in this case usually a book, at his fellow-sinner,
+vowing that he has been watching the nodding of the victim, and only
+waiting for the proper moment to visit him with condign punishment. And
+so, with protestations, objurgations, and such light and cheerful
+pastime, the hours roll away till the happy 10.30 comes, when all
+incontinently roll off to bed.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 455px;">
+<img src="images/img224.jpg" width="455" height="500" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&lsquo;take it off.&rsquo;&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>But if the men go to bed early, they make up for it by rising early too;
+and if they are sleepy at night, they feel delightfully fresh in the
+morning. A brisk walk over the common sends the human barometer spinning
+upwards; they feel ready for any fun that comes in their way. And, alas!
+did not this same buoyancy of spirit not many years ago involve certain
+respectable oarsmen in a difference with the executive? <em>Tacenda</em>,
+indeed! Yet if a rabbit springs up out of the gorse, and the dogs are
+off in full cry, can nature in such a mood be stubborn?</p>
+
+<p>In between whiles the men are left almost entirely to themselves, and
+are free to seek what innocent diversion they please. The choice
+certainly is not very varied. Beyond paying a visit to the opposing
+crew, chatting with friends who have come to see the practices, or
+looking in at the local skittle alley, there is very little to do. But
+if they lack diversion themselves, they do not fail to cause great
+delight to the juvenile population of Barnes and Putney. It must be
+premised, for the benefit of all who are not <em>habitu&eacute;s</em> of Putney, that
+the crews always wear during their training the coat and cap of their
+University<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
+Boat Club, and flannel trousers. There are reasons which
+make this a very necessary and laudable practice; but in the juvenile
+mind it gives rise to the most uncompromising scorn, which finds various
+ways of expressing itself. &ldquo;Take it off&rdquo; is one of the most popular of
+these, and though it certainly suffers from a lack of originality, it
+appears to give great satisfaction. Another, more recondite, but perhaps
+ironical, is &ldquo;Put it on.&rdquo; &ldquo;Where&#8217;s yer trousers?&rdquo; &ldquo;Go it, white legs!&rdquo;
+&ldquo;Who&#8217;s yer hatter?&rdquo; and many similar cries, all testify to the joyous
+humour of the riverside youth.</p>
+
+<p>Hardly less amusing are the comments of the crowd as the men pass
+through to their boat-house. &ldquo;That&#8217;s Nickalls,&rdquo; explains the
+well-informed gentleman as a Cambridge man goes by. Or, as the
+lightweight hurries past, &ldquo;Don&#8217;t look as if &#8217;e could do it,&rdquo; remarks a
+bystander, &ldquo;looks to want a day out at grass for them calves.&rdquo; Or,
+&ldquo;&#8217;Ere, I say, &#8217;e&#8217;s eat a bit of beef in his day, I know,&rdquo; as the heavy
+man comes in sight. It is a good-humoured crowd, and if the strong
+tobacco is a bit offensive when one&#8217;s not allowed to smoke oneself,
+things can&#8217;t be always as we should like them to be.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 390px;">
+<img src="images/img225.jpg" width="390" height="400" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;&#8217;e&#8217;s eat a bit of beef in his day.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 550px;">
+<img src="images/img226.jpg" width="550" height="425" alt="image" title="" />
+<span class="caption">&ldquo;getting rid of fat.&rdquo;</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>It is the custom for the Oxford crew to use the London Rowing Club
+boat-house, while the Cambridge men are accommodated at the Leander Club
+next door, and there is accordingly a good crowd in front of each at
+practice times, eager to see the men on whose prowess their own modest
+half-crowns are staked. Unfortunately, as some of my readers may have
+experienced, it is not always easy to find out the exact time when the
+crews are going out. In fact, the Captain is an autocrat on these
+occasions, who rules alike over crew, critics, and the general public
+without distinction of persons, and who shows a splendid indifference
+for the latter&#8217;s convenience.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
+He launches the boat at all kinds of
+wondrous times, not shrinking from starting half-an-hour or more before
+the time he has arranged, and thus disappointing a number of would-be
+spectators. It is even said that he often chooses parts of the river for
+doing the hard work where there are no well-known landmarks, so that no
+clear &ldquo;line&rdquo; can be given to the outside public. This may be so. The
+workings of the Presidential mind are dark and mysterious. But I doubt
+if the convenience of the public has sufficient weight with him either
+one way or the other to influence his plans in that manner. And though
+perhaps this indifference may be carried too far, yet the idea which
+underlies it is a perfectly just one. The University Boat Race began as
+a private match, of a more or less impromptu character (those were the
+days when they rowed from Westminster to Putney in a huge Noah&#8217;s Ark of
+a boat, and stopped for beer and biscuits on the way down, and when, it
+is said, the Speaker of the House of Commons used to leave the chair to
+let the M.P.&#8217;s run out and see the start&mdash;but we digress). Then, by
+degrees, it attained to its present position of a great festive
+gathering of the many-headed, where only about one in every ten cares to
+glance at the race as it goes by. But, above all things, the race is,
+and has been, a purely sporting event. The British lion may put on his
+holiday suit and gamble to his heart&#8217;s content on the bank, but the sole
+concern of the Captain of either crew is to bring his men well up to the
+scratch, and have a thoroughly good, honest race. He has nothing to do
+with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
+letting the spectators know the real state of the odds, or helping
+them to win their money.</p>
+
+<p>It must be confessed that, in spite of the many pleasures indicated as
+belonging to this training, one gets very tired of it, just as one might
+tire of living in Arcadia, if, as is probable, there were no Club or
+Italian Opera there. It is with considerable joy, therefore, that one
+hails the approach of the race when it is still a week off; but this
+feeling is apt to be modified as the days draw on after that. &ldquo;Funk,&rdquo; of
+course, attacks everybody more or less; but its violence differs very
+widely in different men. Many of the most unlikely people are most
+liable to it; and it would probably astonish a good many people were I
+to say who is the &ldquo;funkiest&rdquo; oarsman before a race that I know. I mean
+by &ldquo;funk,&rdquo; not the under-estimating of one&#8217;s chances&mdash;for some of the
+most nervous men have a very shrewd idea of them&mdash;but the irrational
+excitement which keeps the brain constantly thinking of the impending
+race, and prevents the sufferer from sitting still or having any
+comfort, or, in the most serious cases, any sleep, for two or three days
+before it. It is a real malady, which is most distressing to those who
+are subject to it, but which, luckily, does not do any harm when once
+the race is begun.</p>
+
+<p>Of the race itself there is very little to say, except one thing, that
+could not be said equally well of a hard game of football or a foot race
+across country. The exertion is, no doubt, considerably greater than is
+involved in either of these, but the physical sensations are very much
+the same, and anyone who has entered for any race at all knows the sort
+of feeling of desperate resolve which is the pleasure that racing gives.
+Except one thing, I said, and it is that thing which puts boat racing,
+in many people&#8217;s minds, far above any other form of sport. It is this,
+that while in a foot race a man can leave off as soon as he finds the
+exertion more than the prize is worth, and while in football a man may
+recover his breath in the scrimmage or justifiably leave the work for a
+moment to the others, in rowing every man knows that, by a single
+careless stroke, he may throw the whole boat into a confusion from which
+they often cannot recover for many hundred yards. Everyone is expected
+in a boat race, and in a University race as much as anywhere, to row his
+best and hardest every stroke he takes, and never to slack off at all.
+If it is considered desirable to save up for a spurt at the finish, the
+&ldquo;stroke&rdquo; will do that by putting in a few less strokes to the minute
+till the time comes. Every man behind him is bound in honesty to the
+rest to shove every stroke through &ldquo;as if there were no hereafter&rdquo;; and
+when the &ldquo;hereafter&rdquo; comes, as it does about Chiswick Eyot, he will
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
+have to rely on the thorough condition he is in to pull him through. It
+follows that the whole secret of a good crew is that each man rows hard
+because it would not be fair to his neighbours in the boat if he rowed
+lightly, not entirely because he wants to win the race. I do not want to
+disparage other sports in the least degree; pluck enters into them fully
+as much as into rowing. The difference lies in the incentive.</p>
+
+<p>Boat races, of course, vary very much in the amount of excitement they
+afford; not differing in this from any other sort of contest. Of the
+last five races, that of &#8217;91 was the most keenly contested, though the
+&#8217;90 race runs it very close. Both of them were ding-dong struggles all
+the way, now one boat and then the other taking the lead, and neither of
+them were really won till the post was passed. Closer finishes have been
+known, though hardly beating these in point of excitement during the
+race itself. The well-known dead heat of &#8217;77 is an instance; on which
+occasion legend hath it that the ancient umpire had been regaling
+himself hard by, and arrived on the scene as the boats shot by the post,
+too flustered to take any very accurate observations. However, as both
+crews were pretty confident that they had won, his decision displayed no
+small share of that low cunning that used to make a successful umpire.</p>
+
+<p>But all things have an end. The long training is passed, and you are
+seated in the boat. The race gets finished, one way or the other, and
+you are seated at the festive board. The dinner vanishes from the table,
+and you wake up next morning feeling very glad when you remember you can
+stop an hour longer in bed. And the vision of an editor is at hand to
+hint that these reminiscences must not prove an exception to the general
+rule, but must also come to a conclusion.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/img228.jpg" width="600" height="274" alt="image" title="" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+</div>
+
+<div class="box">
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
+<img src="images/img229.jpg" width="600" height="306" alt="the idlers club" title="" />
+</div>
+
+<h1><em>Is Childhood the Happiest or the most Miserable<br />
+Period of One&#8217;s Existence?</em></h1>
+
+
+
+<div class="sidenote">G. R. Sims says it depends upon the child.</div>
+
+<p>It depends so much upon the child. As a child, my greatest delight was
+to give swagger dinner parties to my brothers and sisters in the nursery
+on winter afternoons, when we could not go out. The principal delicacy
+in these entertainments was an orange <em>sorbet</em> specially prepared by my
+own hands. Here is the recipe. Squeeze into a small cup the juice of
+half an orange, fill up with snow, scraped from the outside window sill,
+and serve cold. Now, although the preparation of this delightful
+delicacy gave me an immense amount of happiness, I could rarely induce
+any grown-up people to partake of it. Then there was a wine which always
+graced the table at our nursery feasts. We called it currant wine, and
+made it by putting a handful of grocer&#8217;s currants into a wineglass,
+filling up with cold water, and stirring the mixture up with a piece of
+firewood until the liquid was a rich brown. I have often, in later life,
+paid fifteen shillings for a bottle of champagne, and not felt half so
+happy over it as I used to be over a teaspoonful of our own home-made
+currant wine. In these matters childhood <em>was</em> the happiest period of my
+life. With regard to the enjoyment of &ldquo;games,&rdquo; I never played many as a
+child, but as a man I have derived the greatest possible pleasure from
+them. I never learned to skip till I was thirty, and at thirty-five my
+greatest delight was a game of battledore and shuttlecock. Now that I am
+turned forty I have given up violent exercise, and taken to playing with
+boxes of bricks and tin soldiers. I am sure that I am far happier with
+them, now, than I was as a child. In my old nursery days I always
+quarrelled with my brothers and sisters about our toys, and we
+generally<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
+finished up by throwing them at each other. Now I can sit on
+the floor in the long winter evenings and perform the most wonderful
+architectural feats with my box of bricks, and nobody thinks of
+interfering with me. With my soldiers, too, I am much happier. I can
+place the French and German armies in battle array, and devote my mind
+entirely to complex strategical operations without having to keep one
+eye on the armies and the other on the baby. Our baby was always putting
+my soldiers in his mouth; and, on one occasion, he completely crippled
+the Russian forces by swallowing their only general at a critical
+moment. So far as toys are concerned I am sure that childhood was <em>not</em>
+the happiest period of my life. The real charm of childhood, however, is
+its lack of the sense of responsibility. It is the sense of
+responsibility which comes with manhood that destroys the charm of life,
+and makes us think of our irresponsible childhood with regret. A child
+hasn&#8217;t to trouble about the rent, or the butcher&#8217;s bill, or of what the
+world will think of it, or of the duties it owes to society, to the
+family, or to itself. At the cost of a few tears or a sustained shriek
+it can get almost anything it wants, and it is waited on hand and foot
+at somebody else&#8217;s expense. It has absolutely no responsibility beyond
+being occasionally left alone in the nursery with a little brother or
+sister, with instructions to see that baby doesn&#8217;t fall into the fire.
+This, bar the bother of having to grab the baby violently by the hair to
+keep it from mischief, is ideal happiness; and I have known some
+children to whom the hair grabbing was a pleasure rather than a duty. It
+is the &ldquo;responsibility&rdquo; which comes with age which always causes us to
+compare it unfavourably with childhood. In another matter, manhood
+compares favourably with childhood. A man can be as naughty as he likes,
+and there is nobody to whip him unless he is a garrotter. Childhood is
+<em>not</em> the happiest period for those who like to be naughty, and
+naughtiness is the general idea of happiness. If it were not so
+everybody would try to be good. Up to the time of going to press no
+really popular movement in that direction has been discovered by Reuter
+or Dalziel, or &ldquo;our own correspondent.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Miss Clo Graves thinks it an unpleasant period.</div>
+
+<p>The first thing a baby does is to howl. If that child knew that he had
+got a joyous, gamesome time before him, he wouldn&#8217;t. He would smile. But
+one of the most endearing characteristics of childhood is its candour,
+and the baby knows that croup lies waiting round the corner to seize him
+by the throat, that thrush lurks
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
+in the imperfectly-washed
+feeding-bottle, that wind-spasms and teething convulsions only wait
+their opportunity to mark him for their prey, and so he howls:</p>
+
+<p style="margin-left: 20em;">
+&ldquo;Ah! (<em>A pant.</em>)<br />
+Ah-ha! <span class="smcap">Ah!</span> (<em>A pause to gather forces.</em>)<br />
+Ah-ha! Ah-ha! Ah-ha!<br />
+Ah! <span class="smcap">Ah!</span> E&#8217;EE!&rdquo;<br />
+<span style="margin-left: -.5em;">(<em>Fortissimo, crescendo</em>, and <em>ad libitum</em>.)</span></p>
+
+<p>The nurse will be likely to say it is a pin, but it is not. It is
+because the baby guesses what it has got to go through before it grows
+up. If ever it grows up at all. There is a period between childhood and
+maturity of which one doesn&#8217;t want to write. No man likes to remember
+that he was once a long-legged, red-wristed hobbledehoy, who drowned his
+freckles in blushes when girls, who did not happen to be his sisters,
+looked at him, and shaved surreptitiously with his mother&#8217;s scissors. No
+woman cares about looking back to the days when she had thick ankles,
+which her skirts were not long enough to cover; when she wore her hair
+in a pigtail, because she was too old to wear it loose upon her
+shoulders, and too young to turn it up; when the front hooks and eyes of
+her frock were always bursting off, and her sister&#8217;s sweethearts used to
+call her &ldquo;little girl.&rdquo; A humiliating experience altogether, the period
+of adolescence. But more humiliating still it is to be a mature,
+grown-up person, and know how far off you are from being the wonderful
+creature you intended to be, when you began the world. You did not
+contemplate being exactly beautiful&mdash;it is not for everyone to achieve
+that&mdash;but you meant to be commanding. You were going to do everything
+well: to succeed gloriously&mdash;to be distinguished and brilliant&mdash;knock
+lumps off this poor old globe, in fact. And now&mdash;well&mdash;you haven&#8217;t! The
+clay you&#8217;re made of is the ordinary kind: not the blue earth diamonds
+grow in. You might make up for your absolute lack of individuality by a
+brilliant suicide. But you don&#8217;t. You&#8217;re too commonplace. You&#8217;re
+contented to go on being nobody. This may be a calm state, but it is
+certainly not a happy one.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">But there are exceptions.</div>
+
+<p>And yet there is a childhood which is, maybe, the happiest period of our
+existence. Not the time of the shining morning face&mdash;of the curled
+top-knot&mdash;for to the excoriating action of the soaped towel was due that
+facial polish, and the twisting of the damped hair
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> around the
+long-tailed ivory brush was attended with the shedding of bitter tears
+of rage and pain. But the second edition of the Book of Infancy, bound
+in shrivelled yellow leather and printed in faded ink. &ldquo;The world,&rdquo; say
+the slippered pantaloon and the mumbling grandame, &ldquo;was a fine place
+when we were young.&rdquo; And what is more, they really believe it. He was
+strong, fascinating and handsome&mdash;she was clever and beautiful. Both may
+say so as often as they like, and everybody credits them&mdash;because they
+are so old. <em>Comple et amur illam et amemus: plena est voluptatis si
+ill&acirc; scias uti</em>. Come, gentle Dotage! Shade me with thy kindly wing,
+lend me thy rose-coloured horn-glasses! Let me view the Past, not as it
+was, but as I would have had it. So shall the children cluster round my
+knee, and listen, wide-eyed and envying, as I tell them of the golden
+days of <em>my</em> childhood, and the young people sigh, hearing of the brave
+and brilliant, beautiful and noble things that never happened in the
+bygone time when I was young. Only the middle-aged folk look a little
+doubtful, and Death, leaning over the back of my armchair, laughs
+outright, and taps me&mdash;as a reproving nurse might&mdash;on the withered lips
+with one bony finger-tip. After which I fall asleep, and am carried away
+to bed.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Alden philosophises.</div>
+
+<p>I have not been a child for several years; it is unnecessary to mention
+the precise number, but I have a clear recollection of the period. My
+childhood was certainly happy, so far as I was personally concerned, but
+I will not go so far as to say that it was a source of unmixed happiness
+to others. As to whether childhood is the happiest or the most miserable
+part of our existence, there is so much to be said on both sides that I
+am almost inclined to answer the question in a judicious and
+statesmanlike way, by saying that I yield to no one in my profound
+appreciation of the wide-reaching importance of the question, and that
+the day will certainly come when the awakened conscience of the nation
+will demand its settlement in accordance with right and justice. When
+that time arrives I need hardly say that I shall be found on the side of
+justice, but I am not yet wholly convinced that the time has fully
+arrived. In the meantime, however, I do not hesitate to say that in
+those cases where childhood is happier than mature age there can be but
+little doubt among thinking men of all shades of belief that maturity
+is, in some respects, at least less demonstrably happy than childhood.
+Now that would be eminently judicious, but, on the other hand, it would
+look like an underhanded attempt to
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
+introduce politics into the
+<em>Idler</em>. It will be better, therefore, to treat the subject in a
+philosophic way. The question which the Editors of the <em>Idler</em> ask is,
+after all, a question as to the relative advantages of Idealism and
+Realism&mdash;spelled with the largest kind of capital letters. The small boy
+is ordinarily an Idealist, unless, of course, he belongs to the unhappy
+class of small boys who have to earn their own living when they ought to
+be at play, and who, having no time for dreaming, become Realists of the
+most hardened and painful type. In the former case the small boy is
+happy, for he lives in a world of his own creation, and for the purpose
+of happiness such a world is far better than the actual world. In the
+latter case he is generally more or less unhappy, for he is compelled to
+see the world as it really is, and he finds it not all nice. The
+realistic small boy can have very little true happiness. Fancy M. Zola&#8217;s
+childhood: assuming, of course, that he was then a Realist, which he
+probably was not, judging from the fact that he is only a Realist
+professionally at the present day. To the childish Zola, life must have
+presented itself as a series of human documents. He saw things as they
+were, not as a small boy should see them. He could have had no genuine
+longings for a life of piracy, for he saw that the pirate, instead of
+being a gorgeously-dressed and nobly-chivalrous hero, was only a brutal
+ruffian travelling on the road to Execution Dock. Tin soldiers could
+have brought him no happiness, for he knew that they were only lifeless
+bits of tin, as incapable of fighting as the army of Monaco. It gave him
+no pleasure to be dressed in a pasteboard helmet and to wear a tin
+sword, for he knew that grown-up people would not mistake him for a
+soldier; and that a blue flannel shirt, and a cap with the name of some
+frigate on a silk ribbon, would not lead foreigners to believe that he
+was a French admiral at the age of seven. He may have found some little
+pleasure in playing marbles&mdash;not, of course, for the sake of that silly
+game, but for the reason that marbles are portable property, and that
+the more marbles a boy wins the richer he is&mdash;but for all other boyish
+diversions he must have felt a profound contempt.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">And doesn&#8217;t know.</div>
+
+<p>Beyond all doubt M. Zola would say that he is happier to-day (with
+&ldquo;Nana&rdquo; in its 150th thousand) than he was in his childhood, but that is
+because his childhood was devoid of Idealism. On the other hand, if I
+may be pardoned for mentioning myself in the same paragraph with the
+greatest novelist of all time, my own childhood was
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
+happy because I
+lived purely in a world of the imagination. There never was a bolder or
+more truly noble pirate than I was during the hour of the Sunday sermon,
+when I whiled away the good clergyman&#8217;s discourse by sweeping the seas
+in my piratical schooner, and harrowing the Spanish Main. My tin
+soldiers were flesh and blood heroes, my kites flew nearly to the outer
+limits of the solar system, and I never quite lost the belief that I
+could dig a tunnel to China with the kitchen fire-shovel, had the cook
+only had sufficient scientific zeal to be willing to lend it to me for a
+few hours. I was very happy then, but I am equally happy now. I have
+never got over the Idealism of my childhood, and I make my own political
+and social world to-day quite as irrationally and delightfully as I did
+eighty&mdash;well, when I was a child. I do find, I admit, that one cannot be
+an Idealist in financial matters, which is, after all, the main source
+of unhappiness in mature life, but if you ask me whether I was happier
+in childhood than I am now, I should not know how to answer. All of
+which goes to show that I might have done better if I had stuck to the
+safe and judicious in my attempted answer, instead of yielding to the
+temptation to be philosophical.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Miss Florence Marryat thinks it the most miserable.</div>
+
+<p>If I am to choose one, or the other, extreme, I should say decidedly the
+most miserable, and made so by the folly, ignorance, or neglect of
+parents. Not one-hundredth part of the men and women who marry are fit
+to become fathers and mothers. Who does not pity the wretched little
+mortal whom one meets, dressed up in some fantastic or grotesque
+costume, to gratify the vanity of those who own it, forbidden to run or
+play, for fear of spoiling the velvet tunic, or silken sash&mdash;unable to
+be comfortable even, on account of buttoned boots and kid gloves? A
+child is simply a young animal. Give it warmth and food and liberty, and
+it will be happy and hungry and healthy! To dress it up in the fashion,
+and let it be dragged at the heels of an indifferent nursemaid along a
+pavement, is tantamount to confining a puppy by a heavy chain to a
+kennel. I believe the greatest misery of children arises from their
+being so culpably trusted to the care of servants. A fashionable mother
+engages a head-nurse, who is well-mannered, respectful, and experienced,
+and thereupon delivers over her children to her entire jurisdiction,
+perfectly content if they appear before her, at stated periods, clean
+and neat, with smiling faces. She little knows how (in the majority of
+instances) the poor little creatures are coerced, by nursery discipline,
+not to betray their real feelings for the woman who has them under her
+influence day and night.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p>
+<div class="sidenote">And gives the reason why.</div>
+
+<p>At one time, when I walked daily in Hyde Park, I constantly met a nurse
+whose behaviour to the children under her charge excited my greatest
+indignation. If one of the little ones lagged behind with the nursemaid,
+or whimpered, because it was cold or tired, the head-nurse would shake
+it by the arm, or strike it across the head with such violence as to
+upset its equilibrium, and her voice at all times was harsh and
+repellent. I knew it would be useless to speak to her, but one day I
+followed her home to a house in Park Lane, and, sending up my card,
+asked if I could speak to the mistress of it. The flunky informed me she
+was Lady&mdash;let us say, &ldquo;the Lord knows who&rdquo;&mdash;and I was presently admitted
+to her presence. I did not stand on ceremony with &ldquo;Lady the Lord knows
+who.&rdquo; I told her I made no excuse for disturbing her, because if she
+loved her children she would be very much obliged to me for telling her,
+from my personal observation, that she had (unconsciously no doubt)
+trusted them to the care of a woman who was not fit to take charge of a
+dog. Her ladyship heard me to the end, and then, rising grandly, touched
+the bell for her flunky and said, &ldquo;Many thanks for the trouble you have
+taken, but I have the utmost confidence in my attendants.&rdquo; And so I was
+bowed out again. How many parents live with the little children they
+have brought into the world? How many teach them, or explain to them,
+all they want to know? It is too much trouble! All that sort of thing is
+delegated to hirelings. How often has one heard an intelligent child
+snubbed for the very questioning which should be encouraged! The bright,
+eager little brain, just opening, as it were, to all the wonders of
+living, is bursting to know the why and wherefore of everything it sees,
+and for answer to its excited enquiries it only gets such rebuffs as
+&ldquo;Don&#8217;t worry!&rdquo; &ldquo;Hold your tongue!&rdquo; &ldquo;If you don&#8217;t behave yourself I&#8217;ll
+send you out of the room.&rdquo; Which of us who have brains cannot remember
+the heart-sickening feeling of having in some unconscious manner done
+wrong by asking questions which our elders were probably too ignorant to
+answer? And then followed the intense longing to be &ldquo;grown-up,&rdquo; and
+independent. Can&#8217;t we all remember that longing to be &ldquo;grown-up?&rdquo; Is it
+not in itself an answer to the question if childhood is not a miserable
+period, except perhaps for a favoured few?</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Phillpotts temporises.</div>
+
+<p>I fail to see how you can assert or deny upon this question. There are
+thousands of happy children in the world, and thousands as miserable as
+any grown-up person. It depends entirely upon those responsible for the
+individual infant; and a babe&#8217;s environment is really unimportant,
+because, before intelligence sets in, a child wants
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
+little more than
+warmth and good food, and general looking after. At that early period
+the human young are on much the same level as cats and dogs. My dog is
+just as happy as the Prince of Wales&#8217;s Pomeranian, because I satisfy
+him; social distinction has no charm for him; bones and literary society
+are sufficient for a creature devoid of conscious intelligence. In the
+same way an infant may be happy at a workhouse, perhaps even more so
+than in a Park Lane nursery&mdash;if there are such things as Park Lane
+nurseries. But it is when intellect dawns, and a child is able himself
+to say whether he is happy or unhappy, that he becomes interesting.
+Then, as before, his measure of joy or sorrow must depend upon those
+fellow-creatures who form his society. Probably the rule that obtains of
+men and women holds good of children also: the less brain power the more
+happiness. Intellect&mdash;especially a growing intellect&mdash;will give a child
+lightning flashes of joy denied to his more thick-headed brother; but
+much sorrow must also result from his extra intelligence. If he rises
+higher, he will sink far lower, too. The placid, ordinary youth thinks
+less, and digests his food better, and has a pleasanter time, on the
+whole. A sensitive child feels with a keen freshness that only years can
+blunt. To see some fool of a man crushing a clever child is
+heart-rending. By curious, misguided instincts, children always look up
+to their full-grown companions; and the result is, that any adult ass
+can nip in the bud precious childish fancies, or make fatuous and
+crushing replies to childish inquiries, which show in themselves the
+trembling dawn of an intellect far superior to his own.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">And says that clever men loathe childhood.</div>
+
+<p>As a rule, you will find that clever men look back at their childhood
+with lively loathing, while the average Briton, if Heaven has given him
+enough memory to recall his earliest youth at all, says that it was all
+right as far as he can remember. In my own small case (and, after all,
+personal experience is never uninteresting&mdash;to the person), I can say
+that until I went to a day-school at the age of seven, or it may have
+been less, I had a fairly good time. Open air has a great deal to do
+with happiness in a child&mdash;open air and plenty of wholesome food, and
+satisfactory parents. Not that the victim cares overmuch for
+rice-puddings or a good mother; but these things leave their mark. As to
+mothers, I should say they have got more men and women into Heaven than
+any bishop, priest, deacon, or professional Churchman whatsoever.
+Personally, I am still here, and should be the last to make sure of
+anything, or count my own chickens before they are hatched, but I have
+the privilege of knowing men and women, to the number of at least five,
+who are undoubtedly bound for Golden Shores; and it was their mothers&#8217;
+doing in every case. Fathers, too, have
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
+their significance, but it is
+purely temporal, and never much concerns an infant until the child
+reaches that advanced platform of intelligence whereon questions
+concerning pocket-money arise.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Mrs. Panton thinks it <em>ought</em> to be the happiest.</div>
+
+<p>There would be no difficulty whatever in replying to the question, if it
+runs, &ldquo;<em>Should</em> childhood be the happiest or most miserable period of
+our existence?&rdquo; because, I am sure, we should one and all agree that it
+most certainly should: for we have no cares then, no responsibilities;
+our clean pinafores are worn without the least notice of what they cost
+to wash; our dinners, if unappetising, are regular, and, if they are not
+paid for, do not weigh upon either our minds or our bodies; while we
+neither look forward nor backward, and enjoy our existence from day to
+day with all the freedom from care and anxiety which, we suppose,
+characterises the life of a puppy or a kitten. But all this presupposes
+that we are not in the group of tyrants, either in the nursery,
+schoolroom, or dining-room, and that those who have charge of us
+remember their own days of childhood: recollect all the dreams, threats,
+and fancies which can turn them into a period of absolute torture; and,
+above all, consider that a child is not a sheet of plain blank paper,
+but that it is a composite arrangement of all the ancestors that one can
+remember, and of many that one cannot: for unless this is so, no words
+of mine can describe the misery that can be inflicted on a sensitive,
+dreamy child, who, to a certain extent, is heavily handicapped in the
+race of life by the feeble vitality which, as a rule, accompanies such a
+disposition, and who all too often is made a liar by harsh dealing, and
+an invalid in life by the hardening process, so dear to the hearts of so
+many fathers, mothers, and governesses. If, on the contrary, a child is
+carefully studied&mdash;if it be regarded as one by itself and not a sample
+of a batch, which must be just as are its brothers and sisters&mdash;I
+maintain that childhood must be the very happiest time that we can have:
+the dreams and happenings, which fill our nights and days, make both
+equally delightful, while if we are tired to death by lessons and the
+daily walk, we soon grow out of this, because we can build our own
+castles in the air out of the driest possible task, and make long and
+elaborate romances for ourselves out of the&mdash;most likely very
+commonplace&mdash;people we meet on our morning scamper. Then, too, was there
+not the never-to-be-forgotten joy of the yearly visit to the sea, and an
+equally well-loved return to our usual routine in London, to say nothing
+of the fascinations of making up one&#8217;s mind on the subject of what one
+was going to be, and how one was to benefit and astonish a world that up
+to the present time has not seemed quite to come up to our expectations
+on the subject? Undoubtedly then I say, if the child is in proper hands,
+that childhood is the happiest time we can possibly have.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p>
+<div class="sidenote">Barry Pain says childish happiness is a delusion.</div>
+
+<p>I have never understood the feelings of those who are sorry that they
+are full-grown. To different children there is, of course, a different
+childhood; but, as a rule, the happiness of childhood is a delusion, and
+the peace of the perambulator a myth. I believe that any brave and
+intelligent man can count on the fingers of one hand the things that
+would really hurt him seriously; the longer you live, the more you
+realise how few things are really important. But the troubles of
+childhood are numberless. The agony of terror is alone enough to make
+childhood the most miserable part of one&#8217;s existence. The dead came out
+of their graves and walked into my nursery by night; I dared not open my
+eyes lest I should see them. There was a waiting figure behind every
+curtain in dim-lit passages. There were pictures in books that haunted
+me; I knew two or three of them well&mdash;I knew the page on which they
+came. I opened the book and turned almost up to the dreaded page, and
+then waited; but I had to go on always. I had to see the eyes staring
+into mine, and the lips writhing. Then I shut the book quickly, and went
+away to do something or other that would take my mind away from the
+picture. I am glad that I am grown-up; I should not care to endure such
+maddening terrors again. I was far too much ashamed of them then to
+speak of them; that made them worse. I think that no one who, as a
+child, was afraid of the dark, would look back upon childhood as the
+pleasantest period of his life. And, if a child has more troubles than a
+man, he undoubtedly has fewer pleasures. A child&#8217;s pleasures are mostly
+due to its love of acquisition, its vanity, or its appetite being
+temporarily satisfied. From its natural affection for its parents or
+friends&mdash;if that affection is very strong&mdash;it gets far more suffering
+than pleasure. Any man of average intelligence can do better than that;
+he has work that interests him, books, or music, or pictures that mean
+far more to him than any child&#8217;s pleasure means to the child. It is easy
+to love children; one of the chief reasons is that pity is akin to love.
+And on this question of the unhappiness of childhood, I would sooner
+trust a man&#8217;s memory than a child&#8217;s direct statement.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Barr is sorry for the small boy.</div>
+
+<p>The small boy, poor little chap, lives under the most galling despotism
+that exists on the face of the earth. There is no court of appeal for
+him. His father is at once his judge, his opposing counsel, his public
+prosecutor, as it were, his jailer, and his executioner. Every man is a
+natural tyrant. It has taken centuries of bloodshed and martyrdom on the
+part of the oppressed to obtain even the poor semblance of liberty that
+we flatter ourselves we possess. Kings have been beheaded, thrones have
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
+been overturned, cities have been given to the flames, and countries
+have suffered pillage and rapine, all to knock it into the head of that
+tyrannical brute, man, that, on the whole, it is better not to force his
+despotism on his fellow-creatures. Yet, human nature has not changed in
+the least, and where man has full sway, he is as much a tyrant to-day as
+he was five hundred years ago. Nations have been emancipated, but the
+kingdom of which the small boy is a subject remains what it always was.
+Nature, who is a well-meaning blunderer, has tried to set things right,
+first by planting some natural affection for his small boy into the
+stony heart of the parent, and, second, by making the small boy himself
+an optimist. Happily, there is always a silver lining to the cloud that
+hovers over the small boy, even when the cane is descending upon him.
+Trifles please the poor little fellow and help him to forget the gloom
+which surrounds him. Coventry Patmore, in that most touching poem, &ldquo;The
+Toys,&rdquo; tells of a father who struck his motherless son, and sent him
+weeping to bed, and, being tardily remorseful, the father looked at the
+sleeping boy, whose undried tears were still on his cheek, and found
+that before going to sleep the stricken lad had arranged his trivial
+toys, all the cherished possessions of his pocket, so that his eyes
+might rest on them &ldquo;to comfort his sad heart.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">But the future small boy will have still more trouble.</div>
+
+<p>The small boy does not gain much when he exchanges the tyranny of the
+home for the tyranny of the school. The schoolmaster is naturally a
+despot, but he is a despot, limited. To make up for any advantages
+accruing from the master&#8217;s limitations, the urchin has to put up with
+the bullying of the big boy. Possibly there are teachers who have human
+feelings, as far as the small boy is concerned. We read of such persons
+in books like &ldquo;Tom Brown&#8217;s Schooldays,&rdquo; but it must not be forgotten
+that these books are works of fiction. The lad who wrote that his master
+was a beast, but a just beast, may not have been exceptionally lucky,
+but it is sad to think that the small boy often comes under the dominion
+of beasts who are not just. But even if masters were all that could be
+desired, think of the amount of perfectly useless knowledge that a small
+boy is expected to acquire. How happy was the small boy of 1065 compared
+with the small boy of 1893. When William the Conqueror, with a man&#8217;s
+usual heedlessness of the comfort of small boys, came over in 1066 and
+popularised that date, he inaugurated a long succession of useless dates
+that the small boy is compelled to learn. Every monarch has had four
+figures attached to him, like a picture in an exhibition. Yet was there
+ever a man stopped in the streets of London, and suddenly confronted
+with the question, &ldquo;What year did Henry
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span>
+VIII. come to the throne?&rdquo;
+Certainly not. A man would be considered insane who expected any
+rational being to burden his mind with such trivialities. Yet the small
+boy is caned if he doesn&#8217;t know. The only consolation I can offer the
+unfortunate small boy of to-day is that it will be ever so much worse
+for the small boy born 3000 years from now. Every day, objectionable and
+thoughtless men are discovering new things. Then dates will keep
+accumulating just as they have always been in the habit of doing.
+Possibly a new specimen of that detestable type of humanity, Euclid,
+will arise, and perhaps some conscienceless villain may invent a more
+complicated system of mathematics than algebra. You never can tell what
+may happen in 3000 years. So the small boy of 1893 may congratulate
+himself that he is not the small boy of 4893.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 45%;' />
+
+<div class="sidenote">Mrs. Fenwick Miller thinks it depends upon the parents.</div>
+
+<p>Childhood ought to be the happiest period of humanity&#8217;s course; for
+children are free from the two great sources of grief and
+wretchedness&mdash;the struggle for money and the consciousness of sex. The
+children of the poor know a want of many comforts, but this is not a
+source of unhappiness. Absolute necessities of life, the only true wants
+of childhood, are so few, and all that is really needed by anybody apart
+from custom or imagination is so cheap, that I do not think that more
+than a small minority of children are unhappy from actual want. But we,
+their elders, painfully and acutely want a thousand things because we
+have tasted them, or because we have imaginations developed to fancy
+effectively how we should enjoy them; and then we must needs try to get
+them, and make ourselves wretched in the furious effort after satisfying
+our desires, and more wretched still because we don&#8217;t fully succeed. If
+we could take life as children in this respect, actively wanting only
+absolute necessaries, and not having to ourselves strive for even the
+money by which that minimum of wants is to be supplied, would not most
+of our troubles of this actual moment vanish? Those that remained, would
+they not nearly all (given health) hang on the tragic fact of sex? Oh,
+that garden of Gethsemane of humanity, with its blighted seedlings and
+its blasted blossoms! How keen are its sorrows of desires ungratified
+and desires satiated&mdash;its cruel losses and its yet more cruel relics
+that <em>will</em> remain. Oh, that dreadful fact of sex, with its emotional
+agonies, its moral problems, its intellectual interruptions, its social
+burdens, and only too often its physical pangs&mdash;if we were rid, as
+children are, of all that, and of the struggle for means to meet the
+daily material wants, should we not be fairly happy? Then childhood,
+free of all this, must needs be the happiest time of life!</p>
+
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Idler Magazine, Volume III, March
+1893, by Various
+
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+</body>
+</html>
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author	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-15 02:15:36 -0700
committer	Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org>	2025-10-15 02:15:36 -0700
commit	734675b52fba3d12200b635cc8764eb27de49644 (patch)
tree	748652dd7577f2c0f63905f5e49f679a778a092c /25083-h