“Yourefuse absolutely to give up the papers. You decline to comply with the order of the Court. Then, sir, I shall commit you for contempt. In prison you will have leisure in which to reflect on the enormity of your conduct.”
“But, my lord—”
“Not another word, sir. Your duty is to respect the Court, not to argue with it. Officer, remove your prisoner!”
And William Sadd was hurried away, placed in a fly, driven off to Marston Castle, and handed over to the safe custody of the governor of that establishment. The gates of Marston Castle never closed on a prisoner more innocent of offence.
William Sadd was an inventor. His namewill be chiefly known to the public in connection with a patent corkscrew, but he had devised many other useful implements from which he derived a comfortable income; for Sadd was a Scotchman, and had carefully protected his rights against all persons piratically inclined. He was born near Glasgow, where he remained for some five-and-twenty years. Then, like many of his countrymen, he came to England, and settled in the town of —, a manufacturing community in the North.
He was a sanguine, good-tempered little man, and had married a sanguine and good-tempered little wife, who bore him three sanguine and good-tempered little boys. He had at one time possessed a chum—another Scotch inventor. This man of genius—McAllister by name—had died, leaving certain papers to his friend as he lay on his death-bed. These documents, chiefly relating to uncompleted inventions, he confided to his friend with a last injunction that he should under no circumstances surrender them, but complete and patent them for the benefit of mankind and of his own pocket. Sadd gave thepromise readily enough, feeling that nothing was more unlikely than that the papers would be inquired after. Much to his surprise, however, McAllister’s executors, having by some means heard of the existence of the documents, applied for them as essential evidence in a case then in hand. Sadd replied that they were not essential nor even relevant. His assertion, however, availed him nothing. Finally, the judge made an order for their production. Sadd calmly, but determinedly, refused to comply with the mandate, and was thereupon ordered to be confined in Marston Castle.
Although William Sadd felt acutely that it was an inconvenient thing to be separated from his family even for one night, he was sustained by the thought that he had done his duty, that he was the victim of a misconception on the part of the learned judge, and that his solicitor would, no doubt, set things right in the morning. When, about an hour after his introduction to the debtors and first-class misdemeanants occupying a common room in the Castle, his solicitor visited him, he became quite indignant with that luminary for suggestingthat he should give up the papers. He urged the man of law to have His Lordship informed by the mouth of eminent counsel that the documents had no earthly bearing on the case.
“The whole thing’s jest re-deeckless,” said the prisoner, absolutely smiling at the absurdity of the judge’s order.
His solicitor only shook his head and went away.
Among the other prisoners William Sadd became instantly popular. He had the latest news from the outer world, and as he was going to rejoin it on the morrow, he essayed to execute all kinds of commissions for this brotherhood of misfortune. His cheery conversation had aroused the drooping spirits of those around him, when suddenly one and all became depressed again. William, following the eyes of the other victims, glanced towards the door, and, seeing a clergyman enter, instinctively rose to his feet. His example was not followed by any of the others, who turned sulkily away from beholding the ecclesiastic.
The new arrival was the Rev. Joseph Thorns,Chaplain of Marston Castle, and was familiarly alluded to by his congregation as “Holy Jo.” He was a man of small stature, and was afflicted with a deformity between the shoulders, the knowledge of which had permanently soured a temper not originally angelic. He strode up to the latest arrival, who bowed respectfully, and pulling out a note-book, asked brusquely,—
“Your name?”
The prisoner told him: but with the air of a man who regarded the formality of taking it down in a book as an operation quite superfluous, he being merely a lodger for the night.
“For what have you been committed?”
“Well, ye ken,” replied Mr. Sadd, “it’s jest a bit mistake. I’ve been neglacted by my soleecitor.”
“I see,” said the Chaplain. “Contempt of Court,” and he wrote that down opposite the inventor’s name. “What religion?”
“A’m a member of the Auld Kirk,” replied the contemptuous prisoner.
“I should have thought that even in the Auld Kirk,” said the clergyman, “they would have taught you to obey the law. Here isa book for you,” and he handed him a copy of the hymn-book used in the chapel, turned sharply round, and left the long, bare apartment, now looking longer and more bare than ever in the eyes of the latest inmate. Sadd soon, however, recovered his accustomed spirits, and eventually became sufficiently composed to look through the hymnal. As he by no means relished the chaplain’s sneer at the Church of his fathers, he observed somewhat maliciously to his companions, holding up the book of sacred songs,—
“Comparrit wi’ the Psawlms of David, they’re a wheen blithers,” an observation which was heartily applauded by the other misdemeanants as indirectly reflecting on the parson.
The next day Mrs. Sadd appeared upon the scene, conveying a basket of delicacies not included in the prison fare, and conveying also the information that it would take some days before the judge was in a temper to be addressed on the subject of Sadd’s contempt. When three days had passed, and the judge was tackled by an eminent Queen’s Counsel, he absolutely refused to reconsider his sentence.
“Let the prisoner surrender the documents,and then the Court will consider whether or not he has purged the contempt.”
Thus my lord on the Bench.
But Sadd was firm, and through his solicitor petitioned the Home Secretary. The Home Secretary, having taken three weeks to consider the matter, refused to interfere with the order of the judge.
Then the spirits of the sanguine inventor fell suddenly to zero. Nor were they manifestly revived by the daily visits of his wife, for she, poor woman, with tears in her eyes, begged and prayed her recalcitrant husband to give up the documents. But even his love for her did not induce him to forget his duty to the dead.
Sadd was committed to Marston Castle in the early part of November. And before a month had passed over his head he had become the most melancholy and morose of those resorting to the common room. The others had some hope of release. It seemed that he must remain there for ever, unless he relinquished the sacred papers. His cheeks became sunken, his shoulders bent, and his hair prematurely grey. Hesat apart from his fellows and mumbled continually to himself.
It was during the first week in December that the others thought he had gone mad. His “little woman,” as he fondly called her, did not pay her customary visits. His solicitor looked in and informed him that Mrs. Sadd was dangerously ill in bed, and urgently pleaded this as an additional reason for complying with the order of the Court. Duty to the dead, love for the living—these conflicting emotions tore his heart. In an agony of spirit he motioned his solicitor to withdraw. Then he burst out crying like a child, and never again opened his lips to mortal man.
On Christmas Day there was service in the jail chapel. Mr. Thorns preached an excellent sermon from the text—“The law is good if a man use it lawfully.” This exemplary cleric dwelt with great severity on the evil that is in the world, and particularly on the evil which brought men into jails. He then proceeded to inform his attentive congregation of a fact which one would have thought was painfully obvious to them—that punishment did not fall only on the wrongdoer, but also upon those who were near and dear to him. “Picture to yourselves,” went on the minister of the Gospel, “picture your wives on this holy anniversary, seated in silence and sadness, surrounded by their weeping children. Think of their untold agony as these innocent children—inheritors of a parent’s brand—put the tormenting question, ‘Where’s father?’ Picture—”
It all happened in a moment; a prisoner had burst from the benches occupied by the first-class misdemeanants; had scaled the pulpit like a wild cat; had caught the chaplain by the throat; had suddenly released his grasp; and, with a groan which those who heard it will never forget, had fallen back on to the stone pavement in front of the pulpit—dead.
When the body was searched the precious documents were found stitched beneath his waistcoat. They disclosed an unfinished scheme of the late Mr. McAllister’s for so dealing with horsehair as to render the wigs of judges not only awful to the multitude, but comfortable to the wearer.
Forfive and twenty years, and on every day during term time, Reginald Grey took his place on the seats devoted to the Junior Bar in one of the Courts allotted to Vice-Chancellors. He did not live to attend before Vice-Chancellors in the spick-and-span mausoleum, that goes by the name of the Royal Courts of Justice. When he was at the Bar, the Vice-Chancellors sat in dingy buildings in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—the same, indeed, which have been so fully described inBleak House.
To the reporters, barristers, general public, and to successive Vice-Chancellors, Reginald was as well known as “the Fields” themselves. He was a modest, self-contained man, and he never held a brief. But he must have known a wonderful deal of law, for he nevermissed a case, and he listened to every argument and suggestion as though Cokein propriâ personâwere lecturing him upon Littleton. Even when lunch time came Reginald did not hurry out of Court with the chattering, surging crowd of litigants and lawyers’ clerks. He sat quietly in the position which he had taken up, and when the Court was quite empty, drew a penny bun from his pocket, which he devoured, gazing absently up at the roof of the Court. When the Court resumed its duties, he brushed the crumbs from his trousers, and when the Vice-Chancellor entered, he rose with the rest of the Bar and bowed to his lordship with every dignity.
Wigs, gowns, and bands are, as articles of attire, subject to the very same law of decay which affects a great-coat or a suit of sables, and the years had not spared the robes which denoted Mr. Grey’s professional status. His wig was discoloured by dust, smoke, and other accidents. Whole wisps of horsehair stuck out here and there, and one of the little tails which depend behind had fallen bodily away—had perhaps been eaten away by rats. His bands were most disreputable specimens ofman-millinery; for indeed he was his own laundress, and washed those symbolic rags in his own basin, drying them before his fire in his chambers in Gray’s Inn. His stuff gown was a frayed and ragged garment; no ragman would have advanced sixpence on it. For five and twenty years had it—but there! it is about the man himself I would speak. There is something to my mind so pathetic in the sight of these forensic shreds and patches, that I cannot bear to dwell on their dilapidation.
There was only one man in Court who took the slightest notice of Mr. Grey: and he was a tall, florid, bustling, and—as he once had a case of mine, I take the liberty of adding—impudent gentleman, with an impressively loud and boisterous manner. When he saw Grey even in his scarecrow days he would sometimes throw him a hearty “How d’ye do, Grey?”—but sometimes, I imagine, he pretended not to see him. This counsel learned in the law was none other than Mr. Stanley Overton. Grey took a great interest in him, following him from court to court, and listening to him with rapt attention as hebullied his opponents and even the Court; for a more vulgar, bullying, swaggering man than Overton while he was at the Bar I never encountered. He toned down greatly after his elevation.
As Grey grew from month to month more worn and shabby, so did Overton become more sleek and resplendent. When once a man commences in earnest there is no stopping him. The proverb which tells us about the facility of the descent to Avernus is only half a truth. The ascent to the stars is equally easy, and is achieved every day both by the brave man and the bully. It is as easy as the descent, and is a very great deal more comfortable.
Some people were surprised when Overton was made a Vice-Chancellor. In fact, the surprise was very general. But it was not shared by Grey. That devoted man thought it the most natural thing in the world. He would not again have to follow this luminary in its erratic circuit from court to court. His idol was now enthroned. The worship would in future be offered in one temple, and not in two or three.
On the morning when Overton took his seat as Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Grey tookhisplace in the back benches. And when the newly-made judge entered, flushed with victory and imposing in brand-new wig and robes, the whole Bar rose with great rustling of stuff and silk. Grey rose too; and a solicitor’s clerk who sat next him saw his face turn ashen white, while two great tears rolled down his emaciated cheeks; and when he sat down he leaned his head on the ledge in front of him, covered his eyes with his poor thin hand and sighed.
At four o’clock that evening, when the Court rose to go, Grey remained in that position till everyone had left. An usher found him, and touched him on the elbow. He started, looked about him on the emptiness in a dazed sort of way, and, without saying a word, walked quietly off, the usher observing to his plump assistant that Mr. Reginald Grey was “a rum old file.”
Mr. Grey’s chambers were very, very high up in one of the gaunt sets in Gray’s Inn. Indeed, they were at the top of the building—mere garrets. When he arrived at them hefound his laundress arranging the tea things—he seldom dined—and there was a decided odour of the savoury kipper about the apartment.
“Ah! Mrs. Tracy,” he said, assuming a thin affectation of gaiety, “this has been a great day for the Inn—a great day.”
“Indeed, sir,” assented that slipshod female.
“Yes, they’ve made a Vice-Chancellor of my old friend, Stanley Overton.”
“Oh, indeed, sir. Which I’m sure, I’m ’appy to ’ear it, an’ ’appy to ’ear as he’s a friend ofyours, Mr. Grey.”
“A very old friend indeed, Mrs. Tracy. Why, we were boys together. We were at school together. We were at college together. And we were both called to the Bar the same day.”
“Law!” exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.
Indeed, whatcouldshe say? Mr. Grey had always been a remarkably reserved, reticent man—a “little queer,” the good lady thought—and, beyond what was necessary in the way of speech, quite silent and inscrutable.
“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” went on the poorbarrister, “and I’ll tell you something that will surprise you even more. We were both in love with the same lady.”
This indeeddidsurprise the draggle-tailed bed-maker, and she looked her astonishment.
“It’s quite true; and the strange thing is that she preferred me, or at least she told me so. And when I left my home in Devonshire I was engaged to her.”
Mrs. Tracy did not now think that the gentleman was a “little queer”—she was convinced that he was stark staring mad. She looked apprehensively at the poor thin knife that lay on the table. Reticent! Why, the man was as garrulous and confidential as a village gossip.
He continued:
“You see, Overton was always a more pushing man, and a cleverer man too; and after we were called he borrowed a hundred pounds from me and went down to Devonshire. Some wicked stories got circulated about my doings in London, in consequence of which my sweetheart ceased to care for me, and Overton, who was always a plucky fellow, ran away with her and married her.”
His voice trembled as he narrated that episode; but he returned to the affectation of gaiety, and said,—
“Yes, Mrs. Tracy, and she’s now Lady Overton; and of course I’m very glad of it, for her sake.”
“Of course, sir,” acquiesces Mrs. Tracy.
“And the funny thing is,” he added, with the most pitiable attempt at hilarity, “he never paid me back that hundred pounds—ha, ha, ha!”
It was a mockery of laughter, the cachinnation of a ghost.
“And to-night, Mrs. Tracy,” he said, “I am going home.”
“To Devonshire, sir?”
“Isaidhome,” he answered; “but you will come as usual in the morning, and see that all is right. You can go, Mrs. Tracy. Good-bye.”
And to the utter astonishment of the poor woman, he shook hands with her, and, I fear, retained her hand for a moment, and there was the suspicion of moisture in his eyes.
The next morning, when Mrs. Tracy came to see that all was right, she found Mr.Reginald Grey stretched lifeless on the hearthrug. A revolver lay beside him, and there was a bullet through his forehead. In his left hand was an open locket, containing a little wisp of straw-coloured hair.
“Leavemy house!” shouted the Rev. Stanley Blewton to his son. Two women—they were the Prodigal’s mother and sister—wept and pleaded. But the man of God was inexorable.
“Silence!” he exclaimed. “And”—turning to his son—“never cross this threshold again.”
“Father!” cried the boy.
“Thief!” retorted the reverend gentleman.
The face of his progeny burnt red, his eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists. The women meanwhile redoubled their sobs.
“But, hold,” added Mr. Blewton, as his son turned to go. “You shall be treated beyond your deserts. Here are ten pounds. Use them discreetly. They are the last you will ever have from me.”
“Keep your money, sir,” answered Master Henry Blewton—he was but seventeen years of age, and inherited the hot temper of his parent., “Mother, good-bye. Maude, God bless you. I am innocent.”
He kissed his mother and sister. The flush of resentment had died from his face. He turned to his father, and extending his hand, said,—
“Wish me good-bye, sir. Time will set me right.”
But an ominous sneer played about the thin lips of the clergyman. He pointed to the door, and his last words to his son were,—
“I will have no parley with one who has brought dishonour on my name. Go!”
Henry Blewton cast one longing look at his mother and sister, and then walked straight into the hall, took his hat off the peg, and, as the door closed on him, Mrs. Blewton screamed in her agony, and fell into a faint that looked like death.
The Rev. Stanley Blewton was a man with a sense of honour pushed to its extremest point. He had no forgiveness for the sinner who brought discredit on an honest name. Likeall good Christians, he was bound, I presume, to accept the story of the thief on the cross. But as long as there remained another text in the Bible he would never select that particular scripture as the text of a discourse. His only son had through his influence obtained a good appointment in a clerical insurance office, in which the reverend gentleman was a shareholder. He had been accused by his superiors of peculation. His father’s position, backing his remonstrances, kept the case from coming into the police court. The matter was “squared,” as the slang term has it. A public scandal was averted. But certain persons at least would know the secret. The Blewton name was smirched. This his reverence would never forgive.
Henry walked with a rapid pace down Brixton Hill, for on that reputable eminence his father’s house was situated; passed through Kennington, along the Westminster Bridge Road, crossed the bridge, passed under the shadow of the clock tower, and went up to a recruiting sergeant who stood at the corner of Parliament Street.
During that walk the circumstances of HenryBlewton underwent many important changes. To begin with, he had changed his name, his age, and his occupation. He enlisted, passed the doctor with credit, and blossomed eventually into Private Nott of a valiant regiment of the line.
From that moment all trace of Henry Blewton became lost to his friends and relatives, and for years they mourned for him as people mourn for the dead. His concluding prophecy, delivered with such meaning to his father, came true. Time set him right. He had not been a year in the army before the real delinquent was discovered; and, as the genuine sinner had no influential acquaintances on the directorate of the company, his case was remitted to the Old Bailey for the consideration of a judge and jury. He was found guilty, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Thus was the character of Henry Blewton vindicated.
Useless, alas! now were the regrets and repentances of his reverend father. Vain were the efforts of the private detectives whom he engaged. The advertisements that he caused to be inserted in the papers brought noresponse, and, after five years of fruitless labour and unavailing self-reproach, his family came to the conclusion that he was dead. He had perished from hunger, perhaps, or had hurried himself into the presence of his Maker, goaded to distraction by the paternal taunts. The reflection that his innocence had been established ameliorated to some little extent the pangs of mother and sister. But the very thought which gave them consolation added to the poignancy of the father’s feelings. He mourned in secret, and cried with the man of yore,—
“Would to God I had died for him! My son, my son!”
At the very point where Brixton Rise merges into Brixton Hill there is an avenue. It is a very well-kept avenue, and a stately row of young trees runs along each side of it. A notice-board informs the passers-by that there is “No Thoroughfare,” and that this trimly-kept approach is “Private.” On some fine days honest people are beguiled by the spectacle of half-a-dozen men with cropped hair and unbecoming uniform repairing the roadway. These operators are directed byanother person. He is also in uniform, and carries side arms and a musket—for the avenue leads to Brixton Gaol, and the sullen road-menders are inmates of that suburban retreat. It is perhaps within the knowledge of the reader that military prisoners are now received in the Brixton seminary; if not, the reader must take it from me that it is so.
One wild November morning the gates of Brixton Gaol opened and let loose a prisoner who had been confined for an assault on his superior officer, that gallant captain having contributed somewhat to the offence by dubbing the man a thief. He was a fine, soldierly-looking young fellow of two-and-twenty, though he looked much more. When he came to the end of the avenue he found the chaplain waiting there, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather.
“Good-morning,” said the chaplain—a kind-hearted Devonshire parson, who took more than the usual perfunctory interest in his patients, as he was wont to call them.
“Good-morning, sir,” replied the soldier, respectfully, and with an accent of surprise.
“You have no money, I suppose?”
“Not a sou, your reverence,” replied the man.
“Then,” said the chaplain, “here are two shillings. They will at least keep you for a day or two. Seek work and keep honest. God bless you.”
“Heaven reward you!” replied the man, writhing under the kindness of the clergyman. The visitant to the outer world did not move, however. He looked up and down the hill, as if hesitating in what direction he should go.
“That,” said the parson, pointing down the hill, “that is the way to London”—saying which he turned up the avenue, and so re-entered the precincts of the gaol. But the man did not take the direction indicated by his benefactor. There was something in the atmosphere of Brixton which seemed to agree with him. He found its attractions more considerable than do most visitors to the noted locality. He wandered in an aimless way up and down by-streets. But the police—always solicitous about the welfare of discharged prisoners—kept their eyes on him. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. And he repeated with something of bitter ironyin his tone the parting admonition of the chaplain.
“‘Seek work and keep honest!’ No easy matter, Mr. Parson, with these sleuth-hounds on the trail.”
Towards evening he entered a small beer-house in the Cornwall Road, a thoroughfare not far removed from the gaol. Here he refreshed himself with bread and cheese and beer. Here also he found company who did not object to his society, for it is a comforting reflection that there are more wicked people outside gaols than in them. And among these excellent fellows he spent the time, until at the hour of twelve the landlord was obliged to turn his customers into the bleak and blustrous night.
The man bade good-bye to his companions, and sought the high road. He proceeded up the hill with his back turned on London. When he came to the substantial house of the Rev. Stanley Blewton he stopped, looked up and down the road to see that he was not followed, and then passed into the clergyman’s front garden, creeping forward under the shadow of the bushes.
At one o’clock in the morning the reverend occupant of the house was wakened by a noise below; he listened, warned his wife to keep quiet, drew on his trousers, took his revolver, and crept downstairs in his naked feet. Yes, the thief had entered the library. Mr. Blewton was, as we have seen, a person of some determination. He opened the library door and said,—
“Speak, or I’ll fire.”
“It is—” But the voice was not allowed to proceed. The sound indicated the position of the robber. The minister fired two barrels in the direction of the voice, and heard a body fall with a groan of—
“Oh—father—you—have—killed—me!”
Then there was silence. Then another groan, and the fall of another man. When the servants came with a light they found the dead body of the father stretched by the dead body of the son.
Anelderly man with a pleasant expression, iron-grey hair, and faultlessly dressed may occasionally be seen walking along the shady side of St. James’s Street in the early afternoon. He gazes a good deal under the bonnets of the pretty women. But there is a demure and half-respectful expression in his glance which withers any rising feeling of resentment. His age and his unmistakably sympathetic half-smile give him an immunity which would not be extended to younger and bolder men. He is known to society as the Hon. Archibald Flodden.
Flodden is a member of three excellent clubs. His name is on some extremely desirablevisiting lists. He goes to church when in town every Sunday morning. His conduct in public is most exemplary. And yet, somehow, Flodden has no men friends. He has money, and therefore can always command the society of a select circle of parasites. But men who ought to be in his own set—or of whose set he ought to be—do not care for his company. Nor do the female leaders of society give him great countenance. He is not, perhaps, regarded exactly as amauvais sujet. But it is generally admitted that there is something queer about Flodden.
This sentiment was not, of course, inspired originally by the fact that after two years of domestic infelicity his wife left him, taking her infant daughter with her. Society naturally took the man’s part. The wife placed herself outside the pale, and Flodden never asked her to re-enter it. He took the matter philosophically, gave up his house in Sloane Square, took chambers in the Albany, refused all communication with his wife, and led the life of a sedate and philanthropic bachelor. For eighteen years he has led this blameless and almost idyllic life, and yet there exists insociety an undefined distrust of him which is utterly unaccountable.
But though the great ladies of society, guided by an infallible instinct, do not regard the Hon. Archie Flodden with favour, there are certain other desirable persons who worship him as the verybeau idealknight. These are ladies of the middle-class, the wives of professional men, or the gushing ornaments of suburban Bohemia. Their experience of gentlemen is, perhaps, limited. They may be excused, therefore, in mistaking Flodden’s tinsel of politeness for the gold of real gallantry.
It is quite surprising the number of interesting young persons of the emotional and impressionable kind who have acquired a sincere, romantic, but quite Platonic, regard for Mr. Flodden. Happy chance has in the majority of instances procured the introduction; and, as a rule, the male relatives of the ladies are quite unaware of the discreet intimacy existing between Flodden and their women-folk. Indeed, these male relatives are all mere brutes, and it is part of Flodden’s edifying mission to sympathise with these dearcreatures, to express distress that their sweetness should be wasted on such clods of earth, and generally to insinuate comparisons between himself and the lawful husband, which are infinitely detrimental to the latter.
This hoary-headed squire of dames has the pleasantest possible little five o’clock teas at his chambers in the Albany, and sometimes as many as eight, or even nine, of his young friends will join him at that simple repast. Lord Roach (“Cock” Roach he used to be called in his regiment), who lives in the next set, seeing the ladies file out at half-past six or so, has put it about that Flodden keeps a dancing academy. But, though there is occasionally a little piano playing, there has never been a dance; indeed, the entertainment is chiefly conversational. Mr. Flodden never used a rude or an improper expression. He has, however, a wonderful knack of leading the conversation into doubtful topics. The chaste annals of the Divorce Court afforded him much agreeable food for comment. He would argue with some of his impressionable admirers as to the possibility of a purely Platonic affection, and at times hewould scribble off an epigram in choice French on some living beauty, notorious for the number of her amours. These trifles, written in a formal but trembling hand, have found themselves in the private albums of many an honest house in the suburbs. The ladies who were the objects of his disinterested regard invariably alluded to him as “a dear, kind creature,” the “most gentlemanly person,” “so sympathetic,” and the rest. The more gushing, recklessly declared him to be a “duck.” Dean Swift, remembering his own definition of the phrase, would have called him “a nice man.”
One hot afternoon in the July of last year, Mr. Flodden sat in his luxurious chambers surrounded by half-a-dozen of his female admirers, descanting on the superiority of French art as illustrated by the examples which adorned his walls. Having exhausted this topic, he proceeded to one more calculated to stimulate the curiosity of his guests.
“I have got a little surprise for you, my dear ladies: a fresh addition to our charmed, and may I say charming, circle.”
Six fragile cups descended from twelve rubylips, and twelve eyes opened wide with curiosity.
“Such a charming creature—so young, so beautiful, so romantic, and so unfortunate.” Six long-drawn sighs.
“Husband a cruel brute; absolutely beats her.”
Twelve eyes cast in mute appeal to the heaven that exists above Albany ceilings. Then the still, small voice of a sympathetic inquirer—
“And where did you meet this—this—paragon?”
“A secret, my dear madam, an absolute and positive secret. She was on her way to give lessons—she sings divinely—in order to maintain her keeper in tobacco and beer. Faugh!”
Six more long-drawn sighs.
“If she keep her appointment she will be here directly. She is a shy, reserved little creature, but should, I think, in such genial society thaw somewhat. Yes, she really must thaw.”
In five minutes Flodden’s man—a highly-respectable person, well versed in his master’slittle ways—announced Mrs. Bird. This was the lady who had so greatly fascinated the philanthropist, thereby driving six sympathetic souls into paroxysms of jealousy.
It must be admitted that anything less reserved or shy than Mrs. Bird had never before been presented to six neglected matrons. Mrs. Bird was stylishly dressed, greatly made up, and exhibited the undefinablecachetof the professional. She called Mr. Flodden “old chappie,” shook hands, unintroduced, with the assembled tea-drinkers, hoped they were quite jolly, and then asked the master of the establishment for a brandy and soda. That worthy man of the world had turned red and white and even blue. He was completely thunder-struck. It was evident he must stop the compromising flow of her conversation. The modest woman of his rambles had suddenly become transformed into a something too terrible for contemplation. A brilliant idea. He would ask her to sing. Mrs. Bird was a woman of a most obliging disposition. She sat down at the piano and dashed off a showy prelude and commenced her song. You remember the effect ofCaptain Shandon’s tipsy ditty upon the good Colonel Newcome; an effect somewhat similar was now produced on the neglected wives. Mrs. Bird warbled out with unctuous accent one of the most notorious ballads of a Parisiancafé chantant. The matrons rose for shawls, and the songstress, apprehending their intention, jumped from the piano and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Flodden looked humiliated beyond measure; there was not a pennyweight of philanthropy left in him.
“This is awful!” he exclaimed; “in heaven’s name who and what are you?”
“I am your daughter Gwendolyn,” she hissed.
At that moment voices were heard from without—Flodden’s man shouting, “You sha’n’t go in,” and another voice consigning Flodden’s man to Hades. Then the door was thrust open, and a cad in loud check trousers, a green-coloured Newmarket coat, a white hat and innumerable rings, stood bowing to the assembled company. He eventually fixed a somewhat bloodshot eye on the philanthropist and said,—
“Now, then, my festive fossil, when nextyou go a followin’ other men’s wives, you see as they ain’t your own daughters! I’m the Great O’Daniel, the star comique. Gwen’s my wife, an’ you’re my pa-in-lor. Here’s a horder; give us a turn and bring your lady friends with you. My new song, ‘The Elderly Masher,’ is no end of a go. Come along, Gwen. Good-bye, par. Ladies, bong joor!”
So saying he tucked Gwendolyn under his arm, bowed, and left the apartment. The other guests retired in solemn silence, wiser, and, let us hope better, women.
And that was Mr. Flodden’s last five o’clock tea at the Albany.
Thebill itself, considering the prospects of the acceptor, was not for a very alarming amount. He was heir to a baronetcy and £50,000 per annum. The bill was for “a monkey”—or, in more intelligible phraseology than that usually adopted by the acceptor himself, for the sum of five hundred pounds sterling. The extraordinary circumstance about the bill was that the acceptor, Harry Jermyn, paid Abednego, of Throgmorton Street, interest at the rate of sixty per cent. per annum for the accommodation, and that in addition he had to take part of the proceeds in the shape of a park hack, which he found difficulty in selling to a cab proprietor for a five-pound note. The consideration deducted from the bill in respect of this animal was fifty pounds.
Harry Jermyn was amauvais sujet; that is to say, he was a young gentleman kept by his father on a short allowance. He gambled a little, went to all the races, was a member of the Raleigh and other social centres of a similar kind, and evinced a considerable interest in the drama—that is to say, at theatres where the sacred lamp was kept burning. In fact, he resembled hundreds of other young men of our acquaintance; and probably he would not have been called amauvais sujetwere it not that the old baronet restricted him to means inadequate to supply his simple desires.
Mr. Abednego was not amauvais sujet. He was a most respectable man; had a house in Mayfair, another in Richmond, and a mansion in Scotland which he modestly called his shooting box. He occasionally entertained live lords, who borrowed his money and sneered at him behind his back. He had contrived to obtain a seat on a county bench, and was a Colonel of Volunteers in the same happy county, by reason of which he was known to society at large as Colonel Abednego.
When Harry Jermyn’s bill fell due herushed down in a hansom to Abednego’s office in Throgmorton Street, and was—after an ominous delay—admitted to the sanctum of the great Abednego himself. That potentate did not rise, but nodded quickly to his visitor, with a short, and by no means encouraging, “Mornin’.”
Harry was a man with a fine flow of animal spirits, and was not to be dashed by the studied coolness of his reception.
“I say, old chappie,” he replied, with the greatest good humour, “what’s the matter? Feel a little chippy this morning? or lost a point or two at sixpenny whist last night—eh?”
“Mr. Jermyn, this is the City,” said the money-lender. “What is your business?”
“Well, the fact is, old boy,” answered Jermyn, sitting on the edge of the table opposite the financier, “that damn bill of mine falls due to-morrow.”
“Well?”
“And of course you’ll renew?”
“Of course I’ll do nothing of the kind,” answered Abednego, rising and taking out his watch.
Harry’s jaw fell considerably. His former experience of this exemplary man had not prepared him for this. It had only prepared him for the incurring of fresh interest and the possession of park hacks anythingbutfresh.
“But look here, old man, Imusthave the coin, don’t you know?”
Young Jermyn considered this sort of argument unanswerable. His host resumed his seat, and looking the young man in the face, said,—
“Well, I found her expensive myself. I’m not surprised thatyoudo.”
Harry jumped from his seat on the table, and exclaimed, “What in Hades do you mean?”
“I mean Baby Somerville of the Frivolity.”
“You scoundrel!” shouted the borrower, “she is my wife. I have married her.”
“You lie,” quietly answered Mr. Abednego.
Of course a blow followed. When Abednego had pulled himself together, and wiped the blood from his face, he said, in tones now quivering with rage,—
“You young scoundrel, you shall suffer for this!”
That was the end of the interview. Jermyn withdrew at once, wrathful and defeated, and next day the bill for “a monkey” was dishonoured.
Now, strange as it may appear, Harry Jermyn had really married Baby Somerville of the Frivolity, a shapely, vain, and heartless woman, incapable of an affection, except perhaps for some brute of a chorus man. There was a period in her career, however, when she was consideredchicby a certain number of men about town. Jermyn unfortunately allowed his passion to take an honourable direction. He wanted to have her all to himself; and she, knowing him to be heir to a baronetcy, without any conventional coyness consented to be his wife. But at the time of his marriage, and until he heard it on the day before his bill was dishonoured, he had no suspicion that Abednego had been among the admirers of his wife; and when he taxed her with it, she denied the fact with such accent of sincerity that he clasped her to his heart and called her by a hundred endearing names. He was, you see, an indubitablemauvais sujet.
Mr. and Mrs. Jermyn were spending the early days of their married life on the upper Thames, where, to her credit be it said, the lady affected a pretty interest in waving corn, and floating lily leaves, and shrilling larks, and other beauties which, I am told, abound in the neighbourhood of that incomparable stream; and, on the Sunday following the unpleasant interview with the magnate of Throgmorton Street, Mr. Jermyn was sculling his young bride in the skiff which he had purchased for her, and called after her name.
It was a glorious July day, and the river was crowded with craft of every description.
The lock at — was open and half full when they reached it. Jermyn took his skiff gently in, and held on to the side of a launch, the deck of which was crowded with laughing women and men in gorgeous array. In the cabin a lunch was laid, and cases of champagne reposed pleasantly in the stern. Jermyn cursed his indiscretion a moment after, when he discovered that a number of the sirens on deck were members of the Frivolity chorus. But the worst was to come. Abednego, flashingwith diamonds, exquisitely raddled as to his cheeks, stood at the tiller, and addressing Mrs. Jermyn, said, with an air of easy familiarity,—
“Hallo, Baby, how are you gettin’ on, eh?”
That was bad enough, but when Harry turned sharply round on his wife, he saw her big eyes turned longingly on the resplendent Hebrew, and her smile cast boldly on his painted countenance. At that moment the devil entered into Jermyn’s soul as surely as ever it took possession of the Gadarene swine. His lips turned blue, his face was livid; but he made no other sign. His was the last boat to leave the lock. He rowed steadily on, and never spoke to the woman he had loved so well and so unwisely.
Mr. Abednego had enjoyed a real good time on board the launch, and on his way down stopped at the famous riparian village of —. Here also Jermyn landed some time after. He sent his wife home by train, and put up at the same hotel as that occupied by his opulent rival.
No one ever knew how it happened. Closeto the village there is a lock, and by the lock is what is called a hook—a horseshoe of water running round from a point above it, and, after making a vast circuit, emerging at a point below. For the most part this hook is shallow, but in places it is deep as the wells described by Herodotus. At six o’clock on the following morning, Abednego, who was fond of the water, repaired to a remote part of the hook. Five minutes after Harry Jermyn also proceeded to the bathing place. He must, however, have selected a spot out of sight of the “Colonel,” for that gentleman was unfortunately drowned without Jermyn’s even having seen him. A certain mark was discovered round Abednego’s throat, but the coroner very sagely informed the jury that with that they had nothing to do—it might be a mark of long-standing. Mr. Jermyn volunteered evidence as to having seen nobody in the vicinity of the hook. Verdict in accordance with such evidence as was produced—“Accidental death.”
Six months afterwards the famous case of Jermynv.Jermyn, Smith, Jones, and Another was heard, which, as the public will recollect,resulted in a verdict for the husband, who is now a prematurely aged and curiously reticent man—the inheritor of a baronetcy and fifty thousand pounds a year.
Felix Carterwas always on the look out for unappreciated genius, the which, when discovered, he would clothe, feed, and house until the time came—as it invariably did come—when he found out that the gold was tinsel. He never for one moment suspected that he himself was the happy possessor of that divine endowment which he so reverenced in others. And yet his friends all swore that if any man ever were gifted with genius, Felix Carter was that individual. He was a sort of artistic Admirable Crichton. He painted exquisite pictures. He had written three novels. Plays of his had been produced with success. And he played the violin like a very Paganini. Acquaintances spoke of him as being eccentric.But every man is accounted eccentric whose talents cover a wide area and whose heart is abnormally large.
Play writing, novel spinning, and violin practice Felix regarded as recreations. His real profession was that of an artist. And his big bachelor establishment in a North Western suburb of London will be remembered as the scene of some brilliant receptions, at not a few of which Carter’s latest Man of Genius would put in an appearance, to the great surprise of guests, who very properly refused to see any merit whatever in his utterances. Sometimes three or four undesirable pensioners would be quartered on the establishment. And although Carter’s friends deplored the circumstance, not one of them dare remonstrate. He was the victim of perpetual disappointment in hisprotégés, but would resent any interference with his practical philanthropy.
One of Carter’s Men of Genius lived with him and on him for a period of more than six months. It was amusing always to hear his enthusiasm over this big, blotchy-faced loafer. He bored all his friends by a description of hisfirst meeting him, of his desire to see him again, and of the happy coincidence of their second encounter. Carter was greatly given to prowling about unknown London for the purpose of picking up “effects.” He knew the opium-smoking quarter. He had been in a thieves’ kitchen, and he knew his way to the most disreputable common lodging-houses in the metropolis. He occasionally dropped in at the “White Elephant,” a public-house situated in a slum off Fleet Street, where every night in the week a discussion took place on the events of the day. This discussion was carried on in a hall at the back of the “White Elephant,” and was mainly contributed to by subsidized speakers whose feats of oratory were intended to encourage the ambitious vestryman who smoked his pipe there, or the occasional young barrister who dropped in upon his way to or from the Temple. But the audience generally was made up of solicitors’ clerks, solicitors who had been struck off the Rolls, with here and there a fiery disciple of Bradlaugh from the unsavoury fastnesses of Clerkenwell. It was in this resort that Carter first saw and admired Joseph Addison, thelarge and very loathsome person who eventually shared his home.
“I tell you,” he would say, “Joseph is the most wonderful chap. By Jove, sir, you should have heard the way he pegged into those Radicals. He made them squirm. I wish old Gladstone had been there to hear him, upon my soul I do.”
Unfortunately it happened that late one night Felix encountered his paragon lying asleep under a bench in St. James’s Park. It is more than probable that the creature was drunk after a day of successful sponging. But his admirer only saw a man full of gifts and faculties suffering from cold and hunger.
“By Gad, old boy,” he said in describing the scene, “I could have cried to see a man, who could talk Sir William Harcourt’s head off, perishing for want of a penny roll.”
So Addison was treated as reverently as if he had been his great namesake, was made free of Carter’s house, was introduced to his studio friends, and was generally rendered a great deal more comfortable than he deserved to be. His appearance was sadly against him. His eyes were shifty and blood-shot; his bushyblack whiskers were never submitted to the torture of the comb; his finger nails were invariably dirty, and his expression was that of effrontery struggling with awkwardness. His clothes of seedy black vainly endeavouring to conceal an unwashed shirt seemed as if they had been persistently slept in, and his eyeglass depending from a white string completed the picture of a rakish adventurer.
It is true that these deficiences of attire were gradually ameliorated, and Joseph Addison appeared in the linen and jackets of our friend, to which, however, this hopeless and abominable ale-house ornament managed to impart a debauched and dissipated air. Of this Carter saw nothing. Nor did he consider it extraordinary that the unsightly incubus should drink his brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning, or that he should smoke his Latakia out of his favourite pipes. All these little familiarities he set down as being so many eccentricities of genius.
“What’s a bottle of brandy to me if it makes Joseph talk! I tell you I have heard that man emit epigrams by the hour. He’s a little shy before strangers. But you shouldhear him when we’re alone. By the lord Harry, Rochfoucauld isn’t in it with him.”
And so Felix Carter, a man of taste, refinement, culture, and genius, worshipped this idol of mud, this tavern sponge, this bar-soiled, gin-soddened impostor. So Titania was enamoured of an ass.
Although it was perfectly true that Joseph Addison never ventured on any epigrams before Carter’s friends, he committed some of them to writing, for the benefit of posterity. These wonderful sentiments Addison’s hand had traced with charcoal on the white-washed walls of the studio, and Carter would point them out with genuine enthusiasm as though they were
—jewels five words longThat on the stretched forefinger of all timeSparkle for ever.
—jewels five words longThat on the stretched forefinger of all timeSparkle for ever.
Respect and love for Carter induced his associates to affect a great belief in the value of these jewels of thought scrawled on the walls in the most vulgar hand imaginable. That there may be no doubt as to the literary and philosophical value of the gems, I will reproduce them here. On one wall—justwhere Carter could see it as he painted, was inscribed the legend—
God Loves the Worker.
Opposite the entrance to the studio appeared in characters of greater magnitude the intimation—
Labour is Prayer.
While above the mantel-piece, between two beautiful “studies” from the nude, ran the inscription—
Labor Omnia Vincit.
As the Latinity of this recondite quotation was impeccable, I presume that Mr. Addison had extracted it from Bartlett’s Dictionary of Quotations.
Had it not been for the large heart and simple faith of the artist, one would have been inclined to see nothing in the unholy alliance but its ludicrous side. But knowing how firm was the faith of the victim in his new discovery, there was a dash of pathos in it which checked laughter.
Many attempts were made to expose the fraud. Secret meetings of the admirers of Carter met in adjoining studios. All sorts ofconspiracies were set on foot. Most ingenious devices were proposed and unanimously adopted. But they were unavailing. All were frustrated by the unsuspicious nature of Carter, or by the low cunning of the beer-swilling brute who was living in easy idleness on his money. It is generally believed that at this period certain of the younger and more enthusiastic followers of Carter had set on foot a plot for the extermination of Addison, and that his early assassination was by some deemed feasible and desirable.
“I will tell you what it is,” said Carter on one occasion to the most plain-spoken of his friends, “I’ve found out why all you fellows fail to see that Addison is a Man of Genius.”
“And what may the reason be?” asked Plain Speaker.
“You’re all jealous of his ability—that’s what it is.”
“Bah!”
“It’s all very well to say ‘Bah,’” said Carter, waxing enthusiastic as he invariably did on this theme, “but it’s impossible to explain your dislike on any other theory. Joseph is worth a dozen of the fellows whomake money by literature in these days. I have written books myself, and ought to know something about it. You’ll find him out one of these days.”
“And so will you,” was Plain Speaker’s response.
Herein Plain Speaker indulged in unconscious prophecy. That which friendly conspirators could not bring about was contrived by the omnipotent finger of Fate.
Felix Carter went to the Isle of Wight to execute a commission for an invalid magnate in that pleasant settlement, and as he was anxious that a trustworthy and gentlemanly person should take charge of his house during his absence, he left his friend andprotégé, Joseph Addison, in that responsible position. The artist had been about a week at work when he came upon the following gratifying item in one of the London papers:—
“POLICE INTELLIGENCE.“Bow Street. AThief.—Joseph AddisonaliasWard, aliasPeters, 40, was charged before Mr. Flowers with stealing from the waiting-room of the Charing Cross Station a black bag containing jewellery, the property of M. Laurent of Paris. On the prisoner were found a goldwatch, an opera-glass, a silver fruit-knife, and a valuable cigar-case. These articles bear the initials ‘F. C.’ The prisoner was remanded for further inquiries.”
“POLICE INTELLIGENCE.
“Bow Street. AThief.—Joseph AddisonaliasWard, aliasPeters, 40, was charged before Mr. Flowers with stealing from the waiting-room of the Charing Cross Station a black bag containing jewellery, the property of M. Laurent of Paris. On the prisoner were found a goldwatch, an opera-glass, a silver fruit-knife, and a valuable cigar-case. These articles bear the initials ‘F. C.’ The prisoner was remanded for further inquiries.”
“My initials!” sighed Carter.
“Our friend will now get plenty of that labour which he affects to love,” said Plain Speaker.
“AMOSTremarkable man, sir,” said the Secretary of the Teetotal Union to the President.
“But don’t he strike you as being a trifle—a trifle soiled, eh?” asked the President, glancing down at his own immaculate shirt-cuffs.
“N—no,” replied the Secretary, hesitatingly. “He’s a most dignified man—most dignified. An’ in his dress shoot most impressive.”
“But really, now, Mr. Bottle, I thought, d’ye know, that he rather smelt of beer. Just a little, eh?” suggested the President.
“Beer!” echoed the Secretary, in a tone of mingled astonishment and indignation. “Beer! Why, sir, he’s one of the mostardent spirits engaged in the teetotal cause. He has been one of us for upwards of ten years or more.”
“And before that, eh?”
“He was on the Press.”
“Hum!” observed the President.
“But he’s quite reformednow,” answered the Secretary, to the objection implied in the President’s monosyllable.
“And you say he is really eloquent?”
“Remarkably so—very, remarkably so. In fact, I may say a puffick J. B. Gough.”
“Has he written in favour of the cause?”
“Largely, sir. His tracks is well known.”
“Then send him in again.”
The subject of this conversation—which took place in the Committee Room of the Teetotal Union, in Aldersgate Street, City—stood in an outer chamber, gravely contemplative. All that Mr. Bottle, the Secretary, had urged in favour of his dignified demeanour, was quite justified by his appearance. But the reflections of Alderman Lamb, the President, were also to a great extent borne out by what little of him was visible to the naked eye. Indeed, the remarkable man was atrifle more than soiled. He was very dirty. He might be described as an old-young man. He had curly grey hair, thin and rather distinguished features, a small nervous hand, an imperturbable solemnity of expression, and a dignity of pose worthy the immortal Mr. Turveydrop.
At the bidding of the Secretary, he re-entered the sanctum of the President, to whom he bowed low and impressively. He sat in the chair offered to him, and looked at Mr. Lamb as though he would have said to that worthy Alderman and Spectacle Maker, “Will you have your case disposed of now, or do you wish it sent to the Assizes?”
“Our Mr. Bottle,” began the President, as Mr. Browley, the remarkable man, bowed condescendingly to that functionary, “our Mr. Bottle suggests that you should temporarily fill the place of one of our regular lecturers. A lecture is announced for to-morrow night at the Temperance Hall, New Cut. The remuneration is small—two pounds, in fact. Will you accept the offer?”
“Sir,” replied Mr. Browley, in solemn tones, “you honour me. I accept.”
“I,” went on the Alderman, “will be in the chair.”
“You overwhelm me with honours,” replied Mr. Browley, with another obeisance.
“And may I ask,” said the President, “the title of your lecture?”
“With pleasure, sir. Indeed, you have a right to know. I call it an Oration. It is entitled, ‘The Demon Drink.’”
“Capital, capital,” said the Alderman, rubbing his hands as if relishing the idea of being made personally acquainted with the Demon in question; “and you won’t forget the hour—eight o’clock at the Temperance Hall. Good-bye, Mr. Browley; glad to have made your acquaintance.”
But Mr. Browley made no motion of withdrawal. With a slight movement of the right hand he signalled that he was about to speak.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but there is a slight preliminary. I have made it a rule in dealing with religious and philanthropic societies always to extort a small sum in advance as a pledge of good faith. I am not in any want of money, nor do I doubt your ability and willingness to pay it. ButI have made it a rule, and I invariably insist on compliance with it. If you will pay me half a sovereign—not necessarily for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—I will accept that amount.”
“Certainly, my dear sir. Mr. Bottle, pray let the gentleman have ten shillings, or a sovereign if he wants it.”
“I saidhalfa sovereign,” said the lecturer, impressively.
That sum was handed to him by Mr. Bottle, who took his receipt, and Mr. Browley appeared once more in the outer air.
For a remarkable man with a great interest in the temperance cause, it must be admitted that his first two visits were somewhat singular in their nature. His first visit was to a pawnbroker’s, where he redeemed a dress suit pledged for three shillings, and his next visit was to a public-house, where he called for a pint of bitter and Burton—in a pewter.
“That’s both meat and drink,” he murmured, as he licked his lips. It was evident that the remarkable man spoke from conviction, for he hardly passed a tavern on his way from town to the remoter slums of Islingtonwithout eating and drinking after the same fashion—with this slight variation, that at the last half-dozen houses of call he substituted for the beer that decoction which Mr. Eccles alludes to as “cool, refreshing gin.”
He reeled at last into his own street, and staggered into the one room occupied by himself and his wife. He threw the bundle of dress clothes on the bed.
“Maggie! get me that ‘Demon Drink.’ I’m going to deliver the ‘Demon’ to-morrow. D’ye hear?”
“But, John, remember what the doctor said at the hospital. All excitement is so bad for you.”
“Damn the doctors. Produce the ‘Demon,’ d’ye hear?”
And so alternately damning the doctors and demanding the Demon, he sank on the bed and snored the snore of the drunk. She knelt by his side and wept, and—God help her!—prayed. She remembered him, you see, when he returned from College with his University honours thick upon him, and before the Demon had got him—tight.
There was a great audience the next nightat the New Cut Hall, and Mr. Browley, in his dress clothes, looked somewhat more presentable than on the previous day. His wife had managed to procure linen, and the worthy Alderman in the chair was quite pleased and encouraged by the improved appearance of the lecturer; though it is true he once whispered to Mr. Bottle that he thought he detected a very strong smell of drink in the room.
Mr. Browley was in due course presented to the large and highly expectant audience. And it must be admitted that rarely had an audience the opportunity of listening to an oration of such force and vigour. The whole figure of the lecturer seemed to change, his face glowed, the assumption ofhauteurleft him as he assailed the drink Demon and portrayed his victims. Now a torrent of applause followed some well-aimed hit at the vendors of drink, and now some pathetic anecdote drew tears from the eyes of his auditors. The Alderman was enchanted, and applauded vociferously; now agreeing with his secretary, that Mr. Browley was indeed a very remarkable man.
Presently the lecturer proceeded to deal with the awful disease which turns the habitual drunkard into a dangerous maniac. He described the progress and effect ofdelirium tremens. His eyes now flashed wildly as he portrayed to the affrighted audience devils from the pit of hell; and goblin forms and pursuing shapes of beast and reptile. His body swayed to and fro: he spoke in gasps; his mouth seemed parched and hot. Now his eye-balls appeared to shoot from his head, and his arms were moved in front of him as if to ward off the creatures of his fancies. The effect was electrical. The audience rose at him, and followed his effort with long-continued applause.
In the middle of it all the lecturer’s face appeared to grow livid, his eyes fixed, and his limbs stiff. He placed his left hand to his temple, and with his stretched forefinger pointed in front of him. Then he moaned as a wild animal moans in pain, and fell backward on the platform. A wild shriek burst from the back of the hall as his wife rushed forward, jumped upon the platform, and threw herself on the prostrate body.
A doctor arrived in due course.
“Drunk?” inquired Mr. Bottle, when he had examined him.
“No. Dead!” answered the physician.