Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 156.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE UNSEEN REGIONS OF A THEATRE.

That part of a theatre which is concealed from the view of the audience is always a subject of interest and speculation to the uninitiated, and most playgoers experience a desire to explore the mysterious region. When, therefore, some years ago, an opportunity presented itself to me of gratifying my curiosity in this respect, I did not fail to take advantage of it. Since then, I have been behind the scenes of various theatres, and my experience has convinced me that the public is not aware how small a portion of the house behind the curtain is exposed to the view of the audience, the regions both above and below the stage being more extensive than is usually imagined. Indeed, when, several years ago, the Opera House in Paris was burned, it was with surprise that the public learned from the newspapers that the edifice had no fewer than four separate underground floors.

At the present day, in most first-class theatres in London and New York the subterranean portion of the building consists of at least two or three distinct stories. The fact is, it is now quite impracticable to meet the requirements of a grand spectacular piece without ample space being provided for the scenery underneath the stage. Many, too, of the finest plays are so constructed that several changes of scene are required in every act; and each scene must be a masterpiece of the stage-carpenter’s art, to satisfy the exacting demands of a modern audience. The old system, when an alteration of scene was necessary, was primitive enough. In some instances, there descended from the ‘flies’ a large curtain, on which was painted a landscape, or the interior or exterior of a building, as circumstances might require. In other cases, wooden frames, termed flats, with canvas tightly stretched upon them, were pushed upon the stage from either side, meeting at the centre, and frequently presenting an ugly seam at the place of junction. No little skill was demanded in handling a huge frame many yards in height and width; for if it once lost its perpendicular, it became unmanageable, and fell—then requiring the exertions of several men to restore it to its proper position. The scenes also had a tendency to stick in the grooves in which they ran, and when this occurred, the disapprobation of the audience was incurred. It is said that a mishap of this kind having once taken place at one of the transpontine theatres, a spectator in the gallery called out: ‘We don’t look for grammar at this ’ere ’ouse, but we think yer might see that yer “flats” jine properly.’

All this is now altered. At the London theatres of the better class, when a change of scene is requisite, it is effected in a few seconds and in an admirable manner. An extensive landscape, or a lofty battlemented castle—so strongly constructed that it seems as if it were built of solid masonry—or a spacious apartment completely furnished, is, as if by magic, placed before the audience.

It has often struck us that playgoers scarcely adequately realise the extraordinary mechanical ingenuity displayed in the production of many of the pieces of late years presented to the public. Take, for instance, the fairy spectacle entitled _Le Roi Carotte_. In it there was a scene in which an old magician was dismembered in the presence of the audience. The situation was this: an aged sorcerer, in order to be rejuvenated, requests his friends to cut him into pieces and throw him bit by bit into a red-hot oven; after which process he expects to come out a young man. His wishes are complied with; he is put piecemeal into the furnace without his leaving the stage or ceasing to talk. Seated in an armchair, the old man asks that a large volume shall be brought in and laid on a table in front of him. The book, on being placed in the required position, becomes immediately vivified; living gnomes issue from the pictures on its pages and skip about the stage; after which they re-enter the book, and it is closed and carried away. Then the legs and arms of the magician are cut off and thrown into the furnace; next he is decapitated, and his head is placed on the table, where it continues talking, giving instructions with regard to the trunk. After this the head is cast into the oven, which bursts open with a loud report, and a young and handsome man comes out of it.

The transformation is so ingeniously effected that the manner in which it is executed is incomprehensible to the ordinary spectator. This is the way in which the feat is accomplished: when the volume is placed on the table, the sorcerer, seated in the armchair, quietly withdraws his legs from sight, placing them on a trap beneath the level of the stage; at the same time he slips his arms under his loose gown, _papier-mâché_ limbs being substituted in both instances for the real ones. This is done whilst the attention of the audience is diverted to the book and its animated pictures, which are little boys who come up from underneath the stage, through holes in the table and book, which is furnished with india-rubber springs, which close directly the gnomes have emerged from the volume. After the magician’s legs and arms have been taken off and thrown into the fire, nothing is left but his trunk and his head. The latter is a mask which fits the actor’s face, leaving nothing visible but his lips and eyes. One of the persons on the stage tugs at the magician’s head until he pulls it off—that is to say, he removes the mask. As this is being done, the sorcerer has sunk down a trap, and he rises again through the table. The performer, with his head inserted in the mask, continues to talk, giving instructions with respect to the disposition of the trunk, which remains in the chair. Finally, the artificial head and the trunk, which are also of _papier mâché_, are thrown into the furnace. The magician in the meanwhile has reascended by means of another trap farther back, slipping on a rich dress on the way; and when the oven bursts, the old man steps forth rejuvenated.

The reader must now see what skill and ingenuity the feat demands—what careful attention to every detail, what precautions against the slightest error, what rapidity in working of the traps, and what accuracy of movement on the part of the actor who plays the old magician. But, indeed, the skill and dexterity demanded of those to whom are intrusted the mechanical arrangements of some pieces, are far greater than are supposed by the public, who content themselves with admiring the results, without reflecting upon the care and labour they have involved.

In an opera called _Les Amours du Diable_, produced in Paris some years ago, there was a curious scene which puzzled all who saw it. A slight palanquin—constructed in such a manner that it was obvious that there was no possibility of its having a double bottom—was brought upon the stage supported on the shoulders of slaves. The actress, who occupied it, withdrew the curtains and gave some orders to her attendants. Then the curtains were closed for an instant, and again re-opened. But the occupant of the palanquin had disappeared. What had become of her? The feat had been executed close to the front of the stage, and under a brilliant light; and the spectators could plainly see that it was certain that the lady had not gone down a trap. The mystery remained for some time unsolved. The explanation of the puzzle was simply this: the pillars of the palanquin appeared to be very slight, but instead of being wood, they were hollow metal tubes. Through these tubes, ropes ran on pulleys at the top of the palanquin, descending in the inside, and fastened to the frame, on which was placed the silk cushion on which the actress reclined. To the other end of the ropes was attached a heavy weight which exactly balanced that of the lady. One of the slaves was impersonated by an expert machinist. So soon as the curtains were drawn, he pulled a cord which released the counterpoise, and the frame, together with its burden, rose to the dome of the palanquin. There the actress lay quite comfortably, a wire-gauze overhead enabling her to breathe freely. Pains had been taken in the constructing of the palanquin to make it appear frail, whilst in reality it was very strongly built, that the roof might bear the strain upon it of the weight it had to support. The bearers were men selected for their muscular strength, and they were drilled in the practice of taking up the palanquin—after the disappearance of its occupant—and carrying it off the stage at a sharp trot, as if it were empty.

Of recent years, great improvements have been made upon the old plan of representing the motion of the waves in a sea-scene. When, some years ago, a comedy called _Surf, or Summer Scenes at Long Branch_, was brought out at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, there was a scene in which the heavings of the ocean and the breaking of the waves upon the shore were imitated with excellent effect. Miss Logan, the authoress of the play, has described the ingenious mechanical appliances that were made use of on the occasion; she says: ‘There was a large cylinder, reaching across the stage from wing to wing on either side, and garnished with curling stiffened canvas, running around the cylinder after the fashion of the threads of a screw. This was put in revolution by means of a crank at the end, which was turned by a man behind the wing. The curling canvas was painted to represent the foamy surf. Behind the first cylinder were two others of similar character which revolved in like manner. When the three were in motion together, with a peculiar arrangement of light and shade upon them, the effect was strikingly like the rolling in of the waves upon the beach. There were various other appliances employed to heighten the illusion, such as a large box of pebbles tilted to and fro behind the scenes in a manner to closely imitate the sound of the waves; a gauzy painted cloth worked up and down an inclined plane, and represented the thin wave that rushes up the sands and retires again; rows of broom-corn, painted green, simulated the seaweed. The characters of the play, who are supposed to go in bathing at Long Branch dressed in the usual costumes, sprang through openings made of india-rubber—painted like the rest—which closed behind them as water might, could, or should do; and a little later, the actors, having passed under the stage by means of traps, reappeared at the back of the scene between the revolving cylinders, and jumped up and down, as if disporting themselves in the surf.’ The scene was very effective, and conduced largely to the success of the play.

Conflagrations on the stage are now so realistic as occasionally to alarm the spectators, who can scarcely believe that some portion of the scenery has not taken fire. But the precautions taken against danger are so thorough that there is no likelihood of an accident happening on these occasions. In a piece entitled _La Madonna des Roses_, which the writer once saw in Paris, there was the best representation on the stage of a conflagration he has ever witnessed. A fire was supposed to break out suddenly in an apartment in a ducal palace. Smoke and flame in a few moments poured forth in volumes from the windows and doors, and extending quickly to the walls, they fell in. They were constructed of two layers of wood, held together by thin cords, passing through holes. At the proper time, certain portions of the scenery were removed, leaving the others apparently burning fiercely—an effect produced by small gas jets arranged in rows around the edges of the frames. Behind the heavy set-piece at the back of the stage was a transparent curtain, on which flames were painted; and when the wall tumbled down, this scene being lit up, glowed with a lurid light in a very natural manner. At the same time, burning naphtha projected sheets of flame four or five yards in height, and large funnels overhead poured out torrents of black smoke mixed with sparks. It was indeed difficult for an audience to realise that the fire was not real, and that the whole of the scenery was not a heaving mass of flame.

In the description of the various mechanical contrivances resorted to in order to produce the scenic effects, the writer has been in some measure indebted to the theatrical reminiscences of Miss Olive Logan, an American actress.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XX.—CONCLUSION.

Turning into Holborn, he ran on blindly, never noticing another figure following in his footsteps. It was getting very late now, and as he hurried into the Strand, St Clement’s Danes struck midnight. Through the crowd there blindly, on to the water-side, the snaky figure close behind never off his track; on to the Embankment, and towards Waterloo Bridge. Then he stopped for one brief moment to regain his spent breath and think.

The following footsteps halted too; and then some instinct told him he was followed. Turning round again, full under the lamplight, he encountered Paulo Salvarini, determination in his face, murder in his eyes. In an agony of sudden fear, Le Gautier ran down the steps on to the Temple Pier, standing there close by the rushing water. A second later, with a clutch like iron, Salvarini was upon him.

‘Ah!’ he hissed, as they struggled to and fro, ‘you thought to escape me, you murderer of innocent women, the slayer of my wife! Now I have you. Back you go into the river, with a knife in your black heart!’

The doomed man never answered; breath was too precious for that. And so they struggled for a minute on the slimy pier, Salvarini’s grip never relaxing, till, suddenly reaching down, he drew a knife. One dazzling flash, a muttered scream, and Le Gautier’s lifeblood gushed out. Footsteps came down the stairs, a shrill shout from a woman’s voice. Salvarini started. In one moment, Le Gautier had him in a dying clasp, and with a dull splash, they fell backwards into the rushing flood. Down, down, they went, the tenacious grip never relaxing, the water singing and hissing in their ears, filling their throats as they sucked it down, turning them dizzy, till they floated down the stream—dead!

Some boatmen out late, attracted by the scream, rowed to the spot; and far down below Blackfriars, they picked up the dead bodies, both locked together in the last clasp of death. They rowed back to the pier, and carried the two corpses to a place for the night, never heeding the woman who was following them.

Next morning, they saw a strange sight. Lying across the murdered man, her head upon his breast, a woman rested. They lifted her; but she was quite dead and cold, a smile upon her face now, wiping out all trace of care and suffering—a smile of happiness and deep content. Valerie had crept there unnoticed to her husband’s side, and died of a broken heart.

* * * * *

For a few days people wondered and speculated over the strange tragedy, and then it was forgotten. A new singer, a noted poisoning case, something turned up, and distracted the frivolous public mind from the ‘mysterious occurrence,’ to use the jargon of the press.

Maxwell lost no time in getting to Grosvenor Square the following morning, where his greeting may be better imagined than described. He told Enid the whole story of his mission, omitting nothing that he thought might be of interest to her; and in his turn heard the story of Le Gautier’s perfidy, and the narrow escape both had had from his schemes.

‘I do not propose to stay any longer in London,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘After what we have all gone through, a little rest and quietness is absolutely necessary.—Enid, would you care to go down to Haversham?’

‘Indeed, I should. Let us go at once. I am absolutely pining for a little fresh air again. The place must be looking lovely now.’

‘All right, my dear,’ the baronet replied gaily; sooth to say, not sorry to get back to a part of the world where Sir Geoffrey Charteris was some one.

‘Then we will go to-morrow, and Maxwell shall join us.’

‘But Isodore? I have not seen her yet.’

‘Oh, she can come down there some time, directly we are settled.’

Later on in the same day, Maxwell heard the strange tale of Le Gautier’s death. He did not tell the news to Enid then, preferring to wait till a time when her nerves were more steady, and she had recovered from the shock of the past few days. So they went down to Haversham, and for three happy months remained there, ‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and at the end of that time, when the first warm flush of autumn touched the sloping woods, there was a quiet wedding at the little church under the hill.

Gradually, as time passed on, Sir Geoffrey recovered his usual flow of spirits, and was never known to have another ‘manifestation.’ He burned all his books touching on the supernatural, and gradually came to view his conduct in a humorous light. In the course of time, he settled down as a model country gentleman, learned on the subject of short-horns and top-dressing, and displaying a rooted aversion to spiritualism. It is whispered in the household—only it must not be mentioned—that he is getting stout, a state of things which, all things considered, is not to be regarded with incredulity.

Nearly two years later, and sitting about the lawn before the grand old house, were all our friends—Salvarini, mournful as usual, little altered since we saw him last; Maxwell, jolly and hearty, looking with an air of ill-disguised pride at Enid, who was sitting in a basket-chair, with a little wisp of humanity in her arms, a new Personage—to use the royal phrase—but by no means an unimportant one. Lucrece was there, happy and gay; and Isodore, glorious Isodore, unutterably lovely as she walked to and fro, followed by Salvarini’s dog-like eyes. The baronet made up the party, and alas! truth must out, looking—but we will be charitable, and say portly.

‘How long are you going to stay with us, Isodore?’ Enid asked. She would always be Isodore to them.

‘Really, I cannot say, Enid. How long will you have me?’

‘As long as you like to stay,’ Maxwell put in heartily.—‘By the way, I suppose I am still a member of the League?’

‘No, not now. Conditionally upon your promising never to reveal what you have seen and heard, you are free; Sir Geoffrey likewise.—Luigi here has resigned his membership.’

‘I am so glad!’ Enid cried. ‘I must come and kiss you.—Fred, come and hold baby for a moment.’

‘No, indeed’—with affected horror. ‘I should drop him down, and break him, or carry him upside down, or some awful tragedy.’

‘You are not fit to be the father of a beautiful boy; and everybody says he is the very image of you.’

‘I was considered a good-looking man once,’ said Maxwell with resignation. ‘No matter. But if that small animal there is a bit like me, may I’——

They all laughed at this, being light-hearted and in the mood to laugh at anything. Presently, they divided into little groups, Isodore and Luigi together. All her cold self-possession was gone now; she looked a very woman, as she stood there nervously plucking the leaves from the rose in her hand.

‘Isodore—Genevieve’——

At this word she trembled, knowing scarcely what. ‘Yes, Luigi.’

‘Five years ago, I stood by your side in the hour of your trouble, and you said some words to me. Do you remember what they were?’

‘Yes, Luigi.’ The words came like a fluttering sigh.

‘I claim that promise now. We are both free, heaven be praised! free as air, and no ties to bind us. Come!’ He held out his arms, and she came shyly, shrinkingly, towards them.

‘If you want me,’ she said.

With one bound he was by her side, and drew her head down upon his breast. ‘And you are happy now, Genevieve?’

‘Yes, I am happy. How can I be otherwise, with a good man’s honest love?—Carlo, my brother, would you could see me now!’

‘It is what he always wished.—Let us go and tell the others.’

So, taking her simply by the hand, they wandered out from the deepness of the wood, side by side, from darkness and despair, from the years of treachery and deceit, out into the light of a world filled with bright sunshine and peaceful, everlasting love.

DIAMOND-SMUGGLING.

In accordance with rules of concealment laid down by Edgar Allan Poe, some ‘clever things’ have of late years been done in the smuggling of precious stones into the United States of America, the philosophy which pervades Poe’s story of the _Purloined Letter_ having evidently been studied to some purpose by the professional diamond-smugglers, who are known to form a comparatively numerous body.

Poe’s tale, the scene of which is laid in Paris, the characters introduced being of course French, contains what may be called a novel theory of ‘hide-and-seek,’ which, stated briefly, is, that the greater the importance of the article which has been stolen, the simpler should be its mode of concealment. On the assumption that an important state document, or criminatory letter involving serious consequences to some one, and the possession of which would enable another person to make use of its contents for his own benefit, has been purloined, the more conspicuous the place chosen to conceal it the better, till it can be made use of. Should the recovery of the stolen document be a matter of importance, which may be assumed, it will, of course, be carefully sought for, and those searching for it will no doubt pry with care into every secret hiding-place, with the hope of finding it; whilst—to put the case in a homely way—it is ‘all the time staring them in the face,’ those in search of it overlooking it because of their idea that, in consequence of its great importance, the utmost care will have been exercised in its concealment.

Much incidental and curiously instructive information is contained in Poe’s _Purloined Letter_ as to the modes of criminal search adopted in France, where magnifying-glasses of great power, and microscopes, play a part; where beds are dismantled and chairs are disjointed to see that what is wanted has not been concealed in some part of them; where libraries of books are turned over leaf by leaf, and picture-frames are tapped to see that they contain no foreign material. As Poe points out, that is all in the way of routine, and is traditionary among French criminal investigators in the matter of every-day crime. It requires a mastermind, however, to fathom the doings of a really well-educated thief who purloins an important document in order to hold it in terrorem over a political enemy or social foe.

So in the matter of diamond-smuggling. Artists—if we may profane the word—have come to the front, men far ahead of the original stereotyped smugglers, who were contented to carry on their business in old-fashioned ways; ever cudgelling their brains to find out modes of concealment so elaborate as to make sure they would be discovered. All the more extraordinary devices of concealment, as they were thought to be at the time, were one by one found out and battled with by the custom-house officers of the United States. Some of them were thought rather remarkable, as, for instance, those managed by means of artificial teeth—a set of these useful implements of mastication being fashioned in such a manner that every tooth possessed a cavity which contained one or more diamonds or other precious stones: the hole being deftly filled up with cement, discovery was thought impossible. By this ingenious mode of procedure, a large number of the rarer gems were at first smuggled into the States without paying duty (ten per cent. on diamonds), chiefly by means of female aid. Waxing bolder by long-continued immunity from any discovery of their fraud, the officers on duty began to wonder why the same ladies had so often occasion to cross the Atlantic; and one of their number surmising that it was ‘for no good purpose,’ determined to have a particular female carefully watched during the voyage. A stewardess with whom the officer had a friendly acquaintance was enlisted in the service; and this person did all she could to find out why the suspected ladies so frequently visited Europe, but to little purpose, as she thought, all she was able to discover being apparently not of much consequence. One day, however, whilst carefully examining the berth in which the traveller slept, she found a broken tooth, which was hollow and exceedingly fragile. As the stewardess used artificial teeth, she naturally enough felt interested in the matter, and spoke to the voyager about the circumstance. The lady at first looked embarrassed, but then said she had been cheated by the dentist. At the end of the voyage the stewardess reported the circumstance to the officer, who, after thinking it over, came to the conclusion that there was more in the affair of the hollow tooth than met the eye. New York, in fact, is celebrated for its dentistry; and on consulting one of the professors, the officer discovered that teeth of the sort had been made in quantity and from different moulds to the order of a very ’cute man, who said they were wanted to be sent to Europe. This statement afforded a sufficient cue; and accordingly, at the termination of the next voyage, two ladies, sisters, were respectfully but firmly requested to take out their artificial teeth. Remonstrance was unavailing; the teeth were made to disclose their hidden treasures; the result being that thirteen valuable brilliants were confiscated, much to the chagrin of the fair smugglers. That little episode put an end to that mode of smuggling diamonds.

There is a never-ending demand throughout the United States for these gems; and several of the earlier adventurers were known to have made money by means of the smuggling business. In reality, diamonds are a passion with many American ladies, who must have them, no matter what they may cost. These gem-loving dames, in their eagerness to ‘trade’ for jewels of all kinds, are not unfrequently cheated by persons who sell them ‘bogus’ diamonds, made of paste, at a comparatively cheap rate, under pretence of their being smuggled stones, and that, having escaped the payment of duty, they are a bargain at the sum demanded. Wealthy American ladies vie with each other at the various fashionable resorts of the United States in their displays of costly jewels and gems. It was stated a few months ago in an American paper that a rich man’s wife wore upon her neck and breast every evening precious stones of the value of forty thousand pounds; other ladies displaying jewels to a lesser amount. Nor are American ladies free from the charge of smuggling; many of them, indeed, are adepts at the business, able to impart a secret or two to ‘the professionals.’ During a recent Saratoga season, one lady was heard to boast that she had brought over a suite of diamonds in the heels of several pairs of slippers which she had made on purpose to contain them. These dainty articles were ostentatiously displayed, and taken notice of by the searchers; but the heels were not suspected to be hollow or to contain diamonds. Hollow-heeled boots were at one time greatly in use as a part of the smuggling machinery. That mode of carrying on the illicit traffic was ultimately discovered by an under-steward of an American liner, who, for ‘a consideration,’ communicated the secret to the custom-house authorities. Then followed a series of contrivances in the shape of double-bottomed trunks, valises with secret pockets, desks with hidden drawers, and guns and pistols which were so contrived as to contain a few of the much-coveted gems. All these contrivances were in turn discovered: they were just the kind of concealments which the officers had their thoughts fixed upon. For a time, we believe, the professional diamond-carriers were discomfited; but their discomfiture was not for long; the business was too profitable to be easily relinquished, however great the risks might be.

Just as the customs’ authorities were under the impression that they had suppressed the illicit traffic, a new era in gem-smuggling was inaugurated, and more diamonds reached the United States ‘duty free’ than before. Smuggling, it may be said, developed into a fine art; at all events, the incidence of the trade for a brief period became so simple as to seem like child’s play; indeed, children were made to play an important part in the business. A story which lately became public shows how well the modern diamond-smugglers had laid to heart Poe’s precepts. ‘Please to hold my baby whilst my husband helps me to open my trunks; he will be quite good if you will shake his rattle,’ said a lady passenger to the officer who was waiting to look over her travelling gear. And that officer good-humouredly did as he was requested, shaking the rattle, to the great delight of the little one. The rattle in question, which, fastened to a ribbon, was tied to the child’s waist, was filled with gems of great value, a mode of smuggling that at the time was too too simple for detection.

A clever female attired in the costume of a Sister of Mercy was passed over by the officers because she had no luggage worth examining. She possessed, however, a fine string of beads, which, with downcast eyes, she kept telling. Safe on land, she was affectionately welcomed by two persons dressed in costumes similar to her own. Need it be told that she was a smuggler, and that her beads were so constructed that each held a diamond weighing seven or eight carats. Another ingenious person hit upon the plan of placing a few precious stones in a toy kaleidoscope which had been given to a child, who carried it ashore in safety. A number of homing pigeons kept in cages, and purchased at a village in Belgium, and brought to the United States by way of Paris and Havre, also played a profitable part, each of the pigeons being freighted with a cargo of exquisite gems, concealed in quills, and carefully fastened to the message-bearing dove. An extensive system of diamond-smuggling was at one time carried on from Canadian ground by the aid of homing pigeons. The discovery of this illicit trade was made accidentally by a farmer, who happened to shoot one of the birds, and on examining it found that there was fastened to its leg a quill containing a number of diamonds! A clue being obtained, the local habitation of the pigeon proprietors was discovered and their mode of business put an end to. The scheme, stated simply, was to fly every week or ten days a flock of a dozen or fifteen pigeons, each carrying about half-a-dozen gems. As the duty on diamonds amounts to ten per cent., the trouble taken to smuggle these gems into the United States does not seem so very remarkable. The value of the precious stones honestly imported into the States is between eight and nine million dollars per annum, and it has been calculated that gems to half that sum escape payment of the duty.

Many tales have been circulated with regard to diamonds, some of them of a rather curious kind. We have read of faithful messengers who, rather than yield up the stone they carried, swallowed it. The owner of a slave who had done so, and who had been killed by robbers, was so convinced of his servant’s fidelity, that he gave directions for the opening of the body, and found that the honest fellow had swallowed the precious gem. Dishonest servants employed at the diamond mines frequently display wonderful ingenuity in concealing stones which they have purloined while at their work. About a year ago, a rough diamond weighing four hundred and fifty-seven carats was stolen by a person in the employment of the Central Diamond Mining Company at Kimberley (South Africa), who sold it for the sum of three thousand pounds to four persons who dealt in stolen stones. It was then sold at Cape Town to a firm of illicit dealers in diamonds for nineteen thousand pounds; and was ultimately purchased for forty-five thousand pounds by a syndicate of London brokers in precious gems. The means by which this magnificent brilliant was smuggled from the mines and ultimately got to England was never made known. It is notorious enough, however, that a large trade in fraudulently obtained stones is carried on at the South African gold-fields; and stories are told of buyers around the diamond mines who have made large fortunes by purchasing stones at nominal prices from labourers who possessed the cunning and the courage to successfully brave the authorities and bring to the resetters their stolen goods.

It has been calculated by persons engaged in the business that twelve per cent. of the fall in the price of rough diamonds, which has taken place within the last few years, should be set down to the sale of stolen gems, which, to the value of more than half a million sterling, annually find their way to the markets. These stones are the direct fruits of theft, those selling them having made no contribution whatever to the cost of obtaining them. When first the work of diamond-seeking at Kimberley began, there were no thefts of any importance, because each man was then working for his own hand, or as one of a limited but friendly partnership. It was not till the work of diamond-mining required the aid of hired labour that the work of systematic robbery commenced, and ‘I. D. B.’ (illicit diamond buying) became an institution of the Diamond Fields. Many of the persons employed, soon fell into habits of peculation, not being able to withstand the temptation presented by the appearance of a little bit of stone that might be worth, perhaps, a thousand pounds, if they could succeed in carrying it away without being detected. In every branch of the process of gem-finding, valuable diamonds, it has to be explained, are always at the mercy of the men employed, some of whom are never slow to take advantage of any chance that may present itself of securing a stone. Such thefts during the last few years have proved a source of serious annoyance and trouble in connection with the industry. The ‘I. D. B.’ trade, as it is locally termed, has tended to sap the morality of the place, and given rise to the many evils which result from resetting. There is an old adage which says that ‘if there were no resetters, there would be no thieves.’

Great precautions are taken by the various diamond-digging Companies at Kimberley to prevent the theft of stones; whilst the crime of reset is always punished with much severity. A license to deal in rough diamonds costs a sum of fifty pounds per annum; and dealers, in addition to procuring this authority to trade, are required to find security to a large amount. Dealers are bound by the terms of their license to make exact entries in their books of every parcel of stones they purchase, and also how they dispose of them. Large diamonds must be described in detail and minutely. Should the detective department suspect any dealer of illicit traffic, that dealer may at any moment be visited, and have his books and stock overhauled and compared; and should he possess a few stones which he is unable to account for, he is liable to have his whole stock seized. Upon a late occasion, a friend of the writer’s, while on a visit to the Kimberley Diamond Fields, was informed that two well-known diamond dealers had just been visited by the detectives; and one of these persons having about eight hundred carats, and the other about seventy carats, not accounted for in their books, the police seized their stocks—upwards of ten thousand carats in all; and within one month from the date of the seizure, both dealers were tried, convicted, and sentenced; and if still alive, they are now working out their time on the breakwater at Cape Town. One of these men was reputed to be worth over a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. At the present time, there is quite a colony of convicted ‘illicits,’ as they are sometimes designated, working out their sentences on the harbour-works at Cape Town, a goodly proportion of the gang being worth large sums of money.

Although there is a considerable and clever detective staff on the Diamond Fields, there are those at Kimberley who can outwit the police, at anyrate for a time, and so it happens that such a number of stones is annually stolen as to prove a factor in disturbing the market price. The chances of detection are no doubt great; but the hope of securing a few hundred pounds by a little peculation is so tempting, that there are always hundreds of men at ‘the game.’ Some of the thieves—that is, the men who steal the stones they are paid for unearthing—display great ingenuity in carrying away the gems. The business of diamond-digging is naturally of a rough-and-ready kind, and presents opportunities for fraud which are not available in other industries. When diamond-stealing first became a business, those interested, suspecting no evil, were easily cheated. Stones were then carried away concealed about the person of the labourers. But, as the thefts increased, greater precautions were taken to insure the detection of the thieves. Some of the ‘dodges’ which have been resorted to in order to carry diamonds from the diggings have been not a little remarkable; we have only room, however, for a sample or two. Upon one occasion, it is related that an ingenious labourer wrapped the stones in a small piece of soft bread, the morsel being greedily snapped by a dog. The dog was carefully looked after till the mine was left behind, when it was ruthlessly killed, to obtain the hidden diamonds which were contained in its stomach. Domestic fowls have been trained to swallow the smaller stones, which have afterwards been cut out of their crops. A parcel of stolen gems has been known to have been got out of a well-watched digging by having been ingeniously fastened to the hair of a horse’s tail!

Any individual suspected of being an ‘I. D. B.’ may expect, on leaving the Fields, to be overtaken on his road to the coast by detectives, who will search him in order to find if he be in possession of any stones. Many devices have been resorted to for the concealment of the diamonds. A Dutch Boer who had been for some time under suspicion, on leaving the Fields with his wagon was followed by some detectives who had determined to search him. Just before he was overtaken by the officers, he was seen to detach one of the bullocks from his team and deliberately shoot it. By the time the police came up the Boer was busy removing the hide. A thorough search was made by the detectives; but no gems were found. The phlegmatic Dutchman had placed the diamonds in the barrel of his gun, and had fired them into the body of his bullock, from which of course he had to extract them; and he did so as soon as the police turned their backs upon him.

The various modes of diamond-smuggling revealed in the foregoing narrative present no peculiar features of endurance or romance; but cases have occurred in which pain and suffering have played a part in the business of diamond-hiding. There is, for instance, the story of the magnificent gem which in its rough state formed the eye of an idol in a temple near Trichinopoli, and which was stolen by a Frenchman, who escaped with his prize to Persia, and who, fearful of being discovered, was glad to dispose of his ill-gotten gear for a sum of about two thousand pounds sterling. The man who bought the stone, a Jewish merchant, sold it to one Shafras, an astute Armenian, for twelve thousand pounds sterling. Shafras had conceived the idea that by carrying the stone to Russia, he would obtain from the Empress Catharine the Great a princely sum for it. How to travel in safety with the stone, the theft of which had of course been discovered and proclaimed, became a grave consideration. It was too large to swallow, and no mode of concealment presented itself to Shafras that seemed secure from discovery. The way in which he solved the problem was remarkable. He made a deep incision in the fleshy part of his left leg, in which he inserted the stone, closing the wound carefully by sewing it up with silver thread. When the wound healed, the Armenian merchant set out on his travels quite boldly, and although more than once apprehended, rigorously searched, and even tortured a little, he was obdurate, and firmly denied having the stone in his possession. Having at length reached his destination, he asked from the Empress the sum of forty thousand pounds for the gem, an amount of money which Catharine was unable to raise at the moment. We next find the Armenian at Amsterdam with the intention of having his diamond cut. Here the stone was seen by Count Orloff, who determined to purchase it for presentation to his royal mistress, the Empress Catharine. The sum ultimately paid for the gem was about seventy thousand sterling in cash, together with an annuity of five hundred pounds, and a patent of nobility. Shafras flourished exceedingly, and died a millionaire. Such, in brief, is the story of the Orloff Diamond.

‘DOUBLEWORKS.’

A STORY OF ATHLONE.

Who has not heard of the old historic town on the Shannon called Athlone, believed by its inhabitants to be the exact centre of Ireland; celebrated at one time—for it has been now some years removed—for the old bridge built in the reign of Queen Bess, whose arms and monogram, E. R., were engraved on a stone built into a kind of monument on the parapet. Celebrated also for its old church bell, bearing in relief the inscription—THIS: FOR: ST: MARY’S: CHVRCH: IN: ATHLONE: 1683—this being the identical bell which, at six o’clock in the afternoon of the 30th of June 1691, clanged the signal for the attack on the forces of King James, commanded by the French general, St Ruth, and holding the castle, &c., by the troops of the Prince of Orange under Ginkell. The old house occupied by him as headquarters during the siege is still in existence, having the date of its erection, 1626, carved on the doorway. We might go on detailing many other things for which the old town is celebrated, but _cui bono_? Enough that it is celebrated in song as the residence of ‘The Widow Malone, Ochone!’

Often as we have been reminded of the existence of Athlone by hearing the above-mentioned humorous ditty trolled forth at mess by one of Ours, who, being a genuine son of the soil, was fully qualified to do it ample justice, it had never been our good fortune to cast eyes upon it until some forty years ago, when, one fine afternoon, we found ourselves, with some thousand or so other candidates for martial glory, marching gaily through the by no means sweet-smelling town, over the beautiful new bridge which spans the river, and under the walls of the ancient castle, to the merry strains of the _Lass o’ Gowrie_. These forty years are a long time to look back upon; many a long march under foreign suns have we made with the old regiment, and in many a stirring scene and hard-fought field have we accompanied it since then; but somehow our memory recalls few things more vividly than the appearance of that long column of dusty, travel-stained men, who were finishing their hot day’s march that summer afternoon, tramping along briskly and cheerily to the old familiar air of the regimental quick step.

We quickly settled down in our new quarters, and before long, had formed many pleasant acquaintances, all only too delighted to show us every civility in their power; and jolly nights at mess followed fishing and boating parties during the summer, while, as the days began to shorten, there was good hunting and shooting; and dinner-parties and dances were by no means unfrequent.

In most garrison towns in which we have been quartered in Ireland, there were generally one or two peculiar hangers-on loafing about the barracks, queer nondescript bipeds, ever ready to run messages all over the country, or carry a fishing-basket or a game-bag, who eked out a precarious existence by tips from the officers and others who employed them, and picking up odd meals at the different barrack-rooms of the men. Athlone was not singular in this respect; and you constantly met, shambling across the barrack square, at a kind of half-trot, or lurking in rear of the officers’ quarters, an odd, half-witted, but quite harmless creature, who went by the curious appellation of ‘Doubleworks.’ Who gave him that name, or whence it was derived, we are unable to say; we only know that he answered to it, and we had it from the regiment in whose place we had come. There was a kind of sporting air about this poor creature; he always wore an old hunting-cap and a shooting-suit, evidently the gift of some former patron of far burlier proportions than the poor attenuated frame which they now enveloped; and an ancient pair of Wellington boots, much down at heel, into which the ends of the trousers were shoved, completed the costume, which, however, was varied on hunting-days, when the hounds met in the square or neighbourhood of the barracks, when, in honour of the occasion, an aged and much stained, once scarlet hunting-coat took the place of the shooting-jacket.

Like the other hangers-on of the Athlone barracks, poor Doubleworks subsisted, as we have said, upon the benevolence of his military patrons and friends; but, unlike the others, he was possessed of an accomplishment, not an elegant one, perhaps, or suitable for very refined society, but nevertheless one that brought him by its performance many an odd sixpence or shilling—he could hunt the badger! or was supposed to give a truthful representation of the ‘drawing’ of the above-named quadruped by a canine foe. This performance was vocal, and commenced by a series of whines, growls, and impatient barkings, mingled with grunts and low savage yelps, which we believe were meant for cries of rage and defiance from the badger; these, after lasting with variations for some time, gradually increased in intensity, at length culminating in an unearthly din, perfectly indescribable, but which was stated by the ‘fancy’ and capable authorities to be quite true to nature. For ourselves, not having had experience in such matters, we are unable to offer a personal opinion, and can only observe that the din was marvellous as the production of a single pair of human lungs, and once heard was not likely to be ever forgotten.

His performance was not confined to any particular part of the barracks; it might be heard at any hour of the day in the artillery square, the cavalry square, the infantry square, or amongst the barracks occupied by the scientific arm of the service, the Royal Engineers; but it took place most frequently at the officer’s guardroom; for in those days there used to be an officer’s guardroom and an officer in it at the main barrack gate, which led directly from the infantry square into the market-place of the town. This guardroom was in the centre of a small block of buildings to the left of the gate as you went out, having on its right the regimental orderly-room, where the colonel administered justice every morning, and where the orderly-room clerks smoked strong tobacco, and filled in forms and sketched caricatures of regimental and other authorities every day. The men’s guardroom adjoined that occupied by the officer, from which it, as well as the orderly-room, was separated by a partition wall, the end wall of the men’s guardroom being next the street. In front of these rooms was a small veranda, and beyond this the guardroom sentry paced his ‘lonely round.’ We are thus particular in describing the locality, as it pleases us to recall it after so many years, because it will give our readers a better idea of what is to follow.

The guardroom—we mean the officer’s—was in those days a kind of club or place of call for all officers going out of or coming in to barracks. It was considered incumbent on every passer-by to drop in on the officer of the guard and help him to while away the tedium of his confinement by retailing any news there might be going; while he on his part provided alleviation for any thirst accruing from dry narration. By night, the guardroom was generally pretty full until a late hour. A recent order of the Duke of Wellington, then commander-in-chief, and which procured for him the cognomen of ‘the Tobacco-stopper,’ prohibited the use of tobacco in the precincts of the mess; and though this order was afterwards so far modified as to permit smoking in the anteroom, it was confined to cigars; so those who preferred the luxury of a pipe had either to indulge the propensity in their own rooms or seek the shelter of the guardroom. Needless to say, the latter alternative was the one most generally followed, and the hospitality of the subaltern on guard was accepted as freely as it was offered. Altogether, the main-guard was not a disagreeable place to spend twenty-four hours, especially if it rained, which it can do in those parts, and we ourselves preferred it to the duties of regimental orderly-officer.

One day in the mid-winter of 1846, it came to my turn to mount this guard. The weather had been unusually severe—it had been snowing for a day or two, and the ground was covered to the depth of several inches, while a smart frost had served to make the snow hard as a brick; so that, as I marched my guard across the square to where the old guard was drawn up, waiting our arrival, the men’s tread made no more track than if we had been marching on the surface of the square itself. The preliminaries of relieving guard having been got over as quickly as possible, we paid the parting compliment to the old guard of presenting arms, as it moved off in slow time; and then dismissing our own, we visited the sentries, to ascertain if they had the orders of their respective posts correctly, and then gladly dived into our own den, and doffing our cloak, proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable in front of a huge peat-fire as it was possible to be, braced up in a high stiff stock and tightly fitting coatee and epaulets, as was then the regulation.