Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Many people who have not encountered the big hailstorm regard it with the cheerful scepticism with which they view the sea serpent and the abnormal gooseberry. However, by permission of the Royal Meteorological Society, we are enabled to reproduce a photograph of some of the hailstones--actual size--which fell in a great storm at York on July 8th, 1893, together with a section of corrugated iron, showing holes and damage caused by hailstones which fell in a similar storm at Tulcumbah, N.S.W., on Oct. 13th, 1892.

However, most people would rather lose a section of corrugated roofing than encounter the flash of lightning that struck the man whose clothes appear in the illustration on the next page. As will be seen, the clothes are literally shredded to rags, and the strong leather boots are torn as though they were tissue paper.

Photographs of lightning are no longer novel; but our picture of a flash taken at midnight in Shanghai Harbour is one of the most remarkable ever seen. It is some distance behind the anchored steamer, but the reflection on the water is so vivid as to give it the appearance of moonlight.

The tornado is a phenomenon we can very well do without, and we sincerely hope the clerk of the weather will give us ample notice of the very faintest indication that one of these inanimate monsters is coming our way.

The tornado is soon over, it is true, but hailstorms are to be preferred. On May 27th, 1893, a storm of this nature put in an appearance at Wellington, Kansas, and practically wrecked the whole city. A horse was picked up, stable and all, and blown some hundreds of yards to leeward. The stable was smashed, but curiously enough the horse came down on his feet and escaped unhurt.

In the same storm the Lutheran church was lifted bodily from its foundations into the air, and fell, bottom upwards, on top of a new residence 100 feet away, as it appears in the photograph.

In another photograph are some collapsed houses, the result of a similar storm in Lawrence, U.S.A.

Although our own Meteorological Office and Society have no such startling instances to record, yet they possess much data of equal interest.

For instance, how many people know that on Dec. 4th, 1879, the thermometer registered 23 degrees below zero at a place called Black Adder, in Berwickshire? This is the greatest degree of frost ever known in Great Britain. The coldest spot in the world is Verkoianski, a town in Siberia, where 120 degrees of frost have been registered. The hottest is the Red Sea, where 120 degrees of heat are often experienced.

The hottest place in Great Britain, curiously enough, is London, or rather the Thames Valley. The wettest, Seathwaite, in the Lake District, where 8.03 inches of rainfall have been registered in 24 hours.

Taking 1 inch of rain to represent 101 tons of water per acre, it will be seen that the farmers cannot complain of drought in the Seathwaite district.

However, the greatest rainfall ever measured in this country occurred in Camden Square, London, on June 28, 1878, when 3-1/4 inches fell in 1-1/2 hours.

Lately several meteorological experiments have been made with kites and balloons, which are expected to enrich the science with many new discoveries.

Many people have curious ideas of the capabilities and functions of "The clerk of the weather." Mr. Robert H. Scott. M.A., F.R.S., the gentleman at present occupying this position, in his book on "Weather Charts and Storm Warnings," tells some curious stories illustrative of this.

For instance, in June 1886 he received a letter bearing no less than ten postmarks. It was addressed "Weather Office, Strand, London." Its contents were--"Three next days order to be fine."

A Boston letter was addressed--Right Hon. Clerk of Weather, 9, Downing Street, London, W.C.

Its contents were--

"My Lord Clerk,--May it please your lordship you will greatly oblige your humble servant by writing or sending me a telegraph whether it will be fine or no on the 5th of November, 1867.

"I have the honour to remain,
"Your lordship's most obedient servant,
"Joseph William ----."

Such letters are by no means rare, though such ignorance seems scarcely credible in the nineteenth century.

HILL TORN BY WATERSPOUT, LANGTOFT, E. YORKS]

Further, there are many false prophets who prophesy without science, and they rarely miss the opportunity of sending along a forecast in order to give the constituted clerk of the weather a leg up in his arduous duties.

There are also many amateur weather prophets.

One of these gentlemen issued monthly postcard forecasts for more than twelve months between 1882 and 1883.

If they are wrong, nobody bothers, but if the S.W. gale predicted from the Meteorological Office fails to put in an appearance, woe to the unfortunate clerk of the weather. People forget how many times his predictions have been verified.

If one is interested in meteorological work and is anxious to become an observer, the path is by no means difficult. On application at the office a form is sent, which must be filled up. Certain particulars as to the observer's fitness are naturally required, and he is invited to forward a description of his residence and a plan of the spot on which he would suggest erecting his instruments.

He must also describe the natural surroundings, so that the office may decide whether they are likely to have any prejudicial effect on the instruments, and therefore affect the accuracy of the records.

Each observer supplies his own instruments, and if his application is accepted, a book of instructions on their correct use is sent to him.

Or he may obtain instruction at the London office, or any of its chief agencies. In all these places sets of instruments are kept in working order for the express purpose of instructing observers in the methods of observation.

I suppose most of our readers, during a stay at some port or favourite watering place, have observed a curious triangular black object suspended from the pier or jetty signal-mast.

Those who have enquired as to its nature will know that it is the signal of an approaching storm. On receiving telegraphic notice of an atmospheric disturbance on or near the British coasts, the Meteorological Office telegraphs to all the chief ports and fishing stations.

The telegram is exhibited at the foot of the signal-mast, and the warning signal, a black canvas cone 3 feet high and 3 feet wide at the base, is immediately hoisted.

The nature and direction of the approaching storm is indicated by the position of the cone.

At night three lanterns hung on a triangular frame supply its place.

Storm warning telegrams are supplied to some 215 stations, of which 117 are in England and Wales, 63 in Scotland, 28 in Ireland, 4 in the Isle of Man, and 3 in the Channel Islands.

Another branch of the work, of invaluable service to navigators, is the preparation of monthly current charts of the oceans of the world. Observations are constantly being made by captains of ocean-going vessels, and the data are forwarded whenever possible to the Weather Office. A strict account of the currents recorded in each month has been kept for 60 years!

HER LETTER!

ONE OF J. HARWOOD PANTING'S INTERESTING NARRATIVES.

_Illustrations by W. B. Wollen, R.I._

Brussels--evening--an evening which preceded a still more memorable morn. To be precise, it was the 15th of June, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and fifteen.

Captain John Durnford, of the Guards, stood outside the Chapelle du Saint Sacrament des Miracles. The air was full of rumours. Napoleon had been striding Europe like a Colossus. No one knew what would be his next move on the strategical chessboard. But it was not of him, nor of the events connected with him, that John Durnford was thinking as he stood before the Chapelle.

He had heard of the death of a woman whom he had tenderly loved. Years ago, before he entered the army, they had been sweethearts. Then they had drifted apart; and now he had discovered, quite accidentally, that she had died but two days ago, homeless, friendless. And yet not entirely that. Her last moments had been tended by Sister Anne, a _religieuse_, and it was to see her that Jack was waiting outside the Chapelle.

Presently, the hour of nine was chimed from the surrounding belfries. Almost simultaneously, the door of the Chapelle was opened, and the _religieuse_ came out.

"Pardon me," said Jack, approaching her, hat in hand; "but am I speaking to Sister Anne?"

"Yes, my son."

"You are the lady, are you not, who so charitably befriended Mdlle. Denton?"

"I but did my duty, my son."

"Ah, if all the world would but interpret duty in the same way! I am an old friend of Mdlle. Denton's, and it was only by chance I heard of her death. Could you let me see her before--before----"

Jack's voice faltered. He did not complete the sentence.

"Before she is buried, you would say? I understand," said Sister Anne, sympathetically. "Poor child! I thought she hadn't a friend in the world. It seems I was mistaken. Will you follow me?"

She took him through a labyrinth of streets, and paused before a ramshackle old house which had seen and withstood the storms of more than one revolution.

"You would like to be alone with the dead?" asked the Sister.

"If Madame will grant me that favour."

She rang the bell, whispered to the drowsy old _concierge_, and, with a _Benedicite_, was gone. The _concierge_ conducted him up the staircase, pointed to a door, gave him a lighted candle, and descended.

Jack opened the door, and as he did so a gust of wind blew out his light and left him in darkness. He had just time, however, to see the white-shrouded figure stretched on the bed in the corner. He approached it reverently, and stood by the side of the shroud, with thoughts which choked themselves for utterance.

"Poor, poor Minnie! This, then, is the finish!"

What was that? His moan, he thought, was echoed by another. He quickly put the thought from him.

He put his hand gently forward to feel the face of the dead woman, and in doing so it rested upon something warm, palpable. He could almost have shrieked, the transition of feeling was so great--between the ice-cold rigour he had anticipated, and the warmth of animate life. What could it mean?

He had no time for conjecture, for the hand which he had extended to the face of the dead was clasped by another hand--the hand of the living.

"In Heaven's name, who are you?" demanded Jack.

There was no answer; then Jack repeated his question in French. This time there came an answer.

"One--one who loved her, Monsieur! By what right are you here?

"By as great a right as yours--as one who loved her, too."

Jack thought he heard a curse between clenched teeth.

"Love? _Peste!_ What does a cold-blooded Anglais know of love? You come here as a thief in the night."

"Thief!" Jack exclaimed. "I suppose you know the meaning of the words you have used?"

"_Parbleu!_ How could I do otherwise, since Monsieur himself has provided me with an illustration? Is it the act of an honest man to steal into a chamber? Is it the act of a gentleman to encroach upon another's grief? No; it is the act of a _vauvien_; for it is insult to the living and profanation to the dead."

The man was evidently distraught with grief; so Jack replied calmly, "You talk of profanation to the dead. It would indeed be profanation were I to imitate your language. I am willing to admit that you excel in your nice selection of epithets, but I deny your love for the poor dead girl lying here by your use of them."

Jack's calmness of utterance, so strongly in contrast to that of the stranger, produced some effect upon his hearer. There was a lengthy pause. Save for the sharp breathing of the two men confronting each other, the chamber might have been given up entirely to the dead. It seemed in that pause as though the still form in the shroud were listening for an answer.

At length the stranger spoke, his voice now tremulous and pathetic:

"You doubt my love for her? _Eh, bien!_ I loved her as few men could have loved. I have confronted death once, twice this day to see her dear, dead face. I have confronted--still confront--what is worse than death: disgrace and ignominy. Has Monsieur done as much?"

"No," said Jack, sententiously, touched yet chagrined by the man's passion.

"Until Monsieur has done as much, has he the presumption to say that he has as great a right to stand here as I?"

"Presumption!" cried Jack. "By whatever right I stand here, I certainly question your right to use such terms to me. But before we discuss the point further, would it not be as well to have a light?"

There was a hasty movement on the part of the figure opposite.

"If you stir, you are a dead man."

There was a faint ray of light shining through the window, not sufficient for Jack to see the person before him, but sufficient to see the cold gleam of steel. It was a sword. This man was a soldier, then, and an enemy. Jack now understood his allusion to the peril he had run in coming there, and admired his bravery. His love for Minnie Denton must indeed have been great.

"You spoke about ignominy just now," said Jack. "I don't know whether your interpretation of the phrase is the same as mine. But a British soldier--for I, too, am a soldier--considers that there is no greater ignominy than that of being suspected of cowardice. I should be a coward if I cared for your threats. I'm going to get a light."

"Pardon me. You are a brave man. I did wrong to threaten you." Jack heard the sword return to its scabbard. "Let me appeal to your honour."

"That is an appeal which has never been made to me in vain."

"My visit here has been a secret. I wish it to remain so. This much only I may tell you--that I am an officer in the French army, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. You see the risk I have run."

Jack started. This man had indeed risked much to see the last of the woman he loved.

"You say that your visit here is a secret one; and yet you reproached me just now with being a thief in the night. I will not retaliate; for I too can respect a brave man. I will only say that your confidence will not be betrayed."

Jack stretched out his hand. It was again clasped by the stranger. They stood thus for a moment, hand in hand, over the dead.

Then the stranger bent, and Jack could hear him whispering terms of endearment to ears that could not hear, and pressing kisses upon lips that could not respond.

"Now, Monsieur, I am going," he said, at length. "I thank you for your patience, and will send up the _concierge_ with a light. You will then be able to read this letter. Oblige me by taking it. From it you will see who is the most entitled to her love. It was the last letter she ever wrote. You say you are a soldier? _Eh, bien_, when next we meet, Monsieur, it will be in a different place. As we have learned to respect each other, I hope to show that respect in the best way a soldier can--by crossing swords with you. _Jusqu'au revoir!_"

"_Au revoir_, Monsieur!"

In a moment or two Jack heard the stranger go out, and the _concierge_ came stumbling up with a light. Jack took it from him, and gazed upon the face of Minnie Denton. Beautiful she looked, even in death. The pain and agony of the last struggle had gone and left the features placid, as one in peaceful sleep.

Years ago he had loved her deeply, tenderly, and she had returned his love. Then they had quarrelled. The breach between them had widened, and in a fit of desperation he enlisted. Europe was at the time one great battlefield, and Jack was immediately sent on active service. So he had altogether lost sight of his old love.

He had been with Wellington in the Peninsula, and after serving with a bravery which had gained him the eulogiums of his general, had been drafted with his regiment to Brussels just prior to the time when Napoleon escaped from Elba.

There had not been much time to think of love while these stirring events were transpiring, but the news of his old sweetheart's death, in the very city in which he was stationed, had touched a tender chord.

Jack mused mournfully upon the past as he looked down on the still, silent face. She had been fickle; yet had not he? What would their fate have been had they not quarrelled? Would it have been widely different? Perchance she would have been a happy mother; he, a happy father; or they might have been utterly miserable.

Whatever Fate might or might not have had in store for them in other circumstances, it was galling to think that her last thoughts had been of this stranger--a Frenchman and an enemy.

But was it true? There could, alas! be little doubt of it, for had not the Frenchman left with him the best--rather he would say, the worst--of all testimony: her own letter? What stronger evidence of her fickleness could there be than that?

Jack turned to the light and looked at the letter which had been placed in his hand.

Good heavens! What was this?

It was no love letter, but a document folded in the shape of a letter. Jack looked at it eagerly, and read it through not once, but twice, and thrice.

It was Napoleon's directions to his generals, signed by the Emperor himself, containing specific instructions respecting the forthcoming battle against the allied forces. The one line that burnt itself into Jack's brain was that an advance was to be made upon Quatre Bras early the next morning. Wellington had no suspicion that the advance was to be made so soon; for Jack knew that he and many of the officers were at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond in the Grande Place.

The Frenchman had said that he was an officer, enjoying a position of great responsibility and trust. Jack saw it all. He had given him this document instead of, as he supposed, the dead woman's letter. Then came to Jack a question of honour. Had he the right to use this information?

He did not pause long to consider the point. The safety of his country was at stake. That was enough. The old maxim, "All is fair in love and war," had now a double signification. So Jack hurried along with all possible speed to the Grande Place.

The ball was at its height. The strains of music, the laughter of the dancers, came to Jack as he neared the Duchess's residence.

He was stopped at the entrance to the hall by a gendarme.

"Est ce que vous avez votre billet, Monsieur?"

"Non."

"Alors je ne puis pas vous admettre."

Jack explained it was of the utmost importance that he should see the Duke of Wellington, and at length he was ushered up the staircase into an ante-room, while an attendant went in search of the Duke.

Jack had a full view of the ballroom as he waited. As in a kaleidoscope he saw the gleam of many uniforms, fair faces, white shoulders, slender graceful forms--alternate flashes of scarlet and white--as couple after couple whirled by in the mazy waltz. Presently from out the maze came one martial figure which Jack knew well. There could be no mistaking that stern, immobile face, the tightly pressed lips, the prominent Roman nose. It was the Iron Duke!

"Well, sir, you wish to see me?" was his laconic greeting.

"Yes, General, on a matter of life and death. Read that."

He handed the Duke the document he had received from the Frenchman. His searching eyes had grasped its contents in a moment; yet he betrayed no excitement or astonishment.

"Where did you get this?" he calmly asked.

Jack briefly explained the circumstances under which he had obtained possession of the document. The Duke turned to his aide-de-camp.

"Tell General Picton I wish to see him immediately."

In a minute or two the aide-de-camp returned with the General.

"Napoleon left Frasne this morning," said Wellington. "The Prussians have fallen back. Ziethen has been beaten. Napoleon is marching now upon Quatre Bras. Read that."

Picton read the document, and studied the plan. Then the Duke and he held a whispered consultation. The aide-de-camp returned again and again to the ballroom, and Jack saw the officers stealing away one by one. Then the Duke turned to Jack:

"You have done well in bringing me this document. I will not forget it. Prepare to join your regiment."

Jack saluted, and passed into the street. As he did so, the bell of the Hotel de Ville boomed one. Simultaneously could be heard the tramp, tramp of the Highland regiments as they defiled into the Grande Place.

The British forces were preparing to meet the enemy.

In the morning the two armies found themselves ranged in battle array opposite each other.

Then came the opening struggle at Quatre Bras, followed by the yet more memorable death-wrestle of nations at Waterloo.

No need to repeat the incidents of that famous day--Picton's bravery, Napoleon's strategy, Wellington's tenacity of purpose, the glorious stand around the farmhouse of La Haye Sainte.

Napoleon charged again and again the immovable British centre. The destinies of nations hung in the balance, and it was not until Wellington gave the famous command--"Up, Guards, and at them!"--that the balance turned to the side of victory.

Jack was foremost in the charge, and as his column swept down the slope, he heard a voice cry out to the fleeing Frenchmen:

"Arrêtez! Arrêtez!"

He recognised the voice as that of the man whom he had met at the shroud of Minnie Denton. Though the interview had only been brief, he could recall every accent. The voice was one he was never likely to forget.

Finding his efforts to check the retreating soldiers unavailing, the officer turned and faced the pursuing column.

Jack was the first to reach him. The rest of the column swept on, leaving the two face to face, sword to sword.

"Your prophecy has come true, Monsieur," said Jack. "We have met again--a little sooner probably than you anticipated."

"Ah! it is you," said the officer. "Truly pleased to see you. We are destined, it seems, to be rivals till the last. I beat you in love, you will admit; and I shall do my best to----"

He did not finish the sentence. Steel met steel; the sparks flew from the quivering blades. The Frenchman was a very skilful swordsman, Jack equally so. Jack at last with an adroit parry sent the sword from his adversary's hand.

Jack was stooping to pick up the weapon when a stray shot hit the Frenchman in the breast. He fell with a groan from his horse. Jack quickly dismounted, and knelt by his side.

"Ah, Monsieur, it is very good of you," he gasped, as Jack raised his head; "it is very, very good of you; but I am dying. The fortune of love was with me; the fortune of war is with you."

Jack strove to staunch the blood that was gushing from the wound, but in vain. The wound was a mortal one.

"It is useless," gasped the Frenchman. "Nothing can be done, and I would rather die than be a prisoner. You are my enemy, but you are a gentleman. One thing I would ask you. Minnie--Mdlle. Denton--is to be buried to-morrow, Bury us in one grave. It is all I ask."

Jack promised. He felt a great pressure from the hand resting within his; then the head fell back in his arms. A brave soldier had fought his last battle.

Simultaneously there rose on the air a great shout. It was the shout of the conquering army announcing that the battle of Waterloo had been fought and won.

SERMONS WITHOUT WORDS

A MARVELLOUS PERFORMANCE IN DUMB SHOW.

Not a quarter of a mile from the Marble Arch, on the left side of Oxford Street (No. 419, Oxford Street, as a matter of fact), looking towards the Park, there stands a dull, unpretentious, red brick edifice, so unpretentious indeed that in spite of its ecclesiastical appearance it is unnoticed by the majority of passers by.

The bulk of the teeming thousands who pride themselves that they know their London are ignorant of its whereabouts, nor are the countless legions who daily pass through the busy thoroughfare better informed.

Nor is it surprising; for there is little but a tiny cross on the coping stone, and a dingy notice board behind dingier railings, to mark one of the most interesting buildings in all London--St. Saviour's Church, the cathedral of London's 2,000 deaf and dumb.

Here Sunday by Sunday the silent poor and the silent rich worship together. Outside, the roll of traffic merges into one long dull roar that may distract the thoughts of worshippers in other churches, but to the congregation of St. Saviour's makes no difference. They cannot hear it.

I had heard much of the Rev. F. W. G. Gilby's wonderful method of preaching to his people, how he has become thoroughly conversant not only with the old-fashioned finger spelling familiar to those who have watched the conversation of the deaf and dumb, but can also by means of gesture and acting make use of a system of preaching richer in suggestion, wider in range, and infinitely more effective in its scope and power of riveting the interest of his flock.

Accordingly, one wet Thursday evening a short time ago, I made one of the congregation at evening service, curious to take part in such a service myself. I am never likely to forget the impression that quiet service made on me, nor to relieve my mind of the feeling of overwhelming depression at the realisation that this little crowd of afflicted people, miserably and unutterably poor in the majority of cases, was living, moving, and breathing in our very midst, helpless yet happy, willing and intelligent, yet almost entirely dependent on this one enthusiastic, unselfish man for their comfort--not only spiritual, but in many cases, as I discovered, material as well.

I have not the space, nor is it in my province in this short article, to describe or appeal on behalf of the needs of this institution, but the interested ones should see for themselves, and if within their power, help.

Excepting the chaplain's wife, herself an expert follower of her husband's method, I was the first to arrive. The lights were low, and there was nothing about the dim church save the absence of choir stalls and pulpit to suggest the unusual nature of its mission.

Presently a distant door opened, a shuffling step dragged along the aisle. The first member of the congregation took his rags with him into a front seat. He was a shoeblack down on his luck, but nobody turned him out. In Mr. Gilby's flock all are equals, all are friends in their common adversity. The first seats are for the first comers.

A few moments later and the congregation was nearly complete. Here and there one caught a flash of recognition between two friends, then up went two pairs of hands flashing white in the dim light as an animated conversation took place across the church. By the time the church was half full a whole volley of chatter was playing round; everywhere the darkness was alive with flickering, speaking hands, and faces vibrating with expressive gesture. It was an odd scene, weird and uncanny to the hearing visitor who sat misunderstood and not understanding amid the silent throng.

In a few moments the chaplain, attired in the usual canonicals, appeared, and the service commenced.

Throughout the proceedings there was no sound but the dull roar of passing omnibuses and cabs outside. Not a hymn, not a word, only that indescribable hush, almost unnerving to one strange to the scene. Yet throughout the service, in the prayers, in the sermon, not an eye strayed from the slight figure talking in a language of his own at the little desk on the altar steps.

At first the ghostly reality of this strange sermon dispelled all other thoughts. It did not seem comprehensible that there could be any connection between the chaplain and the attentive congregation, but here and there one could catch a reflection of one of his gestures on the face of an intent watcher.

Then a more than usually familiar passage was signalled, and a broad intelligent smile passed swiftly across the faces of the congregation, and they nodded and looked towards each other comprehendingly.

Then for the first time one realised that the flying fingers playing rapidly above the reading desk, flickering now high and now low, like the figures in a kinetoscope picture, meant something; that the gestures, the graceful swaying of the body, the marvellous play of the features, all had their meaning; that each little movement was intelligible to the watchers as the word of a spoken sermon, and infinitely more expressive.

As the utter novelty of the scene became more familiar, I found myself trying to interpret the drift of the sermon, and it was little short of marvellous how intelligible a great number of the gestures were, even to one untrained and unused to sign language.

The acting and gestures in many sentences were so obvious, that it was almost as though the words were rather the equivalents of the signs than _vice versâ_. It was, indeed, an astonishing revelation of the possibilities of human expression. When the faculty is combined with a system of word signs intelligible to the merest child, it will be understood how much may be done in this way, without recourse to the more tedious method of spelling out each word separately, although this is necessary where the sign imagery is so subtle as only to appeal to highly cultivated imaginations.

As a matter of fact, Mr. Gilby has a marvellous faculty in this direction, that has been fostered and perfected by life-long study. So much is this the case, indeed, that I doubt if he could be equalled in this direction by any one of our greatest actors.

Presently the service was at an end. There was a little desultory silent conversation, and the congregation dispersed, just as it came, without a sound. Three or four stragglers, clean and intelligent-looking, but obviously poor, remained behind, and presently made their way up the altar steps, and into the tiny vestry.

I followed them, and when each had stated his different wants and difficulties, and received relief and comfort, I persuaded Mr. Gilby to assist me in the preparation of this article, illustrative of his remarkable work.

It will be readily granted by those who examine our interesting series of photographs, that my demands on his good nature were by no means moderate. Those who object to being photographed almost as much as they dislike the necessary visit to the dentist--and Mr. Gilby is one of these--will appreciate Mr. Gilby's feelings when our photographer desired not only one siting, but a dozen. However, Mr. Gilby will be more than compensated if this article is the means of attracting public attention to the afflicted ones that are his especial charge.

The most important photographs we give are those that illustrate a message that I have prevailed on Mr. Gilby to issue through these pages to the deaf and dumb of the British Empire. The message is necessarily brief and short: as it is we are obliged to print twelve photographs in order to do it justice. The exact message is as follows:--

"Dear deaf and dumb friends, we wish you joined together in one heart and one mind, imitating Christ until the Church is complete."

The appropriateness of many of Mr. Gilby's signs becomes immediately apparent on glancing at the photographs, but some are not as clear as others. "Deaf and dumb" is signified by rapidly touching the mouth and the ear; "friend," by shaking hands with oneself; "we," by pointing at oneself, at the persons addressed, and vaguely to the left to indicate people in general; and "joined together," by opening the hands, and then bringing them together closed. A most interesting sign is that representing "Christ," where a finger is pressed into the palm of each hand in rapid succession, as if to indicate the piercings of the nails of the cross; and scarcely less remarkable is that which denotes the "Church"--the motions being those of one ringing church bells!

Excellent as these photographs are, they convey but a slight impression of the effect produced by a sermon in Mr. Gilby's gesture-language. It must be understood that his is no laborious art. Distinct and picturesque as Mr. Gilby's motions are, they succeed one another with the rapidity of words penned by an expert shorthand writer. On one occasion, indeed, Canon Wilberforce--one of the most fiery orators of the day--addressed our deaf and dumb congregation, and Mr. Gilby, who stood by the side of the eloquent Canon to interpret the discourse, experienced no difficulty in keeping level with him. It will thus be seen that, as practised by an expert, the art of gesture-language leaves little room for improvement. As a matter of fact, the sentence given above would be "signed" by Mr. Gilby, in the course of an ordinary pulpit address, in about three seconds.

Needless to say those signs that are to be expressive of themselves require to be of the most suggestive nature in order to be readily understood, and it is in the invention of these that the teacher of the deaf and dumb may find a great field for the exercise of his ingenuity.

In a great number of cases there are signs which are universally accepted and understood by deaf mutes the world over. On the other hand, each school has its own special gestures, equally expressive but peculiar to itself, and in the department of versatility of gesture Mr. Gilby is second to none. In fact, I have seen him express an idea in half a dozen ways, and each one of them could have been interpreted with ease by a half wit.

In the majority of cases the photographs illustrating the gestures have been taken in an entirely novel way.

By making several exposures on one plate we have sought to illustrate the various movements composing those gestures which are of a composite description. Where a word or idea is expressed by a single sign, this is, of course, unnecessary. One photograph is all-sufficient.

It may possibly occur to many that there might be considerable difficulty in conveying a difference of expression in the same idea; that is to say, the difference indicated in spoken language by a mere variation of inflection in the voice. As a matter of fact, the sign language is even more expressive in this particular. An excellent illustration of this is given in two photographs on page 71. Both gestures express the same idea--a parting between two friends. In the first of the two you have the parting in which there is a little sadness. The idea of separation is conveyed by the hand leading the other away. That it is a matter of regret is shown by the expression of the face and the nod of the head.

In the second photograph of the pair you still have the parting. This time, however, it is a humorous rendering which might be used with happy felicity at the conclusion of a platform speech, where the speaker wished to convey a sort of "Well, I'm sorry to go, but I must," notion. Here the separation is humorously expressed by the suggestion of brute force brought to bear on the speaker's collar.

In similar fashion many inflections may be given to the same idea, and with the indispensable assistance of facial expression the elements of Hope, Tragedy, Comedy, Fear, are introduced.

The extraordinary mobility of Mr. Gilby's features must prove of the utmost service to him. With a scarcely perceptible quiver of the features his face expresses alternate Tragedy and Humour. So much so, indeed, that one feels that he is throwing his whole nature into each and every fleeting gesture. And this is probably the secret of his success, for to this pale-faced, highly strung man the cause of the deaf mute is as life itself.

The education of the deaf and dumb is necessarily limited, though the general impression that they are deficient in mental capacity is entirely erroneous. On the contrary, brightness, intelligence, and, curiously enough, content are their chief characteristics. Such educational limitations as exist are an unavoidable result of the tedious and trying system that must be gone through in order to give a deaf and dumb child even the rudiments of an education.

If you wish to teach such an one what a cow is and how to spell the word, there is only one method, and that is to place a picture of a cow before it and write the word on paper till it comprehends that the letters C O W represent the name of the animal in question.

It will be seen, therefore, that only those who have enjoyed very exceptional educational advantages are in a position to appreciate some of the deeper abstract ideas of philosophy and the sciences.

Abstract ideas are difficult of adequate expression, therefore, not because they cannot be suggested by the sign language, but by reason of the reader's own inability to comprehend their significance. Some of the more general ideas of an abstract nature are, however, taught with comparative ease. We give two examples. Both are almost self-explanatory. The first (on p. 70) expresses Knowledge, or Wisdom; the second (p. 67) is a sign demonstrative of Justice. Nothing could be clearer, of course. It is simply a mimetic illustration of the symbolical picture of Justice blind, and so impartial, holding the scales. The right hand is first placed in the position of holding the scales, and is then rapidly brought down on a level with the other, thus picturing the scales.

Two other pictures illustrate signs of a peculiarly expressive nature. Nobody will want to be told what a deaf and dumb man means who describes you with the sign shown below. The lower picture on the preceding page is Mr. Gilby's way of expressing the fact that he has been holding a conversation with someone. It will be noticed that there are two positions of the forefinger, which are intended to indicate that this finger is snapped rapidly against the thumb. It is more or less a humorous way of expressing the idea, and as actually illustrated by Mr. Gilby is exceedingly comic. A more sedate way of expressing the idea would be to hold the hands in the same position, but to draw them slowly apart and towards each other.

I feel that no article on this subject would be complete without some special illustration of the enormous part pure facial expression plays in Mr. Gilby's peculiar method. Indeed it is in his case a fine art, and must represent an enormous increase in the effectiveness of his addresses and lectures, and consequently in the happiness and comfort they give his silent audiences.

Five photographs illustrative of a little lapse of memory explain better than any words what I mean. Without strict attention to grammar, I will call this Forgetfulness, More Forgetfulness, Most Forgetfulness, Still more Forgetful, Forgotten.

This series will be an object lesson on the debt we all owe that fleeting, intangible thing we call Human Expression.

No article is complete without its story. Mr. Gilby is full of stories, but I have only space for one, and that looks weak on paper when I remember how inimitably it was acted when he gave it to me.

Some time since he was due to give a short address in the schoolroom under the church. The Vicarage adjoins the sacred edifice, and he therefore decided it was unnecessary to change the light indoor shoes he was wearing in his study. Accordingly he wore them on the platform downstairs and commenced his address.

A few moments later he happened to quote the text in which the words, "I cast my shoe," occur. Now obviously the best sign for the expression of this idea was a gentle kick. Mr. Gilby gave it, but the demonstration proved much more literal than he had intended, for a second later his shoe flew through the air and dropped in the midst of an immensely amused audience.

The story emphasises Mr. Gilby's belief that humour is, and always should be, a valuable ally in the higher education of the deaf and dumb.

It is an infallible means of securing that closer understanding and sympathy between teacher and pupil which raises teaching from the dull mechanical level of routine to a fine art.

Humour in his case is a natural gift--perhaps one of his greatest. It peeps out unbidden in his sermons. It renders his lectures and addresses delightful to deaf, dumb, and hearing visitors alike, and one cannot but feel that in all the many branches of his work it turns sadness into sunshine and depression into an unfaltering hope for the future.

The scope of this article on St. Saviour's Church does not permit of our entering upon the hotly-contested methods of educating the deaf, whether by the lips or by manual signs or spelling. Mr. Gilby is one of the Government Inspectors of Schools, and, having been born of deaf parents, and brought up amongst the afflicted, may reasonably be presumed to have a right judgment in these matters. For himself, he is an ardent upholder of the Combined System--often known as the American way of instructing the deaf. He differs in toto from any who may think that Missions to the Deaf are unnecessary, for by learning speech they are raised to the same level as their more fortunate brethren who can hear.

In conclusion I cannot repay Mr. Gilby's courtesy and kind assistance in the preparation of this article better than by repeating the wish I feel to be nearest his heart:--

If you have an opportunity, help the Deaf and Dumb.

ALFRED ARKAS.

THE CHANCELLOR'S WARD.

PERHAPS MR. RICHARD MARSH'S BEST SHORT STORY.

_Illustrated by F. H. Townsend_.