Chapter V: Part 5

The horse always seems vaguely conscious of something wrong, though it is not generally unmanageable. The other horses, while their comrade is being done to death, often grow restive and frightened, though they are unable to see what goes on. The bull seldom appears anxious to attack the horse, but it is pushed forward under his nose, and the big picador on top poises his lance aggressively. Then comes the short, plunging charge, the shock of the short lance-point in the bull's shoulder, and the awful home drive of the great horn into the tottering horse's body. In such a case the forequarters of the mount are lifted clear from the ground, and I have even seen a strong eight-year-old bull fling horse and rider over his back, as if they had been lightly stuffed museum specimens, instead of weighty flesh and blood. The breed of bulls called Miura--one of the most dangerous to fighters--generally strike home about the horse's chest, and thus death is rapid and sudden; but the famed Muruve bulls usually attack the flanks, and the scenes that follow this are too shudderingly horrid to put down on clean paper. Even then, if the wounds allow of the horse standing at all, the stricken beast is mounted again and led forward for another fall, though the populace resent this by whistles, as a rule. Whistling, by the way, is the Spanish method of expressing disapproval.

A bull that takes the stab of the lance without flinching is usually esteemed and applauded; but a young animal may be turned by the first chilling pain of the raw steel. If the horse is overthrown, the picador falls with a crash, and wriggles aside as best he can that the poor beast may not roll on him. In the nick of time a chulo flaunts his crimson rag in the bull's face and draws him away from the helpless lancer, who is hoisted to his feet by the assistants and given a lift on to his steed's back again--if the latter is still capable of bearing a man. If not, the dagger-man--"cachetero" he is called--arrives with a short arrow-headed knife, and severs the doomed beast's backbone at the neck with one short stab. There is no quicker death. The horse wilts like a rent air-balloon, and is dead without a quiver.

He is happier than the long line of his fellows that wait in the gloomy stables beyond.

On an average about three horses fall to a bull, but a single bull has often killed twenty. Some cattle seem to have a leaning towards horse-slaughter, but the majority appear not to relish it. They stand before the picador, and gaze as if considering whether it would be sportsmanlike to rend such a tottering beast. Still, three corpses usually lie about the sand, with the dark, raw pools around them, before the second trumpet-blare sounds.

This is the signal for the withdrawal of the horses. A bull must be allowed to kill as many as he likes, and then the banderilleros are rung on. One comes forward--dressed like the rest, but without any cloak as a protection--carrying a pair of gaily-papered wooden darts, pointed with a large iron barb at one end. He walks into the centre, places his feet together, and defies the bull by a rapid poise of the twin sticks, one in each hand.

If the bull charges at once it is touch and go with the holder, and he must plant his barbs exactly parallel either in the nape of the bull's neck or behind the shoulders--always well on top and within an inch or two of each other. A slight clumsiness is loudly hooted and whistled at by the audience, who are as keen critics of everything that transpires as our own crowds are of cricket.

It takes years to make a good banderillero. Three, or even four pairs of banderillas are planted in the shoulder of the bull, and they mislike him much. He tosses his head and roars angrily when the first pair are placed, but the pain of the inch-long barb, as it falls over and grips the flesh, generally bewilders the bull for a second, and allows the banderillero time to slip aside and run for the barriers.

It is one of the most perilous feats, this placing of darts, for they are never thrown, except in the accounts of bull-fights that occur in novels or newspapers, but thrust into the enemy's neck by hand.

Possibly the bull refuses to charge until the fighter runs towards him from an obtuse angle, and this is the easiest plan for the man. On the other hand, a daring matador will sometimes take a pair of darts and sit on a chair before his prey.

On the charge the slayer slips aside, plants the darts neatly, and the chair often flies twenty feet into the air. This is seldom practised, except at the great Easter fights during Holy Week.

The darts are about two feet six inches long, and merely round pieces of deal, more or less straight, with a wrought-iron semi-arrow at the extremity. The barb is thus single, like a fish-hook. There is not room on a bull for more than four pairs, if they are placed properly; so the banderilleros are rung out, and the trumpets sound the entry for the last act of the red drama.

The matador comes forward. He walks up to the bedizened and top-hatted president, doffs his cap, and makes a speech. He holds a red cloth in one hand, about four feet square, and in the other a straight Toledo sword with a slightly rounded end. There is a ceremony to go through here, and ceremony is the breath of life in the nostrils of a Spaniard. He dedicates the bull to the president, or to the chief lady visitor, and waves the sword and the sable cap impressively the while. Then, with a majestic sweep, he flings the cap to the audience to hold for him--a coveted honour--and walks out to face the bull.

This latter, by loss of blood and much chasing, is glum of aspect and foot-weary. The nerve-tearing barbs rattle their wooden holders about his back as he moves. He seems to recognise that the last part of the fight has come, for all the teasing chulos have withdrawn, and he is alone with one small, wiry man with a bright sword. The time for wild rushes is past; the bull plants himself gloomily and waits his chance. There is the _faena_ to go through first--a series of passes with the scarlet flag. There may be a dozen or so to show, each well recognised by the schools of bull-fighting, and each with its own value and technique. _Alto_, _de pecho_, _derecho_, and so forth--they are too numerous and intricate to explain here; but when the bull has bravely charged the last of them, and passed under the flag into space again on the other side, then comes the preparation for the death-stroke. No other beast in the world would have fought so long. Tiger, wild boar, any of the most blood-thirsty tropical brutes, steeped in vicious savagery--none of them will stand up to the enemy after such bitter dole as is the portion of a bull in the arena, and fight to the end without once turning tail.

So the matador arranges the cloak in his left hand and the sword in his right. Teasing has been the form so far, but now one or the other has to die, and it is not as invariably the bull as most people suppose. There are many ways of making the last stroke.

A short aim, a wave of the flag, and with the last blind, lunging charge the swordsman slips aside, and his blade runs up to the hilt behind the bull's shoulder. The hammered steel feels the great tired heart within, and the enemy falls--the pluckiest beast of his day.

This is what should happen, and with a first-rate swordsman it does. But often half-a-dozen lunges are made, till at last the red, tottering brute kneels down peacefully from sheer inability to stand, and the puntillero comes up behind and writes the end with one short stab of his iron dagger behind the skull. The matador walks round the barriers bowing to the cheers of the people, and behind him stalks a chulo, who picks up for him the showers of cigars, hats, and so forth that are showered into the ring.

A big folding gate swings back, and two teams of gaily-ribboned mules canter in with smart teamsters running beside them. One is hitched to the bull, and with a shout and a long sweep round the reddened sand the bull is hauled out at full gallop, one horn drawing a wavy line in the yellow floor, and one stiff fore-leg wagging grimly to the long lope of the jingling mules. The dead horses are drawn out in the same way, with the same ringing whoop, and as the gates close on the slain the _Toril_ looms open afresh, and the second bull comes forward to his death.

There are variations. Instead of receiving the charge upon the sword the matador may achieve the "volapie" (half-volley), by running towards the bull and driving the sword home as the two meet. Or, a favourite method, but a difficult one, is to sever the spinal cord behind the skull with the point of the sword as the great head goes down to toss. Yet another variation that I have seen more than once is the tinkling of the sword upon sand, a rapid leap, as it seems, of three feet into the air, by the matador, and his writhing collapse upon the floor. Then a hurried flash of red cloaks in the bull's face, to draw him from the fallen man. The fighters are vastly plucky about their mishaps, and generally manage to run out rather than be carried. Few of them, if they have seen much bull-fighting, but are scarred freely with old wounds. The horn generally enters the stomach or groin, and a terrible wound it makes. The photograph illustrating the "death-stroke" on this page shows Espartero, who was the most famous and most utterly reckless of toreros during his life. His sword is up to the hilt in the bull's left shoulder, the flag just passing over its forehead, and its right horn shaving the matador's right knee by a few inches, The upward toss, if the bull were just a little nearer, would bury the horn in Espartero's waist, but those four inches were the rim between life and death, and a second later the bull was stretched upon the sand.

Espartero was killed in the Madrid arena in July 1894. As he administered the death-stroke, the bull, a fierce and very hardy Miura called Perdigon, drove its horn home, and the two died together. Espartero was accorded by far the finest funeral that was ever seen in Spain, easily eclipsing that of any statesman or royal personage that ever died there. His loss was made almost a cause for recognised national mourning. He was an esparto-grass weaver by trade ere he took to the arena, and before his death was wont to receive between £300 and £500 for a single afternoon's work in the ring.

Bull-fighters begin as chulos, drawing about £3 a week, and when qualified as banderilleros they make from £5 to £30 a week. A first-class matador, such as Guerrita, draws about £300 or more for a single fight, and generally there are two first-class matadors in a good Seville or Madrid fight.

A really good bull-fight costs from £1,500 to £2,000 and more. Good bulls are worth between £30 and £50 apiece if full-grown and from the best flocks. The cattle are perfectly wild during their lifetime, and are allowed to run at large among the plains and marshes as they please.

The horses, poor beasts, are worn-out carriage-hacks, and cost about £2 apiece.

Without question bull-fighting is a truly loathsome sport, and the British traveller whose curiosity leads him to witness a performance is rarely tempted to repeat the experiment.

THE DESCENT OF REGINALD HAMPTON.

BY HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE.

_Illustrated by W. Rainey, R.I._

Reginald Hampton, the distinguished aeronaut, was at the mercy of any wind that chose to do him an ill turn. He had entirely lost control of his balloon--of which he was the only occupant--and, so far as he could see, the odds were fairly even as to whether he would find a watery grave in the English Channel, or a rocky one on the Kentish mainland. First came a kind of gentlemen-at-large breeze, which took him seawards; then a rival gust drove him back; finally the balloon stopped for a couple of minutes to think out the situation. Reginald Hampton, being by nature a fatalist and by training an aeronaut, awaited the decision without any appearance of impatience or anxiety; when his vehicle was ready to move on, he would try to fall on his feet if possible, but not for the world would he wish to hasten the departure.

The balloon, after profound meditation, decided in favour of land, and in no long time she began to settle quietly down, with the gentleness of a snow-flake, and finally sank gracefully into the arms of a huge pear tree, white with blossom; whereupon the aeronaut grappled her to the tree, filled and lit a comfortable-looking pipe, and leaned carelessly over the edge of the car, to spy out the nakedness of this foster land. It was against his principles to seem otherwise than dispassioned on these occasions.

Below him he saw a big garden, full of yews, box, fruit trees, and spring flowers, all hobnobbing with one another in the cheeriest manner imaginable. At the far end of the garden stood a house, of ruddy complexion, prosperous bulk, and Queen Anne architecture. Immediately beneath him--the branches diverged considerately, so as to allow his vision free play--a hammock was swinging gently from side to side, and in the hammock reposed a maiden. Now the prospect of a speedy demise did not excite Reginald Hampton, but a suggestion of feminine beauty had never been known to fail in this. He nearly fell out of the car in his eagerness to distinguish the details of the girl's appearance. A girl in a hammock, he reflected, ought always to be pretty, and artistic propriety demanded that she should be a veritable Peri when he had taken the trouble to save his neck by falling into the very tree to which her hammock was attached.

So eager was he, indeed, that his teeth lost their hold of the big briar, which cannoned from branch to branch, and dropped, somewhat forcibly, into the girl's hand. The prospective Peri was naturally a little startled, and more than a little angry, because the pipe had hurt her considerably. She slipped out of the hammock and stood looking about her with an air of enraged bewilderment. And from the clouds there came, as it were, a voice independent of any human tabernacle, a _vox et preterea nihil_.

"I'm awfully sorry--upon my word, most careless of me--may I come down and make my apologies in proper form?"

"Please, where are you?" demanded the girl. The tree was so constructed that Hampton could more easily see her than she him; and moreover it is one of the most difficult things in the world to locate an unexpected sound.

"I'm tree'd," laughed the voice, "straight above your head."

"That sounds odd," returned the other, beginning to enter into the spirit of the situation; "how on earth did you get there, and who are you?"

"An aeronaut. If you will leave the shelter of this particularly fine tree and look up above, you will see a balloon; attached to the balloon is a car, and attached to the car is myself."

"And do you propose to stay up there indefinitely? It isn't very amusing, is it?"

"Not particularly. If you can suggest a method of escape, I shall be only too happy to descend."

"Climb out of the car, and then down the tree-trunk. Nothing could be simpler."

"Pardon me, but have you ever tried that particular form of gymnastic exercise? Directly I begin to get out of the car, she will topple over, and I wouldn't for the world give you the trouble of collecting my fragments at the bottom."

"Please don't. It would be like making one of those wretched toy-houses out of bricks, and I know I should never fit in the pieces properly. Still, you can't stay up there for ever, can you, now?"

"Not possibly. For one thing, I have not tasted food for twelve hours, and I shall expire if I don't get some presently."

"I might bring you a sandwich, if you have got a piece of string you can let down," said the girl, with the easy _badinage_ of an old friend. It is not every day that one is privileged to encounter a tree'd balloonist, and she felt that the proprieties were not particularly at home in such an _al fresco_ environment.

"Thanks," responded the aerial voice, "but I prefer to reach firm ground, if it can any way be managed. I say, could you get me a ladder?"

"Yes. I'll hunt up the gardener, and tell him to bring one. You think you can get down that way?"

"I think so. If the gardener holds the ladder tight against my car, it should fix it pretty firmly, and then I can climb on to the ladder. By the way, you are awfully good to take all this trouble on behalf of an entire stranger. I forgot to make the observation earlier, because, you see, we grow accustomed to finding ourselves uninvited guests. I once dropped into the middle of a Royal Garden Party."

"Did you, really? Tell me all about it," said the girl, forgetting her errand of mercy.

"Oh, they thought at first I was a Nihilist or a Fenian or something, come to blow up the whole Royal Family. I escaped finally by explaining that the Prince of Wales--who was fortunately absent--had hired me to make the descent by way of affording a little relief to the tedium of the gathering. Incidentally, may I ask into what particular garden I have had the good luck to fall?"

"This is Caviare Court, Fullerton, Kent."

"_No?_ You don't mean it?"

"Why, yes. Why shouldn't I mean it?"

"That really is odd. Then your father is Colonel Currie?"

"Yes. How ever do you come to know that?"

"Because he happens to be my mother's brother. My name is Hampton--Reginald Hampton."

There was silence for some time; then--

"You should have told me that before," said the girl, in an aggrieved tone.

"I don't see that _we_ are responsible for parental quarrels," responded the other, warmly. "My mother married the wrong man, from Colonel Currie's point of view, and they have sworn eternal enmity. But how should that affect us? By Jove, we're cousins! To think that I have to thank the friskiness of my balloon for getting to know you."

Another silence.

"I hope father won't come home while you're here," cried the girl, suddenly. "He's never seen you, but you may be like the family, and it is not a likeness one can easily mistake. Have you a peculiar little dent in the middle of an otherwise straight nose?"

The query was advanced with an eagerness ludicrously at variance with the difference of their respective situations. It seemed--as Charles Lamb said of humorous letters to distant lands--as though eagerness must grow so stale before it reached the summit of this big pear tree.

"Yes, I have," answered Hampton, laughing.

"Then your fate is sealed. Father may return at any moment, and you really musn't come down into the garden."

"But I'm awfully hungry," said Mr. Hampton, plaintively.

"I'll send you up something to eat, as I suggested at first."

"I have no string, or rope, or anything I can let down."

This was scarcely accurate, but Reginald Hampton saw too many capabilities in the situation, to let it go readily. Finally, he overcame the girl's scruples, and she departed in quest of a ladder.

As his daughter disappeared at the rear of the house, Colonel Currie came round the front. He was smoking a cheroot, the slowly curling smoke from which, as also his whole gait and mien, was suggestive of peaceful proprietorship. He paused to examine his bed of spring wallflowers, stooped to uproot an impertinent dandelion which had taken root in his otherwise irreproachable turf, gathered a fine auricula and placed it in his button-hole. Then he took a contented survey of his fruit trees, until his eyes finally rested upon the white-robed bower of the balloon. A change came o'er the spirit of the Colonel's pastoral dream. His ruddy gills assumed a purplish hue, his grizzled hair stood up in fighting attitude. He advanced to the foot of the tree and peered upwards. His inability to see the occupant of the balloon called to battle the last drop of the plentiful supply of choler wherewith Indian heats had endowed him.

"What the mischief are you doing in my pear tree?" thundered the Colonel.

His voice was suggestive of heavy artillery at short range; but masculine anger was not one of the things that ruffled the balloonist's equanimity.

"I'm sitting tight until your gardener is kind enough to bring me a ladder," he responded, imperturbably.

"Eh? What? Well, upon my soul, sir! Do you know that this is my very finest pear-tree--jargonelles, sir, I tell you, jargonelles? You and your impudent machine have ruined the crop. It's just the spirit of this confounded age--anarchy, disruption, red riot--no man's house safe--his garden a refuge for any air-climbing rascal who cares to take up his quarters in it."

The Colonel, from this point onwards, seemed to imagine that he was talking _at_ a coolie; coolie intercourse cultivates the faculty of expression wonderfully, and Reginald Hampton's host entertained that amused aeronaut for fully ten minutes with a wealth of epithet--very old in bottle, and of a fine tawny flavour. Hampton took advantage of the panting calm that followed the outburst to put in a plea for himself.

"I can only say, sir, that I regret this _contretemps_ as much as yourself. The fact is, I had no choice in the matter; the wind got the better of me, and took me just where it pleased."

"P--r--r--rh--Humph, humph!" sputtered the old gentleman. "Serves you right for getting inside such a flimsy contrivance. Can't understand how any man can be fool enough to want to career through the air when heaven has blessed him with a pair of sound legs. Perhaps you have no legs, though, for I'm hanged if I can see you," he concluded, irately, returning to his pet grievance.

"Yes, I have legs--rather long ones," returned the aeronaut, genially. "As to ballooning, it is a matter of personal taste, of course. We needn't quarrel about that, need we, Colonel Currie?"

"Eh, eh? How do you come to know my name?"

Reginald Hampton, in the privacy of his retreat, smiled beautifully to himself. He had watched the old gentleman's progress through the garden, and had guessed that he was tremendously proud of his flowers, his trees, his lawn; and an inspiration had come to this light-hearted trifler with another man's pear blossom.

"I guessed it, sir," he responded, very suavely. "I knew I had dropped somewhere in Kent, and a glance at that well-kept grass of yours, at the rare profusion of early flowers, at the extreme fulness--er--profligacy--of your fruit-blossom, told me in a moment that the garden could belong to only one man in the county. Do you suppose I have been a horticultural enthusiast all these years without knowing Colonel Currie by name? Why, the--the dahlias you exhibit are alone sufficient to make your name cling to one's memory. Sir, I am deeply sorry that I have injured your crop of jargonelles, but I cannot regret that I have been privileged to meet you."

Reginald Hampton had a cheery way of emerging with safety from any embarrassment in which he happened to find himself. His haphazard assumption of enthusiasm for the one subject on earth of which he knew least might so easily have led him astray; yet in the very nick of time that word _dahlia_ crept into his consciousness and won the day. It chanced that dahlia-cultivation was the Colonel's most absorbing hobby. The old gentleman's anger had already begun to cool, under the influence of his enemy's persistent politeness, and this liberal application of the flattery-trowel at once set up a counter-current of positive cordiality.

"I apologise, sir, I apologise for the--ah--breadth of my language. These little accidents will happen, of course--do happen, doubtless, every day--and I had no idea that you were a grower of dahlias. Now, what soil do you consider the most suitable for the Cactus varieties?" Thus the Colonel, in tones of peace.

There was stillness in the flowery region just above the Colonel's head. A perplexed balloonist was at one and the same time suppressing an outburst of hysterical laughter, and encouraging coy soil-theories to evolve themselves from the blank chambers of his brain.

"It is difficult to say off-hand," he began. "Every grower, you see, has his own views."

"So he has, so he has--and he likes to hear other people's views, if only for the sake of abusing them. What is your own candid opinion on the subject?"

"Well, as you ask me, I should say--use pretty much the same soil as you would for the other varieties. Er--ah--a suspicion of loam, not too dry, and fairly well matured, sprinkled over the surface, is not inadvisable."

"You don't say so? For my part, I stick to the old-established methods, but no doubt modern enterprise has done something in the way of development. Loam, you say, sprinkled over the surface? I must try it."

"But be careful that it just hits the happy mean in the matter of moisture. If you keep it too dry, the plant runs to leaf instead of flower; if too wet, the colour is apt to--to run a little."

The balloonist, having fairly spread the wings of his imagination, was by this time quite prepared to fly into fresh difficulties. He was enjoying himself tremendously, and had even forgotten that his prospective rescuer was rather late in coming to his aid.

"But," objected the Colonel, omitting to notice a slight horticultural mistake of the aeronaut's, "but how do you manage about the watering? The loam must be wet at some times and comparatively dry at others."

"My dear sir, you mistake; the latest method is to carefully remove the surface loam before watering, and then to replace it, moistened to the proper degree."

"This is all very interesting," quoth the Colonel. "How it does one good to talk with a genuine enthusiast on these delightful subjects! You are trying for the blue dahlia, of course?"

"I've got it, sir," responded the balloonist, with triumphant emphasis. He was now prepared to go any lengths, trusting that Fate would see the thing through satisfactorily.

The Colonel skipped about in the wildest excitement.

"_Got the blue dahlia?_ Why, I have only got half way to it, and I thought I was farther than most men. You know, of course, that there is a prize of a thousand pounds offered for that unique production? Have you claimed it?"

"I didn't care to," said Hampton, carelessly. "Frankly, there are so many poor men trying for the prize--praiseworthy toilers who finish a hard day's work by an evening's tending of some cottage garden--that I could not bear to step in and take the prize. I have quite enough money, too; I should scarcely know what to do with more."

The airy invisibility of the stranger, the unwontedness of the scene, must have played havoc with the Colonel's credulity. He absorbed everything, as a dry sponge sucks up water. The aeronaut's car was shaking visibly.

"But that is not all," said the latter recklessly. "I promptly set to work on a new colour, and I produced----"

"Yes, yes--you produced----"

"_A pea-green dahlia, twelve inches in diameter._"

"My dear, my very dear sir," cried the Colonel, well-nigh hysterical with wonder and delight, "I insist on your coming down _at once_ from that tree and partaking of luncheon with me. I have some excellent '49 port, and we'll discuss the two subjects together. Really, it is very remiss of me not to have suggested your coming down sooner; the situation is not well adapted to conversation, and doubtless you are far from comfortable."

"No apology necessary, I assure you. I took the liberty, some time ago, of requesting your daugh--your gardener to bring me a ladder. He will appear presently, I have no doubt--in fact, I see him coming at this moment."

Now Miss Currie, though apparently she had forgotten the very existence of Reginald Hampton, had in point of fact followed his fortunes with an interest bordering on trepidation. Having run the gardener to earth, she was informed by that functionary that there was not a ladder about the place sufficiently long to reach to the top of the pear tree; the Colonel's longest ladder had been broken a week ago, and of the others not one was half the necessary size.

"But you _must_ find one somewhere," insisted the girl, with the pretty imperiousness of feminine youth; "there is a gentleman at the very top of the tree, and he is at this moment dying for want of food. What a pity the pears are not ripe! Can't you think of someone who would lend you a ladder?"

The gardener scratched his head and pondered. There _was_ one at Langbridge Farm, a good mile away, but it was a powerful hot morning to walk a mile with a heavy ladder on one's shoulder. Still, Missy seemed anxious, and Missy had had a right to have her own way ever since she was as high as one of his dwarf rose trees.

So the gardener had departed to Langbridge Farm, and Miss Currie had peeped round the corner of the house, to see how it was faring with the balloonist. She found her worst fears confirmed; her father was standing under the pear tree and abusing the poor man like a pickpocket. The girl, realising how futile it would be for her to put in an appearance and add to the already deafening hurly-burly, quietly secreted herself in a lilac-bush, and listened to what was going on. She began to laugh as the aeronaut unwound his imaginative threads; then she grew angry with him for his recklessness; then she laughed again at the astounding coolness of the man, and the skilful manner in which he avoided all difficulties in his path. Finally, at the end of what seemed to her an eternity and a half, the gardener appeared with his borrowed ladder, and proceeded in the direction of the pear tree. Miss Currie watched the old man place the ladder against the tree, under the combined directions of her father and the unconcerned occupant of the balloon-car, and then she thought the time was ripe for her to stroll up in a negligent manner.

"Why, whatever is the matter?" she cried, with innocent surprise.

"Nothing, my dear, nothing," responded the Colonel, beamingly. "A very worthy gentleman and a magnificent florist has, by good fortune, become my guest, and he is coming down in order to partake of luncheon."

"But where is he, and how did he come there?" she went on, deeming it highly prudent to disown any previous knowledge of the matter.

The old gardener looked at her with an intelligent grin, inwardly remarking that Missy was a deep one, she was. The aeronaut laughed with incontinent heartiness. The Colonel explained to her how the accident had occurred. After which Reginald Hampton climbed out of his nest, reached _terra firma_, and found himself entirely satisfied with the slim beauty of his rescuer.

The moment might have been an embarrassing one for the average man; it was, however, precisely the kind of situation that Reginald Hampton most enjoyed.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance at closer quarters," he remarked, first raising his cap to the Colonel, and then extending his hand. "Your daughter, I presume?" he added, turning to Violet Currie. "I am glad, by the way, she did not happen to be occupying the hammock there, or my abrupt descent might have startled her somewhat."

"So it might, so it might," responded his host, urbanely. "Now, let us go indoors; you must be positively famishing, and that port of mine is itching, I know, to see the light of day."

"What a time you are going to have!" whispered the girl, as they took their places at table.

He and she managed to stave off the evil day until lunch was half over; but procrastination was not nearly as wholesale a thief of time as they wished him to be.

"Now, about those two unique dahlias of yours," began the Colonel; "you really must allow me to come and see them."

"Delighted, sir. Any time that may be convenient to you. Come and spend a week with me."

"You are very kind. I should say to-morrow if, literally, any time would do," laughed the Colonel; "but I think even you cannot induce dahlias to flower before July."

"Well, no. Of course, my 'anytime' presupposed these natural limits," said the aeronaut, aloud.

"I fancied they were spring flowers," said the aeronaut in a stage-aside. "So I can go scot-free until July. I must marry her before then."

Colonel Currie was on the point of launching well out into his favourite waters--in which case the Providence of so fatuous a trifler as Reginald Hampton must surely have deserted him--when a certain peculiarity in his guest's face arrested his attention. He gazed fixedly at him for a few moments, then frowned ominously.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you have the family nose. I have never seen that peculiar dent in the middle in any but a Currie nose. Is it possible--"

"I also beg your pardon, Colonel," responded the balloonist, following a sudden inspiration; "but before answering your question, may I ask if you are really as devoted to flowers as you seem to be?"

"I am indeed. They are the passion of my life," said Colonel Currie, still gazing perplexedly at his companion's nasal hallmark.

"For my part, I can never forgive a florist--a true florist--who can find it in his heart to put other--other considerations first. If a man told me that he possessed a blue dahlia, for instance, I would go and see that man in the teeth of gatling guns."

"So would I. Grape-shot is a matter of no consequence by comparison."

"If the man had relations in the house whom it made my head ache to meet, I would still go. Nothing in the world, sir, ought to stand in the way of a blue dahlia."

"Nothing," responded the Colonel, forgetting everything else in a sudden fervour of sympathetic enthusiasm.

"You are quite convinced of that?"

"Quite. How can you doubt me?"

The aeronaut paused, and then planted this shot squarely in the Colonel's astonished person.

"Then, uncle, you won't mind my saying that I am Reginald Hampton, and that it will be necessary for you to see the blue dahlia _and_ your sister in conjunction."

The Colonel grew purple, then white; he stammered, and beat upon the table with his fingers, and talked in strange languages. But he had the good sense to see that he was cornered. Besides, what had his nephew ever done to him, and how could he help being proud of so unique an horticulturist?

Finally, the Colonel reached out his hand across the table.

"Confound you, boy, you've conquered me! I must see that dahlia!" he cried.

"How to arrange matters floral when the merry month of July comes round, I can't guess," mused Reginald Hampton, as he lit a Manilla. "But sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, and my bounden duty is to marry the little girl in June."

Which he did.

THE MODERN MINIATURE CRAZE

ILLUSTRATED BY CHARMING EXAMPLES.

BY H. M. TINDALL.

A painter once made a miniature of King Charles II. which was more or less of a caricature. "Is that like me?" said the King when he saw it. "Then, odd's fish, I'm an ugly fellow!"

The remark recalls another made to our own Queen when she said to Chalon, the miniaturist, that photography would ruin his profession.

"Ah! non, madame; photographie cannot flattère," was the confident reply.

"KATHLEEN".]

These comments seem to imply that miniatures make either "ugly fellows" or flattered dames, which is by no means true. But in selecting those which accompany this article, we sought for pretty faces, and decided to admit no "fellows" of any sort except one--no less than a Lord Chief Justice.

The very marked attention which the miniatures in the Royal Academy attracted this year is one of many things which show how great a revival there has been in the taste for miniatures--a revival which is one of the most significant features in the history of modern art.

When photography appeared, it had no difficulty for a time in sweeping miniatures out of the field, for many people preferred the novelty of an exact portrait to a "work of art."

"MA BELLE."]

But the pendulum of taste has again swung back. We no longer accept a coloured photograph as a substitute for a genuine miniature, but realise that the two things are quite distinct. At the same time, there are to-day a number of so-called miniaturists who content themselves with copying photographs. But all those whose work is here represented condemn the practice, and do their work from the life. This involves, of course, several sittings for the person to be painted--a fact sometimes resented. Two famous miniaturists wanted to paint King Charles II., so to save time he made them paint him at the same sitting.

Mr. Cecil Rhodes is a man who thinks sittings are superfluous. He gave a commission to Miss Carlisle--a clever portrait painter and miniaturist--to paint his portrait, but nothing could induce him to give a sitting. Miss Carlisle therefore had to dodge him in all sorts of ways to see what manner of man he was.

He used to pass her studio on his way to the Park in the morning, so Miss Carlisle was always on the watch for him and on many other occasions, about which he knew nothing.

"DELIA."]

Miss Carlisle was born in South Africa, where her grandfather, General Sir John Bisset, was well known. Curiously enough, when Miss Carlisle was quite a young girl she came over to England on the same boat as Mr. Cecil Rhodes. He was then, she says, "a long and lanky youth, who spent all his time in reading books." He was coming to Oxford to keep his terms.

By the way, there was a famous lady miniaturist in the days of Charles I. named Carlisle, and to show his appreciation of her work the King presented her with £500 worth of ultramarine!

To paint a miniature is as arduous a task as to paint a large picture in oils, and requires quite as much skill. Miss Coleridge--whose miniature of her uncle, Chief Justice Coleridge, attracted so much attention in the Academy this year, and is reproduced on p. 202--says: "I find the work, though I love it, even harder than painting large portraits; it requires quite as much thought and care. It is only by working straight from the life, studying your model's expression and character, that you can hope to be even the most humble disciple of the art as it was in the last century.

"The great difficulty I experience is in getting people to understand that they must sit to me. They all say, 'Miss or Mr. So-and-So paints from photos--why can't you?' No doubt these artists do a very charming lightly-stippled coloured photo for them, but there can never be any life in these things, nor can they be anything else than coloured photographs, however pleasant to the eye of their owners."

The portrait of Miss Wilson, one of the beauties of the season, is also by Miss Coleridge, who works a great deal in pastels.

MISS MURIAL WILSON.]

Many amusing stories are told by artists about their sitters, but as a rule the stories are told with this absurd restriction: "but you mustn't publish that"--which, of course, takes the point absolutely away.

"SWEET GENEVIEVE."]

Mr. Alyn Williams, the President of the Society of Miniature Painters, to whom the Society owes its origin and prosperity, tells a good story which he does not claim to be original. He tells it rather to show the difficulties which an artist is sometimes made to overcome by his client.

A man who distinctly came from the provinces once went to an artist who had painted a celebrated picture of David, and said that he wanted him to paint a picture of his father.

The artist consented, and suggested that it would be necessary for the subject to come to his studio. That, however, the son declared to be impossible, and at last the fact came out that he was dead.

"Have you a photograph?" asked the artist.

No; a photograph had never been taken.

"Then I cannot paint him," declared the artist.

"But you painted David," retorted the man, "and he has been dead much longer than my father!"

This was irresistible, and so the artist consented to do his best.

When the fancy picture of the father was finished, the faithful son came to see it, and liked it very much.

"It is very good," he said. "But," he added, after a little reflection, "how he has changed!"

A PORTRAIT.]

A BONNIE BAIRN.]

A "GAINSBOROUGH" PORTRAIT.]

Miss Merrylees, whose miniatures, seven in number, make a fine show at the Academy, once had to paint a miniature of a clergyman; but the only way of getting his right expression was to make him recite long poems and dramatic scenes from Shakespeare. While he was doing this, Miss Merrylees "went on painting madly."

Another time she was painting a little boy, who was sitting very still and silent.

Suddenly he convulsed his painter by propounding this tremendous query: "Do you like your groom to sit _so_, or _so_?" And he indicated two varieties of the akimbo manner.

A charming portrait of a pretty child indicates Miss Merrylees' style of work. This was exhibited both in the Royal Academy and the Paris Salon.

Holbein, who was a great miniaturist, had a very summary method of dealing with people who troubled him while he was painting miniatures. A nobleman once came into his studio while he was painting a lady, and was promptly thrown downstairs, like Daddy Longlegs of immortal fame.

The King, Henry VIII., heard of it, but sympathised with the painter. "Of seven peasants I can make as many lords, but not one Holbein," he said.

King Henry had a special reason for this sympathy. When he heard of a pretty woman he sent Holbein to paint her, with a view to making her his wife. On one occasion, at least, a flattering miniature led its unhappy subject into trouble--Anne of Cleves.

A word should be said about the origin of the miniature. In the first instance the word had nothing to do with the size of a painting. It comes from the Latin word _minium_, or red lead. In old days the capitals of illuminated missals were painted with this by great artists, while the less important work was done by minor ones. Thus the _miniatura_ meant the picture painted by the great artist. The word miniature, in its present sense, was born in the 18th century, which was the best period of British miniature painting.

The material on which miniatures have been painted has varied from time to time. To-day ivory cut very thin is almost invariably used.

The elephant is not a graceful or artistic beast, and no particularly sentimental thoughts at first sight attach to him. But artists to-day would be at a loss without his tusks, and much sentiment is lavished on them in the form of lovers' portraits.

While love lasts the miniature will always be in vogue, for artists frankly admit that it is so convenient to carry in the pocket. It represents so much in so little. Miniature painting is especially therefore "the lovers' art." Some say that it makes the subject "beautiful for ever," and what more could Romeo want?

Ivory, however, is of comparatively modern use in the art world and the studio. Vellum, gold, silver, and enamel were the things on which miniatures were painted before the days of ivory.

The prices of these dainty pictures vary enormously. As much as £3,000 was paid for one in the Hamilton collection, while another in a diamond setting sold at Christie's for £2,000. Nowadays, £5 to £100 is easily obtained, according to the skill of the painter.

Her Majesty the Queen is a great collector of miniatures. Her collection at Windsor is of great historic as well as financial value. She has greatly encouraged the art, and has been repeatedly painted in miniature. She frequently gives these miniatures of herself away as special presents.

Miss Carlisle painted one of the Queen with which she was very pleased. She gave it to the Prince of Wales, who said that it was the best of his mother which had been painted for many years.

To deal in detail with the miniatures on these pages. Mr. Alyn Williams is the painter of the charming portrait of a lady in the Gainsborough style.

Miss Küssner, who is represented by a miniature of Lady Dudley, has already painted an enormous number of ivories. She arrived in New York in 1893 an unknown girl, with a letter of introduction to a lady of social influence, but "very exclusive."

In much fear and trembling the letter was presented. The lady was too unwell to see the artist, but she sent word down that she would see the miniature she had with her.

"This was almost more than she could bear, and she sat waiting the maid's return in sadness that was near despair. But when she did come, how the little miniaturist's sinking heart leaped; for the maid brought an invitation--the lady would see her in her own room." So a friend tells the tale.

Since then Miss Küssner has pained many of the English aristocracy, and gets £100 a miniature.

This is how Miss Küssner works. First comes the study of her sitter, and perhaps one entire sitting will be devoted to this. Then follows the sketching of the face on the ivory--a transcript of the form and spirit. Lastly comes the actual painting, with infinitesimally small brushes, each stroke made under a powerful magnifying glass.

Lady Dudley's marriage was quite a romance. She was the daughter of Mr. Gurney, of Norfolk, whose business reverses caused him to resign his partnership in the well-known Gurney Bank and surrender his possessions for the benefit of his creditors.

His wife came to London and opened a milliner's shop, and in this her two daughters served. But it was not a success, and so the daughters entered the employ of a well-known West End _modiste_. But the Duchess of Bedford and Lady Henry Somerset became interested in them; and it was as the adopted daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Bedford that Rachel Gurney married Lord Dudley.

Miss Winifred Hope Thomson, whose miniature of Miss Pamela Plowden we give, had the place of honour in the miniature room of the Academy this year. Simplicity of style is the feature of Miss Thomson's work, and probably the reason why her miniatures are considered like those of the great Cosway.

Miss Edith Maas is another lady whose miniatures are very greatly admired for their beauty and style. Her portrait of Delia, the daughter of the Rev. and Hon. Ed. Lyttelton, Head Master of Haileybury College, has been exhibited in the New Gallery. The other miniatures we give are of Mrs. Shand, wife of His Honour Judge Shand, and the Hon. Mrs. Benyon, daughter of Lord North. The latter was exhibited in the '93 Academy.

The number of ladies well known as clever miniature painters is quite extraordinary, and with but few exceptions all the portraits on these pages were painted by ladies.

Miss M. Josephine Gibson sends us two charming pictures which she calls "Ma Belle" and "Kathleen." These are exquisite, both in conception and execution. Mrs. Lee Hankey, who, with Miss Gibson, is on the Council of the Society of Miniature Painters, is represented by one strong picture. "Daffodil" is by Mrs. E. W. Andrews, also known as "E. J. Harding." All these ladies have miniatures in this year's Academy.

From the studios of Mr. Esmé Collings, of Bond Street, comes the charming miniature of two girls' heads, originally painted in black and white. This gentleman has published a very dainty little brochure on "The Revival of Miniature Art," which gives some romantic stories about miniatures and their painters.

One tells how the Comte de Guiche, being in love with a daughter of Charles I., wore her portrait, mounted on a snuff box, over his heart, and owed his life to this circumstance, for the box turned aside a bullet which struck him in battle--a hint which all soldiers should take. This box is now in the possession of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts.

Other stories tell of Richard Gibson and Miss Biffin, both gifted miniaturists. But the first was a dwarf, 3 feet 10 inches high, who married another dwarf of his own height who lived till she was ninety-seven, and became the mother of nine children. As for Miss Biffin, she was limbless, but managed her paint-brush and pencil with her mouth.

Of course there are miniatures _and_ miniatures. But Shakespeare, by a miniature in words, has given us an exquisite conception of what a miniature in art should be--at least when it is "Fair Portia's counterfeit."

"... Here in her hair
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes--
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnished."

But Bassanio was not an art critic--merely a lover! The miniaturist, however, who can weave on ivory "a golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men" may surely find content.

A COMEDY BY CHARLES KENNETT BURROW.

_Illustrated by Edmund J. Sullivan._

After my engagement to Lucy Vivian I took to working very hard--a man always does that or nothing at all--and the work suited me better than the idleness. I suppose we had been engaged five months, and I was beginning to grow accustomed to it, when one afternoon the amiable peer who had been of such service to me in the affair strolled into my studio. Directly I set eyes on him I knew he had something in the wind, his manner was so absolutely uninterested.

He nodded to me without speaking, crossed over to the fire (it was bitterly cold outside), and stood with his back to it. Then he pulled off his gloves slowly and invited me to come and shake hands.

"You lazy beggar!" I said; "you come here! Can't you see I'm working?"

"Working! you're always working. What's come over you?"

"You forget----"

"Oh, it's Lucy, is it?" he asked. "Well, well! she's a dear child, Phil, I admit."

"Lord St. Alleyne," I said, "you never spoke a truer word."

"Why will you always be throwing that confounded title in my face? I'm only an Irish peer; that title has been a great drawback to me."

"How?" I asked.

"It makes people take twice as long as they should to find out I'm a decent chap."

"It didn't take me long," I said.

"You're different, Phil; it's the women it troubles."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Well, what do you want?" I asked.

"A cigar," he said.

"You know where they are, don't you?" I replied.

He went to my cigar cabinet and selected one thoughtfully. Then he lit it and drew his favourite armchair up to the hearth. His profile was towards me, and I remarked, as I had done a hundred times before, what a beautiful face it was. The lines were as clear and round as a woman's; the mouth sensitively delicate, but firmly set; the nose straight, with only the slightest indentation below the brows. It was a face of singular purity and candour. After a time he bent forward towards the blaze and looked hard into the fire's heart.

"I believe I'm done for, Phil," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I won't tell you till you put down those brushes. You know you can't see."

"All right," I said. "If you come here to make me neglect my duty, I suppose I must put up with it."

"Pooh!" he said; "sit down then and don't be an ass."

"I'll sit down, but perhaps I can't help being an ass."