Chapter V: Part 5

If you walk along the Strand from Charing Cross to Temple Bar, and back to Charing Cross on the other side of the street, any day at an hour when London hums with life, you probably meet at least one man who has either done a murder or who will do murder before he dies. Perhaps his shoulder rubs yours, or, in the jostle, you kick his heel; perhaps you catch a passing glance from a pair of sinister eyes that somehow causes you to feel a moment's vague uneasiness, or, as is more likely, you walk unconscious of a possible contact with murder--but it's there.

I do not now refer to persons tricked into committing murder by the perfidy of circumstances (such persons, for example, as the old man Viney and the young woman Shoosmith, both lately respited), to many of whom a fatal provocation has come at a moment of weakness or of passion, and who, but for that unsought provocation, would have been free from murder; but I do now refer to those men and women who are by nature and inclination callous, scheming, unscrupulous, and insensitive to any pain or injury inflicted by them upon their fellow-creatures, and who are merely human beasts of prey.

The sense of self-preservation possessed by all animals, but not possessed in such a high degree, perhaps, by human beings as it is possessed by many of the lower animals, carries with it an instinctive recognition of approaching danger from some other animal. Nature does in many cases, perhaps in all, hold up to us certain danger-signals, and if we were to let our natural instinct guide us--as dogs and young children are instinctively guided--we might often avoid grave evils that come to us from the human beasts of prey: cunning fraud, no less than actual murder, is not allowed by Nature to walk through the world without tell-tale evidences of its approach that ought to warn us. But, as adults, we usually ignore the finer and more delicate suggestions of our natural instinct, and we are guided much too often by what we think is "reason," or by what we believe to be our "best interests"--and then we are more or less mauled, in our pocket or in our person, by one of the many human beasts of prey, when prompt obedience to our instinct would have saved us.

Look at these faces. There is not one of them which cannot easily be more or less closely matched as you walk about the streets of a big city, or even, but naturally with less frequency, as you notice faces in country districts. There is, of course, no typical murderer's face. But all of these faces are bad faces; they warn you off. In some instances (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 6, and 8, for example) the danger-signal is so plain that not even the most casual observer can fail to see it; each of these faces speaks for itself. In other instances, the warning is not so plainly shown, especially as in these photographs you cannot see the colour of the eye and its exact expression; but in no instance does any one of these faces inspire you with sympathy, they all cause a feeling of aversion or of distrust; and we, if we are wise, should not put aside as fanciful that instinct in us which gives to us similar warnings in everyday life.

Look at No. 5. The points which constitute a danger-signal in this callous villain's face, occurring as they do in _one face_, are the massive lower jaw, the thick "blubber" mouth destitute of a shade of sensitiveness, backed up by the massive and long upper lip, the great width between the cheek-bones, the broad insensitive nostrils, the angry forceful shape and angle of the eyebrows, and last, but not of least importance, a pair of hard, cold, blue eyes without a spark of feeling in them. All these things, coming as they do in one face, fit in well with this cold-blooded and insensitive murderer, who, while in prison on his trial, wrote an order for his dinner: "Pig to-day, and plenty of plum sauce."

In No. 7, there are, amongst other bad signs, a coarse and cruel mouth, great prominence of cheek-bones, and again those terrible hard blue eyes, as cold as flint.

No. 8 speaks for itself, and you see in No. 9 an abnormal animal development of the lower jaw, very great width between the cheek-bones, and the eyes are a cold, treacherous, hard blue.

No. 10 was a French peasant, who, with his wife (see No. 18), lived by decoying young women, under the pretence of getting them situations, into a wood near Lyons. When the victims came, Dumollard and his wife killed them by garrotting, and after taking all valuables, these wretches put the bodies of the young women into a new-made grave, previously prepared. This man's face is a dreadful face, and the brow reminds one of a gorilla. Look at the two faces (Nos. 10 and 18), and imagine the degree of denseness of perception of approaching danger that must have been present in the poor victims who would negotiate with such wretches as these Dumollards.

The danger-signal is shown plainly enough in No. 11. This wretch poisoned a large number of persons for the sake of petty gains with the unconcern of a farm girl who wrings the necks of poultry. She had thick-looking, dark brown eyes, muddy and hard.

No. 12 is a shocking bad face. The lower jaw runs back a long way and is then very pronounced--always a sign of animality, although in men of intellect and feeling this same quality may often be innocuous, and even useful as supplying energy; the mouth, especially when seen full-face, is very coarse, and the lips thick and heavy; the nostrils are very wide at their base, the ears are noticeably bad, and the eyes are light blue and as hard as a flint.

By the way, and in order to avoid a possible misconception on the part of my readers who may think I am bringing an indictment against blue eyes generally, I ought to expressly state that this is not the case. Many of the kindest and best people living have blue eyes, but their eyes are not the same sort of blue eyes that nearly all deliberate murderers have (of the twenty-two persons here included, fourteen have blue eyes, six brown, and two have hazel eyes): the blue eyes I refer to must have been noticed by everyone, and must have inspired aversion, or at any rate a lack of sympathy, for, of all eyes, the hard, cold, blue eye is perhaps the least human or humane. Some of the finest soldiers and men of practical affairs have blue eyes, which, without being in any way unpleasant, are yet those of men who, rightly enough, never let an undue sensitiveness interfere with their actions. These men may be honourable and excellent men, but they are essentially practical, and are guided by their head rather than by their heart, and they are often of immense service to the nation. Lord Kitchener has splendidly resolute blue eyes of this sort, but they are entirely different from the sinister blue eyes that are in nearly all the faces now shown. The one sort inspires you with confidence, the other with aversion.

No. 13 is the face of one of the most cold-blooded poisoners that ever lived. Under the guise of love or friendship he killed his many victims for the sake of gold, coolly smiling at the torture he inflicted, and nicely calculating the effect of each dose of poison. How could anyone have trusted such a face as this? The immense development of the face below the brow, its enormous width between the cheek-bones, the absolute and sickening plausibility of the whole expression, the great lower jaw, the cruel callous mouth (look at this mouth closely), and the peculiarly uncanny light blue eyes, are a collection of danger-signals that are rarely seen in one face. But his victims were probably deceived by this wretch's fat, easy, and bland manner--_they stifled their instinct_, and were duly poisoned.

The lower jaw of No. 14 is quite Napoleonic in its strength and unscrupulousness, and this face carries its warning with it. So also does No. 15, which has a specially cruel and brutal mouth, widely-placed cheek-bones, coarse wide nostrils, great width of head between the ears, and cruel blue eyes.

No. 16 carries a warning in his eyes, and No. 17 shows several of the danger-signals already pointed to; he also has those terrible hard blue eyes. The woman's face in No. 18 speaks for itself, and the face in No. 19 is one that instinctively creates aversion, although this man was perhaps the least atrocious of any of the persons here chosen on account of their deliberate wickedness. As is mentioned at the commencement of this article, I have picked out only deliberately wicked faces, not those of persons who have become murderers through a moment's passion, or through provocation.

There is a particularly ruthless expression in the mouth of No. 20, again the great lower jaw-bone going right back nearly square to the ear, and again the wide cheek-bones, with hard blue eyes, destitute of any flicker of softness or kindliness.

No. 21 is another of the impassive, mask-like faces, but it has a most sinister surface; the great bulging cheek-bones are very significant, and the eyes are treacherous and menacing. This man was so callous that he suggested that the place where he had buried his numerous victims should be called "Troppmann Cemetery."

One of the worst faces of the lot is No. 22, although the tell-tale mouth is hidden by hair. The eyes are very bad; they would by themselves give sufficient warning to most of us. Here, again, you see the development of cheek-bones and of the lower jaw at the back, which so often goes with a brutal nature, and the eyebrows are very threatening.

The last of these danger-signals is the face of Henry Benson, the remarkable swindler and forger who was mixed up with the "Great Turf Frauds" of some years ago (see No. 23). This man, who, after conviction, gave evidence against the detectives Druscovitch, Meiklejohn, and Palmer, was subsequently released on ticket-of-leave, and later, being arrested for fresh frauds, committed suicide.

Looking at this face, one can scarcely conceive how the man succeeded as he did in deluding people--some of them of good social position. For example, in 1870 Benson personated the Mayor of Châteaudun in France, and nearly swindled the Lord Mayor of London out of charitable contributions for the benefit of sufferers from the Franco-German war. Benson was well educated, very clever, and inveterately wicked--he looks it. Notice the great bulge at the "hinge" of the lower jaw, and the cynically bad mouth; surely, this face plainly shows the absolute unscrupulousness of the man, backed up by plenty of resolute energy to make that unscrupulousness effectively dangerous.

There are many men now going about whose entire want of scruple is as plainly shown in their faces as it is in the face of Benson, but a passable exterior, a plausible manner, seems in many cases to put people quite off their guard. We are, I suppose, so accustomed to regard as sufficient a due attention to social conventions, that we have lost the more primitive sense of self-protection that, in more primitive conditions of society than our own, would be actively used by us for our own protection. Moreover, we have become accustomed to look to the law for protection, and this is, perhaps, another reason why our instinctive recognition of Nature's danger-signals has become dulled, and is now so much less effective than the instinct for danger which some of the lower animals possess in a high degree.

As I have already suggested, one or more bad signs may often be seen in the faces of persons who are good rather than bad, kind rather than brutal, honourable rather than treacherous. In such instances, the bad point is dominated by the good ones, and it may indeed be converted into a useful quality. For example, the animal brutality of a murderer may become in a good face the resolute energy of the man of action.

But where you see many bad signs collected in one face, and when you feel a certain instinctive aversion for a face, even though your reason or your supposed self-interest gives you no warning, then I say let your instinct have its way, and take the warning that Nature is holding up to you as a danger-signal.

This reliance upon instinct works both ways, moreover. It is equally foolish to distrust all men, as the cynics do, as it is to trust all men, as the imprudent do. In giving these necessarily scanty notes upon faces which contain some of Nature's most obvious danger-signals, my purpose is to warn people off the bad faces, and at the same time to encourage a belief in good faces; but in both instances, I suggest, let instinct be your guide, for in this matter instinct is often a far surer guide than reason.

_Note._--These photographs have been specially taken from
the models in Madame Tussaud's Exhibition. In expressing my
thanks to Mr. John Tussaud for the facilities thus given, I
must also express admiration of the art which produces these
life-like models.--J. H. S.

The sun rose up in the morning
Through his door in the Eastern sky;
And he flung back his curtains of purple and red
To look out on the world, and he laughed as he said
"There's nothing so bright as I!"
But he never had seen my baby's smile,
That is brighter than sunshine all the while.

The moon stole out in the evening
From the clouds; and up, up she rolled
Through the wonderful blue of the Autumn night,
And she said, "Ah, the sun may be never so bright,
Still there's nothing to match my gold!"
Well, the moon, she's golden, and soft and fair,
But she couldn't have seen my baby's hair.

The stars peeped after the twilight;
And, when they were sure it was gone,
They all flocked forth in a glittering show,
Singing, "No one can dance like this below,
Though we've nothing to dance upon!"
So they twinkled in mazes light and fleet;
But they never had watched my baby's feet.

Barrington McGregor

"MAN OVERBOARD!"

AN EPISODE OF THE RED SEA.

BY WINSTON SPENCER CHURCHILL.[A]

_Illustrated by Henry Austin._

It was a little after half-past nine when the man fell overboard. The mail steamer was hurrying through the Red Sea in the hope of making up the time which the currents of the Indian Ocean had stolen. The night was clear, though the moon was hidden behind clouds. The warm air was laden with moisture. The still surface of the waters was only broken by the movement of the great ship, from whose quarter the long, slanting undulations struck out, like the feathers from an arrow shaft, and in whose wake the froth and air bubbles churned up by the propeller trailed in a narrowing line to the darkness of the horizon.

There was a concert on board. All the passengers were glad to break the monotony of the voyage, and gathered around the piano in the companion-house. The decks were deserted. The man had been listening to the music and joining in the songs. But the room was hot, and he came out to smoke a cigarette and enjoy a breath of the wind which the speedy passage of the liner created. It was the only wind in the Red Sea that night.

The accommodation-ladder had not been unshipped since leaving Aden, and the man walked out on to the platform, as on to a balcony. He leaned his back against the rail and blew a puff of smoke into the air reflectively. The piano struck up a lively tune, and a voice began to sing the first verse of "The Rowdy Dowdy Boys." The measured pulsations of the screw were a subdued but additional accompaniment. The man knew the song. It had been the rage at all the music halls, when he had started for India seven years before. It reminded him of the brilliant and busy streets he had not seen for so long, but was soon to see again. He was just going to join in the chorus, when the railing, which had been insecurely fastened, gave way suddenly with a snap, and he fell backwards into the warm water of the sea amid a great splash.

For a moment he was physically too much astonished to think. Then he realised that he must shout. He began to do this even before he rose to the surface. He achieved a hoarse, inarticulate, half-choked scream. A startled brain suggested the word "Help!" and he bawled this out lustily and with frantic effort six or seven times without stopping. Then he listened.

"Hi! hi! clear the way
For the Rowdy Dowdy Boys."

The chorus floated back to him across the smooth water, for the ship had already passed completely by. And as he heard the music a long stab of terror drove through his heart. The possibility that he would not be picked up dawned for the first time on his consciousness. The chorus started again--

"Then--I--say--boys,
Who's for a jolly spree?
Rum--tum--tiddley--um,
Who'll have a drink with me?"

"Help! help! help!" shrieked the man, in desperate fear.

"Fond of a glass now and then,
Fond of a row or noise;
Hi! hi! clear the way
For the Rowdy Dowdy Boys!"

The last words drawled out faint and fainter. The vessel was steaming fast. The beginning of the second verse was confused and broken by the ever-growing distance. The dark outline of the great hull was getting blurred. The stern light dwindled.

Then he set out to swim after it with furious energy, pausing every dozen strokes to shout long wild shouts. The disturbed waters of the sea began to settle again to their rest. The widening undulations became ripples. The aërated confusion of the screw fizzed itself upwards and out. The noise of motion and the sounds of life and music died away.

The liner was but a single fading light on the blackness of the waters and a dark shadow against the paler sky.

At length full realisation came to the man, and he stopped swimming. He was alone--abandoned. With the understanding his brain reeled. He began again to swim, only now instead of shouting he prayed--mad, incoherent prayers, the words stumbling into one another.

Suddenly a distant light seemed to flicker and brighten. A surge of joy and hope rushed through his mind. They were going to stop--to turn the ship and come back. And with the hope came gratitude. His prayer was answered. Broken words of thanksgiving rose to his lips. He stopped and stared after the light--his soul in his eyes. As he watched it, it grew gradually but steadily smaller. Then the man knew that his fate was certain. Despair succeeded hope. Gratitude gave place to curses. Beating the water with his arms, he raved impotently. Foul oaths burst from him, as broken as his prayers--and as unheeded.

The fit of passion passed, hurried by increasing fatigue. He became silent--silent as was the sea, for even the ripples were subsiding into the glassy smoothness of the surface. He swam on mechanically along the track of the ship, sobbing quietly to himself, in the misery of fear. And the stern light became a tiny speck, yellower but scarcely bigger than some of the stars, which here and there shone between the clouds.

Nearly twenty minutes passed, and the man's fatigue began to change to exhaustion. The overpowering sense of the inevitable pressed upon him. With the weariness came a strange comfort. He need not swim all the long way to Suez. There was another course. He would die. He would resign his existence since he was thus abandoned. He threw up his hands impulsively and sank. Down, down he went through the warm water. The physical death took hold of him and he began to drown. The pain of that savage grip recalled his anger. He fought with it furiously. Striking out with arms and legs he sought to get back to the air. It was a hard struggle, but he escaped victorious and gasping to the surface. Despair awaited him. Feebly splashing with his hands he moaned in bitter misery--

"I can't--I must. O God! let me die."

The moon, then in her third quarter, pushed out from behind the concealing clouds and shed a pale, soft glitter upon the sea. Upright in the water, fifty yards away, was a black triangular object. It was a fin. It approached him slowly.

His last appeal had been heard.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: As by a very remarkable coincidence there are two Winston Churchills, both writers, we may mention that this Mr. Churchill is the son of the late Lord Randolph Churchill.]

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Transcriber's Notes

The beginning title and Table of Contents were not part of the original magazine. Some illustrations have been moved from their original positions in order to avoid breaking up paragraphs of text.

Page 626: Retained "passed" although author meant "past".
(Orig.: I did not speak, but looked towards her, looked passed her)

Page 660: Corrected illustration number from 32 to 23.
(Orig.: 32. HENRY BENSON, SWINDLER AND FORGER.)