Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

The most pathetic record of heroism I know is that contained in a corner cupboard of the Instruction Room. Here are the helmets of men who have died at their posts. In more cases than one their lives have been sacrificed for others.

Bent, battered, twisted, and torn into every conceivable shape, they intimate only too clearly the awful nature and suddenness of such a death.

The appended label describes how every man met his death. It is the story we always hear of the British sailor, whether he be afloat or ashore--blind, unfailing devotion to duty, no matter how hopeless his case.

The remnants of uniform and equipment in the foreground of the picture are all that was found of Jacobs, the poor fellow who was burned like a rat in a hole at the Wandsworth fire in 1889.

I will not enlarge upon this distressing subject. They were grand fellows all of them, worthy of our reverence and respect.

There are many more like them, and if this gruesome illustration reminds our readers that our firemen are every bit as deserving of praise as Thomas Atkins or Jack Tar it will not have been published in vain.

Improvements are constantly being made in the apparatus of the brigade. There is a tendency to do away with the canvas shute once generally used on fire escapes. Commander Wells believes in ladders. He is striving to horse all escapes, an advantage which must strike the most casual observer of fire brigade work. At the present moment experiments are being made with telephonic street alarms. In the ordinary street alarm you smash the glass, press the button, which rings a bell in the nearest station, and wait till the engine comes. By the new plan it will be possible to speak directly through a telephone to the superintendent of the nearest station--an enormous advantage.

Needless to say the telegraphic and telephonic arrangements of the brigade are the most perfect in the world. One of our illustrations shows the gigantic switchboard, which directly connects the chief officer with the sixty odd stations situated all over London. The men at the tables are engaged in receiving the daily reports sent to the chief officer by the district superintendents.

The canteen van is now taken to every great fire. Formerly, when the men were working drenched to the skin for twelve or thirteen hours on end, they had no means of obtaining much-needed refreshment.

Commander Wells has altered all that. If the conflagration is one likely to keep the brigade going for some hours, the canteen takes up a convenient position and serves out hot cocoa or hot tea and other light refreshments.

What a benefit this is only those who have been on fire duty know.

Much more might be said of this, the most interesting of our public services, but my space is limited. I have not even room to deal with the floating fire stations and engines on the River Thames, worthy in themselves of an article.

In conclusion, I may tell those who are fond of figures that there are in the service of the Metropolis 235 escapes, 59 steam fire engines, 70 manuals, 115 hose carts, 36 miles of hose, 8 steam tugs, 12 barges, 5 floating stations, 8 floating engines, 12 skiffs, 5 long fire ladders, 7 ladder vans, 156 watch boxes, 159 horses, 114 telephone lines between stations, 592 fire alarm call points, and a host of other apparatus too numerous to mention.

The two most powerful steamers have a capacity of 580 gallons per minute, the ordinary engines 360 gallons per minute.

The horses are the finest in the world, and, as most people know, they stand on duty ready harnessed. The weight of collar and harness is taken off the animals by means of a mechanical contrivance which swings upward immediately the alarm bell is rung.

In the superintendent's room there is a huge map of London. It is dotted with little spots coloured red, green, and blue. The red marks denote what are called by the brigade "working fires," _i.e._ where engines have been used. The green spots indicate small fires, and there are left a host of yellow marks--in some districts there are dozens within a few hundred yards of each other.

I regret to say that they represent "malicious false alarms." The punishment for wilfully playing a trick of this kind is a fine of £20 or three months' imprisonment.

HOW THE MINISTER'S NOTES WERE RECOVERED.

THE STORY OF A BIT OF DIPLOMACY.

BY BEATRICE HERON-MAXWELL.

_Illustrated by Fred Pegram._

"It is like this, Frederic," said the United States Minister, button-holing Sir Frederic Rawnsley, and leading him to a deserted cosy-corner, "I am in a nasty hole! It must not be known, of course, but a slip of paper containing some important notes has got lost, and I have a horrible misgiving that it may have slipped inside the despatch we have just sent to Lord Westfaling. It won't do to ask, because it will only ensure their attention being attracted to it if it's there, and will betray our own laxity if it's not. Yet it must be found. What would you do?"

Sir Frederic thought for a moment; under his trivial exterior were some brains, as the Minister knew well.

"I should place the whole matter in the hands of Berend," he said, decisively.

The Minister looked dissatisfied.

"A mere lad, and quite raw," he said; "he has only been with us two days."

"I knew his father," continued Sir Frederic; "one of the cleverest Secretaries who ever handled a Legation. He would have made his mark if he had not died too soon. This boy is exactly like him. I fancy he will do well."

Some guests were entering: a private discussion was no longer possible. The American Minister wandered away, still dissatisfied and irresolute.

Half an hour later he crossed the ballroom, with the young attaché at his heels, and made his way to a girl in white, who was the centre of attraction there.

"You are interested in diplomacy, Lady Anstiss," he said; "may I present to you our latest arrival, Mr. Julius Berend?--Lady Anstiss Carlyon."

The girl raised a pair of lovely, indifferent eyes, and bowed; the Minister moved away as though the introduction were a matter of casual insignificance.

A few steps further on he stopped and glanced back.

Mr. Berend, his face devoid of expression, though he had just been introduced to the most beautiful girl in Brussels, was looking down silently.

Lady Anstiss, her shoulder turned to him, was bestowing her slow, sweet smile, the smile that had already made her famous as a beauty, on someone in the distance.

"What stage of acquaintanceship must one reach," he said, gravely, "before being promoted to the honour of a smile from Lady Anstiss Carlyon?"

She looked a little annoyed.

"Some people never reach it," she answered; "the majority in fact. I reserve it for my personal friends--and they are few."

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Berend. "I hate majorities: to escape from them is something worth striving for. To me a barrier of any sort is delightful; it arouses a corresponding amount of energy; and indolence is my detestation and my failing at the same time."

Lady Anstiss made a little gesture of impatience. This sententious boy was going to be a bore, and to give her the trouble of crushing him. Her programme, dangling from her fan, attracted his attention; he raised it and took the pencil, saying, "May I have the pleasure? Which dance?"

There were still two vacant places on the card; Lady Anstiss did not intend them for a chance-comer.

"I am sorry----" she began; but quite courteously he interrupted her.

"I should have preferred a waltz," he said; "but I am fortunate to find you disengaged at all," and wrote his name down.

Lady Anstiss looked at him critically as he did so.

A young man of middle height, with a graceful figure, and a face that might be called blameless, so inoffensive were the features and colouring. Fair, youthful-looking, with an air of mild freshness about it that seemed peculiarly unsuited to his profession. A partner claimed Lady Anstiss before she had made up her mind precisely how to subdue this apparently unconscious offender.

"Lord Westfaling is still away, and can't have had your despatch yet; so if Berend can get round Lady Anstiss," said Sir Frederic Rawnsley, with oracular significance, a little later, "the thing might be worked somehow."

The American Minister shook his head.

"If!" he repeated. "There is a very wide margin for probability, I am afraid."

"I don't know," replied Sir Frederic. "Women move the levers nowadays, though men make 'em. Westfaling gives in to her in everything. If she so insisted on his retiring from political life to-morrow, he would do it."

Nevertheless, and in spite also of the fact that Lady Anstiss was dancing for the second time that night with Mr. Berend, the Minister still felt as hopeless at the conclusion of the Diplomatic Ball as he had at its commencement.

The day following the ball happened to be the occasion of a weekly reception at Lord Westfaling's, where the part of hostess was played by his only daughter, Lady Anstiss Carlyon. She was at home from four to seven, and it was as the clock struck the former hour that her first visitor was announced--Mr. Julius Berend.

She had parted from him the night before still undecided as to the precise nature and extent of his offence, and the precise measure of punishment. His presumption appeared to be involuntary, as in the case of his calling so early--a privilege he ought to have hesitated to take.

She greeted him with the faintest perceptible effort of memory, as though she hardly recalled who Mr. Julius Berend was; but he was so little disconcerted that the reproof was wasted, and he took the chair nearest to her, which was unnecessary. She felt, in the few moments' conversation that ensued, as though she were a skilled fencer foiling the aimless thrusts of a tyro who did not know he was fencing.

Presently she handed him some tea, and in accepting it he calmly detained her fingers with his left hand.

"Pardon me," he said, "is that a genuine scarabæus in your ring? If so, it is a very perfect specimen."

"My father gave it to me," she said, coldly, "and he believes it to be a real one, but I cannot answer for its genuineness."

She attempted to withdraw her fingers; really, this young man was impossible.

But he still held them with firm gentleness, and having placed his cup of tea on a table, he now ventured to touch the ring with his right forefinger.

"Singular!" he said. "I thought I knew the genus scarabæus fairly well, but I do not remember seeing an intaglio quite like this before. May I----" He was about to draw the ring off.

"I would rather not," Lady Anstiss said, hastily, while his audacity brought the slightest addition of rose-flush to her cheek. "My father placed the ring there himself on my last birthday."

Again she strove to release her hand, and her eyes--grey eyes, with depths of violet in them--darkened with surprised vexation.

This young man seemed incapable of appreciating his own transcendent presumption. He was still replacing the ring, when the door, opening wide and swiftly, disclosed another visitor.

"Lady Lomond!" announced the footman; and a Scotchwoman, of ready eye and potent tongue, entered. The hand of Lady Anstiss was her own again simultaneously; but she rose to greet the newcomer with an uncomfortable sensation of having been caught and compromised.

Her hope that the situation had escaped Lady Lomond's notice was shattered with the first words.

"Palmistry?" inquired that lady, briefly, with a glance at Mr. Berend.

Lady Anstiss smiled with outward composure, but with inward rage.

"Oh, no!" she said; "this is Mr. Berend, who is learned in Egyptian lore, and doubts the quality of my scarabæus."

But even as she said it, she rebelled against all that her words must imply.

It would seem to Mr. Berend that she was acknowledging his right to have held her hand, to have behaved in fact unpardonably; that she was mitigating, explaining, condoning the offence all in one breath, and leaguing herself, as it were, with him against any insinuations that Lady Lomond might make.

Whether Mr. Berend perceived the situation or not it was impossible to tell.

He handed some tea to Lady Lomond, made one of his subtly inane remarks, and took his leave, saying, as he bowed over Lady Anstiss's hand, which he pressed more closely than the farewell warranted--

"I should like to feel quite certain about that scarabæus. Perhaps you will let me examine it again at leisure another day; it is exceedingly interesting to me."

And under the watchful eyes of the most ruthless scandal-promoter in Brussels, Lady Anstiss was obliged to assent, to appear quite friendly and at ease with him, when all the time she felt every word he uttered as a fresh provocation.

"Quite new, is he not?" said Lady Lomond; "that is, out here, I mean. An old friend of yours, no doubt?" Which was embarrassing when Lady Anstiss was secretly making up her mind to cut him dead from that moment.

The door reopened before she answered, and Mr. Berend was back again.

"I forgot," he said, "I am the bearer of a message to Lord Westfaling. Might I give it to him personally?"

"My father is away for three days," replied Lady Anstiss; "I thought General Standish was aware of that."

She intended a reproof, and this time Mr. Berend did not ignore it.

"Quite so," he answered; "my message was not from my chief; it was of a more private nature. Perhaps I might be permitted to have Lord Westfaling's address, or if I might send a note here could it be forwarded?"

"We are not forwarding any letters to him this time; they would only have missed him, perhaps," she answered, "but if you write here he will receive it on arrival."

"Thanks," said Mr. Berend, laconically, and took his final departure.

For thirty-six hours Lady Anstiss did not see him again, and during that period, in the intervals between her social distractions, the thought of him recurred so often that at last she positively wished to see him. She intended to show him plainly that he had transgressed, that she was not to be approached in the easy fashion he had adopted, and that the idea of friendship between them was quite out of the question.

She meant, in fact, to snub him as never had any young rising diplomat been snubbed before.

Armed with these pleasant resolutions, she felt really gratified when, at a dinner to which she had gone under Lady Lomond's chaperonage, she found that Mr. Berend was sitting on her left hand.

She was fully prepared for any advances he might make, and it took her some time to realise that he was evidently not going to make any at all.

He acknowledged her presence with polite gravity, and thereafter devoted himself to the lady on his other side, taking part also in the general conversation at table, and taking it well, but never once addressing a remark to Lady Anstiss.

She found herself listening to his conversation, acknowledging with unwillingness that it was clever, and betrayed no immaturity such as his face suggested; finally she began to feel piqued that he should ignore her, and to think that if Lady Lomond noticed it, that good lady would be sure to weave a new romance from his conduct.

After dinner the same thing occurred. Mr. Berend, without seeming to do so in any marked manner, contrived to avoid her, and, strange to say, this chafed her, although she was surrounded all the evening by other men.

It vexed her, too, that Mr. Berend should appear to be concentrating himself on Lady Lomond, and Lady Anstiss wondered that he should be content to listen to such lengthy discourse from a woman who was nothing if she was not gossiping.

She felt a sort of relief when at last the moment for departure came, and, passing Mr. Berend with the slightest bow as he held the door open, swept downstairs in a less equable frame of mind than was her wont. To her surprise, when she followed Lady Lomond down the steps to the carriage, Mr. Berend, running lightly after them, jumped in too.

"I asked Mr. Berend to come with us," said Lady Lomond, "because if you do not mind I should like you to drive me home first, and I thought he could then escort you on to the Rue de la Place." The smile which accompanied this remark conveyed that she thought she had done a very clever and acceptable thing in giving these two an opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_.

"Thanks," responded Lady Anstiss, stiffly, "but I am afraid that will be taking Mr. Berend quite out of his way; and I am accustomed to drive alone often."

The matter, however, appeared to be settled, and she could only invoke silent anathemas on Lady Lomond's head for her officiousness, and determine that she would match Mr. Berend in behaviour, and would ignore him even when they were left to each other's society. But she reckoned without her host.

For, the moment after Lady Lomond had entered her own house and the carriage had started again, Mr. Berend, calmly taking the vacant place beside Lady Anstiss, said in an earnest tone, quite different from his usual one--

"I have longed for and yet dreaded this moment. Lady Anstiss, I felt to-night that there was only one subject I could speak to you about, and that I did not care to touch on it in the presence of others. It is a matter of indifference to you, but to me it is not only a serious one--it is a very distressing one."

He paused; and she tried to remember some of the chill and cutting remarks with which she had intended to show him how great was the distance that divided them.

But she had been wholly unprepared for this new method of advance, and, as only irrelevant replies occurred to her, she contented herself with silence.

"I am going away," he continued, "to-morrow."

"Going away," she echoed, involuntarily; "you have only just come. How is that?"

"I have pledged myself to fulfil a certain task in a certain space of time; the time ends to-morrow morning, and the task is uncompleted. Therefore I shall leave Brussels in the afternoon. Failure is quite as insupportable to me as to those above me. But I should not mind it so much if it were not for two things."

Again he paused, and again she was silent. They were nearing the Rue de la Place now; he knew that a few moments more only remained to him.

"You do not ask what they are," he said, with reproach, "and you will probably add it to my other iniquities if I tell you. Yet, Lady Anstiss, I must tell you."

His manner was strangely eager; she wished that she could feel more annoyed at it than she did.

"One reason is because when I leave Brussels I feel like the moth who goes out into the dark night and who longs to be fluttering his wings still round the light that dazzled him, that would have scorched him if he could have reached it. And the other--may I tell you the other?"

"You have not waited for my permission so far," she answered, half petulantly, half relentingly.

"There is no time to wait," he said; "the other is that I have added to my failure an unnecessary piece of stupidity which I deplore, and which is all the more aggravating because it is not yet irretrievable."

"What do you mean, Mr. Berend?" Her voice sounded softened even to herself; yet she had not quite intended it.

"I mean that it is in your power to do me an inestimable service; to soften my disgrace, and give me, in fact, another chance with the powers that be. I wrote a note--the note of which I spoke to you--to your father, on a private matter; and at the same time I was copying an important and strictly private paper for my chief. An important and strictly private paper is now missing, and the question is, could it by any carelessness have been placed in the envelope directed to Lord Westfaling. If so----" He made an expressive gesture of hopelessness.

"But what can I do?" She looked at him in real astonishment. This strange young man had the faculty of exciting interest, certainly, as well as displeasure.

"You can allow me to open my own letter--in your presence--to seal it up again, after taking out the accidental enclosure if it is there, and so to retrieve what will otherwise be a very disastrous piece of bad luck."

"I do not see how it would be possible for me to do this," she said, after a moment's thought; "my father returns at ten to-morrow; I should find it difficult to explain it to him, to give him a sufficient reason for having ventured to interfere with his letters."

"If you would allow me to call and say good-bye to you at a quarter to ten," he pleaded, "in any case it would be a favour that I should prize immensely, and it is the last I shall ever ask of you."

It was extraordinary! This was in reality only the third time she had seen him, yet he was speaking to her with all the force and fervour of a long-tried lover.

And the amazement she felt at him was equalled by that which she felt at herself; for, to her own surprise, she was neither indifferent nor resentful. There was a magnetic force about him which carried all before it. They had turned into the Rue de la Place; a moment more and they must part.

"A mere formal visit of farewell," Mr. Berend urged. "Lady Anstiss, you do not know what it means to me, or you would not hesitate. It is not only my career--it is my life!"

The carriage had stopped--the footman had opened the door; before she had time to answer, Mr. Berend had descended and was handing her out.

"Then I will call shortly before ten to-morrow," he said, in a clear voice, "to see if you have any messages for England. Good night, Lady Anstiss."

He was away up the street, and she was in her own boudoir before she realised that she had tacitly granted his request.

And the feeling of annoyance with him that had been hers a few hours before was gone; in its place was one of pity for this daring young man whose essay in diplomacy had come to an untimely end.

He was of course nothing--less than nothing to her, but it would seem too unkind to refuse to see him in the morning.

She went to sleep at last, still undecided as to what she would or would not do.

But Mr. Julius Berend was troubled by no misgivings, and when he presented himself at a quarter to ten the next morning, a flicker of satisfaction tempered the pensive sadness of his gaze.

She was in the garden, and as he stepped out through the French windows towards her he thought--as he had thought on the night of his introduction to her--that for such a face as this, and such a smile, he would go to the end of the world.

And she? A grave sweetness had taken the place of her former manner to him, and she said, after giving him her hand, "Mr. Berend, I have been thinking over what you asked me, and--I think I can make it right with my father. You will promise me, of course, not to take anything out of the letter that ought to remain there?"

"I promise," he answered, quietly.

They went into the library together, and she brought him the tray of letters that were awaiting Lord Westfaling's arrival.

He drew a long envelope from his pocket, an official one, already addressed to Lord Westfaling.

"It matches this," he said, "the one I want to open."

There were two similar envelopes amongst the pile of correspondence. He selected one, opened it, and, taking out the contents, shook them, stooped to pick up a loose paper that fluttered from them to the floor, and then placed them in the fresh envelope he had brought.

"May I seal this?" he asked. He had brought an official seal with him.

She brought him sealing wax and taper.

"Thanks," he said, when this was finished. "The paper was there, as I thought. I am glad to have retrieved it."

He folded it up, and put it, with the old envelope, into his pocket.

"Good-bye." He was holding out his hand to her quite coolly.

She felt hurt, disappointed. She would have deprecated his gratitude for the service she had rendered him, but the absence of its expression chilled her.

"Good-bye." She gave him her hand.

He clasped it for an instant, then raised it, saying, "We did not settle the vexed question of the ring. I am inclined, now I see it again, to think it is a genuine old scarabæus."

A sudden access of shyness, strange and new, came to her. The coldness of his voice did not match the warm clasp of his hand, the nearness of his approach.

She felt that the colour was mounting to her cheeks, and turned her face aside to hide it. And the next instant she felt the touch of his lips on her hair just where it swept away from her white neck.

"Mr. Berend!" she said, breathlessly, and would have started away, but he still held her hand.

"You can either never forgive me," he said, quickly, "or you must do so fully and freely. There can be no half measures between us any longer."

She was speechless; a storm of mixed feelings possessed her.

"I set myself to win you from the first moment that I saw you," he continued, impetuously. "The other task was nothing. I determined it should be both or neither with me. The failure that I spoke of to you last night is redeemed, and I am no longer under a cloud. It was a question of my word, and I have kept it. But for you I should not have done so. My fate is in your hands entirely."

Still no answer.

He drew her a little closer. "I have seen you four times," he went on, "and each time I have said to myself, 'There is only one woman in the world for me, and she is so sweet and lovely and perfect, that I dare only say good-bye to her--unless she tells me to stay.' Anstiss, good-bye!"

There was a stir in the house, and steps approaching in the hall. Lord Westfaling had returned, and was coming to the library. Mr. Berend released the hand he held, and Lady Anstiss turned in confusion to greet her father at the door.

"This is Mr. Berend, of the United States Embassy, father," she said. "He has brought a letter for you. It is there amongst your other ones."

She could not look at him; she was still in a tumult of indecision. Mr. Julius Berend had shaken hands with her father, apologising for his early call, and was saying to her--

"I am going to town this afternoon on business. May I call again at a more opportune moment on my return?"

She lifted her eyes to his, and he saw that he had won her.

"Yes," she said, simply; and with a bow he was gone.

"A nice-looking young fellow," commented her father, leisurely turning over his letters. "Son of Max Berend, I suppose. Very clever and smart, I am told."

* * * * *

"I told you you could not do better than pin your faith on Berend," said Sir Frederic Rawnsley to the United States Minister, a few days afterwards. "He managed that little affair for you very cleverly; and seems to be managing another little affair very cleverly, too."

He put up his eyeglass to watch the greeting between Mr. Julius Berend and Lady Anstiss Carlyon.

"Lady Lomond tells me it is almost a settled thing," he remarked. "And, after all, Anstiss might do a good deal worse. Berend will never stop half way; he is bound to reach the top of the tree."

LITTLE MAID]

You've crept in the dusk to my knee, little maid,
And you've something you want to ask me, little maid.
In your babyland eyes
I'm so clever and wise,
And you're certain as certain can be, little maid,
If there's anyone knows what is right, little maid,
It is I--you are sure of that quite, little maid;
And I wish, pretty elf,
I believed in myself
As you do in me, dear, to-night, little maid.

You have heard that the angels have wings, little maid.
Was it wisdom to tell you such things, little maid?
You're too sweet and too small
Yet to understand all
Or one half the surprises time brings, little maid.
But you've heard and are anxious to know, little maid,
If sleepy at bedtime they grow, little maid,
If they take off their wings
With their everyday things,
When to by-bye in heaven they go, little maid.

Your lips to my cheek then you lay, little maid,
And you wonder I've nothing to say, little maid;
But I couldn't reply
Were I even to try
For the space of a year and a day, little maid.
You give me a shake of the head, little maid,
And I feel there's no more to be said, little maid;
But I know this is true,
That our earthly ones do--
And it's time one was tucked up in bed, little maid.

PHOTOGRAPHIC LIES.

PROVING THE USELESSNESS OF THE CAMERA AS A WITNESS.

There is a popular notion abroad that the art of photography is a first cousin to George Washington, and cannot tell a lie. The wider knowledge of the art, due to its adoption by hundreds of thousands of amateurs as a hobby, has largely shown the fallaciousness of this belief. Yet photographic fakes of a most absurdly simple nature still continue to impose upon the credulity of thousands of people, among the number being many who have gone so far as to accept such inventions as irrefutable evidence, in their ignorance of the possibilities of this, perhaps, the most elastic of all arts.

A striking instance of this is seen in the so-called "spirit" photographs, published some years ago by Mr. W. T. Stead. The brilliant editor of the _Review of Reviews_, a deep believer in spirit manifestations, argued that these photographs afforded the most conclusive proofs of the playful habit spooks have of returning to the scenes of their earthly labours.

He said that they were on the photographic plate, and, that being so, they must have been there "in the flesh," or "in the fog," as Mark Twain has it.

Unfortunately, this apparently conclusive argument was completely upset by Mr. Labouchere, who possessed a greater knowledge of the ways of photographs and photographers than his colleague, and explained how it was done.

As a matter of fact, the photographic ghost is an easily explained phenomenon, and any amateur can turn out creepy spooks by the thousand at the expense of a little time and patience.

A photograph is absolutely inadmissible as evidence of anything, unless it is proved conclusively that it was in nowise faked after being taken.

The faking can be carried on almost to any extent. In fact, nothing is impossible to the clever knight of the camera.

If a photographer wished to show that you were in a particular street at a certain time, he could do it with the greatest ease, notwithstanding that you were a thousand miles away at the moment in question.

If he wished to prove that your dog or pony had trespassed on his flowerbeds, it would be a simple matter to do so, and if cleverly done I doubt if the "fake" could be detected.

Anyway, I have seen many faked photographs that experienced photographers themselves were at a loss to explain.

In this article I propose to give some examples of extraordinary faked photographs, and explain to some extent how they are done. In each case they have been specially prepared for the illustration of this article, and amateur photographers who read this might do worse than copy them.

Many of these required considerable technical skill and inventive resource.

These qualities are exhibited to a high degree in the illustration of the railway in Holborn, for while we are glad that an electric train is to run _under_ Holborn, no living or dead man has ever seen a train in Holborn itself. Such fakes occupy a considerable time in manufacture.

While the explanation is simple, the carrying out of this fake was a matter of some difficulty.

First a picture of a railway junction was taken. Then it was necessary to take a photograph of Holborn. This in itself is a simple enough matter, but in this case it was necessary to obtain a picture of exactly the same scale, in order that the railway lines might be fitted to appear as a natural part of the picture.

This was only managed after several ineffectual shots. Then the latter negative was placed in the printing frame with the roadway masked. When sufficiently printed the railway negative was placed in the frame on the same paper. That part of Holborn already printed was masked, and thus the rails were printed in the space where the roadway should have been. The result will make Londoners rub their eyes.

The two ghost photographs are specially calculated to puzzle not a few who are unacquainted with the tricks of the art. Like most puzzling things, they are simplicity itself when explained. There is not a suspicion of mystery about them. By the same method any amateur may manufacture a whole gallery of family ghosts for his delectation.

The invocation of our ghosts was on this wise.

A nice, quiet, suitable sort of churchyard not a dozen miles from London was chosen, and, with a couple of assistants, I hied myself to it one bright and anything but ethereal morning.

First, the lady was posed till we were satisfied that she looked scared enough for a ghost to be turned on. A second later my other assistant, with the best dining-room tablecloth thrown over his head, came on the scene, glided with healthy earthly steps to a pre-arranged spot, and took up his position.

Snap went the pneumatic shutter. The photographic plate, one of an extremely rapid variety, was exposed for the space of a second, and the ghost hid himself behind the camera and took off his tablecloth. The lady meanwhile remained in the same position, and directly the ghost disappeared, snap went the shutter again on her. So in the interval of nine seconds this wonder was perpetrated.

Those who have not dabbled in photography will require a further explanation of the need of two exposures of the same plate. In the first place, then, I assume that everybody knows that a photograph is the result of light acting on a glass plate coated with a sensitive preparation. When the photographer says, "Now then, a smile, please. Thank you. Steady," you may have noticed that he touches an indiarubber ball. This is a pneumatic release, which momentarily exposes the plate to the light. In that brief period the light eats or rots the sensitive material, at the same time faithfully imprinting upon it an exact image of whatever may be before it.

Now the whole secret of successful photography may be said to depend on this exposure being of the right length. If it is too short, the light has insufficient time to clearly impress the plate with the picture. If it is too long, the image will be too dense.

So much technique is necessary to a proper explanation of ghost pictures. Now the one second exposure given to our friend the ghost was much too short a time in which to obtain a good portrait of him, but quite long enough to obtain a faint shadowy image, which was just the thing desired.

On obtaining this he quietly walks out of the picture, and we then open the plate for another eight seconds, which is just long enough to obtain a clear and normal photograph of the rest of the picture, including the startled sitter, who has not moved in the meantime. And what is of still greater importance, it gives sufficient time for the foliage and end of the seat to impress themselves through the first picture, and so produce that shadowy transparent texture beloved of all aristocratic varieties of the ghost species.

The tombstone spirit was produced in the same way, a second exposure being given to the tomb, the grass, and the ivy-covered wall behind.

It will be seen that the ghost picture is a particularly simple example of the "fake" photograph.

In the beginning of this article I spoke of the futility of admitting the photograph as evidence.

To prove my assertion, I have been at some pains to prepare a faked photograph that will show how a subject might be "doctored" and put in as conclusive proof.

I have assumed, for the purpose of this example, that a prisoner charged with an offence, say in the North of England, has sought to set up an alibi by producing a portrait of a street in which he himself is seen. For the sake of argument, we will say that the photograph was taken by a friend who is prepared to swear that the picture was made on the day of the crime. Supposing this to be the case, if the photograph were accepted as evidence it would undoubtedly be instrumental in getting the accused off.

Now such a picture might readily be faked so as to deceive the most experienced. In order to realise this, you have only to glance at the photograph on this page.

The scene is a street at Richmond, and in the foreground two men are standing. If you look at them for a moment you will observe that they are in reality one and the same person. As we have not yet discovered a method of creating a double, it is perfectly clear that one at least of these figures has been "faked" or printed into the original photograph, and I don't know that it is very clear which.

As a matter of fact the one on the left-hand side was taken in the original picture, and the other is faked. Two figures of the same individual are shown, because, had we published one, and stated that the other was "printed in," it is possible some people might question the statement.

As it is, the duplicate clinches the matter, and the obvious deduction is that if one photograph can be faked in this manner, so can another.

However, we doubt if photographers, amateur or otherwise, were ever guilty of using their knowledge of fakes for any purpose other than that of amusement, and that indeed was our idea in shedding light on this comparatively unknown subject.

By the simple expedient of faking in the printing operation you may do what you will with friend or foe.

Cecil Rhodes may shake hands with Oom Paul, and the nation may be persuaded that they have forgotten their little amenities. It is only necessary to obtain suitable photographs of the two, the rest is comparatively simple.

The figure in the bottle would in the middle ages have burned its creator at the stake, but there is no witchcraft in it in reality. Indeed, it is one of the simplest photographic freaks to produce. In this case the figure is printed somewhat deeply on paper in the usual way, except that a mask of paper is cut to fit all round it to keep the remaining portion of the sensitive paper from contact with the light. When the print is deep enough it is taken out of the printing-frame, then placed behind a negative of the bottle, and a light print is made, with the result that the effect shown in the illustration is produced.

Few, save those who have had practice in instantaneous photography, realise the enormous rapidity necessary to the successful portraying of rapid movement by means of the camera.

One of the most interesting experiments in trick photography is that devoted to the evolving of composite portraits. The production of a successful composite practically means the creation of a new face. The method is similar to that employed in the making of ghost pictures. It is necessary to obtain, say, four portraits--the more used the greater the difficulty. These are all photographed one over the other on the same plate. The difficulty consists in regulating the exposures, that photographed first requiring a longer exposure than the next, and so on through the series. The example we give is a composite of photographs of well-known actors, and the face contains portraits of Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Forbes Robertson.

The composite photograph has been of great scientific value in determining the characteristic predominant features of different types of physiognomy. Our illustration is an excellent example of the typical actor's face.

A well-known professor recently composed a series of these types. One was a face containing the portraits of twelve eminent mathematicians; another contained portraits of sixteen notable naturalists.

Very extraordinary photographic freaks often result from mere accident. On the next page is given a picture of Hastings pier in a storm. A very good negative was obtained in the first instance, but unfortunately when developed it was placed on the oven to dry. The heat contracted the sensitive film of the negative, and when printed it presented the curious appearance seen in the illustration.

As a picture of a storm it is splendid, surpassing in exaggeration anything ever invented by the resourceful Munchausen.

"A Study in Boots" is an excellent example of one of the most effective methods of photographic faking. Like many things which border on the marvellous, it is as simple as A B C. The explanation is that when taking the photograph the operator used a short focus lens and made a point of specially focussing the boots instead of the picture as a whole. The result was that the rest of the figure was thrown out of focus, and consequently out of proportion.

This effect is only too well known to most beginners in the art, for it often appears unbidden in their early efforts, to the utter ruin of an otherwise good picture. Amateurs frequently spoil portraits of their friends in this way, the feet or hands appearing treble their proper size in the picture. The defect is usually the result of working with a lens of too short a focus. This explanation is somewhat technical for those who have not embraced the fascinating art, but it cannot be put in any other way.

There are many other possibilities in photographic faking. In fact, an amateur of an inventive disposition may evolve them _ad libitum_.

For example, there is the "long and short of it" style of fake, that will surely result in much amusement. By the use of concave and convex mirrors the face of a friend may be abnormally lengthened or widened in the portrait until it reminds one of the pictures displayed outside eating-houses, bearing the inscriptions, "Before dining at Z----'s," "After dining at Z----'s."

However, all these things are by way of amusement. I have never come across any deliberate case of photographic faking with intent to mislead or bear false witness; but, as I have already stated, what may be done for recreation is also possible of application in more serious affairs, and therefore it is a fallacy to suppose that a photograph cannot lie.

Very little has been done, comparatively speaking, in the direction of photograph faking. It is an amusement I can recommend to every devotee of the art; for there are few pastimes more completely fascinating.

SUTTEE CHOWRA GHAT, CAWNPORE, WHERE THE MASSACRE TOOK PLACE.]

GASCOYNE'S TERRIBLE REVENGE.

A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.

BY J. F. CORNISH.

_Illustrated by Vereker M. Hamilton, R.P.E._

Dinner was preparing in the camp under the toon-trees which covered the foot-hills of the Himalayas.

Here, where the northern edge of the Terai was beginning to become more alpine in its character, the camp was pitched on the fringe of the jungle. Below were magnificent forests of sal, sisoon, and toon-trees; above, pine, spruce, and oak trees proclaimed a more tempered climate.

The spot had been chosen as healthy, well supplied with water, and because the best shooting in the district was fairly accessible from it.

As the Colonel sat in his tent, he saw emerging from the belt of jungle below an extraordinary figure. He called to the Captain and Subaltern, and they watched it as it advanced towards them. The shikaris and native bearers also paused in their various duties, and jabbered among themselves, intent on the approach of the solitary man.

"No Nepaulese, that," asserted the Captain.

"It's a white man," said the Subaltern.

"Wait," said the Colonel.

The figure drew nearer, and at last came into full view. Clad in native dress, weatherbeaten, brown, and lean, with a snow-white beard that swept to his girdle, looking as like a native as a native could look, there was a certain indefinable _something_ about him which told these Englishmen that a compatriot stood before them. Yet, when the Colonel greeted him and bade him welcome to the camp, he stared vacantly and absently at him and made no reply, but squatted gravely on the ground.

The Subaltern quietly mixed a stiff peg and handed it to the stranger, who shook his head; but the Subaltern persisted, and at length he took the glass, looked at it gravely a moment, and then put it to his lips--paused, and then, drinking the whole at a draught, gravely held out the glass to the Subaltern. As he did so, the sleeve of his dress shortened, and his wrist and part of his forearm were bared. The Colonel went to the man, seized the slowly retreating arm, and, pushing the sleeve farther back, showed the others a device tattooed thereon in red and blue. It was two roses intertwined, and underneath the motto, "_Aucto splendore resurgo_."

In great agitation the Colonel said, "What's your name, sir?"

The newcomer shook his head. But the Colonel, overcoming a passive resistance, dragged him to his feet, looked again at the device, and then closely scanned the face, on a level with his own. He turned pale under his bronze, dropped the hand he held, and turning to the two others, devoured with curiosity, said--

"It's Gascoyne, of the 53rd!"

Then the man, speaking for the first time, said quietly, "Yes, I am Gascoyne," and, so speaking, collapsed on the grass at the Colonel's feet. They took him up and carried him into the largest tent, and after some time, following on the ministrations of the Subaltern, who had been initiated into Red Cross ways, he opened his eyes with a weary sigh, but the dull light in them changed to one of bright recognition, and looking at the Colonel he said--

"Ewan Campbell?"

"That's right, old fellow," said the Colonel, "God bless you, that's right, and you--you're Philip Gascoyne of the 53rd; but don't speak; drink this and then go to sleep, and we'll talk in the morning."

And, like an obedient child, the wanderer did as he was bid, and the drink had been so cunningly medicated by the Subaltern that he slept all that night and through many hours of the next day, the camp being commanded to absolute silence by the Colonel, who meanwhile explained to his wondering companions that this man who had quietly wandered into their midst had, as all thought, perished in the Massacre at Cawnpore.

"But," added the Colonel, "if he wakes in his senses, we shall doubtless hear something strange. He and I were pretty close friends, and he was engaged to one of the sweetest girls ... She was butchered by the order of Nana Sahib."

At that moment the servant who had been left in charge of the recovered Gascoyne came up and told them that the Sahib was awake and was asking to see the Colonel. In a moment the three men stood by the side of the wanderer's bed.

"How are you now, Gascoyne?" said the Colonel. "Had a good sleep?"

Gascoyne's eyes turned inquiringly to the other two.

"We're shooting up here, you know," replied the Colonel to his look. "This is Cameron," indicating the Captain, "and Dogan of the 74th--so you're among friends, old fellow."

He smiled, and said quietly, "It is many years since I heard the voice of a friend," and held out his hand, which the Colonel took and pressed.

"I feel very feeble," he resumed.

"We'll doctor you up all right. Dogan knows all the rigs of the medicine man."

Gascoyne protested with a feeble shake of the head.

"No, no," he said, "my mission's ended--but thank God I've met you fellows before going out." He paused, and then went on again, "I have something to tell you; but first tell me, was any attempt made to find the devil who--who----"

"I know whom you mean," said the Colonel, "Nana Sahib, the man who gave orders for the massacre at Cawnpore. Yes, every effort was made, and a very large reward was offered, but I am sorry to say he was never captured, and his fate remains a mystery to this day."

"I can clear that mystery for you," said the sick man, smiling grimly; and then with many pauses he told his three wondering listeners the tale I here set down as the Captain told it me:--

"England need not waste another wish for vengeance," Gascoyne said, "I have taken it. Listen. I was amongst those who, wearied out with famine, fatigue, and wounds, trusted to Nana's oath, and embarked on the boats only to be treacherously fired on and brought back, such of us as survived, to face death, with no chance of showing fight, and after our suffering to die, shot down like dogs. I had been wounded in the neck, and, though the wound was slight, it bled profusely and I was covered with the crimson stain. You, Campbell, knew Miss Lindsay?" His voice broke, and the Colonel nodded with bright eyes, but in silence. "She had been among the unhappy ladies brought back, and all my fears and agony of mind on her account utterly outbalanced any consideration for myself.

"Had all gone well, in a few short weeks we should have been married, but she was basely murdered in my very arms.

"After the fusillade which killed a number of people, our boat was the first to be brought back. As Miss Lindsay was stepping over the side she slipped and fell into the water. I sprang after to help her, when a ruffianly Sepoy seized her by the hair, which had become unfastened, and dragged her to her feet, and with a brutal laugh kissed her on the cheek. The laugh died on his lips, for, maddened by all that had occurred, and by this last outrage, I sprang upon him, and, nerved with hate and passion, struck him with all my force under the ear.

"He fell as if shot, face downward into the shallow water, and lay there dead. Miss Lindsay turned, threw her arms around me, and with a sob buried her face on my shoulder. But though I had avenged her momentarily, my triumph was short, for a fellow named Survur Khan, whose brother it was that I had killed, with a cry of rage struck Miss Lindsay on the head with a club he carried, smashing her skull and covering me with her blood and brains. It was horrible, horrible, and with the horror of it I must have lost consciousness, for I remember no more until I found myself seated on the ground with others. You know what happened. By Nana's orders, after a momentary respite, we were shot by the cowardly miscreants, who would have fled in terror from us, had we been unbound with weapons in our hands. But during that moment's pause I had been thinking, thinking, my heart seemed bursting in my body, my brain throbbed and reeled, my whole being was inflamed with the rage of anger and hatred that consumed me. Oh! if I were but free for a few moments to wreak a vengeance on these cowardly hounds, and die killing, killing.