The Harmsworth Magazine, v. 1, 1898-1899

by The Harmsworth Magazine

MODERN FAMILY SKELETONS.

By Beatrice Knollys.

Illustrated by A. S. Hartrick.

THIS DRUMMER APPEARS WHENEVER A MEMBER OF THE OGILVY FAMILY IS GOING TO DIE.

A FAMILY ghost is a possession almost as respectable as a patent of nobility, and happy is the house reputed, on satisfactory evidence, to be haunted by one. There are still a few hereditary ghosts left, and a few leasehold and freehold ghosts; but these last are often the property of retired manufacturers and American millionaires who have bought house and lands, pedigrees, portraits, and family ghosts all together as they stood.

In this article it is my intention to be the biographer of a few ancient and well-born ghosts only, as space will not permit me to condescend to mere one-generation ghosts, pedigreeless spirits.

A. was an Airlie who killed a poor drummer, whose spirit plays a drum at Cortachy Castle, Kirriemuir, Scotland, whenever any member of the Ogilvy family is going to die. The origin of this tradition is that the drummer, for some reason or other, in his lifetime so enraged a former Lord Airlie that he had him thrust into his own drum and flung from the window of a tower of Cortachy Castle, though the drummer threatened to haunt the family ever after if his life were taken.

He has seemingly kept his word, for in 1849, before the decease of a Lord Airlie, and again in 1884, before the death of a Lady Airlie, the beat of the drum was on each occasion distinctly heard by different guests of the family. One of these guests was a lady staying in the castle, who was so ignorant of the tradition that, having heard the beating of a drum while dressing for dinner, she innocently asked her host—Lord Airlie—at the table who his drummer was. The question made the peer turn quite white, for the sound had preceded the loss of his first wife, and it was only a few months after this ominous dinner party that the second wife died.

THE COMBERMERE GHOST—A YOUNG GIRL WHO APPEARS TO FORETELL DEATH.

The Combermere family have two ghosts in their record. In Combermere Abbey there is an old room, once a nursery, and here has been seen the spirit-figure of a little girl fourteen years old, dressed in a very quaint frock with an odd little ruff round its neck. It appeared to a niece of the late Lord Cotton as she was dressing for a very late dinner one evening in this former nursery, now used as a bedroom. She had just risen from her toilet-glass to get some article of dress when she saw the child standing near her bed—a little iron one which stood out in the room away from the wall—and presently the figure began running round the bed in a wild, distressed way, with a look of suffering in its little face, which the lady could see quite plainly as the full light of her candles fell upon it.

On mentioning this apparition, her widowed aunt, Lady Cotton, called to remembrance that the late Lord Cotton had told her of the sudden death years ago of a favourite little sister of his, with whom he had been playing, he being also a child then, by running round and round the bed with her, just the night before—indeed, only a few hours before, her decease.

A stranger story still, and one that has not yet, I believe, appeared in print, is that where quite recently a lady took an amateur photograph of the drawing-room of a house once inhabited by the late Lord Combermere—at Brighton I think it was. The lady in question saw, to her horror and astonishment, visible on the plate, the ghost of the old peer—a tall man with rather stout face and a moustache—reproduced sitting in one of the easy chairs of this drawing-room, though not apparent to the naked eye.

The Drake ghost—the spirit of Sir Francis Drake—might be termed a sporting spirit, as it has been frequently seen in different parts of Devonshire and Cornwall—notably Plymouth—driving a hearse drawn by headless horses and followed by a pack of headless hounds.

ONE OF THE FYVIE CASTLE GHOSTS IS A TRUMPETER BY PROFESSION.

Two Gordon ghosts live at Fyvie Castle in Scotland. One is a lady dressed in a magnificent costume of green brocade, who is seen, candle in hand, passing through a tapestried room of the old castle when any important event is going to happen to the family.

The other spirit is by profession a trumpeter, who tradition affirms haunts the castle in revenge for having during his lifetime been seized by the press-gang at the instigation of the then Gordon of Fyvie Castle, who wished to get rid of a rival in the affections of a pretty daughter of his factor or bailiff.

The girl, however, remained faithful to the trumpeter, the separation from him making her die of a broken heart; and now, like the drum of Cortachy Castle, a trumpet is heard whenever misfortune is in store for the unlucky Gordons. Ill-fated they certainly are, as beside being the hereditary owners of unlucky ghosts, they are also under a hereditary curse—the curse of a "Thomas the Rhymester"—who, when the gates of the castle long years ago were churlishly closed against him in the days of wandering minstrelsy, declared that the property should never descend in a direct line till three "weeping" stones were found; but up to twenty years ago, when a relative of the writer was staying at the castle, only one weeping stone had been discovered.

In Fyvie Castle there is also a sealed room, which is always kept religiously closed; for the saying is, should the door be ever opened, the master would die and his wife go blind. Faith and fear have prevented the saying being proved, as the room has never been opened; but as regards the curse of "Thomas the Rhymester," it is certainly a fact that the Gordons have never inherited in a direct line.

ONE OF GLAMIS CASTLE'S GHOSTLY INHABITANTS—A TALL, BEARDED VISITANT IN ARMOUR.

There is a perfect spirit vault of ghosts at Glamis Castle, the ancestral residence of another old and celebrated Scotch family, the Lyons, the head being the Earl of Strathmore. They also possess a secret chamber, which is supposed to be connected with some terrible mystery known only to each owner, the next heir, and the house-bailiff, of the time being. Even the exact locality of the room is never revealed to others than those three, and though more than one heir-apparent has promised to tell the secret to his bosom friends as soon as the attainment of his twenty-first year entitled him to learn it; yet after he has known it, a solemn silence on the subject has been maintained, and beyond the fact that a stonemason is supposed to be secretly employed to close the approach to this chamber after each visit, nothing more definite is known. The strangest part of it all is the evident necessity that each successive house steward should be made acquainted with this mystery, which looks as if to him was intrusted the duty of providing food for some person or thing imprisoned in those walls of fifteen feet thickness. Whether the mystery is in any way connected with the apparition of a bearded man, who flits about the castle at night, and hovers over the couches of children, is not known; perhaps it has something to do with a figure which appeared at a window to a guest staying at Glamis Castle, and sitting up late one moonlight night. The owner of the pale face, lit up with great sorrowful eyes, seemed to wish to attract attention, but it was suddenly pulled away as if by some superior power. Presently, horrible shrieks rent the night air, and an hour or so later, the guest, gazing horror-stricken from the window of the room, saw a dark huddled figure, like that of an old decrepit woman, carrying a bundle, pass across the waning moonlight outside, and vanish.

Perhaps the most interesting legend attached to this magnificent old castle is the historical tradition that in one of its rooms Duncan was murdered by Macbeth, "Thane of Glamis," and this Duncan is perchance the tall bearded ghost in armour who haunts the old square tower, and on one occasion nearly frightened to death a child who, with its mother, was on a visit to the castle. The child was asleep in a dressing-room off its mother's bedroom. She herself was lying awake, when a cold blast extinguished her light suddenly, but not the night-light in the dressing-room, from whence, immediately after, proceeded a shriek. The mother rushed in and found her child awake, and in an agony of fear, because the tall mailed figure she herself had seen pass into the dressing-room had come to the side of the cot and leant over the face of the child. As a matter of fact, tradition and truth are so mixed up with all the stories connected with this very ancient fortress-palace, that it is difficult, in fact impossible, to know what to believe and what to disbelieve.

A more peaceable spirit is the Townshend ghost of Rainham, in Norfolk, commonly known as the "Brown Lady." She is described as tall and stately, dressed in a rich brown brocade, with a sort of coif on her head. The features are clearly defined, but where the eyes should be are nothing but hollows. She is seen walking about the old mansion every now and then, though no reason can be discovered to account for her restlessness. Lord Charles Townshend, on being asked by a lady if he also believed in the apparition, replied, "I cannot but believe, for she ushered me into my room last night."

The Lonsdale spirit seems to have been as rowdy in death as it was during life when it inhabited the body of Jemmy Lowther, well known as the "bad Lord Lonsdale." For years after his decease the inhabitants of Lowther Hall and the neighbourhood were kept in a constant state of excitement by continual disturbances in the house, noises in the stables, and the galloping across country of Lord Lonsdale's phantom "coach and six."

"WHILE SHE PRAYED THE SPIRIT APPEARED AND SAID, 'TAKE UP THE CANDLE AND FOLLOW ME.'"

The Powys Castle ghost was a much more amiable spirit, and of quite a superior character to the devil-may-care spirit of Jemmy Lowther. His object was benevolent, and his manners were well-bred and gracious when he appeared. His last visit was to a poor pious workwoman, who, in the absence of the Herberts from Powys Castle, was purposely put by the servants in the haunted bedroom, a handsomely furnished apartment with a boarded floor, a big bedstead in one corner, and two sash windows. A good fire was made up in the room, and a chair and a table with a large lighted candle on it was placed in front of the fire. She had just sat down in the chair to read her Bible, when to her astonishment in walked a gentleman. He wore a gold-laced hat and waistcoat, with coat and the rest of his attire to correspond. He went over to one of the sash windows, and putting an elbow on the sill, rested his face on the palm of his hand. She supposed afterwards that he stood quietly thus to encourage her to speak, but she was too frightened. Then he walked out of the room, and the poor woman, rising from her chair, fell on her knees and began to pray. Whilst praying, the spirit appeared again, walked round the room, and came close behind her. He again departed, and again appeared behind her as she still knelt. She said, "Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you want?"

It lifted its finger and said—

"Take up the candle and follow me, and I will tell you."

She did as she was bid, and followed him into a very small room, where, tearing up a board, he pointed to an iron box underneath, and then to a crevice in the wall where lay hidden a key. These he commanded were to be sent to the Earl of Powys, then in London. This was done, though history does not relate what the box contained; but it was known that this poor Welsh spinning woman was provided for liberally by the Powys family till she died about the beginning of this century.

Though one does not associate ghosts with such a city of excitement, life, and renovation as London, yet it does possess several haunted houses. One belonging to a present-day peer, and situated in Park Lane, is said to be haunted by fashionable spirits having a dance. Some people can only hear the buzz of their voices and the swish of dresses and the tap of feet, while others can see the figures themselves talking and dancing.

Yes, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

LETTING THE FAMILY SKELETONS OUT OF THE CUPBOARD.

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A ROSE AT LAST
BY
CLIFTON BINGHAM

I T was only a rosetree slender

On a dingy window sill,

In the heart of the busy City,

With its mingled good and ill.

And the Angels must have seen it,

Unwilling to let it die,

For it thrived and bore a rose-bud

Under that darksome sky!

AWHITE face watched it daily

With joy in its childish eyes,

As she played alone in the garret

Under the city skies:

It brightened the dingy windows,

Each night as she crept to bed,

Though hungry and loveless and lonely,

"It will soon be a rose," she said.

T HERE at the window one morning,

The bud was a rose so fair,

But the garret was still and silent,

There was no little white face there!

It was smiling in happy slumber,

Its pain and loneliness past,

For the Angels who loved her were saying,

That the bud was a rose at last!

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HOW SANDOW MADE ME STRONG
A REMARKABLE PHYSICAL TRANSFORMATION.

IT was a question of going to South Africa or running the risk of a short life in England; health dictated the question, and the answer depended on many things. Someone suggested Sandow's School of Physical Culture as a compromise; and finally England, backed up by financial and other reasoning, carried the day.

I was a puny youth, weak of spirit and frail of frame, when I first visited Sandow's muscle factory in St. James's Street, London, and said that I had come to be made into a strong and healthy Englishman—to obtain a fresh lease of life if possible.

HEIGHT AND WEIGHT.

BEING SOUNDED."THE LITTLE MACHINE TICKED MERRILY AWAY."

Sandow fingered my arms and chest as he might a prize ox, and remarked that I should make an admirable subject for his purpose; he liked pulling folks out of their graves. Whereupon I imagined I should be passed into the gymnasium to swing a dumb-bell for an hour or so, and be invited to drop in again when I was next that way. But I was mistaken. Had my object been to enlist in Her Majesty's forces, the examinations and tests I was subjected to could not have been more extensive or peculiar. I was sounded, measured, weighed, pounded and questioned, the results being solemnly entered into a big ledger, as though it might all be used as evidence against me should the need ever arise. Weight 120 lbs., chest measurement 32 in., height 5 ft. 6½ in., though the latter is immaterial, as Sandow does not bargain to make one grow in that direction when nature considers her duty done.

Though I felt ashamed of the figures myself, they did not seem to affect my burly interrogators in any way, and the examination proceeded. Had I indigestion, and did I smoke? I confessed to a little of either weakness of the flesh. Was there any particular ailment in the family, and would I take a full breath and blow down this tube? As I did so, a little clock-like machine ticked merrily away, till it registered that my pair of lungs—or "one and a decimal," as a blunt old doctor had once informed me—could contain at full pressure 185 cubic inches of air—a poor record, be it said.

Next came dumb-bell and weight tests, careful note being made of the exact number of pounds I could lift with one hand, two hands, hold at arm's length, and support above my head. The record ran thus:—One hand lift, 65 lbs.; at arm's length, 18 lbs.; raised from shoulders (1) 40 lbs., (2) 35 lbs. each. Bar-bell raised above head, 85 lbs. So the examination ended, and when my photograph had been taken as a sort of example "before trying," I was free to join the little army of health-and-muscle seekers whenever I chose.

A very mixed army it was. Stern-visaged men were there going through the exercises as seriously as if life itself depended on them; sprightly veterans taking again to regular exercise, so much missed since they joined the half-pays; middle-aged men making up for the negligences of earlier days; clerks and students of all kinds going into strict training in order to be in form for the cricket and running season; and finally a goodly sprinkling of puny youths working hard to attain the weight and chest measurement necessary to give them another chance at Sandhurst or Woolwich, where they had just been declined "for physical reasons."

The display was not without its humour. A plump stockbroker is a common and natural enough sight in the city, but he forms a different spectacle as, minus the glossy hat and black coat of his calling, he energetically whirls a pair of dumb-bells in the frantic endeavour to exchange his superfluous avoirdupois for sinew and muscle, especially when his immediate neighbour, a very lean littérateur, is performing the same evolutions with the secret hope of putting on flesh.

THE BAR-BELL TEST—SUPPORTING 85 LBS.

It would require a keen eye, supported by a good imagination, to discover any outward visible sign of the "strong man" about the various instructors of Sandow's school, dressed as they are in ordinary attire, to say nothing of fashionable collars and the latest thing in neckties. Any one of them might have strolled in from Bond Street, mistaking the place for the club, yet any one of them would think nothing of snatching up a 100 lb. dumb-bell and raising it aloft with the ease with which most people might perform a similar feat with an umbrella.

When I presented myself at the gymnasium for my first course of instruction I was handed a pair of dumb-bells weighing not more than 3 lbs. each. I protested that I had been in the habit of using bells three times as heavy. It did not matter, I was informed,—lead pencils would be almost as serviceable, providing I concentrated my whole attention on each exercise in turn.

It must not be supposed, however, that dumb-bells do not play an important part in Sandow's system. On the contrary, as will be seen from the photographs herewith, they figure in numerous exercises, but their weight is practically immaterial. They usually vary according to the physical condition of those using them.

Having grasped his "three-pounders," the student is made to stand in an attitude of ease, the inner side of his arms fronting outwards. His very first step on the road to muscular development is to alternately bend each arm at the elbow, bringing the dumb-bell close to the shoulder. This has to be repeated some twenty or thirty times, to the measured "One, two, three," of the instructor.

LIFTING 70 LBS. WITH TWO HANDS.

The same thing is then gone through with the arms turned the other way, so that the knuckles instead of the finger-tips are brought up to the shoulders. Next the arms are extended outwards in a straight line, each being bent in turn at the elbow, and the dumb-bell brought immediately above the shoulder. And here comes the student's first difficulty; for in extending the arms each time it is necessary to keep them straight and rigid in order that the muscles may be benefited by the strain. It is amusing to watch various pairs of arms gradually drooping as this exercise proceeds.

Altogether the dumb-bells are used in about twenty different positions, each affecting a different set of muscles. There is the lunge, for instance, exercising both arms and legs. First standing at ease, the pupil takes a stride forward and strikes out alternately with his left and right, as though an adversary awaited the blow. Some twenty-five or thirty such lunges, however, are calculated to transform the most bellicose among Sandow's disciples into members of the Peace Society.

The wrists are strengthened in this fashion: once more extending the arms in a line with the shoulders the pupil now holds the dumb-bells by the ends, instead of in the usual way, and with a circular motion of the wrists revolves the bells first from right to left, then from left to right.

RAISING 40 LBS. WITH ONE HAND.

Next comes what the flippant call the "see-saw" motion. With the inevitable dumb-bell in each hand the student stands erect; the see-saw consists of nothing more remarkable than bending the upper portion of the body from side to side, without moving the lower limbs. These are cared for in the next exercise. Lying at full length on the ground, the pupil actually proceeds to kick his legs in the air! Not particularly graceful, perhaps, but highly beneficial, it is claimed, to the "hinges" at the knees and hips. What this motion does for the lower limbs, the next does for the upper part of the body. Lying at full length on the ground as before, and keeping the legs perfectly stiff, the student raises his head and shoulders from the ground, and with a quick movement swings forward until his body is bent almost double, then returning slowly to the former position. The dumb-bells are now forsaken for a time. The lesson to be learned is to support the body on the hands and toes, and to alternately lower and raise it by respectively bending the elbows and straightening the arms, taking care not to touch the ground with any part of the body. It looks and sounds easy enough; so it is, to do it once, but quite another thing to keep it up in quick succession until the instructor sees fit to cry "halt!" which is timed, it seems to the student, specially to remind him of the penultimate straw and the camel's back.

THE LUNGE.

Dumb-bells are now resumed, this time attached to stout elastic strands, these in turn being fixed to the wall. Exercises of much the same kind as before are gone through, except that the strain on the muscles is now greater, seeing that almost every movement involves stretching the rubber bands to their fullest extent, and allowing them to return to their natural state slowly, not with a snap. The same principle is applied to the development of the legs and neck, ingenious devices in the shape of "harness"—forming an interesting branch of the system—being requisitioned for the purpose. In each case the elastics have to be stretched as much as possible, the strain being in turn centred on sets of muscles that could be reached by no other method.

If after having gone through all these exercises the pupil should pine to develop his knowledge of Physiology as well as his frame, he may learn that this little action affects the latissimus dorsi, that that tiny movement seeks out the neglected deltoid, that another bend of the body, insignificant though it may seem, means much to the pectoralis major, and so forth. But the gentle student usually prefers not to burden his brain with these things, and in this respect he is perhaps not unlike the gentle reader. So no more shall be inflicted.

Every pupil has to attend Sandow's School at least twice a week, and when there to repeat each of the exercises named some twenty times, though this number is a kind of moveable feast, advancing or decreasing with his condition, reaching as high as sixty and as low as ten. Beyond that he is supposed to practise every day at home, and regularity in this greatly facilitates the development, just as home-lessons assist a schoolboy's education. There, probably, the simile ends; certainly the majority of Sandow's followers do conscientiously work out of school hours.

When students have been got into trim generally—this takes about a month—they are allowed to add weight-lifting, with and without "harness," to their regular exercises. To do so before the body was in a supple condition might result in serious strains occasionally. A still further stage is practice on the Roman pillar. This consists of hanging backwards suspended from the knees, and from that rising to an upright position, lifting with the body a bar-bell weighing anything between 30 lbs. and 120 lbs.

Every few months examinations are held, the same tests and measurements as on entering being gone through, and the results put down side by side in the ledger, so that one's weak points can be seen at a glance and receive particular attention forthwith.

THE FIRST STEP.

"WHAT THE FLIPPANT CALL THE 'SEE-SAW' MOTION."

"NOT PARTICULARLY GRACEFUL, BUT HIGHLY BENEFICIAL."

Personally, I had not been in the school a few weeks before I began to feel its benefits. The first signs were the arrival of an appetite and the disappearance of indigestion and insomnia. Gradually I exchanged loose flesh for firm muscle; my weight increased; my chest measurement advanced. My weight-lifting crept up by "fives" and "tens," till at the end of three months I could raise 70 lbs. with one hand, 350 lbs. with two, and 500 lbs. in "harness," all with comparative ease.

"UNTIL HIS BODY IS BENT ALMOST DOUBLE."

Every time I blew into the little lung-testing machine I felt apprehensive of its breaking or getting out of order under the strain. My course of instruction commenced ten months ago; at the last examination, held recently, my record ran:—One hand lift 130 lbs. (an increase of 65 lbs.). Held at arm's length 35 lbs. (increase 17 lbs.). Raised from shoulders, one hand, 90 lbs. (increase 50 lbs.), both hands, 160 lbs. (increase 90 lbs.). Raised above head 175 lbs. (increase 90 lbs.). Weight, 10 st. 0 lb. (increase 1 st. 6 lb.); chest measurement, 36 inches (increase 4 inches). Lift with "harness" 800 lbs.; without 550 lbs. Perhaps it should be added that this result was not achieved by irregular attendance at the school or occasional practice at home. I worked diligently every day on rising in the morning, and before retiring at night, and I fancy I have no need to go to South Africa now.

FOR THE WRISTS.

A little about the St. James's School itself. Incredible though it may seem, it is not a limited company. Every one connected with the place, from the manager downwards, has to go through the system. That is why the door is opened to you by a young Hercules whose clothes are bursting over him, and who, rumour says, is afraid to take them off o' nights lest he should never be able to get into them again; that is why, if you call early or late enough, you will see a muscular charwoman scrubbing the front steps to the quick time of "Sandow's March," for even she is not exempt. There is, by the way, a special course of training for lady pupils.

NOT SO EASY—

Every one connected with the place participates in the profits, which must be large, from the head-manager down to the two humbler individuals just mentioned. That, doubtless, is why the door is always opened to you with commendable alacrity, and may account for the fact that the front steps are the whitest in St. James's Street, and that the brasswork about the establishment positively dazzles the eyes with its gleam.

—AS IT LOOKS.

Of course Sandow has his "secret." It is that he does not believe in developing one part of the body at the expense of another. His aim is not to turn out pupils with runners' legs or rowers' arms, but of good physique generally. If a runner enters the school his legs are naturally better developed than the average. They will, therefore, require less attention than usual, and more will be given to other parts of his body. And so forth.

IT IS THE CONSTANT_STRAIN THAT_DEVELOPS THE MUSCLES.

The exercises are so devised that no set of muscles in the body is overlooked. In the ordinary course they are all developed together, at much the same rate; but this, of course, cannot always be adhered to. It frequently happens that a pupil desires chest expansion above all else, in which case he will devote himself primarily to the exercises specially framed to bring about that result. In several cases a couple of inches in the way of chest measurement has stood between pupils at Sandow's and commissions in Her Majesty's army.

Much depends, Sandow avers, on mind concentration.

"It is of little use," he says, "going through the exercises mechanically. As each one is performed, it should occupy the whole attention. Merely swinging a dumb-bell the regulation number of times will do no good. It should be regarded as serious work, and one's heart should be in it. It has not been my aim to produce what are known as strong men; it is a comparatively easy task to pick out a few men exceptionally endowed by nature, and train them until they attain great proficiency in particular feats of strength and activity. It may be considered somewhat ambitious, but my honest desire is nothing less than to permanently raise the standard of physique in the whole race, and to restore, as far as possible, the old types of physical strength and beauty, for the loss of which civilization is so largely responsible."

One naturally asks: What is the age limit at which physical development necessarily ceases? Perhaps Sandow's school-register best answers the question. His pupils range from fourteen to seventy-three. The gentleman of the latter age felt so rejuvenated after one week's attendance that he promptly put himself down for a whole year's course, and has since declared his intention of "never leaving school" until old age compels him.

It is interesting to recall how Sandow first came before the public as an exponent of strength. Some nine years ago it was the practice of a "strong man" then performing at a London theatre of varieties to issue nightly from the stage a challenge to the world generally to accomplish any of his feats, which included the lifting of great weights, the snapping of steel chains, and the bending of iron bars. One night, to everyone's surprise, the challenge was accepted by a member of the audience, and a young man stepped upon the stage in immaculate evening dress. When this was removed the customary attire of the stage "strong man" was revealed. It was Sandow, then unknown.

LIFTING 350 LBS. WITHOUT HARNESS.

Amid the wildest excitement he performed every one of the wonderful feats. The next day a new "strong man" had dawned.

LIFTING 500 LBS. WITH HARNESS.

It is Sandow's ambition to start schools of muscular development in all the principal cities and towns in the kingdom, and if they become as popular as those in London, there is hope for the country, physically, yet. The tendency of the Englishman, since he acquired the habit of living in towns, has been to take too little exercise. Roast beef and Sandow may do more for the race than the former ever accomplished alone.

WEIGHT-LIFTING ON THE ROMAN PILLAR.

A. E. J.

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THE STONE RIDER!
A SHORT STORY OF THE WEIRD.
By Nellie K. Blissett; Illustrated by Max Cowper.

IT was a dull day in early spring, and the wind in the pine forest behind the Castle of Salitz was making a melancholy moaning. In one of the deep window-seats of the castle I sat, with a book in my hand, looking down at the drowned landscape and the swollen river. I had come to visit that mysterious personage, Count Siebach von Salitz, whose extraordinary powers of thought-reading and prophecy would have brought him in several fortunes had he chosen to use them professionally. As it was, he was the object of much interest, and not a little awe, in half the capitals of Europe; and it was with some curiosity that I accepted his invitation to his Hungarian estate.

So far nothing in the least peculiar had occurred to me—a disappointment I was rather inclined to resent.

Siebach's step disturbed my meditations. I turned and saw him coming down the passage—a tall, gaunt man, with a haggard face and evil eyes. But if Siebach's personal appearance was not prepossessing, his charm of manner was so great that when you knew him well you forgot the small, cruel eyes, the sneering mouth, the curious mixture of power and cunning which characterized his countenance. His voice, too, was singularly beautiful, and atoned for many things.

He smiled as he came up and seated himself beside me.

"If you admire the view, you shouldn't look so solemn, Bazarac," he said; "and if you don't, and are bored, shall we go for a ride? Or will you come and look at my study?—you haven't seen it yet, and it is worth seeing."

"HAGGARD FACE AND EVIL EYES."

"Everything here is," I answered, as I rose and followed him downstairs.

He laughed.

"That is the disadvantage of being born a Siebach of Salitz—there is no merit in possessing perfection. It is merely inherited property. Don't knock your head against this doorway—it is low. That's right!"

We had passed under a low archway into a long room panelled with black oak. There was a table, littered with papers, near the window, and over the hearth hung the portrait of a young man whose countenance, particularly about the mouth, distinctly resembled that of Siebach.

"How like you that portrait is!" I exclaimed.

He looked at it for a moment as though weighing my remark carefully in his mind.

"Do you think so?" he said at last. "It is my poor cousin Franz."

"I didn't know you had one."

"He is dead. He was drowned whilst we were bathing in the river beneath. I was with him at the time, but I could not save him. His body was never recovered—it was an awful affair. He was only seven and twenty."

"Younger than you?"

"Oh, no—older. He was the heir. Poor Franz!"

I looked at the portrait with increased interest, and Siebach gazed at it too. There was a disagreeable expression on his face.

"It is a fine portrait," I said.

"Very—an Auberthal. You know Auberthal, of course? A splendid painter. Singular, now, I forgot that he will arrive here to-day. He has a long-standing engagement to visit me."

I was very glad to hear it, for I had known Auberthal when he was a mere boy, studying in Garcia's "Atelier Espagnol." We had seen a great deal of each other, and I had liked him exceedingly. Although Siebach was very entertaining, I did not altogether trust him; a solitude only relieved by his presence did not at the moment appear alluring.

I expressed my pleasure, and began to walk about the study, admiring the family portraits, of which there were a great number. Under one of them I noticed a curtain drawn across the wall, and, supposing it to conceal a picture or a cabinet, I very innocently put out my hand as if to draw it on one side.

"TALKING TOGETHER IN THE FOREST."

A sharp exclamation from Siebach stopped me. I dropped the curtain and turned to him.

"What is the matter?"

He recovered his self-possession immediately.

"Nothing. I was cutting a pencil and the knife slipped. Oh, it is only a scratch!"

"What is behind this curtain?" I asked, returning to my former occupation.

He did not answer at once. Then he laughed, a trifle uneasily.

"A family superstition—nonsense if you like. You can look."

I drew it accordingly. The curtain covered a large recess, and in this recess stood the life-sized statue of a horse in white marble, bearing a man in armour upon his back. The singular part about this equestrian group was, that whilst the horse was stone, the trappings and the man's armour were real.

"That is an odd idea," I remarked.

"What, the armour? Oh, it belonged to an ancestor of mine. Of course there is a stone figure underneath to match the horse."

"The vizor of his helmet is down. Why don't you raise it? It would be far more effective."

He laughed again more uneasily than ever.

"My dear Bazarac, 'let sleeping men lie' is an excellent transposition of the old proverb. This gentleman is supposed to 'walk'—or rather ride. In other words, he is the family apparition. He is supposed to ride about the castle at night."

"What a very unpleasant idea!"

"Do you think so? Well, it is sufficiently ghastly, I admit."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"No, but I have often fancied I heard a horse snorting and trampling about the passages. At this time of year he is often heard. The servants tell odd stories about him, but I have never encountered him myself."

"It would be an interesting encounter."

Siebach shuddered visibly.

"I think not," he said, in an altered tone.

I looked up at him. His face was very pale, and his shifty glance avoided mine.

"You are afraid of him," I said, laughing.

An odd light blazed for a second in his eyes. He had a pair of gloves in his hand, having just come in from a walk. Suddenly, without any warning, he flung one glove full at the mailed face of the Stone Rider. The armour rattled, and the glove fell back at Siebach's feet. He picked it up and looked me in the face.

"You see whether I am afraid," he said, haughtily.

I did not understand his manner, but I saw that it would be better to change the subject at once, and avoid it for the future. So I asked him at what time Auberthal would arrive, and we talked of other things.

Auberthal came in time for dinner—a little round man with a face all brown skin and black beard, and extraordinarily bright eyes. I should never have recognized in him the slip of a boy whose genius had electrified the "Atelier Espagnol," but he was as pleasant as ever. We passed a very enjoyable evening, and retired in due course to bed.

From the moment I had dropped the curtain across the recess in the study, I had never given another thought to the Stone Rider. Auberthal's arrival had successfully banished reflection on that somewhat peculiar incident. I undressed, and got into bed, and, as I was not sleepy, began to read. I suppose this was at about half-past eleven, and I went on reading steadily for over half an hour, at the end of which period I laid down my book and prepared to blow out my candles, when a sound arrested my attention, and I paused to listen. The castle had long been silent, and everyone had retired to rest. Yet there was a distinct sound as of someone moving about the corridors under me.

My room was in the second story of the building, at the head of the grand staircase—an immensely broad and imposing affair of beautifully inlaid marble. The corridors, too, were all marble paved, so that the slightest sound was noticeable in them. I listened, and distinctly heard the noise, whatever its cause, approach the foot of the staircase. Then it paused for a moment, and there followed a curious sound of scrambling, as of a large and somewhat unwieldy object coming up the stairs.

By this time my curiosity was thoroughly excited. I got out of bed and went to the door. As the room was very long, and the door at the farther end of it, this was a decidedly better post for listening purposes. I had not been there a second before I heard the unmistakable rattle of armour, and the snuffling sound a horse would make after any unusual exertion. A wild idea flashed across my mind, and I pressed closer to the door.

This was the Stone Rider!

The sounds came nearer and nearer until they were just outside. Then came another pause, and a heavy sigh—almost a groan—but whether from horse, or rider, I could not decide. Then the horse was turned round, and clattered and rattled down the shallow steps of the staircase, and away down the corridors, until all was silent once more.

All this time, though greatly excited, I had not felt the slightest sensation of fear; but now that all was still such a feeling of terror came over me that I lay awake for hours scarcely able to breathe, listening for the return of this midnight visitant. But he did not come, and towards morning I fell asleep.

"IT IS GOING DOWN THE CORRIDOR TOWARDS THE STUDY."

At breakfast I observed that Auberthal, who had been very lively the previous evening, seemed silent and depressed. Siebach, too, looked rather yellower and thinner than usual. I enquired if they had not slept well.

"Oh, yes," answered Siebach, hastily, "I have slept very well indeed, thank you."

Auberthal said nothing for a moment.

"You don't look particularly brilliant yourself, Bazarac," he remarked presently.

"Somebody was racketing about the staircase last night and disturbed me," I replied carelessly. "Didn't you hear it, Auberthal? Your room is next mine. I wondered whether the noise would keep you awake."

Siebach looked up at me sharply and seemed about to speak. But he thought better of it, and returned to his breakfast.

"Yes," said Auberthal, quietly. "Something certainly kept me awake. That family ghost of yours, Siebach, I expect—the Stone Rider."

"I heard nothing," returned the Count, stolidly.

But Auberthal was not to be silenced.

"No? That is odd. I heard him distinctly. He stopped outside my door; and something groaned. It gave me a peculiar sensation. What makes him walk, Siebach—I suppose there's a legend?"

"Oh, there are lots of legends," answered Siebach, offhandedly. "One says that the Ritter von Salitz in the thirteenth century caused a statue of himself, on his favourite charger, to be set up in the courtyard of the castle, and when he took prisoners of war, he chained them to the Stone Rider and flogged them to death. When he was about sixty he married for the second time. His wife was very young and very beautiful, and had been betrothed to his eldest son, whom he hated, and banished from the castle. One day he found his son and his wife talking together in the forest. He seized them, had them lashed to the statue, and directed his men to flog them to death, whilst he himself stood by and derided them. However, that was the last atrocity he perpetrated, for he soon after went mad, and died. And his spirit is doomed to ride the stone horse for ever."

"A sufficiently horrible story, at any rate," remarked Auberthal, composedly. "Is the horse in your study the original of the courtyard."

"Yes. It has been most carefully preserved, and handed down from generation to generation."

"No wonder it roams about the castle at night," I said.

"That is mere nonsense," returned Siebach, irritably.

I said nothing more; but after breakfast I found an opportunity of speaking to Auberthal alone.

"I should like to investigate this matter," I said. "Will you help me, Auberthal?"

He laughed.

"Certainly; but I don't believe in ghosts, you know, Bazarac. I trust you don't?"

"FOR A FEW MOMENTS THE RIDER REMAINED MOTIONLESS."

"I have seen some very strange things in connection with ghosts; at all events, will you keep up to-night, and follow the Stone Rider with me?"

"If it will afford you any amusement."

"Don't speak to Siebach about it, then. He evidently does not care for the subject," and I related to him the incident of the glove.

He looked rather grave.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said, when I had finished. "There is insanity in his family, you know—I don't think his brain is what it was. And once he went off his head altogether."

"When?"

"Soon after his cousin was drowned. He saw it happen. That was enough to drive anyone mad, perhaps. But he was always queer."

"Then, to-night—?"

"Yes. When he gets to the bottom of the staircase again we will follow him."

The day passed off very quietly, and nothing more was said about the statue. We went to our rooms at the usual time, and I sat down to wait. At a few minutes past twelve I heard the noise beginning. It came up the staircase as it had done before, and paused for a moment outside the door. Then I again heard the sigh, or groan, and the clattering down the stairs. I opened my door and found Auberthal already on the landing.

"Make haste," he said. "It is going down the corridor towards the study."

"HE GRIPPED MY ARM."

We rushed down, and along the passage, the rattling going in front of us. But we were too slow. When we reached the study, the green baize curtain was drawn, and everything was perfectly still. After a moment's hesitation I pushed back the curtain. There sat the Stone Rider, immovable as ever, mailed and erect.

"He looks quite harmless," I said, doubtfully.

Auberthal bent down and held the candle closer. On the side of the horse were great dark stains, and the armour glimmered redly in the flame. The painter put his hand on one big patch, and drew back quickly.

"I could swear it was wet," he whispered. "Let us go!"

We returned, and I drew him into my room.

"It's very odd!"

"Very!" He held up his hand. "Do you see?"

"Good Heavens!" I gasped, "it's all red!"

"With blood," he said, solemnly.

*****

For some days neither Auberthal nor I spoke of our adventure with the Stone Rider. But at last, one evening before dinner he came to me in my room.

"I shall go down into the study to-night," he said, "and see what really happens. Will you come too?"

"Yes. The noise at night still goes on?"

"Regularly every night. Bazarac, I mean to get to the bottom of this mystery."

"All right. I shall be charmed if you can prove the whole thing a hoax, but—"

"But what?"

"I don't think you will."

He considered for a moment.

"I don't think I shall either," he said, as he left me.

Siebach was unusually brilliant and amusing at dinner. He kept us at table long after our usual hour, and when we at last got away to our rooms there was barely time to let the castle become quiet, and get back to the study, before twelve o'clock. However, we accomplished the feat, seated ourselves near together, blew out the candle, and waited for the ghost to move.

For some time everything was silent. Then, all at once, the room became strangely illuminated. One after another the chairs, and tables, and pictures grew out of the gloom, lit up with a pale, peculiar light. And at last the curtain was drawn aside—the horse shook himself, and snorted—the armour rattled—and the Stone Rider rode slowly out into the middle of the room.

The supernatural radiance streamed from him—it issued from the closed bars of his helmet, from the steel breastplate, from the joints of the rusted gorget. It seemed to grow brighter every moment, till, almost dazzled, I turned my attention to the horse.

I did not at first notice the stain on his side which Auberthal had observed. But as I looked at him, I saw that a dark stream began to trickle down the whiteness of the marble. It dripped from a great dent in the breastplate of the Rider—dripped slowly and steadily over the horse's neck, and rolled down to the floor.

For a few moments the rider remained motionless; then struck his spurs into the marble flanks of his steed, and they moved away. The light went with them through the open door, and Auberthal sprang up and rushed after them.

I saw the Stone Rider turn in his saddle and look back as we raced after him; and a flash of flame seemed to shoot out from between the helmet-bars. On they went—clattering, clashing, rattling through the stone passages, and we after them. They reached the staircase—the Rider rose in his stirrups and urged the horse up. The pace was too fast—the horse slipped, plunged—and finally recovered himself, just as an ordinary horse might do, and halted.

But the Rider's balance was destroyed. He swayed in the high saddle—his arms went wildly into the air—and he crashed forward, and fell, with a horrible rattling sound, at our feet. The clasps that fastened the gorget and breastplate burst—the helmet rolled away—and on the pavement before us lay a skeleton!

For a time we were too stunned to speak. Then Auberthal uttered an exclamation of horror and looked up.

Half way up the staircase stood Siebach von Salitz. His face was ghastly white—his eyes were widened with an expression of awful terror—his hands were stretched out as though grasping the air. He stood motionless for some moments, staring into vacancy; then his rigid expression relaxed, his arms dropped to his sides, and he came down the stairs.

"What has happened?" he enquired.

"That!" said Auberthal, bluntly, pointing to the skeleton.

Siebach bent over it for a moment. Then he kicked it contemptuously aside.

"Somebody has been playing a practical joke," he remarked.

Auberthal coughed.

"I have not, nor has Bazarac. Who could have done it?"

"Do you suppose I have?"

Siebach seemed indignant. Auberthal looked at him very quietly.

"I do not suppose anything," he said, "but there is the skeleton, and there is—"

He turned to look for the horse, but it was gone.

"There was the horse," he concluded, "and to-morrow morning I leave for Paris. Good-night!"

He disappeared up the staircase, leaving me face to face with Siebach.

"What does he mean?"

"I RECOGNISED ONE OF SIEBACH'S SERVANTS."

"I really don't know, Siebach."

"Do you intend to leave for Paris, too?"

"I am very sorry," I said, "but my nerves are really not equal to this sort of thing. Good-night, Siebach!"

He surveyed me with an odd expression; then, suddenly, he gripped my arm.

"Do you think—" he almost gasped in my ear—"do you think that he suspects anything?"

I shook him off.

"Good heavens, Siebach! What should he suspect? Can't you explain this horrible thing?"

He recovered his self-command almost immediately, and smiled feebly.

"No. I can't," he said. "Am I to explain all my family skeletons, Bazarac?"

"Not if you do not wish."

And I left him standing by the skeleton of the Stone Rider.

*****

For some years I did not come across Count Siebach von Salitz—neither, I am afraid, did I wish to do so. Of the Stone Rider—who had proved to be no stone at all—I often thought, but at last I hardly regarded the incident as anything more than the recollection of a bad dream. Auberthal and I met frequently, and often discussed our adventure; and I believed that he had suspicions concerning Siebach which I did not care to share. But one evening as we sat in the "Atelier Espagnol"—Auberthal and myself—someone knocked at the door and came hastily in. I recognised one of Siebach's servants.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Will M. Bazarac or M. Auberthal come to my master at once? He is very ill at the Hôtel ——."

We both rose and looked at each other, and Auberthal slipped his arm through mine.

"We had better go together."

So we went. The Hôtel —— was close by. In ten minutes we were in Siebach's bedroom.

"HIS EYES BLAZED WITH FEVERISH LIGHT."

He lay in bed, looking thinner and more haggard than ever. His eyes blazed with feverish light, and he beckoned us eagerly to approach.

"There is not much time," he said, speaking in a weak, strained voice; "I sent for you to tell you—what is that?"

His eyes dilated with fear, and he glanced round the room.

"It is nothing," said Auberthal, gently.

He laughed—a short, bitter laugh.

"He is not far off—he never is. Don't you hear the horse breathing outside the door? I can. I always hear it now. Don't let it come in—don't—don't, Auberthal!"

His voice rose to a shriek.

"Nothing shall come in."

"Thank you. I am so foolish to mind! I—I wanted to tell you. I—I murdered him."

He fell back exhausted.

"Whom?" asked Auberthal, aghast.

"My cousin Franz. He was the heir."

"But he was drowned."

Siebach struggled up on his elbow.

"No, I told them that. I shot him; and I knew if they found the body they would accuse me, so I hid it. And when his father died, and I got the castle, I dug him up—and—you know. I could not hide the skeleton, so I put it on the horse. Don't you think that was a good idea?"

He laughed, and Auberthal looked at me with a shudder.

"The armour hid it," went on Siebach, "and I knew they were all so superstitious they wouldn't touch it. And then you came—you and Auberthal."

At that moment the doctor came in. When he left the room he called me out.

"Count Siebach is mad?" I questioned,

"He is not responsible for what he says. Are you a friend of his?"

"In a way."

"Then you had better stay with him. Send for me if he gets worse. I shall do no good by stopping."

I went back to Auberthal. Siebach was obviously too ill to be left. I agreed to sit up with him half the night, whilst Auberthal rested.

Siebach was exhausted, and for some hours lay quite still. I think he was insensible. But about 12 o'clock I heard a sound from the bed, and went to him. He was sitting up, looking straight before him into space.

"Don't you hear it?" he asked.

I listened, to appease him.

"No."

"Not the horse?"

I listened more attentively.

Yes—the old rattle—the old sound of a horse's hoofs. It was coming up the stairs.

Slowly the door opened—slowly the light I had seen before grew in the darkened air—and into the room rode the Stone Rider, rigid, erect, with the unearthly radiance all around him.

He came up to the foot of the bed, and slowly lifted the vizor of his helmet, disclosing a glistening skull—and, as I looked, the skull became the face in the portrait over the mantelpiece of the study at Salitz. It was too evident that Siebach recognised it. His eyes were fixed on the apparition; his thin features were grey, and drawn with fear. For a moment he remained motionless, staring at it; then he threw up his arms with an awful cry, and fell back.

Slowly the Stone Rider drew the mailed gauntlet from his right hand. For a moment he poised it deliberately in the air, then flung it full in Siebach's face.

A shudder ran through the prostrate figure, but it did not move again; and the Stone Rider turned his horse and rode from the room. The light followed him, and we were again in semi-darkness.

Then I lit a candle and rang for Auberthal and the servants.

****

Whether the story of the murder was correct or not, I cannot say. It may have been the madness of a diseased imagination, or it may have been the late remorse of a criminal. At any rate, it is not for me to throw suspicion on the name of a dead man. I can only relate what I myself saw and heard. The doctor declared, and maintains to this day, that his patient was insane; and, being a doctor, he very naturally has the world on his side. But, say what he will, there is one thing he can never explain. When I lit the candle that night, and found Count Siebach von Salitz lying dead, I found also that on his forehead was the distinct print—purple and bruised—of a clenched fist. The doctor cannot explain this; perhaps I can. For what could it be if it was not left by the gauntlet of the Stone Rider?

"I ... FOUND COUNT SIEBACH VON SALITZ LYING DEAD."

---

MAKING A MODERN NEWSPAPER.

Some Secrets Revealed
By Alfred C. Harmsworth, Editor of the Daily Mail.

FROM FOREST—

WHEN you casually and carelessly open your newspaper of a morning, how often do you realise, even if you are aware, that it is the product of a score of busy organisations, with tentacles spread over the whole world, the operation of which involves the best brains and machinery of the age; that unlimited capital and thought are devoted to its daily production; that its continual appearance has created a new class of men who work at night and sleep by day; that its distribution requires the use of special trains, and the gathering of its news the opening at night of telegraph, cable, and telephone offices; that the public appetite for reading is sweeping away vast Scandinavian and American forests for the manufacture of the wood pulp of which the paper itself is made; and that the very journal you are reading may have formed part of a growing tree a month ago!

In the days of wagers, the wool growing on a sheep's back was once converted into a dresscoat by dinner-time—and they dined at four o'clock then! In the last few years a not dissimilar experiment resulted in the conversion of a tree that was growing at dawn into a newspaper by luncheon.

Your daily newspaper is the best bargain you will ever make, and you make it every day. Do you grasp the fact that your newspaper is the most splendid example of co-operation imaginable—that it enables you to obtain for a few pence each week that which, if only one copy were printed, would cost you, for telegraphy, for brain work, for machinery and building and land, a thousand pounds a day or more? The Duke of Westminster or Mr. Astor might buy a better horse, picture, or theatre seat than you can, but your newspaper is as good as theirs.

According to Mr. Labouchere and some other folk, the mystery of the press is the secret of its power. Yet I venture to think that if I lift the curtain a little—nay more, if I take the public behind the scenes for a short while—I shall be increasing rather than endangering the respect in which the newspaper press is very properly held in this country.

In the days when many newspapers were small sheets, produced in dark alleys, under the charge of disreputable ne'er-do-wells, who veiled a vast amount of vulgarity under the name of Bohemianism, it was doubtless a wise thing to surround the press with mystery. The less the public knew about a newspaper office the better for the newspaper. But to-day the public press is the concentration of all that is best in thought and all that is most modern in mechanism.

—TO FLEET STREET.

A three mile roll of paper.

HOW THE NEWS COMES—BY CABLE, TELEGRAPH, TELEPHONE, ETC.

The internal construction of a newspaper office is almost as complicated as that of a battleship—the duties of a modern editor as onerous as those of the man in the conning tower.

Let us take a hasty glance at the inside life of a journal.

A newspaper office is one of the few business establishments in which the human machinery is at work the whole twenty-four hours round. The business department, which requires the same staff as is needed in an insurance office or bank, starts its operations, as a rule, at nine in the morning, when the heads and clerks of the advertising, circulation, and other departments assemble.

With them arrives the first of the editorial staff. He, in the case of one newspaper with which I am acquainted, relieves the colleague who has been on duty since the previous midnight. It is his duty to open the editorial letters, to watch the news of the day, to see whether the particular journal on which he is engaged has gained or lost by comparison with its competitors in the collection of news, and to arrange matters generally for the coming of his co-workers, the foreign editor, and others, who assemble at eleven o'clock.

By this hour many of the reporters are already engaged in their multifarious engagements in various parts of the metropolis. The preparation of the next day's paper goes on steadily until five o'clock, when there is usually a brief conference of the editorial powers that be on the policy to be adopted on any particular event, and the methods required for obtaining any particular news or other features, and then, at six o'clock, the hard work of the day commences.

JUST OUT!

The clerks, who have been receiving and checking advertisements all day, have sent them to the printing department, where advertisers' announcements are being put into print as rapidly as nimble fingers can operate quick machinery, and then, save for the presence of one or two clerks, the advertisement and commercial side of a newspaper "shuts down" for the day. The sub-editors appear, reporters come in with the results of their day's labours, news arrives by the tape and other news machines in a constantly increasing quantity for the next nine hours. First comes the news from China or India. The Indian correspondent puts his telegram on the wire at eight or nine o'clock in Bombay, which is equal to four o'clock in the afternoon in London; and this difference of time, even allowing a couple of hours for transmission, makes him always first in the field with his news. But, on the other hand, the American news will not arrive until very late indeed, for when it is seven o'clock in the evening at New York it is midnight here.

"How do you manage to find all the little pieces of news to put into your paper?" is a question that must have been asked of every journalist.

That is not the difficulty. One's heaviest task is the keeping out of the items of news. On an average day it is safe to estimate that twice or thrice as much intelligence comes to a newspaper as it can possibly use. At times like, say, the last Jubilee, or at any moment of public excitement, news pours in in a manner appalling to contemplate.

OLD STYLE.

(Setting type by hand at 10 words per minute.)

The wonder is that there are so few mistakes in journals. When it is remembered that those who handle and pass the news have often but a second to decide as to its accuracy, that it often comes from parts of the world to which it is impossible to refer speedily by telegram, that it frequently consists of statements made by public men, who may disavow them when put to the test—when it is remembered that the sub-editor has to contend with the errors of shorthand, of the telegraph, the electric cable, and the telephone, I think that British newspapers, and London metropolitan newspapers in particular, are an object lesson to the world in accuracy. Laborious publications like the Army List, and the London Gazette, which are compiled by a leisurely Government staff, contain as many errors in proportion as the hastily produced modern newspaper.

NEW STYLE.

(Setting type by machinery at 40 words per minute.)

Accuracy, indeed, may be considered to be the feature of English journalism. The stress of newspaper competition in New York induces the younger journals to rush anything into type that comes to hand, and the American public does not seem to mind it.

But I pity the English journal which should print one or two items of false news. The average Briton, who is a plodding, painstaking man, takes his newspaper as seriously as his breakfast, and one or two mistakes in his newspaper, or his eggs, would make him change his caterer. He has no sympathy for "enterprise" which leads him astray. And from this fact arises one of the differences between the English and the American newspaper. From the American aspect, ours is dull, slow, stupid, and behind the times. On the other hand our journals are typical of the painstaking, plodding nature of our people, and, like our public buildings, are often much better than they look.

DISTRIBUTING CARTS WAITING FOR THE EVENING PAPER TO COME FROM THE MACHINES.

To return to our visit to the newspaper office. All the evening long as news arrives it is cut down and measured as to its importance, corrected, given its proper heading, and sent upstairs by pneumatic or other lifts to the composing department. Towards eleven o'clock at night every brain is concentrated on its task. At one o'clock the worst is over. There is time for a cigar or a cigarette. One may be waiting for important news from a war correspondent, or merely keeping the paper open for any news that may arrive between one and three in the morning.

CYCLIST DISTRIBUTORS "LOADING UP."

The type is first set into columns by machinery, corrected and re-corrected; these columns are then made up into pages, which are again corrected, each page being tightly screwed into an iron frame (I am purposely using no technicalities). A papier maché or other mould is then taken of each page, and into this mask (or matrix) hot metal is poured, and the pages come out in the form of curved plates ready for fixing on the machines. It is a difficult process to explain without ocular demonstration, and I have been so long accustomed to the work that I have lost all sense of its beauty and ingenuity.

Towards three o'clock in the morning all the curved plates have been fixed on the machines; final proof copies—that is to say, first impressions of the paper—have been passed; the machines start, and up come complete copies of the paper as you see it at the breakfast table, the club, or in the railway train.

The first complete copies are carefully scanned by dozens of eager eyes in the hope of finding some tiny blunder which it is not too late to remove.

Each of these modern printing presses depicted here has a nominal capacity of 48,000, or 96,000 copies per hour, according to the size of the paper.

THE MACHINE WHICH EATS PAPER AT THE RATE OF 20 MILES AN HOUR.

It is a speed truly terrific. The carts that are waiting outside the newspaper office in the night seem to be filled almost by magic. One hears the machinery start; a few minutes later the race for the distributing agents and the railway trains begins. Upstairs such of the editorial staff as have not gone home are enjoying the same kind of chat at the conclusion of their labours as other men do at their clubs. Nor are we newspaper men clubless even at that hour. The Press Club, hard by Fleet Street, keeps its doors open for journalists until five a.m.; and for the printers and others there are special hostelries open to them, and to them only, by legal enactment. Railway companies, too, provide trains for us, though not so many as they should, thus enabling us to get away from the city to the pure air of the suburbs at a time when all the world is sleeping.

HOW THE PAPERS COME UP FROM THE "INFERNAL REGIONS."

Newspapers are commercial concerns, and their proprietors are as anxious to attractively stock their columns as tradesmen their shop windows. We do not say so in our journals, but privately we are entirely aware that we are racing each other for attractive news. As to what does or does not sell in a newspaper, always an important question, opinions differ greatly. I doubt whether any two editors of metropolitan daily journals would agree on that point, the fact being that what pleases one audience does not necessarily interest another. Sometimes a newspaper will adopt a feature that has proved successful in a contemporary with most disappointing results in its own case. Now and then a particular feature will spread throughout the whole press. At one time the public is bent upon foreign news, at another time upon matters purely domestic, but I think all are agreed that the average metropolitan reader nowadays turns to his foreign news before he reads anything else. Two or three years ago there appeared to be a positive craze for sporting intelligence. To-day mere sporting news seems to have lost much of its attraction. The year before last the amount of cricket in the evening journals was a source of amazement. This year I venture to think cricket will reach its proper level.

PAPERS BEING TURNED OUT COMPLETE, FOLDED, COUNTED, AND READY FOR THE AGENTS—AT THE RATE OF 48,000 COPIES PER HOUR.

But that every section of the public values the quick and accurate publication of news is obvious. The desire for speed increases each year, and it is now recognised that the main object of a modern newspaper organisation is the collection of news and the accurate and speedy publication thereof. Incidentally it may be mentioned that of the quickness with which this is performed by the press, the evening journals in particular, few of the public have the least appreciation. I have known the verdict of a trial, the result of a cricket match, or a boat race, published to the world within ten seconds of the arrival of the news in the newspaper office. The statement seems incredible, but the thing can be done in more than one newspaper office in London and the provinces.

AN EDITORIAL CONCLAVE.

(Deciding the policy of the paper.)

I have asked for and obtained an item of news from New York in seven minutes. In this space of time was comprised the writing of my question in London, its transmission to New York, the writing of the news there, and the telegraphing of it back to London.

The British evening journals, and more especially those of the provinces, and Scotland, are, in my opinion, ahead of the world in the rapidity with which they publish accurate information.

We newspaper men love to chat among ourselves of great examples of the publication of exclusive news, "beats" and "scoops," we call them. One of the most successful was that achieved by the Pall Mall Gazette when it announced, in the teeth of press and official denials innumerable, the resignation of Mr. Gladstone. I was in the United States at the time, and can truly say that for well-nigh a month the Pall Mall Gazette was advertised day after day by a contradictory telegram in every paper in the United States. It is said that £500 was paid for that item of intelligence. It would have been cheap at £5,000.

Another great achievement was the publication by the New York World of news of the sinking of H.M.S. Victoria. It is not pleasant for the British journalist to remember that the full account first appeared in a journal published on the other side of the Atlantic, and that that account was retransmitted to England. Then among other sensational news victories were those of the Times correspondent at Pekin, in the recent Far Eastern imbroglio, and of Mr. Archibald Forbes at the time of the Franco-Prussian war.

The present generation has almost forgotten a great newspaper development of a generation back. Nearly thirty years ago the whole world was wondering what had become of Dr. Livingstone. Many attempts were made to find him; there were private and semi-official hunts for the missing missionary, but without avail. Then the Daily Telegraph and the New York Herald despatched Mr. Stanley, who found him at Ujiji. Next to the splendid war work of Sir W. H. Russell during the Crimea, Stanley's work was the best expeditionary journey of the century. More recently we have seen great feats of newspaper enterprise, both in this country and the United States, grow out of the Hispano-American war. War news will probably always be a newspaper's greatest luxury.

FLEET STREET BEFORE DAWN.

The Sheffield Daily Telegraph did a very big thing in 1867. I extract an account of the accomplishment from a recent publication:

"At that time, although few outsiders suspected it, there existed in Sheffield a British Vehmgericht—of which a man named Broadhead, secretary of the Sawgrinders' Union, was president—for the secret trial and punishment of non-unionist workmen. The Telegraph, acting on private and dearly-bought information, attacked this organisation, Sir William Leng, of course, finding the money, and often personally conducting the necessary investigations. It was a delicate as well as a dangerous task, as he soon found to his cost.

"One of his reporters was bludgeoned and left for dead in one of the principal streets of the town, and in broad daylight. The house in which another lodged was blown up with gunpowder. His own life was threatened day by day, and often many times a day. His leaders were written with a revolver on his desk and another strapped to his hip, and for nearly a year he never went abroad unarmed. At length the famous Royal Commission of 1867 was appointed, with the result that the secret horrors Sir William had so fearlessly denounced were dragged into the light of day. All England stood aghast, and the arch-villain Broadhead, together with Crookes, Hallam, and others of his tools, made full confession in order to save their own miserable necks. The power of the terrible tribunal was broken for ever; but the exposure cost the Telegraph, from first to last, some eighteen thousand pounds."

Sir William Leng's daring calls to mind that of Mr. Ross, of Black and White, who as a young man went through an experience that, while it proved a stepping-stone to his fortune (for he made nearly £1,000 by his exclusive telegrams to the press), thrilled the world for a very long time. The following is an account of the matter given me by a friend of his:—

In the memorable winter of 1880, when the snow lay so deep along the lines of the North that trains passed through tunnels of ice, and towns were isolated for days, a gruesome incident happened.

The Earl of Balcarres died at Florence, and the body, having been embalmed, was conveyed by tedious stages to Aberdeen, thence to be consigned to the mausoleum which formed part of the magnificent mansion at Dunecht, upon which the deceased Earl had spent twenty years of thought and "tons of money."

A hearse, of the lugubrious type one is accustomed to see in country towns, had been sent to await the belated train at Aberdeen, and the body was duly transferred, not without difficulty, for the bulk of the suite of coffins was a little greater than village hearses are made to meet. The weary ten mile journey was undertaken in the dark, amid a downfall of snow, over the bleak road that leads from the granite city to the village of Skene. Progress was slow, the night grew darker and stormier; the snow drifted in wreaths across the road; the horses became exhausted; the men in charge did their utmost for a time, but it seemed as if, in the words of the national poet, "the De'il had business on his hand." Hearse and horses became embedded in a bank of snow, and further effort was futile; the body had to be abandoned for the night.

On the following day the storm abated, assistance arrived, the vehicle was extricated, and the body was conveyed to Dunecht. There the funeral service was conducted in the chapel which is built over the family vault, and with little ceremony and few attendants the body was deposited on one of the shelves of the underground structure which was intended to be the tomb of the family to which its first tenant, the noble Earl, belonged.

A CORNER OF MESSRS. W. H. SMITH AND SON'S HEADQUARTERS IN LONDON AT 3.30 A.M.

The weird circumstances attending the Lord Balcarres' death and funeral were almost fittingly followed by events of unparalleled mystery. Twelve months almost to a day had transpired when a heavy odour of spices attracted the attention of the servants moving about the mansion. On examination it was found that the huge slab of stone which covered the doorway leading into the vault had been disturbed. The stone—seemingly heavy enough to require the strength of a dozen men to move it—had been lifted, the vault had been entered, the coffin "pinched" forward till it rested on the floor, the lid had been torn off, the two inner cases had been rent, the body removed, and the floor of the vault was strewn with the red sawdust by which the embalming fluid had been absorbed. Here was a mystery indeed.

The first hint of what had happened appeared in the papers on Saturday. The young Earl was telegraphed for, and outposts of police were established round the house, with instructions that no one was to be admitted, and no information was to be vouchsafed. One enterprising young journalist—Mr. W. D. Ross—who at that time was editing the principal evening paper in Aberdeen, resolved to break the silence by which his contemporaries were baffled. He secured the co-operation of one of the servants on the estate to whom he was known, and, deeming boldness best, found his way to the house, and demanded an audience of the Earl. The housekeeper, after some demur, consented. Plain-spoken tact was necessary in dealing with so delicate a matter; so when the Earl appeared, the young man explained that he was there as the representative of the Times (of which he was then the correspondent) to consult the young peer's wishes as to what should be said about this mysterious matter, with a view to obviate malicious and mistaken versions.

Lord Balcarres wisely accepted this considerate method, and, despite the orders that had been issued, gave special facilities to the pressman to examine the vault and obtain the facts so far as they could be obtained at the time. The first result was that Mr. Ross secured the monopoly of information, and also the monopoly of the telegraph wires at Aberdeen, and on Monday morning all the papers throughout the country published columns on the Dunecht mystery. It was this publicity that eventuall resulted in the partial elucidation of the mystery.

REPORTERS GLEANING "FULLEST DETAILS OF THE CRIME."

For days and weeks the telegraph officials at Aberdeen were kept busy transmitting the reams of "copy" which, in his capacity of half detective and half reporter, this young man had prepared. Mr. Ross probed the matter minutely, and, apart from his important police work, so thoroughly was his newspaper task accomplished, that over thirty leading daily papers passed their correspondence into his hands. Through the various phases of the mystery, ample orders and handsome revenue poured into him, since sub-editors put no stint on the quantities of matter of vital interest furnished for the public under the heading of "The Dunecht Outrage." The sensation was kept up by speculation, searches by bloodhounds, police investigations, arrests, body-snatching theories, suggestions of black-mail, of malice, and every kind of motive, for twelve months.

During this time, the newspaper man, whose detective work was considered of the greatest value by the police, became an important medium between the parties supposed to be concerned and the detective staff of the city, a position of very considerable personal danger.

Then the interest died away, till in July of 1882, eighteen months after the rifling of the tomb, the body was found buried in the leaf mould that lay in the dry bed of a little rivulet that at one time had run through the grounds at Dunecht.

Public interest was again kept at high tension by the curiosity of the people to account for the motive of the outrage. Then came the apprehension of suspected persons, afterwards liberated, and finally of one named Souter, who was convicted in the High Court at Edinburgh and sentenced to penal servitude. The conviction hardly met the justice of the case, for it was obvious that there must have been a group of grave-robbers at work.

One of the most curious things about the case was that the police informed Mr. Ross that they believed it was the intention of the guilty parties to make a confession, and that they had elected to make him the medium of it. It was actually arranged that the parties were to travel to Aberdeen by a certain train to reveal the whole mystery, but for reasons that have never transpired this plan was subject to sudden eclipse, and to this day the mystery remains as much a mystery as ever. The unfortunate man Souter, whose actual guilt was greatly doubted, called upon Mr. Ross the moment he was set at liberty, and through him communicated to the Press a circumstantial repudiation of his own responsibility, and promised that what he knew about the crime and the criminals would ultimately be revealed when considerations of honour which had kept him silent could be removed.

This is the story of the famous mystery which formed one of the most thrilling newspaper sensations of modern times, and which created for the present manager of Black and White a reputation for enterprise which has lasted till to-day.

IN THE EDITOR'S PRIVATE OFFICE—"I HAVE AN IMPORTANT SECRET TO SELL!"

Of a hundred interesting sides of newspaper life I have been unable to say anything. The dangers of war correspondents—the humours of the society column, and the people who want to get into it—the financial editor—the lady journalist—the parliamentary staff—the descriptive reporter—the newspaper artist—the £ s. d. of journalism—each and all of these, and many more, would make a paper of considerable interest; and Mr. Joseph Hatton should write his "Journalistic London" anew, for the whole newspaper position has changed since his last edition.

The sub-editor and the descriptive reporter appear to me to be the men upon whom the chief work of the journalism of the future will fall. In France, where they do many things well, such masters as Zola have raised descriptive newspaper writing to the level of an art. Here, save in the case of war correspondence and parliamentary work, we have not specialised much as yet. A descriptive reporter, as one of the artists who has illustrated this little chat of mine suggests, may be sent out to describe a murder trial, a fire, an execution, or interview a great novelist!

We shall improve by-and-by. The old verbatim reporter will always remain, but he must give way to the descriptive writer in many matters.

Touching the question of the publishing of great secrets—such as that of Mr. Gladstone's retirement already referred to—I claim for the newspaper press of Britain that it refrains from publishing news calculated to needlessly injure or offend. How well do we know the fair visitant who comes to us with some great scandal to sell, and who becomes almost indignant when she is politely shown out. Women, I fear, are more versed in this matter than men.

Out with the River Police.

SOME DAYS IN THE LIFE OF A NEWS-GATHERER.

A murder trial.
A railway accident.
A political meeting.
An execution.
A colliery disaster.
Interviewing a distinguished novelist.
A fire.

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