Numbers of people seem to be possessed of a strange kind of mania that only manifests itself in action when they have taken a little drink. It may be, and it frequently is, a very small drop of drink that does the mischief; but it leads to surprising results, for some weak spot, some peculiar trait, or some secret longing is operated upon at once. Poor old Cakebread used to say: ‘It is the argument that does it.’ Inordinately fond of talking when free from alcohol, a very small dose of it made her tongue-power ten times greater, and she became ‘argumentative,’ and the police were required.

In vino veritas is often true, though more often the reverse holds good. Most people that are worth their salt have a hobby of some sort, and though ‘cranks’ are sneered at, yet the possession of a hobby is not to be despised, for it shows, at any rate, that the possessor is in earnest about some object, and is not the aimless, indifferent, and apathetic individual that lives like a vegetable, and goes through life without his pulses stirred, his heart warmed, or his brain-power excited. Don Quixotes are more estimable than cabbages, but they had best let drink alone, or they may share the fate of some I have seen and wish to tell of in this chapter.

Patriotism—and we are all patriots nowadays—is an excellent quality, but patriotism plus a dose of alcohol is not always a blessing, as a well-educated young stalwart found one morning to his cost. It was near the polling-day, and the previous night he had been at a smoking concert, and truth compels to say in connection with a branch of the Primrose League. The smoking had been accompanied by drinking, and there were several speeches. The candidate for Parliamentary honours was present, and made a stirring speech on the protection of British industries. He waxed eloquent about the evils of foreign competition, and drew a dark picture of the future of the working-classes if the influx of foreigners was allowed to continue.

It was Saturday night, dark and wet; the shops were just about closing when the young patriot wended his way home. All at once he stopped, for something on the other side of the street attracted his attention; so he crossed over to a tailor and outfitter’s establishment, in the doorway of which there stood ten little nigger boys, dummies, nicely dressed, to show the public the quality and cheapness of the goods. A shopman was just in the act of removing them for the night, when the patriot called out, ‘Halt!’ and the shopman halted.

‘Why do you bring those foreign boys here? There are plenty of little English boys to do that job. Do you call yourself an Englishman?’ The shopman said it was ‘the governor’s business,’ and he could please himself whether he had English boys or nigger boys. This answer did not please, so, cursing the shopman, he rushed up to the dummies, smote each of them, and kicked them into the mud of the gutter, and rushed into the shop.

‘Where’s the governor?’ he demanded, and the governor was pointed out. ‘Look here. I have whopped all your niggers, and if you’ll come outside, I’ll punch your head for bringing them here to do English boys’ work.’ The governor went out and saw his broken figures and spoiled goods, and promptly sent for a policeman. Well pleased with himself, the patriot pursued his homeward way, followed by the governor. As some evil spirit would have it, he had not gone many yards before he came upon another clothing establishment and some more dummies. He drew up in astonishment, rubbed his eyes, and called out, ‘I thought I had settled you! I’ll make sure of you this time.’ At them he went. Into the gutter they went, where he was in the act of kicking them to pieces when a policeman arrived, and he was taken into custody. When he stood in the police-court dock, charged with being drunk and committing wilful damage, piled up in front of the witness-box were the broken figures, arms disjointed, heads severed from bodies, torn and muddy clothing, all beautifully commingled. Their evidence was overwhelming, and combined with the evidence of the shopman, given as above, made a conviction certain. When asked for his defence, he stated that he had been to a political smoking concert, and Mr. —— had been speaking about foreigners in England, so, having had a drink or two, he got confused; but he begged his worship not to convict him of drunkenness, for he absolutely denied having been drunk. The damage he admitted, and he was prepared to pay for it.

The magistrate, who loved a joke, and had a keen sense of the ridiculous, said, ‘You are a second Don Quixote among the marionettes. I am sorry to have to fine you. Such heroic victories as yours deserve a better result, but you must pay five shillings for being drunk and two pounds for damage; and if I may be permitted a word of advice to a patriot like you, it is this: “Don’t try to protect British industry after you have been at a smoking concert.”’ The man had plenty of money, and paid his fine, but went away very indignant at being fined for drunkenness. I don’t think he ever troubled much about the British workman after that.

But some men repeat, time after time, experiences quite as absurd. I know a well-dressed gentleman, who paid at least £120 a year rent, who was charged four times in as many months for going in search of ‘a black kitten with a blue ribbon round its neck.’ Really, he was charged with annoyance, ringing the bell and kicking the front-door of some other gentleman’s house. The story was always the same—a little drink, and then he would go to a house, ring the bell, and, when the servant came, he would demand his kitten. In vain would the servant assure him that there was no kitten in their house. If the door was closed, he would continue ringing, and would ultimately proceed to kicking the door, and would refuse to budge till he had got his kitten. As the kitten was a purely imaginary one, a constable had to be fetched and the gentleman taken into custody. He was bound over in his own recognizances twice, and ultimately fined; but when I suggested that if he would put a bit of blue ribbon on his own coat it would prevent him seeing an imaginary kitten with an imaginary blue ribbon, he was most angry, and wanted to know if I accused him of being drunk. Possibly he has taken my advice, for I have not seen him since.

A very little drink will make some men who are naturally modest and diffident very assertive, and they become, mentally, very large indeed; in fact, for the time, it would appear that all knowledge and wisdom are centred in them; but it has a similar effect, physically, upon other men, whom I have found imagining themselves to be veritable sons of Anak. Such was little Ebbs. Nature had denied him much stature, for in his boots he only stood five feet three. I don’t know whether he had an intense longing to be tall, or whether his ambition was to be a policeman; but this I do know, that no sooner had he partaken of a glass of beer than he became a six-foot policeman. The change in his stature and profession would not have mattered but for the fact that he insisted on doing policeman’s duty, and this led to unpleasant results, and necessitated his frequent appearances before the magistrate. He was always a welcome visitor at the court, and it was an understood thing among the different magistrates that he was to be allowed to have his head when he stood in the dock.

His appearance was always enough to create laughter. The charge, always the same—being drunk, imagining himself a policeman, and creating obstruction by directing the traffic in the streets—made the laughter more pronounced; but most amusing of all was the way in which he cross-examined the officer who arrested him, and the familiar assurance with which he addressed the magistrate. He had a round, clean-shaven face, wore glasses, his head was totally devoid of hair, and looked like a bladder of lard; his face was just visible over the dock railing. He had been a hard-working man, and could earn good wages. His wife—well for him—was a most careful woman; as they had no children, she had saved money, and they owned a row of cottages in the suburbs. Besides the ambition of becoming a big policeman, he was in possession of another, or, rather, another was in possession of him. He loved flowers generally, but dahlias were his especial pride, and he would spare no trouble in his desire to have the best and choicest that could be obtained. His love for flowers never got him into trouble—in fact, he remembered flowers no more when he had taken a glass; but then his other ambition became rampant. He was a bit of a humorist, and quite a logician, as the various magistrates found.

He had been charged several times before I made his acquaintance. The particular morning when I first saw him, a big policeman, quite young and fresh from the country, had found him in the street, putting up his hand and stopping the traffic in a very busy thoroughfare. A collision ensued, and the traffic got into a complete tangle. As the little man refused to leave his post of duty, the officer took him into custody, and he was charged. The officer, fresh to giving evidence in a London court, was nervous and confused, and spoke in a very low tone of voice. Ebbs watched him closely for a time, and then called out to the officer: ‘Speak out and speak plainly. Don’t be afraid of me. I want to hear the evidence.’ ‘Do speak up, officer,’ said the magistrate; ‘I want to hear myself.’ This made the officer more nervous still. He made a sorry mess of his evidence, but there was no doubt as to the main facts. ‘What have you to say to it?’ asked Mr. G. Chance, who was then sitting. ‘Well, your worship, you have heard the evasive way in which the officer has given his evidence. He is but an unsophisticated countryman. What can he know? Your experience and judgment, I am sure, will not allow you to take his word in preference to mine.’ ‘I think it will,’ said his worship. ‘You see, you were here last week on a similar charge, and I fined you ten shillings. To-day I must fine you twenty.’ He was taken to the cells, but his wife came and paid the money, taking him home with her.

The following week he was in the dock again on a similar charge, and similar evidence was given. Mr. Biron was sitting, and asked him for his defence, which Ebbs commenced by asking: ‘Would half a pint of four-ale make your worship drunk?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said his worship. ‘No, nor I don’t think so either.’ He said this in such a knowing way as to intimate that it would take a good many half-pints to do it. Even the magistrate laughed, but, trying to look severe, he said: ‘I don’t see that that has anything to do with the matter.’ ‘Oh yes, your worship, it has, for I will show you, and it is this way. I came out yesterday morning with twopence in my pocket; my old woman won’t let me have more.’ ‘Quite right, too,’ interposed the magistrate. ‘Well, I have got twopence. I come out; I meet with an old friend. Now, what is my duty as an Englishman?’ ‘Oh, I can’t say,’ said his worship. ‘Yes, you can, Mr. Biron—yes, you can. You know, for you are an Englishman: half a pint for him and half a pint for me. Now, I assure you honestly that I had no more, and if half a pint of four-ale won’t make you drunk, why should it make me drunk? See? And if you are not to be punished for drinking several half-pints, how can it be right or just for you to punish me for drinking one?’ ‘Well, I think I can answer that,’ said Mr. Biron, ‘by admitting that the law gives me no power or right to punish you for drinking half a pint, but it does give me the power and the right to punish you for the effects of that half-pint, and it is my duty to do so. You must pay twenty shillings, and, mind, if you come here again on a similar charge, I’ll make it forty.’ Again his wife took him out of pawn and saw him home.

The next week he was there again; same kind of charge and evidence. But this time Ebbs stood in the dock looking solemn and serious. ‘Now, Ebbs, what have you to say?’ Looking quite pathetic, he said: ‘I am very, very sorry, your worship, but I have been a fool this time.’ ‘Hold!’ said his worship; ‘don’t say any more, or you will spoil it. You have made the best speech you ever made in this court. I am glad you are coming to your senses. I meant to fine you forty shillings, but now you are realizing your folly, I shall only fine you five.’ As the gaoler took him out of the court he put his hand to the side of his mouth, and called out, loud enough for all in court to hear: ‘Didn’t I draw the feather over Mr. Biron’s eyes nicely!’ And everybody laughed, Mr. Biron included.

It took a collision to cure him of his noble ambition, and the last time I saw him in court he was fined heavily, and afterwards the police court knew him no more. But I saw him several times, and he told me that he was no longer going to be a fool for half a pint of four-ale.

Occasionally the drink, acting on some pet belief, brings the individual into more serious trouble, and ruins his character and prospects for life. An intelligent artisan that I knew something of, and upon whose honesty there did not rest a shadow of doubt, got a reputation as a burglar, and twelve months’ imprisonment beside, owing to the combination of drink and decided Socialistic views. He was a tall man with a very long nose. I have heard that men with big noses have a great deal of character. I can’t say if it is true generally, but, anyhow, this man had plenty of both. I had seen him at the court several times when some question about working men’s clubs had to be settled. Any question of this sort, or of the freedom of speech, or Socialism, was sure to bring him, and he was an attentive listener.

One day, to my surprise, he stood in the dock on a serious charge of burglary. A policeman stood on each side of him holding him up, for he was half asleep, and half insensible from drink. He was remanded for a week, that he might have time to get sober and to waken up. When he came up on the remand, I had a long conversation with him, and from what he told me and from what I gathered from the prosecutor, I offer the following as a fair account of what took place.

The prosecutor, who lived in a good neighbourhood, went to bed about 1 a.m. As he was last up, he closed and bolted the doors, and fastened the windows. He was of the opinion that he did not bolt one of the doors, but he knew it was closed, and it could only be opened from the outside with a latch-key that fitted it. The prisoner had been at his club all day on Sunday and Monday, and had been drinking heavily. He started homeward about half-past one on Tuesday morning. He had some recollection of opening a house-door with his latch-key; he knew it was not his own, but he felt somehow that he had a perfect right to go in, so he went in and lit the gas. He did not remember anything more till he found himself in Holloway. It was a singular thing that his latch-key should fit the prosecutor’s door, but it was more singular that he, in his muddled condition, should walk up to that one particular house, and that the door of that house should not be bolted; but so it was. He entered, and lit the gas in the hall. A nice gray overcoat was hanging in the hall; he put it on. A silk hat was with it; he threw away his cap and put on the hat. A silk hat demands a silk umbrella, so he appropriated one. He went into the dining-room and lit the gas—all four lights on the chandelier. On the mantelpiece lay a silver cigar-case; that, after he had lit a cigar, went into the overcoat pocket, and other valuables went in to keep it company. He then proceeded to explore the house, and found the larder; again he lit the gas, and discovered cold meat, pickles, etc. These he brought into the dining-room and invited himself to supper. On the principle that ‘good eating deserveth good drinking,’ he helped himself to a half-gallon can full of beer from a barrel which he found in the larder, left the tap running and the gas burning, and, having thought for the future, he filled the coat-pockets from a dish of uncooked sausages. Then he returned to the dining-room, where he drew a couch close to the table, and proceeded to smoke and drink till blissful sleep came upon him.

At seven the next morning, when the servant came down, she was surprised to find the gas burning, the passage flooded with beer, and the front-door ajar. When she went into the dining-room her surprise was turned into terror, for strange guttural sounds proceeded from the couch. She recognised the master’s overcoat, but she was quite sure that the long red nose that pointed to the ceiling did not belong to the master, so she screamed and fainted. When the master came down he tried to awaken and question the man, but it was of no use. He therefore went for the police, who also tried to awaken him. Neither could they succeed, so they fetched an ambulance, upon which he was lifted bodily—silk hat, overcoat, sausages, umbrella, and all—and taken to the police station. He was charged and taken up to the court, where he still had the coat on and the et ceteras in the pockets when he stood in the dock.

It was not till he returned from Holloway to stand again before the magistrate that he knew what he was charged with. He was sent for trial, and received a sentence of twelve months’ imprisonment. But from my conversations with him I believe that he had not the slightest idea that he was doing any wrong, and I believe he was as innocent of any criminal intentions as anyone could be.

If a man has a love for classical poetry, drink will also set him going regardless of time or place. I once saw a tramp about thirty-five years of age standing in the dock charged with being drunk and disorderly in the small hours of the morning; although clothed almost in rags, he had a clean-shaven and refined face. The officer who had him in custody said that he heard the prisoner using very bad language—‘unseen language’—that he went to him and told him to go home, but that he refused and kept on shouting and swearing, stamping his feet and waving his hand; it being a quiet street and everyone in bed, he took him into custody.

The prisoner asked permission to cross-examine the officer before he stated his own case. ‘Officer, do you say I was using bad language?’ he asked. ‘Very bad; the worst I ever heard,’ was the reply. ‘Will you give me your definition of good language?’ The officer could not. ‘Do you still say that I was using obscene words?’ ‘Very bad words,’ said the officer. ‘Do you still say that I was swearing?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Well, then, I pity your ignorance,’ he said, and the officer stood down. Turning to the magistrate, he said, ‘Your worship, I want to deny this charge most emphatically, and I want to explain how this charge was made, and what led up to it. All my life I have been fond of holding communion with the greatest minds of all ages, and I have committed to memory the greater parts of Homer and Dante, Shakespeare and Milton, as well as many other poets. If your worship will quote me a line from any of them, I will take it up and continue.’ ‘Oh no, no!’ said his worship; ‘I will take it for granted.’ ‘Well, your worship, when I have been walking about the country it has been my delight, when I have been alone, to recite aloud choice portions from the poets, and last night as I was going to my lodgings I saw the moon at full. I stopped and looked at it, and I thought it was the sun. I thought of Satan’s address to that luminary; to think of it was, with me, to recite it, so I began, “O thou that with surpassing glory crowned!” when Shakespeare comes in with Hamlet’s soliloquy. I did not want to recite from Shakespeare, so began again, “O thou——” At the end of the first line in comes Homer, so I began again with Milton: then in comes Dante. I suppose I had recited the one line from Milton twenty times, and each time was interrupted by one of the others; perhaps I did get a little loud and emphatic, but bad language I could not be guilty of, and as to obscene language, my very gorge rises at it. The ignorance of the officer prevents him understanding good language; I am quite sure your worship understands how the mistake arose.’ ‘Yes, I do,’ said his worship: ‘you had been mixing your drinks.’ ‘I had a glass of gin, a bitter-and-mild, and a Scotch whisky,’ said the tramp. ‘Ah! I thought so, and I must fine you three shillings for mixing your drinks, for that was the reason your poets got mixed; and look, when you want to “hold communion with the greatest minds of all ages,” you stick to aqua pura, and your poets will run straight.’ ‘Oh, don’t fine me! your worship, don’t fine me! I have a wife and three children outside.’ He was taken to the cells, where, in conversation, he told me that he was a public-school boy. Outside I saw a poor, weary-faced, bedraggled woman and three young children who tramped the country with him and whose home in London was the cheap lodging-house.

I met another classical scholar under very pitiful circumstances. He, too, had been picked up in the street by a policeman whilst holding communion with great minds. He gave no name and no address, and no one knew anything about him. When I saw him first he was crouching in a corner of the prisoners’ room among a lot of coarse men and vicious women. He was a splendid-looking fellow and well-dressed. When I spoke to him, he said: ‘Water.’ I got some for him, and he emptied the can. He then stood up, and raising his hands and eyes, as if in invocation, he said: ‘O heavenly Muse, inspire me now!’ And the inspiration came. For two hours he perambulated that room, and an unbroken stream of words flowed from him. Such language and such utterance I had never listened to, beautiful thoughts in beautiful language; now tender and soft, now declamatory and full of passion. Action and utterance were perfect, as on and on he went. The vicious women and coarse men looked at him in wonder; the police looked on, and did not know what to make of him; I stood and listened and looked as on and on he went, now in English, now in languages that I did not understand, and anon dropping into Scotch; the action of his hands and the play of his features were perfect. I could almost understand his unknown tongues. He was taken before the magistrate, and in the dock the stream of words flowed on; he was oblivious of everything and everybody but his poets. He was taken by the policeman to the workhouse, and the stream rolled on. After a few days I went up to the workhouse to see him, but he had taken his discharge, and was gone. One couplet I remember he uttered, and it describes him to me— ‘Like a snowflake on a river,
Seen a moment, gone for ever’—
for I have never seen him since, and I never learned who he was or whence he came.

One University-trained gentleman I saw too much of, for he stuck to me with a pertinacity that was more than troublesome—it was a nuisance. Just at that particular time Jane Cakebread was at large, and was paying us far too many visits. It was no uncommon thing to see Jane approaching the house from one end of the street and my University friend from the other; no uncommon thing, either, for my courage to evaporate and for me to take myself off by the back way and leave my wife to tell them I had gone to the court. Thither Jane would come, but not my other friend. ‘I will come in and wait,’ he would invariably say; and if once in, wait he would the whole day, and at midnight would show no disposition to go. ‘I am going to live with you,’ he said on one occasion, and argument had no effect on him. It took the united strength of myself and two sons to convince him that he was mistaken, for late at night we had to carry him gently out. Outside he gave us operatic selections on his piccolo. He had been a Foundation scholar of Dublin University, and had also taken a musical scholarship. He was about forty-five when one of our magistrates kindly introduced him to me. I invited him to see me, and he made himself comfortable at once. He was at the pianoforte in a very few minutes without any invitation, and kept on playing and singing for a long time. He was homeless and penniless; his wife had left him; his friends had cast him off. ‘I will be musical instructor to your family,’ he said. It was no use my telling him that I could not afford to pay for a person of his distinguished ability. ‘We will waive the question of payment,’ he said; ‘the home and congenial company are what I require.’ I took him out, presumably for a walk, but I left him at some lodgings near by, for which I promised to pay. He was at my house the next morning by nine o’clock, and he had a good-sized package with him, wrapped in oilcloth. ‘I want to show you this,’ he said; so in he came, bringing his lumber with him. ‘What have you got?’ I asked him. ‘Wait a bit before I uncover it,’ he said. ‘I want to explain.’

He explained for about half an hour, and the sum of it was that the present methods of teaching music were wrong, absolutely wrong, and that he had discovered a true way. The sol-fa system had a germ of truth in it, inasmuch as it was based on ‘mental effect’; but his way was to teach music by colour. Down to the piano he went and struck a note. ‘How many vibrations make up that note?’ I could not tell him. He told me. He uncovered his package. It was the keyboard of a pianoforte, or, rather, an imitation of one, but painted in all the colours imaginable—blue and green, yellow and red, and all their shades following one after the other. Touching a brilliant C, he asked: ‘How many vibrations of light does it take to make up that colour?’ I could not tell him. Again he enlightened me: ‘The same number that it took to make up the C that I struck on the instrument. Now I’ll proceed to verify it with my piccolo.’ He blew a shrill note. ‘How many——’ I stopped him, telling him that I was not a scientific man, and was quite of the same opinion as himself. I got him out by promising him a breakfast, and left him and his key-board at a neighbouring coffee-shop. I gave him money for his breakfast, but I heard afterwards that he played his piccolo for them by way of payment, and wanted his dinner on the same terms; but they ejected him. I paid his lodgings for a month.

He and old Jane paid us many visits. If I had been a clever man, I should have gone on tour with the pair. I am sure there was money in them; such a pair were well worth knowing.

At length I told him he must look out for himself, and that I should not pay for his lodgings any longer. I missed him for some days, and flattered myself that he was gone, so I went to his lodgings to make sure. As I stood in the passage the shrill tones of the piccolo and the strains of the ‘Bohemian Girl’ came downstairs to greet me. The landlady besought me to take him away. ‘He’ll be the death of me. He has not left his bed for five days, and has been blowing that thing all the time,’ she said. I went up to him. There he lay, happy as a king. A bed to lie upon, a piccolo to play, some tea-leaves to smoke, he was all right; nothing put him out—nothing but physical force ever did. He put his instrument down and filled and lit his pipe when I entered. I wanted him to get up and dress, offering him a dinner if he would do so. ‘And find the door closed against me when I come back? No thanks!’ he said. I had taken the room, and was morally bound to get the fellow out. I could not dress him against his will, I could not put him in the street, so I told him that I should come round at five o’clock with the relieving-officer and a conveyance to take him to the workhouse. He got up, dressed, put his piccolo in his pocket and his keyboard under his arm, and went. He did not wait for a dinner, but I noticed that he put the dried tea-leaves in his pockets. Some weeks afterwards he was at my door again. It was the morning of the day on which our only daughter was buried. I went to speak to him, and, telling him of our sorrow, I gave him half a crown, and told him to go quietly away. He did so, but returned, bringing some choice flowers, a pretty card, and some ‘In Memoriam’ verses written by himself. He had spent the half-crown, and was again penniless. I saw him bareheaded in the cemetery, and I saw him and my burglar friend approach the grave after we had left it; but he came to the house no more. Twelve months afterwards I again had a sight of him. From the top of an omnibus I saw him walking along the Strand with the keyboard under his arm.

Unappreciated genius is a very common thing, but if in despair the possessor seeks comfort from drink, then tragedy more often than comedy ensues. A man about fifty-five years of age was picked up on London Fields with his throat cut, a razor in his hand, and his breath smelling strongly of spirits. The police considered it a case of attempted suicide, for he was not dead. After detention at the hospital, he was charged, so I made his acquaintance. After the law had done with him, I made friends with him, hoping to help and cheer him a bit, for he was quite friendless—his wife dead and no children. I found him a most intelligent and clever man. He had been a commercial traveller in a good way of business. He owned frankly to me that when a traveller he drank heavily, but strenuously denied that drink was the cause of his present position, though he admitted that, when under the influence of drink, years ago, he had been attacked and robbed of a large sum of money, and received at the time severe injuries to his head. He was of a mechanical turn of mind, and for more than thirty years he had been working at a problem that approached perpetual motion, which, he said, was absurd. He lived in a very poor neighbourhood, and had a small room in a miserable house. In his room were a very small truckle-bed, one chair and table, and a little lathe. The rest of the room was covered with models of his machinery, some finished, some in course of construction, while the walls were covered with drawings and designs. After the death of his wife, he determined to give up his calling, and go in for mechanics altogether, and this was the result—disappointment, poverty, starvation, and would-be suicide.

I gave him a suit of clothes, of which he stood in sore need, sent him for a short holiday to recruit his health, and then induced him to do some travelling on commission in the timber trade. This he did for a short time, but his heart and his thoughts were ever on his models. I have sat by him in his little room, and have seen him glow with excitement and become as one inspired as he expatiated on his invention, which, he contended, would, if properly utilized, dispense with steam and electricity as motive powers, do away with horses in trams and cabs, work the sewing-machine for the tired woman and the knife-cleaning machine for the hotel porter, while cyclists might adopt it to carry them over hill and dale; the possibilities were infinite.

Years of failure and suffering had only made him the more certain of success. His plan was novel and interesting, and if he could not get much force out of it, he certainly could get motion. His room was full of wheels, all of different sizes, but built on much the same lines. The spokes of the wheels were of a peculiar serpentine pattern, and each spoke formed a trough. In each trough was placed an iron or brass ball, which was correctly turned and polished. He had made his wheels with a flat, broad rim, and they would, when placed on the floor, stand upright of themselves. The hubs were peculiar. I cannot explain them, but sure enough, when he just touched a wheel, it ran gently across the room. The balls formed his motive power, and the arms and hub were his secret. As the wheel moved, I noticed that three balls were always on the down-side and at the outside edge of the wheel; two balls were on the upside of the wheel, but as soon as they began to ascend they ran at once to the centre of the wheel, the hub, a peculiar arrangement of the spoke-troughs, compelling them to do this. Thus, with three balls on the outside down grade and two balls on the up grade, but close to the hub, he undoubtedly got some little power. His argument was, that if only the wheels were large enough, and the balls heavy enough, any amount of power and speed could be obtained. He begged me to go into partnership with him, so that we jointly could patent it. As my faith and finances were not equal to this, he gave up his work, and declared the glory and profit should be all his own. I am afraid they will, for the last time I saw him he was starving in his little room. To give him money, I found, was useless, for he spent it either on his models or in drink.

My lack of faith has, I am afraid, been a great financial loss to my family, for before ‘Sherlock Holmes’ died a lady in Kensington wrote to me repeatedly, thinking evidently that I had some connection with that astute detective. She had lost, or had been robbed of, one hundred thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds and jewellery, and had come to the conclusion that I was the man to recover it. She had not much of a clue, but in sixteen pages, closely-written, she gave me a detailed and elaborate description of her jewels, and finished by offering me ten per cent. of the value I recovered. It was a tempting offer, but I kept a discreet silence, knowing I should get better terms. After a time she wrote again, offering twenty per cent. I waited on, and about that time the death of the famous detective was announced, and I have since had no chance of earning that £20,000.

But the world loses more than I do, for the wonderful and beneficent discoveries and inventions that go unapplied can only be appreciated by those who, like myself, mix much with humanity, or by the doctors at lunatic asylums. There need no longer be ‘confusion of tongues.’ A gentleman I met in the cells—a cultured, educated gentleman, too—has devoted years of study, and sacrificed everything, to perfect a plan by which everybody can understand everybody in every clime and nation; it is as simple as A B C, and it only needs adopting. Many years he has been trying to induce his countrymen to adopt it, but he has no honour in his own country. So he is trying princes and potentates abroad, to whom he writes long letters, offering his simple plan. Somehow they fail to see the advantage of it, and, of course, he starves. He was as gaunt as a famished wolf when I first met him, and his sufferings brought him into the police court. I thought some food and a rest at the seaside would benefit his health, and they did. But renewed health brought increased faith in his discovery, for which he is prepared to die, and no doubt will die, for he is again becoming gaunt and weird-looking, and, I am afraid, seeks consolation from the bottle. The friends of such men shun them as if they had the plague; for the wealth of Croesus and the wisdom of Solomon cannot save a man who to his devotion to some cherished delusion adds a devotion to drink; and though one feels an infinite pity for, and a great interest in, such men, yet, if one essays to help them, it is soon apparent that the task is hopeless, and the advice of the seer of old is followed: ‘Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him alone.’

Yet this class of men is very numerous. I have a number of them on my list of friends. One by one, from different walks of life, they have gathered round me, and they have infinitely more faith in me than I have in myself, for they look to me to see them righted, and I know the impossibilities which they cannot realize. A powerful and clever man of this description comes very often to learn how I am getting on with his affairs. He believes himself the true heir to the throne of England, and I have to take his word for it, for of argument he will have none; it is too real with him. By a process of inductive reasoning he has come to the conclusion that I am the one to get him crowned. He reasons thus: He is the King. The Archbishop of Canterbury crowns the King. The Archbishop belongs to the Church of England. I belong to the Church of England. I know him to be the true King. Therefore it is my duty to see that the Archbishop does his duty and crowns him.

He can converse rationally and with point on any other subject. He can see the failings and follies of others, but his devotion to this idea has ruined him, and he has become a penniless wanderer. He too seeks spirituous consolation, and gets into the hands of the police at varying intervals, when he defends himself with the skill of an accomplished lawyer, but also makes use of his opportunity to declare to the magistrate his kingship. Sometimes the magistrate has doubts of his sanity, and remands him to prison for a medical report. He wrote me from Holloway once, telling me that he was on a week’s remand and on such a day would be again at Westminster police court. He expected me to be there and give evidence on his behalf. ‘The magistrate thinks I am mad, and the prison doctor has orders to report on me,’ he wrote. ‘You can testify to my sanity as well as to other important matters, but as you have not seen me lately, I must now give you proof of my sanity. I prove it thus: Mad people think themselves sane. All the world beside may be mad, but they never doubt in the least their own sanity, but I find myself entertaining doubts as to my sanity. I sometimes say to myself, “Are you going mad?” Ergo, the very fact that I question my own sanity proves that sanity beyond doubt.’ I did not go to give the evidence asked for; he established his sanity without my aid, and he came to see me. Fortunately, he bears the deprivation of his rights with philosophic patience and imperturbable good-humour. He knows ‘it is only for a time!’ It is no use to say with regard to these men, ‘Get them to give up the drink,’ for they cannot, neither is drink the cause of their condition. Drink is the effect, not the cause, a symptom of something wrong, not the wrong itself. I confess my inability to get down to the bed-rock of their condition.