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Rh longer, shut the door, and they heard Mrs. Sampson's shrill voice and subdued cracklings die away in the distance.

"Now then," he said, "now that we have got rid of that woman and her tongue, where are we to begin?"

"The desk," replied Madge, going over to it; "it's the most likely place."

"Don't think so," said Calton, shaking his head. "If, as you say, Fitzgerald is a careless man, he would not have troubled to put it there. However, perhaps we'd better look."

The desk was very untidy ("Just like Brain," as Madge remarked)—full of paid and unpaid bills, old letters, playbills, ball-programmes, and several withered flowers. "Reminiscences of former flirtations," said Calton with a laugh, pointing to these.

"I should not wonder," retorted Miss Frettlby, coolly. "Brian always was in love, with some one or other; but you know what Lytton says—'There are many counterfeits, but only one Eros;' so I can afford to forget these things."

The letter, however, was not to be found in the desk, nor was it in the sitting-room; they tried the bedroom, but with no better result; so Madge was nearly giving up the search in despair, when Calton's eye fell on the waste-paper basket, which, by some unaccountable reason, they had overlooked in their search. The basket was half full, in fact, more than half, and, on looking at it, a sudden thought struck the lawyer. He rang the bell, and presently Mrs. Sampson made her appearance.

"How long has that waste-paper basket been standing like that?" he asked, pointing to it.

"It bein' the only fault I 'ad to find with 'im," said Mrs. Sampson, "'e bein' that untidy that 'e never let me clean it out until 'e told me pussonly. 'E said as 'ow 'e throwed things into it as 'e might 'ave to look up again; an' I 'aven't touched it for more nor six weeks, 'opin' you won't think me a bad 'ousekeeper, it bein' 'is own wish—bein' fond of litter an' sich like."

"Six weeks," repeated Calton, with a look at Madge.

"Ah, and he got the letter four weeks ago. Depend upon it, we shall find it there."

Madge gave a cry, and falling on her knees, emptied the basket out on the floor, and both she and Calton were


text: Popular Science Monthly/Volume 53/October 1898/Notes

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh paper; see how creamy and white it is, and, above all, look at the printing in the corner—'.'"

"Then he went down to Toorak?"

"In an hour, and back again—hardly."

"Then it was not written from Toorak?"

"No, it was written in one of the Melbourne back slums."

"How do you know?"

"Look at the girl who brought it," said Calton, quickly. "A disreputable woman, one far more likely to come from the back slums than Toorak. As to the paper, three months ago there was a robbery at Toorak, and this is some of the paper that was stolen by the thieves."

Madge said nothing, but her sparkling eyes and nervous trembling of the hands showed her excitement.

"I will see a detective this evening," said Calton, exultingly, "find out where this letter came from, and go and see who wrote it. We'll save him yet," he said, placing the precious letter carefully in his pocket-book.

"You think that you will be able to find the woman who wrote that?"

"Hum," said the lawyer, looking thoughtful, "she may be dead, as the letter says she is in a dying condition. However, if I can find the woman who delivered the letter at the Club, and who waited for Fitzgerald at the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets, that will be sufficient. All I want to prove is that he was not in the hansom cab with Whyte.

"And do you think you can do that?"

"Depends upon this letter," said Calton, enigmatically, tapping his pocket-book with his finger. "I'll tell you to-morrow."

Shortly afterwards they left the house, and when Calton put Madge safely into the St. Kilda train, her heart felt lighter than it had done since Fitzgerald's arrest.

There is an old adage that "like draws to like," and the antithesis of this would probably be that unlike keeps as


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Rh for makin' you take to your vittals. My mother's brother, bein' a sailor, an' wonderful for 'is stomach, which when 'e 'ad done a meal, the table looked as if a low-cuss 'ad gone over it."

"A what?" asked Fitzgerald, buttoning his gloves.

"A low-cuss," replied the landlady, in surprise at his ignorance, "as I've read in 'Oly Writ as 'ow John the Baptist was partial to 'em, not that I think they'd be very fillin', tho', to be sure, 'e 'ad a sweet tooth, and ate 'oney with 'em."

"Oh! you mean locusts," said Brian, now enlightened.

"An' what else?" asked Mrs. Sampson, indignantly; "which, tho' not bein' a scholard, I speaks English, I 'opes, my mother's second cousin 'avin 'ad first prize at a 'spellin' bee, tho' 'e died early through brain fever, 'avin crowded 'is 'ead over much with the dictionary."

"Dear me!" shouted Brian mechanically. "How unfortunate." He was not listening to Mrs. Sampson's remarks, but was thinking of an arrangement which Madge had made, and which he had forgotten till now.

"Mrs. Sampson," he said, turning round at the door, "I am going to bring Mr. Frettlby and his daughter to have a cup of afternoon tea here; so you might have some ready."

"You 'ave only to ask and to 'ave," answered Mrs. Sampson, hospitably, with a gratified crackle of all her joints. "I'll make tea, sir, an' also some of my own pertickler cakes, bein' a special kind I 'ave, which my mother showed me 'ow to make, 'avin' been taught by a lady as she nussed thro' the scarlet fever, tho' bein' of a weak constitution she died soon arter, bein' in the 'abit of contractin' any disease she might chance on."

As Brian did not care about a connection between cooking and scarlet fever, he hurried away, lest Mrs. Sampson should bring out more horrors, for which she had a Poe-like appreciation. Indeed, at one period of her life, the little woman having been a nurse, she had frightened one of her patients into convulsions by narrating to her the history of all the corpses she had laid out. This ghoul-like tendency having been discovered, she never obtained any more patients to nurse, as they objected when in a weak state to hear such grotesque horrors.


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54 As soon as Fitzgerald had gone, she went over to the window and watched him as he walked slowly down the street—a tall, handsome man of whom any woman would be proud.

"What an awful thing it are to think 'e'll be a corpse some day," she chirped cheerily to herself, "tho' of course bein' a great swell in 'is own place, 'e'll 'ave a nice airy vault, which 'ud be far more comfortable than a close, stuffy grave, even tho' it 'as a tombstone an' vi'lets over it. Ah, now! Who are you, impertinence?" she broke off, as a stout man in a light suit of clothes crossed the road and rang the bell, "a-pullin' at the bell as if it were a pump 'andle."

As the gentleman at the door, who was none other than Mr. Gorby, did not hear her, he of course did not reply, so she hurried down the stairs, crackling with anger at the rough usage that her bell had received.

Mr. Gorby had seen Brian go out, and deeming it a good opportunity to prosecute inquiries, had lost no time in making a start.

"You nearly tored the bell down," said the fiery cricket, as she presented her thin body and wrinkled face to the view of the detective.

"I'm very sorry," answered Gorby, meekly. "I'll knock next time."

"Oh, no you won't," said the landlady, tossing her head, "me not 'avin' a knocker, an' your 'and a-scratchin' the paint off the door, which it ain't been done over six months by my sister-in-law's cousin, which 'e is a painter, with a shop in Fitzroy, an' a wonderful heye to color."

"Does Mr. Fitzgerald live here?" asked Mr. Gorby quietly.

"He do," replied Mrs. Sampson, "but 'e's gone out, an' won't be back till the arternoon, which any messidge 'ull be delivered to 'im punctual on 'is arrival."

"I'm glad he's not in," said Mr. Gorby. "Would you allow me to have a few moments' conversation?"

"What is it?" asked the cricket, her curiosity being roused."

"I'll tell you when we get inside," answered Mr. Gorby.

The cricket looked at him with her sharp little eyes, and seeing nothing disreputable in him, led the way upstairs,


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Rh crackling loudly the whole time. This so astonished Mr. Gorby that he cast about in his own mind for an explanation of the phenomena.

"Wants oiling about the joints," was his conclusion, "but I never heard anything like it, and she looks as if she'd snap in two, she's that brittle."

Mrs. Sampson took Gorby into Brian's sitting-room, and having closed the door sat down and prepared to hear what he had to say for himself.

"I 'ope it ain't bills," she said. "Mr. Fitzgerald 'avin' money in the bank, and everythin' respectable like a gentleman as 'e is, tho', to be sure, your bill might come down on him unbeknown, 'e not havin' kept it in mind, which it ain't everybody as 'ave sich a good memory as my aunt on my mother's side, she 'avin bin famous for 'er dates like a 'istory, not to speak of 'er multiplication tables and the numbers of people's 'ouses."

"It's not bills," answered Mr. Gorby, who, having vainly attempted to stem the shrill torrent of words, had given in and waited mildly until she had finished; "I only want to know a little about Mr. Fitzgerald's habits."

"And what for?" asked Mrs. Sampson, with an indignant cackle. "Are you a noospaper a-puttin' in articles about people who don't want to see 'emselves in print, which I knows your 'abits, my late 'usband 'avin bin a printer on a paper which bust up, not 'avin the money to pay wages, thro' which there was doo to him the sum of one pound seven and sixpence half-penny, which I, bein' 'is widder, ought to 'ave, not that I expects to see it on this side of the grave—oh, dear, no!" and she gave a shrill, elfish laugh.

Mr. Gorby, seeing that unless he took the bull by the horns he would never be able to get what he wanted, grew desperate, and plunged in medias res.

"I am an insurance agent," he said rapidly, so as to prevent any interruption by the cricket; "and Mr. Fitzgerald wants to insure his life in our company. Before doing so, I want to find out if he is a good life to insure; does he live temperately? keep early hours? and, in fact, all about him."

"I shall be 'appy to answer any inquiries which may be of use to you, sir," replied Mrs. Sampson; "knowin', as I


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56 do, 'how good a insurance is to a family, should the 'ead of it be taken off unexpected, leavin' a widder, which, as I know, Mr. Fitzgerald is a-goin' to be married soon, an' I 'opes 'e'll be 'appy, tho' thro' it I loses a lodger as 'as allays paid regler, an' be'aved like a gentleman."

"So he is a temperate man?" said Mr. Gorby, feeling his way cautiously.

"Not bein' a blue ribbon all the same," answered Mrs. Sampson; "and I never saw 'im the wuss for drink, 'e being allays able to use 'is latch key, and take 'is boots off afore going to bed, which is no more than a woman ought to expect from a lodger, she 'avin to do 'er own washin'."

"And he keeps good hours?"

"Allays in afore the clock strikes twelve," answered the landlady; "tho' to be sure, I uses it as a figger of speech, none of the clocks in the 'ouse strikin' but one, which is bein' mended, 'avin' broke through overwindin'."

"Is he always in before twelve?" asked Mr. Gorby, keenly disappointed at this answer.

Mrs. Sampsom eyed him waggishly, and a smile crept over her wrinkled little face.

"Young men, not bein' old men," she replied, cautiously, "and sinners not bein' saints, it's not nattral as latch keys should be made for ornament instead of use, and Mr. Fitzgerald bein' one of the 'andsomest men in Melbourne, it ain't to be expected as 'e should let 'is latch key git rusty, tho', 'avin' a good moral character, 'e uses it with moderation."

"But I suppose you are generally asleep when he comes in late?" said the detective; "so you can't tell what hour he comes home?"

"Not as a rule," assented Mrs. Sampson; "bein' a 'eavy sleeper, and much disposed for bed, but I 'ave 'eard 'im come in arter twelve, the last time bein' Thursday week."

"Ah!" Mr. Gorby drew a long breath, for Thursday week was the night when the murder was committed.

"Bein' troubled with my 'ead," said Mrs. Sampson, "thro' 'avin' been out in the sun all day a-washin', I did not feel so partial to my bed that night as in general, so went down to the kitchen with the intent of getting a linseed poultice to put at the back of my 'ead, it bein' calculated to remove pain, as was told to me, when a nuss, by a doctor in the horspital, 'e now bein' in business for hisself,


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Rh at Geelong, with a large family, 'avin' married early. Just as I was leavin' the kitching I 'eard Mr. Fitzgerald a-comin' in, and, turnin' round, looked at the clock, that 'avin' been my custom when my late 'usband came in, in the early mornin,' I bein' a preparin' 'is meal."

"And the time was?" asked Mr. Gorby, breathlessly.

"Five minutes to two o'clock," replied Mrs. Sampson.

Mr. Gorby thought for a moment.

Cab was hailed at one o'clock—started for St. Kilda at about ten minutes past—reached Grammar School, say at twenty-five minutes past—Fitzgerald talks five minutes to cabman, making it half-past—say, he waited ten minutes for other cab to turn up, makes it twenty minutes to two—it would take another twenty minutes to get to East Melbourne—and five minutes to walk up here—that makes it five minutes past two instead of before—confound it. "Was your clock in the kitchen right?" he asked, aloud.

"Well, I think so," answered Mrs. Sampson. "It does get a little slow sometimes, not 'avin been cleaned for some time, which my nevy bein' a watchmaker I allays 'ands it over to 'im."

"Of course it was slow on that night," said Gorby, triumphantly. "He must have come in at five minutes past two—which makes it right."

"Makes what right?" asked the landlady, sharply. "And 'ow do you know my clock was ten minutes wrong?"

"Oh, it was, was it?" asked Gorby, eagerly.

"I'm not denyin' that it wasn't," replied Mrs. Sampson; "clocks ain't allays to be relied on more than men an' women—but it won't be anythin' agin 'is insurance, will it, as in general 'e's in afore twelve?"

"Oh, all that will be quite safe," answered the detective, delighted at having obtained the required information. "Is this Mr. Fitzgerald's room?"

"Yes, it is," replied the landlady; "but 'e furnished it 'imself, bein' of a luxurus turn of mind, not but what 'is taste is good, tho' far be it from me to deny I 'elped 'im to select; but 'avin another room of the same to let, any friends as you might 'ave in search of a 'ome 'ud be well looked arter, my references bein' very 'igh, an' my cookin' tasty—an' if—"

Here a ring at the front door bell called Mrs. Sampson


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 from George Washington himself a commission as marshal of the State of Connecticut. The mother, Sarah Ruggles Bradley, came of a Vermont family similar in patriotic tradition. In New Haven Francis Bradley held the double position of cashier of the City Bank and instructor in astronomy in Yale College, whence his father had been graduated in 1800. Passing his days in the bank, and his evenings in gratifying his love for science, Francis Bradley set his son a high example of industry.

The Bradleys had heard of Chicago, Illinois, as a city of promise, a vigorous and growing community of more than 80,000. A brother of Francis (William H. Bradley, afterwards for many years clerk of the Federal courts in Chicago) was living there, and was enthusiastic about the West. So Francis and Sarah Bradley left New Haven forever, and with their son and two daughters entered the company of "early Chicagoans," whose memories are of a courthouse square across which people walked to work; of farmers' wagons standing at State and Washington streets; of sidewalks on stilts; of "Long John" Wentworth and Stephen A. Douglas; of wooded places now known as Hyde Park and the "north shore." In this chaotic but virile community the Bradleys made a new home.

In that same year, 1857, Lyman Baird, another New Haven man whose ambitions led him westward, became a citizen of Chicago, and a year later went into partnership with L. D. Olmstead, who in 1855 had established a real estate business. Mr. Olmstead died in 1862, whereupon Mr. Baird persuaded Francis Bradley—then auditor of the Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad—to enter partnership with him. Thus began a business relationship, and a friendship, that was to continue for many years, and was to establish in Chicago's shifting soil one of its permanent things: the successful real estate firm now known as Baird and Warner. One would like to dwell upon the struggles and triumphs of that pair of pioneers whose names were so long linked as "Baird and Bradley, Real Estate," to tell how they breasted calamities like the civil war and the "great fire of '71." But this is not their story. And Luther Bradley's destiny, after a few years when it seemed about to be bound up with that business enterprise, branched away.

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UTHER DANIELS BRADLEY, whose cartoons commanded admiration everywhere, was never personally conspicuous. He did not make speeches, or sit on platforms, or seek office. His very portrait was almost unknown. In an age when publicity comes easily to less eminent men, when, indeed, popular persons are so much written about that their work is less known than their way of working, Luther Bradley managed to live unobtrusively. Yet he had friends, thousands of friends who never saw him, but who felt that in his cartoons he spoke directly to them. They wrote to him, not as "Dear sir," but as "Dear Mr. Bradley." In the scrapbooks wherein he methodically pasted every cartoon he had published for the last seventeen years, he laid away scores of these letters, some from people of note, the majority from that vast body of "plain citizens" he loved to serve. They said in these letters he had "helped" them. They asked his advice. Mothers poured out to him their thoughts. Little boys sent drawings painfully copying his style. He laid all these tenderly away where he could see them again. They were his banquets.

Now that he is dead it seems only fair to his public to tell something about how he lived, and what kind of man he was. A representative collection of his cartoons, such as this volume is intended to present, would be incomplete without the story of himself. It is a simple story, for his adventures were mainly of the intellect; but it has qualities arising from the fact that he was so sterling a man, and so patriotic an American.

HE story of Luther D. Bradley does not really begin with the date of his birth (September 29, 1853) but with the year 1857, when his parents embarked on the great adventure of moving to the "far West"—Illinois. They lived in New Haven, Connecticut, where they were highly regarded both for their own sakes and because of their ancestry. The father, Francis Bradley, was the grandson of Col. Philip Burr Bradley, who received

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58 away, so with a hurried word to Gorby she crackled down stairs. Left to himself, Mr. Gorby arose and looked around the room. It was excellently furnished, and the pictures on the wall were all in good taste. There was a writing table at one end of the room under the window, which was covered with papers.

"It's no good looking for the papers he took out of Whyte's pocket, I suppose," said the detective to himself, as he turned over some letters, "as I don't know what they are, and couldn't tell them if I saw them; but I'd like to find that missing glove and the bottle that held the chloroform—unless he's done away with them. There doesn't seem any sign of them here, so I'll have a look in his bed-room."

There was no time to lose, as Mrs. Sampson might return at any moment, so Mr. Gorby walked quickly into the bed-room, which opened off the sitting room. The first thing that caught the detective's eye was a large photograph of Madge Frettlby in a plush frame, which stood on the dressing table. It was the same kind as he had already seen in Whyte's album, and he took it up with a laugh.

"You're a pretty girl," he said, apostrophising the picture, "but you give your photograph to two young men, both in love with you and both hot-tempered. The result is that one is dead, and the other won't survive him long. That's what you've done."

He put it down again, and looking round the room, caught sight of a light covert coat hanging behind the door, and also a soft hat.

"Ah," said the detective, going up to the door, "here is the very coat you wore when you killed that poor fellow. I wonder what you have in the pockets," and he plunged his hand into them in turn. There was an old theatre programme and a pair of brown gloves in one, but in the second pocket Mr. Gorby made a discovery—none other than that of the missing glove. There it was—a soiled white glove for the right hand, with black bands down the back; and the detective smiled in a gratified manner as he put it carefully in his pocket.

"My morning has not been wasted," he said to himself.

"I've found out that he came in at a time which corresponds to all his movements after one o'clock on Thursday


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HIS picture, drawn by, the noted cartoonist for The Chicago Tribune, was published in that newspaper January 11, 1917, the day of Luther D. Bradley's funeral. The tribute was characteristic of Mr. McCutcheon's sincerity in his friendships. Equally sincere was his spoken comment at the time of Mr. Bradley's death: "He was great all the time . . . not just now and then."

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Rh night, and this is the missing glove, which clearly belonged to Whyte. If I could only get hold of the chloroform bottle I'd be satisfied."

But the chloroform bottle was not to be found, though he searched most carefully for it. At last, hearing Mrs. Sampson coming up stairs again, he desisted from his search, and came back to the sitting-room.

"Threw it away, I expect," he said, as he sat down in his old place; "but it doesn't matter. I think I can form a chain of evidence, from what I have discovered, which will be sufficient to convict him. Besides, I expect when he is arrested he will confess everything; he seems to have such a lot of remorse for what he has done."

The door opened, and Mrs. Samoson crackled into the room in a state of indignation.

"One of them Chinese 'awkers,'" she explained, "'e's bin a-tryin' to git the better of me over carrots—as if I didn't know what carrots was—and 'im a talkin' about a shillin' in his gibberish, as if 'e 'adn't bin brought up in a place where they don't know what a shillin' is. But I never could abide foreigners ever since a Frenchman, as taught me 'is language, made orf with my mother's silver tea-pot, unbeknown to 'er, it being set out on the sideboard for company."

Mr. Gorby interrupted these domestic reminiscences of Mrs. Sampson's by stating that now she had given him all necessary information, he would take his departure.

"An' I 'opes," said Mrs. Sampson, as she opened the door for him, "as I'll 'ave the pleasure of seein' you again should any business on be'alf of Mr. Fitzgerald require it."

"Oh, I'll see you again," said Mr. Gorby, with a heavy jocularity, "and in a way you won't like, as you'll be called as a witness," he added, mentally. "Did I understand you to say, Mrs. Sampson," he went on, "that Mr. Fitzgerald would be at home this afternoon?"

"Oh yes, sir, 'e will," answered Mrs. Sampson, "a drinkin' tea with his young lady, who is Miss Frettlby, and 'as got no end of money, not but what I mightn't 'ave 'ad the same 'ad I been born in a higher spear."

"You need not tell Mr. Fitzgerald I have been here," said Gorby, closing the gate; "I'll probably call and see him myself this afternoon."


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60 "What a stout person 'e are," said Mrs. Sampson to herself, as the detective walked away, "just like my late father, who was always fleshy, bein' a great eater, and fond of 'is glass, but I took arter my mother's family, they bein' thin-like, and proud of keeping 'emselves so, as the vinegar they drank could testify, not that I indulge in it myself."

She shut the door, and went upstairs to take away the breakfast things, while Gorby was being driven along at a good pace to the police office, in order to get a warrant for Brian's arrest, on a charge of willful murder.

It was a broiling hot day—one of those cloudless days, with the blazing sun beating down on the arid streets, and casting deep, black shadows. By rights it was a December day, but the clerk of the weather had evidently got a little mixed, and popped it into the middle of August by mistake. The previous week however had been a little chilly, and this delightfully hot day had come as a pleasant surprise and a forecast of summer. It was Saturday morning, and of course all fashionable Melbourne was doing the Block. With regard to its "Block," Collins Street corresponds to New York's Broadway, London's Regent Street and Rotten Row, and to the Boulevards of Paris. It is on the Block that people show off their new dresses, bow to their friends, cut their enemies, and chatter small talk. The same thing no doubt occurred in the Appian Way, the fashionable Street of Imperial Rome, when Catallus talked gay nonsense to Lesbia, and Horace received the congratulations of his friends over his new volume of society verses. History repeats itself, and every city is bound by all the laws of civilization to have one special street wherein the votaries of fashion may congregate. Collins Street is not, of course, such a grand thoroughfare as those above mentioned, but the people who stroll up and down the broad pavement are quite as charmingly dressed, and as pleasant as any of the paripateticsperipatetics [sic] of


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Rh those famous cities. As the sun brings out bright flowers, so the seductive influence of the hot weather had brought out all the ladies in gay dresses of innumerable colors, which made the long street look like a restless rainbow. Carriages were bowling smoothly along, their occupants smiling and bowing as they recognized their friends on the sidewalk; lawyers, their legal quibble finished for the week, were strolling leisurely along, with their black bags in their hands; portly merchants, forgetting Flinders Lane and incoming ships, were walking beside their pretty daughters; and the representatives of sweldomswelldom [sic] were stalking along in their customary apparel of curly hats, high collars, and masher suits. Altogether, it was a very pleasant and animated scene, and would have delighted the heart of any one who was not dyspeptic, nor in love—dyspeptic people and lovers (disappointed ones, of course) being accustomed to survey the world in a cynical vein.

Madge Frettlby was engaged in that pleasant occupation so dear to every female heart, of shopping. She was in Moubray, Rowan and Hicks', turning over ribbons and laces, while the faithful Brian waited for her outside, and amused himself by looking at the human stream which flowed along the pavement. If there is one thing above another which is dreaded by men it is shopping with ladies, for then a few minutes with them becomes hours, and the weary husband pensively smoking cigarettes outside, while his better half worries the young man at the counter about the last new shade, wonders "What the deuce can be keeping Maria," until that estimable lady makes her appearance, followed by a shopman bending like Atlas under his load of boxes and parcels. Brian disliked shopping quite as much as the rest of his sex, but, being a lover, of course it was his duty to be martyrized, though he could not help thinking of his pleasant club, where he could have been reading and smoking with something cool in a glass beside him. After Madge had purchased a dozen articles she did not want, and had interviewed her dressmaker on the momentous subject of a new dress, she remembered that Brian was waiting, and hurried quickly to the door.

"I haven't been many minutes, have I, dear?" she said, touching him lightly on the arm.


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 He shook his reins, and called his steed

To bear him swiftly on.

Full well it knew its Master's need

T o hurry e'er the dawn,

From house t o house they scampered down,

Their sleigh-bells ringing clear,

Through chimneys in th e sleepy town—

Good Kris and his reindeer.

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62 "Oh, dear, no," answered Brian, looking at his watch, "only thirty—a mere nothing, considering a new dress was being discussed."

"I thought I had been longer," said Madge, her brow clearing, "but still I am sure you feel a martyr."

"Not at all," replied Fitzgerald, handing her into the carriage; "I enjoyed myself very much."

"Nonsense," she laughed, opening her sunshade, while Brian took his seat beside her; "that's one of those social stories—which everyone considers themselves bound to tell from a sense of duty. I'm afraid I did keep you waiting—though, after all," she went on, with a true feminine idea as to the flight of time, "I was only a few minutes."

"And the rest," said Brian, quizzically looking at her pretty face, so charmingly flushed under her great white hat.

Madge disdained to notice this interuptioninterruption [sic].

"James," she cried to the coachman, "drive to the Melbourne Club. Papa will be there, you know," she said to Brian, "and we'll take him off to have afternoon tea with us."

"But it's only one o'clock," said Brian, as the town hall clock came in sight. "Mrs. Sampson won't be ready."

"Oh, anything will do," replied Madge, "a cup of tea and some thin bread and butter isn't hard to prepare. I don't feel like lunch, and papa eats so little in the middle of the day, and you——"

"Eat a great deal at all times," finished Brian, with a laugh. Madge went on chattering in her usual lively manner, and Brian listened to her with delight. It was very pleasant, he thought, lying back among the soft cushions of the carriage, with a pretty girl talking so gaily. He felt like Saul must have done when he heard the harp of David, and Madge with her pleasant talk, drove away the evil spirit which had been with him for the last three weeks. Suddenly Madge made an observation as they were passing the Burke and Wills' monument, which startled him.

"Isn't that the place where Mr. Whyte got into the cab?" she asked, looking at the corner near the Scotch Church, where a vagrant of musical tendencies was playing "Just before the Battle, Mother," on a battered old concertina in a most dismal manner.


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 "So the papers say," answered Brian, listlessly, without turning his head.

"I wonder who the gentleman in the light coat could have been," said Madge, as she settled herself again.

"No one seems to know," he replied, evasively.

"Ah, but they've got a clue," she said. "Do you know, Brian," she went on, "that he was dressed just like you, in a light overcoat and soft hat?"

"How remarkable," said Fitzgerald, speaking in a slightly sarcastic tone, and as calmly as he was able. He was dressed in the same manner as nine out of every ten young fellows in Melbourne."

Madge looked at him in surprise at the tone in which he spoke, so different from his usual nonchalant way of speaking, and was about to answer, when the carriage stopped at the door of the Melbourne Club. Brian, anxious to escape any more remarks about the murder, sprang quickly out and ran up the steps into the building. He found Mr. Frettlby smoking complacently and reading the Age. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, and putting down the paper, held out his hand, which the other took.

"Ah! Fitzgerald," he said, "have you left the attractions of Collins Street for the still greater ones of clubland?"

"Not I," answered Brian. "I've come to carry you off to afternoon tea with Madge and myself."

"I don't mind," answered Mr. Frettlby, rising; "but isn't afternoon tea at half-past one, rather an anomaly?"

"What's in a name?" said Fitzgerald, absently, as they left the room. "What have you been doing all morning?"

"I've been in here for the last half-hour reading," answered the other, carelessly.

"Wool market, I suppose?"

"No, the hansom cab murder."

"Oh, d— that thing!" said Brian, hastily; then, seeing his companion looking at him in surprise, he apologized.

"But, indeed," he went on, "I'm nearly worried to death by people asking all about Whyte, as if I knew all about him, whereas I know nothing."

"Just as well you didn't," answered Mr. Frettlby, as they descended the steps together; "he was not a very desirable companion."


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64 It was on the tip of Brian's tongue to say, "And yet you wanted him to marry your daughter," but he wisely refrained, and they reached the carriage in silence.

"Now then, papa," said Madge when they were all settled in the carriage, and it was rolling along smoothly in the direction of East Melbourne, "what have you been doing?"

"Enjoying myself," answered her father, "until you and Brian came, and dragged me out into this blazing sunshine."

"Well, Brian has been so good of late," said Madge, "that I had to reward him, so I knew that nothing would please him better than to play host."

"Certainly not," said Brian, rousing himself out of a fit of abstraction, "especially when one has such charming visitors."

Madge laughed at this, and made a little grimace.

"If your tea is only equal to your compliments," she said lightly, "I'm sure papa will forgive us for dragging him away from his club."

"Papa will forgive anything," murmured Mr. Frettlby, tilting his hat over his eyes, "as long as he gets somewhere out of the sun. I can't say I care about playing the parts of in the fiery furnace of a Melbourne hot day."

"There now, papa is quite a host in himself," said Madge mischievously, as the carriage drew up at Mrs. Sampson's door.

"No, you are wrong," said Brian, as he alighted and helped her out of the carriage; "I am the host in myself this time."

"If there is one thing I hate above another," observed Miss Frettlby, calmly, "it's puns, and especially bad ones."

Mrs. Sampson was very much astonished at the early arrival of her lodger's guests, and expressed her surprise in shrill tones.

"Bein' taken by surprise," she said, with an apologetic cackle, "it ain't to be supposed as miraculs can be performed with regard to cookin', the fire havin' gone out, not bein' kept alight on account of the 'eat of the day, which was that 'ot as never was, tho', to be sure, bein' a child in the early days, I remember it were that 'ot as my sister's aunt was in the 'abit of roastin' her jints in the sun."


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Rh After telling this last romance, and leaving her visitors in doubt whether the joints referred to belonged to an animal, or to her sister's aunt or herself, Mrs. Sampson crackled away downstairs to get things ready.

"What a curious thing that landlady of yours is, Brian," said Madge, from the depths of a huge arm chair, "I believe she's a grasshopper from the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Oh, no, she's a woman," said Mr. Frettlby, cynically. "You can tell that by the length of her tongue."

"A popular error, papa," retorted Madge, sharply. "I know plenty of men who talk far more than any woman."

"I hope I'll never meet them, then," said Mr. Frettlby, "for if I did I would be inclined to agree with De Quincy's essay on murder as one of the fine arts."

Brian shivered at this, and looked apprehensively at Madge, and saw with relief that she was not paying attention to her father, but was listening intently.

"There she is," as a faint rustle at the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Sampson and the tea-tray. "I wonder, Brian, you don't think the house is on fire with that queer noise always going on—she wants oil!"

"Yes, St. Jacob's oil," laughed Brian, as Mrs. Sampson entered, and placed her burden on the table.

"Not 'avin any cake," said that lady, "thro' not being forewarned as to the time of arrival—tho' it's not ofting I'm taken by surprise—except as to 'eadache, which, of course, is accidental to every pusson—I ain't got nothin' but bread and butter, the baker and grocer both bein' all that could be desired, except in the way of worryin' for their money, which they think as 'ow I keeps the bank in the 'ouse, like Allading's cave, as I've 'eard tell in the Arabian Nights, me 'avin gained it as a prize for English in, my early girl'ood, bein' then considered a scholard an' industrus."

Mrs. Sampson's shrill apologies for the absence of cake having been received, she hopped out of the room, and Madge made the tea. The service was a quaint Chinese one, which Brian had picked up in his wanderings, and used for gatherings like these. As he watched her he could not help thinking how pretty she looked, with her hands moving deftly among the cups and saucers, so bizarre-looking with their sprawling dragons of yellow and green. He


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66 half smiled to himself as he thought, "If they knew all, I wonder if they would sit with me so cool and unconcerned?" Mr. Frettlby, too, as he looked at his daughter, thought of his dead wife, and sighed.

"Well," said Madge, as she handed them their tea, and helped herself to some thin bread and butter, "you two gentlemen are most delightful company—papa is sighing like a furnace, and Brian is staring at me with his eyes like blue china saucers. You ought both be turned forth to funerals like melancholy."

"Why like melancholy?" queried Brian lazily.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the young lady, with a smile on her pretty black eyes, "that you are not a student of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"Very likely not," answered Brian; "midsummer out here is so hot that one gets no sleep, and, consequently, no dreams; depend upon it, if the four lovers whom Puck treated so badly had lived in Australia they wouldn't have been able to sleep for the mosquitos."

"What nonsense you two young people do talk," said Mr. Frettlby, with an amused smile, as he stirred his tea.

"Dulce est desipere in loco" observed Brian, gravely, "a man who can't carry out that observation is sure not to be up to much."

"I don't like Latin," said Miss Frettlby, shaking her pretty head. "I agree with Heine's remark, that if the Romans had had to learn it they would not have found time to conquer the world."

"Which was a much more agreeable task," said Brian.

"And more profitable" finished Mr. Frettlby.

They went on chattering in this desultory fashion for a considerable time, till at last Madge arose and said they must go. Brian proposed to dine with them at St. Kilda, and then they would all go to the theatre. Madge consented to this, and she was just pulling on her gloves, when suddenly they heard a ring at the front door, and presently heard Mrs. Sampson talking in an excited manner at the pitch of her voice.

"You shan't come in, I tell you," they heard her say, shrilly, "so it's no good trying, which I've allays 'eard as an Englishman's 'ouse is 'is castle, an' you're a breakin' the law, as well as spilin' the carpets, as has bin just put down."


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Rh Some one made a reply; then the door of Brian's room was thrown open, and Gorby walked in, followed by another man. Fitzgerald turned as white as a sheet, for he felt instinctively that they had come for him. However, pulling himself together, he demanded, in a haughty tone, the reason of the intrusion. Mr. Gorby walked straight over to where Brian was standing, and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Brian Fitzgerald," he said, in a clear voice, "I arrest you in the Queen's name."

"For what?" asked Brian, steadily.

"The murder of Oliver Whyte."

At this Madge gave a cry.

"It is not true!" she said, wildly. "My God, it's not true."

Brian did not answer, but, ghastly pale, held out his hands. Gorby slipped the handcuffs on to his wrists with a feeling of compunction, in spite of his joy in running his man down. This done, Fitzgerald turned round to where Madge was standing, pale and still, as if she had turned into stone.

"Madge," he said in a clear, low voice, "I am going to prison—perhaps to death; but I swear to you, by all that I hold most sacred, that I am innocent of this murder."

"My darling!" She made a step forward, but her father stepped before her.

"Keep back," he said, in a hard voice; "there is nothing between you and that man now."

She turned round with an ashen face, but with a proud look in her clear eyes.

"You are wrong," she answered, with a touch of scorn in her voice. "I love him more now than I did before." Then before her father could stop her, she placed her arms round her lover's neck, and kissed him wildly on the cheek.

"My darling," she said, with the tears streaming down her white cheeks, "whatever the world may say, you are always dearest of all to me."

Brian kissed her passionately, and then moved away while Madge fell down at her father's feet in a dead faint.


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68

Brian Fitzgerald was arrested a few minutes past three o'clock, and by five all Melbourne was ringing with the news that the perpetrator of the now famous hansom cab murder had been caught. The evening papers were full of the affair, and the Herald went through several editions, the demand being far in the excess of the supply. Such a crime had not been committed in Melbourne since the Greer shooting case in the Opera House, and the mystery which surrounded it made it even more sensational. The committal of the crime in such an extraordinary place as a hansom cab had been startling enough, but the discovery that the assassin was one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne was still more so. Brian Fitzgerald being well known in society as a wealthy squatter, and the future husband of one of the richest and prettiest girls in Victoria, it was no wonder that his arrest caused quite a sensation. The Herald, which was fortunate enough to obtain the earliest information about the arrest, made the best use of it, and published a flaming article in most sensational type, somewhat after this fashion:

It is needless to say that some of the reporters had pretty freely, but the public believed everything that came out in the papers to be gospel truth.

Mr. Frettlby, the day after Brian's arrest, had a long conversation with his daughter, and wanted her to go up to Yabba Yallock Station until the public excitement had somewhat subsided. But this Madge flatly refused to do.

"I'm not going to desert him when he most needs me," she said, resolutely, "everybody has turned against him, even before they have heard the facts of the case. He says he is not guilty, and I believe him."


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Rh "Then let him prove his innocence," said her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room; "if he did not get into the cab with Whyte he must have been somewhere else; so he ought to set up the defense of an alibi."

"He can easily do that," said Madge, with a ray of hope lighting up her sad face; "he was here till eleven o'clock on Thursday night."

"Very probably," returned her father, dryly; "but where was he at one o'clock on Friday morning?"

"Besides, Mr. Whyte left the house long before Brian did," she went on rapidly. "You must remember—it was when you quarrelled with Mr. Whyte."

"My dear Madge," said Mr. Frettlby, stopping in front of her with a displeased look, "you are incorrect—Whyte and myself did not quarrel. He asked me if it were true that Fitzgerald was engaged to you, and I answered yes. That was all, and then he left the house."

"Yes, and Brian didn't go until two hours after," said Madge, triumphantly. "He never saw Mr. Whyte the whole night."

"So he says," replied Mr. Frettlby, significantly.

"I believe Brian before anyone else in the world," said his daughter, hotly, with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

"Ah! but will a jury," queried her father.

"You have turned against him, too," answered Madge, her eyes filling with tears. "You believe him guilty."

"I am not prepared either to deny or confirm his guilt," said Mr. Frettlby, coldly. "I have done what I could to help him—I have engaged Calton to defend him, and if eloquence and skill can save him, you may set your mind at rest."

"My dear father," said Madge, throwing her arms around his neck, "I knew you would not desert him altogether, for my sake."

"My darling," replied her father, in a faltering voice, as he kissed her, "there is nothing in the world I would not do for your sake."

Meanwhile Brian was sitting in his cell in the Melbourne Jail, thinking sadly enough about his position. He saw no hope of escape except one, and that he did not intend to take advantage of.

"It would kill her; it would kill her," he said feverishly,


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70 as he paced to and fro over the echoing stones. "Better that the last of the Fitzgeralds should perish like a common thief than that she should know the bitter truth. If I engage a lawyer to defend me," he went on, "the first question he will ask me will be where was I on that night, and if I tell him all will be discovered, and then—no—no—I cannot do it; it would kill her, my darling," and throwing himself down on the bed, he covered his face with his hands.

He was roused by the opening of the door of his cell, and on looking up saw that it was Calton who entered. He was a great friend of Fitzgerald's, and Brian was deeply touched by his kindness in coming to see him. Duncan Calton had a kindly heart, and was anxious to help Brian, but there was also a touch of self-interest in the matter. He had received a note from Mr. Frettlby, asking him to defend Fitzgerald, which he agreed to with avidity, as he foresaw in this case an opportunity for his name becoming known throughout the Australian colonies. It is true that he was already a celebrated lawyer, but his reputation was purely a local one, and as he foresaw that Fitzgerald's trial for murder would cause a great sensation throughout Australia and New Zealand, therefore determined to take advantage of it as another step in the ladder which led to fame, wealth and position. So this tall, keen-eyed man, with the clean shaven face and expressive mouth, advanced into the cell, and took Brian by the hand.

"It is kind of you to come and see me," said Fitzgerald; "it is at a time like this that one appreciates friendship."

"Yes, of course," answered the lawyer, fixing his keen eyes on the other's haggard face, as if he would read his uttermost thoughts. "I came partly on my own account, and partly because Frettlby asked to see you as to your defense."

"Mr. Frettlby?" said Brian, in a mechanical way. "He is very kind; I thought he believed me guilty."

"No man is considered guilty until he has been proved so," answered Calton, evasively.

Brian noticed how guarded the answer was, for he heaved an impatient sigh.

"And Miss Frettlby?" he asked, in a hesitating manner. This time he got a decided answer.


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Rh "She declines to believe you guilty, and will not hear a word said against you."

"God bless her," said Brian, fervently; "she is a true woman. I suppose I am pretty well canvassed?" he added, bitterly.

"Nothing else talked about," answered Calton, calmly. "Your arrest has, for the present, suspended all interest in theatres, cricket matches, and balls, and you are at the present moment being discussed threadbare in clubs and drawing rooms."

Fitzgerald writhed. He was a singularly proud man, and there was something inexpressibly galling in this unpleasant publicity.

"But this is all idle chatter," said Calton, taking a seat. "We must get to business. Of course, you will accept me as your counsel."

"It's no good my doing so," replied Brian, gloomily. "The rope is already round my neck."

"Nonsense," replied the lawyer, cheerfully, "the rope is round no man's neck until he is on the scaffold. Now, you need not say a word," he went on, holding up his hand as Brian was about to speak; "I am going to defend you in this case, whether you like it or not. I do not know all the facts, except what the papers have stated, and they exaggerate so much that one can place no reliance on them. At all events, I believe from my heart that you are innocent, and you must walk out of the prisoner's dock a free man, if only for the sake of that noble girl who loves you."

Brian did not answer, but put out his hand, which the other grasped warmly.

"I will not deny," went on Calton, "that there is a little bit of professional curiosity about me. This case is such an extraordinary one that I feel as if I were unable to let slip an opportunity of doing something with it. I don't care for your humdrum murders with the poker, and all that sort of thing, but this is something clever, and therefore interesting. When you are safe we will together look for the real criminal, and the pleasure of the search will be proportionate to the excitement when we find him out."

"I agree with everything you say," said Fitzgerald, calmly," [sic] "but I have no defence to make."


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 pottery or any other object and appear on the housetops or street, only to be set upon and chased by the girls bent on securing the prize.

Many questions suggest themselves to everyone who witnesses the Snake dance. Some do not seem to be very easy to answer, and some are those which, perhaps, the wisest and most lore-learned priest cannot answer now after the lapse of centuries since the ceremony began. Still, most of us can leave them for the scientists to pore over. What everyone wants to know

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Author:Luther Daniels Bradley

Works

 * Cartoons by Bradley (1917)

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Translation:Proclamation on Removal and Appointment of Ministers dated 27 October 2012

Phra Bat Somdet Phra Paraminthra Maha Bhumibol Adulyadej is graciously pleased to proclaim that whereas We have appointed Yingluck Shinawatra Prime Minister pursuant to Our Proclamation dated 5 August 2011 and appointed her Ministers pursuant to Our Proclamation dated 9 August 2011 and Our last Proclamation dated 18 January 2012,

And whereas the Prime Minister informed Us that certain ministers have resigned and certain ministerial offices ought to be improved for the appropriateness and benefits of public administration,

Now Know You that We, by virtue of sections 171 and 183 of the Constitution of the Kingdom of Thailand, do hereby remove and appoint the Ministers as follows:

1.	 The Ministers shall be removed as follows:

2.	 The Ministers shall be appointed as follows:

And that this Our Proclamation shall come into force henceforth.

Issued this 27th Day of October, Buddhist Era 2555 (2012), being the 67th Year of Our Reign.

 * Countersigned.

 * Prime Minister.
 * Prime Minister.


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Category:Proclamations issued under the Constitution of the Kingdom of Thailand, Buddhist Era 2550 (2007)

th:หมวดหมู่:พระบรมราชโองการตามรัฐธรรมนูญแห่งราชอาณาจักรไทย พุทธศักราช ๒๕๕๐


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72 "No defence? You are not going to confess you killed him?"

"No," with an angry flush, "but there are certain circumstances which prevent me from defending myself."

"What nonsense," retorted Calton, sharply, "as if any circumstances should prevent a man from saving his own life. But never mind, I like these objections, they make the nut harder to crack—but the kernel must be worth getting at. Now, you have to answer me certain questions."

"I won't promise."

"Well, we shall see," said the lawyer, cheerfully, taking out his note-book, and resting it on his knee. "First, where were you on the Thursday preceding the murder?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh, yes, you can, my friend. You left St. Kilda, and came up to town by the eleven o'clock train."

"Eleven twenty," corrected Brian.

Calton smiled in a gratified manner as he noted this down.

"A little diplomacy is all that's required," he said mentally. "And where did you go then?" he added, aloud.

"I met Rolleston on the train, and we took a cab from the Flinders Street Station up to the Club."

"What club?"

"The Melbourne Club."

"Yes?" interrogatively.

"Rolleston went home, and I went into the Club and played cards for a time."

"When did you leave the Club?"

"A few minutes to one o'clock in the morning."

"And then, I suppose, you went home?"

"No; I did not."

"Then where did you go?"

"Down the street."

"Rather vague. I presume you mean Collins Street."

"Yes."

"You were going to meet some one, I suppose?"

"I never said so."

"Probably not; but young men don't wander about the streets at night without some object,"

"I was restless, and wanted a walk."

"Indeed! How curious you should prefer going into


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Rh the heart of the dusty town for a walk to strolling through the Fitzroy Gardens, which were on your way home! It won't do; you had an appointment to meet some one."

"Well—er—yes."

"I thought as much. Man or woman?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Then I must find out for myself."

"You can't."

"Indeed! Why not?"

"You don't know where to look for her."

"Her," cried Calton, delighted at the success of his craftily-put question. "I knew it was a woman."

Brian did not answer, but sat biting his lips with vexation.

"Now, who is the woman?"

No answer.

"Come now, Fitzgerald, I know that young men will be young men, and of course you don't like these things talked about; but in this case your character must be sacrificed to save your neck. What is her name?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh! you know it, then?"

"Well, yes."

"And you won't tell me?"

"No!"

Calton, however, had found out two things that pleased him, first, that Fitzgerald had an appointment, and, second, it was with a woman. He went on another line.

"When did you last see Whyte?"

Brian answered with great reluctance, "I saw him drunk by the Scotch Church."

"What! you were the man that hailed the hansom?"

"Yes," assented the other, hesitating slightly, "I was!"

The thought flashed through Calton's brain as to whether the young man before him was guilty or not, and he was obliged to confess things looked very black against him.

"Then what the newspapers said was correct?"

"Partly."

"Ah!" Calton drew a long breath—here was a ray of hope.

"You did not know it was Whyte when you found him lying drunk near the Scotch Church?"


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74 "No, I did not. Had I known it was he, I would not have picked him up."

"Of course, you recognized him afterwards?"

"Yes, I did. And, as the paper stated, dropped him and walked away."

"Why did you leave him so abruptly?"

Brian looked at his questioner in some surprise.

"Because I detested him," he said, shortly.

"Why did you detest him?"

No answer.

"Was it because he had admired Miss Frettlby, and, from all appearances, was going to marry her?"

"Well, yes," sullenly.

"And now," said Calton, impressively, "this is the whole point upon which the case turns—Why did you get into the cab with him?"

"I did not get into the cab."

"The cabman declares that you did."

"He is wrong. I never came back after I recognized Whyte."

"Then who was the man who got into the cab with Whyte?"

"I don't know."

"You have no idea?"

"Not the least."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, perfectly certain."

"He seems to have been dressed exactly like you."

"Very probably. I could name at least a dozen of my acquaintances who wear light coats over their evening dress, and soft hats."

"Do you know if Whyte had any enemies?"

"No, I don't; I know nothing about him, beyond that he came from England a short time ago with a letter of introduction to Mr. Frettlby, and had the impertinence to ask Madge to marry him."

"Where did Whyte live?"

"Down in St. Kilda, at the end of Grey Street."

"How do you know?"

"It was in the papers, and—and—" hesitatingly, "I called on him."

"Why?"


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Rh "To see if he would stop asking Madge to marry him, and to tell him that she was engaged to me."

"And what did he say?"

"Laughed at me. Curse him."

"You had high words, evidently?"

Brian laughed bitterly.

"Yes, we had."

"Did anyone hear you?"

"The landlady did, I think. I saw her in the passage as I left the house."

"The prosecution will bring her forward as a witness."

"Very likely," indifferently.

"Did you say anything likely to criminate yourself!"

Fitzgerald turned away his head.

"Yes," he answered in a low voice, "I spoke very wildly—indeed, I did not know at the time what I said."

"Did you threaten him?"

"Yes, I did. I told him I would kill him if he persisted in his plan of marrying Madge."

"Ah! if the landlady can swear that she heard you say so, it will form a strong piece of evidence against you. As far as I can see, there is only one defence, and that is an easy one—you must prove an alibi."

No answer.

"You say you did not come back and get into the cab?" said Calton, watching the face of the other closely.

"No, it was some one else dressed like me."

"And you have no idea who it was?"

"No, I have not."

"Then, after you left Whyte and walked along Russell Street, where did you go?"

"I can't tell you."

"Were you intoxicated?"

"No!" indignantly.

"Then you remember?"

"Yes."

"And where were you?"

"I can't tell you."

"You refuse?"

"Yes, I do."

"Take time to consider You may have to pay a heavy price for your refusal."


text:
Cato's Letters/Letter 75

SIR, After all that has been said of arbitrary power, and of its hideous nature and effects, it will fall properly in, to say something here of the restraints which all wise and fortunate nations ought to put, and have ever put, upon their magistrates. This is what I promised nine months ago to do; and this is what I propose to do in this letter and the following.

No wise nation in the world ever trusted to the sole management, mere mercy, and absolute discretion of its own magistrates, when it could help doing it; and no series of magistrates ever had absolute power over any nation, but they turned the same to its ruin, and their own wild gratifications and ill-judged profit. As long as the passions of men govern them, they will always govern by their passions, and their passions will always increase with their power. And therefore, whenever a whole people, or any part of them, cross the passions of any man that governs them, he will turn his passions against a whole people, or any number of them that offend him, and will destroy a whole people, rather than stifle his passions. This is evident in ten thousand instances; and the publick will ever, and certainly, be sacrified to private lust, when private lust governs the publick. Nothing but fear and selfish considerations can keep men within any reasonable bounds; and nothing but the absence of fear can set men at defiance with society, and prompt them to oppress it. It was therefore well judged of the Spartan Ephori, when they erected an altar to Fear, as the most proper divinity to restrain the wild ambition of men, and to keep their kings within the confines of their duty.

A nation has but two sorts of usurpation to fear; one from their neighbours, and another from their own magistrates: Nor is a foreign usurpation more formidable than a domestick, which is the most dangerous of the two, by being hardest to remove; and generally stealing upon the people by degrees, is fixed before it is scarce felt or apprehended: Like wild beasts in a wood, beset with toils as yet unseen by them, they think themselves free; but striving to escape, find themselves caught in the chains, which had long been preparing for them, and stealing upon them. Besides, for one people undone by foreign invaders, ten have been undone by their own native rogues, who were entrusted to defend them; but instead of it, either betrayed them to these invaders, or seized traitorously for themselves those rights which they were sworn to preserve for others; and then, by oppression and cruelty, and the other consequences of their treachery, reduced them to an utter disability of defending themselves against any invasion whatsoever.

What has made Italy and Asia deserts, and their remaining inhabitants starving and contemptible cowards? Not the inundation of barbarous nations; though that inundation was owing to the weakness of the inhabitants, weakened and undone by their base and tyrannical governors: But they have been made deserts by the continued depredations of their execrable princes, who have acted as if they had been scythes in the hand of Satan to mow down the race of men. There is a certain old Italian tyrant, now living, who, though he has by studied rapine converted into a wilderness a country which nature has made a paradise, yet is not weary nor ashamed of his rapine, but goes on to suck and squeeze the remaining blood of his ghostly subjects; and next to his visiting seven altars a day (a way which he has of compounding with God for being a pestilent tyrant to his creatures), I say, his only employment, besides this his devout and impudent mockery of God, is to sit contriving with his faithful ministry, which of his subjects may probably be worth a hundred pounds, and how to cheat him or rob him of that hundred pounds.

This same grand prince has now scarce any other business for his soldiers, but that of employing them directly against his own people; nor are they fit for any other employment; for one English regiment would beat seven of his. So that his paltry forces, many of them, are placed upon his frontiers, not to defend him from an invasion, a task which they are not equal to, but to keep his wretched subjects from running away from famine and his government. A relief which is however barbarously denied them by this old polite tyrant! They must stay and perish under him; nor will he suffer them to seek elsewhere that support of life, of which his diabolical government deprives them at home; as if when he had robbed them of their labour and their life, he also wanted their skins.

There is not upon earth a nation, which having had unaccountable magistrates, has not felt them to have been crying and consuming mischiefs. In truth, where they are most limited, it has been often as much as a whole people could do to restrain them to their trust, and to keep them from violence; and such frequently has been their propensity to be lawless, that nothing but violence, and sometimes nothing but a violent death, could cure them of their violence. This evil has its root in human nature; men will never think they have enough, whilst they can take more; nor be content with a part, when they can seize the whole. We are, indeed told of some absolute princes, who have been very good men and no oppressors. But the nature of their power rendered their good qualities almost useless, and gave to others an opportunity of doing in their name, and by their authority, mischiefs which perhaps they themselves abhorred. Besides, in any series of arbitrary princes upon earth, scarce out of ten can one be named who was tolerable, and who either did not himself prove an inhuman tyrant, or suffered his ministers to be so: And when an absolute prince has had great parts, they generally went to his grave with him, and scarce ever proved hereditary. In truth, the children of great princes have almost always proved very unlike them.

I own, the first of the line has sometimes acted plausibly, and gained, by doing so, dangerous credit and popularity. But if he were an angel, he is never to be forgiven, because it is out of his power what his successor shall prove. The crocodile’s egg does no mischief whilst it continues an egg; but out of it is hatched a crocodile, and by it the cursed race of destroyers is continued. D. Heinsius says very justly, Nec unquam servitus, ne speciosa quidem, legit quibus serviat, sed accipit. "The most plausible slavery is attended with this eternal misfortune, that it has no choice of a master, but must accept of a master, such a chance sends." Vespasian left to the Romans for their prince the beneficent Titus; but he also left them the raging and bloody Domitian.

If Julius Caesar and Augustus had been really gods, as their flatterers made them; yet their leaving behind them such a race of successors (who proved a race of daemons) entitles them to the characters of detestable tyrants to all eternity. Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, and Nero, were the precious and bloody blessings which these beneficent princes left! Names universally abhorred, whilst those of Caesar and Augustus are generally adored: And yet to Caesar and Augustus were mankind indebted for these pests of mankind: Nor were they so great pests as were Caesar and Augustus, who did much more mischief, and destroyed the world more than either Nero or Caligula, besides leaving them to destroy it still further.

People rarely think of this, but it is literally true. What! will some say, the generous Caesar and the mild Augustus do more mischief than the wild Caligula and the savage Nero! Yes, fifty to one: Nero destroyed his twenties, Caesar and Augustus their twenty thousands; and for Nero, we may thank Julius and Augustus. Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, and Nero, took Rome chiefly for the scene of their cruelty, and destroyed many great and good men, some out of wantonness, and more out of jealousy: But Caesar and Augustus made Rome and the world their slaughterhouse, and destroyed more great and good men by far than the other four, as butchering monsters as they were: And as to publick rapine and general depopulation, they exceeded them still further. Indeed, as to heroick and diffusive mischief and villainy, the difference between them was as great as between Jack Straw and a late Grand Monarque. The truth is, Caesar and Augustus had art and great qualities, which are far from excusing the evils which they did; and their successors, having all their ambition, but wanting their great qualities and discretion, took the direct road to hatred.

An unrestrained power in one man, or in a few, over all, is such an extravagant deviation from reason and nature, that neither Briareus with his many hands, nor the Hydra with its numerous heads, nor the Centaurs, half man and half beast, were things more unshapen, monstrous, and frightful: Nor would these fictions appear more fabulous and improbable, than such power would be to a free people, who never had heard of it before. What could seem to common sense a wilder chimera, than that one man, not created with features and endowments different from other men, should have a lasting right from his blood, or his pride, or his madness, to domineer over all men, and to rule, kill, starve, famish, banish, and imprison, as many as he pleased?

This power is indeed so monstrous, that it turns men that have it into monsters; and therefore the most amiable and unexceptionable man upon earth is not to be trusted with it. Men change with their stations, and power of any sort rarely alters them for the better; but, on the contrary, has often turned a very good man into a very bad. This shews that men forbear evil, chiefly to avoid the ill consequence of it to themselves, and for want of opportunity and protection; and finding both in power, they prove, by making use of them, that their virtue was only self-love, and fear of punishment. Thus men of the best and brightest characters have often done most mischief, and by well serving their country, have been enabled to destroy it: And they were good and evil from one and the same motive; a passion for themselves, and their own security or glory.

Thus the house of the Medicis, by being very good commonwealth-men, and by serving and obliging almost every family in Florence, gained credit enough by this their generous behaviour, to enslave that great and powerful city. Idque apud imperitos humanitas vocabatur, quod pars servitutis erat. Pericles administered the government of Athens with great sufficiency; but he broke down the fences of its liberty, and ruled arbitrarily all his days. Agathocles fought successfully for the city of Syracuse, and as successfully against it; and having defended the citizens against their enemies, he afterwards shewed himself their greatest, by killing in one great massacre all the chief and best of them, and by crowning himself tyrant over all the rest. Marius and Sulla, Pompey and Caesar, were great and excellent commanders, and conquered many great kings and nations: But they made all the fruits of their victories their own; and from being very good soldiers, made themselves most pernicious and arbitrary magistrates.

Now all these great men derived, from the good which they did, a capacity to do much more evil: So that as a power to do great good, does naturally include in it an opportunity of doing much evil; so those who are in the possession of power, as all magistrates are, ought, above all other men, to be narrowly watched, and checked with restraints stronger than their temptations to break them; and every crime of theirs ought to be more penal, as it is evidently more pernicious, than the same crime in any other sort of men. For, besides that quales in republica principes essent, tales reliquos solere esse cives; that is, that people are generally virtuous or corrupt as their magistrates are; there is something exceeding solemn and important in the nature of this great trust; and accordingly as it is observed or betrayed, a country is happy or miserable: And when any one breach of it passes once off with impunity, another will soon follow it; and in time it will be considered no longer as a trust, but an estate.

So dangerous a thing is an ill precedent, which is often an inlet to an endless train of mischiefs; and so depraved is the nature of man, that we justify ourselves in wickedness by examples that cannot be justified. An action at first reckoned dishonest, by being practised once or twice, becomes unblameable; and that which was at first accounted an extortion, grows by use to be thought but a perquisite. Thus evil is mitigated, nay, cancelled, by repetition, which is a real aggravation of evil; and there are certain rogueries in office, which being long practised, and by many, are at last reckoned as sacred as the trust against which they are committed: A sufficient reason for providing, by great and certain penalties, that none be committed.

G I am, &c.

title: Cato's Letters/Letter 75


text:
Page:The Mystery of a Hansom Cab.djvu/80

76 "If necessary, I will pay it."

"And you won't tell me where you were?"

"No, I won't."

Calton was beginning to feel annoyed.

"You're very foolish," he said, "sacrificing your life to some feeling of false modesty. You must prove an alibi."

No answer.

"What time did you get home?"

"About two o'clock in the morning."

"Did you walk home?"

"Yes—through the Fitzroy Gardens."

"Did you see anyone on your way home?"

"I don't know. I wasn't paying attention."

"Did anyone see you!"

"Not that I know of."

"Then you refuse to tell me where you were between one and two o'clock on Friday morning?"

"Absolutely!"

Calton thought for a moment, to consider his next move.

"Do you know that Whyte carried valuable papers about with him?"

Fitzgerald hesitated, and turned pale.

"No! I did not know," he said, reluctantly.

The lawyer made a master stroke.

"Then why did you take them from him?"

"What! Had he it with him?"

Calton saw his advantage, and seized it at once.

"Yes, he had it with him. Why did you take it?"

"I did not take it—didn't even know he had it with him."

"Indeed! Will you kindly tell me what 'it' is?"

Brian saw the trap into which he had fallen.

"No! I will not," he answered steadily.

"Was it a jewel?"

"No."

"Was it an important paper?"

"I don't know."

"Ah! It was a paper. I can see it in your face. And was that paper of importance to you?"

"Why do you ask?"

Calton fixed his keen gray eyes steadily on Brian's face.

"Because," he answered slowly, "the man to whom that paper was of such value murdered Whyte."


text:
Cato's Letters/Letter 76

SIR, How cautiously and partially men in power are to be trusted, and how much to be restrained, appears from hence, that almost every civil evil begins from courts, and the redress of every civil evil from an opposition to the pretensions and excesses of courts. This is so universally true, that no nation ever continued happy, whose chief magistrate was its absolute master; and no nation miserable, whose supreme power was properly checked and divided. Nations are then free, when their magistrates are their servants; and then slaves, when their magistrates are their masters: The commonwealth does not belong to them, but they belong to the commonwealth. Tacitus says with great truth, Nec unquam satis fida potentia ubi nimis est: "Power without control is never to be trusted." Every nation has most to fear from its own magistrates; because almost all nations have suffered most from their own magistrates.

Cicero, mentioning the condition of Cilicia, of which he was proconsul, in a letter to Appius Pulcher, says, that he was "moved by pity, as well as justice, to relieve from their miseries the undone provincial cities; undone chiefly by their own magistrates." It seems Cicero was that sort of whimsical man, that he had really at heart to do good to the people whom he governed: An odd and impracticable character; which, had he lived since, would have rendered him utterly unfit for any manner of preferment. He did not so much as know that he was to make the most of his place and his power, let what would become of the people. A lesson which other governors have amply learned.

Aristotle makes it the great argument and proof of liberty, that they who command do also obey; and indeed all legal and just power being but a trust, whoever executes the same, does an act of obedience as well as command: And every trust is best executed, where those who have it are answerable for it, else it never will be executed; but, where it is great and publick, is much more likely to be abused, violated, and turned to the destruction of those, who, for their own preservation, gave it. Nor is a people to be told, that such as want to be trusted with extraordinary power of any kind, have always been enemies to arbitrary power; for so are all men when they have it not, and expect no advantage from it. Who was a greater patriot than Sir Thomas Wentworth? And who was a more arbitrary minister than Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford? All men are for confining power when it is over them; and for extending it when they are in it. Oliver Cromwell was once heartily in the principles of liberty, and afterwards more heartily in those of tyranny: And I could name two great parties in England, who, when they were out of power, seemed to place the sum of publick spirit, in intrenching upon the royal authority; and when they were in power, to know no other law but the prerogative royal. So unlike is the same man to himself in different situations; and yet still very consistent with the genius of human nature!

Men sometimes do actually good, in order to do evil, Sejanus, incipiente adhuc potestate, bonis consiliis notescere volebat: "Sejanus, in the beginning of his administration, would found the reputation of a good minister in laudable measures." But there never proved a worse minister than Sejanus. Solyman, the Turkish emperor, used to say, that a prince, to be well served by any minister, must never use any minister above once: And this saying is thus far true generally, that men, the longer they grow in power, the worse they grow. I think it is Tacitus who says, Superbire homines etiam annua designatione; quid si honorem per quinquennium agitent? "If an annual election to power make men insolent; what must be their pitch of insolence, if they hold it five or seven years?" Aristotle finds great fault with the senate of Sparta, for being perpetual; and I think he says, that an unchanged or an hereditary senate falls into dotage.

Many of the ecclesiasticks have been for trusting their favourite princes (and no other) with unlimited power over others: But in every thing that regarded themselves and their interest, they have never failed to stipulate for the strictest limitations upon all princes, even upon those whom over the rest of the world they wished arbitrary, and endeavoured by every means to make so. Nor did ever any man give up the freedom of his country, but he meant to preserve his own; and hoped to continue a freeman; as a reward of his helping to make other people slaves; and no man ever set up a tyrant, but in hopes of going shares in his tyranny: And upon these terms and expectations alone it is, that any body of men, or indeed any army, is brought to aid and establish any usurper. Passive obedience was always intended for other people than those who preached it. Interest cannot lie; though he does, who says that he will submit to servitude, when he can avoid it.

Who would establish a bank in an arbitrary country, or trust his money constantly there? In Denmark, the ministers and minions of the prince, think their money safest out of his dominions, and generally transmit the same to Hamburgh, and other free cities, where the magistrates have no divine right to lay violent hands upon what is none of theirs. Even what we gain by rapine in a land of oppression, we are willing to save by the just laws of liberty, in a country of liberty. In England itself, and in our own free constitution; if the Bank of England were put under the absolute direction and power of the court, I doubt stock would soon grow very cheap, and sellers multiply very fast. Or if the government of the Bank, which is purely republican, were improved into monarchical; I fancy our highest monarchy-men would rail at the change, and hasten to sell out, notwithstanding their inviolable attachment to the divine right of monarchy: Unless perhaps they think that absolute monarchy does best protect their power, but a free state their money. I am indeed of opinion, that upon such a change, the Bank would be broke, and shut up in three days.

All this shews, that even men who are against liberty in general, contend for it in particulars, and in all particulars which affect themselves. Even Lauderdale, a Tyrconnel, or a Jefferies, who were all for making the crown absolute, as long as they could be as they were, the absolute ministers of oppression under it, would none of them, I dare say, have encouraged the maxim of the prince’s rewarding his ministers and faithful oppressors with the bow-string; as well as they themselves were entitled to that reward, and as much as the Turkish genius of government did in other instances suit their own!

When we hear any sort of men complain, as some sort of men do frequently complain, that the crown wants power; we should ask them, whether they mean over themselves? And if they answer, no; as certainly they will, if they speak truth; we may further ask them, Why should they judge for themselves any more than others; or claim to themselves a liberty and an exemption which they will not allow to others? The truth is, they who complain thus, only want to increase the power of the crown, because by it their own would be increased, and other advantages acquired.

The fox in the fable, wanting to rob a hen-roost, or do some such prank, humbly besought admittance and house-room only for his head; but when he got in his head, his whole body presently followed: And courts, more crafty, as well as more craving, than that designing animal, have scarce ever gained an inch of power, but they have stretched it to an ell; and when they have got in but a finger, their whole train has followed. Pisistratus, having procured from the city of Athens fifty fellows armed only with cudgels, for the security of his person from false and lying dangers, improved them into an army, and by it enslaved that free state. And I have read somewhere, of the States of a country, who having wildly granted to their prince a power of raising money by his own authority, in cases of great necessity; every case, ever afterwards, was a case of great necessity; and his necessities multiplied so fast, that the whole wealth of the country was swallowed up to supply them: As it always will be in every country, where those who ask are suffered to judge what ought to be given. A practice contrary to common sense, and which renders liberty and property perfectly precarious; and where it is continued, will end in taking without asking.

I have heard of a court somewhere abroad, which having asked upon a particular occasion four hundred thousand pounds of the States, found ways and means of stretching that sum to two millions. It was observed of the same court, that it had the art of raising mole-hills into mountains, and of sinking mountains into mole-hills; of disbanding armies without breaking them; of increasing debts by the means of paying them; of being engaged in an expensive war during a profound peace; of gaining for the country at a vast charge, advantages which the country never reaped, nor saw; of employing money obviously against the interest of that nation, and yet getting the nation to pay it; of purchasing other countries at the expence of their own, and against its interest; of procuring from the country at one time a great sum, without telling why it was wanted, but promising to tell, and yet never telling; and, in fine, after many other the like feats, of obtaining, by an arret of security, remission for all their past faults, without owning any, and yet going on to commit more: For as Tully well observes, Qui semel verecundiae fines transierit, eum bene & naviter oportet esse impudentem. Cicer. epist. ad Lucceium, Quinti fil.

But these things concern not us; and I only bring them for examples, like other old stories of Greece and Rome. I hope that we shall never fall into the like misfortunes and mismanagements ourselves.

G I am, &c.

title: Cato's Letters/Letter 76


text:
Page:The Mystery of a Hansom Cab.djvu/81

Rh Brian started up, ghastly pale.

"My God!" he almost shrieked, stretching out his hands, "it is true after all," and he fell down on the stone pavement in a dead faint.

Calton, alarmed, summoned the gaoler, and between them they placed him on the bed, and dashed some cold water over his face. He recovered, and moaned feebly, while Calton, seeing that he was unfit to be spoken to, left the prison. When he got outside he stopped for a moment and looked back on the grim, gray walls."

"Brian Fitzgerald," he said to himself, "you did not commit the murder yourself, but you know who did."

Melbourne society was greatly agitated over the hansom cab murder. Before the assassin had been discovered it had been merely looked upon as a common murder, and one that society need take no cognizance of beyond the fact that it was something new to talk about. But now the affair was assuming gigantic proportions, since the assassin had been discovered to be one of the most fashionable young men in Melbourne. Mrs. Grundy was shocked, and openly talked about having nourished a viper in her bosom, which had turned unexpectedly and stung her. In Toorak drawing rooms and Melbourne clubs the matter was talked about morn, noon, and night, and Mrs. Grundy declared positively that she never heard of such a thing. Here was a young man, well born—"the Fitzgerald, my dear, an Irish family, with royal blood in their veins"—well-bred—"most charming manners, I assure you, and so very good-looking" and engaged to one of the richest girls in Melbourne—"pretty enough, madam, no doubt, but he wanted her money, sly dog." And this young man who had been petted by the ladies, voted a good fellow by the men, and was universally popular, both in drawing-room and club, had committed a vulgar murder; it was truly shocking. What was the world coming to, and what were gaols and lunatic asylums built for,