His Sovereign Remedy. — A Comedy in an Omnibus
The gloom was gathering. Ten minutes ago the conductor had leaned from his step, taken the lamp from some unseen hand, and stuck it up in its place by the door. The bus lurched round the corner into Bishop’s Road. It was a Bayswater bus, and the old gentleman who was changing his seat drove his elbow into my hat.
“Bless me! I’m always doing that. Most extraordinary! I’m sure I beg your pardon.”
I told him that it was of little consequence, and another swing of the bus seated him suddenly beside the tired-looking girl with a music portfolio in her hand. She opened her eyes for a moment, and then closed them again. The woman beyond shifted her baby to the other arm—the arm furthest removed from the old gentleman—and continued to rock it mechanically.
The old gentleman evinced a restlessness which was not suggested by his mild aspect and his white hair, though a closer examination revealed a certain furtive look in his eyes. Four separate times he had shifted his seat since I had taken my place in the corner next the door at Oxford Circus. A slight irritation at his want of repose caused me to shoot a protesting glance at him over the top of my evening paper, for few things annoy me so much as purposeless activity. Old gentlemen should be glad enough to sit still when they have the chance. But I could not find it in my heart to be angry with such a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
It was just then, as my eyes were returning to my paper, that the demon of suspicion took tentative hold upon my mind. “Why,” I asked myself, “do nice-looking old gentlemen, with white hair and shifting eyes, want to change their place in a bus?”
The suspicion came—and went, for the kindly and venerable face gave no hold for doubt. But I laid down my paper upon my knees and leant back in the corner to watch him, speculating whether he would change his place again before we came to Westbourne Grove. The driver’s whip-lash sounded on the middle pane opposite to me, and the bus slowed down to take up a passenger who, after a glance inside, mounted to the roof.
The conductor shoved his parcel up after him, pulled the string and resumed his position against the side of the door, where, upon that mysterious block which is kept in a receptacle over the entrance, he was apparently making sketches of the passengers inside. Mentally commending his diligence, I turned my eyes again to the old gentleman, who met my glance for a moment, and seemed to deprecate my displeasure by the lifting of his brows and a turn of his head.
As the bus quickened up again, the tired-looking girl swayed slightly, and her head sank upon the shoulder of the old gentleman. The old gentleman glanced sideways at the closed eyes of his neighbour, and, as a kindly smile stole over his face, his arm slid round the girl’s waist. The pair made quite a pretty picture. The conductor at my elbow turned slightly, to get a better light upon his sketching block.
And then I noticed a curious disturbance—only a momentary rise and fall—in the dress of the sleeping girl. No one, so far as I could tell, had moved. The girl’s hands were lying in her lap, precariously clasping her music portfolio. The disturbance occurred on the right side of the dress, which was the side furthest from the old gentleman in whose kindly embrace the girl lay.
The explanation came to me in a flash. In so sudden a flash that I turned in the same instant to the conductor and found his sidelong glance meeting mine.
“See that?” he muttered, under the clatter of the bus.
“I should think I did,” I said, “he’s picked her pocket.”
“I’ve ’ad a eye on the old josser for the last month,” he said. “I’ll make it a fair cop this time. You’re my witness.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m not awfully keen on being mixed up——”
“Bit of high-spyin’ now,” he said. “What’s the matter with a little bit o’ high-spyin’, eh?”
The conductor mounted the steps to the roof. The tired girl, awakened suddenly to her position, straightened herself and peered anxiously through the window of the bus as though to make certain that she had not been carried to Wormwood Scrubs in her sleep. Reassured, she gathered up her portfolio in a firmer grasp with one hand, and with the other searched the back of her head for errant pins.
Round the edge of my paper I watched the old gentleman, whose eyes were now fixed obliquely upon the woman on his left. I distinctly saw his eyes travel down from the woman’s face to her black cloth jacket, and stop at the outside pocket, from which her omnibus ticket was peeping. The pocket was on a level with, and almost touching his elbow, and his hand, his left hand, which was resting upon his knee, began slowly to travel towards the pocket of the tired-looking woman.
The baby was kicking, grasping at the stuffy air with crinkled fingers, and threatened to give voice, and the tired-looking woman, rocking more anxiously than before, looked timidly from one neighbour to another as though in apology for the wrath to come.
At that moment my glance was attracted to a point above the old gentleman’s head, where I met the eyes of the conductor, pressed close against the window-pane. A little higher was the tip of his nose, whitened by the pressure, and above that his stubby red moustache, underneath which a mouth gaped with inquiry. For a moment or two I was fascinated by the inverted face, which seemed to belong to some other-world creature which had tumbled from extra-mundane space and stuck fast upon the window of the Bayswater bus.
The benevolent old gentleman, quite unconscious of the watchful eyes behind his head, was regarding with a bland smile the advertisements on the window behind me. And as my eyes fell again on the spot where I had last seen his hand, I saw that it was not there. There never was a more unskilful performance. For there sat the old gentleman before my eyes, looking calmly over my head, with two fingers inserted into the pocket of the woman who was rocking the baby. As though it knew the wrong that was being done, the baby gave vent to the threatened yell, and the mother, patting it, and rocking it, and speaking to it in unknown tongues, saw nothing and felt nothing else.
Suddenly, as I watched, the benevolent old gentleman dropped his eyes from the advertisements, and mine arrested them as they fell. Never was an old gentleman so vastly perturbed. I almost felt sorry for him; for an aged criminal who has not learned the art of escaping detection and is therefore hopelessly incompetent, is a pathetic sight.
The omnibus stopped with a jerk just as we came within the range of the lamps at the corner, and the old gentleman, so evil were his deeds, seemed to shrink from the light. I was not quite certain of the etiquette with pickpockets. Ought I to leap upon him then and there and to denounce him? That would be melodramatic, I reflected; and I hate a scene; so I only raised myself from my seat, borrowed support from the handrail above my head, and waited upon events.
The tired girl bestirred herself and looked round, the woman with the baby changed her burden again from one arm to the other and peered anxiously at the door.
“Royal Oak,” I said, answering her look of inquiry.
She sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, and at the same moment the old gentleman jumped up and shambled towards the door, while the other passengers carefully drew in their toes.
By this time I noticed that the conductor’s face had detached itself from the window. Three people had risen to leave; but the old gentleman was first, being clearly in a hurry; and as he found himself unable to pass me, half-standing and half-sitting, with my hand on the overhead rail, he looked pleadingly at me, as though imploring my silence. I hesitated a moment. It was none of my business to arrest criminals. But I did not mind giving a passive support to the cause of justice, so I stayed where I was. And then the conductor appeared, blocking the doorway.
“No, yer don’t,” he said.
“My good man,” began the old gentleman, “I sincerely trust I have given no offence. I only——”
“I see yer,” said the conductor, looking over his shoulder towards the public-house, and jerking his head.
“Then kindly oblige me,” said the old gentleman, “by not making a fuss. If a sovereign now——”
“Oh, stow it,” said the conductor. “You’ve done it once too often, that’s what you ’ave. I see yer right enough this time, and you’re going to be give in chawge, that’s what you are. Strite.”
The old gentleman looked helplessly round him. Impatient passengers began to remonstrate from the step; others from the kerb.
“‘Old on,” said the conductor, “we’re all goin’ ’ome to tea.”
A policeman crossed from the opposite corner.
“‘Igher up there!” he remarked, dispassionately.
“Look ’ere, constable,” said the conductor, “’ere’s a job in your line.” Then his tone became official. “I ’ereby give this man in chawge for picking pockets.”
“Oh,” said the policeman, scattering the bunch of people gathered round the step.
“I see him—and this gentleman ’ere see him,” said the conductor. “’Tain’t the first time, neither. Old ’and, he is; that’s what he is.”
The doorway was now blocked by the policeman’s form.
“That ain’t good enough for me,” he said. “Any of you ladies and gentlemen lost anything?”
“I see ’is ’and in that lydy’s pocket,” said the conductor, pointing over the constable’s shoulder at the woman with the baby. “You feel in your pocket, lydy.”
Then ensued a general searching of pockets, while a rival omnibus swept by triumphantly and gathered up such passengers as were too impatient to await the outcome of the situation.
I leaned forward and said in an undertone to the girl with the portfolio, who alone of the passengers shewed no interest in the contents of her pocket, “You had better look in your pocket, I feel convinced it was picked while you were asleep upon his shoulder.”
“I wasn’t,” she said, abruptly. Then, reflecting apparently that she was rude as well as tired, she added, “I’ve nothing worth stealing, thank you all the same.”
In a desultory way she began fumbling in the pocket of her dress. The old gentleman stood by the policeman. His face had grown very red; his eyes, wandering from one passenger to another, became suddenly fixed, and his face was redder than ever. It was sufficiently obvious that he was very uneasy. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw the baby’s head hanging at an alarming angle over the woman’s arm. The mother was leaning towards the light and looking at the contents of her free hand—a bus ticket, two pennies, a farthing, and a sovereign.
“Now, then! lost anything, mem?” asked the conductor.
“No, I ain’t lost nothing,” she began, slowly.
The old gentleman nodded to her pleasantly.
“Though,” she continued, “I don’t rightly understand why——”
“I think this must belong to you, sir,” said the girl with the portfolio, suddenly, holding out a sovereign to the old gentleman.
“Not at all, my dear; nothing to do with me, nothing whatever,” he said, nodding his head at her. “Old enough to be your grandfather, too!”
“Now then, what’s all that?” asked the policeman.
“Only this gentleman must have been putting a sovereign into my pocket, and I insist—oh! I insist——”
“Look here, constable,” said the old gentleman, “can’t you see that you are embarrassing the young lady? Any little transaction between her and me is none of your business, or anyone else’s either.”
The old gentleman stamped impotently upon the floor of the omnibus.
“He’s been giving money away,” said the policeman over his shoulder to the conductor, “looks like.”
“And why not, why not?” said the old gentleman. “What’s the good of having money if you can’t make people happy with it?”
The constable looked reflectively at him.
“I dunno,” he said. “I’d better take your name and address.”
The old gentleman looked apprehensively round. Then he took a card from his pocket and gave it to the policeman.
“Please don’t read it out,” he said.
The policeman looked at the card, put it into his pocket-book, and made a note in pencil. Then he swung himself off the omnibus and looked hard at the old gentleman as he descended slowly.
“You go home,” he said. “You want to be took care of, you do.”
The conductor stood upon the kerb with his hand on the rail, looking after the old gentleman as he trudged off towards Royal Oak Station.
“‘Urry up there,” said the constable. “Wastin’ my time,” he added, as he turned his back.
The conductor rang the bell and leaned dolefully against the stairway as the bus started away from the dispersing crowd.
The girl with the portfolio was regarding her sovereign thoughtfully, holding it between her thumb and forefinger; then she returned it with her handkerchief to her pocket, looked doubtfully round and blushed slightly.
The woman with the baby was biting something, which, as she caught my eye, she hurriedly slipped into her jacket pocket. “Not that I’d be be’olden to anybody,” she remarked at large, rocking her baby with much energy, “me ’usband earning good money, thanks be. But peliteness is peliteness——”
“You may think yer know yer way abart,” said the conductor, looking at me and jerking his head up and down, “but now and then you find you’re left—badly left. Now, think o’ that! Droppin’ sovereigns all over the place. Well, I wish I’d a’knowed!”
LITTLE DARLINGS.
HALF A MILLION
PHOTOGRAPHS OF CHILDREN.
Words by Somers J. Summers. Photographic Illustrations by W. J. Byrne.
LOCKED away in the breast of Mr. W. J. Byrne, the children’s photographer, is a secret which, when she has read this article, every mother of children will want to know. Let it be said at once, however, that her curiosity will have to go unsatisfied; Mr. Byrne has his secret, and wild interviewers cannot drag it from him.
Ability to pose adults gracefully and naturally before the camera is an accomplishment admittedly rare; in the case of children, with the difficulties increased tenfold, it must be a gift. It is one thing to dump a subject into a chair and obtain a likeness, another to make a picture as well. And when a man has taken half a million photographs of little sitters, in as many poses, he may be held to be something of an authority on the subject. That is Mr. Byrne’s record; he is to children what Rosa Bonheur is to animals, save that he uses neither pencils nor brush; he is a veritable artist with the camera. Some of the examples of his skill here seen represent, it is not difficult to realise, an infinity of painstaking and experimenting, while others tell of patient waiting, followed by considerable alacrity at the moment of a fleeting expression which he desired to preserve. Mr. Byrne’s method is very simple; one half of his secret is soon told.
“Photographing children,” he says, “is charming work, but it can never be successful so long as the customary relations between them and the photographer exist. They usually enter a studio with much the same sort of feelings as they do a dentist’s. They should be made to feel at home before the business side of their visit is reached. Instead of being at once placed in the ‘operating’ chair, they should be allowed to wander about, if old enough, at their own sweet wills and in any case become accustomed to their strange surroundings. Wild gesticulations, promises of chocolates, stories of ‘the little bird,’ and orders to ‘keep like that,’ only serve to produce expressions of wonder and fear. Personally I let the child amuse itself with new toys, and either pretend to take no notice, or else join in the game. This may go on for half an hour. Meanwhile, an attendant is quietly focussing an almost concealed camera, and when the child begins to prattle, I wait for an unconscious and happy expression, then snap goes the shutter, and the thing is done.
“Every child’s face is beautiful to at least one pair of eyes. The features may not be symmetrical, the eyes may be small and dull, but the charm of childhood does not lie entirely in facial beauty. It is the coy smile and the quaint expression that a parent prizes most. And it is these characteristics that a photographer should aim to catch. Mothers often make the mistake of rehearsing the sitting at home. It is even better not to mention the matter in the presence of the little one; it is usually much more satisfactory if the visit is a surprise one as far as the child is concerned. It is also unwise to dress the young sitter in unaccustomed clothes or to warn it to be good. For general work, my rule about posing children is, ‘Never pose them at all.’”
Mr. Byrne’s studios are veritable toy-shops, containing everything from a jumping frog to a model of an Atlantic liner. Indeed, Mr. Byrne has given a big firm of toy-dealers a standing order to send anything new that comes in the market. Antiquarians will learn with a pang that the dear old Noah’s Ark is going the way of all flesh. British children will have none of it. They refuse to look pleasant for less than a little bicycle with rubber tyres, or a miniature motor-car with real boilers—at least when they go to be photographed.
So much, then, for how Mr. Byrne’s “happy” results are produced; what about his “unhappy” ones? Both are well represented here. Take the first pictures, Sunshine and Shadow. What caused the inquisitive little fellow in the first to find the world all dark and so little of interest in life a few seconds later?
It must have been something wholly unexpected, for it effected much the same change in his companion’s countenance. Was it a pin-point gently insinuated between the shoulder blades, or a cold sponge dexterously applied to the little spine?
That is what mothers would like to know. Mr. Byrne says, with a smile, that it was neither—that the expression was a purely natural development. But will the mothers of England believe him?
There is, too, the case of the little boy gazing so intently into a hand-glass; what did he find hidden in its depths to make him suddenly cast it aside, and turn to where the photographer is presumably standing, with such a look of mingled disappointment and disgust? His discovery was evidently remarkable, for, as will be seen, it had the additional effect of taking his fore-lock out of curl. Again Mr. Byrne is appealed to, and again he smiles and vouchsafes the same reply. And again the mothers of England will have their suspicions.
In photography, as in many another profession, the path of those who would forsake the beaten track does not lie through acacia groves. Many obstacles strew the way. For instance, Mr. Byrne conceived the notion of posing children in a big boot, such as appears in two of the accompanying reproductions. It is a simple-looking boot, yet it took two years to make; that is to say, the day the order was given, and the day it was satisfactorily carried out, were separated by a span of such duration. But much happened in between. First of all Mr. Byrne made a rough design of what he wanted, giving the dimensions, etc., and sent it, through a friend, to a local bootmaker. Perhaps, not anxious to have his idea noised throughout camera-land, Mr. Byrne’s instructions were not as explicit as they might be; it was the time of the dynamitard outrages, and the worthy artist in leather grew suspicious. What might his customer want with such a boot? it was most unusual; he had never heard of a man with such a large foot; and why only one boot? He didn’t like such peculiar orders, but he would do what he could in the matter; of course it would cost a goodish sum. As to whether the poor man had nightly visions of the strange boot being filled with infernal machines and placed under the House of Commons, and himself charged by the State with aiding and abetting the plot, no reliable information is forthcoming, but certainly, after two months had elapsed, he sent word to say that he found the work more difficult than he had anticipated, and that unless the one-legged individual, for whom the boot was apparently intended, could call and be measured in the ordinary way, he must regretfully throw up the job. A carpenter was next tried, but with little more success. The boot actually did come home, after a time, but it was large enough for six children to lose themselves in, instead of comfortably accommodating one. At this stage it occurred to Mr. Byrne that one of the Drury Lane “property” men, used to tailoring for pantomime giants and other unusual creatures, would be able to make a boot a little bit out of the common without being too inquisitive as to its mission in life. So it finally arrived, a beautiful creation, fit for any Brobdingnagian dandy, and redolent of Day and Martin. But Mr. Byrne wanted a dilapidated boot; to save further trouble, however, he proceeded, with the aid of a pocket knife and an old hatchet, to dilapidate it himself.
It was much the same with the egg appearing herewith. It was tried in canvas, wood, and papier-maché before the more serviceable aluminium produced a “lay” that any pantomime bird might be proud of. Both the boot and the egg have done yeoman service since. They have assisted in producing something approaching a thousand photograph-pictures.
When Mr. Byrne had shown that the novel could be blended with the artistic in child photography, would-be imitators were not slow to appreciate the innovation. Photographers wrote from all parts of the country to inquire where Mr. Byrne obtained his “properties”; they would like to add duplicates to their own studios. Guileless Mr. Byrne replied in each case—“From America.”
It would be as difficult for Mr. Byrne to say how he came to make a spécialité of child photography as it would to explain what led him to take to the camera at all. He practically drifted into both.
“My life,” he says, “might almost be described as one long drift. Although I was born in Ireland, I entered the Italian army, for some reason no one, not even myself, has ever been able to explain, when I was fifteen years of age. I fought in the Austro-Franco-Italian campaign of 1859, being one of the only two Britishers engaged in the war. The other was the late Colonel Peard. Like him, I was present at the great battles of Magenta and Solferino, and like him I several times came near ending my career on the plains of Lombardy.
“When the war was over, and there seemed no prospect of another, I drifted away from the colours, back to London, and into the more peaceful occupation of portrait making. Photography was in its infancy in those days; and I can only presume that I took kindly to it because I had always been something of an artist, which was of considerable advantage to me in my new profession. After a while I discovered that I secured happier results with children than was usual, probably because, being naturally fond of them, I devoted more care and attention to them than was customary, for child sitters were rare then, and photographers were apt to regard them as rather bad bargains, notwithstanding the higher fees charged.”
It is not surprising to learn that Mr. Byrne has “snapped” nearly all the little English royalties; his studios being located at Richmond in Surrey, he has frequently been summoned to the White Lodge and Windsor Castle, not to mention more distant royal seats. Regarding juvenile princes and princesses, Mr. Byrne has something interesting to say.
“Royal children have charming and simple ways, and it is usually an easy matter to establish friendly relations with them. That once accomplished, photographing always becomes a pleasure. They are just as fond of new toys as other children, just as eager for a romp, frequently more so. Indeed, I have more than once had to ‘play soldiers’ with some of the Queen’s grandchildren while waiting for them to reach a sitting-still mood.”
Perhaps much of Mr. Byrne’s success is due to the fact that photography is not merely his profession; it is his hobby as well. He is constantly devising new and novel poses, both for his private sitters and the child-models he employs. When a mother calls at the studio with her bairn, she is shown numerous bulky volumes, veritable picture galleries of children in almost every conceivable attitude, and invited to choose which she would prefer for her own little one’s portrait. Bewildered by such a display, she usually elects to leave the choice to the photographer, and she is invariably wise; for the pose that shows to perfection the characteristic beauty of one child may be quite unsuitable for another. A trained eye notices these things as quickly as a practised artist can tell whether a certain bit of scenery is “paintable” or not. One of Mr. Byrne’s child-models must be the most photographed little person in the country, for she has figured in no fewer than two thousand studies. To show the variety of these, a page herewith is devoted to a composite reproduction of the little model in some of her happiest poses. The sweet child, it might be mentioned, is the daughter of Mr. Byrne’s laundress.
Mr. Byrne has three “Don’ts” for mothers who would secure speaking likenesses of their little ones. Don’t let the little one know beforehand that it is going to a studio. Don’t dress it in any costume to which it is unaccustomed. Don’t endeavour to arrange its hair; this will look better if allowed to fall naturally.
It must not be supposed, however, that the subject of this article is a photographer of children only. Between them, eighty-nine exhibitions in various parts of the world have awarded him something like a quarter of a hundredweight of medals for exhibits of all kinds, while he has also photographed nearly every adult member of our royal family and innumerable celebrities. In this branch of his work, however, Mr. Byrne has to content himself with the artistic, and leave the novel severely alone. For the Prince of Wales, considerate sitter though he is, would hardly consent to have himself “caught” in an old boot, or Sir Ellis Ashmead Bartlett, though he does much to amuse his fellow members of Parliament, permit himself to be represented emerging from an aluminium egg. So the “properties” have to be laid aside at times.
“The Queen,” says Mr. Byrne, “is one of the best sitters in the world, very rarely moving or spoiling a plate. That abomination of all studios, the head rest, is quite unnecessary in Her Majesty’s case. The Prince of Wales takes quite a keen interest in photography himself, and when sitting will go to considerable personal trouble in order that the results may be successful. The Prince will get together a royal group where anyone else would fail. The German Emperor is a most genial sitter; but his pose before the camera is apt to be rather stiff, and his expression somewhat stern. Nearly every royal sitter, in fact, has some peculiarity which one finds it one’s task to moderate without destroying altogether.”
But we are no nearer Mr. Byrne’s secret. How were the “unhappy” pictures obtained? Stories are told of fond mothers, waiting in anterooms, being horrified to suddenly hear piercing shrieks proceeding from the studio. Breathlessly they have dashed in, to find Mr. Byrne all smiles, baby all tears. When the proofs came home, the picture showing baby crying was generally voted wonderfully lifelike, even if it was not selected for general distribution.
These strange rumours are referred to, and once again Mr. Byrne is appealed to to withdraw the veil; but yet again he smiles and replies as before. Which reply, it is to be feared, the mothers of England will accept with the customary condiment.
| POISONED RING. | ||
| POISONED GLOVES. | ||
| POISONED SWORD. | ||
| POISONED HOCKEY STICK. | POISONED SHIRT. | POISONED DAGGER. |
| POISONED BOOTS. | POISONED BOWL. |
DEVICES
CONCEIVED BY THE GRIM AND GHASTLY
INGENUITY OF OUR FOREFATHERS.
THE ingenuity of man in devising schemes to perpetuate life has almost been equalled by his ingenuity in framing devices to abridge it. In all ages there have been men who hated convention, even conventional murder. When they desired to remove an enemy secretly, they had recourse to poison; but not to ordinary schemes of poisoning. They made it an art.
An interesting device, very palpably suggested by the famous shirt of Nessus, is that given on the opposite page. The shirt was charged within with poison of great acerbity, which so acted upon the skin of its wearer as to inflame and then blister with incredible malignity, until the victim died in horrible agonies.
Various hypotheses have been put forward with respect to the history of the shirt we illustrate, which is now in an American museum; but there seems every reason to believe that it is the garment mentioned in a German work of the 15th century by Adolph Beckert, as having been exhumed with the body of a Greek military captain, with an inscription to the effect that, having been guilty of gross insubordination, amounting to treason, he was ordered to denude himself of his garments in the presence of the soldiers, and don the fatal tunic.
Of equal, if not greater antiquity, was the device in vogue among the Tartar princes.
When a prince desired to dispatch an inconvenient subject, he was invited to a game of hockey, participated in by the various nobles, officers and officials of the Court. The Royal Chamberlain always took good care that the technical miscreant should play with a special stick, within whose jewelled hilt lurked the deadly poison. But even the drug would have been scarcely sufficient to destroy life if there had not been also concealed in the handle a number of microscopic needle points which, tiny as they were, and almost unobserved at the first handling, were quite sufficient after a few minutes’ play to puncture the skin.
In this connection we may advert to the vast number of swords and daggers extant whose tips were impregnated with poison; these are to be found in many museums in Europe. There are not a few even in our own Scotland Yard. Although legitimately poison devices, they betray little ingenuity.
The pair of gauntlets shown on the opposite page are said to have been the property of a great foreign political notability. Once well on the hands of the victim, a species of gum, with which the interior was lined, adhered with such tenacity to the flesh that it was next to impossible to remove the gloves, except by cutting them away; and even then the gum remained impervious to water, or of solution, until inflammation was succeeded by festering, and unless amputation of the whole arm followed, death inevitably ensued.
Several deaths from the wearing of poisoned boots have been recorded, notably that of Andre Nolofski, courier to the Russian Empress Catherine the Great, who was discovered some nine miles from Moscow, lying prone dead on the side of the road, with apparently not a mark of disfigurement, until someone removed his boots. Then a surgeon discovered that tiny poisoned needles had pierced his feet.
Poison rings were not unknown to the Romans. A hollow duct was contained in half the ring, from which poison was supplied to a needle of infinitesimal size at the opposite side. The other half of the circle enclosed a very delicate mechanism for operating the needle. When, with a slight pressure, the hand of the enemy was clasped with apparent cordiality and good-fellowship, it gently punctured the skin without exciting suspicion.
Another device we illustrate was in very common use amongst the Chinese up to a century ago. It consisted of a bowl heavily coated with a colourless soluble poison on the inside. Upon any hot liquid, such as tea, being poured into this cup, the poison became dissolved. As a whole service of this ware might come into the possession of one family without suspicion, it is not difficult to credit the fact that in spite of every precaution about food, seven or eight persons were often exterminated by this process.