's a bad business; we cannot do anything
with this." I replied, "We must not go away without something to show;
now if you will lie down I will make a sketch of you, and then I will
lie down and you can describe me."

[Illustration: REALISM!]

One of the most "uncanny" experiences I ever had as a "special" I find
graphically described by the late Hon. Lewis Wingfield, who accompanied
me on the strange mission.

[Illustration: "THE CAITIFF" AND ORLANDO.]

"Winter without. Snow. A sea of billows drifting across the sky,
glittering, frosted--a symphony in metals--silver, aluminium,
lead--rendered buoyant for the nonce, ethereal--as though the world were
really gone Christmas mad, and, having a sudden attack of topsy-turvydom
in its inside, had taken to showering its treasures about the firmament,
instead of keeping them snugly put away in mines below ground. A sheet
of snow, and bitter white rain driving still. A huge building looming
black, its many eyes staring into the dark--lidless, bilious, vacant.
This is a hospital. Or is it a factory, disguised with a veneer of the
Puginesque? Or an aesthetic barrack? Or an artistic workhouse? Visible
yet, under falling snow which has not had time to cover them, are
flower-beds, shrub-plots, meandering walks. Too genteel and ambitious
for the most aesthetic of workhouses or advanced of hospitals, we
wonder what the building is; and our wonder is not decreased by seeing a
postern opened in a huge black wall, from which a handful of
conspirators creep silently. We rub our eyes. Are we dreaming? Is this,
or is it not, the age of scientific marvels, levelling of castes,
rampant communism, murder, agrarian outrage, sudden massacre?--the _olla
podrida_ which we are pleased to denominate enlightenment? That first
black figure is James the Second. Heavens! The Jacobites live yet, and
will join, doubtless, with the Fenians and Mr. Bradlaugh, and a _posse
comitatus_ of iconoclasts, to upset the reign of order, and add a thorn
to the chaplet of our hard-run Premier. James the Second. Not a doubt of
it. There he is--periwig, black velvet, and bugles. Where, oh where, is
the Great Seal, with which he played ducks and drakes in the Thames? Yet
no. This is no Jacobite plot, for His Majesty is followed by no troop of
partisans on tiptoe in hose and doublet. He is not seeking to win his
own again. A woodman trudges behind--we recognise him, for his name's
"Orlando"--(Wingfield himself, in a bea