museums of Europe. There is also a fine collection of antique jewellery and gems.

The Museum library, founded by Hamdy Bey in 1893 by the presentation of his own valuable collection of archeological works, now possesses more than eight thousand rare and choice volumes treating of the fine arts, archæology, history, philology, numismatology, and kindred subjects. It comprises also complete collections of all the French, English, and German periodicals worthy of mention on these special subjects.

The possessions of the Museum have already far outgrown the space which it can afford. Thus Hamdy Bey some years ago carried out excavations at Lagina, in Caria, on the site of a small temple dedicated to Hecate. He had the good fortune to find the whole of the frieze of that temple and to convey it safely to Constantinople; but those precious marbles, and many other objects of at least equal importance, such as a large portion of the frieze of the Temple of Diana Loeucophryene of Magnesia pros Meandrum, have perforce remained hidden away in their packing-cases, owing to want of room. I have, however, recently received a letter from Hamdy Bey containing the good news that last spring a new building was begun in enlargement of the present Museum. This will be three times the size of the building described in this article, and will form a right-angle with it in the direction of the terrace, on the same level as Tchinili Kiosk. It will be finished in one year if the means be forthcoming. I venture to express the hope that the Ottoman Public Administration will follow its own precedent and again extend help to the Director of the Museum.

Meanwhile the classification of the many monuments and objects which the provinces continually send to Constantinople for the benefit of the Museum is being regularly proceeded with, and one catalogue follows another for the edification and instruction of visitors and students. Eight, most of them in French and Turkish editions, have been published, dealing with the coins of the Turcomans and the various Khalifates; with funeral monuments; with Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Frank sculptures; with Palmyrene and Himyarite monuments; with bronzes and gems; while one dealing with Tartar coins is on the point of issue, and four more, of which three concern Byzantine, Seljuk, and Ottoman coins, and one vases of various epochs, terra-cottas, and antique glass-work, are under preparation.

In very general and sketchy terms I have endeavoured to give some idea of how the Imperial Ottoman Museum at Constantinople has grown into being, of what it contains, and of the invaluable work which has been, and is being, done there under the Directorship of Hamdy Bey. Of his own most interesting individuality, his culture, his wide learning, his unfailing artistic taste, his sincerity,

his personal charm, his delightful and witty conversational powers, I have been able to say nothing. He is stored with all kinds of information; he has travelled far and wide throughout the Turkish Empire; he is gifted with unusual powers of observation, with an inexhaustible memory, and with a rich fund of humour. Hours in his company pass like minutes; and whether he discourses of archæology or of music, of art or of the many odd experiences which have fallen to his lot, of literature or of travel, he is equally interesting, and equally delightful and instructive to his listeners. He has a warm heart, too, and is often the victim of his charitable impulses; no poor artist who has found his way to Constantinople and into difficulties has ever appealed to him in vain; indeed, no artist of any worth ever goes to Constantinople at all, whom Hamdy Bey is not ready to welcome with open arms, affording him generous hospitality in his beautiful house on the Bosphorus. But the Museum is his pride, his ambition, his life. He is convinced, and the conviction is by no means unreasonable, that the day will come when it will be the finest and the richest in the world. writes of it to me quite recently thus:

He

The Chaldeans, the Assyrians, the Hittites, the Aramæans, the Phoenicians, the Nabateans, the Himyarites, the Carians, the Phrygians, the Ionians—in a word, all those peoples who formerly inhabited the territories which now form the Turkish Empire-have left traces of their civilisation buried in the soil. Any stroke of a pickaxe may bring to light some precious object or inscription full of historic or artistic interest, every one of which will take the road of the Imperial Museum : already that road is beginning to be well worn and levelled. There each object will find the place indicated for it by science or by art; and thus, within fifty years, the Museum of Constantinople will be the Great Treasury of the history of vanished peoples, the grand depository of the products of their genius.

I cannot do better than close this imperfect notice of Hamdy Bey's great work with these words of his own, and with an earnest expression of the hope that he may be spared to see his prediction verified.

BY CLARENCE ROOK

NCE in every few years comes an awakening. That, perhaps, is too vigorous a word. Let us say that once in every few years Society turns in its sleep, yawns, and asks pathetically what is this dreadful noise, resenting naturally the disturbance. Society is getting on in years, and feels the customary annoyance of the aged at a want of respect in the young. Behold,' murmurs Society, raising itself on its elbow, we have incurred tremendous expense and taken infinite pains to establish a system. We have made the most elaborate arrangements for human happiness. From the policeman on point duty to the Queen on the throne there is a chain of well-paid guardians of our sleep. Thousands of carefully selected gentlemen devote the best years of their life as parish councillors, borough councillors, county councillors, members of Parliament, bishops, clergy of the diocese, and ministers of all denominations, to persuading everybody that to be good is to be happy; and, in spite of all, people will persist in not being good. At all events, they shall not be happy.' Thereupon Society rises and lays about it with a stick. Having thrashed a few garotters, shut a music-hall, raided a gambling club, and frightened a hundred or two of polyandric women from the Haymarket to Piccadilly, Society lies down and goes to sleep again. And then the disturbance recurs. It is annoying; but it is not surprising. Society forgets that it has only an unstable majority to shout for its maxim Be good and you will be happy' that the world still contains many people who do not believe in the connection between goodness and happiness, and choose another route to the goal which, as Aristotle noticed, all men seek. This autumn it is the Hooligans who have aroused sleeping society. Every morning we read of terrible happenings at Bethnal Green, at Notting Hill, in the dim recesses of Lambeth; we learn that skulls have been cracked, that purses have been stolen, that swarms of savages have fought and strewn the battlefield with slain, that the police are powerless, that the streets are shambles, and that really something must be done. The newspapers are full of letters from surprised people who, having suddenly discovered a strong opposition in the slums and alleys of London, call for more policemen, more truncheons, and more floggings. Society, in short, is once more laying about it with a

stick.

'We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality.' So wrote Macaulay of the outbreak of popular indignation which drove Byron from his country. The public is quite right in refusing to condone immorality; but it is quite wrong in condoning it habitually, almost universally, and

then suddenly turning upon a single offender with a stick. This is a method which is too common in our vague struggling towards the millennium. There is, indeed, more than one point of resemblance between the case of Lord Byron and the case of the Hooligan. Lord Byron's offence, whatever it was (no member of the British public knew precisely what it was), certainly was no more heinous than offences against morality which were admitted and overlooked in the case of leaders of the State, of the army, of society, and even of men who took the chair at religious and benevolent institutions. The Hooligan is no new thing. Under other names he has fought, and rioted, and robbed in every big city that was ever built and misgoverned. He is Her Majesty's permanent Opposition, as he has been the Opposition in every known government. He is a hoodlum, a larrikin, a Bowery boy; he is a natural outgrowth of a society which has never been more than partially civilised; and, even as the British public, instead of setting its face steadily and continuously against immorality, turned suddenly and furiously upon Byron, so the British public of to-day starts from its sleep, and rounds fiercely upon the Hooligan, who has during its time of slumber grown in stature and in disfavour of God and man. Furthermore, as I am committed to the analogy of Byronism with street ruffianism, we may remember that, whatever was the precise nature of the offence which the public had in its blind eye when it chased Byron to the Continent, to the sty of sensuality, to Greece and death at Missolonghi, the offence was certainly but the perversion of an impulse which is natural, necessary, even praiseworthy : an impulse which should not be beaten down with a bludgeon, but directed by skilful engineering to wholesome and profitable ends. Here again Byron and the Hooligan are curiously in the same case. It may seem paradoxical to praise the painful activity of the youthful ruffians who ignore the regulations of the Home Office and the London County Council, outrun the police, and laugh at the law. But the noblest and best of us are proud of greatgrandfathers who were Mohawks in their youth, battered the lieges, and cracked watchmen over the head. In this too the Hooligan resembles Byron his misdoing is but the result of a blameless impulse, which has driven him in a wrong direction, sometimes a very long way in the wrong direction; but the first impulse is to be welcomed.

Hooliganism must be regarded as a cult, a religion, which derives its name from its founder. Like nearly every other religion, however, Hooliganism was not a sudden invention: it was rather a development, a crystallisation in an individual of the aspirations of many. Disorder is no novelty; lawlessness is quite as old as (and indeed, if one may make sport of words, a little older than) law. But disorder found its supreme expression in the

Disorderly Man who chanced to touch the imagination of boys with no obvious outlet for enterprise. For there was a real Hooligan, a Patrick Hooligan, a new St. Patrick, who but a few years ago concentrated in himself the lawlessness of a district, died (as it were) a martyr's death, and left as his legacy a name and a tradition. Saint and martyr was Patrick Hooligan; for he gave his whole soul and body to the cause of disorder, and lost both. Not many of the boys who bear his name and carry on his tradition could give any intelligible account of their faith or its chief exponent. The known details of Patrick Hooligan's life are few and meagre, and I have often cursed the two-volume biographies of dull and uninspiring men and wished that they were his. For the man who gave a name to the opponents of the settled order of society as scheduled by the Decalogue, the Sermon on the Mount, the Court of Crown Cases Reserved, and the by-laws of the County Council, the man who caught the imagination of the law-breaker by his supremacy in the breaking of laws, the man who will grapple with Mahomet, with Buddha, with Confucius, for the first place in any Paradise to which he may gain entry-such a man's biography, written with sympathy and knowledge, would be really interesting. But St. Patrick Hooligan is already almost as mythological as St. George of Merrie England, and the man whose name stars the papers as the champion of disorder lies in a nameless grave. Already stories have gathered round this second St. Patrick, as many and as apocryphal as those which adorn the record of the first. Patrick Hooligan indeed is the Sydney Smith of the Newgate Calendar, and his magnetic individuality collects the floating rumours of good crimes. crimes. But for all that the individuality is there; and one would like to know more of it, as one would like to meet Mahomet over a cigar. The knowledge would give one a glimpse of the aspect of life when it is viewed from the point opposed to Lambeth Palace, the House of Commons, and the writer of leading articles. Best of all would be the autobiography of Patrick Hooligan, written with the delightful unconsciousness of ill-doing which was one of Benvenuto Čellini's splendid endowments, or with the sublime egotism of Rousseau's Confessions. But for that it is too late to hope. Patrick Hooligan is no more, and even in life his talents lay rather in the way of action than of record. Thus his gospel is dependent either on tradition, or on the research of those who have more admiration for his towering greatness than knowledge of the steps by which he mounted thereto.

The fairly well-authenticated details of the life of Patrick Hooligan may be told very shortly; nor are they in any way remarkable. In his formal record there is nothing to distinguish him from thousands who have defied the police, and have finally been beaten by them. His place of birth is unknown to me; but I