One Christmas Eve some years ago there was a cry of "Police! police!" In a little upper room in North London an elderly man had been found in a pool of blood; his throat had been cut, and as a razor lay beside him, it was evident the injury was self-inflicted. It was a frightful gash, but he was carried to a neighbouring hospital, where all the resources of skill and science were at hand. In three months' time he was able to stand in the dock, and evidence was given against him. He was sixty-three years of age, had on a very old frock-coat that had been originally blue, and an ancient fez that bore traces of silver braid. When the evidence had been taken, and the magistrate was about to commit him for trial, a singular-looking man stepped up, and said he was the prisoner's brother, and that he would take care of him if his Worship would discharge him. He said a friend had given his brother some drink, and it was when under the influence of the drink that the prisoner had tried to cut his own throat; that he himself was a teetotaller--and he pointed triumphantly to a piece of blue ribbon on his very shabby coat--and that he would take care that his brother had no more drink. The magistrate very kindly accepted him as surety, and asked me to visit them, which I accordingly did, and found myself in very strange company. Three brothers were living together: sixty-five, sixty-three, and sixty were their ages. The one who had been charged was the middle brother, and was an artist; the other two were quaint individuals: they had been brought up in luxury, and now, being reduced to poverty, had not the slightest idea of how to earn a shilling. The blue-ribbon brother was the youngest member of the family, and though he drank cold water, he appeared to have a strong aversion to its external use. He was of a religious turn of mind, and had he exercised himself one-half as much about work as he did about religious subjects, the catastrophe that had happened might have been avoided. The elder brother was in weak health, and walked with some difficulty. The artist was certainly by far the best man of the three; still, they all had an air of faded gentility. Briefly, they were the sons of a well-known artist, who, many years ago, was a frequent exhibitor in the Royal Academy, and whose frescoes adorn one of the royal palaces.