Title: Tracks of a Rolling Stone
Author: Coke, Henry J. (Henry John), 1827-1916
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Tracks of a Rolling Stone" ***


Transcribed from the 1905 Smith, Elder, & Co. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org.  Second proofed by Margaret Price.

                 [Picture: Photograph of Henry John Coke]



                                  TRACKS
                                    OF
                             A ROLLING STONE


                                * * * * *

                                  BY THE
                         HONOURABLE HENRY J. COKE

                                AUTHOR OF
        ‘A RIDE OVER THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS’ ‘CREEDS OF THE DAY’ ETC.

                                * * * * *

                             WITH A PORTRAIT

                                * * * * *

                             _SECOND EDITION_

                                * * * * *

                                  LONDON
                  SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
                                   1905

                          [All rights reserved]

                                * * * * *

                                    TO
                            MY DAUGHTER SYBIL

                                * * * * *



PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.


THE First Edition of this book was written, from beginning to end, in the
short space of five months, without the aid of diary or notes, beyond
those cited as such from a former work.

The Author, having no expectation that his reminiscences would be
received with the kind indulgence of which this Second Edition is the
proof, with diffidence ventured to tell so many tales connected with his
own unimportant life as he has done.  Emboldened by the reception his
‘Tracks’ have met with, he now adds a few stories which he trusts may
further amuse its readers.

_June_ 1905.



CHAPTER I


WE know more of the early days of the Pyramids or of ancient Babylon than
we do of our own.  The Stone age, the dragons of the prime, are not more
remote from us than is our earliest childhood.  It is not so long ago for
any of us; and yet, our memories of it are but veiled spectres wandering
in the mazes of some foregone existence.

Are we really trailing clouds of glory from afar?  Or are our
‘forgettings’ of the outer Eden only?  Or, setting poetry aside, are they
perhaps the quickening germs of all past heredity—an epitome of our race
and its descent?  At any rate _then_, if ever, our lives are such stuff
as dreams are made of.  There is no connected story of events, thoughts,
acts, or feelings.  We try in vain to re-collect; but the secrets of the
grave are not more inviolable,—for the beginnings, like the endings, of
life are lost in darkness.

It is very difficult to affix a date to any relic of that dim past.  We
may have a distinct remembrance of some pleasure, some pain, some fright,
some accident, but the vivid does not help us to chronicle with accuracy.
A year or two makes a vast difference in our ability.  We can remember
well enough when we donned the ‘_cauda virilis_,’ but not when we left
off petticoats.

The first remembrance to which I can correctly tack a date is the death
of George IV.  I was between three and four years old.  My recollection
of the fact is perfectly distinct—distinct by its association with other
facts, then far more weighty to me than the death of a king.

I was watching with rapture, for the first time, the spinning of a
peg-top by one of the grooms in the stable yard, when the coachman, who
had just driven my mother home, announced the historic news.  In a few
minutes four or five servants—maids and men—came running to the stables
to learn particulars, and the peg-top, to my sorrow, had to be abandoned
for gossip and flirtation.  We were a long way from street criers—indeed,
quite out of town.  My father’s house was in Kensington, a little further
west than the present museum.  It was completely surrounded by fields and
hedges.  I mention the fact merely to show to what age definite memory
can be authentically assigned.  Doubtless we have much earlier
remembrances, though we must reckon these by days, or by months at the
outside.  The relativity of the reckoning would seem to make Time indeed
a ‘Form of Thought.’

Two or three reminiscences of my childhood have stuck to me; some of them
on account of their comicality.  I was taken to a children’s ball at St.
James’s Palace.  In my mind’s eye I have but one distinct vision of it.
I cannot see the crowd—there was nothing to distinguish that from what I
have so often seen since; nor the court dresses, nor the soldiers even,
who always attract a child’s attention in the streets; but I see a raised
dais on which were two thrones.  William IV. sat on one, Queen Adelaide
on the other.  I cannot say whether we were marched past in turn, or how
I came there.  But I remember the look of the king in his naval uniform.
I remember his white kerseymere breeches, and pink silk stockings, and
buckled shoes.  He took me between his knees, and asked, ‘Well, what are
you going to be, my little man?’

‘A sailor,’ said I, with brazen simplicity.

‘Going to avenge the death of Nelson—eh?  Fond o’ sugar-plums?’

‘Ye-es,’ said I, taking a mental inventory of stars and anchor buttons.

Upon this, he fetched from the depths of his waistcoat pocket a capacious
gold box, and opened it with a tap, as though he were about to offer me a
pinch of snuff.  ‘There’s for you,’ said he.

I helped myself, unawed by the situation, and with my small fist
clutching the bonbons, was passed on to Queen Adelaide.  She gave me a
kiss, for form’s sake, I thought; and I scuttled back to my mother.

But here followed the shocking part of the _enfant terrible’s_ adventure.
Not quite sure of Her Majesty’s identity—I had never heard there was a
Queen—I naïvely asked my mother, in a very audible stage-whisper, ‘Who is
the old lady with—?’  My mother dragged me off the instant she had made
her curtsey.  She had a quick sense of humour; and, judging from her
laughter, when she told her story to another lady in the supper room, I
fancied I had said or done something very funny.  I was rather
disconcerted at being seriously admonished, and told I must never again
comment upon the breath of ladies who condescended to kiss, or to speak
to, me.

While we lived at Kensington, Lord Anglesey used often to pay my mother a
visit.  She had told me the story of the battle of Waterloo, in which my
Uncle George—6th Lord Albemarle—had taken part; and related how Lord
Anglesey had lost a leg there, and how one of his legs was made of cork.
Lord Anglesey was a great dandy.  The cut of the Paget hat was an
heirloom for the next generation or two, and the gallant Marquis’ boots
and tightly-strapped trousers were patterns of polish and precision.  The
limp was perceptible; but of which leg, was, in spite of careful
investigation, beyond my diagnosis.  His presence provoked my curiosity,
till one fine day it became too strong for resistance.  While he was
busily engaged in conversation with my mother, I, watching for the
chance, sidled up to his chair, and as soon as he looked away, rammed my
heel on to his toes.  They were his toes.  And considering the jump and
the oath which instantly responded to my test, I am persuaded they were
abnormally tender ones.  They might have been made of corns, certainly
not of cork.

Another discovery I made about this period was, for me at least, a
‘record’: it happened at Quidenham—my grandfather the 4th Lord
Albemarle’s place.

Some excursion was afoot, which needed an early breakfast.  When this was
half over, one married couple were missing.  My grandfather called me to
him (I was playing with another small boy in one of the window bays).
‘Go and tell Lady Maria, with my love,’ said he, ‘that we shall start in
half an hour.  Stop, stop a minute.  Be sure you knock at the door.’  I
obeyed orders—I knocked at the door, but failed to wait for an answer.  I
entered without it.  And what did I behold?  Lady Maria was still in bed;
and by the side of Lady M. was, very naturally, Lady M.’s husband, also
in bed and fast asleep.  At first I could hardly believe my senses.  It
was within the range of my experience that boys of my age occasionally
slept in the same bed.  But that a grown up man should sleep in the same
bed with his wife was quite beyond my notion of the fitness of things.  I
was so staggered, so long in taking in this astounding novelty, that I
could not at first deliver my grandfathers message.  The moment I had
done so, I rushed back to the breakfast room, and in a loud voice
proclaimed to the company what I had seen.  My tale produced all the
effect I had anticipated, but mainly in the shape of amusement.  One
wag—my uncle Henry Keppel—asked for details, gravely declaring he could
hardly credit my statement.  Every one, however, seemed convinced by the
circumstantial nature of my evidence when I positively asserted that
their heads were not even at opposite ends of the bed, but side by side
upon the same pillow.

A still greater soldier than Lord Anglesey used to come to Holkham every
year, a great favourite of my father’s; this was Lord Lynedoch.  My
earliest recollections of him owe their vividness to three accidents—in
the logical sense of the term: his silky milk-white locks, his Spanish
servant who wore earrings—and whom, by the way, I used to confound with
Courvoisier, often there at the same time with his master Lord William
Russell, for the murder of whom he was hanged, as all the world knows—and
his fox terrier Nettle, which, as a special favour, I was allowed to feed
with Abernethy biscuits.

He was at Longford, my present home, on a visit to my father in 1835,
when, one evening after dinner, the two old gentlemen—no one else being
present but myself—sitting in armchairs over the fire, finishing their
bottle of port, Lord Lynedoch told the wonderful story of his adventures
during the siege of Mantua by the French, in 1796.  For brevity’s sake,
it were better perhaps to give the outline in the words of Alison.  ‘It
was high time the Imperialists should advance to the relief of this
fortress, which was now reduced to the last extremity from want of
provisions.  At a council of war held in the end of December, it was
decided that it was indispensable that instant intelligence should be
sent to Alvinzi of their desperate situation.  An English officer,
attached to the garrison, volunteered to perform the perilous mission,
which he executed with equal courage and success.  He set out, disguised
as a peasant, from Mantua on December 29, at nightfall in the midst of a
deep fall of snow, eluded the vigilance of the French patrols, and, after
surmounting a thousand hardships and dangers, arrived at the headquarters
of Alvinzi, at Bassano, on January 4, the day after the conferences at
Vicenza were broken up.

‘Great destinies awaited this enterprising officer.  He was Colonel
Graham, afterwards victor at Barrosa, and the first British general who
planted the English standard on the soil of France.’

This bare skeleton of the event was endued ‘with sense and soul’ by the
narrator.  The ‘hardships and dangers’ thrilled one’s young nerves.
Their two salient features were ice perils, and the no less imminent one
of being captured and shot as a spy.  The crossing of the rivers stands
out prominently in my recollection.  All the bridges were of course
guarded, and he had two at least within the enemy’s lines to get
over—those of the Mincio and of the Adige.  Probably the lagunes
surrounding the invested fortress would be his worst difficulty.  The
Adige he described as beset with a two-fold risk—the avoidance of the
bridges, which courted suspicion, and the thin ice and only partially
frozen river, which had to be traversed in the dark.  The vigour, the
zest with which the wiry veteran ‘shoulder’d his crutch and show’d how
fields were won’ was not a thing to be forgotten.

Lord Lynedoch lived to a great age, and it was from his house at
Cardington, in Bedfordshire, that my brother Leicester married his first
wife, Miss Whitbread, in 1843.  That was the last time I saw him.

Perhaps the following is not out of place here, although it is connected
with more serious thoughts:

Though neither my father nor my mother were more pious than their
neighbours, we children were brought up religiously.  From infancy we
were taught to repeat night and morning the Lord’s Prayer, and invoke
blessings on our parents.  It was instilled into us by constant
repetition that God did not love naughty children—our naughtiness being
for the most part the original sin of disobedience, rooted in the love of
forbidden fruit in all its forms of allurement.  Moses himself could not
have believed more faithfully in the direct and immediate intervention of
an avenging God.  The pain in one’s stomach incident to unripe
gooseberries, no less than the consequent black dose, or the personal
chastisement of a responsible and apprehensive nurse, were but the just
visitations of an offended Deity.

Whether my religious proclivities were more pronounced than those of
other children I cannot say, but certainly, as a child, I was in the
habit of appealing to Omnipotence to gratify every ardent desire.

There were peacocks in the pleasure grounds at Holkham, and I had an
æsthetic love for their gorgeous plumes.  As I hunted under and amongst
the shrubs, I secretly prayed that my search might be rewarded.  Nor had
I a doubt, when successful, that my prayer had been granted by a
beneficent Providence.

Let no one smile at this infantine credulity, for is it not the basis of
that religious trust which helps so many of us to support the sorrows to
which our stoicism is unequal?  Who that might be tempted thoughtlessly
to laugh at the child does not sometimes sustain the hope of finding his
‘plumes’ by appeals akin to those of his childhood?  Which of us could
not quote a hundred instances of such a soothing delusion—if delusion it
be?  I speak not of saints, but of sinners: of the countless hosts who
aspire to this world’s happiness; of the dying who would live, of the
suffering who would die, of the poor who would be rich, of the aggrieved
who seek vengeance, of the ugly who would be beautiful, of the old who
would appear young, of the guilty who would not be found out, and of the
lover who would possess.  Ah! the lover.  Here possibility is a
negligible element.  Consequences are of no consequence.  Passion must be
served.  When could a miracle be more pertinent?

It is just fifty years ago now; it was during the Indian Mutiny.  A lady
friend of mine did me the honour to make me her confidant.  She paid the
same compliment to many—most of her friends; and the friends (as is their
wont) confided in one another.  Poor thing! her case was a sad one.
Whose case is not?  She was, by her own account, in the forty-second year
of her virginity; and it may be added, parenthetically, an honest
fourteen stone in weight.

She was in love with a hero of Lucknow.  It cannot be said that she knew
him only by his well-earned fame.  She had seen him, had even sat by him
at dinner.  He was young, he was handsome.  It was love at sight,
accentuated by much meditation—‘obsessions [peradventure] des images
génétiques.’  She told me (and her other confidants, of course) that she
prayed day and night that this distinguished officer, this handsome
officer, might return her passion.  And her letters to me (and to other
confidants) invariably ended with the entreaty that I (and her other,
&c.) would offer up a similar prayer on her behalf.  Alas! poor soul,
poor body!  I should say, the distinguished officer, together with the
invoked Providence, remained equally insensible to her supplications.
The lady rests in peace.  The soldier, though a veteran, still exults in
war.

But why do I cite this single instance?  Are there not millions of such
entreaties addressed to Heaven on this, and on every day?  What
difference is there, in spirit, between them and the child’s prayer for
his feather?  Is there anything great or small in the eye of Omniscience?
Or is it not our thinking only that makes it so?



CHAPTER II


SOON after I was seven years old, I went to what was then, and is still,
one of the most favoured of preparatory schools—Temple Grove—at East
Sheen, then kept by Dr. Pinkney.  I was taken thither from Holkham by a
great friend of my father’s, General Sir Ronald Ferguson, whose statue
now adorns one of the niches in the façade of Wellington College.  The
school contained about 120 boys; but I cannot name any one of the lot who
afterwards achieved distinction.  There were three Macaulays there,
nephews of the historian—Aulay, Kenneth, and Hector.  But I have lost
sight of all.

Temple Grove was a typical private school of that period.  The type is
familiar to everyone in its photograph as Dotheboys Hall.  The progress
of the last century in many directions is great indeed; but in few is it
greater than in the comfort and the cleanliness of our modern schools.
The luxury enjoyed by the present boy is a constant source of
astonishment to us grandfathers.  We were half starved, we were
exceedingly dirty, we were systematically bullied, and we were flogged
and caned as though the master’s pleasure was in inverse ratio to ours.
The inscription on the threshold should have been ‘Cave canem.’

We began our day as at Dotheboys Hall with two large spoonfuls of sulphur
and treacle.  After an hour’s lessons we breakfasted on one bowl of
milk—‘Skyblue’ we called it—and one hunch of buttered bread, unbuttered
at discretion.  Our dinner began with pudding—generally rice—to save the
butcher’s bill.  Then mutton—which was quite capable of taking care of
itself.  Our only other meal was a basin of ‘Skyblue’ and bread as
before.

As to cleanliness, I never had a bath, never bathed (at the school)
during the two years I was there.  On Saturday nights, before bed, our
feet were washed by the housemaids, in tubs round which half a dozen of
us sat at a time.  Woe to the last comers! for the water was never
changed.  How we survived the food, or rather the want of it, is a
marvel.  Fortunately for me, I used to discover, when I got into bed, a
thickly buttered crust under my pillow.  I believed, I never quite made
sure, (for the act was not admissible), that my good fairy was a
fiery-haired lassie (we called her ‘Carrots,’ though I had my doubts as
to this being her Christian name) who hailed from Norfolk.  I see her
now: her jolly, round, shining face, her extensive mouth, her ample
person.  I recall, with more pleasure than I then endured, the cordial
hugs she surreptitiously bestowed upon me when we met by accident in the
passages.  Kind, affectionate ‘Carrots’!  Thy heart was as bounteous as
thy bosom.  May the tenderness of both have met with their earthly
deserts; and mayest thou have shared to the full the pleasures thou wast
ever ready to impart!

There were no railways in those times.  It amuses me to see people
nowadays travelling by coach, for pleasure.  How many lives must have
been shortened by long winter journeys in those horrible coaches.  The
inside passengers were hardly better off than the outside.  The corpulent
and heavy occupied the scanty space allotted to the weak and
small—crushed them, slept on them, snored over them, and monopolised the
straw which was supposed to keep their feet warm.

A pachydermatous old lady would insist upon an open window.  A wheezy
consumptive invalid would insist on a closed one.  Everybody’s legs were
in their own, and in every other body’s, way.  So that when the distance
was great and time precious, people avoided coaching, and remained where
they were.

For this reason, if a short holiday was given—less than a week
say—Norfolk was too far off; and I was not permitted to spend it at
Holkham.  I generally went to Charles Fox’s at Addison Road, or to
Holland House.  Lord Holland was a great friend of my father’s; but, if
Creevey is to be trusted—which, as a rule, my recollection of him would
permit me to doubt, though perhaps not in this instance—Lord Holland did
not go to Holkham because of my father’s dislike to Lady Holland.

I speak here of my introduction to Holland House, for although Lady
Holland was then in the zenith of her ascendency, (it was she who was the
Cabinet Minister, not her too amiable husband,) although Holland House
was then the resort of all the potentates of Whig statecraft, and Whig
literature, and Whig wit, in the persons of Lord Grey, Brougham, Jeffrey,
Macaulay, Sydney Smith, and others, it was not till eight or ten years
later that I knew, when I met them there, who and what her Ladyship’s
brilliant satellites were.  I shall not return to Lady Holland, so I will
say a parting word of her forthwith.

The woman who corresponded with Buonaparte, and consoled the prisoner of
St. Helena with black currant jam, was no ordinary personage.  Most
people, I fancy, were afraid of her.  Her stature, her voice, her beard,
were obtrusive marks of her masculine attributes.  It is questionable
whether her amity or her enmity was most to be dreaded.  She liked those
best whom she could most easily tyrannise over.  Those in the other
category might possibly keep aloof.  For my part I feared her patronage.
I remember when I was about seventeen—a self-conscious hobbledehoy—Mr.
Ellice took me to one of her large receptions.  She received her guests
from a sort of elevated dais.  When I came up—very shy—to make my salute,
she asked me how old I was.  ‘Seventeen,’ was the answer.  ‘That means
next birthday,’ she grunted.  ‘Come and give me a kiss, my dear.’  I, a
man!—a man whose voice was (sometimes) as gruff as hers!—a man who was
beginning to shave for a moustache!  Oh! the indignity of it!

But it was not Lady Holland, or her court, that concerned me in my school
days, it was Holland Park, or the extensive grounds about Charles Fox’s
house (there were no other houses at Addison Road then), that I loved to
roam in.  It was the birds’-nesting; it was the golden carp I used to
fish for on the sly with a pin; the shying at the swans, the hunt for
cockchafers, the freedom of mischief generally, and the excellent
food—which I was so much in need of—that made the holiday delightful.

Some years later, when dining at Holland House, I happened to sit near
the hostess.  It was a large dinner party.  Lord Holland, in his
bath-chair (he nearly always had the gout), sat at the far end of the
table a long way off.  But my lady kept an eye on him, for she had caught
him drinking champagne.  She beckoned to the groom of the chambers, who
stood behind her; and in a gruff and angry voice shouted: ‘Go to my Lord.
Take away his wine, and tell him if he drinks any more you have my orders
to wheel him into the next room.’  If this was a joke it was certainly a
practical one.  And yet affection was behind it.  There’s a tender place
in every heart.

Like all despots, she was subject to fits of cowardice—especially, it was
said, with regard to a future state, which she professed to disbelieve
in.  Mr. Ellice told me that once, in some country house, while a fearful
storm was raging, and the claps of thunder made the windows rattle, Lady
Holland was so terrified that she changed dresses with her maid, and hid
herself in the cellar.  Whether the story be a calumny or not, it is at
least characteristic.

After all, it was mainly due to her that Holland House became the focus
of all that was brilliant in Europe.  In the memoirs of her father—Sydney
Smith—Mrs. Austin writes: ‘The world has rarely seen, and will rarely, if
ever, see again all that was to be found within the walls of Holland
House.  Genius and merit, in whatever rank of life, became a passport
there; and all that was choicest and rarest in Europe seemed attracted to
that spot as their natural soil.’

Did we learn much at Temple Grove?  Let others answer for themselves.
Acquaintance with the classics was the staple of a liberal education in
those times.  Temple Grove was the _atrium_ to Eton, and gerund-grinding
was its _raison d’être_.  Before I was nine years old I daresay I could
repeat—parrot, that is—several hundreds of lines of the Æneid.  This, and
some elementary arithmetic, geography, and drawing, which last I took to
kindly, were dearly paid for by many tears, and by temporarily impaired
health.  It was due to my pallid cheeks that I was removed.  It was due
to the following six months—summer months—of a happy life that my health
was completely restored.



CHAPTER III


MR. EDWARD ELLICE, who constantly figures in the memoirs of the last
century as ‘Bear Ellice’ (an outrageous misnomer, by the way), and who
later on married my mother, was the chief controller of my youthful
destiny.  His first wife was a sister of the Lord Grey of Reform Bill
fame, in whose Government he filled the office of War Minister.  In many
respects Mr. Ellice was a notable man.  He possessed shrewd intelligence,
much force of character, and an autocratic spirit—to which he owed his
sobriquet.  His kindness of heart, his powers of conversation, with
striking personality and ample wealth, combined to make him popular.  His
house in Arlington Street, and his shooting lodge at Glen Quoich, were
famous for the number of eminent men who were his frequent guests.

Mr. Ellice’s position as a minister, and his habitual residence in Paris,
had brought him in touch with the leading statesmen of France.  He was
intimately acquainted with Louis Philippe, with Talleyrand, with Guizot,
with Thiers, and most of the French men and French women whose names were
bruited in the early part of the nineteenth century.

When I was taken from Temple Grove, I was placed, by the advice and
arrangement of Mr. Ellice, under the charge of a French family, which had
fallen into decay—through the change of dynasty.  The Marquis de Coubrier
had been Master of the Horse to Charles X.  His widow—an old lady between
seventy and eighty—with three maiden daughters, all advanced in years,
lived upon the remnant of their estates in a small village called Larue,
close to Bourg-la-Reine, which, it may be remembered, was occupied by the
Prussians during the siege of Paris.  There was a château, the former
seat of the family; and, adjoining it, in the same grounds, a pretty and
commodious cottage.  The first was let as a country house to some wealthy
Parisians; the cottage was occupied by the Marquise and her three
daughters.

The personal appearances of each of these four elderly ladies, their
distinct idiosyncrasies, and their former high position as members of a
now moribund nobility, left a lasting impression on my memory.  One might
expect, perhaps, from such a prelude, to find in the old Marquise traces
of stately demeanour, or a regretted superiority.  Nothing of the kind.
She herself was a short, square-built woman, with large head and strong
features, framed in a mob cap, with a broad frill which flopped over her
tortoise-shell spectacles.  She wore a black bombazine gown, and list
slippers.  When in the garden, where she was always busy in the
summer-time, she put on wooden sabots over her slippers.

Despite this homely exterior, she herself was a ‘lady’ in every sense of
the word.  Her manner was dignified and courteous to everyone.  To her
daughters and to myself she was gentle and affectionate.  Her voice was
sympathetic, almost musical.  I never saw her temper ruffled.  I never
heard her allude to her antecedents.

The daughters were as unlike their mother as they were to one another.
Adèle, the eldest, was very stout, with a profusion of grey ringlets.
She spoke English fluently.  I gathered, from her mysterious nods and
tosses of the head, (to be sure, her head wagged a little of its own
accord, the ringlets too, like lambs’ tails,) that she had had an
_affaire de cœur_ with an Englishman, and that the perfidious islander
had removed from the Continent with her misplaced affections.  She was a
trifle bitter, I thought—for I applied her insinuations to myself—against
Englishmen generally.  But, though cynical in theory, she was perfectly
amiable in practice.  She superintended the ménage and spent the rest of
her life in making paper flowers.  I should hardly have known they were
flowers, never having seen their prototypes in nature.  She assured me,
however, that they were beautiful copies—undoubtedly she believed them to
be so.

Henriette, the youngest, had been the beauty of the family.  This I had
to take her own word for, since here again there was much room for
imagination and faith.  She was a confirmed invalid, and, poor thing!
showed every symptom of it.  She rarely left her room except for meals;
and although it was summer when I was there, she never moved without her
chauffrette.  She seemed to live for the sake of patent medicines and her
chauffrette; she was always swallowing the one, and feeding the other.

The middle daughter was Agläé.  Mademoiselle Agläé took charge—I may say,
possession—of me.  She was tall, gaunt, and bony, with a sharp aquiline
nose, pomegranate cheek-bones, and large saffron teeth ever much in
evidence.  Her speciality, as I soon discovered, was sentiment.  Like her
sisters, she had had her ‘affaires’ in the plural.  A Greek prince, so
far as I could make out, was the last of her adorers.  But I sometimes
got into scrapes by mixing up the Greek prince with a Polish count, and
then confounding either one or both with a Hungarian pianoforte player.

Without formulating my deductions, I came instinctively to the conclusion
that ‘En fait d’amour,’ as Figaro puts it, ‘trop n’est pas même assez.’
From Miss Agläé’s point of view a lover was a lover.  As to the
superiority of one over another, this was—nay, is—purely subjective.  ‘We
receive but what we give.’  And, from what Mademoiselle then told me, I
cannot but infer that she had given without stint.

Be that as it may, nothing could be more kind than her care of me.  She
tucked me up at night, and used to send for me in the morning before she
rose, to partake of her _café-au-lait_.  In return for her indulgences, I
would ‘make eyes’ such as I had seen Auguste, the young man-servant, cast
at Rose the cook.  I would present her with little scraps which I copied
in roundhand from a volume of French poems.  Once I drew, and coloured
with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, a copious pool of red ink
beneath, emblematic of both the quality and quantity of my passion.  This
work of art produced so deep a sigh that I abstained thenceforth from
repeating such sanguinary endearments.

Not the least interesting part of the family was the servants.  I say
‘family,’ for a French family, unlike an English one, includes its
domestics; wherein our neighbours have the advantage over us.  In the
British establishment the household is but too often thought of and
treated as furniture.  I was as fond of Rose the cook and
maid-of-all-work as I was of anyone in the house.  She showed me how to
peel potatoes, break eggs, and make _pot-au-feu_.  She made me little
delicacies in pastry—swans with split almonds for wings, comic little
pigs with cloves in their eyes—for all of which my affection and my liver
duly acknowledged receipt in full.  She taught me more provincial
pronunciation and bad grammar than ever I could unlearn.  She was very
intelligent, and radiant with good humour.  One peculiarity especially
took my fancy—the yellow bandana in which she enveloped her head.  I was
always wondering whether she was born without hair—there was none to be
seen.  This puzzled me so that one day I consulted Auguste, who was my
chief companion.  He was quite indignant, and declared with warmth that
Mam’selle Rose had the most beautiful hair he had ever beheld.  He
flushed even with enthusiasm.  If it hadn’t been for his manner, I should
have asked him how he knew.  But somehow I felt the subject was a
delicate one.

How incessantly they worked, Auguste and Rose, and how cheerfully they
worked!  One could hear her singing, and him whistling, at it all day.
Yet they seemed to have abundant leisure to exchange a deal of pleasantry
and harmless banter.  Auguste was a Swiss, and a bigoted Protestant, and
never lost an opportunity of holding forth on the superiority of the
reformed religion.  If he thought the family were out of hearing, he
would grow very animated and declamatory.  But Rose, who also had hopes,
though perhaps faint, for my salvation, would suddenly rush into the room
with the carpet broom, and drive him out, with threats of Miss Agläé, and
the broomstick.

The gardener, Monsieur Benoît, was also a great favourite of mine, and I
of his, for I was never tired of listening to his wonderful adventures.
He had, so he informed me, been a soldier in the _Grande Armée_.  He
enthralled me with hair-raising accounts of his exploits: how, when
leading a storming party—he was always the leader—one dark and terrible
night, the vivid and incessant lightning betrayed them by the flashing of
their bayonets; and how in a few minutes they were mowed down by
_mitraille_.  He had led forlorn hopes, and performed deeds of astounding
prowess.  How many Life-guardsmen he had annihilated: ‘Ah! ben oui!’ he
was afraid to say.  He had been personally noticed by ‘Le p’tit caporal.’
There were many, whose deeds were not to compare with his, who had been
made princes and mareschals.  _Parbleu_! but his luck was bad.  ‘Pas
d’chance! pas d’chance!  Mo’sieu Henri.’  As Monsieur Benoît recorded his
feats, and witnessed my unbounded admiration, his voice would grow more
and more sepulchral, till it dropped to a hoarse and scarcely audible
whisper.

I was a little bewildered one day when, having breathlessly repeated some
of his heroic deeds to the Marquise, she with a quiet smile assured me
that ‘ce petit bon-homme,’ as she called him, had for a short time been a
drummer in the National Guard, but had never been a soldier.  This was a
blow to me; moreover, I was troubled by the composure of the Marquise.
Monsieur Benoît had actually been telling me what was not true.  Was it,
then, possible that grown-up people acquired the privilege of fibbing
with impunity?  I wondered whether this right would eventually become
mine!

At Bourg-la-Reine there is, or was, a large school.  Three days in the
week I had to join one of the classes there; on the other three one of
the ushers came up to Larue for a couple of hours of private tuition.  At
the school itself I did not learn very much, except that boys everywhere
are pretty similar, especially in the badness of their manners.  I also
learnt that shrugging the shoulders while exhibiting the palms of the
hands, and smiting oneself vehemently on the chest, are indispensable
elements of the French idiom.  The indiscriminate use of the word
‘parfaitement’ I also noticed to be essential when at a loss for either
language or ideas, and have made valuable use of it ever since.

Monsieur Vincent, my tutor, was a most good-natured and patient teacher.
I incline, however, to think that I taught him more English than he
taught me French.  He certainly worked hard at his lessons.  He read
English aloud to me, and made me correct his pronunciation.  The mental
agony this caused me makes me hot to think of still.  I had never heard
his kind of Franco-English before.  To my ignorance it was the most comic
language in the world.  There were some words which, in spite of my
endeavours, he persisted in pronouncing in his own way.  I have since got
quite used to the most of them, and their only effect is to remind me of
my own rash ventures in a foreign tongue.  There are one or two words
which recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions.  He would
produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplating it with a
despondent air, would declare it to be the most difficult word in the
English language to pronounce.  ‘Ow you say ’im?’  ‘Penknife,’ I
explained.  He would bid me write it down; then having spelt it, he
would, with much effort, and a sound like sneezing—oh! the pain I
endured!—slowly repeat ‘Penkneef.’  I gave it up at last; and he was
gratified with his success.  As my explosion generally occurred about
five minutes afterwards, Monsieur Vincent failed to connect cause and
effect.  When we parted he gave me a neatly bound copy of La Bruyère as a
prize—for his own proficiency, I presume.  Many a pleasant half-hour have
I since spent with the witty classic.

Except the controversial harangues of the zealot Auguste, my religious
teaching was neglected on week days.  On Sundays, if fine, I was taken to
a Protestant church in Paris; not infrequently to the Embassy.  I did not
enjoy this at all.  I could have done very well without it.  I liked the
drive, which took about an hour each way.  Occasionally Agläé and I went
in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou.  But Mr. Ellice had arranged that a
carriage should be hired for me.  Probably he was not unmindful of the
convenience of the old ladies.  They were not.  The carriage was always
filled.  Even Mademoiselle Henriette managed to go sometimes—aided by a
little patent medicine, and when it was too hot for the chauffrette.  If
she was unable, a friend in the neighbourhood was offered a seat; and I
had to sit bodkin, or on Mademoiselle Agläé’s lap.  I hated the ‘friend’;
for, secretly, I felt the carriage was mine, though of course I never had
the bad taste to say so.

They went to Mass, and I was allowed to go with them, in addition to my
church, as a special favour.  I liked the music, the display of candles,
the smell of the incense, and the dresses of the priests; and wondered
whether when undressed—unrobed, that is—they were funny old gentlemen
like Monsieur le Curé at Larue, and took such a prodigious quantity of
snuff up their noses and under their finger-nails.  The ladies did a good
deal of shopping, and we finished off at the Flower Market by the
Madeleine, where I, through the agency of Mademoiselle Agläé, bought
plants for ‘Maman.’  This gave ‘Maman’ _un plaisir inouï_, and me too;
for the dear old lady always presented me with a stick of barley-sugar in
return.  As I never possessed a sou (Miss Agläé kept account of all my
expenses and disbursements) I was strongly in favour of buying plants for
‘Maman.’

I loved the garden.  It was such a beautiful garden; so beautifully kept
by Monsieur Benoît, and withered old Mère Michèle, who did the weeding
and helped Rose once a week in the laundry.  There were such pretty
trellises, covered with roses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers
and sweet mignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges; such
floods of sunshine; so many butterflies and lizards basking in it; the
birds singing with excess of joy.  I used to fancy they sang in gratitude
to the dear old Marquise, who never forgot them in the winter snows.

What a quaint but charming picture she was amidst this quietude,—she who
had lived through the Reign of Terror: her mob cap, garden apron, and big
gloves; a trowel in one hand, a watering-pot in the other; potting and
unpotting; so busy, seemingly so happy.  She loved to have me with her,
and let me do the watering.  What a pleasure that was!  The scores of
little jets from the perforated rose, the gushing sound, the freshness
and the sparkle, the gratitude of the plants, to say nothing of one’s own
wet legs.  ‘Maman’ did not approve of my watering my own legs.  But if
the watering-pot was too big for me how could I help it?  By and by a
small one painted red within and green outside was discovered in
Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.

Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of the family
which occupied the château.  The costume of the head nurse with her high
Normandy cap (would that I had a female pen for details) invariably
suggested to me that she would make any English showman’s fortune, if he
could only exhibit her stuffed.  At the cottage they called her ‘La
Grosse Normande.’  Not knowing her by any other name, I always so
addressed her.  She was not very quick-witted, but I think she a little
resented my familiarity, and retaliated by comparisons between her
compatriots and mine, always in a tone derogatory to the latter.  She
informed me as a matter of history, patent to all nurses, that the
English race were notoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the
vicious practice of allowing children to use their legs before the
gristle had become bone.  Being of an inquiring turn of mind, I listened
with awe to this physiological revelation, and with chastened and
depressed spirits made a mental note of our national calamity.  Privately
I fancied that the mottled and spasmodic legs of Achille—whom she carried
in her arms—or at least so much of the infant Pelides’ legs as were not
enveloped in a napkin, gave every promise of refuting her generalisation.

One of my amusements was to set brick traps for small birds.  At Holkham
in the winter time, by baiting with a few grains of corn, I and my
brothers used, in this way, to capture robins, hedge-sparrows, and tits.
Not far from the château was a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of
the common sparrow.  Here I set my traps.  But it being summer time, and
(as I complained when twitted with want of success) French birds being
too stupid to know what the traps were for, I never caught a feather.
Now this osier bed was a favourite game covert for the sportsmen of the
château; and what was my delight and astonishment when one morning I
found a dead hare with its head under the fallen brick of my trap.  How
triumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose and Auguste,—who
more than the rest had ‘mocked themselves’ of my traps, and then carried
it in my arms, all bloody as it was (I could not make out how both its
hind legs were broken) into the salon to show it to the old Marquise.
Mademoiselle Henriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)
at sight of the blood.  Everybody was pleased.  But when I overheard
Rose’s _sotto voce_ to the Marquise: ‘Comme ils sont gentils!’ I
indignantly retorted that ‘it wasn’t kind of the hare at all: it was
entirely due to my skill in setting the traps.  They would catch anything
that put its head into them.  Just you try.’

How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment!  It was not until
long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served as _civet_ and as
_purée_ that I discovered the truth.  I was not at all grateful to the
gentlemen of the château whose dupe I had been; was even wrath with my
dear old ‘Maman’ for treating them with extra courtesy for their kindness
to her _petit chéri_.

That was a happy summer.  After it was ended, and it was time for me to
return to England and begin my education for the Navy I never again set
eyes on Larue, or that charming nest of old ladies who had done their
utmost to spoil me.  Many and many a time have I been to Paris, but
nothing could tempt me to visit Larue.  So it is with me.  Often have I
questioned the truth of the _nessun maggior dolore_ than the memory of
happy times in the midst of sorry ones.  The thought of happiness, it
would seem, should surely make us happier, and yet—not of happiness for
ever lost.  And are not the deepening shades of our declining sun
deepened by youth’s contrast?  Whatever our sweetest songs may tell us
of, we are the sadder for our sweetest memories.  The grass can never be
as green again to eyes grown watery.  The lambs that skipped when we did
were long since served as mutton.  And if

    Die Füsse tragen mich so muthig nicht empor
    Die hohen Stufen die ich kindisch übersprang,

why, I will take the fact for granted.  My youth is fled, my friends are
dead.  The daisies and the snows whiten by turns the grave of him or
her—the dearest I have loved.  Shall I make a pilgrimage to that
sepulchre?  Drop futile tears upon it?  Will they warm what is no more?
I for one have not the heart for that.  Happily life has something else
for us to do.  Happily ’tis best to do it.



CHAPTER IV


THE passage from the romantic to the realistic, from the chimerical to
the actual, from the child’s poetic interpretation of life to life’s
practical version of itself, is too gradual to be noticed while the
process is going on.  It is only in the retrospect we see the change.
There is still, for yet another stage, the same and even greater
receptivity,—delight in new experiences, in gratified curiosity, in
sensuous enjoyment, in the exercise of growing faculties.  But the belief
in the impossible and the bliss of ignorance are seen, when looking back,
to have assumed almost abruptly a cruder state of maturer dulness.
Between the public schoolboy and the child there is an essential
difference; and this in a boy’s case is largely due, I fancy, to the
diminished influence of woman, and the increased influence of men.

With me, certainly, the rough usage I was ere long to undergo materially
modified my view of things in general.  In 1838, when I was eleven years
old, my uncle, Henry Keppel, the future Admiral of the Fleet, but then a
dashing young commander, took me (as he mentions in his Autobiography) to
the Naval Academy at Gosport.  The very afternoon of my admittance—as an
illustration of the above remarks—I had three fights with three different
boys.  After that the ‘new boy’ was left to his own devices,—_qua_ ‘new
boy,’ that is; as an ordinary small boy, I had my share.  I have spoken
of the starvation at Dr. Pinkney’s; here it was the terrible bullying
that left its impress on me—literally its mark, for I still bear the scar
upon my hand.

Most boys, I presume, know the toy called a whirligig, made by stringing
a button on a loop of thread, the twisting and untwisting of which by
approaching and separating the hands causes the button to revolve.  Upon
this design, and by substituting a jagged disk of slate for the button,
the senior ‘Bull-dogs’ (we were all called ‘Burney’s bull-dogs’)
constructed a very simple instrument of torture.  One big boy spun the
whirligig, while another held the small boy’s palm till the sharp
slate-edge gashed it.  The wound was severe.  For many years a long white
cicatrice recorded the fact in my right hand.  The ordeal was, I fancy,
unique—a prerogative of the naval ‘bull-dogs.’  The other torture was, in
those days, not unknown to public schools.  It was to hold a boy’s back
and breech as near to a hot fire as his clothes would bear without
burning.  I have an indistinct recollection of a boy at one of our
largest public schools being thus exposed, and left tied to chairs while
his companions were at church.  When church was over the boy was
found—roasted.

By the advice of a chum I submitted to the scorching without a howl, and
thus obtained immunity, and admission to the roasting guild for the
future.  What, however, served me best, in all matters of this kind, was
that as soon as I was twelve years old my name was entered on the books
of the ‘Britannia,’ then flag-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, and though I
remained at the Academy, I always wore the uniform of a volunteer of the
first class, now called a naval cadet.  The uniform was respected, and
the wearer shared the benefit.

During the winter of 1839–40 I joined H.M.S. ‘Blonde,’ a 46-gun frigate
commanded by Captain Bouchier, afterwards Sir Thomas, whose portrait is
now in the National Portrait Gallery.  He had seen much service, and had
been flag-captain to Nelson’s Hardy.  In the middle of that winter we
sailed for China, where troubles had arisen anent the opium trade.

What would the cadet of the present day think of the treatment we small
boys had to put up with sixty or seventy years ago?  Promotion depended
almost entirely on interest.  The service was entered at twelve or
thirteen.  After two years at sea, if the boy passed his examination, he
mounted the white patch, and became a midshipman.  At the end of four
years more he had to pass a double examination,—one for seamanship before
a board of captains, and another for navigation at the Naval College.  He
then became a master’s mate, and had to serve for three years as such
before he was eligible for promotion to a lieutenancy.  Unless an officer
had family interest he often stuck there, and as often had to serve under
one more favoured, who was not born when he himself was getting stale.

Naturally enough these old hands were jealous of the fortunate
youngsters, and, unless exceptionally amiable, would show them little
mercy.

We left Portsmouth in December 1839.  It was bitter winter.  The day we
sailed, such was the severity of the gale and snowstorm, that we had to
put back and anchor at St. Helens in the Isle of Wight.  The next night
we were at sea.  It happened to be my middle watch.  I had to turn out of
my hammock at twelve to walk the deck till four in the morning.  Walk! I
could not stand.  Blinded with snow, drenched by the seas, frozen with
cold, home sick and sea sick beyond description, my opinion of the Royal
Navy—as a profession—was, in the course of these four hours, seriously
subverted.  Long before the watch ended.  I was reeling about more asleep
than awake; every now and then brought to my senses by breaking my shins
against the carronade slides; or, if I sat down upon one of them to rest,
by a playful whack with a rope’s end from one of the crusty old mates
aforesaid, who perhaps anticipated in my poor little personality the
arrogance of a possible commanding officer.  Oh! those cruel night
watches!  But the hard training must have been a useful tonic too.  One
got accustomed to it by degrees; and hence, indifferent to exposure, to
bad food, to kicks and cuffs, to calls of duty, to subordination, and to
all that constitutes discipline.

Luckily for me, the midshipman of my watch, Jack Johnson, was a trump,
and a smart officer to boot.  He was six years older than I, and, though
thoroughly good-natured, was formidable enough from his strength and
determination to have his will respected.  He became my patron and
protector.  Rightly, or wrongly I am afraid, he always took my part, made
excuses for me to the officer of our watch if I were caught napping under
the half-deck, or otherwise neglecting my duty.  Sometimes he would even
take the blame for this upon himself, and give me a ‘wigging’ in private,
which was my severest punishment.  He taught me the ropes, and explained
the elements of seamanship.  If it was very cold at night he would make
me wear his own comforter, and, in short, took care of me in every
possible way.  Poor Jack! I never had a better friend; and I loved him
then, God knows.  He was one of those whose advancement depended on
himself.  I doubt whether he would ever have been promoted but for an
accident which I shall speak of presently.

When we got into warm latitudes we were taught not only to knot and
splice, but to take in and set the mizzen royal.  There were four of us
boys, and in all weathers at last we were practised aloft until we were
as active and as smart as any of the ship’s lads, even in dirty weather
or in sudden squalls.

We had a capital naval instructor for lessons in navigation, and the
quartermaster of the watch taught us how to handle the wheel and con.

These quartermasters—there was one to each of the three watches—were
picked men who had been captains of tops or boatswains’ mates.  They were
much older than any of the crew.  Our three in the ‘Blonde’ had all seen
service in the French and Spanish wars.  One, a tall, handsome old
fellow, had been a smuggler; and many a fight with, or narrow escape
from, the coast-guard he had to tell of.  The other two had been badly
wounded.  Old Jimmy Bartlett of my watch had a hole in his chest half an
inch deep from a boarding pike.  He had also lost a finger, and a bullet
had passed through his cheek.  One of his fights was in the ‘Amethyst’
frigate when, under Sir Michael Seymour, she captured the ‘Niemen’ in
1809.  Often in the calm tropical nights, when the helm could take care
of itself almost, he would spin me a yarn about hot actions,
cutting-outs, press-gangings, and perils which he had gone through,
or—what was all one to me—had invented.

From England to China round the Cape was a long voyage before there was a
steamer in the Navy.  It is impossible to describe the charm of one’s
first acquaintance with tropical vegetation after the tedious monotony
unbroken by any event but an occasional flogging or a man overboard.  The
islands seemed afloat in an atmosphere of blue; their jungles rooting in
the water’s edge.  The strange birds in the daytime, the flocks of
parrots, the din of every kind of life, the flying foxes at night, the
fragrant and spicy odours, captivate the senses.  How delicious, too, the
fresh fruits brought off by the Malays in their scooped-out logs, one’s
first taste of bananas, juicy shaddocks, mangoes, and custard
apples—after months of salt junk, disgusting salt pork, and biscuit all
dust and weevils.  The water is so crystal-clear it seems as though one
could lay one’s hands on strange coloured fish and coral beds at any
depth.  This, indeed, was ‘kissing the lips of unexpected change.’  It
was a first kiss moreover.  The tropics now have ceased to remind me even
of this spell of novelty and wonder.



CHAPTER V


THE first time I ‘smelt powder’ was at Amoy.  The ‘Blonde’ carried out
Lord Palmerston’s letter to the Chinese Government.  Never was there a
more iniquitous war than England then provoked with China to force upon
her the opium trade with India in spite of the harm which the Chinese
authorities believed that opium did to their people.

Even Macaulay advocated this shameful imposition.  China had to submit,
and pay into the bargain four and a half millions sterling to prove
themselves in the wrong.  Part of this went as prize money.  My share of
it—the _douceur_ for a middy’s participation in the crime—was exactly
100_l._

To return to Amoy.  When off the mouth of the Canton river we had taken
on board an interpreter named Thom.  What our instructions were I know
not; I can only tell what happened.  Our entry into Amoy harbour caused
an immediate commotion on land.  As soon as we dropped anchor, about half
a mile from the shore, a number of troops, with eight or ten
field-pieces, took up their position on the beach, evidently resolved to
prevent our landing.  We hoisted a flag of truce, at the same time
cleared the decks for action, and dropped a kedge astern so as to moor
the ship broadside to the forts and invested shore.  The officer of my
watch, the late Sir Frederick Nicholson, together with the interpreter,
were ordered to land and communicate with the chief mandarin.  To carry
out this as inoffensively as possible, Nicholson took the jolly-boat,
manned by four lads only.  As it was my watch, I had charge of the boat.
A napkin or towel served for a flag of truce.  But long before we reached
the shore, several mandarins came down to the water’s edge waving their
swords and shouting angrily to warn us off.  Mr. Thom, who understood
what they said, was frightened out of his wits, assuring us we should all
be sawed in half if we attempted to land.  Sir Frederick was not the man
to disobey orders even on such a penalty; he, however, took the
precaution—a very wise one as it happened—to reverse the boat, and back
her in stern foremost.

No sooner did the keel grate on the shingle than a score of soldiers
rushed down to seize us.  Before they could do so we had shoved off.  The
shore was very steep.  In a moment we were in deep water, and our lads
pulling for dear life.  Then came a storm of bullets from matchlocks and
jingals and the bigger guns, fortunately just too high to hit us.  One
bullet only struck the back-board, but did no harm.  What, however,
seemed a greater danger was the fire from the ship.  Ere we were halfway
back broadside after broadside was fired over our heads into the poor
devils massed along the beach.  This was kept up until not a living
Chinaman was to be seen.

I may mention here a curious instance of cowardice.  One of our men, a
ship’s painter, soon after the firing began and was returned by the
fort’s guns, which in truth were quite harmless, jumped overboard and
drowned himself.  I have seen men’s courage tried under fire, and in many
other ways since; yet I have never known but one case similar to this,
when a friend of my own, a rich and prosperous man, shot himself to avoid
death!  So that there are men like ‘Monsieur Grenouille, qui se cachait
dans l’eau pour éviter la pluie.’  Often have I seen timid and nervous
men, who were thought to be cowards, get so excited in action that their
timidity has turned to rashness.  In truth ‘on est souvent ferme par
faiblesse, et audacieux par timidité.’

Partly for this reason, and partly because I look upon it as a remnant of
our predatory antecedents and of animal pugnacity, I have no extravagant
admiration for mere combativeness or physical courage.  Honoured and
rewarded as one of the noblest of manly attributes, it is one of the
commonest of qualities,—one which there is not a mammal, a bird, a fish,
or an insect even, that does not share with us.  Such is the esteem in
which it is held, such the ignominy which punishes the want of it, that
the most cautious and the most timid by nature will rather face the
uncertain risks of a fight than the certain infamy of imputed cowardice.

Is it likely that courage should be rare under such circumstances,
especially amongst professional fighters, who in England at least have
chosen their trade?  That there are poltroons, and plenty of them,
amongst our soldiers and sailors, I do not dispute.  But with the fear of
shame on one hand, the hope of reward on the other, the merest dastard
will fight like a wild beast, when his blood is up.  The extraordinary
merit of his conduct is not so obvious to the peaceful thinker.  I speak
not of such heroism as that of the Japanese,—their deeds will henceforth
be bracketed with those of Leonidas and his three hundred, who died for a
like cause.  With the Japanese, as it was with the Spartans, every man is
a patriot; nor is the proportionate force of their barbaric invaders
altogether dissimilar.

Is then the Victoria Cross an error?  To say so would be an outrage in
this age of militarism.  And what would all the Queens of Beauty think,
from Sir Wilfred Ivanhoe’s days to ours, if mighty warriors ceased to
poke each other in the ribs, and send one another’s souls untimely to the
‘viewless shades,’ for the sake of their ‘doux yeux?’  Ah! who knows how
many a mutilation, how many a life, has been the price of that requital?
Ye gentle creatures who swoon at the sight of blood, is it not the hero
who lets most of it that finds most favour in your eyes?  Possibly it may
be to the heroes of moral courage that some distant age will award its
choicest decorations.  As it is, the courage that seeks the rewards of
Fame seems to me about on a par with the virtue that invests in Heaven.

Though an anachronism as regards this stage of my career, I cannot resist
a little episode which pleasantly illustrates moral courage, or chivalry
at least, combined with physical bravery.

In December, 1899, I was a passenger on board a Norddeutscher Lloyd on my
way to Ceylon.  The steamer was crowded with Germans; there were
comparatively few English.  Things had been going very badly with us in
the Transvaal, and the telegrams both at Port Said and at Suez
supplemented the previous ill-news.  At the latter place we heard of the
catastrophe at Magersfontein, of poor Wauchope’s death, and of the
disaster to the Highland Light Infantry.  The moment it became known the
Germans threw their caps into the air, and yelled as if it were they who
had defeated us.

Amongst the steerage passengers was a Major—in the English army—returning
from leave to rejoin his regiment at Colombo.  If one might judge by his
choice of a second-class fare, and by his much worn apparel, he was what
one would call a professional soldier.  He was a tall, powerfully-built,
handsome man, with a weather-beaten determined face, and keen eye.  I was
so taken with his looks that I often went to the fore part of the ship on
the chance of getting a word with him.  But he was either shy or proud,
certainly reserved; and always addressed me as ‘Sir,’ which was not
encouraging.

That same evening, after dinner in the steerage cabin, a German got up
and, beginning with some offensive allusions to the British army,
proposed the health of General Cronje and the heroic Boers.  This was
received with deafening ‘Hochs.’  To cap the enthusiasm up jumped another
German, and proposed ‘unglück—bad luck to all Englanders and to their
Queen.’  This also was cordially toasted.  When the ceremony was ended
and silence restored, my reserved friend calmly rose, tapped the table
with the handle of his knife (another steerage passenger—an
Australian—told me what happened), took his watch from his pocket, and
slowly said: ‘It is just six minutes to eight.  If the person who
proposed the last toast has not made a satisfactory apology to me before
the hand of my watch points to the hour, I will thrash him till he does.
I am an officer in the English army, and always keep my word.’  A small
band of Australians was in the cabin.  One and all of them applauded this
laconic speech.  It was probably due in part to these that the offender
did not wait till the six minutes had expired.

Next day I congratulated my reserved friend.  He was reticent as usual.
All I could get out of him was, ‘I never allow a lady to be insulted in
my presence, sir.’  It was his Queen, not his cloth, that had roused the
virility in this quiet man.

Let us turn to another aspect of the deeds of war.  About daylight on the
morning following our bombardment, it being my morning watch, I was
ordered to take the surgeon and assistant surgeon ashore.  There were
many corpses, but no living or wounded to be seen.  One object only
dwells visually in my memory.

At least a quarter of a mile from the dead soldiers, a stray shell had
killed a grey-bearded old man and a young woman.  They were side by side.
The woman was still in her teens and pretty.  She lay upon her back.
Blood was oozing from her side.  A swarm of flies were buzzing in and out
of her open mouth.  Her little deformed feet, cased in the high-heeled
and embroidered tiny shoes, extended far beyond her petticoats.  It was
these feet that interested the men of science.  They are now, I believe,
in a jar of spirits at Haslar hospital.  At least, my friend the
assistant surgeon told me, as we returned to the ship, that that was
their ultimate destination.  The mutilated body, as I turned from it with
sickening horror, left a picture on my youthful mind not easily to be
effaced.

After this we joined the rest of the squadron: the ‘Melville’ (a
three-decker, Sir W. Parker’s flagship), the ‘Blenheim,’ the ‘Druid,’ the
‘Calliope,’ and several 18-gun brigs.  We took Hong Kong, Chusan, Ningpo,
Canton, and returned to take Amoy.  One or two incidents only in the
several engagements seem worth recording.

We have all of us supped full with horrors this last year or so, and I
have no thought of adding to the surfeit.  But sometimes common accidents
appear exceptional, if they befall ourselves, or those with whom we are
intimate.  If the sufferer has any special identity, we speculate on his
peculiar way of bearing his misfortune; and are thus led on to place
ourselves in his position, and imagine ourselves the sufferers.

Major Daniel, the senior marine officer of the ‘Blonde,’ was a reserved
and taciturn man.  He was quiet and gentlemanlike, always very neat in
his dress; rather severe, still kind to his men.  His aloofness was in no
wise due to lack of ideas, nor, I should say, to pride—unless, perhaps,
it were the pride which some men feel in suppressing all emotion by
habitual restraint of manner.  Whether his _sangfroid_ was
constitutional, or that nobler kind of courage which feels and masters
timidity and the sense of danger, none could tell.  Certain it is he was
as calm and self-possessed in action as in repose.  He was so courteous
one fancied he would almost have apologised to his foe before he
remorselessly ran him through.

On our second visit to Amoy, a year or more after the first, we met with
a warmer reception.  The place was much more strongly fortified, and the
ship was several-times hulled.  We were at very close quarters, as it is
necessary to pass under high ground as the harbour is entered.  Those who
had the option, excepting our gallant old captain, naturally kept under
shelter of the bulwarks and hammock nettings.  Not so Major Daniel.  He
stood in the open gangway watching the effect of the shells, as though he
were looking at a game of billiards.  While thus occupied a round shot
struck him full in the face, and simply left him headless.

Another accident, partly due to an ignorance of dynamics, happened at the
taking of Canton.  The whole of the naval brigade was commanded by Sir
Thomas Bouchier.  Our men were lying under the ridge of a hill protected
from the guns on the city walls.  Fully exposed to the fire, which was
pretty hot, ‘old Tommy’ as we called him, paced to and fro with
contemptuous indifference, stopping occasionally to spy the enemy with
his long ship’s telescope.  A number of bluejackets, in reserve, were
stationed about half a mile further off at the bottom of the protecting
hill.  They were completely screened from the fire by some buildings of
the suburbs abutting upon the slope.  Those in front were watching the
cannon-balls which had struck the crest and were rolling as it were by
mere force of gravitation down the hillside.  Some jokes were made about
football, when suddenly a smart and popular young officer—Fox, first
lieutenant of one of the brigs—jumped out at one of these spent balls,
which looked as though it might have been picked up by the hands, and
gave it a kick.  It took his foot off just above the ankle.  There was no
surgeon at hand, and he was bleeding to death before one could be found.
Sir Thomas had come down the hill, and seeing the wounded officer on the
ground with a group around him, said in passing, ‘Well, Fox, this is a
bad job, but it will make up the pair of epaulets, which is something.’

‘Yes sir,’ said the dying man feebly, ‘but without a pair of legs.’  Half
an hour later he was dead.

I have spoken lightly of courage, as if, by implication, I myself
possessed it.  Let me make a confession.  From my soul I pity the man who
is or has been such a miserable coward as I was in my infancy, and up to
this youthful period of my life.  No fear of bullets or bayonets could
ever equal mine.  It was the fear of ghosts.  As a child, I think that at
times when shut up for punishment, in a dark cellar for instance, I must
have nearly gone out of my mind with this appalling terror.

Once when we were lying just below Whampo, the captain took nearly every
officer and nearly the whole ship’s crew on a punitive expedition up the
Canton river.  They were away about a week.  I was left behind,
dangerously ill with fever and ague.  In his absence, Sir Thomas had had
me put into his cabin, where I lay quite alone day and night, seeing
hardly anyone save the surgeon and the captain’s steward, who was himself
a shadow, pretty nigh.  Never shall I forget my mental sufferings at
night.  In vain may one attempt to describe what one then goes through;
only the victims know what that is.  My ghost—the ghost of the Whampo
Reach—the ghost of those sultry and miasmal nights, had no shape, no
vaporous form; it was nothing but a presence, a vague amorphous dread.
It may have floated with the swollen and putrid corpses which hourly came
bobbing down the stream, but it never appeared; for there was nothing to
appear.  Still it might appear.  I expected every instant through the
night to see it in some inconceivable form.  I expected it to touch me.
It neither stalked upon the deck, nor hovered in the dark, nor moved, nor
rested anywhere.  And yet it was there about me,—where, I knew not.  On
every side I was threatened.  I feared it most behind the head of my cot,
because I could not see it if it were so.

This, it will be said, is the description of a nightmare.  Exactly so.
My agony of fright was a nightmare; but a nightmare when every sense was
strained with wakefulness, when all the powers of imagination were
concentrated to paralyse my shattered reason.

The experience here spoken of is so common in some form or other that we
may well pause to consider it.  What is the meaning of this fear of
ghosts?—how do we come by it?  It may be thought that its cradle is our
own, that we are purposely frightened in early childhood to keep us calm
and quiet.  But I do not believe that nurses’ stories would excite dread
of the unknown if the unknown were not already known.  The susceptibility
to this particular terror is there before the terror is created.  A
little reflection will convince us that we must look far deeper for the
solution of a mystery inseparable from another, which is of the last
importance to all of us.



CHAPTER VI


THE belief in phantoms, ghosts, or spirits, has frequently been discussed
in connection with speculations on the origin of religion.  According to
Mr. Spencer (‘Principles of Sociology’) ‘the first traceable conception
of a supernatural being is the conception of a ghost.’  Even Fetichism is
‘an extension of the ghost theory.’  The soul of the Fetich ‘in common
with supernatural agents at large, is originally the double of a dead
man.’  How do we get this notion—‘the double of a dead man?’  Through
dreams.  In the Old Testament we are told: ‘God came to’ Abimelech,
Laban, Solomon, and others ‘in a dream’; also that ‘the angel of the
Lord’ appeared to Joseph ‘in a dream.’  That is to say, these men dreamed
that God came to them.  So the savage, who dreams of his dead
acquaintance, believes he has been visited by the dead man’s spirit.
This belief in ghosts is confirmed, Mr. Spencer argues, by other
phenomena.  The savage who faints from the effect of a wound sustained in
fight looks just like the dead man beside him.  The spirit of the wounded
man returns after a long or short period of absence: why should the
spirit of the other not do likewise?  If reanimation follows comatose
states, why should it not follow death?  Insensibility is but an affair
of time.  All the modes of preserving the dead, in the remotest ages,
evince the belief in casual separation of body and soul, and of their
possible reunion.

Take another theory.  Comte tells us there is a primary tendency in man
‘to transfer the sense of his own nature, in the radical explanation of
all phenomena whatever.’  Writing in the same key, Schopenhauer calls man
‘a metaphysical animal.’  He is speaking of the need man feels of a
theory, in regard to the riddle of existence, which forces itself upon
his notice; ‘a need arising from the consciousness that behind the
physical in the world, there is a metaphysical something permanent as the
foundation of constant change.’  Though not here alluding to the ghost
theory, this bears indirectly on the conception, as I shall proceed to
show.

We need not entangle ourselves in the vexed question of innate ideas, nor
inquire whether the principle of casuality is, as Kant supposed, like
space and time, a form of intuition given _a priori_.  That every change
has a cause must necessarily (without being thus formulated) be one of
the initial beliefs of conscious beings far lower in the scale than man,
whether derived solely from experience or otherwise.  The reed that
shakes is obviously shaken by the wind.  But the riddle of the wind also
forces itself into notice; and man explains this by transferring to the
wind ‘the sense of his own nature.’  Thunderstorms, volcanic
disturbances, ocean waves, running streams, the motions of the heavenly
bodies, had to be accounted for as involving change.  And the natural—the
primitive—explanation was by reference to life, analogous, if not
similar, to our own.  Here then, it seems to me, we have the true origin
of the belief in ghosts.

Take an illustration which supports this view.  While sitting in my
garden the other day a puff of wind blew a lady’s parasol across the
lawn.  It rolled away close to a dog lying quietly in the sun.  The dog
looked at it for a moment, but seeing nothing to account for its
movements, barked nervously, put its tail between its legs, and ran away,
turning occasionally to watch and again bark, with every sign of fear.

This was animism.  The dog must have accounted for the eccentric
behaviour of the parasol by endowing it with an uncanny spirit.  The
horse that shies at inanimate objects by the roadside, and will sometimes
dash itself against a tree or a wall, is actuated by a similar
superstition.  Is there any essential difference between this belief of
the dog or horse and the belief of primitive man?  I maintain that an
intuitive animistic tendency (which Mr. Spencer repudiates), and not
dreams, lies at the root of all spiritualism.  Would Mr. Spencer have had
us believe that the dog’s fear of the rolling parasol was a logical
deduction from its canine dreams?  This would scarcely elucidate the
problem.  The dog and the horse share apparently Schopenhauer’s
metaphysical propensity with man.

The familiar aphorism of Statius: _Primus in orbe Deos fecit timor_,
points to the relation of animism first to the belief in ghosts, thence
to Polytheism, and ultimately to Monotheism.  I must apologise to those
of the transcendental school who, like Max Müller for instance
(Introduction to the ‘Science of Religion’), hold that we have ‘a
primitive intuition of God’; which, after all, the professor derives,
like many others, from the ‘yearning for something that neither sense nor
reason can supply’; and from the assumption that ‘there was in the heart
of man from the very first a feeling of incompleteness, of weakness, of
dependency, &c.’  All this, I take it, is due to the aspirations of a
much later creature than the ‘Pithecanthropus erectus,’ to whom we here
refer.

Probably spirits and ghosts were originally of an evil kind.  Sir John
Lubbock (‘The Origin of Civilisation’) says: ‘The baying of the dog to
the moon is as much an act of worship as some ceremonies which have been
so described by travellers.’  I think he would admit that fear is the
origin of the worship.  In his essay on ‘Superstition,’ Hume writes:
‘Weakness, fear, melancholy, together with ignorance, are the true
sources of superstition.’  Also ‘in such a state of mind, infinite
unknown evils are dreaded from unknown agents.’

Man’s impotence to resist the forces of nature, and their terrible
ability to injure him, would inspire a sense of terror; which in turn
would give rise to the twofold notion of omnipotence and malignity.  The
savage of the present day lives in perpetual fear of evil spirits; and
the superstitious dread, which I and most others have suffered, is
inherited from our savage ancestry.  How much further back we must seek
it may be left to the sage philosophers of the future.



CHAPTER VII


THE next winter we lay for a couple of months off Chinhai, which we had
stormed, blockading the mouth of the Ningpo river.  Here, I regret to
think, I committed an act which has often haunted my conscience as a
crime; although I had frequently promised the captain of a gun a glass of
grog to let me have a shot, and was mightily pleased if death and
destruction rewarded my aim.

Off Chinhai, lorchers and fast sailing junks laden with merchandise would
try to run the blockade before daylight.  And it sometimes happened that
we youngsters had a long chase in a cutter to overhaul them.  This meant
getting back to a nine or ten o’clock breakfast at the end of the
morning’s watch; equivalent to five or six hours’ duty on an empty
stomach.

One cold morning I had a hard job to stop a small junk.  The men were
sweating at their oars like galley slaves, and muttering curses at the
apparent futility of their labour.  I had fired a couple of shots from a
‘brown Bess’—the musket of the day—through the fugitive’s sails; and
fearing punishment if I let her escape, I next aimed at the boat herself.
Down came the mainsail in a crack.  When I boarded our capture, I found I
had put a bullet through the thigh of the man at the tiller.  Boys are
not much troubled with scruples about bloodguiltiness, and not
unfrequently are very cruel, for cruelty as a rule (with exceptions)
mostly proceeds from thoughtlessness.  But when I realised what I had
done, and heard the wretched man groan, I was seized with remorse for
what, at a more hardened stage, I should have excused on the score of
duty.

It was during this blockade that the accident, which I have already
alluded to, befell my dear protector, Jack Johnson.

One night, during his and my middle watch, the forecastle sentries hailed
a large sampan, like a Thames barge, drifting down stream and threatening
to foul us.  Sir Frederick Nicholson, the officer of the watch, ordered
Johnson to take the cutter and tow her clear.

I begged leave to go with him.  Sir Frederick refused, for he at once
suspected mischief.  The sampan was reached and diverted just before she
swung athwart our bows.  But scarcely was this achieved, when an
explosion took place.  My friend was knocked over, and one or two of the
men fell back into the cutter.  This is what had happened: Johnson
finding no one in the sampan, cautiously raised one of the deck hatches
with a boat-hook before he left the cutter.  The mine (for such it
proved) was so arranged that examination of this kind drew a lighted
match on to the magazine, which instantly exploded.

Poor Jack! what was my horror when we got him on board!  Every trace of
his handsome features was gone.  He was alive, and that seemed to be all.
In a few minutes his head and face swelled so that all was a round black
charred ball.  One could hardly see where the eyes were, buried beneath
the powder-ingrained and incrusted flesh.

For weeks, at night, I used to sit on a chest near his hammock, listening
for his slightest movement, too happy if he called me for something I
could get him.  In time he recovered, and was invalided home, and I lost
my dear companion and protector.  A couple of years afterwards I had the
happiness to dine with him on board another ship in Portsmouth, no longer
in the midshipman’s berth, but in the wardroom.

Twice during this war, the ‘Blonde’ was caught in a typhoon.  The first
time was in waters now famous, but then unknown, the Gulf of Liau-tung,
in full sight of China’s great wall.  We were twenty-four hours battened
down, and under storm staysails.  The ‘Blenheim,’ with Captain Elliott
our plenipotentiary on board, was with us, and the one circumstance left
in my memory is the sight of a line-of-battle ship rolling and pitching
so that one caught sight of the whole of her keel from stem to stern as
if she had been a fishing smack.  We had been wintering in the Yellow
Sea, and at the time I speak of were on a foraging expedition round the
Liau-tung peninsula.  Those who have followed the events of the Japanese
war will have noticed on the map, not far north of Ta-lien-wan in the
Korean Bay, three groups of islands.  So little was the geography of
these parts then known, that they had no place on our charts.  On this
very occasion, one group was named after Captain Elliott, one was called
the Bouchier Islands, and the other the Blonde Islands.  The first
surveying of the two latter groups, and the placing of them upon the map,
was done by our naval instructor, and he always took me with him as his
assistant.

Our second typhoon was while we were at anchor in Hong Kong harbour.
Those who have knowledge only of the gales, however violent, of our
latitudes, have no conception of what wind-force can mount to.  To be the
toy of it is enough to fill the stoutest heart with awe.  The harbour was
full of transports, merchant ships, opium clippers, besides four or five
men-of-war, and a steamer belonging to the East India Company—the first
steamship I had ever seen.

The coming of a typhoon is well known to the natives at least twenty-four
hours beforehand, and every preparation is made for it.  Boats are
dragged far up the beach; buildings even are fortified for resistance.
Every ship had laid out its anchors, lowered its yards, and housed its
topmasts.  We had both bowers down, with cables paid out to extreme
length.  The danger was either in drifting on shore or, what was more
imminent, collision.  When once the tornado struck us there was nothing
more to be done; no men could have worked on deck.  The seas broke by
tons over all; boats beached as described were lifted from the ground,
and hurled, in some instances, over the houses.  The air was darkened by
the spray.

But terrible as was the raging of wind and water, far more awful was the
vain struggle for life of the human beings who succumbed to it.  In a
short time almost all the ships except the men-of-war, which were better
provided with anchors, began to drift from their moorings.  Then wreck
followed wreck.  I do not think the ‘Blonde’ moved; but from first to
last we were threatened with the additional weight and strain of a
drifting vessel.  Had we been so hampered our anchorage must have given
way.  As a single example of the force of a typhoon, the ‘Phlegethon’
with three anchors down, and engines working at full speed, was blown
past us out of the harbour.

One tragic incident I witnessed, which happened within a few fathoms of
the ‘Blonde.’  An opium clipper had drifted athwart the bow of a large
merchantman, which in turn was almost foul of us.  In less than five
minutes the clipper sank.  One man alone reappeared on the surface.  He
was so close, that from where I was holding on and crouching under the
lee of the mainmast I could see the expression of his face.  He was a
splendidly built man, and his strength and activity must have been
prodigious.  He clung to the cable of the merchantman, which he had
managed to clasp.  As the vessel reared between the seas he gained a few
feet before he was again submerged.  At last he reached the hawse-hole.
Had he hoped, in spite of his knowledge, to find it large enough to admit
his body?  He must have known the truth; and yet he struggled on.  Did he
hope that, when thus within arms’ length of men in safety, some pitying
hand would be stretched out to rescue him,—a rope’s end perhaps flung out
to haul him inboard?  Vain desperate hope!  He looked upwards: an
imploring look.  Would Heaven be more compassionate than man?  A mountain
of sea towered above his head; and when again the bow was visible, the
man was gone for ever.

Before taking leave of my seafaring days, I must say one word about
corporal punishment.  Sir Thomas Bouchier was a good sailor, a gallant
officer, and a kind-hearted man; but he was one of the old school.
Discipline was his watchword, and he endeavoured to maintain it by
severity.  I dare say that, on an average, there was a man flogged as
often as once a month during the first two years the ‘Blonde’ was in
commission.  A flogging on board a man-of-war with a ‘cat,’ the nine
tails of which were knotted, and the lashes of which were slowly
delivered, up to the four dozen, at the full swing of the arm, and at the
extremity of lash and handle, was very severe punishment.  Each knot
brought blood, and the shock of the blow knocked the breath out of a man
with an involuntary ‘Ugh!’ however stoically he bore the pain.

I have seen many a bad man flogged for unpardonable conduct, and many a
good man for a glass of grog too much.  My firm conviction is that the
bad man was very little the better; the good man very much the worse.
The good man felt the disgrace, and was branded for life.  His
self-esteem was permanently maimed, and he rarely held up his head or did
his best again.  Besides which,—and this is true of all punishment—any
sense of injustice destroys respect for the punisher.  Still I am no
sentimentalist; I have a contempt for, and even a dread of,
sentimentalism.  For boy housebreakers, and for ruffians who commit
criminal assaults, the rod or the lash is the only treatment.

A comic piece of insubordination on my part recurs to me in connection
with flogging.  About the year 1840 or 1841, a midshipman on the Pacific
station was flogged.  I think the ship was the ‘Peak.’  The event created
some sensation, and was brought before Parliament.  Two frigates were
sent out to furnish a quorum of post-captains to try the responsible
commander.  The verdict of the court-martial was a severe reprimand.
This was, of course, nuts to every midshipman in the service.

Shortly after it became known I got into a scrape for laughing at, and
disobeying the orders of, our first-lieutenant,—the head of the executive
on board a frigate.  As a matter of fact, the orders were ridiculous, for
the said officer was tipsy.  Nevertheless, I was reported, and had up
before the captain.  ‘Old Tommy’ was, or affected to be, very angry.  I
am afraid I was very ‘cheeky.’  Whereupon Sir Thomas did lose his temper,
and threatened to send for the boatswain to tie me up and give me a
dozen,—not on the back, but where the back leaves off.  Undismayed by the
threat, and mindful of the episode of the ‘Peak’ (?) I looked the old
gentleman in the face, and shrilly piped out, ‘It’s as much as your
commission is worth, sir.’  In spite of his previous wrath, he was so
taken aback by my impudence that he burst out laughing, and, to hide it,
kicked me out of the cabin.

After another severe attack of fever, and during a long convalescence, I
was laid up at Macao, where I enjoyed the hospitality of Messrs. Dent and
of Messrs. Jardine and Matheson.  Thence I was invalided home, and took
my passage to Bombay in one of the big East India tea-ships.  As I was
being carried up the side in the arms of one of the boatmen, I overheard
another exclaim: ‘Poor little beggar.  He’ll never see land again!’

The only other passenger was Colonel Frederick Cotton, of the Madras
Engineers, one of a distinguished family.  He, too, had been through the
China campaign, and had also broken down.  We touched at Manila, Batavia,
Singapore, and several other ports in the Malay Archipelago, to take in
cargo.  While that was going on, Cotton, the captain, and I made
excursions inland.  Altogether I had a most pleasant time of it till we
reached Bombay.

My health was now re-established; and after a couple of weeks at Bombay,
where I lived in a merchant’s house, Cotton took me to Poonah and
Ahmadnagar; in both of which places I stayed with his friends, and messed
with the regiments.  Here a copy of the ‘Times’ was put into my hands;
and I saw a notice of the death of my father.

After a fortnight’s quarantine at La Valetta, where two young
Englishmen—one an Oxford man—shared the same rooms in the fort with me,
we three returned to England; and (I suppose few living people can say
the same) travelled from Naples to Calais before there was a single
railway on the Continent.

At the end of two months’ leave in England I was appointed to the
‘Caledonia,’ flagship at Plymouth.  Sir Thomas Bouchier had written to
the Admiral, Sir Edward Codrington, of Navarino fame (whose daughter Sir
Thomas afterwards married), giving me ‘a character.’  Sir Edward sent for
me, and was most kind.  He told me I was to go to the Pacific in the
first ship that left for South America, which would probably be in a week
or two; and he gave me a letter to his friend, Admiral Thomas, who
commanded on that station.

About this time, and for a year or two later, the relations between
England and America were severely strained by what was called ‘the Oregon
question.’  The dispute was concerning the right of ownership of the
mouth of the Columbia river, and of Vancouver’s Island.  The President as
well as the American people took the matter up very warmly; and much
discretion was needed to avert the outbreak of hostilities.

In Sir Edward’s letter, which he read out and gave to me open, he
requested Admiral Thomas to put me into any ship ‘that was likely to see
service’; and quoted a word or two from my dear old captain Sir Thomas,
which would probably have given me a lift.

The prospect before me was brilliant.  What could be more delectable than
the chance of a war?  My fancy pictured all sorts of opportunities,
turned to the best account,—my seniors disposed of, and myself, with a
pair of epaulets, commanding the smartest brig in the service.

Alack-a-day! what a climb down from such high flights my life has been.
The ship in which I was to have sailed to the west was suddenly
countermanded to the east.  She was to leave for China the following
week, and I was already appointed to her, not even as a ‘super.’

My courage and my ambition were wrecked at a blow.  The notion of
returning for another three years to China, where all was now peaceful
and stale to me, the excitement of the war at an end, every port
reminding me of my old comrades, visions of renewed fevers and horrible
food,—were more than I could stand.

I instantly made up my mind to leave the Navy.  It was a wilful, and
perhaps a too hasty, impulse.  But I am impulsive by nature; and now that
my father was dead, I fancied myself to a certain extent my own master.
I knew moreover, by my father’s will, that I should not be dependent upon
a profession.  Knowledge of such a fact has been the ruin of many a
better man than I.  I have no virtuous superstitions in favour of
poverty—quite the reverse—but I am convinced that the rich man, who has
never had to earn his position or his living, is more to be pitied and
less respected than the poor man whose comforts certainly, if not his
bread, have depended on his own exertions.

My mother had a strong will of her own, and I could not guess what line
she might take.  I also apprehended the opposition of my guardians.  On
the whole, I opined a woman’s heart would be the most suitable for an
appeal _ad misericordiam_.  So I pulled out the agony stop, and worked
the pedals of despair with all the anguish at my command.

‘It was easy enough for her to _revel in luxury_ and consign me to a life
worse than a _convict’s_.  But how would _she_ like to live on _salt
junk_, to keep _night watches_, to have to cut up her blankets for
_ponchos_ (I knew she had never heard the word, and that it would tell
accordingly), to save her from being _frozen to death_?  How would _she_
like to be mast-headed when a ship was rolling gunwale under?  As to the
wishes of my guardians, were _their feelings_ to be considered before
mine?  I should like to see Lord Rosebery or Lord Spencer in my place!
They’d very soon wish they had a mother who &c. &c.’

When my letter was finished I got leave to go ashore to post it.  Feeling
utterly miserable, I had my hair cut; and, rendered perfectly reckless by
my appearance, I consented to have what was left of it tightly curled
with a pair of tongs.  I cannot say that I shared in any sensible degree
the pleasure which this operation seemed to give to the artist.  But when
I got back to the ship the sight of my adornment kept my messmates in an
uproar for the rest of the afternoon.

Whether the touching appeal to my mother produced tears, or of what kind,
matters little; it effectually determined my career.  Before my new ship
sailed for China, I was home again, and in full possession of my coveted
freedom as a civilian.



CHAPTER VIII


IT was settled that after a course of three years at a private tutor’s I
was to go to Cambridge.  The life I had led for the past three years was
not the best training for the fellow-pupil of lads of fifteen or sixteen
who had just left school.  They were much more ready to follow my lead
than I theirs, especially as mine was always in the pursuit of pleasure.

I was first sent to Mr. B.’s, about a couple of miles from Alnwick.
Before my time, Alnwick itself was considered out of bounds.  But as
nearly half the sin in this world consists in being found out, my
companions and I managed never to commit any in this direction.

We generally returned from the town with a bottle of some noxious
compound called ‘port’ in our pockets, which was served out in our
‘study’ at night, while I read aloud the instructive adventures of Mr.
Thomas Jones.  We were, of course, supposed to employ these late hours in
preparing our work for the morrow.  One boy only protested that, under
the combined seductions of the port and Miss Molly Seagrim, he could
never make his verses scan.

Another of our recreations was poaching.  From my earliest days I was
taught to shoot, myself and my brothers being each provided with his
little single-barrelled flint and steel ‘Joe Manton.’  At — we were
surrounded by grouse moors on one side, and by well-preserved coverts on
the other.  The grouse I used to shoot in the evening while they fed
amongst the corn stooks; for pheasants and hares, I used to get the other
pupils to walk through the woods, while I with a gun walked outside.
Scouts were posted to look out for keepers.

Did our tutor know?  Of course he knew.  But think of the saving in the
butcher’s bill!  Besides which, Mr. B. was otherwise preoccupied; he was
in love with Mrs. B.  I say ‘in love,’ for although I could not be sure
of it then, (having no direct experience of the _amantium iræ_,)
subsequent observation has persuaded me that their perpetual quarrels
could mean nothing else.  This was exceedingly favourable to the
independence of Mr. B.’s pupils.  But when asked by Mr. Ellice how I was
getting on, I was forced in candour to admit that I was in a fair way to
forget all I ever knew.

By the advice of Lord Spencer I was next placed under the tuition of one
of the minor canons of Ely.  The Bishop of Ely—Dr. Allen—had been Lord
Spencer’s tutor, hence his elevation to the see.  The Dean—Dr. Peacock,
of algebraic and Trinity College fame—was good enough to promise ‘to keep
an eye’ on me.  Lord Spencer himself took me to Ely; and there I remained
for two years.  They were two very important years of my life.  Having no
fellow pupil to beguile me, I was the more industrious.  But it was not
from the better acquaintance with ancient literature that I mainly
benefited,—it was from my initiation to modern thought.  I was a constant
guest at the Deanery; where I frequently met such men as Sedgwick, Airey
the Astronomer-Royal, Selwyn, Phelps the Master of Sydney, Canon
Heaviside the master of Haileybury, and many other friends of the Dean’s,
distinguished in science, literature, and art.  Here I heard discussed
opinions on these subjects by some of their leading representatives.
Naturally, as many of them were Churchmen, conversation often turned on
the bearing of modern science, of geology especially if Sedgwick were of
the party, upon Mosaic cosmogony, or Biblical exegesis generally.

The knowledge of these learned men, the lucidity with which they
expressed their views, and the earnestness with which they defended them,
captivated my attention, and opened to me a new world of surpassing
interest and gravity.

What startled me most was the spirit in which a man of Sedgwick’s
intellectual power protested against the possible encroachments of his
own branch of science upon the orthodox tenets of the Church.  Just about
this time an anonymous book appeared, which, though long since forgotten,
caused no slight disturbance amongst dogmatic theologians.  The tendency
of this book, ‘Vestiges of the Creation,’ was, or was then held to be,
antagonistic to the arguments from design.  Familiar as we now are with
the theory of evolution, such a work as the ‘Vestiges’ would no more stir
the _odium theologicum_ than Franklin’s kite.  Sedgwick, however,
attacked it with a vehemence and a rancour that would certainly have
roasted its author had the professor held the office of Grand Inquisitor.

Though incapable of forming any opinion as to the scientific merits of
such a book, or of Hugh Miller’s writings, which he also attacked upon
purely religious grounds, I was staggered by the fact that the Bible
could possibly be impeached, or that it was not profanity to defend it
even.  Was it not the ‘Word of God’?  And if so, how could any theories
of creation, any historical, any philological researches, shake its
eternal truth?

Day and night I pondered over this new revelation.  I bought the
books—the wicked books—which nobody ought to read.  The _Index
Expurgatorius_ became my guide for books to be digested.  I laid hands on
every heretical work I could hear of.  By chance I made the acquaintance
of a young man who, together with his family, were Unitarians.  I got,
and devoured, Channing’s works.  I found a splendid copy of Voltaire in
the Holkham library, and hunted through the endless volumes, till I came
to the ‘Dialogues Philosophiques.’  The world is too busy, fortunately,
to disturb its peace with such profane satire, such withering sarcasm as
flashes through an ‘entretien’ like that between ‘Frère Rigolet’ and
‘L’Empereur de la Chine.’  Every French man of letters knows it by heart;
but it would wound our English susceptibilities were I to cite it here.
Then, too, the impious paraphrase of the Athanasian Creed, with its
terrible climax, from the converting Jesuit: ‘Or vous voyez bien . . .
qu’un homme qui ne croit pas cette histoire doit être brûlé dans ce monde
ci, et dans l’autre.’  To which ‘L’Empereur’ replies: ‘Ça c’est clair
comme le jour.’

Could an ignorant youth, fevered with curiosity and the first goadings of
the questioning spirit, resist such logic, such scorn, such scathing wit,
as he met with here?

Then followed Rousseau; ‘Emile’ became my favourite.  Froude’s ‘Nemesis
of Faith’ I read, and many other books of a like tendency.  Passive
obedience, blind submission to authority, was never one of my virtues,
and once my faith was shattered, I knew not where to stop—what to doubt,
what to believe.  If the injunction to ‘prove all things’ was anything
more than an empty apophthegm, inquiry, in St. Paul’s eyes at any rate,
could not be sacrilege.

It was not happiness I sought,—not peace of mind at least; for assuredly
my thirst for knowledge, for truth, brought me anything but peace.  I
never was more restless, or, at times, more unhappy.  Shallow, indeed,
must be the soul that can lightly sever itself from beliefs which lie at
the roots of our moral, intellectual, and emotional being, sanctified too
by associations of our earliest love and reverence.  I used to wander
about the fields, and sit for hours in sequestered spots, longing for
some friend, some confidant to take counsel with.  I knew no such friend.
I did not dare to speak of my misgivings to others.  In spite of my
earnest desire for guidance, for more light, the strong grip of
childhood’s influences was impossible to shake off.  I could not rid my
conscience of the sin of doubt.

It is this difficulty, this primary dependence on others, which develops
into the child’s first religion, that perpetuates the infantile character
of human creeds; and, what is worse, generates the hideous bigotry which
justifies that sad reflection of Lucretius: ‘Tantum Religio potuit
suadere malorum!’



CHAPTER IX


TO turn again to narrative, and to far less serious thoughts.  The last
eighteen months before I went to Cambridge, I was placed, or rather
placed myself, under the tuition of Mr. Robert Collyer, rector of Warham,
a living close to Holkham in the gift of my brother Leicester.  Between
my Ely tutor and myself there was but little sympathy.  He was a man of
much refinement, but with not much indulgence for such aberrant
proclivities as mine.  Without my knowledge, he wrote to Mr. Ellice
lamenting my secret recusancy, and its moral dangers.  Mr. Ellice came
expressly from London, and stayed a night at Ely.  He dined with us in
the cloisters, and had a long private conversation with my tutor, and,
before he left, with me.  I indignantly resented the clandestine
representations of Mr. S., and, without a word to Mr. Ellice or to anyone
else, wrote next day to Mr. Collyer to beg him to take me in at Warham,
and make what he could of me, before I went to Cambridge.  It may here be
said that Mr. Collyer had been my father’s chaplain, and had lived at
Holkham for several years as family tutor to my brothers and myself, as
we in turn left the nursery.  Mr. Collyer, upon receipt of my letter,
referred the matter to Mr. Ellice; with his approval I was duly installed
at Warham.  Before describing my time there, I must tell of an incident
which came near to affecting me in a rather important way.

My mother lived at Longford in Derbyshire, an old place, now my home,
which had come into the Coke family in James I.’s reign, through the
marriage of a son of Chief Justice Coke’s with the heiress of the De
Langfords, an ancient family from that time extinct.  While staying there
during my summer holidays, my mother confided to me that she had had an
offer of marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerable estates in
Norfolk, including two houses—Beachamwell and Sandringham.  Mr.
Motteux—‘Johnny Motteux,’ as he was called—was, like Tristram Shandy’s
father, the son of a wealthy ‘Turkey merchant,’ which, until better
informed, I always took to mean a dealer in poultry.  ‘Johnny,’ like
another man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in my younger
days—Mr. Creevey—had access to many large houses such as Holkham; not,
like Creevey, for the sake of his scandalous tongue, but for the sake of
his wealth.  He had no (known) relatives; and big people, who had younger
sons to provide for, were quite willing that one of them should be his
heir.  Johnny Motteux was an epicure with the best of _chefs_.  His
capons came from Paris, his salmon from Christchurch, and his Strasburg
pies were made to order.  One of these he always brought with him as a
present to my mother, who used to say, ‘Mr. Motteux evidently thinks the
nearest way to my heart is down my throat.’

A couple of years after my father’s death, Motteux wrote to my mother
proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personal attractions, (in figure
and dress he was a duplicate of the immortal Pickwick,) stated that he
had made his will and had bequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that,
should he die without issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his
estates.

Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me with evident
signs of embarrassment and distress.  My first exclamation was: ‘How
jolly!  The shooting’s first rate, and the old boy is over seventy, if
he’s a day.’

My mother apparently did not see it in this light.  She clearly, to my
disappointments did not care for the shooting; and my exultation only
brought tears into her eyes.

‘Why, mother,’ I exclaimed, ‘what’s up?  Don’t you—don’t you care for
Johnny Motteux?’

She confessed that she did not.

‘Then why don’t you tell him so, and not bother about his beastly
letter?’

‘If I refuse him you will lose Sandringham.’

‘But he says here he has already left it to me.’

‘He will alter his will.’

‘Let him!’ cried I, flying out at such prospective meanness.  ‘Just you
tell him you don’t care a rap for him or for Sandringham either.’

In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with my advice; and, it
may be added, not long afterwards married Mr. Ellice.

Mr. Motteux’s first love, or one of them, had been Lady Cowper, then Lady
Palmerston.  Lady Palmerston’s youngest son was Mr. Spencer Cowper.  Mr.
Motteux died a year or two after the above event.  He made a codicil to
his will, and left Sandringham and all his property to Mr. Spencer
Cowper.  Mr. Spencer Cowper was a young gentleman of costly habits.
Indeed, he bore the slightly modified name of ‘Expensive Cowper.’  As an
attaché at Paris he was famous for his patronage of dramatic art—or
artistes rather; the votaries of Terpsichore were especially indebted to
his liberality.  At the time of Mr. Motteux’s demise, he was attached to
the Embassy at St. Petersburg.  Mr. Motteux’s solicitors wrote
immediately to inform him of his accession to their late client’s wealth.
It being one of Mr. Cowper’s maxims never to read lawyers’ letters, (he
was in daily receipt of more than he could attend to,) he flung this one
unread into the fire; and only learnt his mistake through the
congratulations of his family.

The Prince Consort happened about this time to be in quest of a suitable
country seat for his present Majesty; and Sandringham, through the adroit
negotiations of Lord Palmerston, became the property of the Prince of
Wales.  The soul of the ‘Turkey merchant,’ we cannot doubt, will repose
in peace.

The worthy rector of Warham St. Mary’s was an oddity deserving of passing
notice.  Outwardly he was no Adonis.  His plain features and shock head
of foxy hair, his antiquated and neglected garb, his copious jabot—much
affected by the clergy of those days—were becoming investitures of the
inward man.  His temper was inflammatory, sometimes leading to excesses,
which I am sure he rued in mental sackcloth and ashes.  But visitors at
Holkham (unaware of the excellent motives and moral courage which
inspired his conduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with
which he obeyed the dictates of his conscience.

For example, one Sunday evening after dinner, when the drawing-room was
filled with guests, who more or less preserved the decorum which
etiquette demands in the presence of royalty, (the Duke of Sussex was of
the party,) Charles Fox and Lady Anson, great-grandmother of the present
Lord Lichfield, happened to be playing at chess.  When the irascible
dominie beheld them he pushed his way through the bystanders, swept the
pieces from the board, and, with rigorous impartiality, denounced these
impious desecrators of the Sabbath eve.

As an example of his fidelity as a librarian, Mr. Panizzi used to relate
with much glee how, whenever he was at Holkham, Mr. Collyer dogged him
like a detective.  One day, not wishing to detain the reverend gentleman
while he himself spent the forenoon in the manuscript library, (where not
only the ancient manuscripts, but the most valuable of the printed books,
are kept under lock and key,) he considerately begged Mr. Collyer to
leave him to his researches.  The dominie replied ‘that he knew his duty,
and did not mean to neglect it.’  He did not lose sight of Mr. Panizzi.

The notion that he—the great custodian of the nation’s literary
treasures—would snip out and pocket the title-page of the folio edition
of Shakespeare, or of the Coverdale Bible, tickled Mr. Panizzi’s fancy
vastly.

In spite, however, of our rector’s fiery temperament, or perhaps in
consequence of it, he was remarkably susceptible to the charms of beauty.
We were constantly invited to dinner and garden parties in the
neighbourhood; nor was the good rector slow to return the compliment.  It
must be confessed that the pupil shared to the full the impressibility of
the tutor; and, as it happened, unknown to both, the two were in one case
rivals.

As the young lady afterwards occupied a very distinguished position in
Oxford society, it can only be said that she was celebrated for her many
attractions.  She was then sixteen, and the younger of her suitors but
two years older.  As far as age was concerned, nothing could be more
compatible.  Nor in the matter of mutual inclination was there any
disparity whatever.  What, then, was the pupil’s dismay when, after a
dinner party at the rectory, and the company had left, the tutor, in a
frantic state of excitement, seized the pupil by both hands, and
exclaimed: ‘She has accepted me!’

‘Accepted you?’ I asked.  ‘Who has accepted you?’

‘Who?  Why, Miss —, of course!  Who else do you suppose would accept me?’

‘No one,’ said I, with doleful sincerity.  ‘But did you propose to her?
Did she understand what you said to her?  Did she deliberately and
seriously say “Yes?”’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ and his disordered jabot and touzled hair echoed the
fatal word.

‘O Smintheus of the silver bow!’ I groaned.  ‘It is the woman’s part to
create delusions, and—destroy them!  To think of it! after all that has
passed between us these—these three weeks, next Monday!  “Once and for
ever.”  Did ever woman use such words before?  And I—believed them!’
‘Did you speak to the mother?’ I asked in a fit of desperation.

‘There was no time for that.  Mrs. — was in the carriage, and I didn’t
pop [the odious word!] till I was helping her on with her cloak.  The
cloak, you see, made it less awkward.  My offer was a sort of _obiter
dictum_—a by-the-way, as it were.’

‘To the carriage, yes.  But wasn’t she taken by surprise?’

‘Not a bit of it.  Bless you! they always know.  She pretended not to
understand, but that’s a way they have.’

‘And when you explained?’

‘There wasn’t time for more.  She laughed, and sprang into the carriage.’

‘And that was all?’

‘All! would you have had her spring into my arms?’

‘God forbid!  You will have to face the mother to-morrow,’ said I,
recovering rapidly from my despondency.

‘Face?  Well, I shall have to call upon Mrs. —, if that’s what you mean.
A mere matter of form.  I shall go over after lunch.  But it needn’t
interfere with your work.  You can go on with the “Anabasis” till I come
back.  And remember—_Neaniskos_ is not a proper name, ha! ha! ha!  The
quadratics will keep till the evening.’  He was merry over his prospects,
and I was not altogether otherwise.

But there was no Xenophon, no algebra, that day!  Dire was the distress
of my poor dominie when he found the mother as much bewildered as the
daughter was frightened, by the mistake.  ‘She,’ the daughter, ‘had never
for a moment imagined, &c., &c.’

My tutor was not long disheartened by such caprices—so he deemed them, as
Miss Jemima’s (she had a prettier name, you may be sure), and I did my
best (it cost me little now) to encourage his fondest hopes.  I proposed
that we should drink the health of the future mistress of Warham in tea,
which he cheerfully acceded to, all the more readily, that it gave him an
opportunity to vent one of his old college jokes.  ‘Yes, yes,’ said he,
with a laugh, ‘there’s nothing like tea.  _Te veniente die_, _te
decedente canebam_.’  Such sallies of innocent playfulness often smoothed
his path in life.  He took a genuine pleasure in his own jokes.  Some men
do.  One day I dropped a pot of marmalade on a new carpet, and should
certainly have been reprimanded for carelessness, had it not occurred to
him to exclaim: ‘_Jam satis terris_!’ and then laugh immoderately at his
wit.

That there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, was a
maxim he acted upon, if he never heard it. Within a month of the above
incident he proposed to another lady upon the sole grounds that, when
playing a game of chess, an exchange of pieces being contemplated, she
innocently, but incautiously, observed, ‘If you take me, I will take
you.’  He referred the matter next day to my ripe judgment.  As I had no
partiality for the lady in question, I strongly advised him to accept so
obvious a challenge, and go down on his knees to her at once.  I laid
stress on the knees, as the accepted form of declaration, both in novels
and on the stage.

In this case the beloved object, who was not embarrassed by excess of
amiability, promptly desired him, when he urged his suit, ‘not to make a
fool of himself.’

My tutor’s peculiarities, however, were not confined to his endeavours to
meet with a lady rectoress.  He sometimes surprised his hearers with the
originality of his abstruse theories.  One morning he called me into the
stable yard to join in consultation with his gardener as to the
advisability of killing a pig.  There were two, and it was not easy to
decide which was the fitter for the butcher.  The rector selected one, I
the other, and the gardener, who had nurtured both from their tenderest
age, pleaded that they should be allowed to ‘put on another score.’  The
point was warmly argued all round.

‘The black sow,’ said I (they were both sows, you must know)—‘The black
sow had a litter of ten last time, and the white one only six.  Ergo, if
history repeats itself, as I have heard you say, you should keep the
black, and sacrifice the white.’

‘But,’ objected the rector, ‘that was the white’s first litter, and the
black’s second.  Why shouldn’t the white do as well as the black next
time?’

‘And better, your reverence,’ chimed in the gardener.  ‘The number don’t
allays depend on the sow, do it?’

‘That is neither here nor there,’ returned the rector.

‘Well,’ said the gardener, who stood to his guns, ‘if your reverence is
right, as no doubt you will be, that’ll make just twenty little pigs for
the butcher, come Michaelmas.’

‘We can’t kill ’em before they are born,’ said the rector.

‘That’s true, your reverence.  But it comes to the same thing.’

‘Not to the pigs,’ retorted the rector.

‘To your reverence, I means.’

‘A pig at the butcher’s,’ I suggested, ‘is worth a dozen unborn.’

‘No one can deny it,’ said the rector, as he fingered the small change in
his breeches pocket; and pointing with the other hand to the broad back
of the black sow, exclaimed, ‘This is the one, _Duplex agitur per lumbos
spina_!  She’s got a back like an alderman’s chin.’

‘_Epicuri de grege porcus_,’ I assented, and the fate of the black sow
was sealed.

Next day an express came from Holkham, to say that Lady Leicester had
given birth to a daughter.  My tutor jumped out of his chair to hand me
the note.  ‘Did I not anticipate the event’? he cried.  ‘What a wonderful
world we live in!  Unconsciously I made room for the infant by
sacrificing the life of that pig.’  As I never heard him allude to the
doctrine of Pythagoras, as he had no leaning to Buddhism, and, as I am
sure he knew nothing of the correlation of forces, it must be admitted
that the conception was an original one.

Be this as it may, Mr. Collyer was an upright and conscientious man.  I
owe him much, and respect his memory.  He died at an advanced age, an
honorary canon, and—a bachelor.

Another portrait hangs amongst the many in my memory’s picture gallery.
It is that of his successor to the vicarage, the chaplaincy, and the
librarianship, at Holkham—Mr. Alexander Napier—at this time, and until
his death fifty years later, one of my closest and most cherished
friends.  Alexander Napier was the son of Macvey Napier, first editor of
the ‘Edinburgh Review.’  Thus, associated with many eminent men of
letters, he also did some good literary work of his own.  He edited Isaac
Barrow’s works for the University of Cambridge, also Boswell’s ‘Johnson,’
and gave various other proofs of his talents and his scholarship.  He was
the most delightful of companions; liberal-minded in the highest degree;
full of quaint humour and quick sympathy; an excellent parish
priest,—looking upon Christianity as a life and not a dogma; beloved by
all, for he had a kind thought and a kind word for every needy or sick
being in his parish.

With such qualities, the man always predominated over the priest.  Hence
his large-hearted charity and indulgence for the faults—nay, crimes—of
others.  Yet, if taken aback by an outrage, or an act of gross stupidity,
which even the perpetrator himself had to suffer for, he would
momentarily lose his patience, and rap out an objurgation that would
stagger the straiter-laced gentlemen of his own cloth, or an outsider who
knew less of him than—the recording angel.

A fellow undergraduate of Napier’s told me a characteristic anecdote of
his impetuosity.  Both were Trinity men, and had been keeping high jinks
at a supper party at Caius.  The friend suddenly pointed to the clock,
reminding Napier they had but five minutes to get into college before
Trinity gates were closed.  ‘D—n the clock!’ shouted Napier, and
snatching up the sugar basin (it was not _eau sucrée_ they were
drinking), incontinently flung it at the face of the offending timepiece.

This youthful vivacity did not desert him in later years.  An old college
friend—also a Scotchman—had become Bishop of Edinburgh.  Napier paid him
a visit (he described it to me himself).  They talked of books, they
talked of politics, they talked of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, of
Brougham, Horner, Wilson, Macaulay, Jeffrey, of Carlyle’s dealings with
Napier’s father—‘Nosey,’ as Carlyle calls him.  They chatted into the
small hours of the night, as boon companions, and as what Bacon calls
‘full’ men, are wont.  The claret, once so famous in the ‘land of cakes,’
had given place to toddy; its flow was in due measure to the flow of
soul.  But all that ends is short—the old friends had spent their last
evening together.  Yes, their last, perhaps.  It was bed-time, and quoth
Napier to his lordship, ‘I tell you what it is, Bishop, I am na fou’, but
I’ll be hanged if I haven’t got two left legs.’

‘I see something odd about them,’ says his lordship.  ‘We’d better go to
bed.’

Who the bishop was I do not know, but I’ll answer for it he was one of
the right sort.

In 1846 I became an undergraduate of Trinity College, Cambridge.  I do
not envy the man (though, of course, one ought) whose college days are
not the happiest to look back upon.  One should hope that however
profitably a young man spends his time at the University, it is but the
preparation for something better.  But happiness and utility are not
necessarily concomitant; and even when an undergraduate’s course is least
employed for its intended purpose (as, alas! mine was)—for happiness,
certainly not pure, but simple, give me life at a University.

Heaven forbid that any youth should be corrupted by my confession!  But
surely there are some pleasures pertaining to this unique epoch that are
harmless in themselves, and are certainly not to be met with at any
other.  These are the first years of comparative freedom, of manhood, of
responsibility.  The novelty, the freshness of every pleasure, the
unsatiated appetite for enjoyment, the animal vigour, the ignorance of
care, the heedlessness of, or rather, the implicit faith in, the morrow,
the absence of mistrust or suspicion, the frank surrender to generous
impulses, the readiness to accept appearances for realities—to believe in
every profession or exhibition of good will, to rush into the arms of
every friendship, to lay bare one’s tenderest secrets, to listen eagerly
to the revelations which make us all akin, to offer one’s time, one’s
energies, one’s purse, one’s heart, without a selfish afterthought—these,
I say, are the priceless pleasures, never to be repeated, of healthful
average youth.

What has after-success, honour, wealth, fame, or, power—burdened, as they
always are, with ambitions, blunders, jealousies, cares, regrets, and
failing health—to match with this enjoyment of the young, the bright, the
bygone, hour?  The wisdom of the worldly teacher—at least, the _carpe
diem_—was practised here before the injunction was ever thought of.  _Du
bist so schön_ was the unuttered invocation, while the _Verweile doch_
was deemed unneedful.

Little, I am ashamed to own, did I add either to my small classical or
mathematical attainments.  But I made friendships—lifelong friendships,
that I would not barter for the best of academical prizes.

Amongst my associates or acquaintances, two or three of whom have since
become known—were the last Lord Derby, Sir William Harcourt, the late
Lord Stanley of Alderley, Latimer Neville, late Master of Magdalen, Lord
Calthorpe, of racing fame, with whom I afterwards crossed the Rocky
Mountains, the last Lord Durham, my cousin, Sir Augustus Stephenson,
ex-solicitor to the Treasury, Julian Fane, whose lyrics were edited by
Lord Lytton, and my life-long friend Charles Barrington, private
secretary to Lord Palmerston and to Lord John Russell.

But the most intimate of them was George Cayley, son of the member for
the East Riding of Yorkshire.  Cayley was a young man of much promise.
In his second year he won the University prize poem with his ‘Balder,’
and soon after published some other poems, and a novel, which met with
merited oblivion.  But it was as a talker that he shone.  His quick
intelligence, his ready wit, his command of language, made his
conversation always lively, and sometimes brilliant.  For several years
after I left Cambridge I lived with him in his father’s house in Dean’s
Yard, and thus made the acquaintance of some celebrities whom his
fascinating and versatile talents attracted thither.  As I shall return
to this later on, I will merely mention here the names of such men as
Thackeray, Tennyson, Frederick Locker, Stirling of Keir, Tom Taylor the
dramatist, Millais, Leighton, and others of lesser note.  Cayley was a
member of, and regular attendant at, the Cosmopolitan Club; where he met
Dickens, Foster, Shirley Brooks, John Leech, Dicky Doyle, and the wits of
the day; many of whom occasionally formed part of our charming coterie in
the house I shared with his father.

Speaking of Tom Taylor reminds me of a good turn he once did me in my
college examination at Cambridge.  Whewell was then Master of Trinity.
One of the subjects I had to take up was either the ‘Amicitia’ or the
‘Senectute’ (I forget which).  Whewell, more formidable and alarming than
ever, opened the book at hazard, and set me on to construe.  I broke
down.  He turned over the page; again I stuck fast.  The truth is, I had
hardly looked at my lesson,—trusting to my recollection of parts of it to
carry me through, if lucky, with the whole.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ was the Master’s gruff inquiry.  He did not
catch it.  But Tom Taylor—also an examiner—sitting next to him, repeated
my reply, with the addition, ‘Just returned from China, where he served
as a midshipman in the late war.’  He then took the book out of Whewell’s
hands, and giving it to me closed, said good-naturedly: ‘Let us have
another try, Mr. Coke.’  The chance was not thrown away; I turned to a
part I knew, and rattled off as if my first examiner had been to blame,
not I.



CHAPTER X


BEFORE dropping the curtain on my college days I must relate a little
adventure which is amusing as an illustration of my reverend friend
Napier’s enthusiastic spontaneity.  My own share in the farce is a
subordinate matter.

During the Christmas party at Holkham I had ‘fallen in love,’ as the
phrase goes, with a young lady whose uncle (she had neither father nor
mother) had rented a place in the neighbourhood.  At the end of his visit
he invited me to shoot there the following week.  For what else had I
paid him assiduous attention, and listened like an angel to the
interminable history of his gout?  I went; and before I left, proposed
to, and was accepted by, the young lady.  I was still at Cambridge, not
of age, and had but moderate means.  As for the maiden, ‘my face is my
fortune’ she might have said.  The aunt, therefore, very properly
pooh-poohed the whole affair, and declined to entertain the possibility
of an engagement; the elderly gentleman got a bad attack of gout; and
every wire of communication being cut, not an obstacle was wanting to
render persistence the sweetest of miseries.

Napier was my confessor, and became as keen to circumvent the ‘old
she-dragon,’ so he called her, as I was.  Frequent and long were our
consultations, but they generally ended in suggestions and schemes so
preposterous, that the only result was an immoderate fit of laughter on
both sides.  At length it came to this (the proposition was not mine): we
were to hire a post chaise and drive to the inn at G—.  I was to write a
note to the young lady requesting her to meet me at some trysting place.
The note was to state that a clergyman would accompany me, who was ready
and willing to unite us there and then in holy matrimony; that I would
bring the licence in my pocket; that after the marriage we could confer
as to ways and means; and that—she could leave the _rest_ to me.

No enterprise was ever more merrily conceived, or more seriously
undertaken.  (Please to remember that my friend was not so very much
older than I; and, in other respects, was quite as juvenile.)

Whatever was to come of it, the drive was worth the venture.  The number
of possible and impossible contingencies provided for kept us occupied by
the hour.  Furnished with a well-filled luncheon basket, we regaled
ourselves and fortified our courage; while our hilarity increased as we
neared, or imagined that we neared, the climax.  Unanimously we repeated
Dr. Johnson’s exclamation in a post chaise: ‘Life has not many things
better than this.’

But where were we?  Our watches told us that we had been two hours
covering a distance of eleven miles.

‘Hi!  Hullo!  Stop!’ shouted Napier.  In those days post horses were
ridden, not driven; and about all we could see of the post boy was what
Mistress Tabitha Bramble saw of Humphrey Clinker.  ‘Where the dickens
have we got to now?’

‘Don’t know, I’m sure, sir,’ says the boy; ‘never was in these ’ere parts
afore.’

‘Why,’ shouts the vicar, after a survey of the landscape, ‘if I can see a
church by daylight, that’s Blakeney steeple; and we are only three miles
from where we started.’

Sure enough it was so.  There was nothing for it but to stop at the
nearest house, give the horses a rest and a feed, and make a fresh
start,—better informed as to our topography.

It was past four on that summer afternoon when we reached our
destination.  The plan of campaign was cut and dried.  I called for
writing materials, and indicted my epistle as agreed upon.

‘To whom are you telling her to address the answer?’ asked my accomplice.
‘We’re _incog._ you know.  It won’t do for either of us to be known.’

‘Certainly not,’ said I.  ‘What shall it be?  White? Black? Brown? or
Green?’

‘Try Browne with an E,’ said he.  ‘The E gives an aristocratic flavour.
We can’t afford to risk our respectability.’

The note sealed, I rang the bell for the landlord, desired him to send it
up to the hall and tell the messenger to wait for an answer.

As our host was leaving the room he turned round, with his hand on the
door, and said:

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Cook, would you and Mr. Napeer please to take
dinner here?  I’ve soom beatiful lamb chops, and you could have a
ducklin’ and some nice young peas to your second course.  The post-boy
says the ’osses is pretty nigh done up; but by the time—’

‘How did you know our names?’ asked my companion.

‘Law sir!  The post-boy, he told me.  But, beggin’ your pardon, Mr.
Napeer, my daughter, she lives in Holkham willage; and I’ve heard you
preach afore now.’

‘Let’s have the dinner by all means,’ said I.

‘If the Bishop sequesters my living,’ cried Napier, with solemnity, ‘I’ll
summon the landlord for defamation of character.  But time’s up.  You
must make for the boat-house, which is on the other side of the park.
I’ll go with you to the head of the lake.’

We had not gone far, when we heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.
What did we see but an open carriage, with two ladies in it, not a
hundred yards behind us.

‘The aunt! by all that’s—!’

What—  I never heard; for, before the sentence was completed, the
speaker’s long legs were scampering out of sight in the direction of a
clump of trees, I following as hard as I could go.

As the carriage drove past, my Friar Lawrence was lying in a ditch, while
I was behind an oak.  We were near enough to discern the niece, and
consequently we feared to be recognised.  The situation was neither
dignified nor romantic.  My friend was sanguine, though big ardour was
slightly damped by the ditch water.  I doubted the expediency of trying
the boat-house, but he urged the risk of her disappointment, which made
the attempt imperative.

The padre returned to the inn to dry himself, and, in due course, I
rejoined him.  He met me with the answer to my note.  ‘The boat-house,’
it declared, ‘was out of the question.  But so, of course, was the
_possibility_ of _change_.  We must put our trust in _Providence_.  Time
could make _no_ difference in _our_ case, whatever it might do with
_others_.  _She_, at any rate, could wait for YEARS.’  Upon the whole the
result was comforting—especially as the ‘years’ dispensed with the
necessity of any immediate step more desperate than dinner.  This we
enjoyed like men who had earned it; and long before I deposited my dear
friar in his cell both of us were snoring in our respective corners of
the chaise.

A word or two will complete this romantic episode.  The next long
vacation I spent in London, bent, needless to say, on a happy issue to my
engagement.  How simple, in the retrospect, is the frustration of our
hopes!  I had not been a week in town, had only danced once with my
_fiancée_, when, one day, taking a tennis lesson from the great Barre, a
forced ball grazed the frame of my racket, and broke a blood vessel in my
eye.

For five weeks I was shut up in a dark room.  It was two more before I
again met my charmer.  She did not tell me, but her man did, that their
wedding day was fixed for the 10th of the following month; and he ‘hoped
they would have the pleasure of seeing me at the breakfast!’  [I made the
following note of the fact: N.B.—A woman’s tears may cost her nothing;
but her smiles may be expensive.]

I must, however, do the young lady the justice to state that, though her
future husband was no great things as a ‘man,’ as she afterwards
discovered, he was the heir to a peerage and great wealth.  Both he and
she, like most of my collaborators in this world, have long since passed
into the other.

The fashions of bygone days have always an interest for the living: the
greater perhaps the less remote.  We like to think of our ancestors of
two or three generations off—the heroes and heroines of Jane Austen, in
their pantaloons and high-waisted, short-skirted frocks, their pigtails
and powdered hair, their sandalled shoes, and Hessian boots.  Our near
connection with them entrances our self-esteem.  Their prim manners,
their affected bows and courtesies, the ‘dear Mr. So-and-So’ of the wife
to her husband, the ‘Sir’ and ‘Madam’ of the children to their parents,
make us wonder whether their flesh and blood were ever as warm as ours;
or whether they were a race of prigs and puppets?

My memory carries me back to the remnants of these lost externals—that
which is lost was nothing more; the men and women were every whit as
human as ourselves.  My half-sisters wore turbans with birds-of-paradise
in them.  My mother wore gigot sleeves; but objected to my father’s
pigtail, so cut it off.  But my father powdered his head, and kept to his
knee-breeches to the last; so did all elderly gentlemen, when I was a
boy.  For the matter of that, I saw an old fellow with a pigtail walking
in the Park as late as 1845.  He, no doubt, was an ultra-conservative.

Fashions change so imperceptibly that it is difficult for the historian
to assign their initiatory date.  Does the young dandy of to-day want to
know when white ties came into vogue?—he knows that his great-grandfather
wore a white neckcloth, and takes it for granted, may be, that his
grandfather did so too.  Not a bit of it.  The young Englander of the
Coningsby type—the Count d’Orsays of my youth, scorned the white tie
alike of their fathers and their sons.  At dinner-parties or at balls,
they adorned themselves in satin scarfs, with a jewelled pin or chained
pair of pins stuck in them.  I well remember the rebellion—the protest
against effeminacy—which the white tie called forth amongst some of us
upon its first invasion on evening dress.  The women were in favour of
it, and, of course, carried the day; but not without a struggle.  One
night at Holkham—we were a large party, I daresay at least fifty at
dinner—the men came down in black scarfs, the women in white ‘chokers.’
To make the contest complete, these all sat on one side of the table, and
we men on the other.  The battle was not renewed; both factions
surrendered.  But the women, as usual, got their way, and—their men.

For my part I could never endure the original white neckcloth.  It was
stiffly starched, and wound twice round the neck; so I abjured it for the
rest of my days; now and then I got the credit of being a coxcomb—not for
my pains, but for my comfort.  Once, when dining at the Viceregal Lodge
at Dublin, I was ‘pulled up’ by an aide-de-camp for my unbecoming attire;
but I stuck to my colours, and was none the worse.  Another time my
offence called forth a touch of good nature on the part of a great man,
which I hardly know how to speak of without writing me down an ass.  It
was at a crowded party at Cambridge House.  (Let me plead my youth; I was
but two-and-twenty.)  Stars and garters were scarcely a distinction.
White ties were then as imperative as shoes and stockings; I was there in
a black one.  My candid friends suggested withdrawal, my relations cut me
assiduously, strangers by my side whispered at me aloud, women turned
their shoulders to me; and my only prayer was that my accursed tie would
strangle me on the spot.  One pair of sharp eyes, however, noticed my
ignominy, and their owner was moved by compassion for my sufferings.  As
I was slinking away, Lord Palmerston, with a _bonhomie_ peculiarly his
own, came up to me; and with a shake of the hand and hearty manner, asked
after my brother Leicester, and when he was going to bring me into
Parliament?—ending with a smile: ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’
That is the sort of tact that makes a party leader.  I went to bed a
proud, instead of a humiliated, man; ready, if ever I had the chance, to
vote that black was white, should he but state it was so.

Beards and moustache came into fashion after the Crimean war.  It would
have been an outrage to wear them before that time.  When I came home
from my travels across the Rocky Mountains in 1851, I was still unshaven.
Meeting my younger brother—a fashionable guardsman—in St. James’s Street,
he exclaimed, with horror and disgust at my barbarity, ‘I suppose you
mean to cut off that thing!’

Smoking, as indulged in now, was quite out of the question half a century
ago.  A man would as soon have thought of making a call in his
dressing-gown as of strolling about the West End with a cigar in his
mouth.  The first whom I ever saw smoke a cigarette at a dining-table
after dinner was the King; some forty years ago, or more perhaps.  One of
the many social benefits we owe to his present Majesty.



CHAPTER XI.


DURING my blindness I was hospitably housed in Eaten Place by Mr.
Whitbread, the head of the renowned firm.  After my recovery I had the
good fortune to meet there Lady Morgan, the once famous authoress of the
‘Wild Irish Girl.’  She still bore traces of her former comeliness, and
had probably lost little of her sparkling vivacity.  She was known to
like the company of young people, as she said they made her feel young;
so, being the youngest of the party, I had the honour of sitting next her
at dinner.  When I recall her conversation and her pleasing manners, I
can well understand the homage paid both abroad and at home to the bright
genius of the Irish actor’s daughter.

We talked a good deal about Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb.  This arose out
of my saying I had been reading ‘Glenarvon,’ in which Lady Caroline gives
Byron’s letters to herself as Glenarvon’s letters to the heroine.  Lady
Morgan had been the confidante of Lady Caroline, had seen many of Byron’s
letters, and possessed many of her friend’s—full of details of the
extraordinary intercourse which had existed between the two.

Lady Morgan evidently did not believe (in spite of Lady Caroline’s mad
passion for the poet) that the liaison ever reached the ultimate stage
contemplated by her lover.  This opinion was strengthened by Lady
Caroline’s undoubted attachment to her husband—William Lamb, afterwards
Lord Melbourne—who seems to have submitted to his wife’s vagaries with
his habitual stoicism and good humour.

Both Byron and Lady Caroline had violent tempers, and were always
quarrelling.  This led to the final rupture, when, according to my
informant, the poet’s conduct was outrageous.  He sent her some insulting
lines, which Lady Morgan quoted.  The only one I remember is:

    Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

Among other amusing anecdotes she told was one of Disraeli.  She had met
him (I forget where), soon after his first success as the youthful author
of ‘Vivian Grey.’  He was naturally made much of, but rather in the
Bohemian world than by such queens of society as Lady Holland or Lady
Jersey.  ‘And faith!’ she added, with the piquante accent which
excitement evoked, ‘he took the full shine out of his janius.  And how do
ye think he was dressed?  In a black velvet jacket and suit to match,
with a red sash round his waist, in which was stuck a dagger with a
richly jew’lled sheath and handle.’

The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I can call to mind
was Garibaldi’s costume at a huge reception at Stafford House.  The
_élite_ of society was there, in diamonds, ribbons, and stars, to meet
him.  Garibaldi’s uppermost and outermost garment was a red flannel
shirt, nothing more nor less.

The crowd jostled and swayed around him.  To get out of the way of it, I
retreated to the deserted picture gallery.  The only person there was one
who interested me more than the scarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First.
He was sauntering to and fro with his hands behind his back, looking
dingy in his black satin scarf, and dejected.  Was he envying the Italian
hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner’s shirt?  (Nine tenths of
the men, and still more of the women there, knew nothing of the wearer,
or his cause, beyond that.)  Was he thinking of similar honours which had
been lavished upon himself when _his_ star was in the zenith?  Was he
muttering to himself the usual consolation of the ‘have-beens’—_vanitas
vanitatum_?  Or what new fiction, what old love, was flitting through
that versatile and fantastic brain?  Poor Bulwer!  He had written the
best novel, the best play, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary
oration of any man of his day.  But, like another celebrated statesman
who has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and will soon be
forgotten—‘Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe de son vivant, on ne la
récolte pas en épis après sa mort.’  The ‘Masses,’ so courted by the one,
however blatant, are not the arbiters of immortal fame.

To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when my mother was
living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith used to be a constant visitor
there.  One day he called just as we were going to lunch.  He had been
very ill, and would not eat anything.  My mother suggested the wing of a
chicken.

‘My dear lady,’ said he, ‘it was only yesterday that my doctor positively
refused my request for the wing of a butterfly.’

Another time when he was making a call I came to the door before it was
opened.  When the footman answered the bell, ‘Is Lady Leicester at home?’
he asked.

‘No, sir,’ was the answer.

‘That’s a good job,’ he exclaimed, but with a heartiness that fairly took
Jeames’ breath away.

As Sydney’s face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quite sure whether
this was for the benefit of myself or of the astounded footman; or
whether it was the genuine expression of an absent mind.  He was a great
friend of my mother’s, and of Mr. Ellice’s, but his fits of abstraction
were notorious.

He himself records the fact.  ‘I knocked at a door in London, asked, “Is
Mrs. B— at home?”  “Yes, sir; pray what name shall I say?”  I looked at
the man’s face astonished.  What name? what name? aye, that is the
question.  What is my name?  I had no more idea who I was than if I had
never existed.  I did not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman.  I
felt as dull as Sternhold and Hopkins.  At last, to my great relief, it
flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.’

In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a couple of nights
with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney.  He used constantly to
come over to Holkham to watch our cricket matches.  His house was a
glorified cottage, very comfortable and prettily decorated.  The dining
and sitting-rooms were hung with the original water-colour
drawings—mostly by Stanfield, I think—which illustrated his minor works.
Trophies from all parts of the world garnished the walls.  The only
inmates beside us two were his son, a strange, but clever young man with
considerable artistic abilities, and his talented daughter, Miss
Florence, since so well known to novel readers.

Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite make him out.  Now
that I was his guest his habitual reserve disappeared, and despite his
failing health he was geniality itself.  Even this I did not fully
understand at first.  At the dinner-table his amusement seemed, I won’t
say to make a ‘butt’ of me—his banter was too good-natured for that—but
he treated me as Dr. Primrose treated his son after the
bushel-of-green-spectacles bargain.  He invented the most wonderful
stories, and told them with imperturbable sedateness.  Finding a
credulous listener in me, he drew all the more freely upon his invention.
When, however, he gravely asserted that Jonas was not the only man who
had spent three days and three nights in a whale’s belly, but that he
himself had caught a whale with a man inside it who had lived there for
more than a year on blubber, which, he declared, was better than turtle
soup, it was impossible to resist the fooling, and not forget that one
was the Moses of the extravaganza.

In the evening he proposed that his son and daughter and I should act a
charade.  Napier was the audience, and Marryat himself the orchestra—that
is, he played on his fiddle such tunes as a ship’s fiddler or piper plays
to the heaving of the anchor, or for hoisting in cargo.  Everyone was in
romping spirits, and notwithstanding the cheery Captain’s signs of
fatigue and worn looks, which he evidently strove to conceal, the evening
had all the freshness and spirit of an impromptu pleasure.

When I left, Marryat gave me his violin, with some sad words about his
not being likely to play upon it more.  Perhaps he knew better than we
how prophetically he was speaking.  Barely three weeks afterwards I
learnt that the humorous creator of ‘Midshipman Easy’ would never make us
laugh again.

In 1846 Lord John Russell succeeded Sir Robert Peel as premier.  At the
General Election, a brother of mine was the Liberal candidate for the
seat in East Norfolk.  He was returned; but was threatened with defeat
through an occurrence in which I was innocently involved.

The largest landowner in this division of the county, next to my brother
Leicester, was Lord Hastings—great-grandfather of the present lord.  On
the occasion I am referring to, he was a guest at Holkham, where a large
party was then assembled.  Leicester was particularly anxious to be civil
to his powerful neighbour; and desired the members of his family to show
him every attention.  The little lord was an exceedingly punctilious man:
as scrupulously dapper in manner as he was in dress.  Nothing could be
more courteous, more smiling, than his habitual demeanour; but his bite
was worse than his bark, and nobody knew which candidate his agents had
instructions to support in the coming contest.  It was quite on the cards
that the secret order would turn the scales.

One evening after dinner, when the ladies had left us, the men were drawn
together and settled down to their wine.  It was before the days of
cigarettes, and claret was plentifully imbibed.  I happened to be seated
next to Lord Hastings on his left; on the other side of him was Spencer
Lyttelton, uncle of our Colonial Secretary.  Spencer Lyttelton was a
notable character.  He had much of the talents and amiability of his
distinguished family; but he was eccentric, exceedingly comic, and
dangerously addicted to practical jokes.  One of these he now played upon
the spruce and vigilant little potentate whom it was our special aim to
win.

As the decanters circulated from right to left, Spencer filled himself a
bumper, and passed the bottles on.  Lord Hastings followed suit.  I,
unfortunately, was speaking to Lyttelton behind Lord Hastings’s back, and
as he turned and pushed the wine to me, the incorrigible joker, catching
sight of the handkerchief sticking out of my lord’s coat-tail, quick as
thought drew it open and emptied his full glass into the gaping pocket.
A few minutes later Lord Hastings, who took snuff, discovered what had
happened.  He held the dripping cloth up for inspection, and with perfect
urbanity deposited it on his dessert plate.

Leicester looked furious, but said nothing till we joined the ladies.  He
first spoke to Hastings, and then to me.  What passed between the two I
do not know.  To me, he said: ‘Hastings tells me it was you who poured
the claret into his pocket.  This will lose the election.  After
to-morrow, I shall want your room.’  Of course, the culprit confessed;
and my brother got the support we hoped for.  Thus it was that the
political interests of several thousands of electors depended on a glass
of wine.



CHAPTER XII


I HAD completed my second year at the University, when, in October 1848,
just as I was about to return to Cambridge after the long vacation, an
old friend—William Grey, the youngest of the ex-Prime-Minister’s
sons—called on me at my London lodgings.  He was attached to the Vienna
Embassy, where his uncle, Lord Ponsonby, was then ambassador.  Shortly
before this there had been serious insurrections both in Paris, Vienna,
and Berlin.

Many may still be living who remember how Louis Philippe fled to England;
how the infection spread over this country; how 25,000 Chartists met on
Kennington Common; how the upper and middle classes of London were
enrolled as special constables, with the future Emperor of the French
amongst them; how the promptitude of the Iron Duke saved London, at
least, from the fate of the French and Austrian capitals.

This, however, was not till the following spring.  Up to October, no
overt defiance of the Austrian Government had yet asserted itself; but
the imminence of an outbreak was the anxious thought of the hour.  The
hot heads of Germany, France, and England were more than meditating—they
were threatening, and preparing for, a European revolution.  Bloody
battles were to be fought; kings and emperors were to be dethroned and
decapitated; mobs were to take the place of parliaments; the leaders of
the ‘people’—_i.e._ the stump orators—were to rule the world; property
was to be divided and subdivided down to the shirt on a man’s—a rich
man’s—back; and every ‘po’r’ man was to have his own, and—somebody
else’s.  This was the divine law of Nature, according to the gospels of
Saint Jean Jacques and Mr. Feargus O’Connor.  We were all naked under our
clothes, which clearly proved our equality.  This was the simple, the
beautiful programme; once carried out, peace, fraternal and eternal
peace, would reign—till it ended, and the earthly Paradise would be an
accomplished fact.

I was an ultra-Radical—a younger-son Radical—in those days.  I was quite
ready to share with my elder brother; I had no prejudice in favour of my
superiors; I had often dreamed of becoming a leader of the ‘people’—a
stump orator, _i.e._—with the handsome emoluments of ministerial office.

William Grey came to say good-bye.  He was suddenly recalled in
consequence of the insurrection.  ‘It is a most critical state of
affairs,’ he said.  ‘A revolution may break out all over the Continent at
any moment.  There’s no saying where it may end.  We are on the eve of a
new epoch in the history of Europe.  I wouldn’t miss it on any account.’

‘Most interesting! most interesting!’ I exclaimed.  ‘How I wish I were
going with you!’

‘Come,’ said he, with engaging brevity.

‘How can I?  I’m just going back to Cambridge.’

‘You are of age, aren’t you?’

I nodded.

‘And your own master?  Come; you’ll never have such a chance again.’

‘When do you start?’

‘To-morrow morning early.’

‘But it is too late to get a passport.’

‘Not a bit of it.  I have to go to the Foreign Office for my despatches.
Dine with me to-night at my mother’s—nobody else—and I’ll bring your
passport in my pocket.’

‘So be it, then.  Billy Whistle [the irreverend nickname we
undergraduates gave the Master of Trinity] will rusticate me to a
certainty.  It can’t be helped.  The cause is sacred.  I’ll meet you at
Lady Grey’s to-night.’

We reached our destination at daylight on October 9.  We had already
heard, while changing carriages at Breslau station, that the revolution
had broken out at Vienna, that the rails were torn up, the Bahn-hof
burnt, the military defeated and driven from the town.  William Grey’s
official papers, aided by his fluent German, enabled us to pass the
barriers, and find our way into the city.  He went straight to the
Embassy, and sent me on to the ‘Erzherzog Carl’ in the Kärnthner Thor
Strasse, at that time the best hotel in Vienna.  It being still nearly
dark, candles were burning in every window by order of the insurgents.

The preceding day had been an eventful one.  The proletariats, headed by
the students, had sacked the arsenal, the troops having made but slight
resistance.  They then marched to the War Office and demanded the person
of the War Minister, Count Latour, who was most unpopular on account of
his known appeal to Jellachich, the Ban of Croatia, to assist, if
required, in putting down the disturbances.  Some sharp fighting here
took place.  The rioters defeated the small body of soldiers on the spot,
captured two guns, and took possession of the building.  The unfortunate
minister was found in one of the upper garrets of the palace.  The
ruffians dragged him from his place of concealment, and barbarously
murdered him.  They then flung his body from the window, and in a few
minutes it was hanging from a lamp-post above the heads of the infuriated
and yelling mob.

In 1848 the inner city of Vienna was enclosed within a broad and lofty
bastion, fosse, and glacis.  These were levelled in 1857.  As soon as the
troops were expelled, cannon were placed on the Bastei so as to command
the approaches from without.  The tunnelled gateways were built up, and
barricades erected across every principal thoroughfare.  Immediately
after these events Ferdinand I. abdicated in favour of the present
Emperor Francis Joseph, who retired with the Court to Schöbrunn.
Foreigners at once took flight, and the hotels were emptied.  The only
person left in the ‘Archduke Charles’ beside myself was Mr. Bowen,
afterwards Sir George, Governor of New Zealand, with whom I was glad to
fraternise.

These humble pages do not aspire to the dignity of History; but a few
words as to what took place are needful for the writer’s purposes.  The
garrison in Vienna had been comparatively small; and as the National
Guard had joined the students and proletariats, it was deemed advisable
by the Government to await the arrival of reinforcements under Prince
Windischgrätz, who, together with a strong body of Servians and Croats
under Jellachich, might overawe the insurgents; or, if not, recapture the
city without unnecessary bloodshed.  The rebels were buoyed up by hopes
of support from the Hungarians under Kossuth.  But in this they were
disappointed.  In less than three weeks from the day of the outbreak the
city was beleaguered.  Fighting began outside the town on the 24th.  On
the 25th the soldiers occupied the Wieden and Nussdorf suburbs.  Next day
the Gemeinderath (Municipal Council) sent a _Parlementär_ to treat with
Windischgrätz.  The terms were rejected, and the city was taken by storm
on October 30.

A few days before the bombardment, the Austrian commander gave the usual
notice to the Ambassadors to quit the town.  This they accordingly did.
Before leaving, Lord Ponsonby kindly sent his private secretary, Mr.
George Samuel, to warn me and invite me to join him at Schönbrunn.  I
politely elected to stay and take my chance.  After the attack on the
suburbs began I had reason to regret the decision.  The hotels were
entered by patrols, and all efficient waiters _kommandiere’d_ to work at
the barricades, or carry arms.  On the fourth day I settled to change
sides.  The constant banging of big guns, and rattle of musketry, with
the impossibility of getting either air or exercise without the risk of
being indefinitely deprived of both, was becoming less amusing than I had
counted on.  I was already provided with a _Passierschein_, which franked
me inside the town, and up to the insurgents’ outposts.  The difficulty
was how to cross the neutral ground and the two opposing lines.  Broad
daylight was the safest time for the purpose; the officious sentry is not
then so apt to shoot his friend.  With much stalking and dodging I made a
bolt; and, notwithstanding violent gesticulations and threats, got myself
safely seized and hurried before the nearest commanding officer.

He happened to be a general or a colonel.  He was a fierce looking, stout
old gentleman with a very red face, all the redder for his huge white
moustache and well-filled white uniform.  He began by fuming and
blustering as if about to order me to summary execution.  He spoke so
fast, it was not easy to follow him.  Probably my amateur German was as
puzzling to him.  The _Passierschein_, which I produced, was not in my
favour; unfortunately I had forgotten my Foreign Office passport.  What
further added to his suspicion was his inability to comprehend why I had
not availed myself of the notice, duly given to all foreigners, to leave
the city before active hostilities began.  How anyone, who had the
choice, could be fool enough to stay and be shelled or bayoneted, was
(from his point of view) no proof of respectability.  I assured him he
was mistaken if he thought I had a predilection for either of these
alternatives.

‘It was just because I desired to avoid both that I had sought, not
without risk, the protection I was so sure of finding at the hands of a
great and gallant soldier.’

‘Dummes Zeug! dummes Zeug!’ (stuff o’ nonsense), he puffed.  But a
peppery man’s good humour is often as near the surface as his bad.  I
detected a pleasant sparkle in his eye.

‘Pardon me, Excellenz,’ said I, ‘my presence here is the best proof of my
sincerity.’

‘That,’ said he sharply, ‘is what every rascal might plead when caught
with a rebel’s pass in his pocket.  Geleitsbriefe für Schurken sind
Steckbriefe für die Gerechtigkeit.’  (Safe-conduct passes for knaves are
writs of capias to honest men.)

I answered: ‘But an English gentleman is not a knave; and no one knows
the difference better than your Excellenz.’  The term ‘Schurken’ (knaves)
had stirred my fire; and though I made a deferential bow, I looked as
indignant as I felt.

‘Well, well,’ he said pacifically, ‘you may go about your business.  But
_sehen Sie_, young man, take my advice, don’t satisfy your curiosity at
the cost of a broken head.  Dazu gehören Kerle die eigens geschaffen
sind.’  As much as to say: ‘Leave halters to those who are born to be
hanged.’  Indeed, the old fellow looked as if he had enjoyed life too
well to appreciate parting with it gratuitously.

I had nothing with me save the clothes on my back.  When I should again
have access to the ‘Erzherzcg Carl’ was impossible to surmise.  The only
decent inn I knew of outside the walls was the ‘Golden Lámm,’ on the
suburb side of the Donau Canal, close to the Ferdinand bridge which faces
the Rothen Thurm Thor.  Here I entered, and found it occupied by a
company of Nassau _jägers_.  A barricade was thrown up across the street
leading to the bridge.  Behind it were two guns.  One end of the
barricade abutted on the ‘Golden Lámm.’  With the exception of the
soldiers, the inn seemed to be deserted; and I wanted both food and
lodging.  The upper floor was full of _jägers_.  The front windows
over-looked the Bastei.  These were now blocked with mattresses, to
protect the men from bullets.  The distance from the ramparts was not
more than 150 yards, and woe to the student or the fat grocer, in his
National Guard uniform, who showed his head above the walls.  While I was
in the attics a gun above the city gate fired at the battery below.  I
ran down a few minutes later to see the result.  One artilleryman had
been killed.  He was already laid under the gun-carriage, his head
covered with a cloak.

The storming took place a day or two afterwards.  One of the principal
points of resistance had been at the bottom of the Jägerzeile.  The
insurgents had a battery of several guns here; and the handsome houses at
the corners facing the Prater had been loop-holed and filled with
students.  I walked round the town after all was over, and was especially
impressed with the horrors I witnessed.  The beautiful houses, with their
gorgeous furniture, were a mass of smoking ruins.  Not a soul was to be
seen, not even a prowling thief.  I picked my way into one or two of them
without hindrance.  Here and there were a heap of bodies, some burnt to
cinders, some with their clothes still smouldering.  The smell of the
roasted flesh was a disgusting association for a long time to come.  But
the whole was sickening to look at, and still more so, if possible, to
reflect upon; for this was the price which so often has been, so often
will be, paid for the alluring dream of liberty, and for the pursuit of
that mischievous will-o’-the-wisp—jealous Equality.



CHAPTER XIII


VIENNA in the early part of the last century was looked upon as the
gayest capital in Europe.  Even the frightful convulsion it had passed
through only checked for a while its chronic pursuit of pleasure.  The
cynical philosopher might be tempted to contrast this not infrequent
accessory of paternal rule with the purity and contentment so fondly
expected from a democracy—or shall we say a demagoguey?  The cherished
hopes of the so-called patriots had been crushed; and many were the worse
for the struggle.  But the majority naturally subsided into their
customary vocations—beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, music, dancing, and
play-going.

The Vienna of 1848 was the Vienna described by Madame de Staël in 1810:
‘Dans ce pays, l’on traite les plaisirs comme les devoirs. . . . Vous
verrez des hommes et des femmes exécuter gravement, l’un vis-à-vis de
l’autre, les pas d’un menuet dont ils sont imposé l’amusement, . . .
comme s’il [the couple] dansait pour l’acquit de sa conscience.’

Every theatre and place of amusement was soon re-opened.  There was an
excellent opera; Strauss—the original—presided over weekly balls and
concerts.  For my part, being extremely fond of music, I worked
industriously at the violin, also at German.  My German master, Herr
Mauthner by name, was a little hump-backed Jew, who seemed to know every
man and woman (especially woman) worth knowing in Vienna.  Through him I
made the acquaintance of several families of the middle class,—amongst
them that of a veteran musician who had been Beethoven’s favourite
flute-player.  As my veneration for Beethoven was unbounded, I listened
with awe to every trifling incident relating to the great master.  I fear
the conviction left on my mind was that my idol, though transcendent
amongst musicians, was a bear amongst men.  Pride (according to his
ancient associate) was his strong point.  This he vindicated by excessive
rudeness to everyone whose social position was above his own.  Even those
that did him a good turn were suspected of patronising.  Condescension
was a prerogative confined to himself.  In this respect, to be sure,
there was nothing singular.

At the house of the old flutist we played family quartets,—he, the
father, taking the first violin part on his flute, I the second, the son
the ’cello, and his daughter the piano.  It was an atmosphere of music
that we all inhaled; and my happiness on these occasions would have been
unalloyed, had not the young lady—a damsel of six-and-forty—insisted on
poisoning me (out of compliment to my English tastes) with a bitter
decoction she was pleased to call tea.  This delicate attention, I must
say, proved an effectual souvenir till we met again—I dreaded it.

Now and then I dined at the Embassy.  One night I met there Prince Paul
Esterhazy, so distinguished by his diamonds when Austrian Ambassador at
the coronation of Queen Victoria.  He talked to me of the Holkham
sheep-shearing gatherings, at which from 200 to 300 guests sat down to
dinner every day, including crowned heads, and celebrities from both
sides of the Atlantic.  He had twice assisted at these in my father’s
time.  He also spoke of the shooting; and promised, if I would visit him
in Hungary, he would show me as good sport as had ever seen in Norfolk.
He invited Mr. Magenis—the Secretary of Legation—to accompany me.

The following week we two hired a _britzcka_, and posted to Eisenstadt.
The lordly grandeur of this last of the feudal princes manifested itself
soon after we crossed the Hungarian frontier.  The first sign of it was
the livery and badge worn by the postillions.  Posting houses, horses and
roads, were all the property of His Transparency.

Eisenstadt itself, though not his principal seat, is a large palace—three
sides of a triangle.  One wing is the residence, that opposite the
barrack, (he had his own troops,) and the connecting base part museum and
part concert-hall.  This last was sanctified by the spirit of Joseph
Haydn, for so many years Kapellmeister to the Esterhazy family.  The
conductor’s stand and his spinet remained intact.  Even the stools and
desks in the orchestra (so the Prince assured me) were ancient.  The very
dust was sacred.  Sitting alone in the dim space, one could fancy the
great little man still there, in his snuff-coloured coat and ruffles,
half buried (as on state occasions) in his ‘_allonge perücke_.’  A tap of
his magic wand starts into life his quaint old-fashioned band, and the
powder flies from their wigs.  Soft, distant, ghostly harmonies of the
Surprise Symphony float among the rafters; and now, as in a dream, we are
listening to—nay, beholding—the glorious process of Creation; till
suddenly the mighty chord is struck, and we are startled from our trance
by the burst of myriad voices echoing the command and its fulfilment,
‘Let there be light: and there was light.’

Only a family party was assembled in the house.  A Baron something, and a
Graf something—both relations,—and the son, afterwards Ambassador at St.
Petersburg during the Crimean War.  The latter was married to Lady Sarah
Villiers, who was also there.  It is amusing to think that the beautiful
daughter of the proud Lady Jersey should be looked upon by the Austrians
as somewhat of a _mésalliance_ for one of the chiefs of their nobility.
Certain it is that the young Princess was received by them, till they
knew her, with more condescension than enthusiasm.

An air of feudal magnificence pervaded the palace: spacious
reception-rooms hung with armour and trophies of the chase; numbers of
domestics in epauletted and belaced, but ill-fitting, liveries; the
prodigal supply and nationality of the comestibles—wild boar with
marmalade, venison and game of all sorts with excellent ‘Eingemachtes’
and ‘Mehlspeisen’ galore—a feast for a Gamache or a Gargantua.  But then,
all save three, remember, were Germans—and Germans!  Noteworthy was the
delicious Château Y’quem, of which the Prince declared he had a
monopoly—meaning the best, I presume.  After dinner the son, his
brother-in-law, and I, smoked our meerschaums and played pools of
_écarté_ in the young Prince’s room.  Magenis, who was much our senior,
had his rubber downstairs with the elders.

The life was pleasant enough, but there was one little medieval
peculiarity which almost made one look for retainers in goat-skins and
rushes on the floor,—there was not a bath (except the Princess’s) in the
palace!  It was with difficulty that my English servant foraged a tub
from the kitchen or the laundry.  As to other sanitary arrangements, they
were what they doubtless had been in the days of Almos and his son, the
mighty Arped.  In keeping with these venerable customs, I had a sentry at
the door of my apartments; to protect me, belike, from the ghosts of
predatory barons and marauders.

During the week we had two days’ shooting; one in the coverts, quite
equal to anything of the kind in England, the other at wild boar.  For
the latter, a tract of the Carpathian Mountains had been driven for some
days before into a wood of about a hundred acres.  At certain points
there were sheltered stands, raised four or five feet from the ground, so
that the sportsmen had a commanding view of the broad alley or clearing
in front of him, across which the stags or boar were driven by an army of
beaters.

I had my own double-barrelled rifle; but besides this, a man with a rack
on his back bearing three rifles of the prince’s, a loader, and a
_Förster_, with a hunting knife or short sword to despatch the wounded
quarry.  Out of the first rush of pigs that went by I knocked over two;
and, in my keenness, jumped out of the stand with the _Förster_ who ran
to finish them off.  I was immediately collared and brought back; and as
far as I could make out, was taken for a lunatic, or at least for a
‘duffer,’ for my rash attempt to approach unarmed a wounded tusker.  When
we all met at the end of the day, the bag of the five guns was forty-five
wild boars.  The biggest—and he was a monster—fell to the rifle of the
Prince, as was of course intended.

The old man took me home in his carriage.  It was a beautiful drive.
One’s idea of an English park—even such a park as Windsor’s—dwindled into
that of a pleasure ground, when compared with the boundless territory we
drove through.  To be sure, it was no more a park than is the New Forest;
but it had all the character of the best English scenery—miles of fine
turf, dotted with clumps of splendid trees, and gigantic oaks standing
alone in their majesty.  Now and then a herd of red deer were startled in
some sequestered glade; but no cattle, no sheep, no sign of domestic
care.  Struck with the charm of this primeval wilderness, I made some
remark about the richness of the pasture, and wondered there were no
sheep to be seen.  ‘There,’ said the old man, with a touch of pride, as
he pointed to the blue range of the Carpathians; ‘that is my farm.  I
will tell you.  All the celebrities of the day who were interested in
farming used to meet at Holkham for what was called the sheep-shearing.
I once told your father I had more shepherds on my farm than there were
sheep on his.’



CHAPTER XIV


IT WAS with a sorry heart that I bade farewell to my Vienna friends, my
musical comrades, the Legation hospitalities, and my faithful little
Israelite.  But the colt frisks over the pasture from sheer superfluity
of energy; and between one’s second and third decades instinctive
restlessness—spontaneous movement—is the law of one’s being.  ’Tis then
that ‘Hope builds as fast as knowledge can destroy.’  The enjoyment we
abandon is never so sweet as that we seek.  ‘Pleasure never is at home.’
Happiness means action for its own sake, change, incessant change.

I sought and found it in Bavaria, Bohemia, Russia, all over Germany, and
dropped anchor one day in Cracow; a week afterwards in Warsaw.  These
were out-of-the-way places then; there were no tourists in those days; I
did not meet a single compatriot either in the Polish or Russian town.

At Warsaw I had an adventure not unlike that which befell me at Vienna.
The whole of Europe, remember, was in a state of political ferment.
Poland was at least as ready to rise against its oppressor then as now;
and the police was proportionately strict and arbitrary.  An army corps
was encamped on the right bank of the Vistula, ready for expected
emergencies.  Under these circumstances, passports, as may be supposed,
were carefully inspected; except in those of British subjects, the person
of the bearer was described—his height, the colour of his hair (if he had
any), or any mark that distinguished him.

In my passport, after my name, was added ‘_et son domestique_.’  The
inspector who examined it at the frontier pointed to this, and, in
indifferent German, asked me where that individual was.  I replied that I
had sent him with my baggage to Dresden, to await my arrival there.  A
consultation thereupon took place with another official, in a language I
did not understand; and to my dismay I was informed that I was—in
custody.  The small portmanteau I had with me, together with my
despatch-box, was seized; the latter contained a quantity of letters and
my journal.  Money only was I permitted to retain.

Quite by the way, but adding greatly to my discomfort, was the fact that
since leaving Prague, where I had relinquished everything I could
dispense with, I had had much night travelling amongst native passengers,
who so valued cleanliness that they economised it with religious care.
By the time I reached Warsaw, I may say, without metonymy, that I was
itching (all over) for a bath and a change of linen.  My irritation,
indeed, was at its height.  But there was no appeal; and on my arrival I
was haled before the authorities.

Again, their head was a general officer, though not the least like my
portly friend at Vienna.  His business was to sit in judgment upon
delinquents such as I.  He was a spare, austere man, surrounded by a
sharp-looking aide-de-camp, several clerks in uniform, and two or three
men in mufti, whom I took to be detectives.  The inspector who arrested
me was present with my open despatch-box and journal.  The journal he
handed to the aide, who began at once to look it through while his chief
was disposing of another case.

To be suspected and dragged before this tribunal was, for the time being
(as I afterwards learnt) almost tantamount to condemnation.  As soon as
the General had sentenced my predecessor, I was accosted as a
self-convicted criminal.  Fortunately he spoke French like a Frenchman;
and, as it presently appeared, a few words of English.

‘What country do you belong to?’ he asked, as if the question was but a
matter of form, put for decency’s sake—a mere prelude to committal.

‘England, of course; you can see that by my passport.’  I was determined
to fence him with his own weapons.  Indeed, in those innocent days of my
youth, I enjoyed a genuine British contempt for foreigners—in the
lump—which, after all, is about as impartial a sentiment as its converse,
that one’s own country is always in the wrong.

‘Where did you get it?’ (with a face of stone).

_Prisoner_ (_naïvely_): ‘Where did I get it?  I do not follow you.’
(Don’t forget, please, that said prisoner’s apparel was unvaleted, his
hands unwashed, his linen unchanged, his hair unkempt, and his face
unshaven).

_General_ (stonily): ‘“Where did you get it?” was my question.’

_Prisoner_ (quietly): ‘From Lord Palmerston.’

_General_ (glancing at that Minister’s signature): ‘It says here, “et son
domestique”—you have no domestique.’

_Prisoner_ (calmly): ‘Pardon me, I have a domestic.’

_General_ (with severity), ‘Where is he?’

_Prisoner_: ‘At Dresden by this time, I hope.’

_General_ (receiving journal from aide-de-camp, who points to a certain
page): ‘You state here you were caught by the Austrians in a pretended
escape from the Viennese insurgents; and add, “They evidently took me for
a spy” [returning journal to aide].  What is your explanation of this?’

_Prisoner_ (shrugging shoulders disdainfully): ‘In the first place, the
word “pretended” is not in my journal.  In the second, although of course
it does not follow, if one takes another person for a man of sagacity or
a gentleman—it does not follow that he is either—still, when—’

_General_ (with signs of impatience): ‘I have here a _Passierschein_,
found amongst your papers and signed by the rebels.  They would not have
given you this, had you not been on friendly terms with them.  You will
be detained until I have further particulars.’

_Prisoner_ (angrily): ‘I will assist you, through Her Britannic Majesty’s
Consul, with whom I claim the right to communicate.  I beg to inform you
that I am neither a spy nor a socialist, but the son of an English peer’
(heaven help the relevancy!).  ‘An Englishman has yet to learn that Lord
Palmerston’s signature is to be set at naught and treated with
contumacy.’

The General beckoned to the inspector to put an end to the proceedings.
But the aide, who had been studying the journal, again placed it in his
chief’s hands.  A colloquy ensued, in which I overheard the name of Lord
Ponsonby.  The enemy seemed to waver, so I charged with a renewed request
to see the English Consul.  A pause; then some remarks in Russian from
the aide; then the _General_ (in suaver tones): ‘The English Consul, I
find, is absent on a month’s leave.  If what you state is true, you acted
unadvisedly in not having your passport altered and _revisé_ when you
parted with your servant.  How long do you wish to remain here?’

Said I, ‘Vous avez bien raison, Monsieur.  Je suis évidemment dans mon
tort.  Ma visite à Varsovie était une aberration.  As to my stay, je suis
déjà tout ce qu’il y a de plus ennuyé.  I have seen enough of Warsaw to
last for the rest of my days.’

Eventually my portmanteau and despatch-box were restored to me; and I
took up my quarters in the filthiest inn (there was no better, I believe)
that it was ever my misfortune to lodge at.  It was ancient, dark, dirty,
and dismal.  My sitting-room (I had a cupboard besides to sleep in) had
but one window, looking into a gloomy courtyard.  The furniture consisted
of two wooden chairs and a spavined horsehair sofa.  The ceiling was low
and lamp-blacked; the stained paper fell in strips from the sweating
walls; fortunately there was no carpet; but if anything could have added
to the occupier’s depression it was the sight of his own distorted
features in a shattered glass, which seemed to watch him like a detective
and take notes of his movements—a real Russian mirror.

But the resources of one-and-twenty are not easily daunted, even by the
presence of the _cimex lectularius_ or the _pulex irritans_.  I inquired
for a _laquais de place_,—some human being to consort with was the most
pressing of immediate wants.  As luck would have it, the very article was
in the dreary courtyard, lurking spider-like for the innocent traveller
just arrived.  Elective affinity brought us at once to friendly
intercourse.  He was of the Hebrew race, as the larger half of the Warsaw
population still are.  He was a typical Jew (all Jews are typical),
though all are not so thin as was Beninsky.  His eyes were sunk in
sockets deepened by the sharpness of his bird-of-prey beak; a single
corkscrew ringlet dropped tearfully down each cheek; and his one front
tooth seemed sometimes in his upper, sometimes in his lower jaw.  His
skull-cap and his gabardine might have been heirlooms from the Patriarch
Jacob; and his poor hands seemed made for clawing.  But there was a
humble and contrite spirit in his sad eyes.  The history of his race was
written in them; but it was modern history that one read in their
hopeless and appealing look.

His cringing manner and his soft voice (we conversed in German) touched
my heart.  I have always had a liking for the Jews.  Who shall reckon how
much some of us owe them!  They have always interested me as a peculiar
people—admitting sometimes, as in poor Beninsky’s case, of purifying, no
doubt; yet, if occasionally zealous (and who is not?) of interested
works—cent. per cent. works, often—yes, more often than we
Christians—zealous of good works, of open-handed, large-hearted
munificence, of charity in its democratic and noblest sense.  Shame upon
the nations which despise and persecute them for faults which they, the
persecutors, have begotten!  Shame on those who have extorted both their
money and their teeth!  I think if I were a Jew I should chuckle to see
my shekels furnish all the wars in which Christians cut one another’s
Christian weasands.

And who has not a tenderness for the ‘beautiful and well-favoured’
Rachels, and the ‘tender-eyed’ Leahs, and the tricksy little Zilpahs, and
the Rebekahs, from the wife of Isaac of Gerar to the daughter of Isaac of
York?  Who would not love to sit with Jessica where moonlight sleeps, and
watch the patines of bright gold reflected in her heavenly orbs?  I once
knew a Jessica, a Polish Jessica, who—but that was in Vienna, more than
half a century ago.

Beninsky’s orbs brightened visibly when I bade him break his fast at my
high tea.  I ordered everything they had in the house I think,—a cold
Pomeranian _Gänsebrust_, a garlicky _Wurst_, and _geräucherte Lachs_.  I
had a packet of my own Fortnum and Mason’s Souchong; and when the stove
gave out its glow, and the samovar its music, Beninsky’s gratitude and
his hunger passed the limits of restraint.  Late into the night we smoked
our meerschaums.

When I spoke of the Russians, he got up nervously to see the door was
shut, and whispered with bated breath.  What a relief it was to him to
meet a man to whom he could pour out his griefs, his double griefs, as
Pole and Israelite.  Before we parted I made him put the remains of the
sausage (!) and the goose-breast under his petticoats.  I bade him come
to me in the morning and show me all that was worth seeing in Warsaw.
When he left, with tears in his eyes, I was consoled to think that for
one night at any rate he and his _Gänsebrust_ and sausage would rest
peacefully in Abraham’s bosom.  What Abraham would say to the sausage I
did not ask; nor perhaps did my poor Beninsky.



CHAPTER XV


THE remainder of the year ’49 has left me nothing to tell.  For me, it
was the inane life of that draff of Society—the young man-about-town: the
tailor’s, the haberdasher’s, the bootmaker’s, and trinket-maker’s, young
man; the dancing and ‘hell’-frequenting young man; the young man of the
‘Cider Cellars’ and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, the
park-lounger, the young lady’s young man—who puts his hat into mourning,
and turns up his trousers because—because the other young man does ditto,
ditto.

I had a share in the Guards’ omnibus box at Covent Garden, with the
privilege attached of going behind the scenes.  Ah! that was a real
pleasure.  To listen night after night to Grisi and Mario, Alboni and
Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi, Persiani and Tamburini,—and Jenny Lind
too, though she was at the other house.  And what an orchestra was
Costa’s—with Sainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who together
but alone, accompanied the _recitative_ with their harmonious chords on
’cello and double-bass.  Is singing a lost art?  Or is that but a
_temporis acti_ question?  We who heard those now silent voices fancy
there are none to match them nowadays.  Certainly there are no dancers
like Taglioni, and Cerito, and Fanny Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.

After the opera and the ball, one finished the night at Vauxhall or
Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, as they were when Miss Becky
Sharpe and fat Jos supped there only five-and-thirty years before.

Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall, one rarely
heard good music.  Monsieur Jullien, that prince of musical
mountebanks—the ‘Prince of Waterloo,’ as John Ella called him, was the
first to popularise classical music at his promenade concerts, by
tentatively introducing a single movement of a symphony here and there in
the programme of his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.

Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Union and quartett
parties at Willis’s Rooms, where Sainton and Cooper led alternately, and
the incomparable Piatti and Hill made up the four.  Here Ernst, Sivori,
Vieuxtemps, and Bottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella
Goddard, and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.

Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella’s energy and enthusiasm.  As a
proof of what he had to contend with, and what he triumphed over, Hallé’s
‘Life’ may be quoted, where it says: ‘When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in
1848] what I wished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven’s
pianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed “Impossible!” and endeavoured to
demonstrate that they were not works to be played in public.’  What
seven-league boots the world has stridden in within the memory of living
men!

John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa’s band, and had begun
life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook.  I knew both him and the
wonderful little Frenchman ‘at home.’  According to both, in their
different ways, Beethoven and Mozart would have been lost to fame but for
their heroic efforts to save them.

I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a lady who gave
musical parties.  He was always attuned to the highest pitch,—most
good-natured, but most excitable where music was to the fore.  We were
rehearsing a quintett, the pianoforte part of which was played by the
young lady of the house—a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, but
nervous to the point of hysteria.  Ella himself was in a hypercritical
state; nothing would go smoothly; and the piano was always (according to
him) the peccant instrument.  Again and again he made us restart the
movement.  There were a good many friends of the family invited to this
last rehearsal, which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously
on the brink of a breakdown.  Presently Ella again jumped off his chair,
and shouted: ‘Not E flat!  There’s no E flat there; E natural!  E
natural!  I never in my life knew a young lady so prolific of flats as
you.’  There was a pause, then a giggle, then an explosion; and then the
poor girl, bursting into tears, rushed out of the room.

It was at Ella’s house that I first heard Joachim, then about sixteen, I
suppose.  He had not yet performed in London.  All the musical
celebrities were present to hear the youthful prodigy.  Two quartetts
were played, Ernst leading one and Joachim the other.  After it was over,
everyone was enraptured, but no one more so than Ernst, who
unhesitatingly predicted the fame which the great artist has so eminently
achieved.

One more amusing little story belongs to my experiences of these days.
Having two brothers and a brother-in-law in the Guards, I used to dine
often at the Tower, or the Bank, or St. James’s.  At the Bank of England
there is always at night an officer’s guard.  There is no mess, as the
officer is alone.  But the Bank provides dinner for two, in case the
officer should invite a friend.  On the occasion I speak of, my
brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Macdonald, was on duty.  The soup and fish
were excellent, but we were young and hungry, and the usual leg of mutton
was always a dish to be looked forward to.

When its cover was removed by the waiter we looked in vain; there was
plenty of gravy, but no mutton.  Our surprise was even greater than our
dismay, for the waiter swore ‘So ’elp his gawd’ that he saw the cook put
the leg on the dish, and that he himself put the cover on the leg.  ‘And
what did you do with it then?’ questioned my host.  ‘Nothing,
S’Archibald.  Brought it straight in ’ere.’  ‘Do you mean to tell me it
was never out of your hands between this and the kitchen?’  ‘Never, but
for the moment I put it down outside the door to change the plates.’
‘And was there nobody in the passage?’  ‘Not a soul, except the sentry.’
‘I see,’ said my host, who was a quick-witted man.  ‘Send the sergeant
here.’  The sergeant came.  The facts were related, and the order given
to parade the entire guard, sentry included, in the passage.

The sentry was interrogated first.  ‘No, he had not seen nobody in the
passage.’  ‘No one had touched the dish?’  ‘Nobody as ever he seed.’
Then came the orders: ‘Attention.  Ground arms.  Take off your
bear-skins.’  And the truth—_i.e._, the missing leg—was at once revealed;
the sentry had popped it into his shako.  For long after that day, when
the guard either for the Tower or Bank marched through the streets, the
little blackguard boys used to run beside it and cry, ‘Who stole the leg
o’ mutton?’



CHAPTER XVI


PROBABLY the most important historical event of the year ’49 was the
discovery of gold in California, or rather, the great Western Exodus in
pursuit of it.  A restless desire possessed me to see something of
America, especially of the Far West.  I had an hereditary love of sport,
and had read and heard wonderful tales of bison, and grisly bears, and
wapitis.  No books had so fascinated me, when a boy, as the
‘Deer-slayer,’ the ‘Pathfinder,’ and the beloved ‘Last of the Mohicans.’
Here then was a new field for adventure.  I would go to California, and
hunt my way across the continent.  Ruxton’s ‘Life in the Far West’
inspired a belief in self-reliance and independence only rivalled by
Robinson Crusoe.  If I could not find a companion, I would go alone.
Little did I dream of the fortune which was in store for me, or how
nearly I missed carrying out the scheme so wildly contemplated, or
indeed, any scheme at all.

The only friend I could meet with both willing and able to join me was
the last Lord Durham.  He could not undertake to go to California; but he
had been to New York during his father’s reign in Canada, and liked the
idea of revisiting the States.  He proposed that we should spend the
winter in the West Indies, and after some buffalo-shooting on the plains,
return to England in the autumn.

The notion of the West Indies gave rise to an off-shoot.  Both Durham and
I were members of the old Garrick, then but a small club in Covent
Garden.  Amongst our mutual friends was Andrew Arcedeckne—pronounced
Archdeacon—a character to whom attaches a peculiar literary interest, of
which anon.  Arcedeckne—Archy, as he was commonly called—was about a
couple of years older than we were.  He was the owner of Glevering Hall,
Suffolk, and nephew of Lord Huntingfield.  These particulars, as well as
those of his person, are note-worthy, as it will soon appear.

Archy—‘Merry Andrew,’ as I used to call him,—owned one of the finest
estates in Jamaica—Golden Grove.  When he heard of our intended trip, he
at once volunteered to go with us.  He had never seen Golden Grove, but
had often wished to visit it.  Thus it came to pass that we three secured
our cabins in one of the West India mailers, and left England in December
1849.

To return to our little Suffolk squire.  The description of his figure,
as before said, is all-important, though the world is familiar with it,
as drawn by the pencil of a master caricaturist.  Arcedeckne was about
five feet three inches, round as a cask, with a small singularly round
face and head, closely cropped hair, and large soft eyes,—in a word, so
like a seal, that he was as often called ‘Phoca’ as Archy.

Do you recognise the portrait?  Do you need the help of ‘Glevering Hall’
(how curious the suggestion!).  And would you not like to hear him talk?
Here is a specimen in his best manner.  Surely it must have been taken
down by a shorthand writer, or a phonograph:

_Mr. Harry Foker loquitur_: ‘He inquired for Rincer and the cold in his
nose, told Mrs. Rincer a riddle, asked Miss Rincer when she would be
prepared to marry him, and paid his compliments to Miss Brett, another
young lady in the bar, all in a minute of time, and with a liveliness and
facetiousness which set all these young ladies in a giggle.  “Have a
drop, Pen: it’s recommended by the faculty, &c.  Give the young one a
glass, R., and score it up to yours truly.”’

I fancy the great man who recorded these words was more afraid of Mr.
Harry _Phoca_ than of any other man in the Garrick Club—possibly for the
reason that honest Harry was not the least bit afraid of him.  The shy,
the proud, the sensitive satirist would steal quietly into the room,
avoiding notice as though he wished himself invisible.  Phoca would be
warming his back at the fire, and calling for a glass of ‘Foker’s own.’
Seeing the giant enter, he would advance a step or two, with a couple of
extended fingers, and exclaim, quite affably, ‘Ha! Mr. Thackry! litary
cove!  Glad to see you, sir.  How’s Major Dobbings?’ and likely enough
would turn to the waiter, and bid him, ‘Give this gent a glass of the
same, and score it up to yours truly!’  We have his biographer’s word for
it, that he would have winked at the Duke of Wellington, with just as
little scruple.

Yes, Andrew Arcedeckne was the original of Harry Foker; and, from the cut
of his clothes to his family connection, and to the comicality, the
simplicity, the sweetness of temper (though hardly doing justice to the
loveableness of the little man), the famous caricature fits him to a T.

The night before we left London we had a convivial dinner at the
Garrick—we three travellers, with Albert Smith, his brother, and John
Leech.  It was a merry party, to which all contributed good fellowship
and innocent jokes.  The latest arrival at the Zoo was the first
hippopotamus that had reached England,—a present from the Khedive.
Someone wondered how it had been caught.  I suggested a trout-fly; which
so tickled John Leech’s fancy that he promised to draw it for next week’s
‘Punch.’  Albert Smith went with us to Southampton to see us off.

On our way to Jamaica we stopped a night at Barbadoes to coal.  Here I
had the honour of making the acquaintance of the renowned Caroline
Lee!—Miss Car’line, as the negroes called her.  She was so pleased at the
assurance that her friend Mr. Peter Simple had spread her fame all the
world over, that she made us a bowl of the most delicious iced sangaree;
and speedily got up a ‘dignity ball’ for our entertainment.  She was
rather too much of an armful to dance with herself, but there was no lack
of dark beauties, (not a white woman or white man except ourselves in the
room.)  We danced pretty nearly from daylight to daylight.  The blending
of rigid propriety, of the severest ‘dignity,’ with the sudden guffaw and
outburst of wildest spirits and comic humour, is beyond description, and
is only to be met with amongst these ebullient children of the sun.

On our arrival at Golden Grove, there was a great turn-out of the natives
to welcome their young lord and ‘massa.’  Archy was touched and amused by
their frantic loyalty.  But their mode of exhibiting it was not so
entirely to his taste.  Not only the young, but the old women wanted to
hug him.  ‘Eigh!  Dat you, Massa?  Dat you, sar? Me no believe him.  Out
o’ de way, you trash!  Eigh! me too much pleased like devil.’  The one
constant and spontaneous ejaculation was, ‘Yah! Massa too muchy handsome!
Garamighty!  Buckra berry fat!’  The latter attribute was the source of
genuine admiration; but the object of it hardly appreciated its
recognition, and waved off his subjects with a mixture of impatience and
alarm.

We had scarcely been a week at Golden Grove, when my two companions and
Durham’s servant were down with yellow fever.  Being ‘salted,’ perhaps, I
escaped scot-free, so helped Archy’s valet and Mr. Forbes, his factor, to
nurse and to carry out professional orders.  As we were thirty miles from
Kingston the doctor could only come every other day.  The responsibility,
therefore, of attending three patients smitten with so deadly a disease
was no light matter.  The factor seemed to think discretion the better
part of valour, and that Jamaica rum was the best specific for keeping
his up.  All physicians were _Sangrados_ in those days, and when the
Kingston doctor decided upon bleeding, the hysterical state of the darky
girls (we had no men in the bungalow except Durham’s and Archy’s
servants) rendered them worse than useless.  It fell to me, therefore, to
hold the basin while Archy’s man was attending to his master.

Durham, who had nerves of steel, bore his lot with the grim stoicism
which marked his character.  But at one time the doctor considered his
state so serious that he thought his lordship’s family should be informed
of it.  Accordingly I wrote to the last Lord Grey, his uncle and
guardian, stating that there was little hope of his recovery.  Poor Phoca
was at once tragic and comic.  His medicine had to be administered every,
two hours.  Each time, he begged and prayed in lacrymose tones to be let
off.  It was doing him no good.  He might as well be allowed to die in
peace.  If we would only spare him the beastliness this once, on his
honour he would take it next time ‘like a man.’  We were inexorable, of
course, and treated him exactly as one treats a child.

At last the crisis was over.  Wonderful to relate, all three began to
recover.  During their convalescence, I amused myself by shooting
alligators in the mangrove swamps at Holland Bay, which was within half
an hour’s ride of the bungalow.  It was curious sport.  The great
saurians would lie motionless in the pools amidst the snake-like tangle
of mangrove roots.  They would float with just their eyes and noses out
of water, but so still that, without a glass, (which I had not,) it was
difficult to distinguish their heads from the countless roots and rotten
logs around them.  If one fired by mistake, the sport was spoiled for an
hour to come.

I used to sit watching patiently for one of them to show itself, or for
something to disturb the glassy surface of the dark waters.  Overhead the
foliage was so dense that the heat was not oppressive.  All Nature seemed
asleep.  The deathlike stillness was rarely broken by the faintest
sound,—though unseen life, amidst the heat and moisture, was teeming
everywhere; life feeding upon life.  For what purpose?  To what end?  Is
this a primary law of Nature?  Does cannibalism prevail in Mars?
Sometimes a mocking-bird would pipe its weird notes, deepening silence by
the contrast.  But besides pestilent mosquitos, the only living things in
sight were humming-birds of every hue, some no bigger than a butterfly,
fluttering over the blossoms of the orchids, or darting from flower to
flower like flashes of prismatic rays.

I killed several alligators; but one day, while stalking what seemed to
be an unusual monster, narrowly escaped an accident.  Under the
excitement, my eye was so intently fixed upon the object, that I rather
felt than saw my way.  Presently over I went, just managed to save my
rifle, and, to my amazement, found I had set my foot on a sleeping
reptile.  Fortunately the brute was as much astonished as I was, and
plunged with a splash into the adjacent pool.

A Cambridge friend, Mr. Walter Shirley, owned an estate at Trelawny, on
the other side of Jamaica; while the invalids were recovering, I paid him
a visit; and was initiated into the mysteries of cane-growing and
sugar-making.  As the great split between the Northern and Southern
States on the question of slavery was pending, the life, condition, and
treatment of the negro was of the greatest interest.  Mr. Shirley was a
gentleman of exceptional ability, and full of valuable information on
these subjects.  He passed me on to other plantations; and I made the
complete round of the island before returning to my comrades at Golden
Grove.  A few weeks afterwards I stayed with a Spanish gentleman, the
Marquis d’Iznaga, who owned six large sugar plantations in Cuba; and rode
with his son from Casilda to Cienfuegos, from which port I got a steamer
to the Havana.  The ride afforded abundant opportunities of comparing the
slave with the free negro.  But, as I have written on the subject
elsewhere, I will pass to matters more entertaining.



CHAPTER XVII


ON my arrival at the Havana I found that Durham, who was still an
invalid, had taken up his quarters at Mr. Crauford’s, the Consul-General.
Phoca, who was nearly well again, was at the hotel, the only one in the
town.  And who should I meet there but my old Cambridge ally, Fred, the
last Lord Calthorpe.  This event was a fruitful one,—it determined the
plans of both of us for a year or more to come.

Fred—as I shall henceforth call him—had just returned from a hunting
expedition in Texas, with another sportsman whom he had accidentally met
there.  This gentleman ultimately became of even more importance to me
than my old friend.  I purposely abstain from giving either his name or
his profession, for reasons which will become obvious enough by-and-by;
the outward man may be described.  He stood well over six feet in his
socks; his frame and limbs were those of a gladiator; he could crush a
horseshoe in one hand; he had a small head with a bull-neck, purely
Grecian features, thick curly hair with crisp beard and silky moustache.
He so closely resembled a marble Hercules that (as he must have a name)
we will call him Samson.

Before Fred stumbled upon him, he had spent a winter camping out in the
snows of Canada, bear and elk shooting.  He was six years or so older
than either of us—_i.e._ about eight-and-twenty.

As to Fred Calthorpe, it would be difficult to find a more ‘manly’ man.
He was unacquainted with fear.  Yet his courage, though sometimes
reckless, was by no means of the brute kind.  He did not run risks unless
he thought the gain would compensate them; and no one was more capable of
weighing consequences than he.  His temper was admirable, his spirits
excellent; and for any enterprise where danger and hardship were to be
encountered few men could have been better qualified.  By the end of a
week these two had agreed to accompany me across the Rocky Mountains.

Before leaving the Havana, I witnessed an event which, though disgusting
in itself, gives rise to serious reflections.  Every thoughtful reader is
conversant enough with them; if, therefore, he should find them out of
place or trite, apology is needless, as he will pass them by without the
asking.

The circumstance referred to is a public execution.  Mr. Sydney Smith,
the vice-consul, informed me that a criminal was to be garrotted on the
following morning; and asked me whether I cared to look over the prison
and see the man in his cell that afternoon.  We went together.  The poor
wretch bore the stamp of innate brutality.  His crime was the most
revolting that a human being is capable of—the violation and murder of a
mere child.  When we were first admitted he was sullen, merely glaring at
us; but, hearing the warder describe his crime, he became furiously
abusive, and worked himself into such a passion that, had he not been
chained to the wall, he would certainly have attacked us.

At half-past six next morning I went with Mr. Smith to the Campo del
Marte, the principal square.  The crowd had already assembled, and the
tops of the houses were thronged with spectators.  The women, dressed as
if for a bull-fight or a ball, occupied the front seats.  By squeezing
and pushing we contrived to get within eight or nine yards of the
machine, where I had not long been before the procession was seen moving
up the Passeo.  A few mounted troops were in front to clear the road;
behind them came the Host, with a number of priests and the prisoner on
foot, dressed in white; a large guard brought up the rear.  The soldiers
formed an open square.  The executioner, the culprit, and one priest
ascended the steps of the platform.

The garrotte is a short stout post, at the top of which is an iron crook,
just wide enough to admit the neck of a man seated in a chair beneath it.
Through the post, parallel with the crook, is the loop of a rope, whose
ends are fastened to a bar held by the executioner.  The loop, being
round the throat of the victim, is so powerfully tightened from behind by
half a turn of the bar, that an extra twist would sever a man’s head from
his body.

The murderer showed no signs of fear; he quietly seated himself, but got
up again to adjust the chair and make himself comfortable!  The
executioner then arranged the rope round his neck, tied his legs and his
arms, and retired behind the post.  At a word or a look from the priest
the wrench was turned.  For a single instant the limbs of the victim were
convulsed, and all was over.

No exclamation, no whisper of horror escaped from the lookers on.  Such a
scene was too familiar to excite any feeling but morbid curiosity; and,
had the execution taken place at the usual spot instead of in the town,
few would have given themselves the trouble to attend it.

It is impossible to see or even to think of what is here described
without gravely meditating on its suggestions.  Is capital punishment
justifiable?  This is the question I purpose to consider in the following
chapter.



CHAPTER XVIII


ALL punishments or penal remedies for crime, except capital punishment,
may be considered from two points of view: First, as they regard Society;
secondly, as they regard the offender.

Where capital punishment is resorted to, the sole end in view is the
protection of Society.  The malefactor being put to death, there can be
no thought of his amendment.  And so far as this particular criminal is
concerned, Society is henceforth in safety.

But (looking to the individual), as equal security could be obtained by
his imprisonment for life, the extreme measure of putting him to death
needs justification.  This is found in the assumption that death being
the severest of all punishments now permissible, no other penalty is so
efficacious in preventing the crime or crimes for which it is inflicted.
Is the assumption borne out by facts, or by inference?

For facts we naturally turn to statistics.  Switzerland abolished capital
punishment in 1874; but cases of premeditated murder having largely
increased during the next five years, it was restored by Federal
legislation in 1879.  Still there is nothing conclusive to be inferred
from this fact.  We must seek for guidance elsewhere.

Reverting to the above assumption, we must ask: First, Is the death
punishment the severest of all evils, and to what extent does the fear of
it act as a preventive?  Secondly, Is it true that no other punishment
would serve as powerfully in preventing murder by intimidation?

Is punishment by death the most dreaded of all evils?  ‘This assertion,’
says Bentham, ‘is true with respect to the majority of mankind; it is not
true with respect to the greatest criminals.’  It is pretty certain that
a malefactor steeped in crime, living in extreme want, misery and
apprehension, must, if he reflects at all, contemplate a violent end as
an imminent possibility.  He has no better future before him, and may
easily come to look upon death with brutal insensibility and defiance.
The indifference exhibited by the garrotted man getting up to adjust his
chair is probably common amongst criminals of his type.

Again, take such a crime as that of the Cuban’s: the passion which leads
to it is the fiercest and most ungovernable which man is subject to.
Sexual jealousy also is one of the most frequent causes of murder.  So
violent is this passion that the victim of it is often quite prepared to
sacrifice life rather than forego indulgence, or allow another to
supplant him; both men and women will gloat over the murder of a rival,
and gladly accept death as its penalty, rather than survive the
possession of the desired object by another.

Further, in addition to those who yield to fits of passion, there is a
class whose criminal promptings are hereditary: a large number of
unfortunates of whom it may almost be said that they were destined to
commit crimes.  ‘It is unhappily a fact,’ says Mr. Francis Galton
(‘Inquiries into Human Faculty’), ‘that fairly distinct types of
criminals breeding true to their kind have become established.’  And he
gives extraordinary examples, which fully bear out his affirmation.  We
may safely say that, in a very large number of cases, the worst crimes
are perpetrated by beings for whom the death penalty has no preventive
terrors.

But it is otherwise with the majority.  Death itself, apart from punitive
aspects, is a greater evil to those for whom life has greater
attractions.  Besides this, the permanent disgrace of capital punishment,
the lasting injury to the criminal’s family and to all who are dear to
him, must be far more cogent incentives to self-control than the mere
fear of ceasing to live.

With the criminal and most degraded class—with those who are actuated by
violent passions and hereditary taints, the class by which most murders
are committed—the death punishment would seem to be useless as an
intimidation or an example.

With the majority it is more than probable that it exercises a strong and
beneficial influence.  As no mere social distinction can eradicate innate
instincts, there must be a large proportion of the majority, the
better-to-do, who are both occasionally and habitually subject to
criminal propensities, and who shall say how many of these are restrained
from the worst of crimes by fear of capital punishment and its
consequences?

On these grounds, if they be not fallacious, the retention of capital
punishment may be justified.

Secondly.  Is the assumption tenable that no other penalty makes so
strong an impression or is so pre-eminently exemplary?  Bentham thus
answers the question: ‘It appears to me that the contemplation of
perpetual imprisonment, accompanied with hard labour and occasional
solitary confinement, would produce a deeper impression on the minds of
persons in whom it is more eminently desirable that that impression
should be produced than even death itself. . . . All that renders death
less formidable to them renders laborious restraint proportionably more
irksome.’  There is doubtless a certain measure of truth in these
remarks.  But Bentham is here speaking of the degraded class; and is it
likely that such would reflect seriously upon what they never see and
only know by hearsay?  Think how feeble are their powers of imagination
and reflection, how little they would be impressed by such additional
seventies as ‘occasional solitary confinement,’ the occurrence and the
effects of which would be known to no one outside the jail.

As to the ‘majority,’ the higher classes, the fact that men are often
imprisoned for offences—political and others—which they are proud to
suffer for, would always attenuate the ignominy attached to
‘imprisonment.’  And were this the only penalty for all crimes, for
first-class misdemeanants and for the most atrocious of criminals alike,
the distinction would not be very finely drawn by the interested; at the
most, the severest treatment as an alternative to capital punishment
would always savour of extenuating circumstances.

There remain two other points of view from which the question has to be
considered: one is what may be called the Vindictive, the other, directly
opposed to it, the Sentimental argument.  The first may be dismissed with
a word or two.  In civilised countries torture is for ever abrogated; and
with it, let us hope, the idea of judicial vengeance.

The _lex talionis_—the Levitic law—‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth,’ is
befitting only for savages.  Unfortunately the Christian religion still
promulgates and passionately clings to the belief in Hell as a place or
state of everlasting torment—that is to say, of eternal torture inflicted
for no ultimate end save that of implacable vengeance.  Of all the
miserable superstitions ever hatched by the brain of man this, as
indicative of its barbarous origin, is the most degrading.  As an
ordinance ascribed to a Being worshipped as just and beneficent, it is
blasphemous.

The Sentimental argument, like all arguments based upon feeling rather
than reason, though not without merit, is fraught with mischief which far
outweighs it.  There are always a number of people in the world who refer
to their feelings as the highest human tribunal.  When the reasoning
faculty is not very strong, the process of ratiocination irksome, and the
issue perhaps unacceptable, this course affords a convenient solution to
many a complicated problem.  It commends itself, moreover, to those who
adopt it, by the sense of chivalry which it involves.  There is something
generous and noble, albeit quixotic, in siding with the weak, even if
they be in the wrong.  There is something charitable in the judgment,
‘Oh! poor creature, think of his adverse circumstances, his ignorance,
his temptation.  Let us be merciful and forgiving.’  In practice,
however, this often leads astray.  Thus in most cases, even where
premeditated murder is proved to the hilt, the sympathy of the
sentimentalist is invariably with the murderer, to the complete oblivion
of the victim’s family.

Bentham, speaking of the humanity plea, thus words its argument: ‘Attend
not to the sophistries of reason, which often deceive, but be governed by
your hearts, which will always lead you right.  I reject without
hesitation the punishment you propose: it violates natural feelings, it
harrows up the susceptible mind, it is tyrannical and cruel.’  Such is
the language of your sentimental orators.

‘But abolish any one penal law merely because it is repugnant to the
feelings of a humane heart, and, if consistent, you abolish the whole
penal code.  There is not one of its provisions that does not, in a more
or less painful degree, wound the sensibility.’

As this writer elsewhere observes: ‘It is only a virtue when justice has
done its work, &c.  Before this, to forgive injuries is to invite their
perpetration—is to be, not the friend, but the enemy of society.  What
could wickedness desire more than an arrangement by which offences should
be always followed by pardon?’

Sentiment is the _ultima ratio feminarum_, and of men whose natures are
of the epicene gender.  It is a luxury we must forego in the face of the
stern duties which evil compels us to encounter.

There is only one other argument against capital punishment that is worth
considering.

The objection so strenuously pleaded by Dickens in his letters to the
‘Times’—viz. the brutalising effects upon the degraded crowds which
witnessed public executions—is no longer apposite.  But it may still be
urged with no little force that the extreme severity of the sentence
induces all concerned in the conviction of the accused to shirk the
responsibility.  Informers, prosecutors, witnesses, judges, and jurymen
are, as a rule, liable to reluctance as to the performance of their
respective parts in the melancholy drama.’  The consequence is that ‘the
benefit of the doubt,’ while salving the consciences of these servants of
the law, not unfrequently turns a real criminal loose upon society;
whereas, had any other penalty than death been feasible, the same person
would have been found guilty.

Much might be said on either side, but on the whole it would seem wisest
to leave things—in this country—as they are; and, for one, I am inclined
to the belief that,

    Mercy murders, pardoning those that kill.



CHAPTER XIX


WE were nearly six weeks in the Havana, being detained by Lord Durham’s
illness.  I provided myself with a capital Spanish master, and made the
most of him.  This, as it turned out, proved very useful to me in the
course of my future travels.  About the middle of March we left for
Charlestown in the steamer _Isabel_, and thence on to New York.  On the
passage to Charlestown, we were amused one evening by the tricks of a
conjuror.  I had seen the man and his wife perform at the Egyptian Hall,
Piccadilly.  She was called the ‘Mysterious Lady.’  The papers were full
of speculations as to the nature of the mystery.  It was the town talk
and excitement of the season.

This was the trick.  The lady sat in the corner of a large room, facing
the wall, with her eyes bandaged.  The company were seated as far as
possible from her.  Anyone was invited to write a few words on a slip of
paper, and hand it to the man, who walked amongst the spectators.  He
would simply say to the woman ‘What has the gentleman (or lady) written
upon this paper?’  Without hesitation she would reply correctly.  The man
was always the medium.  One person requested her, through the man, to
read the number on his watch, the figures being, as they always are, very
minute.  The man repeated the question: ‘What is the number on this
watch?’  The woman, without hesitation, gave it correctly.  A friend at
my side, a young Guardsman, took a cameo ring from his finger, and asked
for a description of the figures in relief.  There was a pause.  The
woman was evidently perplexed.  She confessed at last that she was unable
to answer.  The spectators murmured.  My friend began to laugh.  The
conjuror’s bread was at stake, but he was equal to the occasion.  He at
once explained to the company that the cameo represented ‘Leeder and the
Swan in a hambigious position, which the lady didn’t profess to know
nothing about.’  This apology, needless to say, completely re-established
the lady’s character.

Well, recognising my friend of the Egyptian Hall, I reminded him of the
incident.  He remembered it perfectly; and we fell to chatting about the
wonderful success of the ‘mystery,’ and about his and the lady’s
professional career.  He had begun life when a boy as a street acrobat,
had become a street conjuror, had married the ‘mysterious lady’ out of
the ‘saw-dust,’ as he expressed it—meaning out of a travelling circus.
After that, ‘things had gone ’ard’ with them.  They had exhausted their
resources in every sense.  One night, lying awake, and straining their
brains to devise some means of subsistence, his wife suddenly exclaimed,
‘How would it be if we were to try so and so?’ explaining the trick just
described.  His answer was: ‘Oh! that’s too silly.  They’d see through it
directly.’  This was all I could get out of him: this, and the fact that
the trick, first and last, had made them fairly comfortable for the rest
of their days.

Now mark what follows, for it is the gist and moral of my little story
about this conjuror, and about two other miracle workers whom I have to
speak of presently.

Once upon a time, I was discussing with an acquaintance the not
unfamiliar question of Immortality.  I professed Agnosticism—strongly
impregnated with incredulity.  My friend had no misgivings, no doubts on
the subject whatever.  Absolute certainty is the prerogative of the
orthodox.  He had taken University honours, and was a man of high
position at the Bar.  I was curious to learn upon what grounds such an
one based his belief.  His answer was: ‘Upon the phenomena of
electro-biology, and the psychic phenomena of mesmerism.’  His ‘first
convictions were established by the manifestations of the soul as
displayed through a woman called “The Mysterious Lady,” who, &c., &c.’

When we have done with our thaumaturgist on board the _Isabel_, I will
give another instance, precisely similar to this, of the simple origin of
religious beliefs.

The steamer was pretty full; and the conjuror begged me to obtain the
patronage of my noble friend and the rest of our party for an
entertainment he proposed to give that evening.  This was easily secured,
and a goodly sum was raised by dollar tickets.  The sleight-of-hand was
excellent.  But the special performance of the evening deserves
description in full.  It was that of a whist-playing dog.  Three
passengers—one of us taking a hand—played as in dummy whist, dummy’s hand
being spread in a long row upon the deck of the saloon cabin.  The
conjuror, as did the other passengers, walked about behind the players,
and saw all the players’ hands, but not a word was spoken.  The dog
played dummy’s hand.  When it came to his turn he trotted backwards and
forwards, smelling each card that had been dealt to him.  He sometimes
hesitated, then comically shaking his head, would leave it to smell
another.  The conjuror stood behind the dog’s partner, and never went
near the animal.  There was no table—the cards were thrown on the deck.
They were dealt by the players; the conjuror never touched them.  When
the dog’s mind was made up, he took his card in his mouth and laid it on
the others.  His play was infallible.  He and his partner won the rubber
with ease.

Now, to those ignorant of the solution, this must, I think, seem
inexplicable.  How was collusion managed between the animal and its
master?  One of the conditions insisted upon by the master himself was
silence.  He certainly never broke it.  I bought the trick—must I confess
it? for twenty dollars.  How transparent most things are when—seen
through!  When the dog smelt at the right card, the conjuror, who saw all
four hands, and had his own in his pocket, clicked his thumb-nail against
a finger-nail.  The dog alone could hear it, and played the card
accordingly.

The other story: A few years after my return to England, a great friend
called upon me, and, in an excited state, described a _séance_ he had had
with a woman who possessed the power of ‘invoking’ spirits.  These
spirits had correctly replied to questions, the answers to which were
only known to himself.  The woman was an American.  I am sorry to say I
have forgotten her name, but I think she was the first of her tribe to
visit this country.  As in the case spoken of, my friend was much
affected by the results of the _séance_.  He was a well-educated and
intelligent man.  Born to wealth, he had led a somewhat wildish life in
his youth.  Henceforth he became more serious, and eventually turned
Roman Catholic.  He entreated me to see the woman, which I did.

I wrote to ask for an appointment.  She lived in Charlotte Street,
Fitzroy Square; but on the day after the morrow she was to change her
lodgings to Queen Anne Street, where she would receive me at 11 A.M.  I
was punctual to a minute, and was shown into an ordinary furnished room.
The maid informed me that Mrs. — had not yet arrived from Charlotte
Street, but she was sure to come before long, as she had an engagement
(so she said) with a gentleman.

Nothing could have suited me better.  I immediately set to work to
examine the room and the furniture with the greatest care.  I looked
under and moved the sofa, tables, and armchairs.  I looked behind the
curtains, under the rug, and up the chimney.  I could discover nothing.
There was not the vestige of a spirit anywhere.  At last the medium
entered—a plain, middle-aged matron with nothing the least spiritual
about her.  She seated herself opposite to me at the round table in the
centre of the room, and demurely asked what I wanted.  ‘To communicate
with the spirits,’ I replied.  She did not know whether that was
possible.  It depended upon the person who sought them.  She would ask
the spirits whether they would confer with me.  Whereupon she put the
question: ‘Will the spirits converse with this gentleman?’  At all
events, thought I, the term ‘gentleman’ applies to the next world, which
is a comfort.  She listened for the answer.  Presently three distinct
raps on the table signified assent.  She then took from her reticule a
card whereon were printed the alphabet, and numerals up to 10.  The
letters were separated by transverse lines.  She gave me a pencil with
these instructions: I was to think, not utter, my question, and then put
the pencil on each of the letters in succession.  When the letters were
touched which spelt the answer, the spirits would rap, and the words
could be written down.

My friend had told me this much, so I came prepared.  I began by politely
begging the lady to move away from the table at which we were seated, and
take a chair in the furthest corner of the room.  She indignantly
complied, asking if I suspected her.  I replied that ‘all ladies were
dangerous, when they were charming,’ which put us on the best of terms.
I placed my hat so as to intercept her view of my operations, and thus
pursued them.

Thinking the matter over beforehand, I concluded that when the
questioner, of either sex, was young, love would very probably be the
topic; the flesh, not the spirit, would be the predominant interest.
Being an ingenuous young man of the average sort, and desperately in love
with Susan, let us say, I should naturally assist the supernatural being,
if at a loss, to understand that the one thing wanted was information
about Susan.  I therefore mentally asked the question: ‘Who is the most
lovely angel without wings, and with the means of sitting down?’ and
proceeded to pass the pencil over the letters, pausing nowhere.  I now
and then got a doubtful rap on or under the table,—how delivered I know
not—but signifying nothing.  It was clear the spirits needed a cue.  I
put the pencil on the letter S, and kept it there.  I got a tentative
rap.  I passed at once to U.  I got a more confident rap.  Then to S.
Rap, rap, without hesitation.  A and N were assented to almost before I
touched them.  Susan was an angel—the angel.  What more logical proof
could I have of the immortality of the soul?

Mrs. — asked me whether I was satisfied.  I said it was miraculous; so
much so indeed, that I could hardly believe the miracle, until
corroborated by another.  Would the spirits be kind enough to suspend
this pencil in the air?  ‘Oh! that was nonsense.  The spirits never lent
themselves to mere frivolity.’  ‘I beg the spirits’ pardon, I am sure,’
said I.  ‘I have heard that they often move heavy tables.  I thought
perhaps the pencil would save them trouble.  Will they move this round
table up to this little one?’  I had, be it observed, when alone, moved
and changed the relative positions of both tables; and had determined to
make this my crucial test.  To my astonishment, Mrs. — replied that she
could not say whether they would or not.  She would ask them.  She did
so, and the spirits rapped ‘Yes.’

I drew my chair aside.  The woman remained seated in the corner.  I
watched everything.  Nothing happened.  After a while, I took out my
watch, and said: ‘I fear the spirits do not intend to keep their word.  I
have an appointment twenty minutes hence, and can only give them ten
minutes more.’  She calmly replied she had nothing to do with it.  I had
heard what the spirits said.  I had better wait a little longer.
Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the table gave a distinct
crack, as if about to start.  The medium instantly called my attention to
it.  I jumped out of my seat, passed between the two tables, when of a
sudden the large table moved in the direction of the smaller one, and did
not stop till it had pushed the little one over.  I make no comments.  No
explanation to me is conceivable.  I simply narrate what happened as
accurately as I am able.

One other case deserves to be added to the above.  I have connected both
of the foregoing with religious persuasions.  The _séance_ I am about to
speak of was for the express purpose of bringing a brokenhearted and
widowed mother into communication with the soul of her only son—a young
artist of genius whom I had known, and who had died about a year before.
The occasion was, of course, a solemn one.  The interest of it was
enhanced by the presence of the great apostle of Spiritualism—Sir William
Crookes.  The medium was Miss Kate Fox, again an American.  The _séance_
took place in the house of a very old friend of mine, the late Dr. George
Bird.  He had spiritualistic tendencies, but was supremely honest and
single-minded; utterly incapable of connivance with deception of any
kind.  As far as I know, the medium had never been in the room before.
The company present were Dr. Bird’s intimate friend Sir William
Crookes—future President of the Royal Society—Miss Bird, Dr. Bird’s
daughter, and her husband—Mr. Ionides—and Mrs. —, the mother of the young
artist.  The room, a large one, was darkened; the last light being
extinguished after we had taken our places round the dining-table.  We
were strenuously enjoined to hold one another’s hands.  Unless we did so
the _séance_ would fail.

Before entering the room, I secretly arranged with Mr. Ionides, who
shared my scepticism, that we should sit side by side; and so each have
one hand free.  It is not necessary to relate what passed between the
unhappy mother and the medium, suffice it to say that she put questions
to her son; and the medium interpreted the rappings which came in reply.
These, I believe, were all the poor lady could wish for.  To the rest of
us, the astounding events of the _séance_ were the dim lights,
accompanied by faint sounds of an accordion, which floated about the room
over our heads.  And now comes, to me, the strangest part of the whole
performance.  All the while I kept my right arm extended under the table,
moving my hand to and fro.  Presently it touched something.  I make a
grab, and caught, but could not hold for an instant, another hand.  It
was on the side away from Mr. Ionides.  I said nothing, except to him,
and the _séance_ was immediately broken up.

It may be thought by some that this narration is a biassed one.  But
those acquainted with the charlatanry in these days of what is called
‘Christian Science,’ and know the extent to which crass ignorance and
predisposed credulity can be duped by childish delusions, may have some
‘idea how acute was the spirit-rapping epidemic some forty or fifty years
ago.  ‘At this moment,’ writes Froude, in ‘Fraser’s Magazine,’ 1863, ‘we
are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, of tables
miraculously lifted, of hands projecting out of the world of shadows into
this mortal life.  An unusually able, accomplished person, accustomed to
deal with common-sense facts, a celebrated political economist, and
notorious for business-like habits, assured this writer that a certain
mesmerist, who was my informer’s intimate friend, had raised a dead girl
to life.’  Can we wonder that miracles are still believed in?  Ah! no.
The need, the dire need, of them remains, and will remain with us for
ever.



CHAPTER XX


WE must move on; we have a long and rough journey before us.  Durham had
old friends in New York, Fred Calthorpe had letters to Colonel Fremont,
who was then a candidate for the Presidency, and who had discovered the
South Pass; and Mr. Ellice had given me a letter to John Jacob
Astor—_the_ American millionaire of that day.  We were thus well provided
with introductions; and nothing could exceed the kindness and hospitality
of our American friends.

But time was precious.  It was already mid May, and we had everything to
get—wagons, horses, men, mules, and provisions.  So that we were anxious
not to waste a day, but hurry on to St. Louis as fast as we could.
Durham was too ill to go with us.  Phoca had never intended to do so.
Fred, Samson, and I, took leave of our companions, and travelling via the
Hudson to Albany, Buffalo, down Lake Erie, and across to Chicago, we
reached St. Louis in about eight days.  As a single illustration of what
this meant before railroads, Samson and I, having to stop a day at
Chicago, hired a buggy and drove into the neighbouring woods, or
wilderness, to hunt for wild turkeys.

Our outfit, the whole of which we got at St. Louis, consisted of two
heavy wagons, nine mules, and eight horses.  We hired eight men, on the
nominal understanding that they were to go with us as far as the Rocky
Mountains on a hunting expedition.  In reality all seven of them, before
joining us, had separately decided to go to California.

Having published in 1852 an account of our journey, entitled ‘A Ride over
the Rocky Mountains,’ I shall not repeat the story, but merely give a
summary of the undertaking, with a few of the more striking incidents to
show what travelling across unknown America entailed fifty or sixty years
ago.

A steamer took us up the Missouri to Omaha.  Here we disembarked on the
confines of occupied territory.  From near this point, where the Platte
river empties into the Missouri, to the mouth of the Columbia, on the
Pacific—which we ultimately reached—is at least 1,500 miles as the crow
flies; for us (as we had to follow watercourses and avoid impassable
ridges) it was very much more.  Some five-and-forty miles from our
starting-place we passed a small village called Savannah.  Between it and
Vancouver there was not a single white man’s abode, with the exception of
three trading stations—mere mud buildings—Fort Laramie, Fort Hall, and
Fort Boisé.

The vast prairies on this side of the Rocky Mountains were grazed by
herds of countless bison, wapiti, antelope, and deer of various species.
These were hunted by moving tribes of Indians—Pawnees, Omahaws,
Cheyennes, Ponkaws, Sioux, &c.  On the Pacific side of the great range, a
due west course—which ours was as near as we could keep it—lay across a
huge rocky desert of volcanic débris, where hardly any vegetation was to
be met with, save artemisia—a species of wormwood—scanty blades of gramma
grass, and occasional osiers by river-banks.  The rivers themselves often
ran through cañons or gulches, so deep that one might travel for days
within a hundred feet of water yet perish (some of our animals did so)
for the want of a drop to drink.  Game was here very scarce—a few
antelope, wolves, and abundance of rattlesnakes, were nearly the only
living things we saw.  The Indians were mainly fishers of the Shoshone—or
Great Snake River—tribe, feeding mostly on salmon, which they speared
with marvellous dexterity; and Root-diggers, who live upon wild roots.
When hard put to it, however, in winter, the latter miserable creatures
certainly, if not the former, devoured their own children.  There was no
map of the country.  It was entirely unexplored; in fact, Bancroft the
American historian, in his description of the Indian tribes, quotes my
account of the Root-diggers; which shows how little was known of this
region up to this date.  I carried a small compass fastened round my
neck.  That and the stars (we travelled by night when in the vicinity of
Indians) were my only guides for hundreds of dreary miles.

Such then was the task we had set ourselves to grapple with.  As with
life itself, nothing but the magic powers of youth and ignorance could
have cajoled us to face it with heedless confidence and eager zest.
These conditions given, with health—the one essential of all
enjoyment—added, the first escape from civilised restraint, the first
survey of primordial nature as seen in the boundless expanse of the open
prairie, the habitat of wild men and wild animals,—exhilarate one with
emotions akin to the schoolboy’s rapture in the playground, and the
thoughtful man’s contemplation of the stars.  Freedom and change, space
and the possibilities of the unknown, these are constant elements of our
day-dreams; now and then actual life dangles visions of them before our
eyes, alas! only to teach us that the aspirations which they inspire are,
for the most part, illusory.

Brief indeed, in our case, were the pleasures of novelty.  For the first
few days the business was a continuous picnic for all hands.  It was a
pleasure to be obliged to help to set up the tents, to cut wood, to fetch
water, to harness the mules, and work exactly as the paid men worked.
The equality in this respect—that everything each wanted done had to be
done with his own hands—was perfect; and never, from first to last, even
when starvation left me bare strength to lift the saddle on to my horse,
did I regret the necessity, or desire to be dependent on another man.
But the bloom soon wore off the plum; and the pleasure consisted not in
doing but in resting when the work was done.

For the reason already stated, a sample only of the daily labour will be
given.  It may be as well first to bestow a few words upon the men; for,
in the long run, our fellow beings are the powerful factors, for good or
ill, in all our worldly enterprises.

We had two ordinary mule-drivers—Potter and Morris, a little acrobat out
of a travelling circus, a _metif_ or half-breed Indian named Jim, two
French Canadians—Nelson and Louis (the latter spoke French only); Jacob,
a Pennsylvanian auctioneer whose language was a mixture of Dutch, Yankee,
and German; and (after we reached Fort Laramie) another Nelson—‘William’
as I shall call him—who offered his services gratis if we would allow him
to go with us to California.

Jacob the Dutch Yankee was the most intelligent and the most useful of
the lot, and was unanimously elected cook for the party.  The Canadian
Nelson was a hard-working good young fellow, with a passionate temper.
Louis was a hunter by profession, Gallic to the tip of his moustache—fond
of slapping his breast and telling of the mighty deeds of _nous autres en
haut_.  Jim, the half-breed was Indian by nature—idle, silent,
treacherous, but a crafty hunter.  William deserves special mention, not
from any idiosyncrasy of the man, but because he was concerned soon after
he joined us in the most disastrous of my adventures throughout the
expedition.

To look at, William Nelson might have sat for the portrait of
Leatherstocking.  He was a tall gaunt man who had spent his youth
bringing rafts of timber down the Wabash river, from Fort Wayne to
Maumee, in Ohio.  For the last six years (he was three-and-thirty) he had
been trapping musk rats and beaver, and dealing in pelts generally.  At
the time of our meeting he was engaged to a Miss Mary something—the
daughter of an English immigrant, who would not consent to the marriage
until William was better off.  He was now bound for California, where he
hoped to make the required fortune.  The poor fellow was very sentimental
about his Mary; but, despite his weatherbeaten face, hardy-looking frame,
and his ‘longue carabine,’ he was scarcely the hero which, no doubt, Miss
Mary took him for.

Yes, the novelty soon wore off.  We had necessaries enough to last to
California.  We also had enough unnecessaries to bring us to grief in a
couple of weeks.  Our wagons were loaded to the roof.  And seeing there
was no road nor so much as a track, that there were frequent swamps and
small rivers to be crossed, that our Comanche mules were wilder than the
Indians who had owned them, it may easily be believed that our rate of
progress did not average more than six or seven miles a day; sometimes it
took from dawn to dusk to cross a stream by ferrying our packages, and
emptied wagons, on such rafts as could be extemporised.  Before the end
of a fortnight, both wagons were shattered, wheels smashed, and axles
irreparable.  The men, who were as refractory as the other animals,
helped themselves to provisions, tobacco and whisky, at their own sweet
will, and treated our remonstrances with resentment and contempt.

Heroic measures were exigent.  The wagons were broken up and converted
into pack saddles.  Both tents, masses of provisions, 100 lbs. of lead
for bullets, kegs of powder, warm clothing, mackintoshes, waterproof
sheeting, tarpaulins, medicine chest, and bags of sugar, were flung aside
to waste their sweetness on the desert soil.  Not one of us had ever
packed a saddle before; and certainly not one of the mules had ever
carried, or to all appearances, ever meant to carry, a pack.  It was a
fight between man and beast every day—twice a day indeed, for we halted
to rest and feed, and had to unpack and repack our remaining impedimenta
in payment for the indulgence.

Let me cite a page from my diary.  It is a fair specimen of scores of
similar entries.

‘_June_ 24_th_.—My morning watch.  Up at 1 A.M.  Roused the men at 3.30.
Off at 7.30.  Rained hard all day.  Packs slipped or kicked off eighteen
times before halt.  Men grumbling.  Nelson and Jim both too ill to work.
When adjusting pack, Nelson and Louis had a desperate quarrel.  Nelson
drew his knife and nearly stabbed Louis.  I snatched a pistol out of my
holster, and threatened to shoot Nelson unless he shut up.  Fred, of
course, laughed obstreperously at the notion of my committing murder,
which spoilt the dramatic effect.

‘Oh! these devils of mules!  After repacking, they rolled, they kicked
and bucked, they screamed and bit, as though we were all in Hell, and
didn’t know it.  It took four men to pack each one; and the moment their
heads were loosed, away they went into the river, over the hills, and
across country as hard as they could lay legs to ground.  It was a
cheerful sight!—the flour and biscuit stuff swimming about in the stream,
the hams in a ditch full of mud, the trailed pots and pans bumping and
rattling on the ground until they were as shapeless as old wide-awakes.
And, worst of all, the pack-saddles, which had delayed us a week to
make—nothing now but a bundle of splinters.

‘25_th_.—What a night!  A fearful storm broke over us.  All round was
like a lake.  Fred and I sat, back to back, perched on a flour bag till
daylight, with no covering but our shooting jackets, our feet in a pool,
and bodies streaming like cascades.  Repeated lightning seemed to strike
the ground within a few yards of us.  The animals, wild with terror,
stampeded in all directions.  In the morning, lo and behold!  Samson on
his back in the water, insensibly drunk.  At first I thought he was dead;
but he was only dead drunk.  We can’t move till he can, unless we
bequeath him to the wolves, which are plentiful.  This is the third time
he has served us the same trick.  I took the liberty to ram my heel
through the whisky keg (we have kept a small one for emergencies) and put
it empty under his head for a pillow.’

There were plenty of days and nights to match these, but there were worse
in store for us.

One evening, travelling along the North Platte river, before reaching
Laramie, we overtook a Mormon family on their way to Salt Lake city.
They had a light covered wagon with hardly anything in it but a small
supply of flour and bacon.  It was drawn by four oxen and two cows.  Four
milch cows were driven.  The man’s name was Blazzard—a Yorkshireman from
the Wolds, whose speech was that of Learoyd.  He had only his wife and a
very pretty daughter of sixteen or seventeen with him.  We asked him how
he became a Mormon.  He answered: ‘From conviction,’ and entreated us to
be baptized in the true faith at his hands.  The offer was tempting, for
the pretty little milkmaid might have become one of one’s wives on the
spot.  In truth the sweet nymph urged conversion more persuasively than
her papa—though with what views who shall say?  The old farmer’s
acquaintance with the Bible was remarkable.  He quoted it at every
sentence, and was eloquent upon the subject of the meaning and the origin
of the word ‘Bible.’  He assured us the name was given to the Holy Book
from the circumstance of its contents having passed a synod of prophets,
just as an Act of Parliament passes the House of Commons—_by Bill_.
Hence its title.  It was this historical fact that guaranteed the
authenticity of the sacred volume.  There are various reasons for
believing—this is one of them.

The next day, being Sunday, was spent in sleep.  In the afternoon I
helped the Yorkshire lassie to herd her cattle, which had strayed a long
distance amongst the rank herbage by the banks of the Platte.  The heat
was intense, well over 120 in the sun; and the mosquitos rose in clouds
at every step in the wet grass.  It was an easy job for me, on my little
grey, to gallop after the cows and drive them home, (it would have been a
wearisome one for her,) and she was very grateful, and played Dorothea to
my Hermann.  None of our party wore any upper clothing except a flannel
shirt; I had cut off the sleeves of mine at the elbow.  This was better
for rough work, but the broiling sun had raised big blisters on my arms
and throat which were very painful.  When we got back to camp, Dorothea
laved the burns for me with cool milk.  Ah! she was very pretty; and,
what ‘blackguard’  Heine, as Carlyle dubs him, would have called ‘naïve
schmutzig.’  When we parted next morning I thought with a sigh that
before the autumn was over, she would be in the seraglio of Mr. Brigham
Young; who, Artemus Ward used to say, was ‘the most married man he ever
knew.’



CHAPTER XXI


SPORT had been the final cause of my trip to America—sport and the love
of adventure.  As the bison—buffalo, as they are called—are now extinct,
except in preserved districts, a few words about them as they then were
may interest game hunters of the present day.

No description could convey an adequate conception of the numbers in
which they congregated.  The admirable illustrations in Catlin’s great
work on the North American Indians, afford the best idea to those who
have never seen the wonderful sight itself.  The districts they
frequented were vast sandy uplands sparsely covered with the tufty
buffalo or gramma grass.  These regions were always within reach of the
water-courses; to which morning and evening the herds descended by paths,
after the manner of sheep or cattle in a pasture.  Never shall I forget
the first time I witnessed the extraordinary event of the evening drink.
Seeing the black masses galloping down towards the river, by the banks of
which our party were travelling, we halted some hundred yards short of
the tracks.  To have been caught amongst the animals would have been
destruction; for, do what they would to get out of one’s way, the weight
of the thousands pushing on would have crushed anything that impeded
them.  On the occasion I refer to we approached to within safe distance,
and fired into them till the ammunition in our pouches was expended.

As examples of our sporting exploits, three days taken almost at random
will suffice.  The season was so far advanced that, unless we were to
winter at Fort Laramie, it was necessary to keep going.  It was therefore
agreed that whoever left the line of march—that is, the vicinity of the
North Platte—for the purpose of hunting should take his chance of
catching up the rest of the party, who were to push on as speedily as
possible.  On two of the days which I am about to record this rule nearly
brought me into trouble.  I quote from my journal:

‘Left camp to hunt by self.  Got a shot at some deer lying in long grass
on banks of a stream.  While stalking, I could hardly see or breathe for
mosquitos; they were in my eyes, nose, and mouth.  Steady aim was
impossible; and, to my disgust, I missed the easiest of shots.  The neck
and flanks of my little grey are as red as if painted.  He is weak from
loss of blood.  Fred’s head is now so swollen he cannot wear his hard
hat; his eyes are bunged up, and his face is comic to look at.  Several
deer and antelopes; but ground too level, and game too wild to let one
near.  Hardly caring what direction I took, followed outskirts of large
wood, four or five miles away from the river.  Saw a good many summer
lodges; but knew, by the quantity of game, that the Indians had deserted
them.  In the afternoon came suddenly upon deer; and singling out one of
the youngest fawns, tried to run it down.  The country being very rough,
I found it hard work to keep between it and the wood.  First, my hat blew
off; then a pistol jumped out of the holster; but I was too near to give
up,—meaning to return for these things afterwards.  Two or three times I
ran right over the fawn, which bleated in the most piteous manner, but
always escaped the death-blow from the grey’s hoofs.  By degrees we edged
nearer to the thicket, when the fawn darted down the side of a bluff, and
was lost in the long grass and brushwood, I followed at full speed; but,
unable to arrest the impetus of the horse, we dashed headlong into the
thick scrub, and were both thrown with violence to the ground.  I was
none the worse; but the poor beast had badly hurt his shoulder, and for
the time was dead lame.

‘For an hour at least I hunted, for my pistol.  It was much more to me
than my hat.  It was a huge horse pistol, that threw an ounce ball of
exactly the calibre of my double rifle.  I had shot several buffaloes
with it, by riding close to them in a chase; and when in danger of
Indians I loaded it with slugs.  At last I found it.  It was getting
late; and I didn’t rightly know where I was.  I made for the low country.
But as we camped last night at least two miles from the river, on account
of the swamps, the difficulty was to find the tracks.  The poor little
grey and I hunted for it in vain.  The wet ground was too wet, the dry
ground too hard, to show the tracks in the now imperfect light.

‘The situation was a disagreeable one: it might be two or three days
before I again fell in with my friends.  I had not touched food since the
early morning, and was rather done.  To return to the high ground was to
give up for the night; but that meant another day behind the cavalcade,
with diminished chance of overtaking it.  Through the dusk I saw what I
fancied was something moving on a mound ahead of me which arose out of
the surrounding swamp.  I spurred on, but only to find the putrid carcase
of a buffalo, with a wolf supping on it.  The brute was gorged, and
looked as sleek as “die schöne Frau Giermund”; but, unlike Isegrim’s
spouse, she was free to escape, for she wasn’t worth a bullet.  I was so
famished, that I examined the carcase with the hope of finding a cut that
would last for a day or two; my nose wouldn’t have it.  I plodded on, the
water up to the saddle-girths.  The mosquitos swarmed in millions, and
the poor little grey could hardly get one leg before the other.  I, too,
was so feverish that, ignorant of bacteria, I filled my round hat with
the filthy stagnant water, and drank it at a draught.

‘At last I made for higher ground.  It was too dark to hunt for tracks,
so I began to look out for a level bed.  Suddenly my beast, who jogged
along with his nose to the ground, gave a loud neigh.  We had struck the
trail.  I threw the reins on his neck, and left matters to his superior
instincts.  In less than half an hour the joyful light of a camp fire
gladdened my eyes.  Fred told me he had halted as soon as he was able,
not on my account only, but because he, too, had had a severe fall, and
was suffering great pain from a bruised knee.’

Here is an ordinary example of buffalo shooting:

‘_July_ 2_nd_.—Fresh meat much wanted.  With Jim the half-breed to the
hills.  No sooner on high ground than we sighted game.  As far as eye
could reach, right away to the horizon, the plain was black with
buffaloes, a truly astonishing sight.  Jim was used to it.  I stopped to
spy them with amazement.  The nearest were not more than half a mile off,
so we picketed our horses under the sky line; and choosing the hollows,
walked on till crawling became expedient.  As is their wont, the
outsiders were posted on bluffs or knolls in a commanding position; these
were old bulls.  To my inexperience, our chance of getting a shot seemed
small; for we had to cross the dipping ground under the brow whereon the
sentinels were lying.  Three extra difficulties beset us—the prairie dogs
(a marmot, so called from its dog-like bark when disturbed) were all
round us, and bolted into their holes like rabbits directly they saw us
coming; two big grey wolves, the regular camp followers of a herd, were
prowling about in a direct line between us and the bulls; lastly, the
cows, though up and feeding, were inconveniently out of reach.  (The meat
of the young cow is much preferred to that of the bull.)  Jim, however,
was confident.  I followed my leader to a wink.  The only instruction I
didn’t like when we started crawling on the hot sand was “Look out for
rattlesnakes.”

‘The wolves stopped, examined us suspiciously, then quietly trotted off.
What with this and the alarm of the prairie dogs, an old bull, a
patriarch of the tribe, jumped up and walked with majestic paces to the
top of the knoll.  We lay flat on our faces, till he, satisfied with the
result of his scrutiny, resumed his recumbent posture; but with his head
turned straight towards us.  Jim, to my surprise, stealthily crawled on.
In another minute or two we had gained a point whence we could see
through the grass without being seen.  Here we rested to recover breath.
Meanwhile, three or four young cows fed to within sixty or seventy yards
of us.  Unluckily we both selected the same animal, and both fired at the
same moment.  Off went the lot helter skelter, all save the old bull, who
roared out his rage and trotted up close to our hiding place.

‘“Look out for a bolt,” whispered Jim, “but don’t show yourself nohow
till I tell you.”

‘For a minute or two the suspense was exciting.  One hardly dared to
breathe.  But his majesty saw us not, and turned again to his wives.  We
instantly reloaded; and the startled herd, which had only moved a few
yards, gave us the chance of a second shot.  The first cow had fallen
dead almost where she stood.  The second we found at the foot of the
hill, also with two bullet wounds behind the shoulder.  The tongues,
humps, and tender loins, with some other choice morsels, were soon cut
off and packed, and we returned to camp with a grand supply of beef for
Jacob’s larder.



CHAPTER XXII


AT the risk of being tedious, I will tell of one more day’s buffalo
hunting, to show the vicissitudes of this kind of sport.  Before doing so
we will glance at another important feature of prairie life, a camp of
Sioux Indians.

One evening, after halting on the banks of the Platte, we heard distant
sounds of tomtoms on the other side of the river.  Jim, the half-breed,
and Louis differed as to the tribe, and hence the friendliness or
hostility, of our neighbours.  Louis advised saddling up and putting the
night between us; he regaled us to boot with a few blood-curdling tales
of Indian tortures, and of _nous autres en haut_.  Jim treated these with
scorn, and declared he knew by the ‘tunes’ (!) that the pow-wow was
Sioux.  Just now, he asserted, the Sioux were friendly, and this
‘village’ was on its way to Fort Laramie to barter ‘robes’ (buffalo
skins) for blankets and ammunition.  He was quite willing to go over and
talk to them if we had no objection.

Fred, ever ready for adventure, would have joined him in a minute; but
the river, which was running strong, was full of nasty currents, and his
injured knee disabled him from swimming.  No one else seemed tempted; so,
following Jim’s example, I stripped to my flannel shirt and moccasins,
and crossed the river, which was easier to get into than out of, and soon
reached the ‘village.’  Jim was right,—they were Sioux, and friendly.
They offered us a pipe of kinik (the dried bark of the red willow), and
jabbered away with their kinsman, who seemed almost more at home with
them than with us.

Seeing one of their ‘braves’ with three fresh scalps at his belt, I asked
for the history of them.  In Sioux gutturals the story was a long one.
Jim’s translation amounted to this: The scalps were ‘lifted’ from two
Crows and a Ponkaw.  The Crows, it appeared, were the Sioux’ natural
enemies ‘anyhow,’ for they occasionally hunted on each other’s ranges.
But the Ponkaw, whom he would not otherwise have injured, was casually
met by him on a horse which the Sioux recognised for a white man’s.  Upon
being questioned how he came by it, the Ponkaw simply replied that it was
his own.  Whereupon the Sioux called him a liar; and proved it by sending
an arrow through his body.

I didn’t quite see it.  But then, strictly speaking, I am no collector of
scalps.  To preserve my own, I kept the hair on it as short as a
tooth-brush.

Before we left, our hosts fed us on raw buffalo meat.  This, cut in
slices, and dried crisp in the sun, is excellent.  Their lodges were very
comfortable, most of them large enough to hold a dozen people.  The
ground inside was covered with buffalo robes; and the sewn skins, spread
tight upon the converging poles, formed a tent stout enough to defy all
weathers.  In winter the lodge can be entirely closed; and when a fire is
kindled in the centre, the smoke escaping at a small hole where the poles
join, the snugness is complete.

At the entrance of one of these lodges I watched a squaw and her child
prepare a meal.  When the fuel was collected, a fat puppy, playing with
the child, was seized by the squaw, and knocked on the throat—not
head—with a stick.  The puppy was then returned, kicking, to the tender
mercies of the infant; who exerted its small might to add to the animal’s
miseries, while the mother fed the fire and filled a kettle for the stew.
The puppy, much more alive than dead, was held by the hind leg over the
flames as long as the squaw’s fingers could stand them.  She then let it
fall on the embers, where it struggled and squealed horribly, and would
have wriggled off, but for the little savage, who took good care to
provide for the satisfactory singeing of its playmate.

Considering the length of its lineage, how remarkably hale and well
preserved is our own barbarity!

We may now take our last look at the buffaloes, for we shall see them no
more.  Again I quote my journal:

‘_July_ 5_th_.—Men sulky because they have nothing to eat but rancid ham,
and biscuit dust which has been so often soaked that it is mouldy and
sour.  They are a dainty lot!  Samson and I left camp early with the
hopes of getting meat.  While he was shooting prairie dogs his horse made
off, and cost me nearly an hour’s riding to catch.  Then, accidentally
letting go of my mustang, he too escaped; and I had to run him down with
the other.  Towards evening, spied a small band of buffaloes, which we
approached by leading our horses up a hollow.  They got our wind,
however, and were gone before we were aware of it.  They were all young,
and so fast, it took a twenty minutes’ gallop to come up with them.
Samson’s horse put his foot in a hole, and the cropper they both got gave
the band a long start, as it became a stern chase, and no heading off.

‘At length I managed to separate one from the herd by firing my pistol
into the “brown,” and then devoted my efforts to him alone.  Once or
twice he turned and glared savagely through his mane.  When quite
isolated he pulled up short, so did I. We were about sixty yards apart.
I flung the reins upon the neck of the mustang, who was too blown to
stir, and handling my rifle, waited for the bull to move so that I might
see something more than the great shaggy front, which screened his body.
But he stood his ground, tossing up the sand with his hoofs.  Presently,
instead of turning tail, he put his head down, and bellowing with rage,
came at me as hard as he could tear.  I had but a moment for decision,—to
dig spurs into the mustang, or risk the shot.  I chose the latter; paused
till I was sure of his neck, and fired when he was almost under me.  In
an instant I was sent flying; and the mustang was on his back with all
four legs in the air.

‘The bull was probably as much astonished as we were.  His charge had
carried him about thirty yards, at most, beyond us.  There he now stood;
facing me, pawing the ground and snorting as before.  Badly wounded I
knew him to be,—that was the worst of it; especially as my rifle, with
its remaining loaded barrel, lay right between us.  To hesitate for a
second only, was to lose the game.  There was no time to think of
bruises; I crawled, eyes on him, straight for my weapon: got it—it was
already cocked, and the stock unbroken—raised my knee for a rest.  We
were only twenty yards apart (the shot meant death for one of the two),
and just catching a glimpse of his shoulder-blade, I pulled.  I could
hear the thud of the heavy bullet, and—what was sweeter music—the ugh! of
the fatal groan.  The beast dropped on his knees, and a gush of blood
spurted from his nostrils.

‘But the wild devil of a mustang? that was my first thought now.
Whenever one dismounted, it was necessary to loosen his long lariat, and
let it trail on the ground.  Without this there was no chance of catching
him.  I saw at once what had happened: by the greatest good fortune, at
the last moment, he must have made an instinctive start, which probably
saved his life, and mine too.  The bull’s horns had just missed his
entrails and my leg,—we were broadside on to the charge,—and had caught
him in the thigh, below the hip.  There was a big hole, and he was
bleeding plentifully.  For all that, he wouldn’t let me catch him.  He
could go faster on three legs than I on two.

‘It was getting dark, I had not touched food since starting, nor had I
wetted my lips.  My thirst was now intolerable.  The travelling rule,
about keeping on, was an ugly incubus.  Samson would go his own ways—he
had sense enough for that—but how, when, where, was I to quench my
thirst?  Oh! for the tip of Lazarus’ finger—or for choice, a bottle of
Bass—to cool my tongue!  Then too, whither would the mustang stray in the
night if I rested or fell asleep?  Again and again I tried to stalk him
by the starlight.  Twice I got hold of his tail, but he broke away.  If I
drove him down to the river banks the chance of catching him would be no
better, and I should lose the dry ground to rest on.

‘It was about as unpleasant a night as I had yet passed.  Every now and
then I sat down, and dropped off to sleep from sheer exhaustion.  Every
time this happened I dreamed of sparkling drinks; then woke with a start
to a lively sense of the reality, and anxious searches for the mustang.

‘Directly the day dawned I drove the animal, now very stiff, straight
down for the Platte.  He wanted water fully as much as his master; and
when we sighted it he needed no more driving.  Such a hurry was he in
that, in his rush for the river, he got bogged in the muddy swamp at its
edge.  I seized my chance, and had him fast in a minute.  We both plunged
into the stream; I, clothes and all, and drank, and drank, and drank.’

That evening I caught up the cavalcade.

How curious it is to look back upon such experiences from a different
stage of life’s journey!  How would it have fared with me had my rifle
exploded with the fall? it was knocked out of my hands at full cock.  How
if the stock had been broken?  It had been thrown at least ten yards.
How if the horn had entered my thigh instead of the horse’s?  How if I
had fractured a limb, or had been stunned, or the bull had charged again
while I was creeping up to him?  Any one, or more than one, of these
contingencies were more likely to happen than not.  But nothing did
happen, save—the best.

Not a thought of the kind ever crossed my mind, either at the time or
afterwards.  Yet I was not a thoughtless man, only an average man.  Nine
Englishmen out of ten with a love of sport—as most Englishmen are—would
have done, and have felt, just as I did.  I was bruised and still; but so
one is after a run with hounds.  I had had many a nastier fall hunting in
Derbyshire.  The worst that could happen did not happen; but the worst
never—well, so rarely does.  One might shoot oneself instead of the
pigeon, or be caught picking forbidden fruit.  Narrow escapes are as good
as broad ones.  The truth is, when we are young, and active, and healthy,
whatever happens, of the pleasant or lucky kind, we accept as a matter of
course.

Ah! youth! youth!  If we only knew when we were well off, when we were
happy, when we possessed all that this world has to give!  If we but knew
that love is only a matter of course so long as youth and its bounteous
train is ours, we might perhaps make the most of it, and give up looking
for—something better.  But what then?  Give up the ‘something better’?
Give up pursuit,—the effort that makes us strong?  ‘Give up the sweets of
hope’?   No! ’tis better as it is, perhaps.  The kitten plays with its
tail, and the nightingale sings; but they think no more of happiness than
the rose-bud of its beauty.  May be happiness comes not of too much
knowing, or too much thinking either.



CHAPTER XXIII


FORT LARAMIE was a military station and trading post combined.  It was a
stone building in what they called a ‘compound’ or open space, enclosed
by a palisade.  When we arrived there, it was occupied by a troop of
mounted riflemen under canvas, outside the compound.  The officers lived
in the fort; and as we had letters to the Colonel — Somner — and to the
Captain — Rhete, they were very kind and very useful to us.

We pitched our camp by the Laramie river, four miles from the fort.
Nearer than that there was not a blade of grass.  The cavalry horses and
military mules needed all there was at hand.  Some of the mules we were
allowed to buy, or exchange for our own.  We accordingly added six fresh
ones to our cavalcade, and parted with two horses; which gave us a total
of fifteen mules and six horses.  Government provisions were not to be
had, so that we could not replenish our now impoverished stock.  This was
a serious matter, as will be seen before long.  Nor was the evil lessened
by my being laid up with a touch of fever—the effect, no doubt, of those
drenches of stagnant water.  The regimental doctor was absent.  I could
not be taken into the fort.  And, as we had no tent, and had thrown away
almost everything but the clothes we wore, I had to rough it and take my
chance.  Some relics of our medicine chest, together with a tough
constitution, pulled me through.  But I was much weakened, and by no
means fit for the work before us.  Fred did his best to persuade me from
going further.  He confessed that he was utterly sick of the expedition;
that his injured knee prevented him from hunting, or from being of any
use in packing and camp work; that the men were a set of ruffians who did
just as they chose—they grumbled at the hardships, yet helped themselves
to the stores without restraint; that we had the Rocky Mountains yet to
cross; after that, the country was unknown.  Colonel Somner had strongly
advised us to turn back.  Forty of his men had tried two months ago to
carry despatches to the regiment’s headquarters in Oregon.  Only five had
got through; the rest had been killed and scalped.  Finally, that we had
something like 1,200 miles to go, and were already in the middle of
August.  It would be folly, obstinacy, madness, to attempt it.  He would
stop and hunt where we were, as long as I liked; or he would go back with
me.  He would hire fresh good men, and buy new horses; and, now that we
knew the country, we could get to St. Louis before the end of September,
and—.  There was no reasonable answer to be made.  I simply told him I
had thought it over, and had decided to go on.  Like the plucky fellow
and staunch friend that he was, he merely shrugged his shoulders, and
quietly said, ‘Very well.  So be it.’

Before leaving Fort Laramie a singular incident occurred, which must seem
so improbable, that its narration may be taken for fiction.  It was,
however, a fact.  There was plenty of game near our camping ground; and
though the weather was very hot, one of the party usually took the
trouble to bring in something to keep the pot supplied.  The sage hens,
the buffalo or elk meat were handed over to Jacob, who made a stew with
bacon and rice, enough for the evening meal and the morrow’s breakfast.
After supper, when everyone had filled his stomach, the large kettle,
covered with its lid, was taken off the fire, and this allowed to burn
itself out.

For four or five mornings running the kettle was found nearly empty, and
all hands had to put up with a cup of coffee and mouldy biscuit dust.
There was a good deal of unparliamentary language.  Everyone accused
everyone else of filthy greediness.  It was disgusting that after eating
all he could, a man hadn’t the decency to wait till the morning.  The pot
had been full for supper, and, as every man could see, it was never half
emptied—enough was always left for breakfast.  A resolution was
accordingly passed that each should take his turn of an hour’s watch at
night, till the glutton was caught in the act.

My hour happened to be from 11 to 12 P.M.  I strongly suspected the thief
to be an Indian, and loaded my big pistol with slugs on the chance.  It
was a clear moonlight night.  I propped myself comfortably with a bag of
hams; and concealed myself as well as I could in a bush of artemisia,
which was very thick all round.  I had not long been on the look-out when
a large grey wolf prowled slowly out of the bushes.  The night was bright
as day; but every one of the men was sound asleep in a circle round the
remains of the camp fire.  The wolf passed between them, hesitating as it
almost touched a covering blanket.  Step by step it crept up to the
kettle, took the handle of the lid between its jaws, lifted it off,
placed it noiselessly on the ground, and devoured the savoury stew.

I could not fire, because of the men.  I dared not move, lest I should
disturb the robber.  I was even afraid the click of cocking the pistol
would startle him and prevent my getting a quiet shot.  But patience was
rewarded.  When satiated, the brute retired as stealthily as he had
advanced; and as he passed within seven or eight yards of me I let him
have it.  Great was my disappointment to see him scamper off.  How was it
possible I could have missed him?  I must have fired over his back.  The
men jumped to their feet and clutched their rifles; but, though
astonished at my story, were soon at rest again.  After this the kettle
was never robbed.  Four days later we were annoyed with such a stench
that it was a question of shifting our quarters.  In hunting for the
nuisance amongst the thicket of wormwood, the dead wolf was discovered
not twenty yards from our centre.

The reader would not thank me for an account of the monotonous drudgery,
the hardships, the quarrellings, which grew worse from day to day after
we left Fort Laramie.  Fred and I were about the only two who were on
speaking terms; we clung to each other, as a sort of forlorn security
against coming disasters.  Gradually it was dawning on me that, under the
existing circumstances, the fulfilment of my hopes would be (as Fred had
predicted) an impossibility; and that to persist in the attempt to
realise them was to court destruction.  As yet, I said nothing of this to
him.  Perhaps I was ashamed to.  Perhaps I secretly acknowledged to
myself that he had been wiser than I, and that my stubbornness was
responsible for the life itself of every one of the party.

Doubtless thoughts akin to these must often have haunted the mind of my
companion; but he never murmured; only uttered a hasty objurgation when
troubles reached a climax, and invariably ended with a burst of cheery
laughter which only the sulkiest could resist.  It was after a day of
severe trials he proposed that we should go off by ourselves for a couple
of nights in search of game, of which we were much in need.  The men were
easily persuaded to halt and rest.  Samson had become a sort of
nonentity.  Dysentery had terribly reduced his strength, and with it such
intelligence as he could boast of.  We started at daybreak, right glad to
be alone together and away from the penal servitude to which we were
condemned.  We made for the Sweetwater, not very far from the foot of the
South Pass, where antelope and black-tailed deer abounded.  We failed,
however, to get near them—stalk after stalk miscarried.

Disappointed and tired, we were looking out for some snug little hollow
where we could light a fire without its being seen by the Indians, when,
just as we found what we wanted, an antelope trotted up to a brow to
inspect us.  I had a fairly good shot at him and missed.  This
disheartened us both.  Meat was the one thing we now sorely needed to
save the rapidly diminishing supply of hams.  Fred said nothing, but I
saw by his look how this trifling accident helped to depress him.  I was
ready to cry with vexation.  My rifle was my pride, the stag of my
life—my _alter ego_.  It was never out of my hands; every day I practised
at prairie dogs, at sage hens, at a mark even if there was no game.  A
few days before we got to Laramie I had killed, right and left, two wild
ducks, the second on the wing; and now, when so much depended on it, I
could not hit a thing as big as a donkey.  The fact is, I was the worse
for illness.  I had constant returns of fever, with bad shivering fits,
which did not improve the steadiness of one’s hand.  However, we managed
to get a supper.  While we were examining the spot where the antelope had
stood, a leveret jumped up, and I knocked him over with my remaining
barrel.  We fried him in the one tin plate we had brought with us, and
thought it the most delicious dish we had had for weeks.

As we lay side by side, smoke curling peacefully from our pipes, we
chatted far into the night, of other days—of Cambridge, of our college
friends, of London, of the opera, of balls, of women—the last a fruitful
subject—and of the future.  I was vastly amused at his sudden outburst as
some start of one of the horses picketed close to us reminded us of the
actual present.  ‘If ever I get out of this d—d mess,’ he exclaimed,
‘I’ll never go anywhere without my own French cook.’  He kept his word,
to the end of his life, I believe.

It was a delightful repose, a complete forgetting, for a night at any
rate, of all impending care.  Each was cheered and strengthened for the
work to come.  The spirit of enterprise, the love of adventure restored
for the moment, believed itself a match for come what would.  The very
animals seemed invigorated by the rest and the abundance of rich grass
spreading as far as we could see.  The morning was bright and cool.  A
delicious bath in the Sweetwater, a breakfast on fried ham and coffee,
and once more in our saddles on the way back to camp, we felt (or fancied
that we felt) prepared for anything.

That is just what we were not.  Samson and the men, meeting with no game
where we had left them, had moved on that afternoon in search of better
hunting grounds.  The result was that when we overtook them, we found
five mules up to their necks in a muddy creek.  The packs were sunk to
the bottom, and the animals nearly drowned or strangled.  Fred and I
rushed to the rescue.  At once we cut the ropes which tied them together;
and, setting the men to pull at tails or heads, succeeded at last in
extricating them.

Our new-born vigour was nipped in the bud.  We were all drenched to the
skin.  Two packs containing the miserable remains of our wardrobe, Fred’s
and mine, were lost.  The catastrophe produced a good deal of bad
language and bad blood.  Translated into English it came to this: ‘They
had trusted to us, taking it for granted we knew what we were about.
What business had we to “boss” the party if we were as ignorant as the
mules?  We had guaranteed to lead them through to California [!] and had
brought them into this “almighty fix” to slave like niggers and to
starve.’  There was just truth enough in the Jeremiad to make it sting.
It would not have been prudent, nay, not very safe, to return curse for
curse.  But the breaking point was reached at last.  That night I, for
one, had not much sleep.  I was soaked from head to foot, and had not a
dry rag for a change.  Alternate fits of fever and rigor would alone have
kept me awake; but renewed ponderings upon the situation and confirmed
convictions of the peremptory necessity of breaking up the party, forced
me to the conclusion that this was the right, the only, course to adopt.

For another twenty-four hours I brooded over my plans.  Two main
difficulties confronted me: the announcement to the men, who might
mutiny; and the parting with Fred, which I dreaded far the most of the
two.  Would he not think it treacherous to cast him off after the
sacrifices he had made for me?  Implicitly we were as good as pledged to
stand by each other to the last gasp.  Was it not mean and dastardly to
run away from the battle because it was dangerous to fight it out?  Had
friendship no claims superior to personal safety?  Was not my decision
prompted by sheer selfishness?  Could anything be said in its defence?

Yes; sentiment must yield to reason.  To go on was certain death for all.
It was not too late to return, for those who wished it.  And when I had
demonstrated, as I could easily do, the impossibility of continuance,
each one could decide for himself.  The men were as reckless as they were
ignorant.  However they might execrate us, we were still their natural
leaders: their blame, indeed, implied they felt it.  No sentimental
argument could obscure this truth, and this conviction was decisive.

The next night and the day after were, from a moral point of view, the
most trying perhaps, of the whole journey.  We had halted on a wide, open
plain.  Due west of us in the far distance rose the snowy peaks of the
mountains.  And the prairie on that side terminated in bluffs, rising
gradually to higher spurs of the range.  When the packs were thrown off,
and the men had turned, as usual, to help themselves to supper, I drew
Fred aside and imparted my resolution to him.  He listened to it
calmly—much more so than I had expected.  Yet it was easy to see by his
unusual seriousness that he fully weighed the gravity of the purpose.
All he said at the time was, ‘Let us talk it over after the men are
asleep.’

We did so.  We placed our saddles side by side—they were our regular
pillows—and, covering ourselves with the same blanket, well out of
ear-shot, discussed the proposition from every practical aspect.  He now
combated my scheme, as I always supposed he would, by laying stress upon
our bond of friendship.  This was met on my part by the arguments already
set forth.  He then proposed an amendment, which almost upset my
decision.  ‘It is true,’ he admitted, ‘that we cannot get through as we
are going now; the provisions will not hold out another month, and it is
useless to attempt to control the men.  But there are two ways out of the
difficulty: we can reach Salt Lake City and winter there; or, if you are
bent on going to California, why shouldn’t we take Jacob and Nelson (the
Canadian), pay off the rest of the brutes, and travel together,—us four?’

Whether ‘das ewig Wirkende’ that shapes our ends be beneficent or
malignant is not easy to tell, till after the event.  Certain it is that
sometimes we seem impelled by latent forces stronger than ourselves—if by
self be meant one’s will.  We cannot give a reason for all we do; the
infinite chain of cause and effect, which has had no beginning and will
have no end, is part of the reckoning,—with this, finite minds can never
grapple.

It was destined (my stubbornness was none of my making) that I should
remain obdurate.  Fred’s last resource was an attempt to persuade me (he
really believed: I, too, thought it likely) that the men would show
fight, annex beasts and provisions, and leave us to shift for ourselves.
There were six of them, armed as we were, to us three, or rather us two,
for Samson was a negligible quantity.  ‘We shall see,’ said I; and by
degrees we dropped asleep.



CHAPTER XXIV


BEFORE the first streak of dawn I was up and off to hunt for the horses
and mules, which were now allowed to roam in search of feed.  On my
return, the men were afoot, taking it easy as usual.  Some artemisia
bushes were ablaze for the morning’s coffee.  No one but Fred had a
suspicion of the coming crisis.  I waited till each one had lighted his
pipe; then quietly requested the lot to gather the provision packs
together, as it was desirable to take stock, and make some estimate of
demand and supply.  Nothing loth, the men obeyed.  ‘Now,’ said I, ‘turn
all the hams out of their bags, and let us see how long they will last.’
When done: ‘What!’ I exclaimed, with well—feigned dismay, ‘that’s not
all, surely?  There are not enough here to last a fortnight.  Where are
the rest?   No more?  Why, we shall starve.’  The men’s faces fell; but
never a murmur, nor a sound.  ‘Turn out the biscuit bags.  Here, spread
these empty ham sacks, and pour the biscuit on to them.  Don’t lose any
of the dust.  We shall want every crumb, mouldy or not.’  The gloomy
faces grew gloomier.  What’s to be done?’  Silence.  ‘The first thing, as
I think all will agree, is to divide what is left into nine equal
shares—that’s our number now—and let each one take his ninth part, to do
what he likes with.  You yourselves shall portion out the shares, and
then draw lots for choice.’

This presentation of the inevitable compelled submission.  The whole,
amounting to twelve light mule packs (it had been fifteen fairly heavy
ones after our purchases at Fort Laramie), was still a goodly bulk to
look at.  The nine peddling dividends, when seen singly, were not quite
what the shareholders had anticipated.

Why were they still silent?  Why did they not rebel, and visit their
wrath upon the directors?  Because they knew in their hearts that we had
again and again predicted the catastrophe.  They knew we had warned them
scores and scores of times of the consequences of their wilful and
reckless improvidence.  They were stupefied, aghast, at the ruin they had
brought upon themselves.  To turn upon us, to murder us, and divide our
three portions between them, would have been suicidal.  In the first
place, our situation was as desperate as theirs.  We should fight for our
lives; and it was not certain, in fact it was improbable, that either
Jacob or William would side against us.  Without our aid—they had not a
compass among them—they were helpless.  The instinct of self-preservation
bade them trust to our good will.

So far, then, the game was won.  Almost humbly they asked what we advised
them to do.  The answer was prompt and decisive: ‘Get back to Fort
Laramie as fast as you can.’  ‘But how?  Were they to walk?  They
couldn’t carry their packs.’  ‘Certainly not; we were English gentlemen,
and would behave as such.  Each man should have his own mule; each, into
the bargain, should receive his pay according to agreement.’  They were
agreeably surprised.  I then very strongly counselled them not to travel
together.  Past experience proved how dangerous this must be.  To avoid
the temptation, even the chance, of this happening, the surest and safest
plan would be for each party to start separately, and not leave till the
last was out of sight.  For my part I had resolved to go alone.

It was a melancholy day for everyone.  And to fill the cup of
wretchedness to overflowing, the rain, beginning with a drizzle, ended
with a downpour.  Consultations took place between men who had not spoken
to one another for weeks.  Fred offered to go on, at all events to Salt
Lake City, if Nelson the Canadian and Jacob would go with him.  Both
eagerly closed with the offer.  They would be so much nearer to the
‘diggings,’ and were, moreover, fond of their leader.  Louis would go
back to Fort Laramie.  Potter and Morris would cross the mountains, and
strike south for the Mormon city if their provisions and mules threatened
to give out.  William would try his luck alone in the same way.  And
there remained no one but Samson, undecided and unprovided for.  The
strong weak man sat on the ground in the steady rain, smoking pipe after
pipe; watching first the preparations, then the departures, one after the
other, at intervals of an hour or so.  First the singles, then the pair;
then, late in the afternoon, Fred and his two henchmen.

It is needless to depict our separation.  I do not think either expected
ever to see the other again.  Yet we parted after the manner of trueborn
Britons, as if we should meet again in a day or two.  ‘Well, good-bye,
old fellow.  Good luck.  What a beastly day, isn’t it?’  But emotions are
only partially suppressed by subduing their expression.  The hearts of
both were full.

I watched the gradual disappearance of my dear friend, and thought with a
sigh of my loss in Jacob and Nelson, the two best men of the band.  It
was a comfort to reflect that they had joined Fred.  Jacob especially was
full of resource; Nelson of energy and determination.  And the courage
and cool judgment of Fred, and his presence of mind in emergencies, were
all pledges for the safety of the trio.

As they vanished behind a distant bluff, I turned to the sodden wreck of
the deserted camp, and began actively to pack my mules.  Samson seemed
paralysed by imbecility.

‘What had I better do?’ he presently asked, gazing with dull eyes at his
two mules and two horses.

‘I don’t care what you do.  It is nothing to me.  You had better pack
your mules before it is dark, or you may lose them.’

‘I may as well go with you, I think.  I don’t care much about going back
to Laramie.’

He looked miserable.  I was so.  I had held out under a long and heavy
strain.  Parting with Fred had, for the moment, staggered my resolution.
I was sick at heart.  The thought of packing two mules twice a day,
single-handed, weakened as I was by illness, appalled me.  And though
ashamed of the perversity which had led me to fling away the better and
accept the worse, I yielded.

‘Very well then.  Make haste.  Get your traps together.  I’ll look after
the horses.’

It took more than an hour before the four mules were ready.  Like a fool,
I left Samson to tie the led horses in a string, while I did the same
with the mules.  He started, leading the horses.  I followed with the
mule train some minutes later.  Our troubles soon began.  The two spare
horses were nearly as wild as the mules.  I had not got far when I
discerned through the rain a kicking and plunging and general
entanglement of the lot ahead of me.  Samson had fastened the horses
together with slip knots; and they were all doing their best to strangle
one another and themselves.  To leave the mules was dangerous, yet two
men were required to release the maddened horses.  At last the labour was
accomplished; and once more the van pushed on with distinct instructions
as to the line of march, it being now nearly dark.  The mules had
naturally vanished in the gloom; and by the time I was again in my
saddle, Samson was—I knew not where.  On and on I travelled, far into the
night.  But failing to overtake my companion, and taking for granted that
he had missed his way, I halted when I reached a stream, threw off the
packs, let the animals loose, rolled myself in my blanket, and shut my
eyes upon a trying day.

Nothing happens but the unexpected.  Daylight woke me.  Samson, still in
his rugs, was but a couple of hundred yards further up the stream.  In
the afternoon of the third day we fell in with William.  He had cut
himself a long willow wand and was fishing for trout, of which he had
caught several in the upper reaches of the Sweetwater.  He threw down his
rod, hastened to welcome our arrival, and at once begged leave to join
us.  He was already sick of solitude.  He had come across Potter and
Morris, who had left him that morning.  They had been visited by wolves
in the night, (I too had been awakened by their howlings,) and poor
William did not relish the thought of the mountains alone, with his one
little white mule—which he called ‘Cream.’  He promised to do his utmost
to help with the packing, and ‘not cost us a cent.’  I did not tell him
how my heart yearned towards him, and how miserably my courage had oozed
away since we parted, but made a favour of his request, and granted it.
The gain, so long as it lasted, was incalculable.

The summit of the South Pass is between 8000 and 9000 feet above the
level of the Gulf of Mexico.  The Pass itself is many miles broad,
undulating on the surface, but not abruptly.  The peaks of the Wind River
Chain, immediately to the north, are covered with snow; and as we
gradually got into the misty atmosphere we felt the cold severely.  The
lariats—made of raw hide—became rods of ice; and the poor animals, whose
backs were masses of festering raws, suffered terribly from exposure.  It
was interesting to come upon proofs of the ‘divide’ within a mile of the
most elevated point in the pass.  From the Hudson to this spot, all
waters had flowed eastward; now suddenly every little rivulet was making
for the Pacific.

The descent is as gradual as the rise.  On the first day of it we lost
two animals, a mule and Samson’s spare horse.  The latter, never equal to
the heavy weight of its owner, could go no further; and the dreadful
state of the mule’s back rendered packing a brutality.  Morris and
Potter, who passed us a few days later, told us they had seen the horse
dead, and partially eaten by wolves; the mule they had shot to put it out
of its misery.

In due course we reached Fort Hall, a trading post of the Hudson’s Bay
Company, some 200 miles to the north-west of the South Pass.  Sir George
Simpson, Chairman of that Company, had given me letters, which ensured
the assistance of its servants.  It was indeed a rest and a luxury to
spend a couple of idle days here, and revive one’s dim recollection of
fresh eggs and milk.  But we were already in September.  Our animals were
in a deplorable condition; and with the exception of a little flour, a
small supply of dried meat, and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the
trader, had nothing to sell us.  He told us, moreover, that before we
reached Fort Boisé, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had to
traverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-and-twenty
hours after leaving water, before we met with it again.  There was
nothing for it but to press onwards.  It was too late now to cross the
Sierra Nevada range, which lay between us and California; and with the
miserable equipment left to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach
Oregon before the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by the
winter’s snow.

Mr. Grant’s warnings were verified to the foot of the letter.  Great were
our sufferings, and almost worse were those of the poor animals, from the
want of water.  Then, too, unlike the desert of Sahara, where the pebbly
sand affords a solid footing, the soil here is the calcined powder of
volcanic débris, so fine that every step in it is up to one’s ankles;
while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and covering one from head
to heel.  Here is a passage from my journal:

‘Road rocky in places, but generally deep in the finest floury sand.  A
strong and biting wind blew dead in our teeth, smothering us in dust,
which filled every pore.  William presented such a ludicrous appearance
that Samson and I went into fits over it.  An old felt hat, fastened on
by a red cotton handkerchief, tied under his chin, partly hid his
lantern-jawed visage; this, naturally of a dolorous cast, was screwed
into wrinkled contortions by its efforts to resist the piercing gale.
The dust, as white as flour, had settled thick upon him, the extremity of
his nasal organ being the only rosy spot left; its pearly drops lodged
upon a chin almost as prominent.  His shoulders were shrugged to a level
with his head, and his long legs dangled from the back of little “Cream”
till they nearly touched the ground.’

We laughed at him, it is true, but he was so good-natured, so patient, so
simple-minded, and, now and then, when he and I were alone, so
sentimental and confidential about Mary, and the fortune he meant to
bring her back, that I had a sort of maternal liking for him; and even a
vicarious affection for Mary herself, the colour of whose eyes and
hair—nay, whose weight avoirdupois—I was now accurately acquainted with.
No, the honest fellow had not quite the grit of a ‘Leatherstocking.’

One night, when we had halted after dark, he went down to a gully (we
were not then in the desert) to look for water for our tea.  Samson,
armed with the hatchet, was chopping wood.  I stayed to arrange the
packs, and spread the blankets.  Suddenly I heard a voice from the bottom
of the ravine, crying out, ‘Bring the guns for God’s sake!  Make haste!
Bring the guns!’  I rushed about in the dark, tumbling over the saddles,
but could nowhere lay my hands on a rifle.  Still the cry was for ‘Guns!’
My own, a muzzle-loader, was discharged, but a rifle none the less.
Snatching up this, and one of my pistols, which, by the way, had fallen
into the river a few hours before, I shouted for Samson, and ran headlong
to the rescue.  Before I got to the bottom of the hill I heard groans,
which sounded like the last of poor William.  I holloaed to know where he
was, and was answered in a voice that discovered nothing worse than
terror.

It appeared that he had met a grizzly bear drinking at the very spot
where he was about to fill his can; that he had bolted, and the bear had
pursued him; but that he had ‘cobbled the bar with rocks,’ had hit it in
the eye, or nose, he was not sure which, and thus narrowly escaped with
his life.  I could not help laughing at his story, though an examination
of the place next morning so far verified it, that his footprints and the
bear’s were clearly intermingled on the muddy shore of the stream.  To
make up for his fright, he was extremely courageous when restored by tea
and a pipe.  ‘If we would follow the trail with him, he’d go right slick
in for her anyhow.  If his rifle didn’t shoot plum, he’d a bowie as ’ud
rise her hide, and no mistake.  He’d be darn’d if he didn’t make meat of
that bar in the morning.’



CHAPTER XXV


WE were now steering by compass.  Our course was nearly north-west.  This
we kept, as well as the formation of the country and the watercourses
would permit.  After striking the great Shoshone, or Snake River, which
eventually becomes the Columbia, we had to follow its banks in a
southerly direction.  These are often supported by basaltic columns
several hundred feet in height.  Where that was the case, though close to
water, we suffered most from want of it.  And cold as were the nights—it
was the middle of September—the sun was intensely hot.  Every day, every
mile, we were hoping for a change—not merely for access to the water, but
that we might again pursue our westerly course.  The scenery was
sometimes very striking.  The river hereabouts varies from one hundred to
nearly three hundred yards in width; sometimes rushing through narrow
gorges, sometimes descending in continuous rapids, sometimes spread out
in smooth shallow reaches.  It was for one of these that we were in
search, for only at such points was the river passable.

It was night-time when we came to one of the great falls.  We were able
here to get at water; and having halted through the day, on account of
the heat, kept on while our animals were refreshed.  We had to ascend the
banks again, and wind along the brink of the precipice.  From this the
view was magnificent.  The moon shone brightly upon the dancing waves
hundreds of feet below us, and upon the rapids which extended as far as
we could see.  The deep shade of the high cliffs contrasted in its
impenetrable darkness with the brilliancy of the silvery foam.  The vast
plain which we overlooked, fading in the soft light, rose gradually into
a low range of distant hills.  The incessant roar of the rapids, and the
desert stillness of all else around, though they lulled one’s senses, yet
awed one with a feeling of insignificance and impotence in the presence
of such ruthless force, amid such serene and cold indifference.
Unbidden, the consciousness was there, that for some of us the coming
struggle with those mighty waters was fraught with life or death.

At last we came upon a broad stretch of the river which seemed to offer
the possibilities we sought for.  Rather late in the afternoon we decided
to cross here, notwithstanding William’s strong reluctance to make the
venture.  Part of his unwillingness was, I knew, due to apprehension,
part to his love of fishing.  Ever since we came down upon the Snake
River we had seen quantities of salmon.  He persisted in the belief that
they were to be caught with the rod.  The day before, all three of us had
waded into the river, and flogged it patiently for a couple of hours,
while heavy fish were tumbling about above and below us.  We caught
plenty of trout, but never pricked a salmon.  Here the broad reach was
alive with them, and William begged hard to stop for the afternoon and
pursue the gentle sport.  It was not to be.

The tactics were as usual.  Samson led the way, holding the lariat to
which the two spare horses were attached.  In crossing streams the mules
would always follow the horses.  They were accordingly let loose, and
left to do so.  William and I brought up the rear, driving before us any
mule that lagged.  My journal records the sequel:

‘At about equal distances from each other and the main land were two
small islands.  The first of these we reached without trouble.  The
second was also gained; but the packs were wetted, the current being
exceedingly rapid.  The space remaining to be forded was at least two
hundred yards; and the stream so strong that I was obliged to turn my
mare’s head up it to prevent her being carried off her legs.  While thus
resting, William with difficulty,—the water being over his knees,—sidled
up to me.  He wanted to know if I still meant to cross.  For all answer,
I laughed at him.  In truth I had not the smallest misgiving.  Strong as
was the current, the smooth rocky bottom gave a good foothold to the
animals; and, judging by the great width of the river, there was no
reason to suppose that its shallowness would not continue.

‘We paused for a few minutes to observe Samson, who was now within forty
or fifty yards of the opposite bank; and, as I concluded, past all
danger.  Suddenly, to the astonishment of both of us, he and his horse
and the led animals disappeared under water; the next instant they were
struggling and swimming for the bank.  Tied together as they were, there
was a deal of snorting and plunging; and Samson (with his habitual
ingenuity) had fastened the lariat either to himself or his saddle; so
that he was several times dragged under before they all got to the bank
in safety.

‘These events were watched by William with intense anxiety.  With a
pitiable look of terror he assured me he could not swim a yard; it was
useless for him to try to cross; he would turn back, and find his way to
Salt Lake City.

‘“But,” I remonstrated, “if you turn back, you will certainly starve;
everything we possess is over there with the mules; your blanket, even
your rifle, are with the packs.  It is impossible to get the mules back
again.  Give little Cream her head, sit still in your saddle, and she’ll
carry you through that bit of deep water with ease.”

‘“I can live by fishing,” he plaintively answered.  He still held his
long rod, and the incongruity of it added to the pathos of his despair.
I reminded him of a bad river we had before crossed, and how his mule had
swum it safely with him on her back.  I promised to keep close to him,
and help him if need were, though I was confident if he left everything
to Cream there would be no danger.  “Well, if he must, he must.  But, if
anything happened to him, would I write and tell Mary?  I knew her
address; leastways, if I didn’t, it was in his bag on the brown mule.
And tell her I done my best.”

‘The water was so clear one could see every crack in the rock beneath.
Fortunately, I took the precaution to strip to my shirt; fastened
everything, even my socks, to the saddle; then advanced cautiously ahead
of William to the brink of the chasm.  We were, in fact, upon the edge of
a precipice.  One could see to an inch where the gulf began.  As my mare
stepped into it I slipped off my saddle; when she rose I laid hold of her
tail, and in two or three minutes should have been safe ashore.

‘Looking back to see how it had fared with William, I at once perceived
his danger.  He had clasped his mule tightly round the neck with his
arms, and round the body with his long legs.  She was plunging violently
to get rid of her load.  Already the pair were forty or fifty yards below
me.  Instantly I turned and swam to his assistance.  The struggles of the
mule rendered it dangerous to get at him.  When I did so he was partially
dazed; his hold was relaxed.  Dragging him away from the hoofs of the
animal, I begged him to put his hands on my shoulders or hips.  He was
past any effort of the kind.  I do not think he heard me even.  He seemed
hardly conscious of anything.  His long wet hair plastered over the face
concealed his features.  Beyond stretching out his arms, like an infant
imploring help, he made no effort to save himself.

‘I seized him firmly by the collar,—unfortunately, with my right hand,
leaving only my left to stem the torrent.  But how to keep his face out
of the water?  At every stroke I was losing strength; we were being swept
away, for him, to hopeless death.  At length I touched bottom, got both
hands under his head, and held it above the surface.  He still breathed,
still puffed the hair from his lips.  There was still a hope, if I could
but maintain my footing.  But, alas! each instant I was losing
ground—each instant I was driven back, foot by foot, towards the gulf.
The water, at first only up to my chest, was now up to my shoulders, now
up to my neck.  My strength was gone.  My arms ached till they could bear
no more.  They sank involuntarily.  William glided from my hands.  He
fell like lead till his back lay stretched upon the rock.  His arms were
spread out, so that his body formed a cross.  I paddled above it in the
clear, smooth water, gazing at his familiar face, till two or three large
bubbles burst upon the surface; then, hardly knowing what I was doing,
floated mechanically from the trapper’s grave.

                              . . . . . . .

‘My turn was now to come.  At first, the right, or western, bank being
within sixty or seventy yards, being also my proper goal, I struck out
for it with mere eagerness to land as soon as possible.  The attempt
proved unsuccessful.  Very well, then, I would take it quietly—not try to
cross direct, but swim on gently, keeping my head that way.  By degrees I
got within twenty yards of the bank, was counting joyfully on the rest
which a few more strokes would bring me, when—wsh—came a current, and
swept me right into the middle of the stream again.

‘I began to be alarmed.  I must get out of this somehow or another;
better on the wrong side than not at all.  So I let myself go, and made
for the shore we had started from.

‘Same fate.  When well over to the left bank I was carried out again.
What! was I too to be drowned?  It began to look like it.  I was getting
cold, numb, exhausted.  And—listen!  What is that distant sound?  Rapids?
Yes, rapids.  My flannel shirt stuck to, and impeded me; I would have it
off.  I got it over my head, but hadn’t unbuttoned the studs—it stuck,
partly over my head.  I tugged to tear it off.  Got a drop of water into
my windpipe; was choking; tugged till I got the shirt right again.  Then
tried floating on my back—to cough and get my breath.  Heard the rapids
much louder.  It was getting dark now.  The sun was setting in glorious
red and gold.  I noticed this, noticed the salmon rolling like porpoises
around me, and thought of William with his rod.  Strangest of all, for I
had not noticed her before, little Cream was still struggling for dear
life not a hundred yards below me; sometimes sinking, sometimes
reappearing, but on her way to join her master, as surely as I thought
that I was.

‘In my distress, the predominant thought was the loneliness of my fate,
the loneliness of my body after death.  There was not a living thing to
see me die.

‘For the first time I felt, not fear, but loss of hope.  I could only
beat the water with feeble and futile splashes.  I was completely at its
mercy.  And—as we all then do—I prayed—prayed for strength, prayed that I
might be spared.  But my strength was gone.  My legs dropped powerless in
the water.  I could but just keep my nose or mouth above it.  My legs
sank, and my feet—touched bottom.

‘In an instant, as if from an electric shock, a flush of energy suffused
my brain and limbs.  I stood upright in an almost tranquil pool.  An eddy
had lodged me on a sandbank.  Between it and the land was scarcely twenty
yards.  Through this gap the stream ran strong as ever.  I did not want
to rest; I did not pause to think.  In I dashed; and a single spurt
carried me to the shore.  I fell on my knees, and with a grateful heart
poured out gratitude for my deliverance.

                              . . . . . . .

‘I was on the wrong side, the side from which we started.  The river was
yet to cross.  I had not tasted food since our early meal.  How long I
had been swimming I know not, but it was dark now, starlight at least.
The nights were bitterly cold, and my only clothing a wet flannel shirt.
And oh! the craving for companionship, someone to talk to—even Samson.
This was a stronger need than warmth, or food, or clothing; so strong
that it impelled me to try again.

‘The poor sandy soil grew nothing but briars and small cactuses.  In the
dark I kept treading on the little prickly plants, but I hurried on till
I came in sight of Samson’s fire.  I could see his huge form as it
intercepted the comfortable blaze.  I pictured him making his tea,
broiling some of William’s trout, and spreading his things before the
fire to dry.  I could see the animals moving around the glow.  It was my
home.  How I yearned for it!  How should I reach it, if ever?  In this
frame of mind the attempt was irresistible.  I started as near as I could
from opposite the two islands.  As on horseback, I got pretty easily to
the first island.  Beyond this I was taken off my feet by the stream; and
only with difficulty did I once more regain the land.

My next object was to communicate with Samson.  By putting both hands to
my mouth and shouting with all my force I made him hear.  I could see him
get up and come to the water’s edge; though he could not see me, his
stentorian voice reached me plainly.  His first words were:

‘“Is that you, William?  Coke is drowned.”

‘I corrected him, and thus replied:

‘“Do you remember a bend near some willows, where you wanted to cross
yesterday?”

‘“Yes.”

‘“About two hours higher up the river?”

‘“I remember.”

‘“Would you know the place again?”

‘“Yes.”

‘“Are you sure?”

‘“Yes, yes.”

‘“You will see me by daylight in the morning.  When I start, you will
take my mare, my clothes, and some food; make for that place and wait
till I come.  I will cross there.”

‘“All right.”

‘“Keep me in sight as long as you can.  Don’t forget the food.”

‘It will be gathered from my words that definite instructions were deemed
necessary; and the inference—at least it was mine—will follow, that if a
mistake were possible Samson would avail himself of it.  The night was
before me.  The river had yet to be crossed.  But, strange as it now
seems to me, I had no misgivings!  My heart never failed me.  My prayer
had been heard.  I had been saved.  How, I knew not.  But this I knew, my
trust was complete.  I record this as a curious psychological occurrence;
for it supported me with unfailing energy through the severe trial which
I had yet to undergo.’



CHAPTER XXVI


OUR experiences are little worth unless they teach us to reflect.  Let us
then pause to consider this hourly experience of human beings—this
remarkable efficacy of prayer.  There can hardly be a contemplative mind
to which, with all its difficulties, the inquiry is not familiar.

To begin with, ‘To pray is to expect a miracle.’  ‘Prayer in its very
essence,’ says a thoughtful writer, ‘implies a belief in the possible
intervention of a power which is above nature.’  How was it in my case?
What was the essence of my belief?  Nothing less than this: that God
would have permitted the laws of nature, ordained by His infinite wisdom
to fulfil His omniscient designs and pursue their natural course in
accordance with His will, had not my request persuaded Him to suspend
those laws in my favour.

The very belief in His omniscience and omnipotence subverts the spirit of
such a prayer.  It is on the perfection of God that Malebranche bases his
argument that ‘Dieu n’agit pas par des volontés particulières.’  Yet
every prayer affects to interfere with the divine purposes.

It may here be urged that the divine purposes are beyond our
comprehension.  God’s purposes may, in spite of the inconceivability,
admit the efficacy of prayer as a link in the chain of causation; or, as
Dr. Mozely holds, it may be that ‘a miracle is not an anomaly or
irregularity, but part of the system of the universe.’  We will not
entangle ourselves in the abstruse metaphysical problem which such
hypotheses involve, but turn for our answer to what we do know—to the
history of this world, to the daily life of man.  If the sun rises on the
evil as well as on the good, if the wicked ‘become old, yea, are mighty
in power,’ still, the lightning, the plague, the falling chimney-pot,
smite the good as well as the evil.  Even the dumb animal is not spared.
‘If,’ says Huxley, ‘our ears were sharp enough to hear all the cries of
pain that are uttered in the earth by man and beasts we should be
deafened by one continuous scream.’  ‘If there are any marks at all of
special design in creation,’ writes John Stuart Mill, ‘one of the things
most evidently designed is that a large proportion of all animals should
pass their existence in tormenting and devouring other animals.  They
have been lavishly fitted out with the instruments for that purpose.’  Is
it credible, then, that the Almighty Being who, as we assume, hears this
continuous scream—animal-prayer, as we may call it—and not only pays no
heed to it, but lavishly fits out animals with instruments for tormenting
and devouring one another, that such a Being should suspend the laws of
gravitation and physiology, should perform a miracle equal to that of
arresting the sun—for all miracles are equipollent—simply to prolong the
brief and useless existence of such a thing as man, of one man out of the
myriads who shriek, and—shriek in vain?

To pray is to expect a miracle.  Then comes the further question: Is this
not to expect what never yet has happened?  The only proof of any miracle
is the interpretation the witness or witnesses put upon what they have
seen.  (Traditional miracles—miracles that others have been told, that
others have seen—we need not trouble our heads about.)  What that proof
has been worth hitherto has been commented upon too often to need
attention here.  Nor does the weakness of the evidence for miracles
depend solely on the fact that it rests, in the first instance, on the
senses, which may be deceived; or upon inference, which may be erroneous.
It is not merely that the infallibility of human testimony discredits the
miracles of the past.  The impossibility that human knowledge, that
science, can ever exhaust the possibilities of Nature, precludes the
immediate reference to the Supernatural for all time.  It is pure
sophistry to argue, as do Canon Row and other defenders of miracles, that
‘the laws of Nature are no more violated by the performance of a miracle
than they are by the activities of a man.’  If these arguments of the
special pleaders had any force at all, it would simply amount to this:
‘The activities of man’ being a part of nature, we have no evidence of a
supernatural being, which is the sole _raison d’être_ of miracle.

Yet thousands of men in these days who admit the force of these
objections continue, in spite of them, to pray.  Huxley, the foremost of
‘agnostics,’ speaks with the utmost respect of his friend Charles
Kingsley’s conviction from experience of the efficacy of prayer.  And
Huxley himself repeatedly assures us, in some form or other, that ‘the
possibilities of “may be” are to me infinite.’  The puzzle is, in truth,
on a par with that most insolvable of all puzzles—Free Will or
Determinism.  Reason and the instinct of conscience are in both cases
irreconcilable.  We are conscious that we are always free to choose,
though not to act; but reason will have it that this is a delusion.
There is no logical clue to the _impasse_.  Still, reason
notwithstanding, we take our freedom (within limits) for granted, and
with like inconsequence we pray.

It must, I think, be admitted that the belief, delusive or warranted, is
efficacious in itself.  Whether generated in the brain by the nerve
centres, or whatever may be its origin, a force coincident with it is
diffused throughout the nervous system, which converts the subject of it,
just paralysed by despair, into a vigorous agent, or, if you will,
automaton.

Now, those who admit this much argue, with no little force, that the
efficacy of prayer is limited to its reaction upon ourselves.  Prayer, as
already observed, implies belief in supernatural intervention.  Such
belief is competent to beget hope, and with it courage, energy, and
effort.  Suppose contrition and remorse induce the sufferer to pray for
Divine aid and mercy, suppose suffering is the natural penalty of his or
her own misdeeds, and suppose the contrition and the prayer lead to
resistance of similar temptations, and hence to greater happiness,—can it
be said that the power to resist temptation or endure the penalty are due
to supernatural aid?  Or must we not infer that the fear of the
consequences of vice or folly, together with an earnest desire and
intention to amend, were adequate in themselves to account for the good
results?

Reason compels us to the latter conclusion.  But what then?  Would this
prove prayer to be delusive?  Not necessarily.  That the laws of Nature
(as argued above) are not violated by miracle, is a mere perversion of
the accepted meaning of ‘miracle,’ an _ignoratio elenchi_.  But in the
case of prayer that does not ask for the abrogation of Nature’s laws, it
ceases to be a miracle that we pray for or expect: for are not the laws
of the mind also laws of Nature?  And can we explain them any more than
we can explain physical laws?  A psychologist can formulate the mental
law of association, but he can no more explain it than Newton could
explain the laws of attraction and repulsion which pervade the world of
matter.  We do not know, we cannot know, what the conditions of our
spiritual being are.  The state of mind induced by prayer may, in
accordance with some mental law, be essential to certain modes of
spiritual energy, specially conducive to the highest of all moral or
spiritual results: taken in this sense, prayer may ask, not the
suspension, but the enactment, of some natural law.

Let it, however, be granted, for argument’s sake, that the belief in the
efficacy of prayer is delusive, and that the beneficial effects of the
belief—the exalted state of mind, the enhanced power to endure suffering
and resist temptation, the happiness inseparable from the assurance that
God hears, and can and will befriend us—let it be granted that all this
is due to sheer hallucination, is this an argument against prayer?
Surely not.  For, in the first place, the incontestable fact that belief
does produce these effects is for us an ultimate fact as little capable
of explanation as any physical law whatever; and may, therefore, for
aught we know, or ever can know, be ordained by a Supreme Being.
Secondly, all the beneficial effects, including happiness, are as real in
themselves as if the belief were no delusion.

It may be said that a ‘fool’s paradise’ is liable to be turned into a
hell of disappointment; and that we pay the penalty of building happiness
on false foundations.  This is true in a great measure; but it is
absolutely without truth as regards our belief in prayer, for the simple
reason that if death dispel the delusion, it at the same time dispels the
deluded.  However great the mistake, it can never be found out.  But they
who make it will have been the better and the happier while they lived.

For my part, though immeasurably preferring the pantheism of Goethe, or
of Renan (without his pessimism), to the anthropomorphic God of the
Israelites, or of their theosophic legatees, the Christians, however
inconsistent, I still believe in prayer.  I should not pray that I may
not die ‘for want of breath’; nor for rain, while ‘the wind was in the
wrong quarter.’  My prayers would not be like those overheard, on his
visit to Heaven, by Lucian’s Menippus: ‘O Jupiter, let me become a king!’
‘O Jupiter, let my onions and my garlic thrive!’  ‘O Jupiter, let my
father soon depart from hence!’  But when the workings of my moral nature
were concerned, when I needed strength to bear the ills which could not
be averted, or do what conscience said was right, then I should pray.
And, if I had done my best in the same direction, I should trust in the
Unknowable for help.

Then too, is not gratitude to Heaven the best of prayers?  Unhappy he who
has never felt it!  Unhappier still, who has never had cause to feel it!

It may be deemed unwarrantable thus to draw the lines between what, for
want of better terms, we call Material and Spiritual.  Still, reason is
but the faculty of a very finite being; and, as in the enigma of the
will, utterly incapable of solving any problems beyond those whose data
are furnished by the senses.  Reason is essentially realistic.  Science
is its domain.  But science demonstratively proves that things are not
what they seem; their phenomenal existence is nothing else than their
relation to our special intelligence.  We speak and think as if the
discoveries of science were absolutely true, true in themselves, not
relatively so for us only.  Yet, beings with senses entirely different
from ours would have an entirely different science.  For them, our best
established axioms would be inconceivable, would have no more meaning
than that ‘Abracadabra is a second intention.’

Science, supported by reason, assures us that the laws of nature—the laws
of realistic phenomena—are never suspended at the prayers of man.  To
this conclusion the educated world is now rapidly coming.  If,
nevertheless, men thoroughly convinced of this still choose to believe in
the efficacy of prayer, reason and science are incompetent to confute
them.  The belief must be tried elsewhere,—it must be transferred to the
tribunal of conscience, or to a metaphysical court, in which reason has
no jurisdiction.

This by no means implies that reason, in its own province, is to yield to
the ‘feeling’ which so many cite as the infallible authority for their
‘convictions.’

We must not be asked to assent to contradictory propositions.  We must
not be asked to believe that injustice, cruelty, and implacable revenge,
are not execrable because the Bible tells us they were habitually
manifested by the tribal god of the Israelites.  The fables of man’s fall
and of the redemption are fraught with the grossest violation of our
moral conscience, and will, in time, be repudiated accordingly.  It is
idle to say, as the Church says, ‘these are mysteries above our human
reason.’  They are fictions, fabrications which modern research has
traced to their sources, and which no unperverted mind would entertain
for a moment.  Fanatical belief in the truth of such dogmas based upon
‘feeling’ have confronted all who have gone through the severe ordeal of
doubt.  A couple of centuries ago, those who held them would have burnt
alive those who did not.  Now, they have to console themselves with the
comforting thought of the fire that shall never be quenched.  But even
Job’s patience could not stand the self-sufficiency of his pious
reprovers.  The sceptic too may retort: ‘No doubt but ye are the people,
and wisdom shall die with you.’

Conviction of this kind is but the convenient substitute for knowledge
laboriously won, for the patient pursuit of truth at all costs—a plea in
short, for ignorance, indolence, incapacity, and the rancorous bigotry
begotten of them.

The distinction is not a purely sentimental one—not a belief founded
simply on emotion.  There is a physical world—the world as known to our
senses, and there is a psychical world—the world of feeling,
consciousness, thought, and moral life.

Granting, if it pleases you, that material phenomena may be the causes of
mental phenomena, that ‘la pensée est le produit du corps entier,’ still
the two cannot be thought of as one.  Until it can be proved that ‘there
is nothing in the world but matter, force, and necessity,’—which will
never be, till we know how we lift our hands to our mouths,—there remains
for us a world of mystery, which reason never can invade.

It is a pregnant thought of John Mill’s, apropos of material and mental
interdependence or identity, ‘that the uniform coexistence of one fact
with another does not make the one fact a part of the other, or the same
with it.’

A few words of Renan’s may help to support the argument.  ‘Ce qui révèle
le vrai Dieu, c’est le sentiment moral.  Si l’humanité n’était
qu’intelligente, elle serait athée.  Le devoir, le dévouement, le
sacrifice, toutes choses dont l’histoire est pleine, sont inexplicables
sans Dieu.’  For all these we need help.  Is it foolishness to pray for
it?  Perhaps so.  Yet, perhaps not; for ‘Tout est possible, même Dieu.’

Whether possible, or impossible, this much is absolutely certain: man
must and will have a religion as long as this world lasts.  Let us not
fear truth.  Criticism will change men’s dogmas, but it will not change
man’s nature.



CHAPTER XXVII


MY confidence was restored, and with it my powers of endurance.  Sleep
was out of the question.  The night was bright and frosty; and there was
not heat enough in my body to dry my flannel shirt.  I made shift to pull
up some briar bushes; and, piling them round me as a screen, got some
little shelter from the light breeze.  For hours I lay watching Alpha
Centauri—the double star of the Great Bear’s pointers—dipping under the
Polar star like the hour hand of a clock.  My thoughts, strange to say,
ran little on the morrow; they dwelt almost solely upon William Nelson.
How far was I responsible, to what extent to blame, for leading him,
against his will, to death?  I re-enacted the whole event.  Again he was
in my hands, still breathing when I let him go, knowing, as I did so,
that the deed consigned him living to his grave.  In this way I passed
the night.

Just as the first streaks of the longed-for dawn broke in the East, I
heard distant cries which sounded like the whoops of Indians.  Then they
ceased, but presently began again much nearer than before.  There was no
mistake about them now,—they were the yappings of a pack of wolves,
clearly enough, upon our track of yesterday.  A few minutes more, and the
light, though still dim, revealed their presence coming on at full
gallop.  In vain I sought for stick or stone.  Even the river, though I
took to it, would not save me if they meant mischief.  When they saw me
they slackened their pace.  I did not move.  They then halted, and
forming a half-moon some thirty yards off, squatted on their haunches,
and began at intervals to throw up their heads and howl.

My chief hope was in the coming daylight.  They were less likely to
attack a man then than in the dark.  I had often met one or two together
when hunting; these had always bolted.  But I had never seen a pack
before; and I knew a pack meant that they were after food.  All depended
on their hunger.

When I kept still they got up, advanced a yard or two, then repeated
their former game.  Every minute the light grew stronger; its warmer
tints heralded the rising sun.  Seeing, however, that my passivity
encouraged them, and convinced that a single step in retreat would bring
the pack upon me, I determined in a moment of inspiration to run amuck,
and trust to Providence for the consequences.  Flinging my arms wildly
into the air, and frantically yelling with all my lungs, I dashed
straight in for the lot of them.  They were, as I expected, taken by
surprise.  They jumped to their feet and turned tail, but again
stopped—this time farther off, and howled with vexation at having to wait
till their prey succumbed.

The sun rose.  Samson was on the move.  I shouted to him, and he to me.
Finding me thus reinforced the enemy slunk off, and I was not sorry to
see the last of my ugly foes.  I now repeated my instructions about our
trysting place, waited patiently till Samson had breakfasted (which he
did with the most exasperating deliberation), saw him saddle my horse and
leave his camp.  I then started upon my travels up the river, to meet
him.  After a mile or so, the high ground on both banks obliged us to
make some little detour.  We then lost sight of each other; nor was he to
be seen when I reached the appointed spot.

Long before I did so I began to feel the effects of my labours.  My naked
feet were in a terrible state from the cactus thorns, which I had been
unable to avoid in the dark; occasional stones, too, had bruised and made
them very tender.  Unable to shuffle on at more than two miles an hour at
fastest, the happy thought occurred to me of tearing up my shirt and
binding a half round each foot.  This enabled me to get on much better;
but when the September sun was high, my unprotected skin and head paid
the penalty.  I waited for a couple of hours, I dare say, hoping Samson
would appear.  But concluding at length that he had arrived long before
me, through the slowness of my early progress, and had gone further up
the river—thinking perhaps that I had meant some other place—I gave him
up; and, full of internal ‘d—n’ at his incorrigible consistency, plodded
on and on for—I knew not where.

Why, it may be asked, did I not try to cross where I had intended?  I
must confess my want of courage.  True, the river here was not half, not
a third, of the width of the scene of my disasters; but I was weak in
body and in mind.  Had anything human been on the other side to see me—to
see how brave I was, (alas! poor human nature!)—I could have plucked up
heart to risk it.  It would have been such a comfort to have some one to
see me drown!  But it is difficult to play the hero with no spectators
save oneself.  I shall always have a fellow-feeling with the Last Man:
practically, my position was about as uncomfortable as his will be.

One of the worst features of it was, what we so often suffered from
before—the inaccessibility of water.  The sun was broiling, and the and
soil reflected its scorching rays.  I was feverish from exhaustion, and
there was nothing, nothing to look forward to.  Mile after mile I crawled
along, sometimes half disposed to turn back, and try the deep but narrow
passage; then that inexhaustible fountain of last hopes—the
Unknown—tempted me to go forward.  I persevered; when behold! as I passed
a rock, an Indian stood before me.

He was as naked as I was.  Over his shoulder he carried a spear as long
as a salmon rod.  Though neither had foreseen the other, he was
absolutely unmoved, showed no surprise, no curiosity, no concern.  He
stood still, and let me come up to him.  My only, or rather my uppermost,
feeling was gladness.  Of course the thought crossed me of what he might
do if he owed the white skins a grudge.  If any white man had ever harmed
one of his tribe, I was at his mercy; and it was certain that he would
show me none.  He was a tall powerful man, and in my then condition he
could have done what he pleased with me.  Friday was my model; the red
man was Robinson Crusoe.  I kneeled at his feet, and touched the ground
with my forehead.  He did not seem the least elated by my humility: there
was not a spark of vanity in him.  Indeed, except for its hideousness and
brutality, his face was without expression.

I now proceeded to make a drawing, with my finger, in the sand, of a mule
in the water; while I imitated by pantomime the struggles of the
drowning.  I then pointed to myself; and, using my arms as in swimming,
shook my head and my finger to signify that I could not swim.  I worked
an imaginary paddle, and made him understand that I wanted him to paddle
me across the river.  Still he remained unmoved; till finally I used one
argument which interested him more than all the rest of my story.  I
untied a part of the shirt round one foot and showed him three gold
studs.  These I took out and gave to him.  I also made a drawing of a
rifle in the sand, and signified that he would get the like if he went
with me to my camp.  Whereupon he turned in the direction I was going;
and, though unbidden by a look, I did not hesitate to follow.

I thought I must have dropped before we reached his village.  This was an
osier-bed at the water’s side, where the whole river rushed through a
rocky gorge not more than fifty to sixty yards broad.  There were perhaps
nearly a hundred Indians here, two-thirds of whom were women and
children.  Their habitations were formed by interlacing the tops of the
osiers.  Dogs’ skins spread upon the ground and numerous salmon spears
were their only furniture.  In a few minutes my arrival created a
prodigious commotion.  The whole population turned out to stare at me.
The children ran into the bushes to hide.  But feminine curiosity
conquered feminine timidity.  Although I was in the plight of the forlorn
Odysseus after his desperate swim, I had no ‘blooming foliage’ to wind
_περὶ χροῒ μήδεα φωτός_.  Unlike the Phæacian maidens, however, the tawny
nymphs were all as brave as Princess Nausicaa herself.  They stared, and
pointed, and buzzed, and giggled, and even touched my skin with the tips
of their fingers—to see, I suppose, if the white would come off.

But ravenous hunger turned up its nose at flirtation.  The fillets of
drying salmon suspended from every bough were a million times more
seductive than the dark Naiads who had dressed them.  Slice after slice I
tore down and devoured, as though my maw were as compendious as Jack the
Giant Killer’s.  This so astonished and delighted the young women that
they kept supplying me,—with the expectation, perhaps, that sooner or
later I must share the giant’s fate.

While this was going on, a conference was being held; and I had the
satisfaction of seeing some men pull up a lot of dead rushes, dexterously
tie them into bundles, and truss these together by means of spears.  They
had no canoes, for the very children were amphibious, living, so it
seemed, as much in the water as out of it.  When the raft was completed,
I was invited to embark.  My original friend, who had twisted a tow-rope,
took this between his teeth, and led the way.  Others swam behind and
beside me to push and to pull.  The force of the water was terrific; but
they seemed to care no more for that than fish.  My weight sunk the rush
bundles a good bit below the surface; and to try my nerves, my crew every
now and then with a wild yell dived simultaneously, dragging the raft and
me under water.  But I sat tight; and with genuine friendliness they
landed me safely on the desired shore.

It was quite dark before we set forth.  Robinson Crusoe walked on as if
he knew exactly where my camp was.  Probably the whole catastrophe had by
this time been bruited for miles above and below the spot.  Five other
stalwart young fellows kept us company, each with salmon spear in hand.
The walk seemed interminable; but I had shipped a goodly cargo of latent
energy.

When I got home, instead of Samson, I found the camp occupied by half a
dozen Indians.  They were squatted round a fire, smoking.  Each one, so
it seemed, had appropriated some article of our goods.  Our blankets were
over their shoulders.  One had William’s long rifle in his lap.  Another
was sitting upon mine.  A few words were exchanged with the newcomers,
who seated themselves beside their friends; but no more notice was taken
of me than of the mules which were eating rushes close to us.  How was I,
single-handed, to regain possession?  That was the burning question.  A
diplomatic course commanded itself as the only possible one.  There were
six men who expected rewards, but the wherewithal was held in seisin by
other six.  The fight, if there were one, should be between the two
parties.  I would hope to prove, that when thieves fall out honest men
come by their own.

There is one adage whose truth I needed no further proof of.  Its first
line apostrophises the ‘Gods and little fishes.’  My chief need was for
the garment which completes the rhyme.  Indians, having no use for
corduroy small clothes, I speedily donned mine.  Next I quietly but
quickly snatched up William’s rifle, and presented it to Robinson Crusoe,
patting him on the back as if with honours of knighthood.  The
dispossessed was not well pleased, but Sir Robinson was; and, to all
appearances, he was a man of leading, if of darkness.  While words were
passing between the two, I sauntered round to the gentleman who sat
cross-legged upon my weapon.  He was as heedless of me as I, outwardly,
of him.  When well within reach, mindful that ‘_de l’audace_’ is no bad
motto, in love and war, I suddenly placed my foot upon his chest,
tightened the extensor muscle of my leg, and sent him heels over head.
In an instant the rifle was mine, and both barrels cocked.  After
yesterday’s immersion it might not have gone off, but the offended
Indian, though furious, doubtless inferred from the histrionic attitude
which I at once struck, that I felt confident it would.  With my rifle in
hand, with my suite looking to me to transfer the plunder to them, my
position was now secure.  I put on a shirt—the only one left to me, by
the way—my shoes and stockings, and my shooting coat; and picking out
William’s effects, divided these, with his ammunition, his carpet-bag,
and his blankets, amongst my original friends.  I was beginning to gather
my own things together, when Samson, leading my horse, unexpectedly rode
into the midst of us.  The night was far advanced.  The Indians took
their leave; and added to the obligation by bequeathing us a large fresh
salmon, which served us for many a day to come.

As a postscript I may add that I found poor Mary’s address on one of her
letters, and faithfully kept my promise as soon as I reached pen and ink.



CHAPTER XXVIII


WHAT remains to be told will not take long.  Hardships naturally
increased as the means of bearing them diminished.  I have said the
salmon held out for many days.  We cut it in strips, and dried it as well
as we could; but the flies and maggots robbed us of a large portion of
it.  At length we were reduced to two small hams; nothing else except a
little tea.  Guessing the distance we had yet to go, and taking into
account our slow rate of travelling, I calculated the number of days
which, with the greatest economy, these could be made to last.  Allowing
only one meal a day, and that of the scantiest, I scored the hams as a
cook scores a leg of roast pork, determined under no circumstances to
exceed the daily ration.

No little discipline was requisite to adhere to this resolution.  Samson
broke down under the exposure and privation; superadded dysentery
rendered him all but helpless, and even affected his mind.  The whole
labour of the camp then devolved on me.  I never roused him in the
morning till the mules were packed—with all but his blanket and the
pannikin for his tea—and until I had saddled his horse for him.  Not till
we halted at night did we get our ration of ham.  This he ate, or rather
bolted, raw, like a wild beast.  My share I never touched till after I
lay down to sleep.  And so tired have I been, that once or twice I woke
in the morning with my hand at my mouth, the unswallowed morsel between
my teeth.  For three weeks we went on in this way, never exchanging a
word.  I cannot say how I might have behaved had Fred been in Samson’s
place.  I hope I should have been at least humane.  But I was labouring
for my life, and was not over tender-hearted.

Certainly there was enough to try the patience of a better man.  Take an
instance.  Unable one morning to find my own horse, I saddled his and
started him off, so as not to waste time, with his spare animal and the
three mules.  It so happened that our line of march was rather tortuous,
owing to some hills we had to round.  Still, as there were high mountains
in the distance which we were making for, it seemed impossible that
anyone could miss his way.  It was twenty minutes, perhaps, before I
found my horse; this would give him about a mile or more start of me.  I
hurried on, but failed to overtake him.  At the end of an hour I rode to
the top of a hill which commanded a view of the course he should have
taken.  Not a moving speck was to be seen.  I knew then that he had gone
astray.  But in which direction?

My heart sank within me.  The provisions and blankets were with him.  I
do not think that at any point of my journey I had ever felt fear—panic
that is—till now.  Starvation stared me in the face.  My wits refused to
suggest a line of action.  I was stunned.  I felt then what I have often
felt since, what I still feel, that it is possible to wrestle
successfully with every difficulty that man has overcome, but not with
that supreme difficulty—man’s stupidity.  It did not then occur to me to
give a name to the impatience that seeks to gather grapes of thorns or
figs of thistles.

I turned back, retraced my steps till I came to the track of the mules.
Luckily the ground retained the footprints, though sometimes these would
be lost for a hundred yards or so.  Just as I anticipated—Samson had
wound round the base of the very first hill he came to; then, instead of
correcting the deviation, and steering for the mountains, had simply
followed his nose, and was now travelling due east,—in other words, was
going back over our track of the day before.  It was past noon when I
overtook him, so that a precious day’s labour was lost.

I said little, but that little was a sentence of death.

‘After to-day,’ I began, ‘we will travel separately.’

At first he seemed hardly to take in my meaning.  I explained it.

‘As well as I can make out, before we get to the Dalles, where we ought
to find the American outposts, we have only about 150 miles to go.  This
should not take more than eight or nine days.  I can do it in a week
alone, but not with you.  I have come to the conclusion that with you I
may not be able to do it at all.  We have still those mountains’—pointing
to the Blue Mountain range in the distance—‘to cross.  They are covered
with snow, as you see.  We may find them troublesome.  In any case our
food will only last eight or nine days more, even at the present rate.
You shall have the largest half of what is left, for you require more
than I do.  But I cannot, and will not, sacrifice my life for your sake.
I have made up my mind to leave you.’

It must always be a terrible thing for a judge to pass the sentence of
death.  But then he is fulfilling a duty, merely carrying out a law which
is not of his making.  Moreover, he has no option—the responsibility
rests with the jury; last of all, the sufferer is a criminal.  Between
the judge’s case and mine there was no analogy.  My act was a purely
selfish one—justifiable I still think, though certainly not magnanimous.
I was quite aware of this at the time, but a starving man is not burdened
with generosity.

I dismounted, and, without unsaddling the mules, took off their packs,
now reduced to a few pounds, which was all the wretched, raw-backed, and
half-dead, animals could stagger under; and, putting my blanket, the
remains of a ham, and a little packet of tea—some eight or ten
tea-spoonfuls—on one mule, I again prepared to mount my horse and depart.

I took, as it were, a sneaking glance at Samson.  He was sitting upon the
ground, with his face between his knees, sobbing.

At three-and-twenty the heart of a man, or of a woman—if either has any,
which, of course, may be doubtful—is apt to play the dynamite with his or
her resolves.  Water-drops have ever been formidable weapons of the
latter, as we all know; and, not being so accustomed to them then as I
have become since, the sight of the poor devil’s abject woe and
destitution, the thought that illness and suffering were the causes, the
secret whisper that my act was a cowardly one, forced me to follow the
lines of least resistance, and submit to the decrees of destiny.

One more page from my ‘Ride,’ and the reader will, I think, have a fair
conception of its general character.  For the last two hours the ascent
of the Blue Mountains had been very steep.  We were in a thick pine
forest.  There was a track—probably made by Indians.  Near the summit we
found a spring of beautiful water.  Here we halted for the night.  It was
a snug spot.  But, alas! there was nothing for the animals to eat except
pine needles.  We lighted our fire against the great up-torn roots of a
fallen tree; and, though it was freezing hard, we piled on such masses of
dead boughs that the huge blaze seemed to warm the surrounding
atmosphere.

I must here give the words of my journal, for one exclamation in it has a
sort of schoolboy ring that recalls the buoyancy of youthful spirits, the
spirits indeed to which in early life we owe our enterprise and
perseverance:

‘As I was dozing off, a pack of hungry wolves that had scented us out set
up the most infernal chorus ever heard.  In vain I pulled the frozen
buffalo-robe over my head, and tried to get to sleep.  The demons drew
nearer and nearer, howling, snarling, fighting, moaning, and making a row
in the perfect stillness which reigned around, as if hell itself were
loose.  For some time I bore it with patience.  At length, jumping up, I
yelled in a voice that made the valley ring: You devils! will you be
quiet?  The appeal was immediately answered by silence; but hearing them
tuning up for a second concert, I threw some wood on the blazing fire and
once more retired to my lair.  For a few minutes I lay awake to admire a
brilliant Aurora Borealis shooting out its streams of electric light.
Then, turning over on my side, I never moved again till dawn.’

The first objects that caught my eye were the animals.  They were huddled
together within a couple of yards of where we lay.  It was a horrible
sight.  Two out of the three mules, and Samson’s horse, had been attacked
by the wolves.  The flanks of the horse were terribly torn, and the
entrails of both the mules were partially hanging out.  Though all three
were still standing with their backs arched, they were rapidly dying from
loss of blood.  My dear little ‘Strawberry’—as we called him to match
William’s ‘Cream’ and my mare were both intact.

A few days after this, Samson’s remaining horse gave out.  I had to
surrender what remained of my poor beast in order to get my companion
through.  The last fifty miles of the journey I performed on foot;
sometimes carrying my rifle to relieve the staggering little mule of a
few pounds extra weight.  At long last the Dalles hove in sight.  And our
cry, ‘The tents! the tents!’ echoed the joyous ‘Thalassa! Thalassa!’ of
the weary Greeks.



CHAPTER XXIX


‘WHERE is the tent of the commanding officer?’ I asked of the first
soldier I came across.

He pointed to one on the hillside.  ‘Ags for Major Dooker,’ was the
Dutch-accented answer.

Bidding Samson stay where he was, I made my way as directed.  A
middle-aged officer in undress uniform was sitting on an empty
packing-case in front of his tent, whittling a piece of its wood.

‘Pray sir,’ said I in my best Louis Quatorze manner, ‘have I the pleasure
of speaking to Major Dooker?’

‘Tucker, sir.  And who the devil are you?’

Let me describe what the Major saw: A man wasted by starvation to skin
and bone, blackened, almost, by months of exposure to scorching suns;
clad in the shreds of what had once been a shirt, torn by every kind of
convict labour, stained by mud and the sweat and sores of mules; the rags
of a shooting coat to match; no head covering; hands festering with
sores, and which for weeks had not touched water—if they could avoid it.
Such an object, in short, as the genius of a Phil May could alone have
depicted as the most repulsive object he could imagine.

‘Who the devil are you?’

‘An English gentleman, sir, travelling for pleasure.’

He smiled.  ‘You look more like a wild beast.’

‘I am quite tame, sir, I assure you—could even eat out of your hand if I
had a chance.’

‘Is your name Coke?’

‘Yes,’ was my amazed reply.

‘Then come with me—I will show you something that may surprise you.’

I followed him to a neighbouring tent.  He drew aside the flap of it, and
there on his blanket lay Fred Calthorpe, snoring in perfect bliss.

Our greetings were less restrained than our parting had been.  We were
truly glad to meet again.  He had arrived just two days before me,
although he had been at Salt Lake City.  But he had been able there to
refit, had obtained ample supplies and fresh animals.  Curiously enough,
his Nelson—the French-Canadian—had also been drowned in crossing the
Snake River.  His place, however, had been filled by another man, and
Jacob had turned out a treasure.  The good fellow greeted me warmly.  And
it was no slight compensation for bygone troubles to be assured by him
that our separation had led to the final triumphal success.

Fred and I now shared the same tent.  To show what habit will do, it was
many days before I could accustom myself to sleep under cover of a tent
even, and in preference slept, as I had done for five months, under the
stars.  The officers liberally furnished us with clothing.  But their
excessive hospitality more nearly proved fatal to me than any peril I had
met with.  One’s stomach had quite lost its discretion.  And forgetting
that

    Famished people must be slowly nursed,
    And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst,

one never knew when to leave off eating.  For a few days I was seriously
ill.

An absurd incident occurred to me here which might have had an unpleasant
ending.  Every evening, after dinner in the mess tent, we played whist.
One night, quite by accident, Fred and I happened to be partners.  The
Major and another officer made up the four.  The stakes were rather high.
We two had had an extraordinary run of luck.  The Major’s temper had been
smouldering for some time.  Presently the deal fell to me; and as bad
luck would have it, I dealt myself a handful of trumps, and—all four
honours.  As the last of these was played, the now blazing Major dashed
his cards on the table, and there and then called me out.  The cooler
heads of two or three of the others, with whom Fred had had time to make
friends, to say nothing of the usual roar of laughter with which he
himself heard the challenge, brought the matter to a peaceful issue.  The
following day one of the officers brought me a graceful apology.

As may readily be supposed, we had no hankering for further travels such
as we had gone through.  San Francisco was our destination; but though as
unknown to us as Charles Lamb’s ‘Stranger,’ we ‘damned’ the overland
route ‘at a venture’; and settled, as there was no alternative, to go in
a trading ship to the Sandwich Islands thence, by the same means, to
California.

On October 20 we procured a canoe large enough for seven or eight
persons; and embarking with our light baggage, Fred, Samson, and I, took
leave of the Dalles.  For some miles the great river, the Columbia, runs
through the Cascade Mountains, and is confined, as heretofore, in a
channel of basaltic rock.  Further down it widens, and is ornamented by
groups of small wooded islands.  On one of these we landed to rest our
Indians and feed.  Towards evening we again put ashore, at an Indian
village, where we camped for the night.  The scenery here is magnificent.
It reminded me a little of the Danube below Linz, or of the finest parts
of the Elbe in Saxon Switzerland.  But this is to compare the full-length
portrait with the miniature.  It is the grandeur of the scale of the best
of the American scenery that so strikes the European.  Variety, however,
has its charms; and before one has travelled fifteen hundred miles on the
same river—as one may easily do in America—one begins to sigh for the
Rhine, or even for a trip from London to Greenwich, with a white-bait
dinner at the end of it.

The day after, we descended the Cascades.  They are the beginning of an
immense fall in the level, and form a succession of rapids nearly two
miles long.  The excitement of this passage is rather too great for
pleasure.  It is like being run away with by a ‘motor’ down a steep hill.
The bow of the canoe is often several feet below the stern, as if about
to take a ‘header.’  The water, in glassy ridges and dark furrows, rushes
headlong, and dashes itself madly against the reefs which crop up
everywhere.  There is no time, one thinks, to choose a course, even if
steerage, which seems absurd, were possible.  One is hurled along at
railway speed.  The upreared rock, that a moment ago seemed a hundred
yards off, is now under the very bow of the canoe.  One clenches one’s
teeth, holds one’s breath, one’s hour is surely come.  But no—a shout
from the Indians, a magic stroke of the paddle in the bow, another in the
stern, and the dreaded crag is far above out heads, far, far behind; and,
for the moment, we are gliding on—undrowned.

At the lower end of the rapids (our Indians refusing to go further), we
had to debark.  A settler here was putting up a zinc house for a store.
Two others, with an officer of the Mounted Rifles—the regiment we had
left at the Dalles—were staying with him.  They welcomed our arrival, and
insisted on our drinking half a dozen of poisonous stuff they called
champagne.  There were no chairs or table in the ‘house,’ nor as yet any
floor; and only the beginning of a roof.  We sat on the ground, so that I
was able surreptitiously to make libations with my share, to the earth.

According to my journal: ‘In a short time the party began to be a noisy
one.  Healths were drunk, toasts proposed, compliments to our respective
nationalities paid in the most flattering terms.  The Anglo-Saxon race
were destined to conquer the globe.  The English were the greatest nation
under the sun—that is to say, they had been.  America, of course, would
take the lead in time to come.  We disputed this.  The Americans were
certain of it, in fact this was already an accomplished fact.  The big
officer—a genuine “heavy”—wanted to know where the man was that would
give him the lie!  Wasn’t the Mounted Rifles the crack regiment of the
United States army?  And wasn’t the United States army the finest army in
the universe?  Who that knew anything of history would compare the
Peninsular Campaign to the war in Mexico?  Talk of Waterloo—Britishers
were mighty fond of swaggering about Waterloo!  Let ’em look at
Chepultapec.  As for Wellington, he couldn’t shine nohow with General
Scott, nor old Zack neither!’

Then, _we_ wished for a war, just to let them see what our crack cavalry
regiments could do.  Mounted Rifles forsooth!  Mounted costermongers!
whose trade it was to sell ‘nutmegs made of wood, and clocks that
wouldn’t figure.’  Then some pretty forcible profanity was vented, fists
were shaken, and the zinc walls were struck, till they resounded like the
threatened thunder of artillery.

But Fred’s merry laughter diverted the tragic end.  It was agreed that
there had been too much tall talk.  Britishers and Americans were not
such fools as to quarrel.  Let everybody drink everybody else’s health.
A gentleman in the corner (he needed the support of both walls) thought
it wasn’t good to ‘liquor up’ too much on an empty stomach; he put it to
the house that we should have supper.  The motion was carried _nem.
con._, and a Dutch cheese was produced with much _éclat_.  Samson coupled
the ideas of Dutch cheeses and Yankee hospitality.  This revived the
flagging spirit of emulation.  On one side, it was thought that British
manners were susceptible of amendment.  Confusion was then respectively
drunk to Yankee hospitality, English manners, and—this was an addition of
Fred’s—to Dutch cheeses.  After which, to change the subject, a song was
called for, and a gentleman who shall be nameless, for there was a little
mischief in the choice, sang ‘Rule Britannia.’  Not being encored, the
singer drank to the flag that had braved the battle and the breeze for
nearly ninety years.  ‘Here’s to Uncle Sam, and his stars and stripes.’
The mounted officer rose to his legs (with difficulty) and declared ‘that
he could not, and would not, hear his country insulted any longer.  He
begged to challenge the “crowd.”  He regretted the necessity, but his
feelings had been wounded, and he could not—no, he positively could not
stand it.’  A slight push from Samson proved the fact—the speaker fell,
to rise no more.  The rest of the company soon followed his example, and
shortly afterwards there was no sound but that of the adjacent rapids.

Early next morning the settler’s boat came up, and took us a mile down
the river, where we found a larger one to convey us to Fort Vancouver.
The crew were a Maltese sailor and a man who had been in the United
States army.  Each had his private opinions as to her management.
Naturally, the Maltese should have been captain, but the soldier was both
supercargo and part owner, and though it was blowing hard and the sails
were fully large, the foreigner, who was but a poor little creature, had
to obey orders.

As the river widened and grew rougher, we were wetted from stem to stern
at every plunge; and when it became evident that the soldier could not
handle the sails if the Maltese was kept at the helm, the heavy rifleman
who was on board, declaring that he knew the river, took upon himself to
steer us.  In a few minutes the boat was nearly swamped.  The Maltese
prayed and blasphemed in language which no one understood.  The oaths of
the soldier were intelligible enough.  The ‘heavy,’ now alarmed,
nervously asked what had better be done.  My advice was to grease the
bowsprit, let go the mast, and splice the main brace.  ‘In another minute
or two,’ I added, ‘you’ll steer us all to the bottom.’

Fred, who thought it no time for joking, called the rifleman a ‘damned
fool,’ and authoritatively bade him give up the tiller; saying that I had
been in Her Majesty’s Navy, and perhaps knew a little more about boats
than he did.  To this the other replied that ‘he didn’t want anyone to
learn him; he reckon’d he’d been raised to boating as well as the next
man, and he’d be derned if he was going to trust his life to anybody!’
Samson, thinking no doubt of his own, took his pipe out of his mouth, and
towering over the steersman, flung him like a child on one side.  In an
instant I was in his place.

It was a minute or two before the boat had way enough to answer the helm.
By that time we were within a dozen yards of a reef.  Having noticed,
however, that the little craft was quick in her stays, I kept her full
till the last, put the helm down, and round she spun in a moment.  Before
I could thank my stars, the pintle, or hook on which the rudder hangs,
broke off.  The tiller was knocked out of my hand, and the boat’s head
flew into the wind.  ‘Out with the sweeps,’ I shouted.  But the sweeps
were under the gear.  All was confusion and panic.  The two men cursed in
the names of their respective saints.  The ‘heavy’ whined, ‘I told you
how it w’d be.’  Samson struggled valiantly to get at an oar, while Fred,
setting the example, begged all hands to be calm, and be ready to fend
the stern off the rocks with a boathook.  As we drifted into the surf I
was wondering how many bumps she would stand before she went to pieces.
Happily the water shallowed, and the men, by jumping overboard, managed
to drag the boat through the breakers under the lee of the point.  We
afterwards drew her up on to the beach, kindled a fire, got out some
provisions, and stayed till the storm was over.



CHAPTER XXX


WHAT was then called Fort Vancouver was a station of the Hudson’s Bay
Company.  We took up our quarters here till one of the company’s
vessels—the ‘Mary Dare,’ a brig of 120 tons, was ready to sail for the
Sandwich Islands.  This was about the most uncomfortable trip I ever
made.  A sailing merchant brig of 120 tons, deeply laden, is not exactly
a pleasure yacht; and 2,000 miles is a long voyage.  For ten days we lay
at anchor at the mouth of the Columbia, detained by westerly gales.  A
week after we put to sea, all our fresh provisions were consumed, and we
had to live on our cargo—dried salmon.  We three and the captain more
than filled the little hole of a cabin.  There wasn’t even a hammock, and
we had to sleep on the deck, or on the lockers.  The fleas, the
cockroaches, and the rats, romped over and under one all night.  Not
counting the time it took to go down the river, or the ten days we were
kept at its mouth, we were just six weeks at sea before we reached
Woahoo, on Christmas Day.

How beautiful the islands looked as we passed between them, with a fair
wind and studding sails set alow and aloft.  Their tropical charms seemed
more glowing, the water bluer, the palm trees statelier, the vegetation
more libertine than ever.  On the south the land rises gradually from the
shore to a range of lofty mountains.  Immediately behind Honolulu—the
capital—a valley with a road winding up it leads to the north side of the
island.  This valley is, or was then, richly cultivated, principally with
_taro_, a large root not unlike the yam.  Here and there native huts were
dotted about, with gardens full of flowers, and abundance of tropical
fruit.  Higher up, where it becomes too steep for cultivation, growth of
all kind is rampant.  Acacias, oranges, maples, bread-fruit, and
sandal-wood trees, rear their heads above the tangled ever-greens.  The
high peaks, constantly in the clouds, arrest the moisture of the ocean
atmosphere, and countless rills pour down the mountain sides, clothing
everything in perpetual verdure.  The climate is one of the least
changeable in the world; the sea breeze blows day and night, and
throughout the year the day temperature does not vary more than five or
six degrees, the average being about eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit in
the shade.  In 1850 the town of Honolulu was little else than a native
village of grass and mat huts.  Two or three merchants had good houses.
In one of these Fred and Samson were domiciled; there was no such thing
as a hotel.  I was the guest of General Miller, the Consul-General.  What
changes may have taken place since the above date I have no means of
knowing.  So far as the natives go, the change will assuredly have been
for the worse; for the aborigines, in all parts of the world, lose their
primitive simplicity and soon acquire the worst vices of civilisation.

Even King Tamehameha III. was not innocent of one of them.  General
Miller offered to present us at court, but he had to give several days’
notice in order that his Majesty might be sufficiently sober to receive
us.  A negro tailor from the United States fitted us out with suits of
black, and on the appointed day we put ourselves under the shade of the
old General’s cocked hat, and marched in a body to the palace.  A native
band, in which a big drum had the leading part, received us with ‘God
save the Queen’—whether in honour of King Tamy, or of his visitors, was
not divulged.  We were first introduced to a number of chiefs in European
uniforms—except as to their feet, which were mostly bootless.  Their
names sounded like those of the state officers in Mr. Gilbert’s ‘Mikado.’
I find in my journal one entered as Tovey-tovey, another as Kanakala.  We
were then conducted to the presence chamber by the Foreign Minister, Mr.
Wiley, a very pronounced Scotch gentleman with a star of the first
magnitude on his breast.  The King was dressed as an English admiral.
The Queen, whose ample undulations also reminded one of the high seas,
was on his right; while in perfect gradation on her right again were four
princesses in short frocks and long trousers, with plaited tails tied
with blue ribbon, like the Miss Kenwigs.  A little side dispute arose
between the stiff old General and the Foreign Minister as to whose right
it was to present us.  The Consul carried the day; but the Scot, not to
be beaten, informed Tamehameha, in a long prefatory oration, of the
object of the ceremony.  Taking one of us by the hand (I thought the
peppery old General would have thrust him aside), Mr. Wiley told the King
that it was seldom the Sandwich Islands were ‘veesited’ by strangers of
such ‘desteenction’—that the Duke of this (referring to Fred’s
relations), and Lord the other, were the greatest noblemen in the world;
then, with much solemnity, quoted a long speech from Shakespeare, and
handed us over to his rival.

His Majesty, who did not understand a word of English, or Scotch, looked
grave and held tight to the arm of the throne; for the truth is, that
although he had relinquished his bottle for the hour, he had brought its
contents with him.  My salaam was soon made; but as I retired backwards I
had the misfortune to set my heel on the toes of a black-and-tan terrier,
a privileged pet of the General’s.  The shriek of the animal and the loss
of my equilibrium nearly precipitated me into the arms of a trousered
princess; but the amiable young lady only laughed.  Thus ended my glimpse
of the Hawaian Court.  Mr. Wiley afterwards remarked to me: ‘We do things
in a humble way, ye’ll obsairve; but royalty is royalty all over the
world, and His Majesty Tamehameha is as much Keng of his ain domeenions
as Victoria is Queen of Breetain.’  The relativity of greatness was not
to be denied.

The men—Kanakas, as they are called—are fine stalwart fellows above our
average height.  The only clothing they then wore was the _maro_, a cloth
made by themselves of the acacia bark.  This they pass between the legs,
and once or twice round the loins.  The _Wyheenes_—women—formerly wore
nothing but a short petticoat or kilt of the same material.  By
persuasion of the missionaries they have exchanged this simple garment
for a chemise of printed calico, with the waist immediately under the
arms so as to conceal the contour of the figure.  Other clothing have
they none.

Are they the more chaste?  Are they the less seductive?  Hear what M.
Anatole France says in his apostrophe to the sex: ‘Pour faire de vous la
terrible merveille que vous êtes aujourd’hui, pour devenir la cause
indifférente et souveraine des sacrifices et des crimes, il vous a fallu
deux choses: la civilisation qui vous donna des voiles, et la religion
qui vous donna des scrupules.’  The translation of which is (please take
note of it, my dear young ladies with ‘les épaules qui ne finissent
pas’):

    ‘Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter.’

Be this as it may, these chocolate-skinned beauties, with their small and
regular features, their rosy lips, their perfect teeth—of which they take
great care—their luxurious silky tresses, their pretty little hands and
naked feet, and their exquisite forms, would match the matchless
Cleopatra.

Through the kindness of Fred’s host, the principal merchant in the
island, we were offered an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
_élite_ of the Honolulu nymphs.  Mr. S. invited us to what is called a
_Loohou_ feast got up by him for their entertainment.  The head of one of
the most picturesque valleys in Woahoo was selected for the celebration
of this ancient festival.  Mounted on horses with which Mr. S. had
furnished us, we repaired in a party to the appointed spot.  It was early
in the afternoon when we reached it; none of the guests had arrived,
excepting a few Kanakas, who were engaged in thatching an old shed as
shelter from the sun, and strewing the ground with a thick carpet of
palm-leaves.  Ere long, a cavalcade of between thirty and forty
amazons—they all rode astride—came racing up the valley at full speed,
their merry shouts proclaiming their approach.  Gaudy strips of _maro_
were loosely folded around their legs for skirts.  Their pretty little
straw hats trimmed with ribbons, or their uncovered heads with their long
hair streaming in the wind, confined only by a wreath of fresh orange
flowers, added to their irresistible charm.  Certainly, the bravest
soldiers could not have withstood their charge.  No men, however, were
admitted, save those who had been expressly invited; but each lady of
importance was given a _carte blanche_ to bring as many of her own sex as
she pleased, provided they were both pretty and respectable.

As they rode up, we cavaliers, with becoming gallantry, offered our
assistance while they dismounted.  Smitten through and through by the
bright eyes of one little houri who possessed far more than her share of
the first requirement, and, taking the second for granted, I courteously
prepared to aid her to alight; when, to my discomfiture, instead of a
gracious acknowledgment of my services, she gave me a sharp cut with her
whip.  As, however, she laughed merrily at my wry faces, I accepted the
act as a scratch of the kitten’s claws; at least, it was no sign of
indifference, and giving myself the benefit of the doubt, lifted her from
her saddle without further chastisement, except a coquettish smile that
wounded, alas! more than it healed.

The feast was thus prepared: poultry, sucking-pigs, and puppies—the last,
after being scalded and scraped, were stuffed with vegetables and spices,
rolled in plantain leaves, and placed in the ground upon stones already
heated.  More stones were then laid over them, and fires lighted on the
top of all.  While the cooking was in progress, the Kanakas ground _taro_
roots for the paste called ‘poe’; the girls danced and sang.  The songs
were devoid of melody, being musical recitations of imaginary love
adventures, accompanied by swayings of the body and occasional choral
interruptions, all becoming more and more excited as the story or song
approached its natural climax.  Sometimes this was varied by a solitary
dancer starting from the circle, and performing the wildest bacchanalian
antics, to the vocal incitement of the rest.  This only ended with
physical exhaustion, or collapse from feminine hysteria.

The food was excellent; the stuffed puppy was a dish for an epicure.
Though knives and forks were unknown, and each helped herself from the
plantain leaf, one had not the least objection to do likewise, for the
most scrupulous cleanliness is one of the many merits of these
fascinating creatures.  Before every dip into the leaf, the dainty little
fingers were plunged into bowls of fresh water provided for the purpose.
Delicious fruit followed the substantial fare; a small glass of _kava_—a
juice extracted from a root of the pepper tribe—was then served to all
alike.  Having watched the process of preparing the beverage, I am unable
to speak as to its flavour.  The making of it is remarkable.  A number of
women sit on the ground, chew the root, and spit its juice into a bowl.
The liquor is kept till it ferments, after which it becomes highly
intoxicating.  I regret to say that its potency was soon manifested on
this occasion.  No sooner did the poison set their wild blood tingling,
than a free fight began for the remaining gourds.  Such a scratching,
pulling of hair, clawing, kicking, and crying, were never seen.  Only by
main force did we succeed in restoring peace.  It is but fair to state
that, except on the celebration of one or two solemn and sacred rites
such as that of the _Loohou_, these island Thyades never touch fermented
liquors.



CHAPTER XXXI


IT was an easier task when all was over to set the little Amazons on
their horses than to keep them there, for by the time we had perched one
on her saddle, or pad rather, and adjusted her with the greatest nicety,
another whom we had just left would lose her balance and fall with a
scream to the ground.  It was almost as difficult as packing mules on the
prairie.  For my part it must be confessed that I left the completion of
the job to others.  Curious and entertaining as the feast was, my whole
attention was centred and absorbed in Arakeeta, which that artful little
enchantress had the gift to know, and lashed me accordingly with her eyes
more cruelly than she had done with her whip.  I had got so far, you see,
as to learn her name, the first instalment of an intimacy which my
demolished heart was staked on perfecting.  I noticed that she refused
the _kava_ with real or affected repugnance; and when the passage of
arms, and legs, began, she slipped away, caught her animal, and with a
parting laugh at me, started off for home.  There was not the faintest
shadow of encouragement in her saucy looks to follow her.  Still, she was
a year older than Juliet, who was nearly fourteen; so, who could say what
those looks might veil?  Besides:

             Das Naturell der Frauen
    Ist so nah mit Kunst verwandt,

that one might easily be mistaken.  Anyhow, flight provoked pursuit; I
jumped on to my horse, and raced along the plain like mad.  She saw me
coming, and flogged the more, but being the better mounted of the two, by
degrees I overhauled her.  As I ranged alongside, neither slackened
speed; and reaching out to catch her bridle, my knee hooked under the
hollow of hers, twisted her clean off her pad, and in a moment she lay
senseless on the ground.  I flung myself from my horse, and laid her head
upon my lap.  Good God! had I broken her neck!  She did not stir; her
eyes were closed, but she breathed, and her heart beat quickly.  I was
wild with terror and remorse.  I looked back for aid, but the others had
not started; we were still a mile or more from Honolulu.  I knew not what
to do.  I kissed her forehead, I called her by her name.  But she lay
like a child asleep.  Presently her dazed eyes opened and stared with
wonderment, and then she smiled.  The tears, I think, were on my cheeks,
and seeing them, she put her arms around my neck and—forgave me.

She had fallen on her head and had been stunned.  I caught the horses
while she sat still, and we walked them slowly home.  When we got within
sight of her hut on the outskirts of the town, she would not let me go
further.  There was sadness in her look when we parted.  I made her
understand (I had picked up two or three words) that I would return to
see her.  She at once shook her head with an expression of something akin
to fear.  I too felt sorrowful, and worse than sorrowful, jealous.

When the night fell I sought her hut.  It was one of the better kind,
built like others mainly with matting; no doors or windows, but with an
extensive verandah which protected the inner part from rain and sun.  Now
and again I caught glimpses of Arakeeta’s fairy form flitting in, or
obscuring, the lamplight.  I could see two other women and two men.  Who
and what were they?  Was one of those dark forms an Othello, ready to
smother his Desdemona?  Or were either of them a Valentine between my
Marguerite and me?  Though there was no moon, I dared not venture within
the lamp’s rays, for her sake; for my own, I was reckless now—I would
have thanked either of them to brain me with his hoe.  But Arakeeta came
not.

In the day-time I roamed about the district, about the _taro_ fields, in
case she might be working there.  Every evening before sundown, many of
the women and some of the well-to-do men, and a few whites, used to ride
on the plain that stretches along the shore between the fringe of palm
groves and the mountain spurs.  I had seen Arakeeta amongst them before
the _Loohou_ feast.  She had given this up now, and why?  Night after
night I hovered about the hut.  When she was in the verandah I whispered
her name.  She started and peered into the dark, hesitated, then fled.
Again the same thing happened.  She had heard me, she knew that I was
there, but she came not; no, wiser than I, she came not.  And though I
sighed:

             What is worth
    The rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?

the shrewd little wench doubtless told herself: ‘A quiet life, without
the fear of the broomstick.’

Fred was impatient to be off, I had already trespassed too long on the
kind hospitality of General Miller, neither of us had heard from England
for more than a year, and the opportunities of trading vessels to
California seldom offered.  A rare chance came—a fast-sailing brig, the
‘Corsair,’ was to leave in a few days for San Francisco.  The captain was
an Englishman, and had the repute of being a boon companion and a good
caterer.  We—I, passively—settled to go.  Samson decided to remain.  He
wanted to visit Owyhee.  He came on board with us, however; and, with a
parting bumper of champagne, we said ‘Good-bye.’  That was the last I
ever saw of him.  The hardships had broken him down.  He died not long
after.

The light breeze carried us slowly away—for the first time for many long
months with our faces to the east.  But it was not ‘merry’ England that
filled my juvenile fancies.  I leaned upon the taffrail and watched this
lovely land of the ‘flowery food’ fade slowly from my sight.  I had eaten
of the Lotus, and knew no wish but to linger on, to roam no more, to
return no more, to any home that was not Arakeeta’s.

This sort of feeling is not very uncommon in early life.  And ‘out of
sight, out of mind,’ is also a known experience.  Long before we reached
San Fr’isco I was again eager for adventure.

How magnificent is the bay!  One cannot see across it.  How impatient we
were to land!  Everything new.  Bearded dirty heterogeneous crowds busy
in all directions,—some running up wooden and zinc houses, some paving
the streets with planks, some housing over ships beached for temporary
dwellings.  The sandy hills behind the infant town are being levelled and
the foreshore filled up.  A ‘water surface’ of forty feet square is worth
5,000 dollars.  So that here and there the shop-fronts are ships’
broadsides.  Already there is a theatre.  But the chief feature is the
gambling saloons, open night and day.  These large rooms are always
filled with from 300 to 400 people of every description—from ‘judges’ and
‘colonels’ (every man is one or the other, who is nothing else) to
Parisian cocottes, and escaped convicts of all nationalities.  At one end
of the saloon is a bar, at the other a band.  Dozens of tables are ranged
around.  Monte, faro, rouge-et-noir, are the games.  A large proportion
of the players are diggers in shirt-sleeves and butcher-boots, belts
round their waists for bowie knife and ‘five shooters,’ which have to be
surrendered on admittance.  They come with their bags of nuggets or
‘dust,’ which is duly weighed, stamped, and sealed by officials for the
purpose.

I have still several specimens of the precious metal which I captured,
varying in size from a grain of wheat to a mustard seed.

The tables win enormously, and so do the ladies of pleasure; but the
winnings of these go back again to the tables.  Four times, while we were
here, differences of opinion arose concerning points of ‘honour,’ and
were summarily decided by revolvers.  Two of the four were subsequently
referred to Judge ‘Lynch.’

Wishing to see the ‘diggings,’ Fred and I went to Sacramento—about 150
miles up the river of that name.  This was but a pocket edition of San
Francisco, or scarcely that.  We therefore moved to Marysville, which,
from its vicinity to the various branches of the Sacramento river, was
the chief depot for the miners of the ‘wet diggin’s’ in Northern
California.  Here we were received by a Mr. Massett—a curious specimen of
the waifs and strays that turn up all over the world in odd places, and
whom one would be sure to find in the moon if ever one went there.  He
owned a little one-roomed cabin, over the door of which was painted
‘Offices of the Marysville Herald.’  He was his own contributor and
‘correspondent,’ editor and printer, (the press was in a corner of the
room).  Amongst other avocations he was a concert-giver, a comic reader,
a tragic actor, and an auctioneer.  He had the good temper and sanguine
disposition of a Mark Tapley.  After the golden days of California he
spent his life wandering about the globe; giving ‘entertainments’ in
China, Japan, India, Australia.  Wherever the English language is spoken,
Stephen Massett had many friends and no enemies.

Fred slept on the table, I under it, and next morning we hired horses and
started for the ‘Forks of the Yuba.’  A few hours’ ride brought us to the
gold-hunters.  Two or three hundred men were at work upon what had
formerly been the bed of the river.  By unwritten law, each miner was
entitled to a certain portion of the ‘bar,’ as it was called, in which
the gold is found.  And, as the precious metal has to be obtained by
washing, the allotments were measured by thirty feet on the banks of the
river and into the dry bed as far as this extends; thus giving each man
his allowance of water.  Generally three or four combined to possess a
‘claim.’  Each would then attend to his own department: one loosened the
soil, another filled the barrow or cart, a third carried it to the river,
and the fourth would wash it in the ‘rocker.’  The average weight of gold
got by each miner while we were at the ‘wet diggin’s,’ _i.e._ where water
had to be used, was nearly half an ounce or seven dollars’ worth a day.
We saw three Englishmen who had bought a claim 30 feet by 100 feet, for
1,400 dollars.  It had been bought and sold twice before for considerable
sums, each party supposing it to be nearly ‘played out.’  In three weeks
the Englishmen paid their 1,400 dollars and had cleared thirteen dollars
a day apiece for their labour.

Our presence here created both curiosity and suspicion, for each gang and
each individual was very shy of his neighbour.  They did not believe our
story of crossing the plains; they themselves, for the most part, had
come round the Horn; a few across the isthmus.  Then, if we didn’t want
to dig, what did we want?  Another peculiarity about us—a great one—was,
that, so far as they could see, we were unarmed.  At night the majority,
all except the few who had huts, slept in a zinc house or sort of
low-roofed barn, against the walls of which were three tiers of bunks.
There was no room for us, even if we had wished it, but we managed to
hire a trestle.  Mattress or covering we had none.  As Fred and I lay
side by side, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough for one,
we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking us over.  They
thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, they themselves were slightly
fuddled.  We nudged each other and pricked up our ears, for we had
already canvassed the question of security, surrounded as we were by
ruffians who looked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood.  They
discussed our ‘portable property’ which was nil; one decided, while the
other believed, that we must have money in our pockets.  The first
remarked that, whether or no, we were unarmed; the other wasn’t so sure
about that—it wasn’t likely we’d come there to be skinned for the asking.
Then arose the question of consequences, and it transpired that neither
of them had the courage of his rascality.  After a bit, both agreed they
had better turn in.  Tired as we were, we fell asleep.  How long we had
slumbered I know not, but all of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and
was conscious of a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot.  I
found myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle.  Its joints
had given way under the extra weight, and Fred’s first impulse had been
to clutch at my throat.

On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple of nights at
Sacramento.  It was a miserable place, with nothing but a few temporary
buildings except those of the Spanish settlers.  In the course of a walk
round the town I noticed a crowd collected under a large elm-tree in the
horse-market.  On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on
one of its boughs the night before last.  A piece of the rope was still
hanging from the tree.  When I got back to the ‘hotel’—a place not much
better than the shed at Yuba Forks—I found a newspaper with an account of
the affair.  Drawing a chair up to the stove, I was deep in the story,
when a huge rowdy-looking fellow in digger-costume interrupted me with:

‘Say, stranger, let’s have a look at that paper, will ye?’

‘When I’ve done with it,’ said I, and continued reading.  He lent over
the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the other
raised the paper so that he could read.

‘Caint see rightly.  Ah, reckon you’re readen ’baout Jim, ain’t yer?’

‘Who’s Jim?’

‘Him as they sus-spended yesterday mornin’.  Jim was a purticler friend
o’ mine, and I help’d to hang him.’

‘A friendly act!  What was he hanged for?’

‘When did you come to Sacramenty City?’

‘Day before yesterday.’

‘Wal, I’ll tell yer haow’t was then.  Yer see, Jim was a Britisher, he
come from a place they call Botany Bay, which belongs to Victoria, but
ain’t ’xactly in the Old Country.  I judge, when he first come to
Californy, ’baout six months back, he warn’t acquainted none with any
boys hereaway, so he took to diggin’ by hisself.  It was up to Cigar Bar
whar he dug, and I chanst to be around there too, that’s haow we got to
know one another.  Jim hadn’t been here not a fortnight ’fore one of the
boys lost 300 dollars as he’d made a cache of.  Somehow suspicions fell
on Jim.  More’n one of us thought he’d been a diggin’ for bags instead of
for dust; and the man as lost the money swore he’d hev a turn with him;
so Jim took my advice not to go foolin’ around, an’ sloped.’

‘Well,’ said I, as my friend stopped to adjust his tobacco plug, ‘he
wasn’t hanged for that?’

‘’Tain’t likely!  Till last week nobody know’d whar he’d gone to.  When
he come to Sacramenty this time, he come with a pile, an’ no mistake.
All day and all night he used to play at faro an’ a heap o’ other games.
Nobody couldn’t tell how he made his money hold out, nor whar he got it
from; but sartin sure the crowd reckoned as haow Jim was considerable of
a loafer.  One day a blacksmith as lives up Broad Street, said he found
out the way he done it, and ast me to come with him and show up Jim for
cheatin’.  Naow, whether it was as Jim suspicioned the blacksmith I
cain’t say, but he didn’t cheat, and lost his money in consequence.  This
riled him bad, so wantin’ to get quit of the blacksmith he began a
quarrel.  The blacksmith was a quick-tempered man, and after some
language struck Jim in the mouth.  Jim jumps up, and whippin’ out his
revolver, shoots the t’other man dead on the spot.  I was the first to
lay hold on him, but ef it hadn’t ’a’ been for me they’d ’a’ torn him to
pieces.

‘“Send for Judge Parker,” says some.

‘“Let’s try him here,” says others.

‘“I don’t want to be tried at all,” says Jim.  “You all know bloody well
as I shot the man.  And I knows bloody well as I’ll hev to swing for it.
Gi’ me till daylight, and I’ll die like a man.”

‘But we wasn’t going to hang him without a proper trial; and as the trial
lasted two hours, it—’

‘Two hours!  What did you want two hours for?’

‘There was some as wanted to lynch him, and some as wanted him tried by
the reg’lar judges of the Crim’nal Court.  One of the best speakers said
lynch-law was no law at all, and no innocent man’s life was safe with it.
So there was a lot of speakin’, you bet.  By the time it was over it was
just daylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc’t.  So they
took him to the horse-market, and stood him on a table under the big elm.
I kep’ by his side, and when he was getting on the table he ast me to
lend him my revolver to shoot the foreman of the jury.  When I wouldn’t,
he ast me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip.  “It ain’t no account,
Jim,” says I, “to talk like that.  You’re bound to die; and ef they
didn’t hang yer I’d shoot yer myself.”

‘“Well then,” says he, “gi’ me hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how
little I keer for death.”  He snatches the cord out o’ my hands, pulls
hisself out o’ reach o’ the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough.
Half a dozen shooters was raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose
in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up
on the bough and made ’em a speech.  What he mostly said was as he hated
’em all.  He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed the world, then he
cussed hisself, and with a terr’ble oath he jumped off the bough, and
swung back’ards and for’ards with his neck broke.’

‘An Englishman,’ I reflected aloud.

He nodded.  ‘You’re a Britisher, I reckon, ain’t yer?’

‘Yes; why?’

‘Wal, you’ve a puty strong accent.’

‘Think so?’

‘Wal, I could jest tie a knot in it.’

This is a vulgar and repulsive story.  But it is not fiction; and any
picture of Californian life in 1850, without some such faithful touch of
its local colour, would be inadequate and misleading.



CHAPTER XXXII


A STEAMER took us down to Acapulco.  It is probably a thriving port now.
When we were there, a few native huts and two or three stone buildings at
the edge of the jungle constituted the ‘town.’  We bought some horses,
and hired two men—a Mexican and a Yankee—for our ride to the city of
Mexico.  There was at that time nothing but a mule-track, and no public
conveyance of any kind.  Nothing could exceed the beauty of the scenery.
Within 160 miles, as the crow flies, one rises up to the city of Mexico
some 12,000 feet, with Popocatepetl overhanging it 17,500 feet high.  In
this short space one passes from intense tropical heat and vegetation to
pines and laurels and the proximity of perpetual snows.  The path in
places winds along the brink of precipitous declivities, from the top of
which one sees the climatic gradations blending one into another.  So
narrow are some of the mountain paths that a mule laden with ore has
often one panier overhanging the valley a thousand feet below it.
Constantly in the long trains of animals descending to the coast, a slip
of the foot or a charge from behind, for they all come down the steep
track with a jolting shuffle, sends mule and its load over the ledge.  We
found it very difficult in places to get out of the way in time to let
the trains pass.  Flocks of parrots and great macaws screeching and
flying about added to the novelty of the scene.

The villages, inhabited by a cross between the original Indians and the
Spaniards, are about twenty miles apart.  At one of these we always
stayed for the night, sleeping in grass hammocks suspended between the
posts of the verandah.  The only travellers we fell in with were a party
of four Americans, returning to the Eastern States from California with
the gold they had won there.  They had come in our steamer to Acapulco,
and had left it a few hours before we did.  As the villages were so far
apart we necessarily had to stop at night in the same one.  The second
time this happened they, having arrived first, had quartered themselves
on the Alcalde or principal personage of the place.  Our guide took us to
the same house; and although His Worship, who had a better supply of
maize for the horses, and a few more chickens to sell than the other
natives, was anxious to accommodate us, the four Americans, a very
rough-looking lot and armed to the teeth, wouldn’t hear of it, but
peremptorily bade us put up elsewhere.  Our own American, who was much
afraid of them, obeyed their commands without more ado.  It made not the
slightest difference to us, for one grass hammock is as soft as another,
and the Alcalde’s chickens were as tough as ours.

Before the morning start, two of the diggers, rifles in hand, came over
to us and plainly told us they objected to our company.  Fred, with
perfect good humour, assured them we had no thought of robbing them, and
that as the villages were so far apart we had no choice in the matter.
However, as they wished to travel separate from us, if there should be
two villages at all within suitable distances, they could stop at one and
we at the other.  There the matter rested.  But our guide was more
frightened than ever.  They were four to two, he argued, for neither he
nor the Mexican were armed.  And there was no saying, etc., etc. . . .
In short we had better stay where we were till they got through.  Fred
laughed at the fellow’s alarm, and told him he might stop if he liked,
but we meant to go on.

As usual, when we reached the next stage, the diggers were before us; and
when our men began to unsaddle at a hut about fifty yards from where they
were feeding their horses, one of them, the biggest blackguard to look at
of the lot, and though the fiercest probably the greatest cur, shouted at
us to put the saddles on again and ‘get out of that.’  He had warned us
in the morning that they’d had enough of us, and, with a volley of oaths,
advised us to be off.  Fred, who was in his shirt-sleeves, listened at
first with a look of surprise at such cantankerous unreasonableness; but
when the ruffian fell to swear and threaten, he burst into one of his
contemptuous guffaws, turned his back and began to feed his horse with a
corncob.  Thus insulted, the digger ran into the hut (as I could see) to
get his rifle.  I snatched up my own, which I had been using every day to
practise at the large iguanas and macaws, and, well protected by my
horse, called out as I covered him, ‘This is a double-barrelled rifle.
If you raise yours I’ll drop you where you stand.’  He was forestalled
and taken aback.  Probably he meant nothing but bravado.  Still, the
situation was a critical one.  Obviously I could not wait till he had
shot my friend.  But had it come to shooting there would have been three
left, unless my second barrel had disposed of another.  Fortunately the
‘boss’ of the digging party gauged the gravity of the crisis at a glance;
and instead of backing him up as expected, swore at him for a ‘derned
fool,’ and ordered him to have no more to do with us.

After that, as we drew near to the city, the country being more thickly
populated, we no longer clashed.

This is not a guide-book, and I have nothing to tell of that readers
would not find better described in their ‘Murray.’  We put up in an
excellent hotel kept by M. Arago, the brother of the great French
astronomer.  The only other travellers in it besides ourselves were the
famous dancer Cerito, and her husband the violin virtuoso, St. Leon.
Luckily for me our English Minister was Mr. Percy Doyle, whom I had known
as _attaché_ at Paris when I was at Larue, and who was a great friend of
the De Cubriers.  We were thus provided with many advantages for
‘sight-seeing’ in and about the city, and also for more distant
excursions through credentials from the Mexican authorities.  Under these
auspices we visited the silver mines at Guadalajara, Potosi, and
Guanajuata.

The life in Mexico city was delightful, after a year’s tramp.  The hotel,
as I have said, was to us luxurious.  My room under the verandah opened
on to a large and beautiful garden partially enclosed on two sides.  As I
lay in bed of a morning reading Prescott’s ‘History of Mexico,’ or
watching the brilliant humming birds as they darted from flower to
flower, and listened to the gentle plash of the fountain, my cup of
enjoyment and romance was brimming over.

Just before I left, an old friend of mine arrived from England.  This was
Mr. Joseph Clissold.  He was a schoolfellow of mine at Sheen.  He had
pulled in the Cambridge boat, and played in the Cambridge eleven.  He
afterwards became a magistrate either in Australia or New Zealand.  He
was the best type of the good-natured, level-headed, hard-hitting
Englishman.  Curiously enough, as it turned out, the greater part of the
only conversation we had (I was leaving the day after he came) was about
the brigandage on the road between Mexico and Vera Cruz.  He told me the
passengers in the diligence which had brought him up had been warned at
Jalapa that the road was infested by robbers; and should the coach be
stopped they were on no account to offer resistance, for the robbers
would certainly shoot them if they did.

Fred chose to ride down to the coast, I went by coach.  This held six
inside and two by the driver.  Three of the inside passengers sat with
backs to the horses, the others facing them.  My coach was full, and
stifling hot and stuffy it was before we had done with it.  Of the five
others two were fat priests, and for twenty hours my place was between
them.  But in one way I had my revenge: I carried my loaded rifle between
my knees, and a pistol in my belt.  The dismay, the terror, the panic,
the protestations, the entreaties and execrations of all the five, kept
us at least from _ennui_ for many a weary mile.  I doubt whether the two
priests ever thumbed their breviaries so devoutly in their lives.
Perhaps that brought us salvation.  We reached Vera Cruz without
adventure, and in the autumn of ’51 Fred and I landed safely at
Southampton.

Two months after I got back, I read an account in the ‘Times’ of ‘Joe’
Clissold’s return trip from Mexico.  The coach in which he was travelling
was stopped by robbers.  Friend Joseph was armed with a double-barrelled
smooth-bore loaded with slugs.  He considered this on the whole more
suitable than a rifle.  When the captain of the brigands opened the coach
door and, pistol in hand, politely proffered his request, Mr. Joe was
quite ready for him, and confided the contents of one barrel to the
captain’s bosom.  Seeing the fate of their commander, and not knowing
what else the dilly might contain, the rest of the band dug spurs into
their horses and fled.  But the sturdy oarsman and smart cricketer was
too quick for one of them—the horse followed his friends, but the rider
stayed with his chief.



CHAPTER XXXIII


THE following winter, my friend, George Cayley, was ordered to the south
for his health.  He went to Seville.  I joined him there; and we took
lodgings and remained till the spring.  As Cayley published an amusing
account of our travels, ‘Las Aforjas, or the Bridle Roads of Spain,’ as
this is more than fifty years ago—before the days of railways and
tourists—and as I kept no journal of my own, I will make free use of his.

A few words will show the terms we were on.

I had landed at Cadiz, and had gone up the Guadalquivir in a steamer,
whose advent at Seville my friend was on the look-out for.  He describes
his impatience for her arrival.  By some mistake he is misinformed as to
the time; he is a quarter of an hour late.

‘A remnant of passengers yet bustled around the luggage, arguing,
struggling and bargaining with a contentious company of porters.  Alas!
H. was not to be seen among them.  There was still a chance; he might be
one of the passengers who had got ashore before my coming down, and I was
preparing to rush back to the city to ransack the hotels.  Just then an
internal convulsion shook the swarm around the luggage pile; out burst a
little Gallego staggering under a huge British portmanteau, and followed
by its much desired, and now almost despaired of, proprietor.

‘I saw him come bowling up the slope with his familiar gait, evidently
unconscious of my presence, and wearing that sturdy and almost hostile
demeanour with which a true Briton marches into a strange city through
the army of officious importunates who never fail to welcome the true
Briton’s arrival.  As he passed the barrier he came close to me in the
crowd, still without recognising me, for though straight before his nose
I was dressed in the costume of the people.  I touched his elbow and he
turned upon me with a look of impatient defiance, thinking me one
persecutor more.

‘How quickly the expression changed, etc., etc.  We rushed into each
other’s arms, as much as the many great coats slung over his shoulders,
and the deep folds of cloak in which I was enveloped, would mutually
permit.  Then, saying more than a thousand things in a breath, or rather
in no breath at all, we set off in great glee for my lodgings, forgetting
in the excitement the poor little porter who was following at full trot,
panting and puffing under the heavy portmanteau.  We got home, but were
no calmer.  We dined, but could not eat.  We talked, but the news could
not be persuaded to come out quick enough.’

Who has not known what is here described?  Who does not envy the
freshness, the enthusiasm, of such bubbling of warm young hearts?  Oh,
the pity of it! if these generous emotions should prove as transient as
youth itself.  And then, when one of those young hearts is turned to
dust, and one is left to think of it—why then, ’tis not much comfort to
reflect that—nothing in the world is commoner.

We got a Spanish master and worked industriously, also picked up all the
Andalusian we could, which is as much like pure Castilian as
wold-Yorkshire is to English.  I also took lessons on the guitar.  Thus
prepared, I imitated my friend and adopted the ordinary costume of the
Andalusian peasant: breeches, ornamented with rows of silvered buttons,
gaiters, a short jacket with a red flower-pot and blue lily on the back,
and elbows with green and scarlet patterns, a red _faja_ or sash, and the
sombrero which I believe is worn nowhere except in the bull-ring.  The
whole of this picturesque dress is now, I think, given up.  I have spent
the last two winters in the south of Spain, but have not once seen it.

It must not be supposed that we chose this ‘get-up’ to gratify any
æsthetic taste of our own or other people’s; it was long before the days
of the ‘Too-toos,’ whom Mr. Gilbert brought to a timely end.  We had
settled to ride through Spain from Gibraltar to Bayonne, choosing always
the bridle-roads so as to avoid anything approaching a beaten track.  We
were to visit the principal cities and keep more or less a northerly
course, staying on the way at such places as Malaga, Cordova, Toledo,
Madrid, Valladolid, and Burgos.  The rest was to be left to chance.  We
were to take no map; and when in doubt as to diverging roads, the toss of
a coin was to settle it.  This programme was conscientiously adhered to.
The object of the dress then was obscurity.  For safety (brigands
abounded) and for economy, it was desirable to pass unnoticed.  We never
knew in what dirty _posada_ or road-side _venta_ we should spend the
night.  For the most part it was at the resting-place of the muleteers,
which would be nothing but a roughly paved dark chamber, one end occupied
by mules and the other by their drivers.  We made our own omelets and
salad and chocolate; with the exception of the never failing _bacallao_,
or salt fish, we rarely had anything else; and rolling ourselves into our
cloaks, with saddles for pillows, slept amongst the muleteers on the
stone flags.  We had bought a couple of ponies in the Seville market for
7_l._ and 8_l._  Our _alforjas_ or saddlebags contained all we needed.
Our portmanteaus were sent on from town to town, wherever we had arranged
to stop.  Rough as the life was, we saw the people of Spain as no
ordinary travellers could hope to see them.  The carriers, the shepherds,
the publicans, the travelling merchants, the priests, the barbers, the
_molineras_ of Antequera, the Maritornes’, the Sancho Panzas—all just as
they were seen by the immortal knight.

From the _mozos de la cuadra_ (ostlers) and _arrieros_, upwards and
downwards, nowhere have I met, in the same class, with such natural
politeness.  This is much changed for the worse now; but before the
invasion of tourists one never passed a man on the road who did not
salute one with a ‘Vaya usted con Dios.’  Nor would the most indigent
vagabond touch the filthy _bacallao_ which he drew from his wallet till
he had courteously addressed the stranger with the formula ‘Quiere usted
comer?’  (‘Will your Lordship please to eat?’)  The contrast between the
people and the nobles in this respect was very marked.  We saw something
of the latter in the club at Seville, where one met men whose
high-sounding names and titles have come down to us from the greatest
epochs of Spanish history.  Their ignorance was surprising.  Not one of
them had been farther than Madrid.  Not one of them knew a word of any
language but his own, nor was he acquainted with the rudiments even of
his country’s history.  Their conversation was restricted to the
bull-ring and the cockpit, to cards and women.  Their chief aim seemed to
be to stagger us with the number of quarterings they bore upon their
escutcheons; and they appraised others by a like estimate.

Cayley, tickled with the humour of their childish vanity, painted an
elaborate coat of arms, which he stuck in the crown of his hat, and by
means of which he explained to them that he too was by rights a Spanish
nobleman.  With the utmost gravity he delivered some such medley as this:
His Iberian origin dated back to the time of Hannibal, who, after his
defeat of the Papal forces and capture of Rome, had, as they well knew,
married Princess Peri Banou, youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella.
The issue of the marriage was the famous Cardinal Chicot, from whom
he—George Cayley—was of direct male descent.  When Chicot was slain by
Oliver Cromwell at the battle of Hastings, his descendants, foiled in
their attempt to capture England with the Spanish Armada, settled in the
principality of Yorkshire, adopted the noble name of Cayley, and still
governed that province as members of the British Parliament.

From that day we were treated with every mark of distinction.

Here is another of my friend’s pranks.  I will let Cayley speak; for
though I kept no journal, we had agreed to write a joint account of our
trip, and our notebooks were common property.

After leaving Malaga we met some beggars on the road, to one of whom, ‘an
old hag with one eye and a grizzly beard,’ I threw the immense sum of a
couple of 2-cuarto pieces.  An old man riding behind us on an ass with
empty panniers, seeing fortunes being scattered about the road with such
reckless and unbounded profusion, came up alongside, and entered into a
piteous detail of his poverty.  When he wound up with plain begging, the
originality and boldness of the idea of a mounted beggar struck us in so
humorous a light that we could not help laughing.  As we rode along
talking his case over, Cayley said, ‘Suppose we rob him.  He has sold his
market produce in Malaga, and depend upon it, has a pocketful of money.’
We waited for him to come up.  When he got fairly between us, Cayley
pulled out his revolver (we both carried pistols) and thus addressed him:

‘Impudent old scoundrel! stand still.  If thou stirr’st hand or foot, or
openest thy mouth, I will slay thee like a dog.  Thou greedy miscreant,
who art evidently a man of property and hast an ass to ride upon, art not
satisfied without trying to rob the truly poor of the alms we give them.
Therefore hand over at once the two dollars for which thou hast sold thy
cabbages for double what they were worth.’

The old culprit fell on his knees, and trembling violently, prayed Cayley
for the love of the Virgin to spare him.

‘One moment, _caballeros_,’ he cried, ‘I will give you all I possess.
But I am poor, very poor, and I have a sick wife at the disposition of
your worships.’

‘Wherefore art thou fumbling at thy foot?  Thou carriest not thy wife in
thy shoe?’

‘I cannot untie the string—my hand trembles; will your worships permit me
to take out my knife?’

He did so, and cutting the carefully knotted thong of a leather bag which
had been concealed in the leg of his stocking, poured out a handful of
small coin and began to weep piteously.

Said Cayley, ‘Come, come, none of that, or we shall feel it our duty to
shoot thy donkey that thou may’st have something to whimper for.’

The genuine tears of the poor old fellow at last touched the heart of the
jester.

‘We know now that thou art poor,’ said he, ‘for we have taken all thou
hadst.  And as it is the religion of the Ingleses, founded on the
practice of their celebrated saint, Robino Hoodo, to levy funds from the
rich for the benefit of the needy, hold out thy sombero, and we will
bestow a trifle upon thee.’

So saying he poured back the plunder; to which was added, to the
astonishment of the receiver, some supplementary pieces that nearly
equalled the original sum.



CHAPTER XXXIV


BEFORE setting out from Seville we had had our Foreign Office passports
duly _viséd_.  Our profession was given as that of travelling artists,
and the _visé_ included the permission to carry arms.  More than once the
sight of our pistols caused us to be stopped by the _carabineros_.  On
one occasion these road-guards disputed the wording of the _visé_.  They
protested that ‘armas’ meant ‘escopetas,’ not pistols, which were
forbidden.  Cayley indignantly retorted, ‘Nothing is forbidden to
Englishmen.  Besides, it is specified in our passports that we are
‘personas de toda confianza,’ which checkmated them.

We both sketched, and passed ourselves off as ‘retratistas’ (portrait
painters), and did a small business in this way—rather in the shape of
caricatures, I fear, but which gave much satisfaction.  We charged one
peseta (seven-pence), or two, a head, according to the means of the
sitter.  The fiction that we were earning our bread wholesomely tended to
moderate the charge for it.

Passing through the land of Don Quixote’s exploits, we reverentially
visited any known spot which these had rendered famous.  Amongst such was
the _venta_ of Quesada, from which, or from Quixada, as some conjecture,
the knight derived his surname.  It was here, attracted by its
castellated style, and by two ‘ladies of pleasure’ at its door—whose
virginity he at once offered to defend, that he spent the night of his
first sally.  It was here that, in his shirt, he kept guard till morning
over the armour he had laid by the well.  It was here that, with his
spear, he broke the head of the carrier whom he took for another knight
bent on the rape of the virgin princesses committed to his charge.  Here,
too, it was that the host of the _venta_ dubbed him with the coveted
knighthood which qualified him for his noble deeds.

To Quesada we wended our way.  We asked the Señor Huesped whether he knew
anything of the history of his _venta_.  Was it not very ancient?

‘Oh no, it was quite modern.  But on the site of it had stood a fine
_venta_ which was burnt down at the time of the war.’

‘An old building?’

‘Yes, indeed! _a cosa de siempre_—thing of always.  Nothing, was left of
it now but that well, and the stone trough.’

These bore marks of antiquity, and were doubtless as the gallant knight
had left them.  Curiously, too, there were remains of an outhouse with a
crenellated parapet, suggestive enough of a castle.

From Quesada we rode to Argamasilla del Alba, where Cervantes was
imprisoned, and where the First Part of Don Quixote was written.

In his Life of Cervantes, Don Gregorio Mayano throws some doubt upon
this.  Speaking of the attacks of his contemporary, the ‘Aragonian,’ Don
Gregorio writes (I give Ozell’s translation): ‘As for this scandalous
fellow’s saying that Cervantes wrote his First Part of “Don Quixote” in a
prison, and that that might make it so dull and incorrect, Cervantes did
not think fit to give any answer concerning his being imprisoned, perhaps
to avoid giving offence to the ministers of justice; for certainly his
imprisonment must not have been ignominious, since Cervantes himself
voluntarily mentions it in his Preface to the First Part of “Don
Quixote.”’

This reasoning, however, does not seem conclusive; for the only reference
to the subject in the preface is as follows: ‘What could my sterile and
uncultivated genius produce but the history of a child, meagre, adust,
and whimsical, full of various wild imaginations never thought of before;
like one you may suppose born in a prison, where every inconvenience
keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation?’

We took up our quarters in the little town at the ‘Posada de la Mina.’
While our _olla_ was being prepared; we asked the hostess whether she had
ever heard of the celebrated Don Miguel de Cervantes, who had been
imprisoned there?  (I will quote Cayley).

‘No, Señores; I think I have heard of one Cervantes, but he does not live
here at present.’

‘Do you know anything of Don Quixote?’

‘Oh, yes.  He was a great _caballero_, who lived here some years ago.
His house is over the way, on the other side of the _plaza_, with the
arms over the door.  The father of the Alcalde is the oldest man in the
_pueblo_; perhaps he may remember him.’

We were amused at his hero’s fame outliving that of the author.  But is
it not so with others—the writers of the Book of Job, of the Pentateuch,
and perhaps, too, of the ‘Iliad,’ if not of the ‘Odyssey’?

But, to let Cayley speak:

‘While we were undressing to go to bed, three gentlemen were announced
and shown in.  We begged them to be seated. . . .  We sat opposite on the
ends of our respective beds to hear what they might have to communicate.
A venerable old man opened the conference.

‘“We have understood, gentlemen, that you have come hither seeking for
information respecting the famous Don Quixote, and we have come to give
you such information as we may; but, perhaps you will understand me
better if I speak in Latin.”

‘“We have learnt the Latin at our schools, but are more accustomed to
converse in Castilian; pray proceed.”

‘“I am the Medico of the place, an old man, as you see; and what little I
know has reached me by tradition.  It is reported that Cervantes was
paying his addresses to a young lady, whose name was Quijana or Quijada.
The Alcalde, disapproving of the suit, put him into a dungeon under his
house, and kept him there a year.  Once he escaped and fled, but he was
taken in Toboso, and brought back.  Cervantes wrote ‘Don Quixote’ as a
satire on the Alcalde, who was a very proud man, full of chivalresque
ideas.  You can see the dungeon to-morrow; but you should see the
_batanes_ (water-mills) of the Guadiana, whose ‘golpear’ so terrified
Sancho Panza.  They are at about three leagues distance.”’

The old gentleman added that he was proud to receive strangers who came
to do honour to the memory of his illustrious townsman; and hoped we
would visit him next day, on our return from the fulling-mills, when he
would have the pleasure of conducting us to the house of the Quijanas, in
the cellars of which Cervantes was confined.

To the _batanes_ we went next morning.  Their historical importance
entitles them to an accurate description.  None could be more lucid than
that of my companion.  ‘These clumsy, ancient machines are composed of a
couple of huge wooden mallets, slung in a timber framework, which, being
pushed out of the perpendicular by knobs on a water-wheel, clash back
again alternately in two troughs, pounding severely whatever may be put
in between the face of the mallet and the end of the trough into which
the water runs.’

It will be remembered that, after a copious meal, Sancho having neglected
to replenish the gourd, both he and his master suffered greatly from
thirst.  It was now ‘so dark,’ says the history, ‘that they could see
nothing; but they had not gone two hundred paces when a great noise of
water reached their ears. . . .  The sound rejoiced them exceedingly;
and, stopping to listen from whence it came, they heard on a sudden
another dreadful noise, which abated their pleasure occasioned by that of
the water, especially Sancho’s. . . .  They heard a dreadful din of irons
and chains rattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes in time
and measure which, together with the furious noise of the water, would
have struck terror into any other heart than that of Don Quixote.’  For
him it was but an opportunity for some valorous achievement.  So, having
braced on his buckler and mounted Rosinante, he brandished his spear, and
explained to his trembling squire that by the will of Heaven he was
reserved for deeds which would obliterate the memory of the Platirs,
Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Belianesas, with the whole tribe of the
famous knights-errant of times past.

‘Wherefore, straighten Rosinante’s girths a little,’ said he, ‘and God be
with you.  Stay for me here three days, and no more; if I do not return
in that time you may go to Toboso, where you shall say to my incomparable
Lady Dulcinea that her enthralled knight died in attempting things that
might have made him worthy to be styled “hers.”’

Sancho, more terrified than ever at the thoughts of being left alone,
reminded his master that it was unwise to tempt God by undertaking
exploits from which there was no escaping but by a miracle; and, in order
to emphasize this very sensible remark, secretly tied Rosinante’s hind
legs together with his halter.  Seeing the success of his contrivance, he
said: ‘Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has
ordained that Rosinante cannot go,’ and then warned him not to set
Providence at defiance.  Still Sancho was much too frightened by the
infernal clatter to relax his hold of the knight’s saddle.  For some time
he strove to beguile his own fears with a very long story about the
goatherd Lope Ruiz, who was in love with the shepherdess Torralva—‘a
jolly, strapping wench, a little scornful, and somewhat masculine.’  Now,
whether owing to the cold of the morning, which was at hand, or whether
to some lenitive diet on which he had supped, it so befell that Sancho
. . . what nobody could do for him.  The truth is, the honest fellow was
overcome by panic, and under no circumstances would, or did, he for one
instant leave his master’s side.  Nay, when the knight spurred his steed
and found it could not move, Sancho reminded him that the attempt was
useless, since Rosinante was restrained by enchantment.  This the knight
readily admitted, but stoutly protested that he himself was anything but
enchanted by the close proximity of his squire.

We all remember the grave admonitions of Don Quixote, and the ingenious
endeavours of Sancho to lay the blame upon the knight.  But the final
words of the Don contain a moral apposite to so many other important
situations, that they must not be omitted here.  ‘Apostare, replicó
Sancho, que pensa vuestra merced que yo he hecho de mi persona alguna
cosa que no deba.’  ‘I will lay a wager,’ replied Sancho, ‘that your
worship thinks that I have &c.’  The brief, but memorable, answer was:
‘Peor es meneallo, amigo Sancho,’ which, as no translation could do
justice to it, must be left as it stands.  _Quieta non movere_.

We were nearly meeting with an adventure here.  While I was busy making a
careful drawing of the _batanes_, Cayley’s pony was as much alarmed by
the rushing waters as had been Sancho Panza.  In his endeavours to picket
the animal, my friend dropped a pistol which I had lent him to practise
with, although he carried a revolver of his own.  Not till he had tied up
the pony at some little distance did he discover the loss.  In vain he
searched the spot where he knew the pistol must have escaped from his
_faja_.  Near it, three rough-looking knaves in shaggy goatskin garments,
with guns over their shoulders, were watching the progress of my sketch.
On his return Cayley asked two of these (the third moved away as he came
up) whether they had seen the pistol.  They declared they had not; upon
which he said he must search them.  He was not a man to be trifled with,
and although they refused at first, they presently submitted.  He then
overtook the third, and at once accused him of the theft.  The man swore
he knew nothing of the lost weapon, and brought his gun to the charge.
As he did so, Cayley caught sight of the pistol under the fellow’s
sheepskin jacket, and with characteristic promptitude seized it, while he
presented a revolver at the thief’s head.  All this he told me with great
glee a minute or two later.

When we got back to Argamasilla the Medico was already awaiting us.  He
conducted us to the house of the Quijanas, where an old woman-servant,
lamp in hand, showed the way down a flight of steps into the dungeon.  It
was a low vaulted chamber, eight feet high, ten broad, and twenty-four
long, dimly lighted by a lancet window six feet from the ground.  She
confidently informed us that Cervantes was in the habit of writing at the
farthest end, and that he was allowed a lamp for the purpose.  We
accepted the information with implicit faith; silently picturing on our
mental retinas the image of him whose genius had brightened the dark
hours of millions for over three hundred years.  One could see the spare
form of the man of action pacing up and down his cell, unconscious of
prison walls, roaming in spirit through the boundless realms of Fancy,
his piercing eyes intent upon the conjured visions of his brain.  One
noted his vast expanse of brow, his short, crisp, curly hair, his high
cheek-bones and singularly high-bridged nose, his refined mouth, small
projecting chin and pointed beard.  One noticed, too, as he turned, the
stump of the left wrist clasped by the remaining hand.  Who could stand
in such a presence and fail to bow with veneration before this insulted
greatness!  Potentates pass like Ozymandias, but not the men who, through
the ages, help to save us from this tread-mill world, and from ourselves.

We visited Cuenca, Segovia, and many an out-of-the-way spot.  If it be
true, as Don Quixote declares, that ‘No hay libro tan malo que no tenga
alguna cosa buena’ (‘there is no book so worthless that has not some good
in it’), still more true is this of a country like Spain.  And the
pleasantest places are just those which only by-roads lead to.  In and
near the towns every other man, if not by profession still by practice,
is a beggar.  From the seedy-looking rascal in the street, of whom you
incautiously ask the way, and who piteously whines ‘para zapatos’—for the
wear and tear of shoe leather, to the highest official, one and all hold
out their hands for the copper _cuarto_ or the eleemosynary sinecure.  As
it was then, so is it now; the Government wants support, and it is always
to be had, at a price; deputies always want ‘places.’  For every duty the
functionary performs, or ought to perform, he receives his bribe.  The
Government is too poor to keep him honest, but his _pour-boires_ are not
measured by his scruples.  All is winked at, if the Ministry secures a
vote.

Away in the pretty rural districts, in the little villages amid the woods
and the mountains, with their score or so of houses and their little
chapel with its tinkling old bell and its poverty-stricken curate, the
hard-working, simple-minded men are too proud and too honest to ask for
more than a pinch of tobacco for the _cigarillo_.  The maidens are
comely, and as chaste as—can reasonably be expected.

Madrid is worth visiting—not for its bull-fights, which are disgusting
proofs of man’s natural brutality, but for its picture gallery.  No one
knows what Velasquez could do, or has done, till he has seen Madrid; and
Charles V. was practically master of Europe when the collection was in
his hands.  The Escurial’s chief interests are in its associations with
Charles V. and Philip II.  In the dark and gloomy little bedroom of the
latter is a small window opening into the church, so that the King could
attend the services in bed if necessary.

It cannot be said of Philip that he was nothing if not religious, for
Nero even was not a more indefatigable murderer, nor a more diabolical
specimen of cruelty and superstition.  The very thought of the wretch
tempts one to revolt at human piety, at any rate where priestcraft and
its fabrications are at the bottom of it.

When at Madrid we met Mr. Arthur Birch.  He had been with Cayley at Eton,
as captain of the school.  While we were together, he received and
accepted the offer of an Eton mastership.  We were going by diligence to
Toledo, and Birch agreed to go with us.  I mention the fact because the
place reminds me of a clever play upon its name by the Eton scholar.
Cayley bought a Toledo sword-blade, and asked Birch for a motto to
engrave upon it.  In a minute or two he hit off this: TIMETOLETUM, which
reads Time Toletum=Honour Toledo, or Timeto Letum=Fear death.  Cayley’s
attempts, though not so neat, were not bad.  Here are a couple of them:—

    Though slight I am, no slight I stand,
    Saying my master’s sleight of hand.

or:—

    Come to the point; unless you do,
    The point will shortly come to you.

Birch got the Latin poem medal at Cambridge the same year that Cayley got
the English one.

Before we set forth again upon our gipsy tramp, I received a letter from
Mr. Ellice bidding me hasten home to contest the Borough of Cricklade in
the General Election of 1852.  Under these circumstances we loitered but
little on the Northern roads.  At the end of May we reached Yrun.  Here
we sold our ponies—now quite worn out—for twenty-three dollars—about five
guineas.  So that a thousand miles of locomotion had cost us a little
over five guineas apiece.  Not counting hotels at Madrid and such smart
places, our daily cost for selves and ponies rarely exceeded six pesetas,
or three shillings each all told.  The best of it was, the trip restored
the health of my friend.



CHAPTER XXXV


IN February of this year, 1852, Lord Palmerston, aided by an incongruous
force of Peelites and Protectionists, turned Lord John Russell out of
office on his Militia Bill.  Lord Derby, with Disraeli as Chancellor of
the Exchequer and leader of the House of Commons, came into power on a
cry for Protection.

Not long after my return to England, I was packed off to canvas the
borough of Cricklade.  It was then a very extensive borough, including a
large agricultural district, as well as Swindon, the headquarters of the
Great Western Railway.  For many years it had returned two Conservative
members, Messrs. Nield and Goddard.  It was looked upon as an impregnable
Tory stronghold, and the fight was little better than a forlorn hope.

My headquarters were at Coleshill, Lord Radnor’s.  The old lord had, in
his Parliamentary days, been a Radical; hence, my advanced opinions found
great favour in his eyes.  My programme was—Free Trade, Vote by Ballot,
and Disestablishment.  Two of these have become common-places (one
perhaps effete), and the third is nearer to accomplishment than it was
then.

My first acquaintance with a constituency, amongst whom I worked
enthusiastically for six weeks, was comic enough.  My instructions were
to go to Swindon; there an agent, whom I had never seen, would join me.
A meeting of my supporters had been arranged by him, and I was to make my
maiden speech in the market-place.

My address, it should be stated—ultra-Radical, of course—was mainly
concocted for me by Mr. Cayley, an almost rabid Tory, and then member for
the North Riding of Yorkshire, but an old Parliamentary hand; and, in
consequence of my attachment to his son, at that time and until his
death, like a father to me.

When the train stopped at Swindon, there was a crowd of passengers, but
not a face that I knew; and it was not till all but one or two had left,
that a business-looking man came up and asked if I were the candidate for
Cricklade.  He told me that a carriage was in attendance to take us up to
the town; and that a procession, headed by a band, was ready to accompany
us thither.  The procession was formed mainly of the Great Western
boiler-makers and artisans.  Their enthusiasm seemed slightly
disproportioned to the occasion; and the vigour of the brass, and
especially of the big drum, so filled my head with visions of Mr.
Pickwick and his friend the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, that by the time I
reached the market-place, I had forgotten every syllable of the speech
which I had carefully learnt by heart.  Nor was it the band alone that
upset me; going up the hill the carriage was all but capsized by the
frightened horses and the breaking of the pole.  The gallant
boiler-makers, however, at once removed the horses, and dragged the
carriage with cheers of defiance into the crowd awaiting us.

My agent had settled that I was to speak from a window of the hotel.  The
only available one was an upper window, the lower sash of which could not
be persuaded to keep up without being held.  The consequence was, just as
I was getting over the embarrassment of extemporary oration, down came
the sash and guillotined me.  This put the crowd in the best of humours;
they roared with laughter, and after that we got on capitally together.

A still more inopportune accident happened to me later in the day, when
speaking at Shrivenham.  A large yard enclosed by buildings was chosen
for the meeting.  The difficulty was to elevate the speaker above the
heads of the assembly.  In one corner of the yard was a water-butt.  An
ingenious elector got a board, placed it on the top of the butt—which was
full of water—and persuaded me to make this my rostrum.  Here, again, in
the midst of my harangue—perhaps I stamped to emphasize my horror of
small loaves and other Tory abominations—the board gave way; and I
narrowly escaped a ducking by leaping into the arms of a ‘supporter.’

The end of it all was that my agent at the last moment threw up the
sponge.  The farmers formed a serried phalanx against Free Trade; it was
useless to incur the expense of a poll.  Then came the bill.  It was a
heavy one; for in addition to my London agent—a professional
electioneering functionary—were the local agents at towns like
Malmesbury, Wootton Bassett, Shrivenham, &c., &c.  My eldest brother, who
was a soberer-minded politician than I, although very liberal to me in
other ways, declined to support my political opinions.  I myself was
quite unable to pay the costs.  Knowing this, Lord Radnor called me into
his study as I was leaving Coleshill, and expressed himself warmly with
respect to my labours; regretting the victory of the other side, he
declared that, as the question of Protection would be disposed of, one of
the two seats would be safe upon a future contest.

‘And who,’ asked the old gentleman, with a benevolent grin on his face,
‘who is going to pay your expenses?’

‘Goodness knows, sir,’ said I; ‘I hope they won’t come down upon me.  I
haven’t a thousand pounds in the world, unless I tap my fortune.’

‘Well,’ said his Lordship, with a chuckle, ‘I haven’t paid my
subscription to Brooks’s yet, so I’ll hand it over to you,’ and he gave
me a cheque for £500.

The balance was obtained through Mr. Ellice from the patronage Secretary
to the Treasury.  At the next election, as Lord Radnor predicted, Lord
Ashley, Lord Shaftesbury’s eldest son, won one of the two seats for the
Liberals with the greatest ease.

As Coleshill was an open house to me from that time as long as Lord
Radnor lived, I cannot take leave of the dear old man without an
affectionate word at parting.  Creevey has an ill-natured fling at him,
as he has at everybody else, but a kinder-hearted and more perfect
gentleman would be difficult to meet with.  His personality was a marked
one.  He was a little man, with very plain features, a punch-like nose,
an extensive mouth, and hardly a hair on his head.  But in spite of these
peculiarities, his face was pleasant to look at, for it was invariably
animated by a sweet smile, a touch of humour, and a decided air of
dignity.  Born in 1779, he dressed after the orthodox Whig fashion of his
youth, in buff and blue, his long-tailed coat reaching almost to his
heels.  His manner was a model of courtesy and simplicity.  He used
antiquated expressions: called London ‘Lunnun,’ Rome ‘Room,’ a balcony a
‘balcöny’; he always spoke of the clergyman as the ‘pearson,’ and called
his daughter Lady Mary, ‘Meary.’  Instead of saying ‘this day week’ he
would say this day sen’nit’ (for sen’night).

The independence of his character was very noticeable.  As an instance: A
party of twenty people, say, would be invited for a given day.  Abundance
of carriages would be sent to meet the trains, so that all the guests
would arrive in ample time for dinner.  It generally happened that some
of them, not knowing the habits of the house, or some duchess or great
lady who might assume that clocks were made for her and not she for
clocks, would not appear in the drawing-room till a quarter of an hour
after the dinner gong had sounded.  If anyone did so, he or she would
find that everybody else had got through soup and fish.  If no one but
Lady Mary had been down when dinner was announced, his Lordship would
have offered his arm to his daughter, and have taken his seat at the
table alone.  After the first night, no one was ever late.  In the
morning he read prayers to the household before breakfast with the same
precise punctuality.

Lady Mary Bouverie, his unmarried daughter, was the very best of
hostesses.  The house under her management was the perfection of comfort.
She married an old and dear friend of mine, Sir James Wilde, afterwards
the Judge, Lord Penzance.  I was his ‘best man.’

My ‘Ride over the Rocky Mountains’ was now published; and, as the field
was a new one, the writer was rewarded, for a few weeks, with invitations
to dinner, and the usual tickets for ‘drums’ and dances.  To my
astonishment, or rather to my alarm, I received a letter from the
Secretary of the Royal Geographical Society (Charles Fox, or perhaps Sir
George Simpson had, I think, proposed me—I never knew), to say that I had
been elected a member.  Nothing was further from my ambition.  The very
thought shrivelled me with a sense of ignorance and insignificance.  I
pictured to myself an assembly of old fogies crammed with all the
‘ologies.  I broke into a cold perspiration when I fancied myself called
upon to deliver a lecture on the comparative sea-bottomy of the Oceanic
globe, or give my theory of the simultaneous sighting by ‘little Billee’
of ‘Madagascar, and North, and South Amerikee.’  Honestly, I had not the
courage to accept; and, young Jackanapes as I was, left the Secretary’s
letter unanswered.

But a still greater honour—perhaps the greatest compliment I ever had
paid me—was to come.  I had lodgings at this time in an old house, long
since pulled down, in York Street.  One day, when I was practising the
fiddle, who should walk into my den but Rogers the poet!  He had never
seen me in his life.  He was in his ninetieth year, and he had climbed
the stairs to the first floor to ask me to one of his breakfast parties.
To say nothing of Rogers’ fame, his wealth, his position in society,
those who know what his cynicism and his worldliness were, will
understand what such an effort, physical and moral, must have cost him.
He always looked like a death’s head, but his ghastly pallor, after that
Alpine ascent, made me feel as if he had come—to stay.

These breakfasts were entertainments of no ordinary distinction.  The
host himself was of greater interest than the most eminent of his guests.
All but he, were more or less one’s contemporaries: Rogers, if not quite
as dead as he looked, was ancient history.  He was old enough to have
been the father of Byron, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Moore.  He was
several years older than Scott, or Wordsworth, or Coleridge, and only
four years younger than Pitt.  He had known all these men, and could, and
did, talk as no other could talk, of all of them.  Amongst those whom I
met at these breakfasts were Cornewall Lewis, Delane, the Grotes,
Macaulay, Mrs. Norton, Monckton Milnes, William Harcourt (the only one
younger than myself), but just beginning to be known, and others of
scarcely less note.

During the breakfast itself, Rogers, though seated at table in an
armchair, took no part either in the repast or in the conversation; he
seemed to sleep until the meal was over.  His servant would then place a
cup of coffee before him, and, like a Laputian flapper, touch him gently
on the shoulder.  He would at once begin to talk, while others listened.
The first time I witnessed this curious resurrection, I whispered
something to my neighbour, at which he laughed.  The old man’s eye was
too sharp for us.

‘You are laughing at me,’ said he; ‘I dare say you young gentlemen think
me an old fellow; but there are younger than I who are older.  You should
see Tommy Moore.  I asked him to breakfast, but he’s too weak—weak here,
sir,’ and he tapped his forehead.  ‘I’m not that.’  (This was the year
that Moore died.)  He certainly was not; but his whole discourse was of
the past.  It was as though he would not condescend to discuss events or
men of the day.  What were either to the days and men that he had
known—French revolutions, battles of Trafalgar and Waterloo, a Nelson and
a Buonaparte, a Pitt, a Burke, a Fox, a Johnson, a Gibbon, a Sheridan,
and all the men of letters and all the poets of a century gone by?  Even
Macaulay had for once to hold his tongue; and could only smile
impatiently at what perhaps he thought an old man’s astonishing
garrulity.  But if a young and pretty woman talked to him, it was not his
great age that he vaunted, nor yet the ‘pleasures of memory’—one envied
the adroitness of his flattery, and the gracefulness of his repartee.

My friend George Cayley had a couple of dingy little rooms between
Parliament Street and the river.  Much of my time was spent there with
him.  One night after dinner, quite late, we were building castles amidst
tobacco clouds, when, following a ‘May I come in?’ Tennyson made his
appearance.  This was the first time I had ever met him.  We gave him the
only armchair in the room; and pulling out his dudeen and placing afoot
on each side of the hob of the old-fashioned little grate, he made
himself comfortable before he said another word.  He then began to talk
of pipes and tobacco.  And never, I should say, did this important topic
afford so much ingenious conversation before.  We discussed the relative
merits of all the tobaccos in the world—of moist tobacco and dry tobacco,
of old tobacco and new tobacco, of clay pipes and wooden pipes and
meerschaum pipes.  What was the best way to colour them, the advantages
of colouring them, the beauty of the ‘culotte,’ the coolness it gave to
the smoke, &c.  We listened to the venerable sage—he was then forty-three
and we only five or six and twenty—as we should have listened to a Homer
or an Aristotle, and he thoroughly enjoyed our appreciation of his jokes.

Some of them would have startled such of his admirers who knew him only
by his poems; for his stories were anything but poetical—rather humorous
one might say, on the whole.  Here’s one of them: he had called last week
on the Duchess of Sutherland at Stafford House.  Her two daughters were
with her, the Duchess of Argyll and the beautiful Lady Constance
Grosvenor, afterwards Duchess of Westminster.  They happened to be in the
garden.  After strolling about for a while, the Mama Duchess begged him
to recite some of his poetry.  He chose ‘Come into the garden,
Maud’—always a favourite of the poet’s, and, as may be supposed, many
were the fervid exclamations of ‘How beautiful!’  When they came into the
house, a princely groom of the chambers caught his eye and his ear, and,
pointing to his own throat, courteously whispered: ‘Your dress is not
quite as you would wish it, sir.’

‘I had come out without a necktie; and there I was, spouting my lines to
the three Graces, as _décolleté_ as a strutting turkey cock.’

The only other allusion to poetry or literature that night was a story I
told him of a Mr. Thomas Wrightson, a Yorkshire banker, and a fanatical
Swedenborgian.  Tommy Wrightson, who was one of the most amiable and
benevolent of men, spent his life in making a manuscript transcript of
Swedenborg’s works.  His writing was a marvel of calligraphic art; he
himself, a curiosity.  Swedenborg was for him an avatar; but if he had
doubted of Tennyson’s ultimate apotheosis, I think he would have elected
to seek him in ‘the other place.’  Anyhow, Mr. Wrightson avowed to me
that he repeated ‘Locksley Hall’ every morning of his life before
breakfast.  This I told Tennyson.  His answer was a grunt; and in a voice
from his boots, ‘Ugh! enough to make a dog sick!’  I did my utmost to
console him with the assurance that, to the best of my belief, Mr.
Wrightson had once fallen through a skylight.

As illustrating the characters of the admired and his admirer, it may be
related that the latter, wishing for the poet’s sign-manual, wrote and
asked him for it.  He addressed Tennyson, whom he had never seen, as ‘My
dear Alfred.’  The reply, which he showed to me, was addressed ‘My dear
Tom.’



CHAPTER XXXVI


MY stepfather, Mr. Ellice, having been in two Ministries—Lord Grey’s in
1830, and Lord Melbourne’s in 1834—had necessarily a large parliamentary
acquaintance; and as I could always dine at his house in Arlington Street
when I pleased, I had constant opportunities of meeting most of the
prominent Whig politicians, and many other eminent men of the day.  One
of the dinner parties remains fresh in my memory—not because of the
distinguished men who happened to be there, but because of the statesman
whose name has since become so familiar to the world.

Some important question was before the House in which Mr. Ellice was
interested, and upon which he intended to speak.  This made him late for
dinner, but he had sent word that his son was to take his place, and the
guests were not to wait.  When he came Lord John Russell greeted him
with—

‘Well, Ellice, who’s up?’

‘A younger son of Salisbury’s,’ was the reply; ‘Robert Cecil, making his
maiden speech.  If I hadn’t been in a hurry I should have stopped to
listen to him.  Unless I am very much mistaken, he’ll make his mark, and
we shall hear more of him.’

There were others dining there that night whom it is interesting to
recall.  The Grotes were there.  Mrs. Grote, scarcely less remarkable
than her husband; Lord Mahon, another historian (who married a niece of
Mr. Ellice’s), Lord Brougham, and two curious old men both remarkable, if
for nothing else, for their great age.  One was George Byng, father of
the first Lord Strafford, and ‘father’ of the House of Commons; the other
Sir Robert Adair, who was Ambassador at Constantinople when Byron was
there.  Old Mr. Byng looked as aged as he was, and reminded one of Mr.
Smallweed doubled up in his porter’s chair.  Quite different was his
compeer.  We were standing in the recess of the drawing-room window after
dinner when Sir Robert said to me:

‘Very shaky, isn’t he!  Ah! he was my fag at Eton, and I’ve got the best
of it still.’

Brougham having been twice in the same Government with Mr. Ellice, and
being devoted to young Mrs. Edward Ellice, his charming daughter-in-law,
was a constant visitor at 18 Arlington Street.  Mrs. Ellice often told me
of his peculiarities, which must evidently have been known to others.
Walter Bagehot, speaking of him, says:

‘Singular stories of eccentricity and excitement, even of something more
than either of these, darken these latter years.’

What Mrs. Ellice told me was, that she had to keep a sharp watch on Lord
Brougham if he sat near her writing-table while he talked to her; for if
there was any pretty little knick-knack within his reach he would, if her
head were turned, slip it into his pocket.  The truth is perhaps better
than the dark hint, for certainly we all laughed at it as nothing but
eccentricity.

But the man who interested me most (for though when in the Navy I had
heard a hundred legends of his exploits, I had never seen him before) was
Lord Dundonald.  Mr. Ellice presented me to him, and the old hero asked
why I had left the Navy.

‘The finest service in the world; and likely, begad, to have something to
do before long.’

This was only a year before the Crimean war.  With his strong rough
features and tousled mane, he looked like a grey lion.  One expected to
see him pick his teeth with a pocket boarding-pike.

The thought of the old sailor always brings before me the often mooted
question raised by the sentimentalists and humanitarians concerning the
horrors of war.  Not long after this time, the papers—the sentimentalist
papers—were furious with Lord Dundonald for suggesting the adoption by
the Navy of a torpedo which he himself, I think, had invented.  The bare
idea of such wholesale slaughter was revolting to a Christian world.  He
probably did not see much difference between sinking a ship with a
torpedo, and firing a shell into her magazine; and likely enough had as
much respect for the opinions of the woman-man as he had for the
man-woman.

There is always a large number of people in the world who suffer from
emotional sensitiveness and susceptibility to nervous shocks of all
kinds.  It is curious to observe the different and apparently unallied
forms in which these characteristics manifest themselves.  With some,
they exhibit extreme repugnance to the infliction of physical pain for
whatever end; with others there seems to be a morbid dread of violated
pudicity.  Strangely enough the two phases are frequently associated in
the same individual.  Both tendencies are eminently feminine; the
affinity lies in a hysterical nature.  Thus, excessive pietism is a
frequent concomitant of excessive sexual passion; this, though notably
the case with women, is common enough with men of unduly neurotic
temperaments.

Only the other day some letters appeared in the ‘Times’ about the
flogging of boys in the Navy.  And, as a sentimental argument against it,
we were told by the Humanitarian Leaguers that it is ‘obscene.’  This is
just what might be expected, and bears out the foregoing remarks.  But
such saintly simplicity reminds us of the kind of squeamishness of which
our old acquaintance Mephisto observes:

    Man darf das nicht vor keuschen Ohren nennen,
    Was keusche Herzen nicht entbehren können.

    (Chaste ears find nothing but the devil in
    What nicest fancies love to revel in.)

The same astute critic might have added:

    And eyes demure that look away when seen,
    Lose ne’er a chance to peep behind the screen.

It is all of a piece.  We have heard of the parlour-maid who fainted
because the dining-table had ‘ceder legs,’ but never before that a
‘switching’ was ‘obscene.’  We do not envy the unwholesomeness of a mind
so watchful for obscenity.

Be that as it may, so far as humanity is concerned, this hypersensitive
effeminacy has but a noxious influence; and all the more for the twofold
reason that it is sometimes sincere, though more often mere cant and
hypocrisy.  At the best, it is a perversion of the truth; for emotion
combined with ignorance, as it is in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases
out of a thousand, is a serious obstacle in the path of rational
judgment.

Is sentimentalism on the increase?  It seems to be so, if we are to judge
by a certain portion of the Press, and by speeches in Parliament.  But
then, this may only mean that the propensity finds easier means of
expression than it did in the days of dearer paper and fewer newspapers,
and also that speakers find sentimental humanity an inexhaustible fund
for political capital.  The excess of emotional attributes in man over
his reasoning powers must, one would think, have been at least as great
in times past as it is now.  Yet it is doubtful whether it showed itself
then so conspicuously as it does at present.  Compare the Elizabethan age
with our own.  What would be said now of the piratical deeds of such men
as Frobisher, Raleigh, Gilbert, and Richard Greville?  Suppose Lord
Roberts had sent word to President Kruger that if four English soldiers,
imprisoned at Pretoria, were molested, he would execute 2,000 Boers and
send him their heads?  The clap-trap cry of ‘Barbaric Methods’ would have
gone forth to some purpose; it would have carried every constituency in
the country.  Yet this is what Drake did when four English sailors were
captured by the Spaniards, and imprisoned by the Spanish Viceroy in
Mexico.

Take the Elizabethan drama, and compare it with ours.  What should we
think of our best dramatist if, in one of his tragedies, a man’s eyes
were plucked out on the stage, and if he that did it exclaimed as he
trampled on them, ‘Out, vile jelly! where is thy lustre now?’ or of a
Titus Andronicus cutting two throats, while his daughter ‘’tween her
stumps doth hold a basin to receive their blood’?

‘Humanity,’ says Taine, speaking of these times, ‘is as much lacking as
decency.  Blood, suffering, does not move them.’

Heaven forbid that we should return to such brutality!  I cite these
passages merely to show how times are changed; and to suggest that with
the change there is a decided loss of manliness.  Are men more virtuous,
do they love honour more, are they more chivalrous, than the Miltons, the
Lovelaces, the Sidneys of the past?  Are the women chaster or more
gentle?  No; there is more puritanism, but not more true piety.  It is
only the outside of the cup and the platter that are made clean, the
inward part is just as full of wickedness, and all the worse for its
hysterical fastidiousness.

To what do we owe this tendency?  Are we degenerating morally as well as
physically?  Consider the physical side of the question.  Fifty years ago
the standard height for admission to the army was five feet six inches.
It is now lowered to five feet.  Within the last ten years the increase
in the urban population has been nearly three and a half millions.
Within the same period the increase in the rural population is less than
a quarter of one million.  Three out of five recruits for the army are
rejected; a large proportion of them because their teeth are gone or
decayed.  Do these figures need comment?  Can you look for sound minds in
such unsound bodies?  Can you look for manliness, for self-respect, and
self-control, or anything but animalistic sentimentality?

It is not the character of our drama or of our works of fiction that
promotes and fosters this propensity; but may it not be that the enormous
increase in the number of theatres, and the prodigious supply of novels,
may have a share in it, by their exorbitant appeal to the emotional, and
hence neurotic, elements of our nature?  If such considerations apply
mainly to dwellers in overcrowded towns, there is yet another cause which
may operate on those more favoured,—the vast increase in wealth and
luxury.  Wherever these have grown to excess, whether in Babylon, or
Nineveh, or Thebes, or Alexandria, or Rome, they have been the symptoms
of decadence, and forerunners of the nation’s collapse.

Let us be humane, let us abhor the horrors of war, and strain our utmost
energies to avert them.  But we might as well forbid the use of surgical
instruments as the weapons that are most destructive in warfare.  If a
limb is rotting with gangrene, shall it not be cut away?  So if the
passions which occasion wars are inherent in human nature, we must face
the evil stout-heartedly; and, for one, I humbly question whether any
abolition of dum-dum bullets or other attempts to mitigate this disgrace
to humanity, do, in the end, more good than harm.

It is elsewhere that we must look for deliverance,—to the overwhelming
power of better educated peoples; to closer intercourse between the
nations; to the conviction that, from the most selfish point of view
even, peace is the only path to prosperity; to the restraint of the baser
Press which, for mere pelf, spurs the passions of the multitude instead
of curbing them; and, finally, to deliverance from the ‘all-potent wills
of Little Fathers by Divine right,’ and from the ignoble ambition of
bullet-headed uncles and brothers and cousins—a curse from which England,
thank the Gods! is, and let us hope, ever will be, free.  But there are
more countries than one that are not so—just now; and the world may ere
long have to pay the bitter penalty.



CHAPTER XXXVII


IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change of taste in
books.  I have no lending-library statistics at hand, but judging by the
reading of young people, or of those who read merely for their amusement,
the authors they patronise are nearly all living or very recent.  What we
old stagers esteemed as classical in fiction and _belles-lettres_ are
sealed books to the present generation.  It is an exception, for
instance, to meet with a young man or young woman who has read Walter
Scott.  Perhaps Balzac’s reason is the true one.  Scott, says he, ‘est
sans passion; il l’ignore, ou peut-être lui était-elle interdite par les
mœurs hypocrites de son pays.  Pour lui la femme est le devoir incarné.
A de rares exceptions près, ses héroïnes sont absolument les mêmes . . .
La femme porte le désordre dans la société par la passion.  La passion a
des accidents infinis.  Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sources
immenses dont s’est privé ce grand génie pour être lu dans toutes les
familles de la prude Angleterre.’  Does not Thackeray lament that since
Fielding no novelist has dared to face the national affectation of
prudery?  No English author who valued his reputation would venture to
write as Anatole France writes, even if he could.  Yet I pity the man who
does not delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.

A well-known author said to me the other day, he did not believe that
Thackeray himself would be popular were he writing now for the first
time—not because of his freedom, but because the public taste has
altered.  No present age can predict immortality for the works of its
day; yet to say that what is intrinsically good is good for all time is
but a truism.  The misfortune is that much of the best in literature
shares the fate of the best of ancient monuments and noble cities; the
cumulative rubbish of ages buries their splendours, till we know not
where to find them.  The day may come when the most valuable service of
the man of letters will be to unearth the lost treasures and display
them, rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasing middens.

Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder?  How much did my contemporaries owe
to him in their youth?  How readily we followed a leader so sure of
himself, so certain of his own evangel.  What an aid to strength to be
assured that the true hero is the morally strong man.  One does not
criticise what one loves; one didn’t look too closely into the doctrine
that, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade us that right
makes the might—that the strong man is the man who, for the most part,
does act rightly.  He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure,
and is apt, as Herbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn rather
recklessly.  One fancies sometimes that he has more respect for a genuine
bad man than for a sham good one.  In fact, his ‘Eternal Verities’ come
pretty much to the same as Darwin’s ‘Law of the advancement of all
organic bodies’; ‘let the strong live, and the weakest die.’  He had no
objection to seeing ‘the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, or
ants making slaves.’  But he atones for all this by his hatred of cant
and hypocrisy.  It is for his manliness that we love him, for his
honesty, for his indifference to any mortal’s approval save that of
Thomas Carlyle.  He convinces us that right thinking is good, but that
right doing is much better.  And so it is that he does honour to men of
action like his beloved Oliver, and Fritz,—neither of them paragons of
wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.

Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance of meeting
this hero of my _penates_.  Lady Ashburton—Carlyle’s Lady
Ashburton—knowing my admiration, kindly invited me to The Grange, while
he was there.  The house was full—mainly of ministers or
ex-ministers,—Cornewall Lewis, Sir Charles Wood, Sir James Graham, Albany
Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, and Charles Buller—Carlyle’s only pupil; but the
great man himself had left an hour before I got there.  I often met him
afterwards, but never to make his acquaintance.  Of course, I knew
nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton, which we are told
was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle; but I well remember the
interest which Lady Ashburton seemed to take in his praise, how my
enthusiasm seemed to please her, and how Carlyle and his works were
topics she was never tired of discussing.

The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and I had to post
part of the way from London to The Grange.  My chaise companion was a man
very well known in ‘Society’; and though not remarkably popular, was not
altogether undistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs, was chiefly
famous for his sobriquet ‘The Poodle’; this he owed to no special merit
of his own, but simply to the accident of his thick curly head of hair.
Some, who spoke feelingly of the man, used to declare that he had
fulfilled the promises of his youth.  What happened to him then may
perhaps justify the opinion.

The young Poodle was addicted to practical jokes—as usual, more amusing
to the player than to the playee.  One of his victims happened to be Beau
Brummell, who, except when he bade ‘George ring the bell,’ was as perfect
a model of deportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself.  His studied
decorum possibly provoked the playfulness of the young puppy; and amongst
other attempts to disturb the Beau’s complacency, Master Byng ran a pin
into the calf of that gentleman’s leg, and then he ran away.  A few days
later Mr. Brummell, who had carefully dissembled his wrath, invited the
unwary youth to breakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had
a present which his young friend might have, if he chose to fetch it.
The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau his promise.  After an
excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whip from his cupboard, and gave it
to the Poodle in a way the young dog was not likely to forget.

The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, were spent at Mr.
Ellice’s Highland Lodge, at Glenquoich.  For sport of all kinds it was
and is difficult to surpass.  The hills of the deer forest are amongst
the highest in Scotland; the scenery of its lake and glens, especially
the descent to Loch Hourne, is unequalled.  Here were to be met many of
the most notable men and women of the time.  And as the house was twenty
miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn two days from London,
visitors ceased to be strangers before they left.  In the eighteen years
during which this was my autumn home, I had the good fortune to meet
numbers of distinguished people of whom I could now record nothing
interesting but their names.  Still, it is a privilege to have known such
men as John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Mérimée, Comte de
Flahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie, Pélissier,
Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of gifted women, the three
Sheridans, Lady Seymour—the Queen of Beauty, afterwards Duchess of
Somerset—Mrs. Norton, and Lady Dufferin.  Amongst those who have a
retrospective interest were Mr. and Lady Blanche Balfour, parents of Mr.
Arthur Balfour, who came there on their wedding tour in 1843.  Mr. Arthur
Balfour’s father was Mrs. Ellice’s first cousin.

It would be easy to lengthen the list; but I mention only those who
repeated their visits, and who fill up my mental picture of the place and
of the life.  Some amongst them impressed me quite as much for their
amiability—their loveableness, I may say—as for their renown; and regard
for them increased with coming years.  Panizzi was one of these.
Dufferin, who was just my age, would have fascinated anyone with the
singular courtesy of his manner.  Dicky Doyle was necessarily a favourite
with all who knew him.  He was a frequent inmate of my house after I
married, and was engaged to dine with me, alas! only eight days before he
died.  Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow.  My friendship with him
began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton’s Lectures.  He asked what I was
reading—I handed him the book.

‘Ah,’ said he, ‘there’s no mental gymnastic like metaphysics.’

Many a battle we afterwards had over them.  When I was at Cannes in 1877
I got a message from him one day saying he was ill, and asking me to come
and see him.  He did not say how ill, so I put off going.  Two days after
I heard he was dead.

Mérimée’s cynicism rather alarmed one.  He was a capital caricaturist,
though, to our astonishment, he assured us he had never drawn, or used a
colour-box, till late in life.  He had now learnt to use it, in a way
that did not invariably give satisfaction.  Landseer always struck me as
sensitive and proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoilt
by the toadyism of great people.  He was agreeable if made much of, or
almost equally so if others were made little of.

But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was the greatest.  I wish I
had read his life before it ended.  Yet, without knowing anything more of
him than that he was Chief Commissioner of the Punjab, which did not
convey much to my understanding, one felt the greatness of the man
beneath his calm simplicity.  One day the party went out for a
deer-drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pass below mine.
To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat.  I assured him that not a
stag would come within a mile of us, unless he covered himself with a
grey plaid, or hid behind a large rock there was, where I assured him he
would see nothing.

‘Have the deer to pass me before they go on to you?’ he asked.

‘Certainly they have,’ said I; ‘I shall be up there above you.’

‘Well then,’ was his answer, ‘I’ll get behind the rock—it will be more
snug out of the wind.’

One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as try to persuade
John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself for others.  That he did so here
was certain, for the deer came within fifty yards of him, but he never
fired a shot.

Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion of great
discomfort to me, or rather his wife was.  Lady Elgin had left behind her
a valuable diamond necklace.  I was going back to my private tutor at Ely
a few days after, and the necklace was entrusted to me to deliver to its
owner on my way through London.  There was no railway then further north
than Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow.  When I
reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, my portmanteau was not to be
found.  The necklace was in a despatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an
unlucky oversight, I had put my purse into my despatch-box.  What was to
be done?  I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did not know a
soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in my pocket.  I had to break
my journey and to stop where I was till I could get news of the necklace;
this alone was clear to me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared
for.

At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that the lost luggage
might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was more probable, might have
gone astray at Burntisland.  It might not have been put on board, or it
might not have been taken off the ferry-steamer.  This could not be known
for twenty-four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland till
the morrow.  I decided to try Glasgow.  A return third-class ticket left
me without a copper.  I went, found nothing, got back to Edinburgh at 10
P.M., ravenously hungry, dead tired, and so frightened about the necklace
that food, bed, means of continuing my journey, were as mere death
compared with irreparable dishonour.  What would they all think of me?
How could I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds?  Would Lord Elgin
accuse me?  How could I have been such an idiot as to leave them in my
portmanteau!  Some rascal might break it open, and then, goodbye to my
chance for ever!  Chance? what chance was there of seeing that luggage
again?  There were so many ‘mights.’  I couldn’t even swear that I had
seen it on the coach at Inverness.  Oh dear! oh dear!  What was to be
done?  I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully at door-steps,
whereon to pass the night; I gazed piteously through the windows of a
cheap cook’s shop, where solid wedges of baked pudding, that would have
stopped digestion for a month, were advertised for a penny a block.  How
rich should I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket!  But I had to
turn away in despair.

At last the inspiration came.  I remembered hearing Mr. Ellice say that
he always put up at Douglas’ Hotel when he stayed in Edinburgh.  I had
very little hope of success, but I was too miserable to hesitate.  It was
very late, and everybody might be gone to bed.  I rang the bell.  ‘I want
to see the landlord.’

‘Any name?’ the porter asked.

‘No.’  The landlord came, fat, amiable looking.  ‘May I speak to you in
private?’  He showed the way to an unoccupied room.  ‘I think you know
Mr. Ellice?’

‘Glenquoich, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, very well—he always stays here on his way through.’

‘I am his step-son; I left Glenquoich yesterday.  I have lost my luggage,
and am left without any money.  Will you lend me five pounds?’  I believe
if I were in the same strait now, and entered any strange hotel in the
United Kingdom at half-past ten at night, and asked the landlord to give
me five pounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, or
perhaps give me in charge of a policeman.

My host of Douglas’ did neither; but opened both his heart and his
pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handed me the requested
sum.  What good people there are in this world, which that crusty old Sir
Peter Teazle calls ‘a d—d wicked one.’  I poured out all my trouble to
the generous man.  He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very nice
room.  And on the following day, after taking a great deal of trouble, he
recovered my lost luggage and the priceless treasure it contained.  It
was a proud and happy moment when I returned his loan, and convinced him,
of what he did not seem to doubt, that I was positively not a swindler.

But the roofless night and the empty belly, consequent on an empty
pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown away upon me.  It did
not occur to me to do so, but I certainly might have picked a pocket,
if—well, if I had been brought up to it.  Honesty, as I have often
thought since, is dirt cheap if only one can afford it.

Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay a passing tribute
to the remarkable qualities of Mrs. Edward Ellice and of her youngest
sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, the mother of the present member for St.
Andrews.  It was, in a great measure, the bright intelligence, the rare
tact, and social gifts of these two ladies that made this beautiful
Highland resort so attractive to all comers.



CHAPTER XXXVIII


THE winter of 1854–55 I spent in Rome.  Here I made the acquaintance of
Leighton, then six-and-twenty.  I saw a good deal of him, as I lived
almost entirely amongst the artists, taking lessons myself in water
colours of Leitch.  Music also brought us into contact.  He had a
beautiful voice, and used to sing a good deal with Mrs. Sartoris—Adelaide
Kemble—whom he greatly admired, and whose portrait is painted under a
monk’s cowl, in the Cimabue procession.

Calling on him one morning, I found him on his knees buttering and
rolling up this great picture, preparatory to sending it to the Academy.
I made some remark about its unusual size, saying with a sceptical smile,
‘It will take up a lot of room.’

‘If they ever hang it,’ he replied; ‘but there’s not much chance of
that.’

Seeing that his reputation was yet to win, it certainly seemed a bold
venture to make so large a demand for space to begin with.  He did not
appear the least sanguine.  But it was accepted; and Prince Albert bought
it before the Exhibition opened.

Gibson also I saw much of.  He had executed a large alto-rilievo monument
of my mother, which is now in my parish church, and the model of which is
on the landing of one of the staircases of the National Gallery.  His
studio was always an interesting lounge, for he was ever ready to lecture
upon antique marbles.  To listen to him was like reading the ‘Laocoon,’
which he evidently had at his fingers’ ends.  My companion through the
winter was Mr. Reginald Cholmondeley, a Cambridge ally, who was studying
painting.  He was the uncle of Miss Cholmondeley the well-known
authoress, whose mother, by the way, was a first cousin of George
Cayley’s, and also a great friend of mine.

On my return to England I took up my abode in Dean’s Yard, and shared a
house there with Mr. Cayley, the Yorkshire member, and his two sons, the
eldest a barrister, and my friend George.  Here for several years we had
exceedingly pleasant gatherings of men more or less distinguished in
literature and art.  Tennyson was a frequent visitor—coming late, after
dinner hours, to smoke his pipe.  He varied a good deal, sometimes not
saying a word, but quietly listening to our chatter.  Thackeray also used
to drop in occasionally.

George Cayley and I, with the assistance of his father and others, had
started a weekly paper called ‘The Realm.’  It was professedly a currency
paper, and also supported a fiscal policy advocated by Mr. Cayley and
some of his parliamentary clique.  Coming in one day, and finding us hard
at work, Thackeray asked for information.  We handed him a copy of the
paper.  ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, with mock solemnity, ‘“The Rellum,” should be
printed on vellum.’  He too, like Tennyson, was variable.  But this
depended on whom he found.  In the presence of a stranger he was grave
and silent.  He would never venture on puerile jokes like this of his
‘Rellum’—a frequent playfulness, when at his ease, which contrasted so
unexpectedly with his impenetrable exterior.  He was either gauging the
unknown person, or feeling that he was being gauged.  Monckton Milnes was
another.  Seeing me correcting some proof sheets, he said, ‘Let me give
you a piece of advice, my young friend.  Write as much as you please, but
the less you print the better.’

‘For me, or for others?’

‘For both.’

George Cayley had a natural gift for, and had acquired considerable
skill, in the embossing and working of silver ware.  Millais so admired
his art that he commissioned him to make a large tea-tray; Millais
provided the silver.  Round the border of the tray were beautifully
modelled sea-shells, cray-fish, crabs, and fish of quaint forms, in high
relief.  Millais was so pleased with the work that he afterwards painted,
and presented to Cayley, a fine portrait in his best style of Cayley’s
son, a boy of six or seven years old.

Laurence Oliphant was one of George Cayley’s friends.  Attractive as he
was in many ways, I had little sympathy with his religious opinions, nor
did I comprehend Oliphant’s exalted inspirations; I failed to see their
practical bearing, and, at that time I am sorry to say, looked upon him
as an amiable faddist.  A special favourite with both of us was William
Stirling of Keir.  His great work on the Spanish painters, and his
‘Cloister Life of Charles the Fifth,’ excited our unbounded admiration,
while his _bonhomie_ and radiant humour were a delight we were always
eager to welcome.

George Cayley and I now entered at Lincoln’s Inn.  At the end of three
years he was duly called to the Bar.  I was not; for alas, as usual,
something ‘turned up,’ which drew me in another direction.  For a couple
of years, however, I ‘ate’ my terms—not unfrequently with William
Harcourt, with whom Cayley had a Yorkshire intimacy even before our
Cambridge days.

Old Mr. Cayley, though not the least strait-laced, was a religious man.
A Unitarian by birth and conviction, he began and ended the day with
family prayers.  On Sundays he would always read to us, or make us read
to him, a sermon of Channing’s, or of Theodore Parker’s, or what we all
liked better, one of Frederick Robertson’s.  He was essentially a good
man.  He had been in Parliament all his life, and was a broad-minded,
tolerant, philosophical man-of-the-world.  He had a keen sense of humour,
and was rather sarcastical; but, for all that, he was sensitively
earnest, and conscientious.  I had the warmest affection and respect for
him.  Such a character exercised no small influence upon our conduct and
our opinions, especially as his approval or disapproval of these visibly
affected his own happiness.

He was never easy unless he was actively engaged in some benevolent
scheme, the promotion of some charity, or in what he considered his
parliamentary duties, which he contrived to make very burdensome to his
conscience.  As his health was bad, these self-imposed obligations were
all the more onerous; but he never spared himself, or his somewhat scanty
means.  Amongst other minor tasks, he used to teach at the Sunday-school
of St. John’s, Westminster; in this he persuaded me to join him.  The
only other volunteer, not a clergyman, was Page Wood—a great friend of
Mr. Cayley’s—afterwards Lord Chancellor Hatherley.  In spite of Mr.
Cayley’s Unitarianism, like Frederick the Great, he was all for letting
people ‘go to Heaven in their own way,’ and was moreover quite ready to
help them in their own way.  So that he had no difficulty in hearing the
boys repeat the day’s collect, or the Creed, even if Athanasian, in
accordance with the prescribed routine of the clerical teachers.

This was right, at all events for him, if he thought it right.  My spirit
of nonconformity did not permit me to follow his example.  Instead
thereof, my teaching was purely secular.  I used to take a volume of Mrs.
Marcet’s ‘Conversations’ in my pocket; and with the aid of the diagrams,
explain the application of the mechanical forces,—the inclined plane, the
screw, the pulley, the wedge, and the lever.  After two or three Sundays
my class was largely increased, for the children keenly enjoyed their
competitive examinations.  I would also give them bits of poetry to get
by heart for the following Sunday—lines from Gray’s ‘Elegy,’ from
Wordsworth, from Pope’s ‘Essay on Man’—such in short as had a moral
rather than a religious tendency.

After some weeks of this, the boys becoming clamorous in their zeal to
correct one another, one of the curates left his class to hear what was
going on in mine.  We happened at the moment to be dealing with
geography.  The curate, evidently shocked, went away and brought another
curate.  Then the two together departed, and brought back the rector—Dr.
Jennings, one of the Westminster Canons—a most kind and excellent man.  I
went on as if unconscious of the censorship, the boys exerting themselves
all the more eagerly for the sake of the ‘gallery.’  When the hour was
up, Canon Jennings took me aside, and in the most polite manner thanked
me for my ‘valuable assistance,’ but did not think that the ‘Essay on
Man,’ or especially geography, was suited for the teaching in a
Sunday-school.  I told him I knew it was useless to contend with so high
a canonical authority; personally I did not see the impiety of geography,
but then, as he already knew, I was a confirmed latitudinarian.  He
clearly did not see the joke, but intimated that my services would
henceforth be dispensed with.

Of course I was wrong, though I did not know it then, for it must be
borne in mind that there were no Board Schools in those days, and general
education, amongst the poor, was deplorably deficient.  At first, my idea
was to give the children (they were all boys) a taste for the
‘humanities,’ which might afterwards lead to their further pursuit.  I
assumed that on the Sunday they would be thinking of the baked meats
awaiting them when church was over, or of their week-day tops and
tipcats; but I was equally sure that a time would come when these would
be forgotten, and the other things remembered.  The success was greater
from the beginning than could be looked for; and some years afterwards I
had reason to hope that the forecast was not altogether too sanguine.

While the Victoria Tower was being built, I stopped one day to watch the
masons chiselling the blocks of stone.  Presently one of them, in a
flannel jacket and a paper cap, came and held out his hand to me.  He was
a handsome young fellow with a big black beard and moustache, both
powdered with his chippings.

‘You don’t remember me, sir, do you?’

‘Did I ever see you before?’

‘My name is Richards; don’t you remember, sir?  I was one of the boys you
used to teach at the Sunday-school.  It gave me a turn for mechanics,
which I followed up; and that’s how I took to this trade.  I’m a master
mason now, sir; and the whole of this lot is under me.’

‘I wonder what you would have been,’ said I, ‘if we’d stuck to the
collects?’

‘I don’t think I should have had a hand in this little job,’ he answered,
looking up with pride at the mighty tower, as though he had a creative
share in its construction.

All this while I was working hard at my own education, and trying to make
up for the years I had wasted (so I thought of them), by knocking about
the world.  I spent laborious days and nights in reading, dabbling in
geology, chemistry, physiology, metaphysics, and what not.  On the score
of dogmatic religion I was as restless as ever.  I had an insatiable
thirst for knowledge; but was without guidance.  I wanted to learn
everything; and, not knowing in what direction to concentrate my efforts,
learnt next to nothing.  All knowledge seemed to me equally important,
for all bore alike upon the great problems of belief and of existence.
But what to pursue, what to relinquish, appeared to me an unanswerable
riddle.  Difficult as this puzzle was, I did not know then that a long
life’s experience would hardly make it simpler.  The man who has to earn
his bread must fain resolve to adapt his studies to that end.  His choice
not often rests with him.  But the unfortunate being cursed in youth with
the means of idleness, yet without genius, without talents even, is
terribly handicapped and perplexed.

And now, with life behind me, how should I advise another in such a
plight?  When a young lady, thus embarrassed, wrote to Carlyle for
counsel, he sympathetically bade her ‘put her drawers in order.’

Here is the truth to be faced at the outset: ‘Man has but the choice to
go a little way in many paths, or a great way in only one.’  ‘Tis thus
John Mill puts it.  Which will he, which should he, choose?  Both courses
lead alike to incompleteness.  The universal man is no specialist, and
has to generalise without his details.  The specialist sees only through
his microscope, and knows about as much of cosmology as does his microbe.
Goethe, the most comprehensive of Seers, must needs expose his
incompleteness by futile attempts to disprove Newton’s theory of colour.
Newton must needs expose his, by a still more lamentable attempt to prove
the Apocalypse as true as his own discovery of the laws of gravitation.
All science nowadays is necessarily confined to experts.  Without
illustrating the fact by invidious hints, I invite anyone to consider the
intellectual cost to the world which such limitation entails; nor is the
loss merely negative; the specialist is unfortunately too often a bigot,
when beyond his contracted sphere.

This, you will say, is arguing in a circle.  The universal must be given
up for the detail, the detail for the universal; we leave off where we
began.  Yes, that is the dilemma.  Still, the gain to science through a
devotion of a whole life to a mere group of facts, in a single branch of
a single science, may be an incalculable acquisition to human knowledge,
to the intellectual capital of the race—a gain that sometimes far
outweighs the loss.  Even if we narrow the question to the destiny of the
individual, the sacrifice of each one for the good of the whole is
doubtless the highest aim the one can have.

But this conclusion scarcely helps us; for remember, the option is not
given to all.  Genius, or talent, or special aptitude, is a necessary
equipment for such an undertaking.  Great discoverers must be great
observers, dexterous manipulators, ingenious contrivers, and patient
thinkers.

The difficulty we started with was, what you and I, my friend, who
perhaps have to row in the same boat, and perhaps ‘with the same sculls,’
without any of these provisions, what we should do?  What point of the
compass should we steer for?  ‘Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it
with thy might.’  Truly there could be no better advice.  But the
‘finding’ is the puzzle; and like the search for truth it must, I fear,
be left to each one’s power to do it.  And then—and then the countless
thousands who have the leisure without the means—who have hands at least,
and yet no work to put them to—what is to be done for these?  Not in your
time or mine, dear friend, will that question be answered.  For this, I
fear we must wait till by the ‘universal law of adaptation’ we reach ‘the
ultimate development of the ideal man.’  ‘Colossal optimism,’ exclaims
the critic.



CHAPTER XXXIX


IN February, 1855, Roebuck moved for a select committee to inquire into
the condition of the Army before Sebastopol.  Lord John Russell, who was
leader of the House, treated this as a vote of censure, and resigned.
Lord Palmerston resisted Roebuck’s motion, and generously defended the
Government he was otherwise opposed to.  But the motion was carried by a
majority of 157, and Lord Aberdeen was turned out of office.  The Queen
sent for Lord Derby, but without Lord Palmerston he was unable to form a
Ministry.  Lord John was then appealed to, with like results; and the
premiership was practically forced upon Palmerston, in spite of his
unpopularity at Court.  Mr. Horsman was made Chief Secretary for Ireland;
and through Mr. Ellice I became his private secretary.

Before I went to the Irish Office I was all but a stranger to my chief.
I had met him occasionally in the tennis court; but the net was always
between us.  He was a man with a great deal of manner, but with very
little of what the French call ‘conviction.’  Nothing keeps people at a
distance more effectually than simulated sincerity; Horsman was a master
of the art.  I was profoundly ignorant of my duties.  But though this was
a great inconvenience to me at first, it led to a friendship which I
greatly prized until its tragic end.  For all information as to the
writers of letters, as to Irish Members who applied for places for
themselves, or for others, I had to consult the principal clerk.  He was
himself an Irishman of great ability; and though young, was either
personally or officially acquainted, so it seemed to me, with every
Irishman in the House of Commons, or out of it.  His name is too well
known—it was Thomas Bourke, afterwards Under Secretary, and one of the
victims of the Fenian assassins in the Phœnix Park.  His patience and
amiability were boundless; and under his guidance I soon learnt the
tricks of my trade.

During the session we remained in London; and for some time it was of
great interest to listen to the debates.  When Irish business was before
the House, I had often to be in attendance on my chief in the reporters’
gallery.  Sometimes I had to wait there for an hour or two before our
questions came on, and thus had many opportunities of hearing Bright,
Gladstone, Disraeli, and all the leading speakers.  After a time the
pleasure, when compulsory, began to pall; and I used to wonder what on
earth could induce the ruck to waste their time in following, sheeplike,
their bell-wethers, or waste their money in paying for that honour.  When
Parliament was up we moved to Dublin.  I lived with Horsman in the Chief
Secretary’s lodge.  And as I had often stayed at Castle Howard before
Lord Carlisle became Viceroy, between the two lodges I saw a great deal
of pleasant society.

Amongst those who came to stay with Horsman was Sidney Herbert, then
Colonial Secretary, a man of singular nobility of nature.  Another
celebrity for the day, but of a very different character, was Lord
Cardigan.  He had just returned from the Crimea, and was now in command
of the forces in Ireland.  This was about six months after the Balaklava
charge.  Horsman asked him one evening to give a description of it, with
a plan of the battle.  His Lordship did so; no words could be more suited
to the deed.  If this was ‘pell-mell, havock, and confusion,’ the account
of it was proportionately confounded.  The noble leader scrawled and
inked and blotted all the phases of the battle upon the same scrap of
paper, till the batteries were at the starting-point of the charge, the
Light Brigade on the far side of the guns, and all the points of the
compass, attack and defence, had changed their original places; in fact,
the gallant Earl brandished his pen as valiantly as he had his sword.
When quite bewildered, like everybody else, I ventured mildly to ask,
‘But where were you, Lord Cardigan, and where were our men when it came
to this?’

‘Where?  Where?  God bless my soul!  How should I know where anybody
was?’  And this, no doubt, described the situation to a nicety.

My office was in the Castle, and the next room to mine was that of the
Solicitor-General Keogh, afterwards Judge.  We became the greatest of
friends.  It was one of Horsman’s peculiarities to do business
circuitously.  He was fond of mysteries and of secrets, secrets that were
to be kept from everyone, but which were generally known to the office
messengers.  When Keogh and I met in the morning he would say, with
admirable imitation of Horsman’s manner, ‘Well, it is all settled; the
Viceroy has considered the question, and has decided to act upon my
advice.  Mind you don’t tell anyone—it is a profound secret,’ then,
lowering his voice and looking round the room, ‘His Excellency has
consented to score at the next cricket match between the garrison and the
Civil Service.’  If it were a constabulary appointment, or even a village
post-office, the Attorney or the Solicitor-General would be strictly
enjoined not to inform me, and I received similar injunctions respecting
them.  In spite of his apparent attention to details, Mr. Horsman hunted
three days a week, and stated in the House of Commons that the office of
Chief Secretary was a farce, meaning when excluded from the Cabinet.  All
I know is, that his private secretary was constantly at work an hour
before breakfast by candle-light, and never got a single day’s holiday
throughout the winter.

Horsman had hired a shooting—Balnaboth in Scotland; here, too, I had to
attend upon him in the autumn, mainly for the purpose of copying
voluminous private correspondence about a sugar estate he owned at
Singapore, then producing a large income, but the subsequent failure of
which was his ruin.  One year Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief
Justice, came to stay with him; and excellent company he was.  Horsman
had sometimes rather an affected way of talking; and referring to some
piece of political news, asked Cockburn whether he had seen it in the
‘Courier.’  This he pronounced with an accent on the last syllable, like
the French ‘Courrier.’  Cockburn, with a slight twinkle in his eye,
answered in his quiet way, ‘No, I didn’t see it in the “Courrier,”
perhaps it is in the “Morning Post,”’ also giving the French
pronunciation to the latter word.

Sir Alexander told us an amusing story about Disraeli.  He and Bernal
Osborne were talking together about Mrs. Disraeli, when presently
Osborne, with characteristic effrontery, exclaimed: ‘My dear Dizzy, how
could you marry such a woman?’  The answer was; ‘My dear Bernal, you
never knew what gratitude was, or you would not ask the question.’

The answer was a gracious one, and doubtless sincere.  But, despite his
cynicism, no one could be more courteous or say prettier things than
Disraeli.  Here is a little story that was told me at the time by my
sister-in-law, who was a woman of the bedchamber, and was present on the
occasion.  When her Majesty Queen Alexandra was suffering from an
accident to her knee, and had to use crutches, Disraeli said to her: ‘I
have heard of a devil on two sticks, but never before knew an angel to
use them.’

Keogh, Bourke, and I, made several pleasant little excursions to such
places as Bray, the Seven Churches, Powerscourt, &c., and, with a chosen
car-driver, the wit and fun of the three clever Irishmen was no small
treat.  The last time I saw either of my two friends was at a
dinner-party which Bourke gave at the ‘Windham.’  We were only four, to
make up a whist party; the fourth was Fred Clay, the composer.  It is sad
to reflect that two of the lot came to violent ends—Keogh, the cheeriest
of men in society, by his own hands.  Bourke I had often spoken to of the
danger he ran in crossing the Phœnix Park nightly on his way home, on
foot and unarmed.  He laughed at me, and rather indignantly—for he was a
very vain man, though one of the most good-natured fellows in the world.
In the first place, he prided himself on his physique—he was a tall,
well-built, handsome man, and a good boxer and fencer to boot.  In the
next place, he prided himself above all things on being a thorough-bred
Irishman, with a sneaking sympathy with even Fenian grievances.  ‘They
all know _me_,’ he would say.  ‘The rascals know I’m the best friend they
have.  I’m the last man in the world they’d harm, for political reasons.
Anyway, I can take care of myself.’  And so it was he fell.

The end of Horsman’s secretaryship is soon told.  A bishopric became
vacant, and almost as much intrigue was set agoing as we read of in the
wonderful story of ‘L’Anneau d’Améthyste.’  Horsman, at all times a
profuse letter-writer, wrote folios to Lord Palmerston on the subject,
each letter more exuberant, more urgent than the last.  But no answer
came.  Finally, the whole Irish vote, according to the Chief Secretary,
being at stake—not to mention the far more important matter of personal
and official dignity—Horsman flew off to London, boiling over with
impatience and indignation.  He rushed to 10 Downing Street.  His
Lordship was at the Foreign office, but was expected every minute; would
Mr. Horsman wait?  Mr. Horsman was shown into his Lordship’s room.  Piles
of letters, opened and unopened, were lying upon the table.  The Chief
Secretary recognised his own signatures on the envelopes of a large
bundle, all amongst the ‘un’s.’  The Premier came in, an explanation
_extrêmement vive_ followed; on his return to Dublin Mr. Horsman resigned
his post, and from that moment became one of Lord Palmerston’s bitterest
opponents.



CHAPTER XL


THE lectures at the Royal Institution were of some help to me.  I
attended courses by Owen, Tyndall, Huxley, and Bain.  Of these, Huxley
was _facile princeps_, though both Owen and Tyndall were second to no
other.  Bain was disappointing.  I was a careful student of his books,
and always admired the logical lucidity of his writing.  But to the mixed
audience he had to lecture to—fashionable young ladies in their teens,
and drowsy matrons in charge of them, he discreetly kept clear of
transcendentals.  In illustration perhaps of some theory of the relation
of the senses to the intellect, he would tell an amusing anecdote of a
dog that had had an injured leg dressed at a certain house, after which
the recovered dog brought a canine friend to the same house to have his
leg—or tail—repaired.  Out would come all the tablets and pretty pencil
cases, and every young lady would be busy for the rest of the lecture in
recording the marvellous history.  If the dog’s name had been ‘Spot’ or
‘Bob,’ the important psychological fact would have been faithfully
registered.  As to the theme of the discourse, that had nothing to do
with—millinery.  And Mr. Bain doubtless did not overlook the fact.

Owen was an accomplished lecturer; but one’s attention to him depended on
two things—a primary interest in the subject, and some elementary
acquaintance with it.  If, for example, his subject were the comparative
anatomy of the cycloid and ganoid fishes, the difference in their scales
was scarcely of vital importance to one’s general culture.  But if he
were lecturing on fish, he would stick to fish; it would be essentially a
_jour maigre_.

With Huxley, the suggestion was worth more than the thing said.  One
thought of it afterwards, and wondered whether his words implied all they
seemed to imply.  One knew that the scientist was also a philosopher; and
one longed to get at him, at the man himself, and listen to the lessons
which his work had taught him.  At one of these lectures I had the honour
of being introduced to him by a great friend of mine, John Marshall, then
President of the College of Surgeons.  In later years I used to meet him
constantly at the Athenæum.

Looking back to the days of one’s plasticity, two men are pre-eminent
among my Dii Majores.  To John Stuart Mill and to Thomas Huxley I owe
more, educationally, than to any other teachers.  Mill’s logic was simply
a revelation to me.  For what Kant calls ‘discipline,’ I still know no
book, unless it be the ‘Critique’ itself, equal to it.  But perhaps it is
the men themselves, their earnestness, their splendid courage, their
noble simplicity, that most inspired one with reverence.  It was Huxley’s
aim to enlighten the many, and he enlightened them.  It was Mill’s lot to
help thinkers, and he helped them.  _Sapere aude_ was the motto of both.
How few there are who dare to adopt it!  To love truth is valiantly
professed by all; but to pursue it at all costs, to ‘dare to be wise’
needs daring of the highest order.

Mill had the enormous advantage, to start with, of an education unbiassed
by any theological creed; and he brought exceptional powers of abstract
reasoning to bear upon matters of permanent and supreme importance to all
men.  Yet, in spite of his ruthless impartiality, I should not hesitate
to call him a religious man.  This very tendency which no imaginative
mind, no man or woman with any strain of poetical feeling, can be
without, invests Mill’s character with a clash of humanity which entitles
him to a place in our affections.  It is in this respect that he so
widely differs from Mr. Herbert Spencer.  Courageous Mr. Spencer was, but
his courage seems to have been due almost as much to absence of sympathy
or kinship with his fellow-creatures, and to his contempt of their
opinions, as from his dispassionate love of truth, or his sometimes
passionate defence of his own tenets.

My friend Napier told me an amusing little story about John Mill when he
was in the East India Company’s administration.  Mr. Macvey Napier, my
friend’s elder brother, was the senior clerk.  On John Mill’s retirement,
his co-officials subscribed to present him with a silver standish.  Such
was the general sense of Mill’s modest estimate of his own deserts, and
of his aversion to all acknowledgment of them, that Mr. Napier, though it
fell to his lot, begged others to join in the ceremony of presentation.
All declined; the inkstand was left upon Mill’s table when he himself was
out of the room.

Years after the time of which I am writing, when Mill stood for
Westminster, I had the good fortune to be on the platform at St. James’s
Hall, next but one to him, when he made his first speech to the electors.
He was completely unknown to the public, and, though I worshipped the
man, I had never seen him, nor had an idea what he looked like.  To
satisfy my curiosity I tried to get a portrait of him at the photographic
shop in Regent Street.

‘I want a photograph of Mr. Mill.’

‘Mill?  Mill?’ repeated the shopman, ‘Oh yes, sir, I know—a great
sporting gent,’ and he produced the portrait of a sportsman in top boots
and a hunting cap.

Very different from this was the figure I then saw.  The hall and the
platform were crowded.  Where was the principal personage?  Presently,
quite alone, up the side steps, and unobserved, came a thin but tallish
man in black, with a tail coat, and, almost unrecognised, took the vacant
front seat.  He might have been, so far as dress went, a clerk in a
counting-house, or an undertaker.  But the face was no ordinary one.  The
wide brow, the sharp nose of the Burke type, the compressed lips and
strong chin, were suggestive of intellect and of suppressed emotion.
There was no applause, for nothing was known to the crowd, even of his
opinions, beyond the fact that he was the Liberal candidate for
Westminster.  He spoke with perfect ease to himself, never faltering for
the right word, which seemed to be always at his command.  If interrupted
by questions, as he constantly was, his answers could not have been
amended had he written them.  His voice was not strong, and there were
frequent calls from the far end to ‘speak up, speak up; we can’t hear
you.’  He did not raise his pitch a note.  They might as well have tried
to bully an automaton.  He was doing his best, and he could do no more.
Then, when, instead of the usual adulations, instead of declamatory
appeals to the passions of a large and a mixed assembly, he gave them to
understand, in very plain language, that even socialists are not
infallible,—that extreme and violent opinions, begotten of ignorance, do
not constitute the highest political wisdom; then there were murmurs of
dissent and disapproval.  But if the ignorant and the violent could have
stoned him, his calm manner would still have said, ‘Strike, but hear me.’

Mr. Robert Grosvenor—the present Lord Ebury—then the other Liberal member
for Westminster, wrote to ask me to take the chair at Mill’s first
introduction to the Pimlico electors.  Such, however, was my admiration
of Mill, I did not feel sure that I might not say too much in his favour;
and mindful of the standish incident, I knew, that if I did so, it would
embarrass and annoy him.

Under these circumstances I declined the honour.

When Owen was delivering a course of lectures at Norwich, my brother
invited him to Holkham.  I was there, and we took several long walks
together.  Nothing seemed to escape his observation.  My brother had just
completed the recovery of many hundred acres of tidal marsh by
embankments.  Owen, who was greatly interested, explained what would be
the effect upon the sandiest portion of this, in years to come; what the
chemical action of the rain would be, how the sand would eventually
become soil, how vegetation would cover it, and how manure render it
cultivable.  The splendid crops now grown there bear testimony to his
foresight.  He had always something instructive to impart, stopping to
contemplate trifles which only a Zadig would have noticed.

‘I observe,’ said he one day, ‘that your prevailing wind here is
north-west.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘Look at the roots of all these trees; the large roots are invariably on
the north-west side.  This means that the strain comes on this side.  The
roots which have to bear it loosen the soil, and the loosened soil
favours the extension and the growth of the roots.  Nature is beautifully
scientific.’

Some years after this, I published a book called ‘Creeds of the Day.’  My
purpose was to show, in a popular form, the bearings of science and
speculative thought upon the religious creeds of the time.  I sent Owen a
copy of the work.  He wrote me one of the most interesting letters I ever
received.  He had bought the book, and had read it.  But the important
content of the letter was the confession of his own faith.  I have
purposely excluded all correspondence from these Memoirs, but had it not
been that a forgotten collector of autographs had captured it, I should
have been tempted to make an exception in its favour.  The tone was
agnostic; but timidly agnostic.  He had never freed himself from the
shackles of early prepossessions.  He had not the necessary daring to
clear up his doubts.  Sometimes I fancy that it was this difference in
the two men that lay at the bottom of the unfortunate antagonism between
Owen and Huxley.  There is in Owen’s writing, where he is not purely
scientific, a touch of the apologist.  He cannot quite make up his mind
to follow evolution to its logical conclusions.  Where he is forced to do
so, it is to him like signing the death warrant of his dearest friend.
It must not be forgotten that Owen was born more than twenty years before
Huxley; and great as was the offence of free-thinking in Huxley’s youth,
it was nothing short of anathema in Owen’s.  When I met him at Holkham,
the ‘Origin of Species’ had not been published; and Napier and I did all
we could to get Owen to express some opinion on Lamarck’s theory, for he
and I used to talk confidentially on this fearful heresy even then.  But
Owen was ever on his guard.  He evaded our questions and changed the
subject.

Whenever I pass near the South Kensington Museum I step aside to look at
the noble statues of the two illustrious men.  A mere glance at them, and
we appreciate at once their respective characters.  In the one we see
passive wisdom, in the other militant force.



CHAPTER XLI


BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr. George Bird; he
continued to be one of my most intimate friends till his death, fifty
years afterwards.  When I first knew him, Bird was the medical adviser
and friend of Leigh Hunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house.
He had been dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had married young;
and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to provide for his children
and for himself.  His energy, his abilities, his exceeding amiability,
and remarkable social qualities, gradually procured him a large practice
and hosts of devoted friends.  He began looking for the season for
sprats—the cheapest of fish—to come in; by middle life he was habitually
and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities of art and literature.  With
his accomplished sister, Miss Alice Bird, to keep house for him, there
were no pleasanter dinner parties or receptions in London.  His
_clientèle_ was mainly amongst the artistic world.  He was a great friend
of Miss Ellen Terry’s, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters were frequenters
of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolner the sculptor—of whom I
was not particularly fond—Horace Wigan the actor, and his father, the
Burtons, who were much attached to him—Burton dedicated one volume of his
‘Arabian Nights’ to him—Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy and his
talented son, and many others.

The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attended professionally
the members of one or two labouring men’s clubs for fees which, as far as
I could learn, were rigorously nominal.  His great delight was to get an
order for the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr. Gladstone
spoke; and, being to the last day of his life as simple-minded as a
child, had a profound belief in the statemanship and integrity of that
renowned orator.

As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, the most notable
of the above-named.  There was a mystery about Burton which was in itself
a fascination.  No one knew what he had done; or consequently what he
might not do.  He never boasted, never hinted that he had done, or could
do, anything different from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, one
felt that he was transparently honest and sincere.  He was always the
same, always true to himself; but then, that ‘self’ was a something _per
se_, which could not be categorically classed—precedent for guidance was
lacking.  There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins;
there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even in his skin.

One summer’s day I found him reading the paper in the Athenæum.  He was
dressed in a complete suit of white—white trousers, a white linen coat,
and a very shabby old white hat.  People would have stared at him
anywhere.

‘Hullo, Burton!’ I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, ‘Do you find it so
hot—_déjà_?’

Said he: ‘I don’t want to be mistaken for other people.’

‘There’s not much fear of that, even without your clothes,’ I replied.

Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, have implied
vanity.  Yet no man could have been less vain, or more free from
affectation.  It probably concealed regret at finding himself
conspicuous.

After dinner at the Birds’ one evening we fell to talking of garrotters.
About this time the police reports were full of cases of garrotting.  The
victim was seized from behind, one man gagged or burked him, while
another picked his pocket.

‘What should you do, Burton?’ the Doctor asked, ‘if they tried to
garrotte you?’

‘I’m quite ready for ’em,’ was the answer; and turning up his sleeve he
partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it back again.

We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy who accompanied
him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatened Burton’s betrayal, and, of
consequence, his life.  I don’t think anyone was present except us two,
both of whom he well knew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his
tongue.

‘You would have been perfectly justified in saving your own life at any
cost.  You would hardly have broken the sixth commandment by doing so in
this case,’ I suggested.

‘No,’ said he gravely, ‘and as I had broken all the ten before, it
wouldn’t have so much mattered.’

The Doctor roared.  It should, however, be stated that Burton took no
less delight in his host’s boyish simplicity, than the other in what he
deemed his guest’s superb candour.

‘Come, tell us,’ said Bird, ‘how many men have you killed?’

‘How many have you, Doctor?’ was the answer.

Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguist of his day.
Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, the number of languages and
dialects her husband knew.  That Mahometans should seek instruction from
him in the Koran, speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the
greatest linguistic difficulties.  With Indian languages and their
variations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal’s Sais; and, one
may suppose, could have played the _rôle_ of a fakir as perfectly as he
did that of a Mecca pilgrim.  I asked him what his method was in learning
a fresh language.  He said he wrote down as many new words as he could
learn and remember each day; and learnt the construction of the language
colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.

Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than Sir Richard.  She
had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, as no one else was, with the
eccentricities of his thoughts and deeds.  Whatever these might happen to
be, she worshipped her husband notwithstanding.  For her he was the
standard of excellence; all other men were departures from it.  And the
singularity is, her religious faith was never for an instant shaken—she
remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when he married her from a
convent.  Her enthusiasm and cosmopolitanism, her _naïveté_ and the
sweetness of her disposition made her the best of company.  She had lived
so much the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits had an
Eastern glow.  When staying with the Birds, she was attended by an Arab
girl, one of whose duties it was to prepare her mistress’ chibouk, which
was regularly brought in with the coffee.  On one occasion, when several
other ladies were dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton’s
persuasion to satisfy their curiosity.  The Arab girl soon provided the
means; and it was not long before there were four or five faces as white
as Mrs. Alfred Wigan’s, under similar circumstances, in the ‘Nabob.’

Alfred Wigan’s father was an unforgettable man.  To describe him in a
word, he was Falstag _redivivus_.  In bulk and stature, in age, in wit
and humour, and morality, he was Falstaff.  He knew it and gloried in it.
He would complain with zest of ‘larding the lean earth’ as he walked
along.  He was as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack.  He would
exhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments; and would
appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at his last gasp, for ‘just a
tea-spoonful’ of the grateful stimulant.  She served him with a liberal
hand, till he cried ‘Stop!’  But if she then stayed, he would softly
insinuate ‘I didn’t mean it, my dear.’  Yet he was no Costigan.  His
brain was stronger than casks of whisky.  And his powers of digestion
were in keeping.  Indeed, to borrow the well-known words applied to a
great man whom we all love, ‘He tore his dinner like a famished wolf,
with the veins swelling in his forehead, and the perspiration running
down his cheeks.’  The trend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a
man of intellect, followed the dictates of his senses.  Walk with him in
the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigious memory, he would
pour forth pages of the choicest poetry.  But if you paused to watch the
lambs play, or disturbed a young calf in your path, he would almost
involuntarily exclaim: ‘How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!’ or
‘Bless your innocent face!  What sweetbreads you will provide!’

James Wigan had kept a school once.  The late Serjeant Ballantine, who
was one of his pupils, mentions him in his autobiography.  He was a good
scholar, and when I first knew him, used to teach elocution.  Many actors
went to him, and not a few members of both Houses of Parliament.  He
could recite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare’s plays; and,
with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by any public reader.

His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept an establishment
for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths.  I often stayed with him (not as a
patient), and a very comfortable and pretty place it was.  Now and then
he would call on me in London; and, with a face full of theatrical woe,
tell me, with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or the
Marquis of That, had implored him to take charge of young Lord So-and-So,
his son; who, as all the world knew, had—well, had ‘no guts in his
brains.’  Was there ever such a chance?  Just consider what it must lead
to!  Everybody knew—no, nobody knew—the enormous number of idiots there
were in noble families.  And, such a case as that of young Lord
Dash—though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be a profound
secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and, my dear sir, a fortune
to your humble servant, if—ah! if he could only secure it!’

‘But I thought you said you had been implored to take him?’

‘I did say so.  I repeat it.  His Lordship’s father came to me with tears
in his eyes.  “My dear Wigan,” were that nobleman’s words, “do me this
one favour and trust me, you will never regret it!”  But—’ he paused to
remove the dramatic tear, ‘but, I hardly dare go on.  Yes—yes, I know
your kindness’ (seizing my hand) ‘I know how ready you are to help me’—(I
hadn’t said a word)—‘but—’

‘How much is it this time? and what is it for?’

‘For?  I have told you what it is for.  The merest trifle will suffice.
I have the room—a beautiful room, the best aspect in the house.  It is
now occupied by young Rumagee Bumagee the great Bombay millionaire’s son.
Of course he can be moved.  But a bed—there positively is not a spare bed
in the house.  This is all I want—a bed, and perhaps a tuppenny ha’penny
strip of carpet, a couple of chairs, a—let me see; if you give me a slip
of paper I can make out in a minute what it will come to.’

‘Never mind that.  Will a ten-pound note serve your purposes?’

‘Dear boy!  Dear boy!  But on one condition, on one condition only, can I
accept it—this is a loan, a loan mind! and not a gift.  No, no—it is
useless to protest; my pride, my sense of honour, forbids my acceptance
upon any other terms.’

A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird that he and Miss
Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me at Sevenoaks.  Mr. Donovan,
the famous phrenologist, was to be of the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks,
and one or two local magnates, had also been invited to dine.  We
Londoners were to occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching
days.

We all knew what we had to expect—a most enjoyable banquet of
conviviality.  Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was an admirable
housekeeper, and nothing could have been better done.  The turbot and the
haunch of venison were the pick of Grove’s shop, the champagne was iced
to perfection, and there was enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to
me, casting his eyes to the ceiling, ‘to wash an omnibus, bedad.’  Mr.
Donovan, though he never refused Mr. Wigan’s hospitality, balanced the
account by vilipending his friend’s extravagant habits.  While Mr. Wigan,
probably giving him full credit for his gratitude, always spoke of him as
‘Poor old Paddy Donovan.’

With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendly terms.  Nothing
could be more unlike his father.  His manner in his own house was exactly
what it was on the stage.  Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began
nearly forty years before mine, and who was not given to waste his
praise, told me he considered Alfred Wigan the best ‘gentleman’ he had
ever seen on the stage.  I think this impression was due in a great
measure to Wigan’s entire absence of affectation, and to his persistent
appeal to the ‘judicious’ but never to the ‘groundlings.’  Mrs. Alfred
Wigan was also a consummate artiste.



CHAPTER XLII


THROUGH George Bird I made the acquaintance of the leading surgeons and
physicians of the North London Hospital, where I frequently attended the
operations of Erichsen, John Marshall, and Sir Henry Thompson, following
them afterwards in their clinical rounds.  Amongst the physicians,
Professor Sydney Ringer remains one of my oldest friends.  Both surgery
and therapeutics interested me deeply.  With regard to the first,
curiosity was supplemented by the incidental desire to overcome the
natural repugnance we all feel to the mere sight of blood.

Chemistry I studied in the laboratory of a professional friend of Dr.
Bird’s.  After a while my teacher would leave me to carry out small
commissions of a simple character which had been put into his hands, such
as the analysis of water, bread, or other food-stuffs.  He himself often
had engagements elsewhere, and would leave me in possession of the
laboratory, with a small urchin whom he had taught to be useful.  This
boy was of the meekest and mildest disposition.  Whether his master had
frightened him or not I do not know.  He always spoke in a whisper, and
with downcast eyes.  He handled everything as if it was about to
annihilate him, or he it, and looked as if he wouldn’t bite—even a
tartlet.

One day when I had finished my task, and we were alone, I bethought me of
making some laughing gas, and trying the effect of it on the gentle
youth.  I offered him a shilling for the experiment, which, however,
proved more expensive than I had bargained for.  I filled a bladder with
the gas, and putting a bit of broken pipe-stem in its neck for a
mouthpiece, gave it to the boy to suck—and suck he did.  In a few seconds
his eyes dilated, his face became lividly white, and I had some trouble
to tear the intoxicating bladder from his clutches.  The moment I had
done so, the true nature of the gutter-snipe exhibited itself.  He began
by cutting flip-flaps and turning windmills all round the room; then,
before I could stop him, swept an armful of valuable apparatus from the
tables, till the whole floor was strewn with wreck and poisonous
solutions.  The dismay of the chemist when he returned may be more easily
imagined than described.

Some years ago, there was a well-known band of amateur musicians called
the ‘Wandering Minstrels.’  This band originated in my rooms in Dean’s
Yard.  Its nucleus was composed of the following members: Seymour
Egerton, afterwards Lord Wilton, Sir Archibald Macdonald my
brother-in-law, Fred Clay, Bertie Mitford (the present Lord
Redesdale—perhaps the finest amateur cornet and trumpet player of the
day), and Lord Gerald Fitzgerald.  Our concerts were given in the Hanover
Square Rooms, and we played for charities all over the country.

To turn from the musical art to the art—or science is it called?—of
self-defence, once so patronised by the highest fashion, there was at
this time a famous pugilistic battle—the last of the old kind—fought
between the English champion, Tom Sayers, and the American champion,
Heenan.  Bertie Mitford and I agreed to go and see it.

The Wandering Minstrels had given a concert in the Hanover Square Rooms.
The fight was to take place on the following morning.  When the concert
was over, Mitford and I went to some public-house where the ‘Ring’ had
assembled, and where tickets were to be bought, and instructions
received.  Fights when gloves were not used, and which, especially in
this case, might end fatally, were of course illegal; and every
precaution had been taken by the police to prevent it.  A special train
was to leave London Bridge Station about 6 A.M.  We sat up all night in
my room, and had to wait an hour in the train before the men with their
backers arrived.  As soon as it was daylight, we saw mounted police
galloping on the roads adjacent to the line.  No one knew where the train
would pull up.  Ten minutes after it did so, a ring was formed in a
meadow close at hand.  The men stripped, and tossed for places.  Heenan
won the toss, and with it a considerable advantage.  He was nearly a head
taller than Sayers, and the ground not being quite level, he chose the
higher side of the ring.  But this was by no means his only ‘pull.’  Just
as the men took their places the sun began to rise.  It was in Heenan’s
back, and right in the other’s face.

Heenan began the attack at once with scornful confidence; and in a few
minutes Sayers received a blow on the forehead above his guard which sent
him slithering under the ropes; his head and neck, in fact, were outside
the ring.  He lay perfectly still, and in my ignorance, I thought he was
done for.  Not a bit of it.  He was merely reposing quietly till his
seconds put him on his legs.  He came up smiling, but not a jot the
worse.  But in the course of another round or two, down he went again.
The fight was going all one way.  The Englishman seemed to be completely
at the mercy of the giant.  I was so disgusted that I said to my
companion: ‘Come along, Bertie, the game’s up.  Sayers is good for
nothing.’

But now the luck changed.  The bull-dog tenacity and splendid condition
of Sayers were proof against these violent shocks.  The sun was out of
his eyes, and there was not a mark of a blow either on his face or his
body.  His temper, his presence of mind, his defence, and the rapidity of
his movements, were perfect.  The opening he had watched for came at
last.  He sprang off his legs, and with his whole weight at close
quarters, struck Heenan’s cheek just under the eye.  It was like the kick
of a cart-horse.  The shouts might have been heard half-a-mile off.  Up
till now, the betting called after each round had come to ‘ten to one on
Heenan’; it fell at once to evens.

Heenan was completely staggered.  He stood for a minute as if he did not
know where he was or what had happened.  And then, an unprecedented thing
occurred.  While he thus stood, Sayers put both hands behind his back,
and coolly walked up to his foe to inspect the damage he had inflicted.
I had hold of the ropes in Heenan’s corner, consequently could not see
his face without leaning over them.  When I did so, and before time was
called, one eye was completely closed.  What kind of generosity prevented
Sayers from closing the other during the pause, is difficult to
conjecture.  But his forbearance did not make much difference.  Heenan
became more fierce, Sayers more daring.  The same tactics were repeated;
and now, no longer to the astonishment of the crowd, the same success
rewarded them.  Another sledge-hammer blow from the Englishman closed the
remaining eye.  The difference in the condition of the two men must have
been enormous, for in five minutes Heenan was completely sightless.

Sayers, however, had not escaped scot-free.  In countering the last
attack, Heenan had broken one of the bones of Sayers’ right arm.  Still
the fight went on.  It was now a brutal scene.  The blind man could not
defend himself from the other’s terrible punishment.  His whole face was
so swollen and distorted, that not a feature was recognisable.  But he
evidently had his design.  Each time Sayers struck him and ducked, Heenan
made a swoop with his long arms, and at last he caught his enemy.  With
gigantic force he got Sayers’ head down, and heedless of his captive’s
pounding, backed step by step to the ring.  When there, he forced Sayers’
neck on to the rope, and, with all his weight, leant upon the
Englishman’s shoulders.  In a few moments the face of the strangled man
was black, his tongue was forced out of his mouth, and his eyes from
their sockets.  His arms fell powerless, and in a second or two more he
would have been a corpse.  With a wild yell the crowd rushed to the
rescue.  Warning cries of ‘The police!  The police!’ mingled with the
shouts.  The ropes were cut, and a general scamper for the waiting train
ended this last of the greatest prize-fights.

We two took it easily, and as the mob were scuttling away from the
police, we saw Sayers with his backers, who were helping him to dress.
His arm seemed to hurt him a little, but otherwise, for all the damage he
had received, he might have been playing at football or lawn tennis.

We were quietly getting into a first-class carriage, when I was seized by
the shoulder and roughly spun out of the way.  Turning to resent the
rudeness, I found myself face to face with Heenan.  One of his seconds
had pushed me on one side to let the gladiator get in.  So completely
blind was he, that the friend had to place his foot upon the step.  And
yet neither man had won the fight.

We still think—profess to think—the barbarism of the ‘Iliad’ the highest
flight of epic poetry; if Homer had sung this great battle, how glorious
we should have thought it!  Beyond a doubt, man ‘yet partially retains
the characteristics that adapted him to an antecedent state.’



CHAPTER XLIII


THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with their near
relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York.  Hovingham has now become
known to the musical world through its festivals, annually held at the
Hall under the patronage of its late owner, Sir William Worsley.  It was
in his father’s time that this fine place, with its delightful family,
was for many years a home to me.  Here I met the Alisons, and at the kind
invitation of Sir Archibald, paid the great historian a visit at Possil,
his seat in Scotland.  As men who had achieved scientific or literary
distinction inspired me with far greater awe than those of the highest
rank—of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance—Alison’s celebrity,
his courteous manner, his oracular speech, his voluminous works, and his
voluminous dimensions, filled me with too much diffidence and respect to
admit of any freedom of approach.  One listened to him, as he held forth
of an evening when surrounded by his family, with reverential silence.
He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if a wee bit prosy at times, it was
sententious and polished prose that he talked; he talked invariably like
a book.  His family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew
him could help liking him.

When Thackeray was giving readings from ‘The Four Georges,’ I dined with
Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear him.  I had heard
Dickens read ‘The Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,’ and it was curious
to compare the style of the two great novelists.  With Thackeray, there
was an entire absence of either tone or colour.  Of course the historical
nature of his subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be looked for
in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparison inapposite.
Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them.  Thackeray’s features were
impassive, and his voice knew no inflection.  But his elocution in other
respects was perfect, admirably distinct and impressive from its complete
obliteration of the reader.

The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and no part of it
was more attentively listened to than his passing allusion to himself.
‘I came,’ he says, ‘from India as a child, and our ship touched at an
island on the way home, where my black servant took me a long walk over
rocks and hills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.
“That is he,” said the black man, “that is Bonaparte!  He eats three
sheep every day, and all the little children he can lay hands on!”’  One
went to hear Thackeray, to see Thackeray; and the child and the black man
and the ogre were there on the stage before one.  But so well did the
lecturer perform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgotten him,
and saw only George Selwyn and his friend Horace Walpole, and Horace’s
friend, Miss Berry—whom by the way I too knew and remember.  One saw the
‘poor society ghastly in its pleasures, its loves, its revelries,’ and
the redeeming vision of ‘her father’s darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the
extreme passionate tenderness with which her father loved her.’  The
story told, as Thackeray told it, was as delightful to listen to as to
read.

Not so with Dickens.  He disappointed me.  He made no attempt to
represent the different characters by varied utterance; but whenever
something unusually comic was said, or about to be said, he had a habit
of turning his eyes up to the ceiling; so that, knowing what was coming,
one nervously anticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost the
illusion.  In both entertainments, the reader was naturally the central
point of interest.  But in the case of Dickens, when curiosity was
satisfied, he alone possessed one; Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell were put out
of court.

Was it not Charles Lamb, or was it Hazlitt, that could not bear to see
Shakespeare upon the stage?  I agree with him.  I have never seen a
Falstaff that did not make me miserable.  He is even more impossible to
impersonate than Hamlet.  A player will spoil you the character of
Hamlet, but he cannot spoil his thoughts.  Depend upon it, we are
fortunate not to have seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.

In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter of Lord Wilton,
and we took up our abode in Warwick Square, which, by the way, I had seen
a few years before as a turnip field.  My wife was an accomplished
pianiste, so we had a great deal of music, and saw much of the artist
world.  I may mention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts at
housekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.

Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music was represented by
Joachim, Piatti, and Hallé.  The late Lord and Lady de Ros were also of
the number.  Lady de Ros, who was a daughter of the Duke of Richmond, had
danced at the ball given by her father at Brussels the night before
Waterloo.  As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will be
understood that he was a veteran of some standing.  The great musical
trio were enchanting all ears with their faultless performance, when the
sweet and soul-stirring notes of the Adagio were suddenly interrupted by
a loud crash and a shriek.  Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on
a sofa at the further end of the room.  Over his head was a large picture
in a heavy frame.  What vibrations, what careless hanging, what
mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom of it, who knows?  Down came
the picture on the top of the poor old General’s head, and knocked him
senseless on the floor.  He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a
bed.  Happily he recovered without serious injury.  There were many
exclamations of regret, but the only one I remember was Millais’.  All he
said was: ‘And it is a good picture too.’

Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites.  My wife had known
him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal; and to the end of his days we
were on terms of the closest intimacy and friendship.  Through him we
made the acquaintance of the Scott Russells.  Mr. Scott Russell was the
builder of the Crystal Palace.  He had a delightful residence at
Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those of the Crystal Palace, and
were beautifully laid out by his friend Sir Joseph Paxton.  One of the
daughters, Miss Rachel Russell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan’s.  She
had great musical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedingly clever
and well-informed, and altogether exceptionally fascinating.  Quite apart
from Sullivan’s genius, he was in every way a charming fellow.  The
teacher fell in love with the pupil; and, as naturally, his love was
returned.  Sullivan was but a youth, a poor and struggling music-master.
And, very naturally again, Mrs. Scott Russell, who could not be expected
to know what magic bâton the young maestro carried in his knapsack,
thought her brilliant daughter might do better.  The music lessons were
put a stop to, and correspondence between the lovers was prohibited.

Once a week or so, either the young lady or the young gentleman would,
quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about tea or luncheon time.  And, by
the strangest coincidence, the other would be sure to drop in while the
one was there.  This went on for a year or two.  But destiny forbade the
banns.  In spite of the large fortune acquired by Mr. Scott Russell—he
was the builder of the ‘Great Eastern’ as well as the Crystal
Palace—ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbed him of his well-earned
wealth.  His beautiful place at Sydenham had to be sold; and the marriage
of Miss Rachel with young Arthur Sullivan was abandoned.  She ultimately
married an Indian official.

Her story may here be told to the end.  Some years later she returned to
England to bring her two children home for their education, going back to
India without them, as Indian mothers have to do.  The day before she
sailed, she called to take leave of us in London.  She was terribly
depressed, but fought bravely with her trial.  She never broke down, but
shunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of her old
vivacity, about music, books, friends, and ‘dear old dirty London,’ as
she called it.  When she left, I opened the street-door for her, and with
both her hands in mine, bade her ‘Farewell.’  Then the tears fell, and
her parting words were: ‘I am leaving England never to see it again.’
She was seized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and died the
following day.

To return to her father, the eminent engineer.  He was distinctly a man
of genius, and what is called ‘a character.’  He was always in the
clouds—not in the vapour of his engine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines
for extracting sunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical
problems and abstract speculations about the universe generally.  In
other respects a perfectly simple-minded man.

It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down to Sheerness with
him, and go over the ‘Great Eastern’ before she left with the Atlantic
cable.  This was in 1865.  The largest ship in the world, and the first
Atlantic cable, were both objects of the greatest interest.  The builder
did not know the captain—Anderson—nor did the captain know the builder.
But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.

As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everything on board
her was in the wildest confusion.  Russell could not find anyone who
could find the Captain; so he began poking about with me, till we
accidentally stumbled on the Commander.  He merely said that he was come
to take a parting glance at his ‘child,’ which did not seem of much
concern to the over-busy captain.  He never mentioned his own name, but
introduced me as ‘my friend Captain Cole.’  Now, in those days, Captain
Cole was well known as a distinguished naval officer.  To Russell’s
absent and engineering mind, ‘Coke’ had suggested ‘Cole,’ and ‘Captain’
was inseparable from the latter.  It was a name to conjure with.  Captain
Anderson took off his cap, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed his
pleasure at making my acquaintance, and hoped I, and my friend
Mr.—ahem—would come into his cabin and have luncheon, and then allow him
to show me over his ship.  Scott Russell was far too deeply absorbed in
his surroundings to note any peculiarity in this neglect of himself and
marked respect for ‘Captain Cole.’  We made the round of the decks, then
explored the engine room.  Here the designer found himself in an earthly
paradise.  He button-holed the engineer and inquired into every crank,
and piston, and valve, and every bolt, as it seemed to me, till the
officer in charge unconsciously began to ask opinions instead of offering
explanations.  By degrees the captain was equally astonished at the
visitor’s knowledge, and when at last my friend asked what had become of
some fixture or other which he missed, Captain Anderson turned to him and
exclaimed, ‘Why, you seem to know more about the ship than I do.’

‘Well, so I ought,’ says my friend, never for a moment supposing that
Anderson was in ignorance of his identity.

‘Indeed!  Who then are you, pray?’

‘Who?  Why, Scott Russell of course, the builder!’

There was a hearty laugh over it all.  I managed to spare the captain’s
feelings by preserving my incognito, and so ended a pleasant day.



CHAPTER XLIV


IN November, 1862, my wife and I received an invitation to spend a week
at Compiègne with their Majesties the Emperor and Empress of the French.
This was due to the circumstance that my wife’s father, Lord Wilton, as
Commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, had entertained the Emperor during
his visit to Cowes.

We found an express train with the imperial carriages awaiting the
arrival of the English guests at the station du Nord.  The only other
English besides ourselves were Lord and Lady Winchilsea with Lady
Florence Paget, and Lord and Lady Castlerosse, now Lord and Lady Kenmare.
These, however, had preceded us, so that with the exception of M. Drouyn
de Lhuys, we had the saloon carriage to ourselves.

The party was a very large one, including the Walewskis, the Persignys,
the Metternichs—he, the Austrian Ambassador—Prince Henri VII. of Reuss,
Prussian Ambassador, the Prince de la Moskowa, son of Marshal Ney, and
the Labedoyères, amongst the historical names.  Amongst those of art and
literature, of whom there were many, the only one whom I made the
acquaintance of was Octave Feuillet.  I happened to have brought his
‘Comédies et Proverbes’ and another of his books with me, never expecting
to meet him; this so pleased him that we became allies.  I was surprised
to find that he could not even read English, which I begged him to learn
for the sake of Shakespeare alone.

We did not see their Majesties till dinner-time.  When the guests were
assembled, the women and the men were arranged separately on opposite
sides of the room.  The Emperor and Empress then entered, each
respectively welcoming those of their own sex, shaking hands and saying
some conventional word in passing.  Me, he asked whether I had brought my
guns, and hoped we should have a good week’s sport.  To each one a word.
Every night during the week we sat down over a hundred to dinner.  The
Army was largely represented.  For the first time I tasted here the
national frog, which is neither fish nor flesh.  The wine was, of course,
supreme; but after every dish a different wine was handed round.  The
evening entertainments were varied.  There was the theatre in the Palace,
and some of the best of the Paris artistes were requisitioned for the
occasion.  With them came Dèjazet, then nearly seventy, who had played
before Buonaparte.

Almost every night there was dancing.  Sometimes the Emperor would walk
through a quadrille, but as a rule he would retire with one of his
ministers, though only to a smaller boudoir at the end of the suite,
where a couple of whist-tables were ready for the more sedate of the
party.  Here one evening I found Prince Metternich showing his Majesty a
chess problem, of which he was the proud inventor.  The Emperor asked
whether I was fond of chess.  I was very fond of chess, was one of the
regular _habitués_ of St. George’s Chess Club, and had made a study of
the game for years.  The Prince challenged me to solve his problem in
four moves.  It was not a very profound one.  I had the hardihood to
discover that three, rather obvious moves, were sufficient.  But as I was
not Gil Blas, and the Prince was not the Archbishop of Grenada, it did
not much matter.  Like the famous prelate, his Excellency proffered his
felicitations, and doubtless also wished me ‘un peu plus de goût’ with
the addition of ‘un peu moins de perspicacité.’

One of the evening performances was an exhibition of _poses-plastiques_,
the subjects being chosen from celebrated pictures in the Louvre.
Theatrical costumiers, under the command of a noted painter, were brought
from Paris.  The ladies of the court were carefully rehearsed, and the
whole thing was very perfectly and very beautifully done.  All the
English ladies were assigned parts.  But, as nearly all these depended
less upon the beauties of drapery than upon those of nature, the English
ladies were more than a little staggered by the demands of the painter
and of the—_un_dressers.  To the young and handsome Lady Castlerosse,
then just married, was allotted the figure of Diana.  But when informed
that, in accordance with the original, the drapery of one leg would have
to be looped up above the knee, her ladyship used very firm language;
and, though of course perfectly ladylike, would, rendered into masculine
terms, have signified that she would ‘see the painter d—d first.’  The
celebrated ‘Cruche cassée’ of Greuze, was represented by the reigning
beauty, the Marquise de Gallifet, with complete fidelity and success.

There was one stage of the performance which neither I nor Lord
Castlerosse, both of us newly married, at all appreciated.  This was the
privileges of the Green-room, or rather of the dressing-rooms.  The
exhibition was given in the ball-room.  On one side of this, until the
night of the performances, an enclosure was boarded off.  Within it, were
compartments in which the ladies dressed and—undressed.  At this
operation, as we young husbands discovered, certain young gentlemen of
the court were permitted to assist—I think I am not mistaken in saying
that his Majesty was of the number.  What kind of assistance was offered
or accepted, Castlerosse and I, being on the wrong side of the boarding,
were not in a position to know.

There was a door in the boarding, over which one expected to see, ‘No
admittance except on business,’ or perhaps, ‘on pleasure.’  At this door
I rapped, and rapped again impatiently.  It was opened, only as wide as
her face, by the empress.

‘What do you want, sir?’ was the angry demand.

‘To see my wife, madame,’ was the submissive reply.

‘You can’t see her; she is rehearsing.’

‘But, madame, other gentlemen—’

‘Ah!  Mais, c’est un enfantillage!  Allez-vous-en.’

And the door was slammed in my face.

‘Well,’ thought I, ‘the right woman is in the right place there, at all
events.’

Another little incident at the performance itself also recalled the days
and manners of the court of Louis XV.  Between each tableau, which was
lighted solely from the raised stage, the lights were put out, and the
whole room left in complete darkness.  Whenever this happened, the sounds
of immoderate kissing broke out in all directions, accompanied by little
cries of resistance and protestation.  Until then, I had always been
under the impression that humour of this kind was confined to the
servants’ hall.  One could not help thinking of another court, where
things were managed differently.

But the truth is, these trivial episodes were symptomatic of a pervading
tone.  A no inconsiderable portion of the ladies seemed to an outsider to
have been invited for the sake of their personal charms.  After what has
just been related, one could not help fancying that there were some
amongst them who had availed themselves of the privilege which, according
to Tacitus, was claimed by Vistilia before the Ædiles.  So far, however,
from any of these noble ladies being banished to the Isle of Seriphos,
they seemed as much attached to the court as the court to them; and
whatever the Roman Emperor might have done, the Emperor of the French was
all that was most indulgent.

There were two days’ shooting, one day’s stag hunting, an expedition to
Pierrefonds, and a couple of days spent in riding and skating.  The
shooting was very much after the fashion of that already described at
Prince Esterhazy’s, though of a much more Imperial character.  As in
Hungary, the game had been driven into coverts cut down to the height of
the waist, with paths thirty to forty yards apart, for the guns.

The weather was cold, with snow on the ground, but it was a beautifully
sunny day.  This was the party: the two ambassadors, the Prince de la
Moskowa, Persigny, Walewski—Bonaparte’s natural son, and the image of his
father—the Marquis de Toulongeon, Master of the Horse, and we three
Englishmen.  We met punctually at eleven in the grand saloon.  Here the
Emperor joined us, with his cigarette in his mouth, shook hands with
each, and bade us take our places in the char-a-bancs.  Four splendid
Normandy greys, with postilions in the picturesque old costume, glazed
hats and huge jack-boots, took us through the forest at full gallop, and
in half an hour we were at the covert side.  The Emperor was very cheery
all the way.  He cautioned me not to shoot back for the beaters’ sakes,
and asked me how many guns I had brought.

‘Two only? that’s not enough, I will lend you some of mine.’

Arrived at our beat—‘Tire de Royallieu,’ we found a squadron of
dismounted cavalry drawn up in line, ready to commence operations.  They
were in stable dress, with canvas trousers and spurs to their boots.
Several officers were galloping about giving orders, the whole being
under the command of a mounted chief in green uniform and cocked hat!
The place of each shooter had been settled by M. de Toulongeon.  I, being
the only Nobody of the lot, was put on the extreme outside.  The Emperor
was in the middle; and although, as I noticed, he made some beautiful
shots at rocketers, he was engaged much of the time in talking to
ministers who walked behind, or beside, him.

Our servants were already in the places allotted to their masters, and
each of us had two keepers to carry spare guns (the Emperor had not
forgotten to send me two of his, which I could not shoot with, and never
used), and a sergeant with a large card to prick off each head of game,
not as it fell to the gun, but only after it was picked up.  This
conscientious scoring amused me greatly; for, as it chanced, my bag was a
heavy one, and the Emperor’s marker sent constant messages to mine to
compare notes, and so arrange, as it transpired, to keep His Majesty at
the top of the score.

About half-past one we reached a clearing where _déjeuner_ was awaiting
us.  The scene presented was striking.  Around a tent in which every
delicacy was spread out were numbers of little charcoal fires, where a
still greater number of cooks in white caps and jackets were preparing
dainty dishes; while the Imperial footmen bustling about brightened the
picture with colour.  After coffee all the cards were brought to his
Majesty.  When he had scanned them, he said to me across the table:

‘I congratulate you, Mr. Coke, upon having killed the most.’

My answer was, ‘After you, Sir.’

‘Yes,’ said he, giving his moustache an upward twist, but with perfect
gravity, ‘I always kill the most.’

Just then the Empress and the whole court drove up.  Presently she came
into the tent and, addressing her husband, exclaimed:

‘Avez-vous bientôt fini, vous autres?  Ah! que vous êtes des gourmands!’

Till the finish, she and the rest walked with the shooters.  By four it
was over.  The total score was 1,387 head.  Mine was 182, which included
thirty-six partridges, two woodcocks, and four roedeer.  This, in three
and a half hours’ shooting, with two muzzle-loaders (breech-loaders were
not then in use), was an unusually good bag.

Fashion is capricious.  When lunch was over I went to one of the charcoal
fires, quite in the background, to light a cigarette.  An aide-de-camp
immediately pounced upon me, with the information that this was not
permitted in company with the Empress.  It reminded one at once of the
ejaculation at Oliver Twist’s bedside, ‘Ladies is present, Mr. Giles.’
After the shooting, I was told to go to tea with the Empress—a terrible
ordeal, for one had to face the entire feminine force of the palace,
nearly every one of whom, from the highest to the lowest, was provided
with her own _cavaliere servente_.

The following night, when we assembled for dinner, I received orders to
sit next to the Empress.  This was still more embarrassing.  It is true,
one does not speak to a sovereign unless one is spoken to; but still one
is permitted to make the initiative easy.  I found that I was expected to
take my share of the task; and by a happy inspiration, introduced the
subject of the Prince Imperial, then a child of eight years old.  The
_mondaine_ Empress was at once merged in the adoring mother; her whole
soul was wrapped up in the boy.  It was easy enough then to speculate on
his career, at least so far as the building of castles in the air for
fantasies to roam in.  What a future he had before him!—to consolidate
the Empire! to perfect the great achievement of his father, and render
permanent the foundation of the Napoleonic dynasty! to build a
superstructure as transcendent for the glories of Peace, as those of his
immortal ancestor had been for War!

It was not difficult to play the game with such court cards in one’s
hand.  Nor was it easy to coin these _phrases de sucrecandi_ without
sober and earnest reflections on the import of their contents.  What,
indeed, might or might not be the consequences to millions, of the wise
or unwise or evil development of the life of that bright and handsome
little fellow, now trotting around the dessert table, with the long curls
tumbling over his velvet jacket, and the flowers in his hand for some
pretty lady who was privileged to kiss him?  Who could foretell the cruel
doom—heedless of such favours and such splendid promises—that awaited the
pretty child?  Who could hear the brave young soldier’s last shrieks of
solitary agony?  Who could see the forsaken body slashed with knives and
assegais?  Ah! who could dream of that fond mother’s heart, when the end
came, which eclipsed even the disasters of a nation!

One by-day, when my wife and I were riding with the Emperor through the
forest of Compiègne, a rough-looking man in a blouse, with a red
comforter round his neck, sprang out from behind a tree; and before he
could be stopped, seized the Emperor’s bridle.  In an instant the Emperor
struck his hand with a heavy hunting stock; and being free, touched his
horse with the spur and cantered on.  I took particular notice of his
features and his demeanour, from the very first moment of the surprise.
Nothing happened but what I have described.  The man seemed fierce and
reckless.  The Emperor showed not the faintest signs of discomposure.
All he said was, turning to my wife, ‘Comme il avait l’air sournois, cet
homme!’ and resumed the conversation at the point where it was
interrupted.

Before we had gone a hundred yards I looked back to see what had become
of the offender.  He was in the hands of two _gens d’armes_, who had been
invisible till then.

‘Poor devil,’ thought I, ‘this spells dungeon for you.’

Now, with Kinglake’s acrimonious charge of the Emperor’s personal
cowardice running in my head, I felt that this exhibition of _sang
froid_, when taken completely unawares, went far to refute the
imputation.  What happened later in the day strongly confirmed this
opinion.

After dark, about six o’clock, I took a stroll by myself through the town
of Compiègne.  Coming home, when crossing the bridge below the Palace, I
met the Emperor arm-in-arm with Walewski.  Not ten minutes afterwards,
whom should I stumble upon but the ruffian who had seized the Emperor’s
bridle?  The same red comforter was round his neck, the same wild look
was in his face.  I turned after he had passed, and at the same moment he
turned to look at me.

Would this man have been at large but for the Emperor’s orders?
Assuredly not.  For, supposing he were crazy, who could have answered for
his deeds?  Most likely he was shadowed; and to a certainty the Emperor
would be so.  Still, what could save the latter from a pistol-shot?  Yet,
here he was, sauntering about the badly lighted streets of a town where
his kenspeckle figure was familiar to every inhabitant.  Call this
fatalism if you will; but these were not the acts of a coward.  I told
this story to a friend who was well ‘posted’ in the club gossip of the
day.  He laughed.

‘Don’t you know the meaning of Kinglake’s spite against the Emperor?’
said he.  ‘_Cherchez la femme_.  Both of them were in love with Mrs. —’

This is the way we write our histories.

Wishing to explore the grounds about the palace before anyone was astir,
I went out one morning about half-past eight.  Seeing what I took to be a
mausoleum, I walked up to it, found the door opened, and peeped in.  It
turned out to be a museum of Roman antiquities, and the Emperor was
inside, arranging them.  I immediately withdrew, but he called to me to
come in.

He was at this time busy with his Life of Cæsar; and, in his enthusiasm,
seemed pleased to have a listener to his instructive explanations; he
even encouraged the curiosity which the valuable collection and his own
remarks could not fail to awaken.

Not long ago, I saw some correspondence in the Times’ and other papers
about what Heine calls ‘Das kleine welthistorische Hûtchen,’ which the
whole of Europe knew so well, to its cost.  Some six or seven of the
Buonaparte hats, so it appears, are still in existence.  But I noticed,
that though all were located, no mention was made of the one in the
Luxembourg.

When we left Compiègne for Paris we were magnificently furnished with
orders for royal boxes at theatres, and for admission to places of
interest not open to the public.  Thus provided, we had access to many
objects of historical interest and of art—amongst the former, the relics
of the great conqueror.  In one glass case, under lock and key, was the
‘world-historical little hat.’  The official who accompanied us, having
stated that we were the Emperor’s guests, requested the keeper to take it
out and show it to us.  I hope no Frenchman will know it, but, I put the
hat upon my head.  In one sense it was a ‘little’ hat—that is to say, it
fitted a man with a moderate sized skull—but the flaps were much larger
than pictures would lead one to think, and such was the weight that I am
sure it would give any ordinary man accustomed to our head-gear a still
neck to wear it for an hour.  What has become of this hat if it is not
still in the Luxembourg?



CHAPTER XLV


SOME few years later, while travelling with my family in Switzerland, we
happened to be staying at Baveno on Lago Maggiore at the same time, and
in the same hotel, as the Crown Prince and Princess of Germany.  Their
Imperial Highnesses occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor.
Our rooms were immediately above them.  As my wife was known to the
Princess, occasional greetings passed from balcony to balcony.

One evening while watching two lads rowing from the shore in the
direction of Isola Bella, I was aroused from my contemplation of a
gathering storm by angry vociferations beneath me.  These were addressed
to the youths in the boat.  The anxious father had noted the coming
tempest; and, with hands to his mouth, was shouting orders to the young
gentlemen to return.  Loud and angry as cracked the thunder, the imperial
voice o’ertopped it.  Commands succeeded admonitions, and as the only
effect on the rowers was obvious recalcitrancy, oaths succeeded both: all
in those throat-clearing tones to which the German language so
consonantly lends itself.  In a few minutes the boat was immersed in the
down-pour which concealed it.

The elder of the two oarsmen was no other than the future firebrand
peacemaker, Miching Mallecho, our fierce little Tartarin de Berlin.  One
wondered how he, who would not be ruled, would come in turn to rule?
That question is a burning one; and may yet set the world in flames to
solve it.

A comic little incident happened here to my own children.  There was but
one bathing-machine.  This, the two—a schoolboy and his sister—used in
the early morning.  Being rather late one day, they found it engaged; and
growing impatient the boy banged at the door of the machine, with a shout
in schoolboy’s vernacular: ‘Come, hurry up; we want to dip.’  Much to the
surprise of the guilty pair, an answer, also in the best of English, came
from the inside: ‘Go away, you naughty boy.’  The occupant was the
Imperial Princess.  Needless to say the children bolted with a mingled
sense of mischief and alarm.

About this time I joined a society for the relief of distress, of which
Bromley Davenport was the nominal leader.  The ‘managing director,’ so to
speak, was Dr. Gilbert, father of Mr. W. S. Gilbert.  To him I went for
instructions.  I told him I wanted to see the worst.  He accordingly sent
me to Bethnal Green.  For two winters and part of a third I visited this
district twice a week regularly.  What I saw in the course of those two
years was matter for a thoughtful—ay, or a thoughtless—man to think of
for the rest of his days.

My system was to call first upon the clergyman of the parish, and obtain
from him a guide to the severest cases of destitution.  The guide would
be a Scripture reader, and, as far as I remember, always a woman.  I do
not know whether the labours of these good creatures were gratuitous—they
themselves were certainly poor, yet singularly earnest and sympathetic.
The society supplied tickets for coal, blankets, and food.  Needless to
say, had these supplies been a thousand-fold as great, they would have
done as little permanent good as those at my command.

In Bethnal Green the principal industry is, or was, silk-weaving by hand
looms.  Nearly all the houses were ancient and dilapidated.  A weaver and
his family would occupy part of a flat, consisting of two rooms perhaps,
one of which would contain his loom.  The room might be about seven feet
high, nearly dark, lighted only by a lattice window, half of the panes of
which would be replaced by dirty rags or old newspaper.  As the loom was
placed against the window the light was practically excluded.  The
foulness of the air and filth which this entailed may be too easily
imagined.  A couple of cases, taken almost at random, will sample scores
as bad.

It is one of the darkest days of December.  The Thames is nearly frozen
at Waterloo Bridge.  On the second floor of an old house in — Lane, in an
unusually spacious room (or does it only look spacious because there is
nothing in it save four human beings?) are a father, a mother, and a
grown-up son and daughter.  They scowl at the visitor as the Scripture
reader opens the door.  What is the meaning of the intrusion?  Is he too
come with a Bible instead of bread?  The four are seated side by side on
the floor, leaning against the wall, waiting for—death.  Bedsteads,
chairs, table, and looms have been burnt this week or more for fuel.  The
grate is empty now, and lets the freezing draught blow down the chimney.
The temporary relief is accepted, but not with thanks.  These four
stubbornly prefer death to the work-house.

One other case.  It is the same hard winter.  The scene: a small garret
in the roof, a low slanting little skylight, now covered six inches deep
in snow.  No fireplace here, no ventilation, so put your scented cambric
to your nose, my noble Dives.  The only furniture a scanty armful of—what
shall we call it?  It was straw once.  A starving woman and a baby are
lying on it, notwithstanding.  The baby surely will not be there
to-morrow.  It has a very bad cold—and the mucus, and the—pah!  The woman
in a few rags—just a few—is gnawing a raw carrot.  The picture is
complete.  There’s nothing more to paint.  The rest—the whole indeed,
that is the consciousness of it—was, and remains, with the Unseen.

You will say, ‘Such things cannot be’; you will say, ‘There are relieving
officers, whose duty, etc., etc.’  May be.  I am only telling you what I
myself have seen.  There is more goes on in big cities than even
relieving officers can cope with.  And who shall grapple with the causes?
That’s the point.

Here is something else that I have seen.  I have seen a family of six in
one room.  Of these, four were brothers and sisters, all within, none
over, their teens.  There were three beds between the six.  When I came
upon them they were out of work,—the young ones in bed to keep warm.  I
took them for very young married couples.  It was the Scripture reader
who undeceived me.  This is not the exception to the rule, look you, but
the rule itself.  How will you deal with it?  It is with Nature, immoral
Nature and her heedless instincts that you have to deal.  With what kind
of fork will you expel her?  It is with Nature’s wretched children, the
_bêtes humaines_,

    Quos venerem incertam rapientes more ferarum,

that your account lies.  Will they cease to listen to her maddening
whispers: ‘Unissez-vous, multipliez, il n’est d’autre loi, d’autre but,
que l’amour?’  What care they for her aside—‘Et durez après, si vous le
pouvez; cela ne me regarde plus’?  It doesn’t regard them either.

The infallible panacea, so the ‘Progressive’ tell us, is
education—lessons on the piano, perhaps?  Doctor Malthus would be more to
the purpose; but how shall we administer his prescriptions?  One thing we
might try to teach to advantage, and that is the elementary principles of
hygiene.  I am heart and soul with the Progressive as to the ultimate
remedial powers of education.  Moral advancement depends absolutely on
the humanising influences of intellectual advancement.  The foreseeing of
consequences is a question of intelligence.  And the appreciation of
consequences which follow is the basis of morality.  But we must not
begin at the wrong end.  The true foundation and condition of
intellectual and moral progress postulates material and physical
improvement.  The growth of artificial wants is as much the cause as the
effect of civilisation: they proceed _pari passu_.  A taste of comfort
begets a love of comfort.  And this kind of love militates, not
impotently, against the other; for self-interest is a persuasive
counsellor, and gets a hearing when the blood is cool.  Life must be more
than possible, it must be endurable; man must have some leisure, some
repose, before his brain-needs have a chance with those of his belly.  He
must have a coat to his back before he can stick a rose in its
button-hole.  The worst of it is, he begins—in Bethnal Green at
least—with the rose-bud; and indulges, poor devil! in a luxury which is
just the most expensive, and—in our Bethnal Greens—the most suicidal he
could resort to.

There was one method I adopted with a show of temporary success now and
then.  It frequently happens that a man succumbs to difficulties for
which he is not responsible, and which timely aid may enable him to
overcome.  An artisan may have to pawn or sell the tools by which he
earns his living.  The redemption of these, if the man is good for
anything, will often set him on his legs.  Thus, for example, I found a
cobbler one day surrounded by a starving family.  His story was common
enough, severe illness being the burden of it.  He was an intelligent
little fellow, and, as far as one could judge, full of good intentions.
His wife seemed devoted to him, and this was the best of vouchers.  ‘If
he had but a shilling or two to redeem his tools, and buy two or three
old cast-off shoes in the rag-market which he could patch up and sell, he
wouldn’t ask anyone for a copper.’

We went together to the pawnbroker’s, then to the rag-market, and the
little man trotted home with an armful of old boots and shoes, some
without soles, some without uppers; all, as I should have thought, picked
out of dust-bins and rubbish heaps, his sunken eyes sparkling with
eagerness and renovated hope.  I looked in upon him about three weeks
later.  The family were sitting round a well provided tea-table, close to
a glowing fire, the cheeks of the children smeared with jam, and the
little cobbler hammering away at his last, too busy to partake of the
bowl of hot tea which his wife had placed beside him.

The same sort of treatment was sometimes very successful with a skilful
workman—like a carpenter, for instance.  Here a double purpose might be
served.  Nothing more common in Bethnal Green than broken looms, and
consequent disaster.  There you had the ready-made job for the reinstated
carpenter; and good could be done in a small way, at very little cost.
Of coarse much discretion is needed; still, the Scripture readers or the
relieving officers would know the characters of the destitute, and the
visitor himself would soon learn to discriminate.

A system similar to this was the basis of the aid rendered by the Royal
Society for the Assistance of Discharged Prisoners, which was started by
my friend, Mr. Whitbread, the present owner of Southill, and which I
joined in its early days at his instigation.  The earnings of the
prisoner were handed over by the gaols to the Society, and the Society
employed them for his advantage—always, in the case of an artisan, by
supplying him with the needful implements of his trade.  But relief in
which the pauper has no productive share, of which he is but a mere
consumer, is of no avail.

One cannot but think that if instead of the selfish principles which
govern our trades-unions, and which are driving their industries out of
the country, trade-schools could be provided—such, for instance, as the
cheap carving schools to be met with in many parts of Germany and the
Tyrol—much might be done to help the bread-earners.  Why could not
schools be organised for the instruction of shoemakers, tailors,
carpenters, smiths of all kinds, and the scores of other trades which in
former days were learnt by compulsory apprenticeship?  Under our present
system of education the greater part of what the poor man’s children
learn is clean forgotten in a few years; and if not, serves mainly to
create and foster discontent, which vents itself in a passion for
mass-meetings and the fuliginous oratory of our Hyde Parks.

The emigration scheme for poor-law children as advocated by Mrs. Close is
the most promising, in its way, yet brought before the public, and is
deserving of every support.

In the absence of any such projects as these, the hopelessness of the
task, and the depressing effect of the contact with much wretchedness,
wore me out.  I had a nursery of my own, and was not justified in risking
infectious diseases.  A saint would have been more heroic, and could
besides have promised that sweetest of consolations to suffering
millions—the compensation of Eternal Happiness.  I could not give them
even hope, for I had none to spare.  The root-evil I felt to be the
overcrowding due to the reckless intercourse of the sexes; and what had
Providence to do with a law of Nature, obedience to which entailed
unspeakable misery?



CHAPTER XLVI


IN the autumn following the end of the Franco-German war, Dr. Bird and I
visited all the principal battlefields.  In England the impression was
that the bloodiest battle was fought at Gravelotte.  The error was due, I
believe, to our having no war correspondent on the spot.  Compared with
that on the plains between St. Marie and St. Privat, Gravelotte was but a
cavalry skirmish.  We were fortunate enough to meet a German artillery
officer at St. Marie who had been in the action, and who kindly explained
the distribution of the forces.  Large square mounds were scattered about
the plain where the German dead were buried, little wooden crosses being
stuck into them to denote the regiment they had belonged to.  At
Gravelotte we saw the dogs unearthing the bodies from the shallow graves.
The officer told us he did not think there was a family in Germany
unrepresented in the plains of St. Privat.

It was interesting so soon after the event, to sit quietly in the little
summer-house of the Château de Bellevue, commanding a view of Sedan,
where Bismarck and Moltke and General de Wimpfen held their memorable
Council.  ‘Un terrible homme,’ says the story of the ‘Débâcle,’ ‘ce
général de Moltke, qui gagnait des batailles du fond de son cabinet à
coups d’algèbre.’

We afterwards made a walking tour through the Tyrol, and down to Venice.
On our way home, while staying at Lucerne, we went up the Rigi.  Soon
after leaving the Kulm, on our descent to the railway, which was then
uncompleted, we lost each other in the mist.  I did not get to Vitznau
till late at night, but luckily found a steamer just starting for
Lucerne.  The cabin was crammed with German students, each one smoking
his pipe and roaring choruses to alternate singers.  All of a sudden,
those who were on their legs were knocked off them.  The panic was
instantaneous, for every one of us knew it was a collision.  But the
immediate peril was in the rush for the deck.  Violent with terror, rough
by nature, and full of beer, these wild young savages were formidable to
themselves and others.  Having arrived late, I had not got further than
the cabin door, and was up the companion ladder at a bound.  It was pitch
dark, and piteous screams came up from the surrounding waters.  At first
it was impossible to guess what had happened.  Were we rammed, or were we
rammers?  I pulled off my coats ready for a swim.  But it soon became
apparent that we had run into and sunk another boat.

The next morning the doctor and I went on to England.  A week after I
took up the ‘Illustrated News.’  There was an account of the accident,
with an illustration of the cabin of the sunken boat.  The bodies of
passengers were depicted as the divers had found them.

On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on Sir Anthony
Rothschild in New Court.  He took me across the court to see his brother
Lionel, the head of the firm.  Sir Anthony bowed before him as though the
great man were Plutus himself.   He sat at a table alone, not in his own
room, but in the immense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of
clerks.  This was my first introduction to him.  He took no notice of his
brother, but received me as Napoleon received the emperors and kings at
Erfurt—in other words, as he would have received his slippers from his
valet, or as he did receive the telegrams which were handed to him at the
rate of about one a minute.

The King of Kings was in difficulties with a little slip of black
sticking-plaster.  The thought of Gumpelino’s Hyacinthos, _alias_ Hirsch,
flashed upon me.  Behold! the mighty Baron Nathan come to life again; but
instead of Hyacinthos paring his mightiness’s _Hühneraugen_, he himself,
in paring his own nails, had contrived to cut his finger.

‘Come to buy Spanish?’ he asked, with eyes intent upon the
sticking-plaster.

‘Oh no,’ said I, ‘I’ve no money to gamble with.’

‘Hasn’t Lord Leicester bought Spanish?’—never looking off the
sticking-plaster, nor taking the smallest notice of the telegrams.

‘Not that I know of.  Are they good things?’

‘I don’t know; some people think so.’

Here a message was handed in, and something was whispered in his ear.

‘Very well, put it down.’

‘From Paris,’ said Sir Anthony, guessing perhaps at its contents.

But not until the plaster was comfortably adjusted did Plutus read the
message.  He smiled and pushed it over to me.  It was the terms of peace,
and the German bill of costs.

‘£200,000,000!’ I exclaimed.  ‘That’s a heavy reckoning.  Will France
ever be able to pay it?’

‘Pay it?  Yes.  If it had been twice as much!’  And Plutus returned to
his sticking-plaster.  That was of real importance.

Last autumn—1904, the literary world was not a little gratified by an
announcement in the ‘Times’ that the British Museum had obtained
possession of the original manuscript of Keats’s ‘Hyperion.’  Let me tell
the story of its discovery.  During the summer of last year, my friend
Miss Alice Bird, who was paying me a visit at Longford, gave me this
account of it.

When Leigh Hunt’s memoirs were being edited by his son Thornton in 1861,
he engaged the services of three intimate friends of the family to read
and collate the enormous mass of his father’s correspondence.  Miss Alice
Bird was one of the chosen three.  The arduous task completed, Thornton
Hunt presented each of his three friends with a number of autographic
letters, which, according to Miss Bird’s description, he took almost at
random from the eliminated pile.  Amongst the lot that fell to Miss
Bird’s share was a roll of stained paper tied up with tape.  This she was
led to suppose—she never carefully examined it—might be either a copy or
a draft of some friend’s unpublished poem.

The unknown treasure was put away in a drawer with the rest.  Here it
remained undisturbed for forty-three years.  Having now occasion to
remove these papers, she opened the forgotten scroll, and was at once
struck both with the words of the ‘Hyperion,’ and with the resemblance of
the writing to Keats’s.

She forthwith consulted the Keepers of the Manuscripts in the British
Museum, with the result that her _trouvaille_ was immediately identified
as the poet’s own draft of the ‘Hyperion.’  The responsible authorities
soon after, offered the fortunate possessor five hundred guineas for the
manuscript, but courteously and honestly informed her that, were it put
up to auction, some American collector would be almost sure to give a
much larger sum for it.

Miss Bird’s patriotism prevailed over every other consideration.  She
expressed her wish that the poem should be retained in England; and
generously accepted what was indubitably less than its market value.



CHAPTER XLVII


A MAN whom I had known from my school-days, Frederick Thistlethwayte,
coming into a huge fortune when a subaltern in a marching regiment, had
impulsively married a certain Miss Laura Bell.  In her early days, when
she made her first appearance in London and in Paris, Laura Bell’s
extraordinary beauty was as much admired by painters as by men of the
world.  Amongst her reputed lovers were Dhuleep Singh, the famous Marquis
of Hertford, and Prince Louis Napoleon.  She was the daughter of an Irish
constable, and began life on the stage at Dublin.  Her Irish wit and
sparkling merriment, her cajolery, her good nature and her feminine
artifice, were attractions which, in the eyes of the male sex, fully
atoned for her youthful indiscretions.

My intimacy with both Mr. and Mrs. Thistlethwayte extended over many
years; and it is but justice to her memory to aver that, to the best of
my belief, no wife was ever more faithful to her husband.  I speak of the
Thistlethwaytes here for two reasons—absolutely unconnected in
themselves, yet both interesting in their own way.  The first is, that at
my friend’s house in Grosvenor Square I used frequently to meet Mr.
Gladstone, sometimes alone, sometimes at dinner.  As may be supposed, the
dinner parties were of men, but mostly of men eminent in public life.
The last time I met Mr. Gladstone there the Duke of Devonshire and Sir W.
Harcourt were both present.  I once dined with Mrs. Thistlethwayte in the
absence of her husband, when the only others were Munro of Novar—the
friend of Turner, and the envied possessor of a splendid gallery of his
pictures—and the Duke of Newcastle—then a Cabinet Minister.  Such were
the notabilities whom the famous beauty gathered about her.

But it is of Mr. Gladstone that I would say a word.  The fascination
which he exercised over most of those who came into contact with him is
incontestable; and everyone is entitled to his own opinion, even though
unable to account for it.  This, at least, must be my plea, for to me,
Mr. Gladstone was more or less a Dr. Fell.  Neither in his public nor in
his private capacity had I any liking for him.  Nobody cares a button for
what a ‘man in the street’ like me says or thinks on subject matters upon
which they have made up their minds.  I should not venture, even as one
of the crowd, to deprecate a popularity which I believe to be fast
passing away, were it not that better judges and wiser men think as I do,
and have represented opinions which I sincerely share.  ‘He was born,’
says Huxley, ‘to be a leader of men, and he has debased himself to be a
follower of the masses.  If working men were to-day to vote by a majority
that two and two made five, to-morrow Gladstone would believe it, and
find them reasons for it which they had never dreamt of.’  Could any
words be truer?  Yes; he was not born to be a leader of men.  He was born
to be, what he was—a misleader of men.  Huxley says he could be made to
believe that two and two made five.  He would try to make others believe
it; but would he himself believe it?  His friends will plead, ‘he might
deceive himself by the excessive subtlety of his mind.’  This is the
charitable view to take.  But some who knew him long and well put another
construction upon this facile self-deception.  There were, and are,
honourable men of the highest standing who failed to ascribe
disinterested motives to the man who suddenly and secretly betrayed his
colleagues, his party, and his closest friends, and tried to break up the
Empire to satisfy an inordinate ambition, and an insatiable craving for
power.  ‘He might have been mistaken, but he acted for the best’?   Was
he acting conscientiously for the best in persuading the ‘masses’ to look
upon the ‘classes’—the war cries are of his coining—as their natural
enemies, and worthy only of their envy and hatred?  Is this the part of a
statesman, of a patriot?

And for what else shall we admire Mr. Gladstone?  Walter Bagehot,
alluding to his egotism, wrote of him in his lifetime, ‘He longs to pour
forth his own belief; he cannot rest till he has contradicted everyone
else.’  And what was that belief worth?  ‘He has scarcely,’ says the same
writer, ‘given us a sentence that lives in the memory.’

Even his eloquent advocate, Mr. Morley, confesses surprise at his
indifference to the teaching of evolution; in other words, his ignorance
of, and disbelief in, a scientific theory of nature which has modified
the theological and moral creeds of the civilised world more profoundly
than did the Copernican system of the Universe.

The truth is, Mr. Gladstone was half a century behind the age in
everything that most deeply concerned the destiny of man.  He was a
politician, and nothing but a politician; and had it not been for his
extraordinary gift of speech, we should never have heard of him save as a
writer of scholia, or as a college don, perhaps.  Not for such is the
temple of Fame.

    Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa.

Whatever may be thought now, Mr. Gladstone is not the man whom posterity
will ennoble with the title of either ‘great’ or ‘good.’

My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte was one which at
first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when we look into it, is of more
importance than the renown of an ex-Prime Minister.  If these pages are
ever read, what follows will be as distasteful to some of my own friends
as the above remarks to Mr. Gladstone’s.

Pardon a word about the writer himself—it is needed to emphasise and
justify these _obiter dicta_.  I was brought up as a sportsman: I cannot
remember the days when I began to shoot.  I had a passion for all kinds
of sport, and have had opportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the
lot of few.  After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry were lost
to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almost the sole guest of
Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at his Highland shooting of
Kinlochmohr, not very far from Fort William.  He rented the splendid deer
forest of Mamore, extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within ten
minutes’ walk of the lodge.  His marriage and his eccentricities of mind
and temper led him to shun all society.  We often lived in bothies at
opposite ends of the forest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till
Monday morning.  For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable.  I was
my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for the ponies, but finding
the deer for myself—always the most difficult part of the sport—and
stalking them for myself.

I may here observe that, not very long after I married, qualms of
conscience smote me as to the justifiability of killing, _and wounding_,
animals for amusement’s sake.  The more I thought of it, the less it bore
thinking about.  Finally I gave it up altogether.  But I went on several
years after this with the deer-stalking; the true explanation of this
inconsistency would, I fear, be that I had had enough of the one, but
would never have enough of the other—one’s conscience adapts itself
without much difficulty to one’s inclinations.

Between my host and myself, there was a certain amount of rivalry; and as
the head forester was his stalker, the rivalry between our men aroused
rancorous jealousy.  I think the gillies on either side would have spoilt
the others’ sport, could they have done so with impunity.  For two
seasons, a very big stag used occasionally to find its way into our
forest from the Black Mount, where it was also known.  Thistlethwayte had
had a chance, and missed it; then my turn came.  I got a long snap-shot
end on at the galloping stag.  It was an unsportsmanlike thing to do, but
considering the rivalry and other temptations I fired, and hit the beast
in the haunch.  It was late in the day, and the wounded animal escaped.

Nine days later I spied the ‘big stag’ again.  He was nearly in the
middle of a herd of about twenty, mostly hinds, on the look-out.  They
were on a large open moss at the bottom of a corrie, whence they could
see a moving object on every side of them.  A stalk where they were was
out of the question.  I made up my mind to wait and watch.

Now comes the moral of my story.  For hours I watched that stag.  Though
three hundred yards or so away from me, I could through my glass see
almost the expression of his face.  Not once did he rise or attempt to
feed, but lay restlessly beating his head upon the ground for hour after
hour.  I knew well enough what that meant.  I could not hear his groans.
His plaints could not reach my ears, but they reached my heart.  The
refrain varied little: ‘How long shall I cry and Thou wilt not
hear?’—that was the monotonous burden of the moans, though sometimes I
fancied it changed to: ‘Lord how long shall the wicked, how long shall
the wicked triumph?’

The evening came, and then, as is their habit, the deer began to feed up
wind.  The wounded stag seemed loth to stir.  By degrees the last
watchful hind fed quietly out of sight.  With throbbing pulse and with
the instincts of a fox—or prehistoric man, ’tis all the same—I crawled
and dragged myself through the peat bog and the pools of water.  But
nearer than two hundred yards it was impossible to get; even to raise my
head or find a tussock whereon to rest the rifle would have started any
deer but this one.  From the hollow I was in, the most I could see of him
was the outline of his back and his head and neck.  I put up the 200
yards sight and killed him.

A vivid description of the body is not desirable.  It was almost
fleshless, wasted away, except his wounded haunch.  That was nearly twice
its normal size; about one half of it was maggots.  The stench drove us
all away.  This I had done, and I had done it for my pleasure!

After that year I went no more to Scotland.  I blame no one for his
pursuit of sport.  But I submit that he must follow it, if at all, with
Reason’s eyes shut.  Happily, your true sportsman does not violate his
conscience.  As a friend of mine said to me the other day, ‘Unless you
give a man of that kind something to kill, his own life is not worth
having.’  This, to be sure, is all he has to think about.



CHAPTER XLVIII


FOR eight or nine years, while my sons were at school, I lived at
Rickmansworth.  Unfortunately the Leweses had just left it.  Moor Park
belonged to Lord Ebury, my wife’s uncle, and the beauties of its
magnificent park and the amenities of its charming house were at all
times open to us, and freely taken advantage of.  During those nine years
I lived the life of a student, and wrote and published the book I have
elsewhere spoken of, the ‘Creeds of the Day.’

Of the visitors of note whose acquaintance I made while I was staying at
Moor Park, by far the most illustrious was Froude.  He was too reserved a
man to lavish his intimacy when taken unawares; and if he suspected, as
he might have done by my probing, that one wanted to draw him out, he was
much too shrewd to commit himself to definite expressions of any kind
until he knew something of his interviewer.  Reticence of this kind, on
the part of such a man, is both prudent and commendable.  But is not this
habit of cautiousness sometimes carried to the extent of ambiguity in his
‘Short Studies on Great Subjects’?  The careful reader is left in no sort
of doubt as to Froude’s own views upon Biblical criticism, as to his
theological dogmas, or his speculative opinions.  But the conviction is
only reached by comparing him with himself in different moods, by
collating essay with essay, and one part of an essay with another part of
the same essay.  Sometimes we have an astute defence of doctrines worthy
at least of a temperate apologist, and a few pages further on we wonder
whether the writer was not masking his disdain for the credulity which he
now exposes and laughs at.  Neither excessive caution nor timidity are
implied by his editing of the Carlyle papers; and he may have failed—who
that has done so much has not?—in keeping his balance on the swaying
slack-rope between the judicious and the injudicious.  In his own line,
however, he is, to my taste, the most scholarly, the most refined, and
the most suggestive, of our recent essayists.  The man himself in manner
and in appearance was in perfect keeping with these attractive qualities.

While speaking of Moor Park and its kind owner I may avail myself of this
opportunity to mention an early reminiscence of Lord Ebury’s concerning
the Grosvenor estate in London.

Mr. Gladstone was wont to amuse himself with speculations as to the
future dimensions of London; what had been its growth within his memory;
what causes might arise to cheek its increase.  After listening to his
remarks on the subject one day at dinner, I observed that I had heard
Lord Ebury talk of shooting over ground which is now Eaton Square.  Mr.
Gladstone of course did not doubt it; but some of the young men smiled
incredulously.  I afterwards wrote to Lord Ebury to make sure that I had
not erred.  Here is his reply:

                               ‘Moor Park, Rickmansworth: January 9, 1883.

    ‘My dear Henry,—What you said I had told you about snipe-shooting is
    quite true, though I think I ought to have mentioned a space rather
    nearer the river than Eaton Square.  In the year 1815, when the
    battle of Waterloo was fought, there was nothing behind Grosvenor
    Place but the (—?) fields—so called, a place something like the
    Scrubbs, where the household troops drilled.  That part of Grosvenor
    Place where the Grosvenor Place houses now stand was occupied by the
    Lock Hospital and Chapel, and it ended where the small houses are now
    to be found.  A little farther, a somewhat tortuous lane called the
    King’s Road led to Chelsea, and, I think, where now St. Peter’s,
    Pimlico, was afterwards built.  I remember going to a breakfast at a
    villa belonging to Lady Buckinghamshire.  The Chelsea Waterworks
    Company had a sort of marshy place with canals and osier beds, now, I
    suppose, Ebury Street, and here it was that I was permitted to go and
    try my hand at snipe-shooting, a special privilege given to the son
    of the freeholder.

    ‘The successful fox-hunt terminating in either Bedford or Russell
    Square is very strange, but quite appropriate, commemorated, I
    suppose, by the statue {342} there erected.

                                                     Yours affectionately,
                                                                      ‘E.’

The successful ‘fox-hunt’ was an event of which I told Lord Ebury as even
more remarkable than his snipe-shooting in Belgravia.  As it is still
more indicative of the growth of London in recent times it may be here
recorded.

In connection with Mr. Gladstone’s forecasts, I had written to the last
Lord Digby, who was a grandson of my father’s, stating that I had
heard—whether from my father or not I could not say—that he had killed a
fox where now is Bedford Square, with his own hounds.

Lord Digby replied:

                                       ‘Minterne, Dorset: January 7, 1883.

    ‘My dear Henry,—My grandfather killed a fox with his hounds either in
    Bedford or Russell Square.  Old Jones, the huntsman, who died at
    Holkham when you were a child, was my informant.  I asked my
    grandfather if it was correct.  He said “Yes”—he had kennels at
    Epping Place, and hunted the roodings of Essex, which, he said, was
    the best scenting-ground in England.

                                                    ‘Yours affectionately,
                                                                  ‘DIGBY.’

(My father was born in 1754.)

                                * * * * *

Mr. W. S. Gilbert had been a much valued friend of ours before we lived
at Rickmansworth.  We had been his guests for the ‘first night’ of almost
every one of his plays—plays that may have a thousand imitators, but the
speciality of whose excellence will remain unrivalled and inimitable.
His visits to us introduced him, I think, to the picturesque country
which he has now made his home.  When Mr. Gilbert built his house in
Harrington Gardens he easily persuaded us to build next door to him.
This led to my acquaintance with his neighbour on the other side, Mr.
Walter Cassels, now well known as the author of ‘Supernatural Religion.’

When first published in 1874, this learned work, summarising and
elaborately examining the higher criticism of the four Gospels up to
date, created a sensation throughout the theological world, which was not
a little intensified by the anonymity of its author.  The virulence with
which it was attacked by Dr. Lightfoot, the most erudite bishop on the
bench, at once demonstrated its weighty significance and its destructive
force; while Mr. Morley’s high commendation of its literary merits and
the scrupulous equity of its tone, placed it far above the level of
controversial diatribes.

In my ‘Creeds of the Day’ I had made frequent references to the anonymous
book; and soon after my introduction to Mr. Cassels spoke to him of its
importance, and asked him whether he had read it.  He hesitated for a
moment, then said:

‘We are very much of the same way of thinking on these subjects.  I will
tell you a secret which I kept for some time even from my publishers—I am
the author of “Supernatural Religion.”’

From that time forth, we became the closest of allies.  I know no man
whose tastes and opinions and interests are more completely in accord
with my own than those of Mr. Walter Cassels.  It is one of my greatest
pleasures to meet him every summer at the beautiful place of our mutual
and sympathetic friend, Mrs. Robertson, on the skirts of the Ashtead
forest, in Surrey.

The winter of 1888 I spent at Cairo under the roof of General Sir
Frederick Stephenson, then commanding the English forces in Egypt.  I had
known Sir Frederick as an ensign in the Guards.  He was adjutant of his
regiment at the Alma, and at Inkerman.  He is now Colonel of the
Coldstreams and Governor of the Tower.  He has often been given a still
higher title, that of ‘the most popular man in the army.’

Everybody in these days has seen the Pyramids, and has been up the Nile.
There is only one name I have to mention here, and that is one of the
best-known in the world.  Mr. Thomas Cook was the son of the original
inventor of the ‘Globe-trotter.’  But it was the extraordinary energy and
powers of organisation of the son that enabled him to develop to its
present efficiency the initial scheme of the father.

Shortly before the General’s term expired, he invited Mr. Cook to dinner.
The Nile share of the Gordon Relief Expedition had been handed over to
Cook.  The boats, the provisioning of them, and the river transport
service up to Wady Halfa, were contracted for and undertaken by Cook.

A most entertaining account he gave of the whole affair.  He told us how
the Mudir of Dongola, who was by way of rendering every possible
assistance, had offered him an enormous bribe to wreck the most valuable
cargoes on their passage through the Cataracts.

Before Mr. Cook took leave of the General, he expressed the regret felt
by the British residents in Cairo at the termination of Sir Frederick’s
command; and wound up a pretty little speech by a sincere request that he
might be allowed to furnish Sir Frederick _gratis_ with all the means at
his disposal for a tour through the Holy Land.  The liberal and highly
complimentary offer was gratefully acknowledged, but at once emphatically
declined.  The old soldier, (at least, this was my guess,) brave in all
else, had not the courage to face the tourists’ profanation of such
sacred scenes.

Dr. Bird told me a nice story, a pendant to this, of Mr. Thomas Cook’s
liberality.  One day, before the Gordon Expedition, which was then in the
air, Dr. Bird was smoking his cigarette on the terrace in front of
Shepherd’s Hotel, in company with four or five other men, strangers to
him and to one another.  A discussion arose as to the best means of
relieving Gordon.  Each had his own favourite general.  Presently the
doctor exclaimed: ‘Why don’t they put the thing into the hands of Cook?
I’ll be bound to say he would undertake it, and do the job better than
anyone else.’

‘Do you know Cook, sir?’ asked one of the smokers who had hitherto been
silent.

‘No, I never saw him, but everybody knows he has a genius for
organisation; and I don’t believe there is a general in the British Army
to match him.’

When the company broke up, the silent stranger asked the doctor his name
and address, and introduced himself as Thomas Cook.  The following winter
Dr. Bird received a letter enclosing tickets for himself and Miss Bird
for a trip to Egypt and back, free of expense, ‘in return for his good
opinion and good wishes.’

After my General’s departure, and a month up the Nile, I—already
disillusioned, alas!—rode through Syria, following the beaten track from
Jerusalem to Damascus.  On my way from Alexandria to Jaffa I had the good
fortune to make the acquaintance of an agreeable fellow-traveller, Mr.
Henry Lopes, afterwards member for Northampton, also bound for Palestine.
We went to Constantinople and to the Crimea together, then through
Greece, and only parted at Charing Cross.

It was easy to understand Sir Frederick Stephenson’s (supposed)
unwillingness to visit Jerusalem.  It was probably far from being what it
is now, or even what it was when Pierre Loti saw it, for there was no
railway from Jaffa in our time.  Still, what Loti pathetically describes
as ‘une banalité de banlieue parisienne,’ was even then too painfully
casting its vulgar shadows before it.  And it was rather with the forlorn
eyes of the sentimental Frenchman than with the veneration of Dean
Stanley, that we wandered about the ever-sacred Aceldama of mortally
wounded and dying Christianity.

One dares not, one could never, speak irreverently of Jerusalem.  One
cannot think heartlessly of a disappointed love.  One cannot tear out
creeds interwoven with the tenderest fibres of one’s heart.  It is better
to be silent.  Yet is it a place for unwept tears, for the deep sadness
and hard resignation borne in upon us by the eternal loss of something
dearer once than life.  All we who are weary and heavy laden, in whom now
shall we seek the rest which is not nothingness?

My story is told, but I fain would take my leave with words less
sorrowful.  If a man has no better legacy to bequeath than bid his
fellow-beings despair, he had better take it with him to his grave.

    We know all this, we know!

But it is in what we do not know that our hope and our religion lies.
Thrice blessed are we in the certainty that here our range is infinite.
This infinite that makes our brains reel, that begets the feeling that
makes us ‘shrink,’ is perhaps the most portentous argument in the logic
of the sceptic.  Since the days of Laplace, we have been haunted in some
form or other with the ghost of the _Mécanique Céleste_.  Take one or two
commonplaces from the text-books of astronomy:

Every half-hour we are about ten thousand miles nearer to the
constellation of Lyra.  ‘The sun and his system must travel at his
present rate for far more than a million years (divide this into
half-hours) before we have crossed the abyss between our present position
and the frontiers of Lyra’ (Ball’s ‘Story of the Heavens’).

‘Sirius is about one million times as far from us as the sun.  If we take
the distance of Sirius from the earth and subdivide it into one million
equal parts, each of these parts would be long enough to span the great
distance of 92,700,000 miles from the earth to the sun,’ yet Sirius is
one of the _nearest_ of the stars to us.

The velocity with which light traverses space is 186,300 miles a second,
at which rate it has taken the rays from Sirius which we may see
to-night, nine years to reach us.  The proper motion of Sirius through
space is about one thousand miles a minute.  Yet ‘careful alignment of
the eye would hardly detect that Sirius was moving, in . . . even three
or four centuries.’

‘There may be, and probably are, stars from which Noah might be seen
stepping into the Ark, Eve listening to the temptation of the serpent, or
that older race, eating the oysters and leaving the shell-heaps behind
them, when the Baltic was an open sea’ (Froude’s ‘Science of History’).

Facts and figures such as these simply stupefy us.  They vaguely convey
the idea of something immeasurably great, but nothing further.  They have
no more effect upon us than words addressed to some poor ‘bewildered
creature, stunned and paralysed by awe; no more than the sentence of
death to the terror-stricken wretch at the bar.  Indeed, it is in this
sense that the sceptic uses them for our warning.

‘Seit Kopernikus,’ says Schopenhauer, ‘kommen die Theologen mit dem
lieben Gott in Verlegenheit.’  ‘No one,’ he adds, ‘has so damaged Theism
as Copernicus.’  As if limitation and imperfection in the celestial
mechanism would make for the belief in God; or, as if immortality were
incompatible with dependence.  Des Cartes, for one, (and he counts for
many,) held just the opposite opinion.

Our sun and all the millions upon millions of suns whose light will never
reach us are but the aggregation of atoms drawn together by the same
force that governs their orbit, and which makes the apple fall.  When
their heat, however generated, is expended, they die to frozen cinders;
possibly to be again diffused as nebulæ, to begin again the eternal round
of change.

What is life amidst this change?  ‘When I consider the work of Thy
fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained, what is man
that Thou art mindful of him?’

But is He mindful of us?  That is what the sceptic asks.  Is He mindful
of life here or anywhere in all this boundless space?  We have no ground
for supposing (so we are told) that life, if it exists at all elsewhere,
in the solar system at least, is any better than it is here?  ‘Analogy
compels us to think,’ says M. France, one of the most thoughtful of
living writers, ‘that our entire solar system is a gehenna where the
animal is born for suffering. . . .  This alone would suffice to disgust
me with the universe.’  But M. France is too deep a thinker to abide by
such a verdict.  There must be something ‘behind the veil.’  ‘Je sens que
ces immensités ne sont rien, et qu’enfin, s’il y a quelque chose, ce
quelque chose n’est pas ce que nous voyons.’  That is it.  All these
immensities are not ‘rien,’ but they are assuredly not what we take them
to be.  They are the veil of the Infinite, behind which we are not
permitted to see.

    It were the seeing Him, no flesh shall dare.

The very greatness proves our impotence to grasp it, proves the futility
of our speculations, and should help us best of all though outwardly so
appalling, to stand calm while the snake of unbelief writhes beneath our
feet.  The unutterable insignificance of man and his little world
connotes the infinity which leaves his possibilities as limitless as
itself.

Spectrology informs us that the chemical elements of matter are
everywhere the same; and in a boundless universe where such unity is
manifested there must be conditions similar to those which support life
here.  It is impossible to doubt, on these grounds alone, that life does
exist elsewhere.  Were we rashly to assume from scientific data that no
form of animal life could obtain except under conditions similar to our
own, would not reason rebel at such an inference, on the mere ground that
to assume that there is no conscious being in the universe save man, is
incomparably more unwarrantable, and in itself incredible?

Admitting, then, the hypothesis of the universal distribution of life,
has anyone the hardihood to believe that this is either the best or worst
of worlds?  Must we not suppose that life exists in every stage of
progress, in every state of imperfection, and, conversely, of
advancement?  Have we still the audacity to believe with the ancient
Israelites, or as the Church of Rome believed only three centuries ago,
that the universe was made for us, and we its centre?  Or must we not
believe that—infinity given—the stages and degrees of life are infinite
as their conditions?  And where is this to stop?  There is no halting
place for imagination till we reach the _Anima Mundi_, the infinite and
eternal Spirit from which all Being emanates.

The materialist and the sceptic have forcible arguments on their side.
They appeal to experience and to common sense, and ask pathetically, yet
triumphantly, whether aspiration, however fervid, is a pledge for its
validity, ‘or does being weary prove that he hath where to rest?’  They
smile at the flights of poetry and imagination, and love to repeat:

    Fools! that so often here
    Happiness mocked our prayer,
    I think might make us fear
    A like event elsewhere;
    Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.

But then, if the other view is true, the Elsewhere is not the Here, nor
is there any conceivable likeness between the two.  It is not mere
repugnance to truths, or speculations rather, which we dread, that makes
us shrink from a creed so shallow, so palpably inept, as atheism.  There
are many sides to our nature, and I see not that reason, doubtless our
trustiest guide, has one syllable to utter against our loftiest hopes.
Our higher instincts are just as much a part of us as any that we listen
to; and reason, to the end, can never dogmatise with what it is not
conversant.



FOOTNOTES


{342}  Alluding to the statue of Fox.





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