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diff --git a/497-0.txt b/497-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b83a2c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/497-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10733 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tracks of a Rolling Stone, by Henry J. Coke + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Tracks of a Rolling Stone + + +Author: Henry J. Coke + + + +Release Date: November 8, 2012 [eBook #497] +[This file was first posted on February 24, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 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. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRACKS OF A ROLLING STONE*** + + +******* This file should be named 497-0.txt or 497-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/9/497 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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