TRACKS OF A ROLLING STONE
by Henry J. Coke
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 naively 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 aesthetic 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
genetiques.' 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 facade 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'ETRE.
Before I was nine years old I daresay I could repeat -
parrot, that is - several hundreds of lines of the AEneid.
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 chateau, 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. Adele, 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 COEUR 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 menage 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 Aglae. Mademoiselle Aglae 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 meme assez.' From Miss Aglae'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 CAFE-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 Aglae, and the
broomstick.
The gardener, Monsieur Benoit, 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 ARMEE. 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 Benoit 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 Benoit 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 Bruyere 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 Aglae 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 Aglae'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 Cure 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 Aglae, bought plants for
'Maman.' This gave 'Maman' UN PLAISIR INOUI, 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 Aglae 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 Benoit, and withered old Mere
Michele, 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 chateau. 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 chateau
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 chateau; 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 PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not at
all grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau 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
CHERI.
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 Fusse tragen mich so muthig nicht empor
Die hohen Stufen die ich kindisch ubersprang,
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 100L.
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 eviter 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 timidite.'
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
'ungluck - 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 Muller 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 IRAE,) 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
'Frere 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
etre brule dans ce monde ci, et dans l'autre.' To which
'L'Empereur' replies: 'Ca 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 attache 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 SUCREE 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 SCHON 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 FIANCEE, 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 ELITE 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 recolte pas en epis apres 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 Karnthner 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 Schobrunn. 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 Windischgratz, 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 PARLEMENTAR to treat
with Windischgratz. 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 Schonbrunn. 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
fur Schurken sind Steckbriefe fur 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
gehoren 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 Lamm,' 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 JAGERS. 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 Lamm.' 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 JAGERS. 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
Jagerzeile. 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
Stael in 1810: 'Dans ce pays, l'on traite les plaisirs comme
les devoirs. . . . Vous verrez des hommes et des femmes
executer gravement, l'un vis-a-vis de l'autre, les pas d'un
menuet dont ils sont impose 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
PERUCKE.' 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 MESALLIANCE 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 Chateau 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 ECARTE 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 FORSTER, 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 FORSTER 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 (NAIVELY): '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 REVISE when you parted with
your servant. How long do you wish to remain here?'
Said I, 'Vous avez bien raison, Monsieur. Je suis evidemment
dans mon tort. Ma visite a Varsovie etait une aberration.
As to my stay, je suis deja tout ce qu'il y a de plus ennuye.
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 GANSEBRUST, a garlicky
WURST, and GERAUCHERTE 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 GANSEBRUST
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, Halle'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 SEANCE 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 SEANCE. 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 SEANCE 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 SEANCE 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
SEANCE 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 SEANCE 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 SEANCE 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 Boise.
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 debris, 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 canons 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 24TH. - 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.
'25TH. - 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 'naive 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 schone 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 2ND. - 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 5TH. - 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
Boise, 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
debris, 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 volontes particulieres.' 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'ETRE 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 pensee 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 revele le vrai Dieu, c'est le sentiment moral. Si
l'humanite n'etait qu'intelligente, elle serait athee. Le
devoir, le devouement, 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, meme
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
[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]. Unlike the
Phaeacian 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 ECLAT. 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 etes
aujourd'hui, pour devenir la cause indifferente 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
epaules 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 ELITE 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.
1 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
ATTACHE 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 aesthetic 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 7L. and
8L. 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 VISED. Our profession was given as that of
travelling artists, and the VISE 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 VISE. 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 Senor 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, Senores; 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, replico 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 pounds.
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 'balcony'; 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 DECOLLETE 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 konnen.
(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-etre lui etait-elle interdite par les
moeurs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est le
devoir incarne. A de rares exceptions pres, ses heroines
sont absolument les memes ... La femme porte le desordre dans
la societe par la passion. La passion a des accidents
infinis. Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sources
immenses dont s'est prive ce grand genie pour etre 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, Merimee, Comte de
Flahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie,
Pelissier, 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.
'A-h,' 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.
Merimee'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 Phoenix 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 Phoenix
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'Amethyste.'
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 EXTREMEMENT
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 Athenaeum.
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 CLIENTELE 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
Athenaeum. 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 - DEJA?'
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 ROLE 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 NAIVETE 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 Halle. 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 baton 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 Compiegne 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 Labedoyeres,
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 'Comedies 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 Dejazet, 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 HABITUES 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 gout' with the addition of 'un
peu moins de perspicacite.'
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 - UNdressers. 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
cassee' 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 AEdiles. 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 DEJEUNER 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 bientot fini, vous autres? Ah! que vous etes 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 Compiegne, 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 Compiegne. 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 Caesar; 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 Hutchen,' 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 Compiegne 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
BETES 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 apres, 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 Chateau 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 'Debacle,' 'ce general
de Moltke, qui gagnait des batailles du fond de son cabinet a
coups d'algebre.'
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 HUHNERAUGEN, 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 pounds!' 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 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
banalite 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 MECANIQUE CELESTE.
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 nebulae, 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 immensites 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.